Airports

As I mentioned, the plane flight from Seattle to London was very nice, although of course it was difficult to sleep on the plane, even with the comfortable seats.  The airports...were interesting.

I have been through SeaTac Airport many times, so there was no trouble navigating that.  There were the familiar faces of Asian people, and other people from the Pacific Rim.  There are a few nice shops here and there, with local goodies you could buy.

Heathrow, in England, was glitz-o-rama.  It seemed to this gal-from-the-relative-sticks to be a huge, ritzy, shopping mall of the rich and famous.  In my sleep-deprived state, all that truly registered was shiny-bright glass, gold, silver, and ultra-modern decor.  Godiva chocolates, designer purses way beyond my price range, and...I don’t know what else.  Amazing.

There is a difference in people there....how do I put it?  In SeaTac airport, in the Puget Sound area, it is possible to tell what people’s cultural heritage is if they’re Asian, if they’re African American, and perhaps if they’re from a Hispanic background.  Caucasian people...well, you can kinda-sorta.  You see a red-haired, freckled person and you might assume he or she has some Irish in them.  You might be able to discern some German or French or Swedish.  But it’s as if each national characteristic is blurred in American features, so that it’s difficult to tell.  Certainly, you can’t tell by accent.

Heathrow...it’s as if the Caucasian people’s features suddenly came into focus, and when they spoke, I thought, oh, of course he or she is French, or German, or English.

Navigating Heathrow was a bit of a nightmare, however.  John and I didn't know where the connecting flight would be coming in, whether it was the A or B terminals.  When we looked at the departure board, it looked like it said B, but when we went to B, the flight attendant there said maybe it was B, but they wouldn't really know until about an hour before the actual flight, although it would probably be A terminal.

So we asked how to get there, and you'd think it'd she'd tell us the way back to the shuttle, but no, she told us to go downstairs, which we did do, but were halted by an official-looking person who said it was the wrong way, and we had to go somewhere else.  We took those directions, but ended up back where we started in the B terminal.  So we went back to where the flight attendant said to go, and ended up facing a very long concrete underground tunnel.  There was a sign with an arrow that said "A Terminal," so John and I shrugged our shoulders and decided to hike it.  We had time--we had a 3-hour layover.

It was a long, cold concrete tunnel lit only by dim blue lights, and every once in a while a female voice would call out numbers into the echoing emptiness...empty but for ourselves.  There was a distinctly dystopian feel about it as we trudged down the tunnel with our carry-on luggage.  

"Soon," I said to John, "THX 1138 will come running down this hall, seeking escape to a free world."

"Or Daleks will soon fill the tunnel, bent on the destruction of England and our world's timeline," he replied.  "We are doomed."

We heard the sound of a small electric motor, and when it appeared toward us, it contained another official-looking person driving a golf-cart like vehicle within which a moaning Indian woman was holding a part of her sari over her nose and mouth.  They soon disappeared, the sound of the electric cart echoing faintly behind us.

"This does not bode well," I said to John.  However, we stubbornly walked on.

Nevertheless, we did emerge at the A terminal once again into the light of Ralph Lauren and Gucci.  After a few more misdirections, we found the British Air business lounge, where we collapsed for the next half hour.  John gulped down couple of glasses of apple juice, and I chugged an English ale (the name of which I don't remember), because I figured I deserved something cold and alcoholic after what must have been a half mile trek through a Dr. Who-inspired tunnel.  We did luck out in that the connecting flight did come into Terminal A, and we both tried to fit ourselves into very tight seats, obviously coach class, because John is not an overweight man.  However, he was introduced for the first time to clotted cream ("with golden crust") on scones, which he liked, so his weight status may change unless he gets on his bicycling regimen pretty soon.  And I must say, the British do tea right; good and strong, without a harsh edge.

