The Urbane Homestead

Return from the south

My friends, I have neglected you long enough. If it's any consolation, I've been thinking about you. But between trips to South America and the hospital (everything's fine), and the excitement of being home and back at work, and then being sent home from work with respiratory yuck—it's been a giddy whirl.

The trip to Argentina was incredible. Our synagogue choir, in which Henry sings, has taken to travelling to exotic locales and singing for and with the Jewish communities there. Three years ago we went to Bulgaria, Romania, and Greece; that trip was such a roaring success that they immediately began to plan this one. This trip was different in that the Jewish population of Argentina is large and thriving, and, like here, the people are the children and grandchildren of immigrants from Eastern Europe. Many people we met had cousins in the U.S. or Canada because of choices made 100 years ago; one brother opting to go to New York, while the other chose Buenos Aires. For the first time, my great-great-grandparents' decision to leave Russia for Scotland didn't seem quite so odd.

Argentina itself was really interesting, but it was the people we met that made the trip. Everywhere we went, in every single synagogue and school and community center we visited, at least one person said to us—literally—"This is your home. We are your brothers and sisters." They welcomed us with open arms and songs and dancing and empanadas and hot sweet tea, and we truly felt like we had a new family. What's more, instead of getting sick to death of each other, the 57 people in our group got closer and fonder of each other as each day went by. (We all did get literally sick, though; after breathing in each other's air for two weeks on the bus, almost everyone was struck down by what came to be known as the "alto crud"—luckily after the last performance.)

People ask, "How was your trip?" and I find I can't think of anything much to tell them. The intensity and uniqueness of this experience defy any of the usual traveller descriptions of beautiful scenery, interesting monuments, nice weather... so I usually end up responding with "Oh, it was great!!" accompanied with a cheery bright smile and a wracking cough. But truly I think the bext way to sum up this trip is to look at the changes I see in myself, and in how I picture myself fitting into the world, both near and far.

There are wonderful pictures of the trip, because Cyndi Cook, one of the altos, is thoughtful enough to be married to a professional photographer, Gregory Fox. We also had a group blog with some wonderful descriptions of our adventures (but as you know, I was on blogging vacation.).

Pictures as promised

The view from the living room:

The boys on the rock (note the smart aleck):

And finally, in their dad-and-lad hats (a gift from my father-in-law), at the St. Ignace Fourth of July Parade (which consisted largely of emergency vehicles, contenders for political office, and beauty queens):

Perhaps you can see why I believe I am a lucky woman.

Up north

We are at the family cottage in the Upper Peninsula for a week of sleeping in, fried whitefish, and cherry pie.

Walter is with us, of course; this is his favorite vacation spot. There’s a lot of fun to be had here for a dog. That’s why we know, from sorry experience, that there is an excellent veterinarian here in St. Ignace. Every time we come here, Walter eats something, breaks something, rolls in something, or something, all of which require medical assistance. The most memorable was the time he ate something on the beach and barfed all night long. About six a.m., the morning haze just clearing off the lake, the birds just starting to sing, I watched  as a baseball-sized lump rose on top of his head in the space of—I’m not kidding—three minutes. The vet said he had strained a muscle from all the barfing, and gave him some Valium. Some things you just can’t make up.

These days he’s too stiff and tired to get into much trouble. He won’t even swim anymore, which is sad; in his day you just couldn’t keep him out of the water, whether it was river, pond, Great Lake, or roadside ditch. My, he was yar. He could swim as fast as I can; we used to race sometimes in the lake. And strong: I’ve seen him swim for an hour without touching the bottom even once.

On the other hand, he’s never once had a bath without looking utterly miserable and shuddering with fear. Context is everything, apparently.

Today we went out by the water and hunted for rocks and shells and edible weeds. Henry and Joe sat and watched the gulls fishing, using the wind to hover above the water, then diving straight down to snatch a fish. Walter used to do the same thing, minus the flying part; he used to stare into the water, searching for minnows, then—pounce! Chomp! Yum! He could do this for hours, his stumpy little tail wagging frenetically and sending out a fountain spray of water like a garden sprinkler.

