Tim & Nancy's Adventures

The Hope that Springs Eternal

2009-06-12T19:17:00.000-07:00

The Hope that Springs Eternal

2009-06-11T18:41:00.000-07:00

Hope that Springs Eternal

I was reminded of a particular afternoon some years ago at the horse races as I viewed the outcome of Sunday’s Belmont Stakes. Some friends and I traveled to Laurel Park outside of Washington, D.C. to watch my horse, Morning Thrill compete. I have since learned never to take any casual friends to a race in which one of my horses is running, for the disappointment that usually follows dampens the entire adventure. Only those friends that I know can handle my sour mood after a horse that I’ve raised has failed to live up to expectations are allowed to accompany me on such occasions.

But on this particular afternoon, I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. My horse raced in the fifth or sixth race and finished unspectacularly. The friends that had tagged along had never been to the races before and while they were having a more enjoyable time than I, they hadn’t cashed a betting ticket all day. Before the tenth and final race of the afternoon they said, “We are determined to bet on a horse that will win.” So they bet on every horse in the race.

A long shot won, and they were ecstatic. The winning payout more than cover the cost of purchasing a win ticket on all twelve horses and it made me think of a possible way of beating the betting odds – bet against the favorite.

If a bettor were to place win tickets on all the horses, only when a horse with an outside chance or longer would make the payout worth the wager, but by picking those races that there was a false favorite, then a bet on ever other horse might make sense. You wouldn’t care who won the race, so long as it wasn’t the betting choice of the masses. For this year’s Kentucky Derby you would have banked $100. It would have cost you $38 to cover ever horse but the ‘chalk’ as the favorite is referred to. You would have lost in the Preakness as Rachel was favored, but you would have come out ahead in the Belmont stakes.

I haven’t actually ever tried to put this theory in practice, as it would take a fair bankroll to start and a couple of races in a row with the favored horse winning would be rather expensive, but if someone would lend me a thousand dollars to try my scheme, I’d be glad to report back if it’s successful.

But mean time, I’ve attached a picture of this year’s hope. Her name is Lola – daughter of Morning Thrill, granddaughter of Thrilling Date, great-granddaughter of Silver Thrill. Her racing name will be Thrilling Alora, named for a grandniece. She looks good, but how can you tell at this stage? As of six weeks of age, she has both the conformation and the constitution to be a racer, but she’ll have to outrun her pedigree to be truly successful. I suspect that she’ll go off not as the bettor’s favorite her first race so bet $2 on all the horses excluding the favorite. That way, if she wins we’re all delighted. If she fails to win, and some other long shot does, you take home some money.

Painted Trees

2009-04-29T19:15:00.000-07:00

2009-04-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

Whitewash

Nancy and I recently returned for a visit to Romania. The purpose of the trip was to check-in with friends from our Peace Corps days and to check up on the Walnut Tree project.

Everyone we touched base with all seemed to be in good health and high spirits. There were new babies to admire and more on the way. While the economy in Romania is shaky, so far our friends have survived and at least are holding their own, if not prospering.

The Walnut project does seem to be prospering. This is a program that I came up with while volunteering with the Organic Farmer’s Association of Romania and it involves connecting investors to land owners and farmers of Transylvania to plant, tend and harvest ‘English’ walnuts. Walnut trees are native to the region and the temperate climate favors their growth. At one time Romania was 2nd in the world in walnut production but it’s been over 50 years since there have been active nut tree orchards.

Last year the investors purchased trees and the landowners signed contracts for 25 hectares (approx. 52 acres). The grafted plants were set last spring and survival rate appears to be over 95%. This year an additional 25 hectares was added to the contracts. There are now 7 separate landowners farming sites ranging from 21.3 hectares for the largest to a single hectare for the smallest. All of the plantings are close to small villages in four separate counties. It was exciting to see the progress of the trees and feel the excitement of the new landowners in the program.

It will be another 4 years at the earliest that we’ll have a worthwhile harvest but one of the farmers proudly announced that he had a handful of walnuts last fall from his very young trees.

The largest of the holdings belong to the Utilitarian Church of the village of Magyarsoros (Romanian name of the town is Delenii). As we began our tour of the site, I was told by the church council president that not all of the trees had been whitewashed yet. Surprised, I laughed and said, “You don’t need to whitewash them.”

In Romania and in other former communist countries trees are painted white from the ground to about a meter and a half. I have been told three different reasons for this. Reason one is that the whitewash keeps the bugs out – as if there were bugs that only climbed or flew a meter and a half from the ground. And I inquire to this reason, “Why do you whitewash the telephone stanchions? They are cement.”

Reason two says that the paint is for decorative purposes. It does make the trees stand out and are less likely to be damaged in the hay making. That also explains about the telephone stanchions. However applying whitewash to over 2,200 trees for decorative purposes seems like a lot of work.

A third reason I’ve been told is that “Not sure why we do it, but we’ve always done it.” I hold with the inertia of tradition. But when asked my opinion I point to the trees in the forests and say, “No body whitewashes those trees and they seem to be growing pretty well.”

Nancy has a fourth hypothesis of the whitewash tradition. She says that the Communists countries needed to put people to work, so some official made up this theory of whitewash to employ the proletariat. It was a make work project. In any case, I’ll attach a picture of a whitewashed grafted walnut tree. Note that not only was the tree whitewashed but the support post as well.

Spring Crocus, no grass (yet)

2009-03-08T19:32:00.000-07:00

The Endless Struggle

2009-03-08T18:46:00.000-07:00

The Endless Struggle

The crocus has started to bloom. I love crocus. Especially I enjoy the species crocus that are the first bloomers. These are the small flowered varieties but they naturalize in the garden and form tight patches of color on the otherwise still bare ground and garden. Their colors can be quiet soft and fine. The blues have patches of pale yellow. The whites are strikingly white but most favored are the cream colored ones because it is a shade otherwise rare in my garden.

There is, however, a problem with these early crocus. It is that they remind me of the war that I lost last year. And I lost the year before that. And that I loose every year. The war with the wire grass.

Wire grass has invaded most of my patches of cultivated space. No amount of mulch, weeding or Roundup can control it for long. Every spring at crocus time, this year included, I get down on my knees and try and yank up the grass. Some years I attack it with fortitude and conviction, determined to be rid of the pest. Some years, as this year, my efforts are only half-hearted, for I know that the blasted stuff with overcome what ever I do to arrest it.

I spent a little over an hour this afternoon and succeeded in pulling up most of the visible grass in only a square meter of ground, but even I know that what I left behind, the root system and the nodes that clung tenaciously to the soil, will spring back to life overnight.

I’m not sure the crocus actually mind the grass too much, for they flower and feed their corms before the stuff has fully choked out all competition. It seems such a waste, though, and a failure as a gardener to be defeated by the grass.

My assistant gardener suggests that I spray the entire area with chemical herbicide, but that would kill the crocus, too. There is in the square meter that I worked on today a treasured butterfly weed that battles every year for space and sustenance with the grass. It is a bright orange summer flower that descends in direct linage from a plant dug up on the side of the road over 40 years ago. I’m sure that the herbicide would kill the butterfly weed permanently but only hinder the grass temporarily.

2009-01-20T18:17:00.000-08:00

Sparky and the Cowboy

and other stories
by Tim Hulings

It's Here!

2009-01-19T17:50:00.000-08:00

It’s Here!

I’ve been working on pounding 13 fictional stories into shape for the past eight months - editing, re-reading, cross checking and proofing. Between my work and the waiting, it seems to have taken a long time. Now the book is ready and available.

These 13 stories weren’t written within the last eight months; that was simply the work to get them ready for publication. It took ten years to write them. Alecia Ball, a friend from my Peace Corps days in Romania helped immensely with her editing. I referred to her in an earlier blog post as a blacksmith, taking my words and hammering them into something useable.

Two of the stories, the Cowboy stories, are connected and together they could have been considered a short novel, but they were written years apart and I purposely separated them in the book by inserting several unconnected narratives.

I realize that novels are considered more saleable and that short stories are an antique form of expression, but I’m most comfortable when I write and think in the short form. My plots are not strong enough for a novel and I get tired of my characters before a novel is complete (I have tried) - not that those two deficiencies seem to inhibit many novelists. My tales were not written for publication, but for my own pleasure in their creation. Only because of the encouragement from a few select readers have I embarked on the publication of my first book.

Like Slim, the pitiful character in the last of the stories, I like to keep track of things. I have set a goal for the number of books to be printed. My hope is to get Slim’s and Cowboy’s and Red’s and Nana’s story into 5,000 pair of hands. If you would like a signed, first edition copy ({gratis with strings attached} while supplies last) please contact me via email at snowridge2000@yahoo.com The books are also available from the publisher at www.iuniverse.com , at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and, I believe at Books-A-Million web sites in either paperback, hardback or e-editions. Search the sites by my author name, Tim Hulings.

2009-01-07T14:13:00.000-08:00

I hadn't posted a blog in awhile then this past Sunday I published a segment about Hope springing eternal. It does. But sometimes it takes a round about way of springing. If you are looking for the hopeful, skip this and move on to the Jan. 4th posting.

Early, early on Tuesday morning a jogger was fatally struck by a vehicle. It took me a day to be able to write the following:

Wednesday January 7th, 2009

Sherry and I were co-workers.

Depending upon the definition of friendship, I’m not sure we were friends. Everyone liked Sherry, for sure, including me, but I’m not sure we were friends. We did not share our dreams, our disappointments or our aspirations. We revealed little personal information to each other. We didn’t share lunch or dinner. I don’t think that I ever touched her. I don’t recall shaking her hand or exchanging a hug. I don’t remember placing a hand upon her shoulder or arm and I don’t think that she ever did that to me either. We did not touch physically.

Our relationship was not based on anything physical. It was based on trust, respect and communication. Perhaps half a dozen times in one’s life you find someone that you mesh with, that’s on the same wavelength. Some ways, Sherry and I were not friends, other ways we were better than friends. I would ask to her amend her work plans and she would always agree, but I would ask, never tell, and she knew that she could always refuse. And she would, on occasion ask me to procure her something or do some small favor and she knew that I would try my best to achieve it, but she would ask, never demand. We understood each other and while we never touched physically, we certainly did on a higher level.

I had the duty to close the store on Monday night. She had been working diligently and alone for the evening and she was the last to finish her task. All the other employees had escaped home. Sherry headed back to the offices to leave her supervisor a note, saying what she had completed and where she had left off. I was in the cash room finishing up my chores but with the door open so that I could stop her before she left the building.

“Sherry, stop. I have something for you,” I said as she walked past the open door.
I got up and showed her a packet of reward certificates that had her name on them. I handed them to her.
“What are these for?” she asked.
“Because you’re special,” I said.
“No, these are because I was on Brenda’s team and we won the contest.”
We exchanged looks, and her eyes had that unusual twinkle in the corners that she got when she chuckled. I am sure that she understood that what I had said partly in jest, I also truly meant.
“Goodnight, Sherry,” I said.
“Goodnight Mr. Tim.”

Often times when a relationship ends suddenly in anger or accident or Act of God we look back on our last words, our parting words and we think how foolish, or vain, or inappropriate were those words. It is some consolation to me personally, and I think to all of us at Belk, Harrisonburg, to know, that with Sherry, the last words, spoken without forethought, were the perfect words – “Because you’re special.”

