Cherry Blossoms Along the Lane
A morning in May -

Children Are Forever Teenagers

It happened to me, probably you too. After I became an adult, my parents would often treat me as if I was still seventeen. Now that I'm grown old and have grown children of my own, I often treat them as if they are still seventeen. It must be a natural thing. Is it that we parents are subconciously afraid of loosing our power base? I can deal with someone of my sons age as equals (nearly so anyway) but I have trouble acknowledging that Kevin and Steve are real men.

The reason I bring this philosophical question to mind is that we've been included in an email listing of many of our companions headed to Romania this May. A web site bulletin board has been set up and many of the folks have sent in short bios to share. So far, the oldest Peace Corps volunteer, besides Nancy and myself, is 31. We had been told that many older folks, couples and singles both, are usually included in these country groups. Perhaps it is that the older volunteers haven't figured out the internet yet and thus haven't posted their history, but I doubt that. Perhaps it is that the older dudes have all gone to bed without bothering to let the rest of us know about them.

It is human nature to both look for new, interesting, dynamic, energetic people of a different age to share ideas and laughter with, but also to find comfort with folks that share a sense of history and maturity. None of the dyanmic and energetic young people headed to Romania were born, not even close, when President Kennedy formed the Peace Corps. Nancy and I, old and decrepted, were.

I'd hate to be going overseas with nothing but a retirement community as co-travelers, but still, hopefully, we'll find someone that remembers having milk home delivered or knows what a 33 1/3 record was.

Apple Blossoms
A morning in May -

High, Wide and Lonesome

When I was growing up I use to love to read about faraway places. I'd read and imagine that it was me doing the exploring. Sometimes it was science fiction, sometimes it was history or biography. Somewhere in high school I discovered Hal Borland. Apparently Mr. Borland use to be a regular at either the New York Times or some other publication centered in that city, but he lived the life of a country squire in Conneticut.

High, Wide and Lonesome was his story of growing up on the high plains country of Eastern Colorado. He was a gifted writer and his coming of age on the great plains was a perfect match with my fantasies. There was one portion that I recall reading these forty years later, something that has stuck with me. Sardines.

Hal Borland told of sitting on the buckboard of a wagon heading out into the immensness of the grass with his father and for lunch they enjoyed openning a tin of sardines and slathering the fish ontop of saltine crackers. My own father loved to do the same, without the buckboard and without the grass. There was a little key on top of the sardine can that you used to hook into a metal tab that sealed around the can and as you twisted on the key a metal strip would peel back, loosening the top of the flattened tin. And there would be the smelly sardines. I bet that if someone had figured out how to unsmell sardines they would have sold triple the number.

I don't eat sardines much, the biggest problem is that if you open a can, you'd better eat them all or they'll stink up everything in the refrigerator. It needs at least two people to do a tin's worth, and Nancy wouldn't think of it. Kevin, the youngest boy, put three tins in my sock for Christmas, but I haven't opened them yet, waiting for a warm day to eat them outside. I might have to swallow the entire contents of perhaps one of the dogs would help. I think a breezy day would be best.

It's funny how we our minds associate our memories. A can of sardines links with my father, premium saltine crackers, Hal Borland, the high plains of Colorado.

I'd post a picture of sardines, but how about one of Crocus instead -- They don't smell.

Chardonel Grapes waiting for the Harvest. This is why I trim.
A morning in May -

Almost Springtime

It's been a busy Sunday here, as we slowly approach the coming of Spring. Each year my winter farm chore is to trim the 2000 plus grapevines. There are four fields, each field takes about a month. I start in December and save the largest field for March. This largest field consisting of Chardonel and Traminette grapes will take until April 15th to finish. Bud break is usually a week after that and the trimmings must be done before bud break.

It's a good winter job. Gives me an excuse to be outside in all sorts of weather. The vines are trimmed back to the cordon wire leaving a bud or two on each spur for the coming year's growth and fruit clusters. It is one of the few times in all the vineyard chores that each individual plant is examined. Often during the summer and fall the vines are treated as a mass, not as individual plants. Winter is the time of trimming, pruning, cutting out the dead wood, inspecting each plant for vigor and health and hand digging the fescue grass that has a tendency to accumulate right next to the trunk of the vine, hiding from the summer roundup sprays.

As the job progresses throughout the winter, it's interesting to see and hear the gradual change of the season. The ground is no longer frozen, the meadow larks have a certain urgency in their calls now, and the robins have begun to filter through on their way north. As I trim this year, I wonder how the plants will manage without my care for the next few years. Brother Joe has said he'd like to take care of them, but it may be more work than he'd expect. I also wonder if he'll enjoy the labor as much as I do.

Spring Daffodils... this is last year's picture, they are not quite blooming yet.

Turning Toward Romania

It's snowing here again this morning, sort of a surprise thing. It is March and time for the spring to begin pushing winter away. The crocus were blooming yesterday but now are getting smushed by the snow. I looked for an old picture of the crocus but thought that the tropical flowers from St. Martin were better.

This past weekend included our 'sponsors dinner'. We invited the six folks that gave us reference letters for the Peace Corps application to join us here at the house for a meal. While a couple of folks couldn't make it -- perhaps they did not wish to claim responsiblity -- those that did come enjoyed a fine evening of good food and good companionship. At least, I hope they enjoyed it, I did. All three of my references attended, however only one of Nancy's could make it -- so maybe it's Nancy's references that have concerns, like what she'll do to them when she gets back?

On Sunday evening we were invited to a dinner hosted by four Romanian graduate students from James Madison Universtity. We had taken them out for a meal previously to pick their brains and they returned the favor by having us at their appartment and served us traditional Romanian food. Mammaluga and Plum Brandy and Salam and Sheep Cheese and Grape Leaves Stuffed with Meat, Soup and Apple Stroudel. It was excellent and let us know that we'll not starve while we are doing our service.

I was reassured that they have great pillows in Romania so I will not have to take mine -- see an earlier post.

We came away impressed with these four young folks and their energy and friendliness. It's about two and a half months before departure and we've gotten so much positive feedback that we continue to look forward to our adventure.

Turning toward Romania

Tropical Flowers -- or would you rather have a picture of today's snowfall?