Today he curled up on the warm rock next to Henry, and took a nap, till we came inside for a lunch of fresh hot homemade biscuits with cheese and dandelion greens.

(I have pictures to illustrate this story, except of course for the barfing part, but I'll upload them when I have a faster connection. In the meantime, here's my recipe for biscuits:)

Fresh, hot, homemade biscuits

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Sift together 2 cups of good flour, 2 teaspoons baking soda, a teaspoon of  sugar and a half teaspoon of salt (or to taste).
3. With two knives, cut in about a half a stick of sweet butter until the mixture is the texture of oatmeal.
4. Add whatever else sounds good--grated cheese, herbs, spices, etc.--although sometimes a plain old biscuit is all you need.
5. Pour in just enough buttermilk, or fresh milk mixed with a little vinegar, to moisten the batter.
6. Stir just enough to thoroughly mix it all together. Minimal handling is the key to tender biscuits.
7. Drop by the spoonful onto a buttered baking tray. Sorry, but the extra butter is necessary.
8. Bake until slightly crispy on the bottom and springy on the top.
9. Serve immediately--if you can stand it, with more butter, and honey or golden syrup.

Fun?

Ah, Disney World. A vista of giftshops as far as the eye can see. Mom took Joe and me there for his sixth birthday, and of course he loved it.

The Mission:Space ride was the highlight of Epcot. The outside of the building had big huge exciting planets: ride on the mission to Mars! There were signs at the door, warning against going on the ride if you had a heart condition, or were pregnant, or got motion sickness, or didn't like enclosed spaces, but they were obviously there to hype up the ride (based on that whole fear-is-fun idea that I really don't get). The warnings were repeated at several points inside the building. Eventually it occurred to us that maybe they meant it, but by that time, Joe had his heart set on the ride, so we went ahead.

They led us into a little space module, strapped us in, and closed the door. I immediately realized that this was a terrible, terrible idea. Our module started shaking and shuddering, and what followed was about ten minutes of sheer hell. I clenched my eyes shut and told myself repeatedly, "It's just a fake, it's just a fake, it's just a fake." A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I couldn't see or hear Mom or Joe; it turned out that Mom was busy doing Lamaze breathing and trying not to cry. I was sure that Joe was sobbing and I just couldn't hear him, and he would be traumatized for life (because I sure was.) After about six hours, the motion stopped, the lights came on, and Joe leapt to his feet with a huge smile: "That was great! We didn't even barf!"

A chance to unwind

1. Up at ungodly o’clock in the morning. No coffee.
2. Sleepy drive to the airport at the crack of dawn (“Dawn cracked! There are pieces of it all over the freeway! Just like Humpty Dumpty!”).
3. A jittery 12-degree-Fahrenheit wait under the brutally ineffective heatlamps for curbside baggage check.
4. A long layover in the security line, followed by a brief period of frenetic activity (my jacket, my shoes, my laptop, where are our boarding passes? Joe’s jacket, Joe’s shoes with the double knots, and then the whole charade in a palindromic reverse), followed by a schlep to the gate. No time for coffee.
5. Plane very late; could have gotten coffee after all.
6. Finally board plane—our seats are in the very, very last row, no window, right by the engine and the toilets, and not enough leg room for an almost six-year-old (how is that possible?). Are these bargain seats? Claro que no! (Manage to move across the aisle, solving only leg room issue.)
7. A two (2) hour wait in our seats while it is determined whether the one-inch scratch the plane’s surface incurred during luggage loading will or will not cause the plane to fall apart at 30,000 feet. (Better safe than sorry, to be sure).
8. Still no coffee. Head pounding.
9. Plane departs. Finally get cup of airplane coffee. Feel somewhat better.
10. Arrive Fort Lauderdale. It is raining for the first time in months. Temperature drops 20 degrees.
11. Nothing to do. Too relaxed. Can’t get to sleep because there’s nothing to worry about. Must find something to worry about. But what?