Sherry was special. She is special. And, so long as we hold her in our memory, she will be special.

Tim

2009-01-04T16:44:00.000-08:00

Hope in 2009

2009-01-04T16:42:00.000-08:00

Hope which Springs Eternal

When our children were younger, I directed the youth hand bell choir at our church. It was usually a fun exchange between director, bell ringers and listeners. There were a few times that the exuberance of the participants and the director clashed with the traditions of the worship service, but everyone, including the kids, seemed to have a good time.

One year the ringers and I were asked to perform at a secular event. It was a dinner held at one of the original homes of the town, cooked by the ladies auxiliary, or some such charity. Stevens Cottage presented a little bit of a problem in presentation for the hand bells, in that there were three separate rooms that would be used simultaneously for meals and no one area large enough to hold both the 8 bell ringers and the diners. It was early spring and the weather to iffy to chance performing on the cottage porch, so I decided that we would be traveling minstrels, going from room to room with our noise.

The song we came up with, practiced and modified to fit a few of our participants was “Daisy”, and her bicycle built for two. We followed that with a short rendition of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame” interspliced with a reading of Ernest Thayer’s poem, “Casey At the Bat”. We recruited a talented female singer to help us with Daisy, and we all sang the Ballgame, although it was asking the kids to do a lot with both playing the hand bells and singing at the same time. I recited the poem. It was a good evening and as there were three rooms of guests, and two settings for dinner, we got to perform six times. By the sixth time, we had our lines down pretty well.

I remember all this because of the section of the poem – “The hope which springs eternal in the human breast.” It was used as the hometown crowd of Mudville entered into the ninth inning of the baseball game. There were two out and the Mudville nine were down by two runs. The home team’s best player, Casey, had two batters in front of him before he could hit, Senn and Dougy Blake (members of the bell choir, not the ball team actually). The former was a phony and the latter was a flake. I had to say that with a smile so they wouldn’t get mad at me.

The poem ends of course with these famous lines:

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out

I write this now not for the strike out part, but the hope that springs eternal part. We’ve come through a remarkable year. It was remarkable, not necessarily in a good sense, but certainly 2008 was a year to remember. Nancy and my financial portfolio has diminished, but at least we have much company in that misery. We’ve lost friends in the past year. The current state of the world does not seem to be much better than it was this time last year.

We still have our health, our jobs and our hopes. We suspect that you have your hopes and dreams, too. Perhaps there are diminished after this past year, more realistic, but I suspect that they’re still there. And as long as we hold onto those dreams, the band will be playing again sometime soon.

Grape Picking and Pressing

2008-10-15T05:58:00.000-07:00

Grape Picking and Pressing

First grape picking of the vines here on our farm took place on the 17th of September. The variety picked was Chardonelle, a hybrid of an American native and the French Chardonnay. In past years the harvest from the vines was sold to Virginia wineries and has been blended into some award winning wine. Last year, though, there was not enough harvest to interest a winery, so I tried my hand at making wine myself.

During lunch break of the first day of picking this year, the first bottling of last year’s picking was sampled. It was agreed that we needed to continue work so as to get more bottles for next year, but not before we had another sip or two. Other tasting seems to confirm that the wine is quite drinkable, as well as very potent.

Friends and relations continued to help pick, squeeze and bottle the juice through the first week of October. I estimated last year’s total harvest at about 375 pounds and hoped that this year’s total would double that. The vines have surprised me. Not only was the weather good for the quantity of grapes, but also the vines were healthy and free of insects and most fungus. Harvest for 2008 through the first week of October was close to 1200 pounds. I left some grapes to try a ‘late harvest’ press. We’ll see how that goes.

The picking was the easier part. The hard part was the pressing to make juice. Last year I used a pot and strainer and did the work by hand. This year I purchased a small fruit press but we still did most of the work by hand. Currently there are over 50 gallons of juice in the basement in various stages of ferment.

In additional to the Chardonelle, a second variety, Traminette, was harvested. Some of the juice will be blended, others carboys will remain separate to taste which is preferred. As the vines continue a slow revitalization from years of disease and crown gall attack harvest should increase steadily, provided the weather is as near accommodating in future years as this past spring and summer. Right now there are 34 bottles of wine in the basement from the 2007 harvest. Next August, after bottling the 2008 picking, I’d expect close to 240 bottles.

If this sounds like an invitation, it is.

Politics

2008-09-06T09:12:00.000-07:00

Politics

For those of you who might not remember or know, in a past life I was a part-time small town politician. In five elections I won three, lost two. I always felt that I was better at the governing portion of the job than the campaigning part. I ran three times as an independent, twice as a Republican, and I’ve had the Democrats offer me a slot on their slate of local candidates. I say all this to establish my credentials for the following observations on the current state of presidential politics.

For the first time in my life I can say that both parties put forward their best candidates. There is no lesser of two evils. If anyone says that clique to you, answer honestly that the two gentlemen are both strong candidates, very different in approach, but not really that different in what it takes to be leaders. Secondly, their picks as Vice-presidents make the tickets almost perfect mirror images of one another. No matter which side wins, I believe that this country will be better for the debate between the two – between the four. I would not have predicted such an outcome a year ago at this time.

I love to write fiction. Some of that fiction requires a leap of faith. Dogs and mice talk, beans grow magic fruit and leprechauns and banshees appear, but I do try to make my stories believable – strange as that may seem. There is no way, however, that anyone could write a fiction that would be believable for the facts that now are present. It has been an amazing and unpredictable season. A year ago would you have predicted Obama to beat Hillary? McCain to rise from the ashes? And then to have Sen. Obama, after criticizing Sen. McCain for being in Congress and never getting anything accomplished pick as his running mate someone who’s been in Congress longer? Or how about Sen. McCain castigating his opponent for being inexperienced and then selecting for his campaign someone who very recently was major of a small town in Alaska? (An aside here – I was chairman of the Rockingham County Board of Supervisors. Rockingham County has a population of 54,000. Does that make me 6 times more qualified to be Vice-president as Gov. Palin? I don’t think so – it’s the job you do, not the job you have that counts.)

I watched both Presidential candidates speak at their conventions. It struck me that Mr. Obama was strongest when he spoke of uniting the country and weakest when he attacked Mr. McCain. Mr. McCain was strongest when he told his party what they didn’t want to hear. Being a centrist I’d say that if elected Obama moves to the center or McCain stays in the center, this country will be well served, but that’s my opinion.

But this is my strong opinion: What is a very improbable, implausible political year became a jaw dropping amazement last Weds. night. I remember Ronald Reagan’s Halloween speech in 1964 where he was introduced to the country. It propelled an actor to be President – it took nearly twenty years but it happened. I don’t think Mrs. Palin is going to need that long.

Where in the world did they find her? If you were to cast any current Hollywood actress to play such a National Velvet part, they are all either too lightweight or to old. What impressed me about her, was not what she said for we don’t know what was hers and what was some speechwriters, but how she said it.

Rudi Guliani gave a speech as introduction. The words were powerful and pleasant to the delegates at the hall, but he seemed nervous and uncomfortable. I thought that if he, who has had much experience speaking before crowds and national television couldn’t present himself better than that, this Sarah Palin was going to fall flat.

And you know 80 per cent of the television audience was expecting her to fall. 50 per cent wanted her to, the other half weren’t sure what they wanted, but many of us had low expectations. The crowd in the seats was on her side, and I’m sure that gave her a boost, but understand how difficult the task for her must have been. The weight of the entire campaign was on her shoulders. She HAD to prove her selection was a worthy one. And she had never spoken in a setting like that in her life. Then she stood up there and blew away the crowd. She was articulate, poised and in command. It was almost as if someone had told Rudi to go up there and be nervous so it makes our Veep look better.

The way she stood, the way she looked at ease, and the way she delivered her speech demonstrated a sense of character that just doesn’t come out of nowhere. Although it didn’t make much difference what she said, some of what she did say was really very clever (again was it her or the speechwriter) and some of what she didn’t say was wisely left out. The slightly noticeable Alaskan accent didn’t hurt, either. Whether she and Sen. McCain win this election, I don’t know, but I do know that in a matter of 45 minutes she changed a liability into his best asset and their best chance. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the ratings of the Vice-presidential debate higher than for the McCain/Obama debates.

A Rooting Interest

2008-08-17T15:40:00.000-07:00

A Rooting Interest

I’ve been watching the Olympics this past week. The other day a Romanian woman won the ladies marathon. Nancy and I cheered her on as she ran stride after stride after stride. We didn’t know her; had never heard her name before, but because we had stayed a little over two years in her native country, we couldn’t help but root for her.

Shortly thereafter, a young Tunisian swimmer beat out the favorite to win the gold medal in the men’s 1500 meter swimming final. We rooted him on, for we had spent a week’s vacation in his small North African country. We had something in common with both participants.

Mostly, we root for the Americans, although we know none of them. We share something in common, a country, and that’s why we cheer them on. That seems a slender thread though, for I’d rather support a man or lady that shared some of my personality, my outlook on life, rather than my country of birth. Unfortunately, there is no way to tell from the snapshots we see of their faces whether the athlete that competes has anything worthwhile inside. It is easy to tell that physically they are fine specimens, but who can tell what’s inside – if their heart is as compassionate as it is efficient in circulating oxygen?

In my opinion watching a sporting event without rooting for one side or the other is nearly pointless so I’ll stick with the American side unless some other compelling story emerges. But I do feel a sense of satisfaction when the little countries have a competitor that does well, but I know, in the ultimate outcome, my cheers to the television screen make not one iota of difference to the outcome. For if my screams had some effect the Redskins would win more often.

The Blacksmith and the Sample

2008-07-30T10:01:00.000-07:00

The Blacksmith

When the inspiration hits I love to write; I need to write. My preferred genre is short fiction. I write for my own pleasure and, if a story is written with a particular person in mind, for the subject. I’ve been collecting stories for over a decade and have decided to make 13 available in book form.

I thought that the stories were pretty good. I knew that I enjoyed writing them, and rereading them, but I also knew that they had structural and mechanical flaws. I could proof read a story six times and still find errors. I realized that before I let these things out to the general public that they needed an expert editor.

I found one such editor in a friend from Peace Corps service. I call her my blacksmith. Alecia has taken the stories, heated them in the fire of dispassionate analysis then pounded out the rough spots and the blemishes. She has made the mechanics more reliable and the structure much more durable. It has, though, been a painful process.

These are my stories, and like the character in the title story of the forthcoming book, Sparky and the Cowboy and other Stories I love them for themselves, not for whatever competitive advantage or success they may have. To see them red-lined and yellow highlighted was painful. It got to be that if I could manage two paragraphs in a row without the blacksmith pounding on her anvil, I felt victorious. While I accepted 85% of Alecia’s suggested changes, every time I saw a red mark, it created a thoughtful internal debate. ‘Did I wish to leave it in the original or should I accept her modifications.’ That debate and her suggestions have much improved the stories and them more readable.

It is still months away before the self-published book will be ready, but thirteen stories have been selected, edited, and reviewed. The printing contract has been signed. I’m excited and you’ll find a section of one of the stories in the blog entry directly below. Your comments would be very much appreciated.