We arrived in Dusseldorf in good order, sooner than anticipated, because of a very strong tail-wind.  However, once we got there, all that tea made me make the mistake of delaying us by going to the ladies' room, wherein I noticed not tampon or sanitary napkin dispensers, but thong panties and vibrating dildo dispensers.  Why those items seemed more urgent for women finding themselves in a German airport than tampons or sanitary napkins, I do not know.

It was a mistake because we were the last to get to the baggage claim, which meant that we had to spend some scrounging for baggage carts.  Finally found them, but it took three of them to get all our luggage on (John decided to bring his bicycle, of all things).  So I managed to cleverly maneuver two carts, while John had to maneuver one cart with an enormous black box on it.  It was tricky, because the only way you can move those carts is by depressing the handle.  Otherwise, it would stop.

It would not be beyond imagination to say that a few people pointed and laughed as we came down a rather alarming T-shaped ramp to the airport entrance, and I struggled with two heavy carts that seemed to want to careen in opposite directions. However, my yelling "whoa Mama" and angling the carts together side-by-side did the trick, and we descended the ramps in reasonable order.

We also managed to get the carts down to the rental car place.  After John figured out how to work the reverse in the car, we got in and drove through the night to Geilenkirchen.  

I don’t remember much about the check-in, except the cheerful apple-cheeked receptionist named...I think, Nicole, and that the room we entered smelled unfortunately of cigarette smoke.  And that when I tried to use my nebulizer, I found that it did not have a universal power supply as I had been told it did, so it grumbled, and when smoked came out of it, I had to hastily unplug it.

We ended up opening up the windows to air it out, changed our clothes, brushed our teeth (I think) and then dropped into bed like stunned zombies.

Put a little love in your heart

"Think of your fellow man
Lend him a helping hand
Put a little love in your heart....

And the world will be a better place..."

Enough of feeling down and despairing! It's time to get down and get to work!

I was reminded of this, when the old hippie flower-child song above (written by Jimmy Holiday, Randy Myers, and Jackie DeShannon) was played in church today, and I remember when I heard this as a kid back in 1969 on the morning radio before I went to school. My mom was a classical music fan, my dad was all jazz and big band sound, and had just a bit of suspicion about that weird hippie stuff, but they could totally get behind this song, because they believed in what it had to say down to their bones. My dad invited, every year, a couple of young sailors who were far away from home to our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, because he thought was terrible that young kids like that would not be with family during the holidays. And my mom--good heavens. I swear I have to make an appointment to see her these days because of her very full volunteer schedule (I will boast: she won Pierce County Volunteer of the Year award for 2000, and this year won the Outstanding Volunteer award).

So, when "Put a Little Love in Your Heart" came on the radio in 1969, my folks said we could listen to that kind of music all we wanted. There is everything right with having love in your heart and helping out people in need, whether here or abroad.

It's September now, and the summer heat is giving way to cold rain here in the Pacific North"wet." I love this time of year, when the leaves turn to red and gold, when fresh ripe apples are crisp and sweet in one's mouth, when curling up underneath a blanket with your loved ones is especially cuddly, and--of course---when the love of yarn turns to an orgy of fiber-addiction.

The great thing about this, however, is that if you have a great deal of yarn, or can't help adding to your stash, you can tell yourself that not only are you going to make your loved ones all warm and loving-cuddly with the products of your knitting (or crocheting) prowess, but you are going to spread that fiber-love to the world.

I once Tweeted that "I firmly believe that if everyone took time to knit, crochet, or do some kind of constructive hand craft, we would have World Peace." It was somewhat tongue-in-cheek, but I am proud to say that Lion Brand Yarns picked it up and re-tweeted it. :-D Still, tongue in cheek or not, I do think there is something to that idea.