The Lake in Parcul Centru

2008-07-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

The Sample

2008-07-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

Parcul Centru
II

The lake is in the southwest corner of the park. Separate from the lake the main pedestrian walk runs from west end to east, broad and gravelly. It is flat and a perfect surface for joggers. On weekends a fellow guides a pony wagon and sells rides to children. On each side of the walkway chestnut trees grow.

I wonder at these trees. In America the chestnut has disappeared from our forests, felled by the blight. When I was young there was a mighty horse chestnut that grew outside the north porch of our house. Scientists used to come and poke around the tree, wondering why it hadn’t succumbed to the disease. We moved, and I’m not sure what became of the tree, if it died from natural causes or destroyed in building an office park. Perhaps it is a different variety, but here in Romania, the chestnuts flourish. During the first days of school the nuts burst from their protective, spiky husks and fall to the ground, bright pebbles for school children to collect and examine.

A British gentleman comes often to the park on sunny days. He takes a spot on one of the benches flanking the walking path. I say he is British, but that is an assumption. He strolls from the British library at the consulate office, located across the street from the park. He has the air of an Englishman, the way he carries his umbrella, his suit of clothes and his book. He prefers the mysteries. If it is a warm day he sits in the shade and reads, if it is cool, he finds a bench in the sunlight. He reads for roughly half an hour, then marks his page with a bookmark and heads, I presume, home.

I have heard him say “Buna Ziua” on occasion, but I have not noticed that he has ever engaged in conversation with passers-by. He is content to read his book and enjoy the weather.

No one ever gave the dog a name. He was a stray, living on the edge of society. Romania has a million stray dogs, and though the city of Cluj has done a fair job in clearing the streets, there remain a few. This dog without a name was one. He had bright eyes and an easy manner. He was a medium sized animal, and slim, like all the strays. He was black and had inherited no sign of breed or distinction except for his intelligence. He liked the park. He had lived here all summer, alone, finding sustenance from the ice cream wrappers and other debris. Because he had the wisdom to stay out of people’s way, keeping just beyond their circle of rejection, they left him alone, sometimes tossing him their unwanted tidbits.

What it was that attracted the dog to the Englishman, I cannot say. The man never had food, so had nothing to offer him. I never saw the man coax the dog, or speak to it either in Romanian or in English. As the end of summer approached, the dog perhaps sensed that he’d need to find other arraignments for surviving the Transylvanian winter. Perhaps the Englishman had a particular scent that attracted the dog, I cannot say, but I do know that the dog adopted the man.

It was a slow adoption. On the days the gentleman came for his read, the dog would appear and either sit or lie close by the bench the man chose for his leisure. On each succeeding day the dog moved closer to the man. At first the gentleman paid little heed, only to interrupt his reading to be sure that the dog was no threat. He had never been attacked by a stray but he had heard stories.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth afternoon that he took full account of the dog. I suspect he wondered why the same dog seemed to hang around. I saw him put aside his novel and sit and contemplate the animal for some minutes. He said nothing. The dog said nothing. The man picked up his book again, read to the appointed time, and got up to leave. In doing so, he looked back at the dog. I could see the dog return the gaze. I’ve known enough dogs to imagine the mournful look the beast gave the man. Finally, the man retreated from the park. The dog stayed put for some time as if waiting for the man’s return.

The gentleman did not have a pattern of reading every day. Often there were gaps of two or three days. I never saw him at all on the weekends. I saw the dog but I did not see the man.
It was a day following the night rains when the Englishman next showed. The earth smelled clean and new. The rain had brought down more of the chestnuts and dried leaves. The man had picked an all-together splendid day to enjoy the last sparse shade of the trees. He pulled out a napkin to wipe the droplets of water from the bench before sitting. I watched him and I watched the dog.

The dog moved closer than it had in previous days. It sat directly next to the bench in such a manner that its head made a near perfect arm rest. He looked straight ahead, almost as if he too were reading some imaginary book.

The man tried reading but found that the quality of his concentration was affected by his guest. He put the book in his lap. He turned to look down at the dog. The dog turned to look up at him.
“I used to have a dog, you know.”

Dogs can’t answer directly, their conversation takes a more roundabout form, but it was clear that the animal was listening.

“When I was a lad I had a dog.”

I wondered if the dog had ever had such a discussion with a non-dog before. He seemed perfectly at ease, all rapt attention. The conversation was in English. Perhaps the dog would have preferred Romanian or Hungarian but it seemed content enough to listen.

The gentleman must have found his audience agreeable as well for he continued. “We shared many fond times, Kanga and I. I named him after my favorite character in Winnie-the-Pooh.”

The man said everything slowly to the dog. I doubt that it was because he felt the dog slow to understand; rather it was the way the memories awakened in his mind, slowly.

“He was a good dog and the day that he was hit by a neighbor’s auto was one of the saddest of my childhood.”

The man paused for a long time. The dog sat waiting for the rest of the story. It did not come, at least, not that day. The man picked up his reading, lasted only a few more lines, closed his book and departed.

I looked over at the dog sitting still after the man had left. I wondered if the canine thought that he was making progress or if he was wasting his time with this gent that spoke a foreign language that the dog didn’t understand at all.

The next day the Englishman came back, but not with a book in his hands, but rather a paper bag. He looked around as he walked, searching for his dog. It was his dog now, that’s what the bag signified. He sat upon the same bench as he had the day before, but there was no sign of the dog. I could see from the slightest slump in an otherwise straight shoulder that the man was disappointed not to find his dog. He sat there for a while, considering whether to walk the park searching or not.

I’m sure the dog was testing him. After all these days of gradually gaining the trust of the man, he wanted to test that trust. I imagine the dog had a motto, “Easily adopted, as easily dismissed.” I don’t know how to say that in Romanian. I believe that the dog did though.
The man sat a full fifteen minutes with no dog. He had given up the idea of strolling through the park, I believe because it would have seemed undignified to be searching for a stray. As I watched him I saw his countenance brighten. He had seen his dog, and his dog, as if to make up for his tardy arrival, came bounding towards the man.

As he got closer to the bench, the dog slowed, then stopped and stood. The gentleman patted his black head.

“I shall have a name for you. You are not a Kanga, there was only one, besides you don’t look anything like a Kanga.”

He leaned and scratched behind the dog’s ears. The dog closed his eyes and I imagine he said to himself, “So this is how it feels.”

The man continued, “My favorite character from the mysteries is Constable Perkins. He is a wily and intelligent fellow. I shall call you Perkins, if you don’t mind.”

The dog hadn’t ever been called a name before. He’d been yelled at and called unpleasant things, but those aren’t names. “Perkins,” the dog said to himself.

The gentleman reached into his bag, produced a dog biscuit and held it for Perkins. The dog hesitated. He’d never been offered anything like this before and wasn’t sure what he was suppose to do with it.

“Go ahead. It’s good. You’ll like it.”

Perkins looked up at the man, then took a deeper smell of the treat. He opened his mouth and grabbed the bone but made no attempt to eat it. He simply held it in his mouth. His saliva must have dripped the taste of it onto his tongue, yet still he held it.

Reaching again into the bag the man pulled out an aerosol can.

“This is for the fleas. We mustn’t bring any of the fleas home with us. Once we get home we’ll have a proper bath in the tub, but now we’ll use this so that none of the buggers will follow us.”

This was all foreign to the dog. Even if it had all been spoken in Romanian or even in dog talk, the meaning would have been lost for lack of experience. The dog stood there, his biscuit in his mouth. The man took the aerosol and sprayed up and down and around Perkins, careful not to get any near his eyes or biscuit filled mouth. When he was done he reached again into the bag and withdrew a slip collar and a leash.

The dog remained still as the man slid the collar around the treat and over his head. When the collar was properly around the neck, the man snapped the clasp of the leash to the collar. “Come along, Perkins. Let’s go get a proper bath.”

As they departed the park they walked past me. I could swear I heard the dog say proudly to himself as they passed, his words mumbled around his still uneaten treat, “Perkins. Sunt Perkins.” I smiled for he said ‘Perkins’ with a Romanian accent.

Rain Tree with Yellow Blossoms

2008-07-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

The Rain Tree

2008-07-23T19:11:00.000-07:00

The Rain Tree

Many of the trees that Nancy and I have planted in the eighteen years we’ve been on our small farm have a connection, a history. Some came from the back lot of Cooke’s Greenhouse and Garden Center in Williamsburg. Jeff Schell, the owner of Cooke’s is a cousin and his back lot was where he stored not dead yet not saleable trees and shrubs. The stately aspen that is a symbol of our entrance came from Jeff.

Five graceful white dogwoods are transplants from the five-acre woods on the back of our property. They started out as twigs but have now filled in.

We have a magnolia that was planted on Nancy’s birthday. She loves magnolias. I’m not sure why, but she does. It’s setting is a little odd, for I planted it next to a Colorado Blue Spruce that son Steve gave us one Christmas. Magnolias and Blue Spruces are not normally found growing side-by-side but they both seem happy and have become accustomed to one another.

Three Japanese cherry trees came from a nurseryman that owed me a sum of money. They were payment for a month’s loan payment. The apple trees were purchased to provide treats for the horses. Four evergreens were formally live Christmas trees. One of those was my mother’s little tree for her last Christmas. That one is now growing faster and more uniform than any of the other plantings. I have no idea exactly what breed or species it is, for it is very unusual with soft, pale needles.

We’ve two burr oaks that came from acorns dropped by Virginia’s largest burr oak specimen that stands in front of the Elkton Town Hall. I gathered, stored, germinated and sold the seedlings one year as a community fundraiser. There’s a ginkgo that came from a seed from the tree that was in the yard where I grew up in Virginia Beach.

One of my favorites, though, is the rain tree. It too came from a seed of a tree that my mother had planted back in 1960. Rain trees are not large trees, and they have a spreading, well-rounded form. There’s a birdbath beneath the one that sits in our front yard. It’s eighteen years old now and the trunk is sturdy. Unlike most trees that bloom in the spring and then simply turn green, the rain tree creates interest spring, summer and fall.

In late spring, bourn above the foliage, yellow flowers nearly obscure the green leaves. After several weeks of yellow, the flowers turn to pale green pods. These pale lanterns are in contrast to the much darker green of the leaves. Finally, as summer heads into August and September the pods turn from green to brown.

The rain tree does have one fault. It is a fault of fertility. The flowers turn to pods. The pods shield the seeds waiting until the proper time to burst. Every seed that finds the ground sprouts the next spring. Along with all our other weeds, we are constantly pulling rain tree starts from the flowerbeds. We’ve planted two more rain trees along the lane, grandchildren of the tree my mother first planted. If you’re interested in one for yourself, come and pull weeds with us. I’m sure that we can get you one.

The Cat Bird seat is atop the telephone pole

2008-07-07T18:42:00.000-07:00

Red Barber and the Cat Bird Seat

2008-07-06T17:01:00.001-07:00

Red Barber and the Cat Bird Seat

I spent the first half of my youth in Westchester County, a little outside of New York City. That was back in the fifties and one of my memories was listening to baseball games on the radio. We had a TV, it was big but the screen was little and often the sound didn’t come through, so the family would watch a ball game in black and white, but listen to the color commentary.

Our family was about equally divided in loyalties. One third supported the New York Giants, another third were Red Sox fans and third I was counted with rooted for the Yankees. About once a year we make a family outing to the stadium to see a game in person, usually, when the Red Sox were in town, but mostly our contact with professional baseball came through the radio.

Even the two thirds of the household that weren’t Yankee fans, knew that the Yankees had the best organist and the best announcers: Mel Allen on the TV and Red Barber on the radio. Red had a distinctive voice and a delightful sense of humor and humility. Somewhere during his career he came up with phrase that no one else had ever heard, but once uttered, everyone understood, and that was “Sitting in the Cat Bird Seat.”

Cat birds are not normally native to New York State, but every New Yorker, knew that if someone was sitting where the cat bird would sit, he was sitting pretty, on top of things, overlooking all things beneath him.

Moving to Virginia at the age of ten, I discovered Mocking Birds. For many years I thought cat bird was simply another name for the mocking bird, but they are distinctive species. Though similar in size and general coloration, their markings are quite different. They share the habit though, of finding a perch overlooking their domain. The other day I confirmed a pair of cat birds here on the farm. There are probably eight or ten pair of mocking birds and at least two pair of brown thrashers – also very closely related -, but this was the first sighting of nesting cat birds.

More rare than either thrasher or cat bird, there is a mocking bird down the lane that thinks it’s a duck. Mocking birds are wonderful mimics. They’ll sit on their high perches and blast away for twenty minutes at a time, going through a repertoire of original and borrowed birdcalls. I was told once that they’ve even been known to mimic a human’s whistle. At the age of twelve I remember whistling the same tune every morning to the birds hoping that I’d hear an answering whistle, but I never did. Nor, until this summer, have I ever heard the impersonation of the quack of a duck.

Actually, it took me several times of hearing the call before I realized it wasn’t a duck. I couldn’t figure what a duck was doing at the entrance to our lane, but I thought perhaps the neighbors had gotten a tame duck to walk around their yard. It turned out to be the mocking bird. After a couple of quacks, he or she continues with a more normal call list. I think though, it’s spreading for I’ve heard what seems to be a second bird in a different location quacking. So there seems to be two mocking birds, sitting in Red Barber's cat bird seat pretending to be a duck.

Hamburger

2008-06-23T08:12:00.001-07:00

Hamburger

Nancy and I have 40 acres (about 18 hectares – a much more useful measure than acres) here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Perhaps 6 of those acres are woodland, an acre and a half are wine grapes, the remainder is grass. This year the rains have been sufficient to make that grass very lush. Mostly the pasture is fescue and bluegrass with some orchard grass mixed in. Some years there is large amounts of white clover, but not this year. In the spring the pastures are yellow with the buttercups. In the fall and winter broom sedge wants to take over.

I am proud of my pasture. I mow twice or thrice a year and let the cut grass lay and rot down into the soil. The only additive is one year a load of lime was spread to adjust the ph and another year a load of poultry manure for added nitrogen. My horses are constantly turning a small portion of the grass into instant compost that adds structure to the soil and I occasionally take my antique weed wacker and chop up the stray thistles the have dared to invade.

For us humans grass is an unpalatable, indigestible plant. My neighbor and I are undertaking the slow process of changing indigestible into succulent. We do that by grazing cattle through the summer and fall on the pasture, turning grass to beef. This year the cattle are eleven young Red Angus heifers and one steer that goes by the name of Hamburger. By late fall the heifers will return to the neighbor’s fields; Hamburger will stick around eating winter forage. Eventually, after a sheltered life, when he’s reached maturity, he’ll be turned into steaks, pot roasts and hamburger patties. The heifers will probably go into the baby producing business creating more steers to turn grass to protein.

It might seem cruel to turn a pet into dinner, even if it is the most efficient method of altering the pasture into usable food. In a way, it is cruel. It is though, farming. It is what farmers do. I, in my part time way, pretend to be a farmer. I also enjoy a good steak on the grill and a cheeseburger with mustard and tomato. There is an advantage to knowing the beef personally, and knowing both what and what not it had been fed.

In the past the first meal from a steer raised here on the farm always included a ‘grace’ said for the animal. We acknowledged the contribution and the sacrifice the animal made. We also judged whether the tenderness and taste of the meat had been any way reflected by the personality of the fellow. Most times it seems that the juiciest, most tender cuts came from the meanest, unresponsive beasts. (There really has been only one of those guys, but he did taste the best.) At this point in his lifespan little Hamburger is shy, dominated by the eleven bigger women that share his field.

We landowners are stewards of the land. We ‘own’ it for a temporary time and then turn it over to some one else’s care. While thiese18 hectares are in my care, I’ll try and maintain a balance between natural and productive. My pasture will not be overgrazed, hopefully not neglected – although the woodland is a bit of that – but also not turned into a factory of food production. The grass nourishes not only the cattle and the horses, but also the rabbits and other wildlife. It shelters the meadowlarks and provides seeds for a thousand other birds.

2008-06-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

The Horse that Never Learned to Love Carrots

In these days of foreign wars, of cyclones and earthquakes, of disasters natural and unnatural, it is frivolous to write with feeling about the death of a pet. Real people have lost their children, their homes and their base of contentment. I have only lost a friend of the four footed variety, but still, it is worth a few words to say good-bye.

Hai was a yearling. It was his face next to mine but a few blog postings back. After six days of effort by the best of medical staffs, the decision was made this afternoon, to let him rest from his struggles. As of this writing it remains a mystery exactly what happened to him. Whether it was some unusual disease or some trauma will only be revealed after an autopsy. Although the reason of his demise is unclear, the fact is that only a few weeks ago he was the potential of my dreams.

He was a strange horse, a chestnut that came to the farm the first day of September 2007. He was a little over four months old then, and newly weaned from his mother. He was shy of the two old mares in the field and much preferred the company of humans to horses. It took him a long time to feel comfortable enough to run. He’d lag behind, content to mosey along toward dinner, which by the time he arrivied, was nearly gobbled up by those same old mares.

Eventually he did learn to run, and when he did, the ripple of his muscles and the flow of his legs gave me hope that perhaps ‘this one’ was a horse that would lead me on happy adventures. He also learned to be first to the feed bucket and he grew to be a strong and well-conformed yearling. The first sign of his distress was the morning when he wasn’t first to that feed bucket.

Hai, whose official name, Haidetz Acasa, meant ‘come on home’ in Romanian, enjoyed the curry brush and the attention but I never could get him to eat a carrot. I’ve never known a horse to prefer the company of humans to other horses, and I’ve never known a horse that wouldn’t learn to savor the taste of a fresh garden carrot. I’d mix small chunks in his grain and I’d hold out pieces for him to gather out of my hand. He watched the ladies greedily snap up more than their share but he never figured out that the funny orange thing really did taste good.

I say good-bye now to him with an uneaten carrot in my hand.

Wild Roses Overhanging Naked Creek

2008-05-25T18:44:00.000-07:00

Hay and Wild Roses

2008-05-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

Hay and Wild Roses

It is awfully difficult to write about smells and tastes. What’s that word we all learned in seventh grade poetry appreciation class, onomonapia? (I couldn’t even get close enough for the spell check to find it). It means letters that describe the sound of an animal. The same is true for explaining tastes and smells.

While I appreciate the best efforts of the wine critic, there’s no way that the taste I find in a good glass of wine is a relation to the words that can be put down on paper. Terms like ‘earthy’ and ‘robust’ and ‘hints of peach and almond’ for me do not convey the ‘taste’ that I taste.

Aromas are as hard to describe. Seems to me that words can much more easily have a vision come to mind than either a taste or a smell. The ‘Mind’s Eye’ is what word excite. I’ve never heard of a ‘Mind’s Nose’ or of ‘Mind’s Taste Buds’.

This philosophic discussion leads to one of the more pleasant smells of the countryside. It’s May and in the Shenandoah Valley that means Haying. It also means the blooming of the wild roses.

Our wild roses are a nasty breed. The thorns are fierce and the roots tenacious. Once a pasture or fence line is invaded, there is no remedy except serious pruning, digging or spraying. Neglected areas are soon subjected to the spread of the rose, as rose hips are a favored feed for birds that transport the seed to every imaginable corner.

They are a pretty sight, the roses. Mostly white but some have a soft pink. They bloom but once a year and the vines are covered with a sweet smelling blossom. They are particularly handsome along a waterway, the brambles leaning down into the stream. It is this time of year that the curse of the wild rose is mitigated by the sight and the smell.

I suspect that if you were to hold a poll of farmers and ask their favorite smell it would be hay – freshly cut, slightly dried and ready for baling, or in winter when smelling it brings back the days of summer. Combining the two, the wild roses and the hay as it lays in the fields awaiting the gathering the only word that comes to mind is indescribable.

Hai, aka Haidetz Acasa and his hopeful handler

2008-05-12T07:55:00.000-07:00

Hope that Springs Eternal

2008-05-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

Hope that Springs Eternal

Every year, first Saturday in May, in Louisville Kentucky the Run for the Roses occurs. Every year that I have a foal born on the farm or, as this year, a yearling gaining power and speed with every blade of grass he eats, I dream of the Kentucky Derby.

It is an unrealistic dream, usually dashed by the time a horse of mine is two years old and started out in training. A trainer once told me about one of my better two-year-old horses, Joe Benign, “He’ll win. I’m not sure at what level, but he’ll win.” It was encouraging news, except that we both knew at what level he wouldn’t win.

It is an unrealistic dream, yet remains MY dream. And as the filly Eight Belles met tragedy this year, so too have some of my animals. Last year, my filly, Lady Marguerite suffered a severe colic attack the morning of her first scheduled start. Two days later, I had to make the decision to ‘put her down’. The sadness was almost enough for me to discontinue thoroughbreds. Now though, looking out at Hai as he tests his muscle against his 31-year-old mentor and pasture mate, the hope still springs eternal.

Nancy says about my thoroughbred habit, “It’s throwing money out the window.” It is. I agree. My horses have earned over $75,000 in purse money over the years, but I’ve had to spend a great deal more than that to get ‘em there. Yet, I can’t think of a better way to spend that money. It is what I want to do. She, of course, can think of better, more practical, ways. So we compromise.

She does indicate that she would like one day to go to the Preakness or the Kentucky Derby or one of the other ‘Big Hat’ races. I tell her not until one of my horses is good enough - at least, good enough to run in a race on the under card.

Why I Grow Wisteria

2008-05-02T07:19:00.000-07:00

White Lilacs

2008-05-02T06:50:00.000-07:00

When Lilacs Last In Dooryard Bloomed

2008-04-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

When Lilacs Last in Dooryard Bloomed
And other Poems of Spring

I never got absorbed by the poems of Walt Whitman, finding the train of sound and thought a little too convoluted for me, but I admire him for the occasional turn of phrase that can stick in the mind for a life time. The title of his poem in memory of Abraham Lincoln is such a phrase, brought to attention every year at this time as the lilacs bloom and perfume the air with their sweet fragrance.

“Natures First Green is Gold” Robert Frost wrote. That too I remember every springtime as the trees gradually push the gold and green up the mountain sides around our farm. I can almost recite it by heart as I begin first pasture mowing on the tractor. Frost is a fellow I can get a handle on; I find his poems full of wit and intelligence. He was my mother’s favorite, I’m sure, and I am much like her.