I think of all the charity knitting, crocheting, and sewing that is done--making clothes and blankets for premie babies, hats for the homeless, Afghans for Afghans, for our soldiers, and to raise money for various other causes, both here and abroad--I have to think there is a lot of love going on there for others. What if our world leaders, while in the midst of diplomatic negotiations, decided to sit down and knit or crochet some item for the needy in their opponent's country? They'd have to get the measurement of each person they did the handiwork for, where they lived, what kind of weather they had so that you could make the outfit or blanket or whatever suitable for their climate. And you know, when you do that, when you measure out a piece of fabric, when you tailor what you make for a person, that person is no longer some vague demographic statistic, he or she has shape and form. That person becomes real

And when he or she gets that item of clothing, knowing where that piece of clothing comes from, there is less animosity toward the person or country from whence it came. It was made specially for that person, and in good will.

There is a little love in each person's heart, both from the giving and the receiving.

So, as we enter fall and look toward the winter, I'm gearing up to do a lot of knitting and spinning of yarn. One of the projects I'm thinking of taking up is to restart my Building an Orphanage in the Congo project on my Etsy site.

I am thinking, however, of also trying to find some charity that benefits rural people. I've been reading a lot about rural poverty and the stereotypes people have about it. The stereotype a typical poor rural person is some white guy with a gun and beat-up truck, a "hick." But the truth is, typical rural citizens are African Americans, Hispanic Americans, and Native Americans. The attitude we have about rural people is damaging, to say the least.

I won't go into the statics about that now. I want to do the Pollyanna thing instead, and that is to look around and see where there is need, then do something to help. I'm like a lot of middle class folks--I've got a job, and so does my husband, for now. I've got a mortgage and college loans to pay while sending a kid through college. But compared to a lot of people, that's tremendous abundance. I've got enough to pay for such luxuries as a TV and computer and...a sizable yarn stash.

It wouldn't hurt me at all to do something with that yarn stash to help those in need. And I bet I'll be joining legions of other hand-crafters doing the same thing. I know the folks at CTA (Clothing and Textile Advisors) are doing it. Then there's Afghans for Afghans, and Hats for the Homeless, and so many more. Want to find a local fiber arts charity? Try this link here.

Put a little love in your hearts, folks. Spread the fiber-arts love!

Ten minutes to Eternity

My mom's house is in the boonies. To get there, I have to go through two or three small towns that are around...maybe 10,000, but it's hard to tell, as I just did a Google search and came up with nothing as to to the population of each. Cell phone service is available, but even my Verizon and my brother's AT&T services quit when we get to her house.

She lives outside/in a small town--well, come to think of it, I don't think there is a mayor of that town, it's sort of a general area--an "unincorporated community," with a population of around 6000, more or less, depending on if you count the town next to it that is under the same zip code, because the U.S. Postal Service generally doesn't acknowledge that town exists, unless the inhabitants insist, and I believe the town inhabitants have to pay a fee to have the town they live in as part of their home address. There was some bad history between that one town and the U.S. government, and once the government has it in for you, it seems it doesn't forgive or forget, even if you are long dead. I believe the town founders who supposedly defied and offended the federal government (they dared published booklets on agnosticism and practiced yoga on property they owned) have been dead about 100 years now. Yeah, that's 100 years, no typo.

Anyway, I traveled after work on Monday to stay with my mom, because she had cataract eye surgery scheduled on Tuesday. I decided to leave home well past rush hour, but well before dark, neither wanting to mess with traffic or a barely-lit two-lane rural highway. Knowing that my mom was not (I HOPE) going to leave her house for a few days after surgery, I asked her whether she wanted me to pick up anything on the way--a carton of milk, she said. There's a grocery store in one of the towns, about 15 minutes away from my mom's house, so I stopped in there, because she said it was open until 10. I got there before 9 pm--plenty of time.