Back in my younger days I use to drive around in an old red pick-up truck – a 1948 Ford – and painted on the side was ‘Tim Hulings – Poet, Gardener, Philosopher’. By those three avocations I’d still define myself. None of the three have ever brought me any monetary reward, but the music of words, the poetry of a garden in bloom and the satisfaction of a cohesive thought remain much more satisfying than the silent addition of the direct deposit from my ‘real’ job.

There is a wisteria vine out the bedroom window. It is an aggressive animal that spreads relentlessly. It takes constant pruning to keep it in bounds and for 51 ½ weeks of the year it is more work than it is worth. I have attached a picture to explain why the ½ week makes the rest of the year worthwhile.

Cherry Blossoms under a Cloudy Sky

2008-04-06T18:36:00.000-07:00

Cherry Trees, Shadblow and Global Warming

2008-04-06T18:35:00.000-07:00

Cherry Trees, Shadblow and Global Warming

My memory recalls winters of significantly colder temperatures than those of the past ten years or so. Scientific data and shrinking ice caps seems also to be an indication that the earth is warming. I suspect that the trend is real and will cause serious disruption through the later portion of my life and through the next 50 years. Changing of the status quo, by definition, always causes disruptions. Whether the sum total of benefits outweigh the disadvantages that an increase in world temperatures I cannot say. Whether creating more temperate regions nearer the poles will compensate for an increase in sea level and potentially larger deserts will be determined by others after my passing.

I suspect that global warming will be an issue to be dealt with for a long time to come, but it is preferable to the problem of its opposite: global chilling. The geologic record clearly indicates that the temperature of earth is not constant; fluxuation of earthly temperatures is more of a ‘normal’ than the belief that the recent past through which we’ve come is ‘normal’. The scary part though is that, unlike what has come before, all indications seem to suggest that this most recent warming trend is by our own doing.

Global warming seems to have temporarily subsided the last six or eight weeks. Spring seems to have had a difficult time breaking through this year, but perhaps it is not the spring that’s been late, but my perception. The cherry trees are now blooming. Every year, the first week in April the cherry trees bloom. Every year first week in April. Doesn’t matter whether the winter’s been harsh or mild. Doesn’t matter whether the spring is early or late. First week in April, the three Yoshina cherries that are planted in a row along the lane bloom.

Many years the April wind blows away the blossoms in a few short days. Even when there is no wind they don’t last long, no more than a week. The picture I’ve included for this entry shows the blooms as they are just opening and a bleak, gray sky as backdrop. It was taken last Friday morning. This evening – Sunday - the trees are full of flower along with the early apple tree that is next in line along the lane. It is my theory that the length of daylight is more a trigger for these non-fruiting cherries than the air or ground temperature.

One thing I have noticed though, is that with the popularity of the Bradford pear and other early blooming shrubs and trees, the poor shadblow is now almost completely overlooked. The shadblow is a small tree, native to this portion of Virginia, named because it is the first of trees of the natural woodland to bloom, at the same time as the shad are making their pilgrimage up the Virginia tidal rivers.

The shadblow is not a very pretty tree, sort of like a dogwood without the symmetrical form or the outstanding flowers, but because it is the first of the wild trees to bloom, it use to hold special significance. There is one across the small field directly opposite the kitchen window. It is blooming now, too, wearing its white flowers in sparse array. First week of April. I bet the shad are running.

The Uniterian Church Elders - Magyarsoros

2008-03-26T06:23:00.000-07:00

The Land at Magyarsoros

2008-03-26T06:02:00.000-07:00

The Walnut Project

2008-03-24T08:03:00.001-07:00

The Walnut Project – Crescatorii de Nuci

Last week I made a return trip to Transylvania. As some of you may recall, in my volunteer work with the Organic Farmers Association of Romania – Bioterra – I became aware of both the deficiencies and the opportunities of agriculture in that country. I hit upon a project that I became convinced was of such merit that as my Peace Corps days were winding down, much of my energy went into this idea.

Simply put, the plan is to couple investors and landowners in a joint effort to plant, grow and harvest Carpathian Walnuts (some people call them English Walnuts). The more I researched this theory, the more it made sense to me. Basically, the plan is to group the landowners who have little access to capitol, but have suitable land and labor together with investors with a long-term outlook – like 10 to 50 years – in a mutually beneficial program to redevelop Walnut orchards in suitable areas of Transylvania.

The first problem I found was chicken and egg; which came first, finding committed investors, purchase of the trees or contracting with the landowners. It became clear to me that this program had sufficient merit in at least three areas, social, environmental and fiscal. I could not let go of it, so Nancy and I became the investors, the trees were ordered, and landowners were spoken too. Regional managers, a key to the success of the project, were identified and signed on.

It is not easy setting up a business in a foreign country, and the trials of trying to co-ordinate the start up from back in Virginia have been many. Last week’s trip was do or die. The trees had been paid for and were awaiting transport to the land, the business accounting and bank account were not functioning as envisioned and the landowners were without contracts and were waiting for their ‘signing’ incentives.

Now I can report that my trip was a success. Crescatorii de Nuci, S.R.L., which translates as Walnut Growers, now has bright prospects. We’ve signed contracts for over 25 hectares (56 acres) of land for between 30 and 60 years. The trees are to be delivered and planted this week. The banking is going forward and additional trees will be held over for more acreage to be planted in the fall.

Individual farmers and the Unitarian Church in the village of Magyarsoros have accepted the plan. The pictures I’ve included are of the elders of the Unitarian Church and the land around the village prior to planting the trees. The original business plan that I created calls for a total grow out of 300 hectares, so there is plenty of room for expansion. Should we have a successful first planting I am sure that additional farmers will take advantage of this program.

I remain excited about this program and if anyone has questions, comments or interest in joining the project, please let me know. We are looking for groups and individuals to join us as either participant landowners or as investors.

2008-03-12T19:10:00.000-07:00

Peepers and other Rites of Spring

About a week ago I heard the first chirps of the spring peepers. The sounds are spring is to be soon upon us. The little frogs that make the distinctive peeps are a more reliable signal of the inevitability of March than the robins. Once they begin peeping, I’ve never known them to go back into hibernation again.

Out the kitchen window the rite of battle over the bird boxes has begun. Every year it is a pleasure to see which brand of bird wins rights to the house by the field gate. The bird box has been there since the fence was built, the spring of 1992 and every year one species or another of bird has raised families in it. Our favorite renters are the blue birds. They were my mother’s favorite bird and certainly their striking blue, the multiple broods they raises and their relish of the insects that inhabit our lawn all add to the good karma they bring when they are the inhabitants of the house.

The tree swallows are our second choice. In the pecking order of birds, the swallows bully the blue birds, but they have many merits of their own. Least favorite are the house sparrows. These are the littlest of the inhabitants of the box directly in front of the kitchen window, but they can be the most aggressive, throwing out both the swallows and the blue birds. Their brown plumage and their many numbers make them only an ordinary renter. We’d rather have the blue birds. I’m not sure who’ll win out for this year’s prize spot, but the blue birds certainly scoped out the box last fall.

All along the fence line there are bird boxes of all sizes and materials, and it is interesting to watch all the feathered families take advantage of them, watching several generations of the same species come back to their own boxes year after year. In winter the bird seed is at the feeder and the flash of colors and shapes is always a delight, but by spring the seed is cut off and the birds must fend for themselves. And to note, that their favorite nesting material is the long, soft horsetail strands that the horses leave against the fence line.

Finally, this evening, as I walked back to the pond that lays in the woods at the edge of the property, checking to see if the earliest daffodils were in bloom, the dogs and I spooked two pair of mallards and a dozen wood duck. Mallards are common; wood ducks are not. It was a good thought that my woods might be home to the family or two of wood ducks.

The First Crocus of Spring

2008-03-05T17:41:00.000-08:00

Uncle Allie

2008-03-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

Uncle Allie

Last week my brother Joe and I traveled up to our birthplace, Elmsford, New York, to pay our respects to Uncle Allie. He died at the age of 89 and was the last of that generation. The Floral trade was both his profession and his avocation. He was part of a family tradition, first established by my grandfather and shared by his four sons. Uncle Marshall and Uncle Allie worked the business in Elmsford. Uncle Jack had a florist and greenhouse in Pauling, N.Y. Uncle Charlie moved out west, first to Nampa, Idaho and then to Boise to establish his own greenhouse and florist. At least three variations of Cooke’s Greenhouse are still being practiced in Virginia and New York. Out in Arizona Uncle Jack’s children are also still active in the business.

For the majority of the first nine years of my life, I lived next to the greenhouses and florist shop that consisted of the place my grandfather and then Uncle Marshall and finally Uncle Allie practiced their trade. It was a special place to grow up. I can remember playing baseball with an odd twist in the backyard of our house. If anyone hit a ‘home run’ over the 8 foot high hedge, it was an automatic out, because over the hedge were the glass panes of Uncle Marshall’s greenhouse. It wasn’t so bad if Granddad was there potting up the plants for he’d return the baseball without question, but if Uncle Marshall was around, then we’d run first to the money jar to reimburse him for the expense of the broken glass. We three boys learned to become singles hitters rather than go for the fences.

Now, the old house has been demolished; an office building sits on the site. The greenhouses have been sold for development but the joy of laughter, the smell of the crushed flower stems, the music coming out of the beat up old radio, the sudden chill of walking into the flower cooler on a hot summer day, all these things still fill my senses and my memory. Allie was a jovial man, a round man who enjoyed his family and his work. It showed. He was the youngest of the family and my mother’s favorite. I never thought of him as astute a businessman as his other brothers, perhaps even not as quick witted and intelligent, but he was surely the kindest.

One remembrance, which I record to remind myself in the future as much as to inform the reader, is this. I was perhaps five or six years old. It was a rainy early fall evening. I have no idea where Allie’s family was, but it was just he and I. He was always active in the Fairview Volunteer Fire Department and this evening the semi-annual fireman’s carnival was underway. He took me up the road to the carnival site, but because of the rain and chill of the night, we had the fair almost all to ourselves. I can’t recall ever having been before, so the activities of the carnies and the rides and the smell of cotton candy were frightening to me. Luckily I had my Uncle who knew everyone.

He showed me the shooting gallery and a number of other attractions and offered to pay my coin if I’d like to participate, but I was to shy and to overwhelmed to agree, but finally, he suggested that we put our money down on a spot for the wheel of fortune. We were the only ones there, my (his really) coin the only spot taken in a long table of numbered squares. The fellow behind the counter spun the big wheel and sure enough, it trickled to a stop on the number where my coin rested. I was asked what I would like from the pile of prizes, and I selected a glass juice pitcher painted with pictures of oranges and eight juice glasses to give to my mother.

But even then, somehow I knew that the game was rigged. Rigged in my favor, or really, in Uncle Allie’s favor. Somehow he had some magic to make that wheel stop at the only square that contained a coin, my square. And for the next fifty years as the juice pitcher and eight glasses gradually diminished to but one glass, every time I had orange juice I would remember that night. For as long as they lasted it was the only juice glass that I would ever take down from mother’s cupboard. The last glass was broken eventually, as all temporary and fragile things are, but Uncle Allie’s magic, which was neither temporary nor fragile, has remained to this day.

Finished Pieces Hanging on the Loom

2008-02-25T06:28:00.000-08:00

2008-02-25T06:27:00.000-08:00

The Weaver’s Bench

When I was a child I would answer the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” by declaring that I dreamed of being an artist. I wasn’t planning on being a policeman or a fireman or doctor; I wanted to grow up to be an artist. I had heard none of my contemporaries say that, so it made me a little nervous to proclaim, but it also set me apart.

As I grew, I also kept that dream of creativity. However, the goal kept running into the twin obstacles of a lack of talent and unwillingness to practice. Music and drawing both were disappointments, as my fingers couldn’t manage what my mind intended. I thought of being a chef, an artist with food, but that would have been a disaster due to my weakness at organization -- the main dish would have been ready before the vegetables were even started.

Instead of art, I have found a craft. It is weaving. Twenty-eight years ago Nancy found a weaver willing to give me a crash course, so for Christmas of that year her present sent me into temporary apprenticeship to Marietta Crider of Mauzy for a few hours each week. I learned some of the techniques of matching warp and weft, of maintaining a good selvedge, of threading the loom and tying knots. At some point of imagined wealth in those early years of our marriage I purchased a large floor loom and ever since, when I’ve been able to steal an hour away from all the duties of adulthood, I’ve sat at the loom and created.

I enjoy working with textiles, various materials from around the world. The last creation I did included soy thread and bamboo in the warp and wool from the Shetland Islands and Tunisia in the weft. The two completed pieces were a table runner for my cousin Nora who has sheltered Nancy during the start of her work experience in Washington, D.C. and a scarf for Cami, a friend from Romania who began married life last week. It took nearly six months to finish these two pieces, working a stolen hour at a time, and that’s not counting the chore of warping the loom.

Occasionally, I will donate a piece to a charity auction, but I don’t sell my output anymore. The pleasure for me is in the creation and the challenge of matching pattern to finished product – turning what is in the mind’s eye into a piece that can be worn, or displayed. Like my attempts at drawing and painting, what is in the mind’s eye and the finished product are often very different, but in this craft, what turns out is usually quite serviceable. Those few that aren’t sit in the extra bedroom here at the house.

A Winter's Morning

2008-02-13T08:57:00.000-08:00

Wood Choppers Ball

2008-02-13T08:48:00.000-08:00

It is chilly this evening. The Shenandoah Valley has had snow flurries off and on all day. The wood stove is fired up and the temperature inside is cozy, while outside it is a damp thirty-three degrees f.

It is a cliché to say wood is a fuel that heats you twice – once when you burn it, and previously when you cut it. In my case, it heats three times, the third being when I split it. The wood that lies piled in three rows outside the yard is the culmination of summer and fall work cutting wind fallen trees and November and December splitting. I enjoy the work, taken in small dozes. I especially enjoy hefting the splitting mall above my head and with a grunt and groan, whacking the pieces that are too wide for the wood stove. There is a satisfaction for an old man to be able to hoist the mall and split the wood with a crisp shommp as the edge of the mall cleaves into grain of the wood. The pride swells when a log splits with a single smash.

We don’t heat primarily with wood, but use it as a backup to the propane/hot water fired furnace. Most evenings the main heat is off and the wood stove cranking away, but the fire will go out during the night and the furnace is timed to kick in for the morning warm up. If our schedules take us out of the house during the evenings, we’ll let the furnace do all the work. I can’t say that wood burning is money saving when calculating the expense of gas, oil and sharpened blades for the chainsaw, versus the cost of running propane to the water heater that would be heating the hot water anyway. I should do a cost analysis to see if I’m really saving any money.

But money is not the real reason we burn wood. Our wood stove has a glass front so I can turn out the lights and watch the fire dance as it consumes the logs. As the trees that provide the logs have been blown down in the wind, it is a way to maintain the looks and function of the farm. Robert Frost wrote a poem about an old woodpile found on a walk in his woods – the phrase that sticks in my mind is “the slow burning of decay”. I do leave a few standing dead trees on our property for the benefit of the woodpeckers, but if the trees that have been knocked over by the wind are going to burn slowly anyway, I’ll burn them fast and be warm thrice over.

Conversing Angels

2008-02-04T06:29:00.000-08:00

It has been a long time since my last blog entry and I doubt that many folks bother to check for new material any more. The best of intentions are often laid aside when inspiration cannot overcome inertia.

Last week Nancy and I journeyed to Carlisle, Pennsylvania for the memorial service of my Aunt Elinor. This was the aunt whom we visited a year ago December on her 100th birthday. She passed away at the age of 101 on January 19th, 2008. Her five children and many other family members were present for the service, held in the old Episcopal church on the town square of Carlisle.

Many kind and appropriate words were said, particularly two epistles from her Granddaughters. I thought that I’d add here a few of my own thoughts.

A long time ago I heard a wise man explain the difference between reputation and character. Reputation, he said, was what people say of you during your eulogy. Character is what the angels say of you in heaven. Knowing my dear Aunt Elinor, I suspect that over the past two weeks the angels have had much to discuss.

Carlisle was a refuge to me as a child. It was a summer home and an escape provided by my Aunt and Uncle Joe. Granddad and I would shelter there – I for a few weeks, he for a few months. He always had a tenuous relationship with his oldest daughter, while I tried my best to stay neutral.

Aunt Elinor’s grandmother was named Georgiana, a person I never met, but much revered in the Cooke family of the generation ahead of me. I have a niece, Georgiana Hulings Robertson, named in honor of the forbearer. As a symbol of the symmetry, the circle of live, on the very day that Aunt Elinor died, January 19, 2008, Georgiana gave birth to her first child, a daughter with the lovely name of Grace Carol.

Perhaps it would take a mathematician to figure out the percent age of genes and DNA that Grace and her great, great grandaunt share, but I hope that it is a fair portion of Elinor’s determination, her steadfastness, her curiosity and her intelligence. Should it be so, then some years in the future, I suggest that the angels will have another lively dialogue when it comes time to admit Grace.

A Fall Day in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia

2007-11-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

The Next Great Adventure

2007-11-11T16:00:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since the last posting here and I’m sure that many casual readers have given up on Nancy and my adventures. Truthfully, we were pausing for the past three months between the old set of experiences and the next. That next set starts on Nov. 13th as Nancy has agreed to accept full time employment with the Federal Government in Washington, D.C.

The job is working in the office of special services of the Peace Corps. This is an official job and not a volunteer position. She will be earning real money – more than I earn as an area sales manager at the Belk department store in Harrisonburg. She will also have access to the benefits of a federal employee.

During our stint in Romania, we discussed the need for employment once we were to return home. It was clear that one of us needed a job for the insurance benefits, as well as the income, although, insurance was a higher priority than income. What was unclear was who that full time wage earner was to be.

Unfortunately, it is my nature to feel uncomfortable and at a loss without the security of a job and a place to go and a goal to accomplish. Less than two weeks back from our Peace Corps volunteering, I went in to see if my old job was available. As the retail trade has an extremely high turn over, I felt pretty confident that I could find a place, as I had left under good circumstances. Instead of my old, low pressure sales position I was offered first line management. The situation is much longer hours and more responsibility that negate the small increase in wage. I am no longer on commission base pay scale, which is nice, but I haven’t decided yet whether I am better off being a manager or being an ‘associate’.

Nancy took her time about finding employment. She decided she did not wish to go back to her old haunts at the College of Business at James Madison University, and waited for a posting to her liking in the Peace Corps office in Washington. Her patience has been rewarded and she’s off to try something new. I’m not sure exactly what her duties will be, but over the next few weeks, she’ll have a chance to settle in to her new position. The big test is that she’ll work and live in the Washington area. I will remain here in Elkton. First one of us to get fed up can give our two-week notice, but we’ll have to co-ordinate to be sure that we both don’t do that on the same day.

We are approaching mid November and the fall colors are past their peak, although it was a splendid drive along the Blue Ridge this morning as we had reason to drive to Lynchburg to Dulles Airport and back today. The air had that haze that comes along with the fall. It makes the atmosphere seem as if the landscapes are from a painting from the 19th century masters with a glaze and sheen to it. The picture attached here is an old one, for my camera has given up the ghost, as my mother would have said. A new camera is on my Christmas list. But I hope you can get the feel of a fall day in Western Virginia.

Snowridge Farm in the Springtime

2007-08-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

Culture Shock in Reverse

2007-08-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

Cultural Shock

Nancy and I have been home almost three weeks now. I’ve found employment and Nancy has begun a serious search for same. We’ve been welcomed home by friends and acquaintances and we’ve been busy putting house, home and farm back to our comfort level. Yet, there really is a culture shock, and in many ways it’s worse than the cultural differences of our first few weeks in Romania.

The reason for this, I think, is that when going overseas we expected things to be unusual and we were prepared to be surprised. In truth, we were amazed to find so many things so similar to the United States, but upon returning home, what is unsettling is that after 27 months away we had become used to a different lifestyle. The lifestyle we had gotten used to was less concerned with ‘stuff’ and more concerned with transportation, food and language.

For example, the other day I opened the silverware drawer and looked at all the forks. There must have been twenty-four forks. In Cluj we had started with two, then splurged and gotten a total of six. On those few occasions when more than four guests came to dinner, some were told to bring their own silverware and plates.

Soon after arriving home we started a big pile of yard sale material of the extra stuff we found we have no need for. We’ll donate it to our church or a community group looking to raise funds. Some one once told me if you haven’t used it in seven years you won’t ever use it. Well, as it’s been 2 ½ years since we’ve used most anything, and we have closets and a basement full of a life’s accumulation, that means it will be a pretty large yard sale consignment we’ll offer.

Not sure about the seven-year rule, though, as I was glad that 16 years ago our house builder put the left over roof shingles under the porch. We had a bad electric and windstorm last week and lost a few shingles from the roof, and now I’ve dug out their replacements. So seven years might not be the magic number but anything older than 16 years and still unused in that time definitely goes.

The farm is getting back into shape. The pastures look emerald green from the August rains that we’ve had. The aforementioned windstorm knocked a few trees and large branches down that I’ve been cleaning and cutting up for this winter’s wood supply. Thrilling Date, aka Momma, is still out on the pasture. She’s over 30 now, which is very old for a horse, thin and with a melancholy look, but she’s always had that look. She still jogs around with her field mate, Sparky, her youngest daughter. They’ve got 15 hectares of open grass all too themselves. I’ll attach a picture of the farm as it was before we left so you have an idea of our farm.

We are down to about a half-hectare of grapes. The fruit looks good this year, Chardonnel and Traminette varieties with perhaps three weeks to go before harvest. Brother Joe had been taking care of the vines in my absence and, time permitting, we’ll work together to rehab and renew that portion of vineyard where most of the vines are still growing. Perhaps we’ll add raspberries to go along with the grapes for next year.

I hope to continue this blog, perhaps with a different feel as the original purpose of letting friends know of our experience overseas changes to expressing opinions and observations of a life on a small farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Maybe I should rename this blog “A Country Journal”, but we’ll wait on that until after the yard sale.