I decided to pick up a few items for myself as well, and browsed the close-set, twilight-dimmed aisles crowded with as many daily necessities and little luxuries as a rural grocery store can afford to carry: the ubiquitous Starbucks bottled frappucino, yes; Pepsi Max, no. MD 20/20 cheek by jowl with Chateau Ste Michelle. Little toys from China wrapped in cellophane--cellophane--how old is that? The store has a latte stand just 200 feet across the parking lot from another latte stand, because after all this is Washington State, where intravenous drip coffee would be available if someone could find a way to do it legally.

No hurry, I thought (though I wished one of the latte stands were open--a little "why bother" decaf latte would not have been amiss). It was well before the closing time of 10 pm, and I was the only customer. I was startled to hear, as a result, the lone cashier announce, "store customers, please prepare to purchase your goods as the store will be closing in ten minutes to eternity."

Ten minutes to eternity.

Should I rush, or shouldn't I? How long was ten minutes to eternity? I looked at the quart of milk, my package of Kotex-with-wings, and my diet Coke with lime (diet Coke is my default, unless there is diet Pepsi Max with ginseng), wondering if somehow time was different in this little store, and if these items would somehow disintegrate in a strange, quantum space-time continuum sort of way if I hurried, or morph into some evolutionary blob not yet known to man or beast if I took my time.

I walked in a moderate way to the check-out stand.

"Ten minutes to eternity," I said as I placed my items on the conveyor belt.

"Yeah, I throw out stuff like that sometimes to see if anyone notices," the cashier said. He was a lean, dark-haired young man with a goatee, with a nonchalant air about him. Under 30, I thought, maybe 25. He punched in the prices on the cash register.

"So Twilight Zone." I gestured at the windows, grey with shadows and the barely visible setting sun. "Here I am, going down a lone country highway at dusk, an unsuspecting consumer of grocery goods looking only to buy a few things on the way to my elderly mother's house..."

"You only think you're coming in here to buy milk, sanitary supplies, and a cold refreshing diet beverage," he replied. "When you leave...will you really be leaving? Or will you be entering? Into what will you be entering? Is there a difference between entering and leaving?"

"Maybe not!" I said.

He paused thoughtfully before bagging my purchases. "I had an uncle who once said that. Are there really differences between---" He waved his hand at everything in general. "All this? Once, everything was the same. It was all one big sameness. No conflict, because who's going to be all judgemental when it's all the same? And then people started finding differences. This is different from that, all the way down to particles and scientific names for things we don't even see. Now, it's, this is better than that, I'm better than you, no, I'm better than you. This is good, this is bad."

"Makes me think of how Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and then they began to think they way they were created was somehow bad."

He pointed at me and pulled his trigger finger. "Bullseye." He counted out my change, and closed the till, locking it. "You be safe out there. Whatever out there is."

I hummed the Twilight Zone song, and he grinned.

Peaches and Kevin Skinner

Washington peaches are in! I went to the Federal Way farmer's market today (after getting my tire fixed and my hair trimmed), and what a beautiful day it is. Not too hot--around 75 to 80 degrees F when I went--with a slight breeze. I often make it to the market just short of closing time around 3 pm, but this time I got in around noon.

There is something wonderful about the bounty of a farmer's market. It's all laid out there for you to see on the tables, with the farmers or pickers themselves manning the outlay. It's so fresh, you can smell the scents of the fresh vegetables, fruit, and cut flowers, in addition to the lunch-time treats made up by local restaurants and cafes. The colors are gorgeous; today there were the first tomatoes I've seen of the season, huge heirloom tomatoes that go from the rusty orange red kind, to the ones that are more of a red with a purple undertone. Some of these tomatoes are huge, bigger than my outstretched hand. Some of them are the smaller ones on the vine, small enough to pop into my mouth so that when I bite down, the sweet-tart tomato juices flood my mouth all at once (a.k.a., a tomato orgasm). Glistening green zucchini, gleaming bulbs of onion, and corn! The first corn that I've seen at the market today, the candy-sweet kind with alternating white and yellow kernels. There were apples from Quincy on the other side of the Cascade mountains--Fuji, Pink Lady, Braeburns--big and beautiful, blushing red over light green. Deep red raspberries and dark purple blueberries. Bing and Rainier cherries (the Rainiers are my favorite--I eat them like candy). Flowers, from delicate fragrant pastel-colored sweet peas to huge white and magenta lilies.