On the Island of Korcula

2007-08-07T19:58:00.000-07:00

The Coast of Croatia

2007-08-07T19:53:00.000-07:00

The Long Journey Home

2007-08-07T19:49:00.001-07:00

Long Road Home

It has been nearly three weeks since Nancy and I completed final Peace Corps checkout in Bucuresti. I am writing this entry on the Aer Lingus plane as we sail over the clouds that cover the Northern Atlantic Ocean. I can’t but think of the evening back in May, 2005 when, in a plane packed with fellow adventures, we left New York headed to a part of the world we were unfamiliar with. Our expectations where bewildered, our curiosity immense and our commitment complete. That evening, there had been severe storms along the Eastern U.S. coast and as our plane climbed about the clouds, the mass of them turned golden in the angled sun. While the clouds again blanket the space between plane and ocean, no particular atmosphere effects can be seen out of the window.

Our journey since our departure from Cluj has been an adventure in itself. We taken a bit of vacation through Budapest, Croatia, back to Hungary, a side trip to Baia Mare in Romania, a night train to Krakow in Poland, three days stationed in the pleasant Irish village of Skerries north of Dublin and now back to Washington and home.

Croatia was excellent, but hot. Particularly we enjoyed ferrying between the island of Hvar and Korcula. The further one got from the tourist center of Split, the better the prices and the more elbow space. We missed Dubrovnik, a highly recommended tourist center; we’ll wait for an off season for that.

A particular highlight was an afternoon in Split. The heat made strolling unpleasant so we went back to our little room – private homes with a room and a bath are a business for the locals – turned the air conditioner on (no such thing in Romania) and took a nap. Shortly after the nap began, I realized that our room was directly beneath the music teacher’s studio. I spent a pleasant hour listening first to piano and guitar and then to traditional Croatian vocal duets. Later in the trip we found a more professional vocal quintet singing outside our terrace in the town of Korcula and again in Vela Luca. I had never heard traditional Croatian singing before and it was very enjoyable; not as good as Irish, of course, but still much better than most of the performers that inhabited the many eateries throughout our travels. The sea was specatucularly clear and blue, filled with fish. If only the coast and some sand instead of the round pebbles that occupy their beaches. Perhaps they should borrow some sand from east coast of Ireland – there’s plenty of it there.

Eger in Hungary is a tourist spot but with a difference. Whereas Croatia was filled with travelers of all nationalities, particularly Nordic and Italian, Eger was almost completely occupied with Hungarians. Wine, the Turkish baths, an old castle where the Hungarians earned a victory of the Turks, and a quaint old town are the draws.

It’s hard to think that two years ago we had barely heard of Krakow in Poland. Around Europe it is one of the most talked about places to visit and with many good reasons. Nancy and I enjoyed our time there, particularly the friendliness of the people and their tremendous ability with foreign languages, especially English. The Hungarians are not nearly so fluent in language ability as either the Croatians, the Poles or the Romanians. Krakow has plenty of tourists but also plenty of space for them. All nationalities mix in the great square of the city and the monuments to a thousand years of city status surround the old town. We did not have time to visit either the salt mines or the concentration camp reminders of Auschwitz, but we walked beneath the window where Pope John Paul helped to bring down Communism.

Skerries in Ireland was picked off the internet almost blind. It turned out well, on a main commuter rail line into Dublin, not too far from the airport. Our B & B room looked out over the Irish Sea. Three small islands lay just off shore and the town had a paved walk along the beach and to the harbor. The Irish weather was opposite of the Croatian, almost chilly and, with occasional rain, but the food was great and the pubs lively.

Apart from one missed train connection – missed by less than a minute, all our actual traveling was routine. Nancy has given up on trains after a dreadful train from Miskolc to Krakow, while I say that plane travel is my least favorite method of getting from place to place. We are both looking forward to home – it’s been over 800 days.

Our trip is now coming toward an end, back in hot Washington. The adventure that we began on that flight over those golden clouds over two years ago is also ending. It’s two soon to sum up our thoughts and reflections on that adventure, too soon to reminisce. As then, now we know not what adventure we’ll encounter on our return home, only that we’ll try and keep our eyes, ears and mind open to whatever the road brings our way.

Many people have helped us make it through the last 27 months and we know that we’ll need their support in our next adventure. So here is a thank you to everyone who cheered us up with visits, packages, postcards, email, thoughts and prayers.

I’ll continue to write this blog from time to time if there seems some observation worth sharing. For those of you whose main interests where either Romania or the Peace Corps experience, I thank you for reading. It has been a joy for me to do these entries and I hope that you have gained a little from my jottings.

2007-08-07T19:49:00.000-07:00

July 4, 2005 - still my best picture of Romania

2007-07-16T09:17:00.001-07:00

The Roma enjoying a day in town

2007-07-16T09:08:00.000-07:00

The Roma

2007-07-16T09:05:00.000-07:00

Roma

A sensitive topic, one I have avoided for the last two years of these blog reports, is the existence of the ‘Roma Community’. As an introduction I shall tell you this story - many years ago I came across one of those short banner statements posted for uplift and inspiration that are probably sprinkled in junior high schools everywhere. This one was oddly different and has stuck with me ever since my days at the old Kempsville Jr. High. It is relevant and applies to this subject. It said simply: “All generalizations are wrong, including this one.”

The ‘Roma’ is the politically correct term for the distinct ethnic population most often referred to as ‘gypsies’. Originally the peoples were believed to have come from Egypt (thus gypsy), but now are understood to probably have emigrated a thousand years ago from India. They are a race of people who have never had a country, although they have those who claim to be King. They have a language, although they also are quite natural speaking the language of their ‘host’ country. Here in Romania, perhaps as many as 15% of the population are classified as Roma, although it is difficult to get a truly accurate figure because of the difficulty in estimating the numbers of a still semi-nomadic community.

What is interesting about the gypsy culture is their assimilation of some aspects of the general culture and then the rejection of others, but there is no such thing as a ‘typical’ Roma. Some are blending or have blended into the population of Romania while others have remained on the fringe. Some children attend school regularly, others have no formal education. Some remain within small family units, drifting with their horse and wagons from the suburbs of one city to another, while other families have settled into place in small towns. Some wear traditionally distinctive dress – black cowboy hats for the men and brightly colored skirts and scarves for the women, while others are indistinguishable from the general population.

The other remarkable thing about the Roma situation is their acceptance or non-acceptance by the Romanian ethnic majority. There is a general ostracization of the gypsies. Again, it is politically correct to say things about the admittance of the Roma society by the political establishment, in practice though, there is a high degree of discrimination.

From an outsider’s perspective there seems to be a certain pride in the Roma community in their separate culture. In some sense the discrimination shown to them helps reaffirm their separate identity, their clear difference, from the majority.

Yet the lack of education, the unclean living conditions, the semi-nomadic existence must be wearing on individuals within the culture. The discrimination of the gypsies is widespread in the general culture. When something is stolen, first blames goes to the Roma. When the trash cans are knocked over, it’s either the gypsies or their dogs that are accused. We as Americans can not speak without our own history incriminating us, but as I look back fifty years I recognize how far we have come in revolutionizing our attitudes. I fear that it will take at least an additional fifty years before the Roma have gained a fair status in Romania. It is odd that a country that prides itself in being ‘Roman’, feels so aloof from the ethnic people who share that name.

I have oversimplified a difficult subject. I hope that the following short vignette illustrates my point better than I have succeeded to this point.

As I was walking home from work one evening about a year ago I saw a gypsy horse and wagon parked just down the street from our apartment. This is in the center of a large apartment block complex in an area of the city of Cluj, but horses and wagons are not uncommon. The horse, a dappled gray, looked underfed, overworked and untended as it waited between the braces of the wagon. Two women and a young child sat in the wagon bed as they waited for their man to finish with whatever errand he was doing. I stopped and scratched the horse’s ears and took a few of the nastiest burrs from his mane. A teenage girl, perhaps fourteen, stood by the wagon and I’ll never forget the piercing look she gave me. She was as underfed as her horse and as unkempt, but the intensity of her steel gray eyes as they bore through me was unnerving. She didn’t say anything, although I am sure that she was tempted to either beg for money or swear at me for touching her horse.

It was much easier to stroke and comb the horse than the girl. The horse seemed to appreciate it; I am not sure that the girl would have. As she looked at me, all I could do was offer a smile and gave her horse one last pat. I have never noticed her or her horse since, and as tomorrow marks our last day in Cluj, I know that I shall not have the opportunity again. I doubt that either she or the horse will have reason to remember me, although I shall recall the way she looked at me, a mixture of distrust, unease, and bewilderment, as long as I will remember Romania.

Newly Made Haystack

2007-07-03T11:10:00.000-07:00

Popa Ioan, sharpening his blade

2007-07-03T11:08:00.002-07:00

Popa Ioan, Master with the Scythe

2007-07-03T11:08:00.001-07:00

Popa Ioan, Master with the Scythe

On the very first day of our residence in Cluj, our landlord took us up to their retreat on the family farm in a village 60 km. west of the city. Now, with two weeks remaining in our stay in our apartment we were invited back for a weekend. The village is called Vale Draganului, which means, roughly, pleasant or dearest valley. It is an appropriate name.

The old farmstead has electric current now, although the road that leads to it is barely passable in a normal vehicle. The indoor plumbing hasn’t been installed yet, but the view out the open out house door almost makes up for the discomfort of using the Johnny house.

It was first of July and the middle of hay making season. The wonderful smell of fresh cut and drying hay scented the air. Romanians still make hay the old fashioned way, by hand with scythe, rake and fork. It is a slow, arduous job, but the family attacks the task together, and during breaks and after the long day is over, much discussing and tasting of the tuica makes the job a little easier. The familiar hay mounds are a symbol of the Romanian countryside. After drying the hay, it is hand raked and forked into grand piles with a sturdy wooden rod to center it. No guidebook is complete without at least one picture of the countryside and hay stack.

The picture which I hope to accompany this article is of Popa Ioan, a master of the village in the art of swinging the scythe. One of the secrets to good mowing, and it is amazing how straight and clear these folks can make the cut, is a sharp and balanced blade. We never see hand scything in the United States now, and years ago, when it was still occasionally used, the handle of the tool had an ‘S’ shaped curve. Here, the handle is straight. I wonder if it wouldn’t be more efficient to have a curved handle, but then I wonder why they don’t rig up the horse to a reaper – John McCormack invented it nearly 200 years ago – and mow the larger fields with horsepower rather than sweat power.

While the neighbors made the hay our host, Teo, and I walked up to the highest point overlooking the valley. It was a steep ascent through fields of wildflowers. The smell of the brushed flowers was almost exactly that of the honey that we had used to flavor our morning tea. The butterflies appreciated the windbreak that the few trees offered, but as the day was warm, we liked to feel the breeze as it blew from the plains of Hungary to our vantage point high above the valley.

I thought that it marked a circle, a near completion of our time here in Romania. We have a few duties to wrap up and then we’ll take a slow journey home through parts of Europe unexplored by us. Standing on the mountain top, amongst the flowers and the hay I wonder about this changing country of Romania. It won’t be long before the old men content to mow the hay with a blade will all be replaced by speedy drivers in their BMWs and Toyotas driving swiftly between job, home and vacation house. This country is in economic unstoppable development. Gradually the inefficiencies will be left behind, but what will replace them?

The sheep herder with his flock and the cow herder with his herd, answering our whistle from the top of the peak, will be gone. The mountain will sleep, unless it’s turned into a ski resort. Few will walk its steep grass except the rare hiker.