And the peaches. Washington peaches. There is nothing better than ripe, fresh-picked Washington peaches. Oh, I'm sure the California ones and famous Georgia ones are lovely, but you know they're shipped not-totally-ripe so that they keep well in the stores, and the fact is, they just aren't as sweet and juicy as the local ones. I'm sure this is why buying local fruit and vegetables is simply better. You get them ripe, you get them fresh, and they are incredibly delicious. You can smell the scent of them, and I'm sure that lends a great deal to the anticipation of the flavor.

I have a peach now at my computer desk, and I have to have a damp towel as well, because this big luscious, golden-dawn-colored early New Haven peach is so dripping sweet, the juices just run off my chin and over my fingers, that's how good it is. There are few treats better than this on a hot summer day.

So when John comes home from his bike ride, he is going to be presented with a NICE dinner. Fresh clams from Quilcene Bay (from the farmer's market) just picked this morning, corn-on-the-cob, a side of Swiss chard (my newly discovered favorite vegetable), and toasted pita bread with either aioli sauce or sour-cream dill dip. Dessert will be a strawberry smoothie, made with frozen strawberries (earlier bought at the farmer's market, then frozen).

I can hardly wait. Yum!!! There is nothing like fresh fruit and vegetables in season.

Later: I changed my mind. Instead of pita, I decided to have crackers and dip instead, as I wanted to save the pitas for pita pizzas. Just the right size for the two of us. Also, I decided to combine the Swiss chard with some Russian pirogi dumplings, which is looking pretty good (I'm cooking them now. The pirogi, I bought at the farmer's market, and the gentleman there suggested that if I were to eat them later, I might want to fry them. (They are cheese and potato stuffed pirogi.) But...just by themselves? So I sauted some garlic, added chopped Swiss chard, and it is looking pretty danged good. I will report back after dinner.


About Kevin Skinner:

I'm not fond of reality shows, and the talent ones often pain me because of how the not-very-talented ones are booed so horribly and made fun of. However, I can bear to see the ones on YouTube, as I love discovering new talent, and I love seeing talent from ordinary people get a chance to shine. I especially love it when ordinary-looking people upset people's very surface opinions of them. Susan Boyle was one such, and Kevin Skinner is another.

I will listen to country music every once in a while--I only came to listen to it as an adult, and a middle-aged one at that. But Kevin Skinner made me want to listen to more of it.

I suspected that since he was the last one to audition for that day, he was going to be better than most. Indeed he was. He has a southern backwoods accent which I have never heard before, so I was intrigued (I love hearing different accents), and wore clothes that were casual in the extreme--stuff that I'd probably wear at home when gardening in cool weather. He talked a bit about his past employment and what he wanted to sing, and though I don't think Ms. Osborne was malicious when she laughed at his accent (she seems like a very kind person; I think she was more surprised and delighted than anything else, and you know, his accent was so very strong), I don't hold out much hope for some in the audience.

Yet, the audience seemed spellbound to silence when Mr. Skinner played and sang in his warm and kind voice, and with good reason. He did indeed play well and with grace and plain dignity. I read some of the comments on YouTube, and he did what all good singers and musicians do: he moved so many to sit by their loved ones and cherish their time with them. I saw more than a few from soldiers and sailors going off to war, and I think it must have been a comfort to them, as well as to those who wrote that their loved ones were ill or dying. And what better thing can an artist do than to uplift and give comfort to those in need of it?

Regardless of how Mr. Skinner does in the rest of the competition, he rose above petty expectations and gave the world some comfort and hope. So God bless you, Kevin Skinner, for gift of that moment.