Reverberations

2007-06-23T23:25:00.000-07:00

Reverberations

Yesterday evening Nancy and I and friends strolled to the Reformat church here in Cluj to hear a baroque concert of trumpet, violins and organ. The night before, we listen to our final Friday night performance of our season pass of the Transylvania State Philharmonic. Both concerts were excellent and remind us that when we leave Romania later this summer we will miss the availability of great, live, affordable classical music.

Sitting in the Hungarian Reformat (Calvinist or Presbyterian) Church was a particular treat. The church was originally built by order of one the most famous of the Hungarian Kings, Mathias Corvin back in 1500. This king, born in Cluj, has many ties to Transylvania history and pride. His statue, depicting him astride a larger than life horse and being hailed by his followers, is a regular meeting site. Meet you by the horse statue,” and everyone knows where you mean, even though there are two such statues – the other of Mihai Vitazul, a Romanian hero.

The Reformat church is not the gothic Roman Catholic cathedral that dominates the central city, but was built 150 after that and is much more ‘German’ looking in its appearance. It’s a large space, with a very tall, arching ceiling, and the walls are of heavy stone. The large organ is along the back, west wall, of the church up in the choir loft. The metal pipes are shiny bright for the first 6 meters and then, as they must be much more difficult to clean, or perhaps they are of a different metal, more tainted and muted in their coloration as they rise to the ceiling.

We’ve learned to sit nearer the front of the church on pews that have their backs to the side walls so that we can turn and watch the organ. During organ concerts which are often held in the church, there is not much to see, for the organ just sits there as the music comes out, the organist hidden behind the keyboard. But it is from the loft that the trumpets and violins joined with the organ for this recent concert, so there was activity to watch as we listened to music of Bach, Handel, Albinoni and others. What’s more we could watch the sunlight as it brightened the glass windows and illuminated the loft.

These windows, as appropriate to a Calvinist church, are without image or decoration, but rather an alternation of frosted glass and honey colored panes in a geometric pattern. The windows are long and narrow and during the day offer a muted light to the church. As I’ve mentioned the stonework of the church is massive and remains cool throughout most of the summer. It also has the acoustical effect of bouncing the sound of organ and instruments to mellow them. During last night’s concert when one violin played it sounded as two. When two played, it sounded as six. When both trumpets and violins played along with the organ, the sound was huge, reverberating off the walls and down to our seats.

Nancy and I have less than a month left in Cluj and we hope to take full advantage of it, but we also hope that the reverberations of our time here will remain with us – what we’ve done, what we’ve seen, what we’ve heard and the people we’ve met - will echo in the stonework of our brain to remind us of our adventure here.

Nancy and Friends in a Field of Wild Flowers

2007-06-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

Oana

2007-06-07T08:02:00.000-07:00

Growing Up and Other Thoughts

2007-06-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

Growing Up and Other Thoughts

This past week Nancy and I had the opportunity to take part in a presentation on diversity during the training of the latest Peace Corps group to come to the country. We were accorded expert status on age diversity issues. These were trainerees with only two weeks in the country and they were all excited and curious about just about everything. It seemed a little strange to me to realize that it was exactly two years ago that our group had been in the same stage of curiosity and excitement. Now we are within six weeks of our check out date, preparing to take a slow journey home.

One of the preliminary tasks to that check out was to undergo a physical examination and dental check up. This took place in Bucuresti and we passed both segments. One thing about the physical, is that should we decide to reapply for another stint of Peace Corps duty, we’ll not have to redo that portion of the application process – good for six months.

While we were in Bucuresti we met with Oana. Oana is the young lady who was our gazda ‘sister’ while we were doing our ten week training in the town of Rasnov. She was then in high school. Now she’s finishing up her first year at university and we were both taken (I would say enchanted but that might give the wrong impression) with her progress in becoming a delightful young lady. She is an example of all that is right with Romanian young people. She is intelligent and natural, attached to her family, but understanding that there is a wide world surrounding her.

We hope to stop in Rasnov before departing the country to say our good byes to Oana’s parents, Celu and Betty. They acted the perfect host to us and we’d like a chance to talk with them about our experiences over the last year. We visited with them at New Year’s 2006 so it’s been nearly a year and a half since we’ve seen them.

Perhaps some of you remember a posting I did a little over a year ago about planting strawberry plants in the little garden that sits in front of our apartment block. One of the neighbors pointed out that the children would just steal the berries should any manage to get ripe. I said that was my plan. Last year, no berries matured but this year I’ve been watching as two dozen berries slowly turned red. I am pleased to report that I did not get the chance to taste them. They were harvested by the local children. I am not happy to report that several of this year’s flower plantings have been stolen as well – impatiens and pansies dug right out of the ground. I don’t mind the loss of the strawberries, because that is sharing, but if whoever stole the plants wanted to enjoy them all summer long they could have done so by leaving them right where they were.

There is a small flower bed alongside an apartment within an easy walk from ours. It’s a full bed with lots of fine flowers, none of which were a variety that I had planted, but the remarkable thing about this bed is the barbed wire that surrounds it.

The pictures accompanying this blog posting are of Oana and of Nancy and friends on her birthday. Every year I try and take her somewhere out of the ordinary. This year was a caruta ride out to a wild flower meadow. The day was perfect and the scenery awesome.

An Old Stone Bridge (the road actually goes over it)

2007-05-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

An Old Tower on the Walls of Sighisoara

2007-05-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

The Unitarian Church and Other Observations

2007-05-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

The Unitarian Church and Other Observations

We’re coming up on two years in Romania. I’ve made a list of things that we’ve become a little more accustomed to over this time. Things that are an acquired taste.

Light Switches. Occasionally one would find the pad like switch for flipping on the lights in America, but not usually, there the toggle switch predominates.

Toilets. Not public ones, we could never get used to those, but the private ones are set a little higher than what we’re used to, and they use a lot less water. After two years we’ve become accustomed to them.

Windows. The homes and apartments that have replaced old windows with modern ones – many people have – are now equipped with a thermo pane window that opens either from the top for a sliver of ventilation or from the side for a full open window. They are really good and useful, and are being adopted nation wide. Window screens though are quite the rarity and these nice windows would be better if they were accompanied by screens to keep the bugs out.

Mineral Water. We still prefer the apa plata, the non bubbles, but gradually I’ve gotten used to the unfamiliar taste and sensation of minerale. It’s everywhere and if you order water at a restaurant, or when being entertained by a Romanian, that’s what you’ll get. One brand in particular has become acceptable to us. Some Americans take to mineral water right away, others never do. Beer is cheaper than either water or soda so perhaps instead of water we should take the opportunity to drink as much beer as we can in the last few months before we go home.

Cheek Kissing. It still seems so strange to us. Nancy doesn’t like it at all but I’ve slowly become accustomed to it. You don’t actually kiss one another cheeks, unless you’re very good friends or relations. You just sort of touch cheek to cheek and pucker up or make a kissing sound, on either side of the face. It is the equivalent of shaking hands and it’s done on greeting and on leaving. Men to men are much more likely to shake hands except for very old and dear friends. Men to women and women to women it is more accepted to kiss cheeks than shake hands. Often times it gets a little confusing as to where to shake hands, kiss cheeks or simply say “Hello”. Kissing a lady’s hand is considered gallant by some – usually an older man toward a younger lady.

Eating a banana from the opposite end. Eating an apple completely, core and all. While we don’t do these, we understand and accept it.

Things we haven’t gotten used to, probably never would:

Spitting on the sidewalk. Many men here take pride in their spitting ability and like to demonstrate it in public.

Hair in an extraordinary range of unnatural colors, hues, textures and forms. Not only young women, but all women, and even avant garde young men have decorated their hair in vivid colors. Latest one I noted was a pale green to match the woman’s blouse. It’s a shame to me for the predominate natural color is black, and when it’s washed and combed it contrasts pleasantly with the light complexion and the often brown eyes of the Romanian women.

House paint and new construction of all kind in garish colors and asymmetrical shapes.

Enough of the list. I wished to add an observation from attending a Unitarian Church service in a small village of central Transylvania on Sunday. Unitarianism was founded in Cluj in the 1700s and was accepted by many of the ethnic Hungarians of the region. There is an active church seminary and an apparent vibrancy to the service that both the Romanian orthodox and the Hungarian Roman Catholic services seem to lack.

We were hosted in our visit to the village of Magyarsoros (it means Hungarian muddy village) (find it under Delenii, Romania if you want to look it up under google earth) by the Unitarian minister. The church is old and built as four rectangles attached to a center square without sign of a cross or icons or paintings. The men sit apart from the women. The men sat in one quadrant of pews, the women were spread out in two sections and that left the fourth section of the square for us visitors. There was no altar but the center of the church was open except for a table with fresh cut garden flowers. The minister preached from the raised pulpit attached to one corner of the wall of the open area where he could look down on us and we up at him.

While there was no paintings and no stained glass window scenes, each center pew and all the railings around the upstairs balcony of the church and the heavy table where the flowers vases stood were covered in hand embroidered stitchery. This was a white background with vivid blue swirls and fern patterns. Names of family members were stitched beneath the formal pattern and in the same bright blue thread and each cloth ran the length of the pew or the balcony. All in all, it made for a most quaint and homey setting and the minister's distinctive voice and delivery of the homily made for an enjoyable hour even though we understood no word of the service except for an occasional AMEN. Then both Nancy and I straightened in our hard pews when out of a jumble of meaningless syllables we hear the word Amerika and we knew that we were being publicly welcomed.

After church we had a fine visit to the little village museum where old artifacts of the life of the town are kept including wooden stilts to walk through the muddy streets of town, and then an even finer lunch of supa and snitzel and dessert prepared for us by the minister’s wife and mother. Which brings up one more thing each to add to my lists of accepted and then unnatural customs. One we've accepted: Soup or Chorba (a sour based soup- don’t worry its good, sometimes great) at least once a day. And unaccepted: the women of the household did not join us at the dinner table, but stayed in the kitchen and cooked while we ate.

The Old Church in the Village of Bazna

2007-05-09T12:16:00.000-07:00

Overlooking the Village of Capalni

2007-05-09T12:14:00.002-07:00

The Beauty of Romania

2007-05-09T12:14:00.001-07:00

The Beauty of Romania

It is probably my nature, but I think even Nancy agrees with me on this, that the true beauty of Romania is in its countryside. I know that I’ve written of the charms of the rural settings before, but I was reminded of it twice in the last few days.

On Sunday we drove about 60 kilometers north on the road to Baia Mare to visit the small village of Capalni. We were hosted by our good friend Simona’s family and enjoyed walking over their land and explaining the possibilities of my walnut tree project with them. Whether walnut trees are ever grown commercially on the property or not is undetermined now, but the trip was worthwhile in itself.

And on Monday, Otto, my program director’s son, and I packed up the station wagon with the pamphlets, maps and post cards that I’ve been working on the past 6 months to stimulate tourist development in the region west of Cluj. We have five villages on our list, two of which I’d never visited. Unfortunately I did not have camera with me, and so did not record the day’s travels, but it sticks in my memory. This was country with a higher elevation than Sunday’s trip and the tallest hills still had patches of snow. Spring was well advanced in the towns themselves, though, and the lilacs in various shades of purple and white were in full bloom.

Romanians don’t live on farms as we know them in the eastern United States. They live in communities and travel out to their fields to work. That leaves unbroken stretches of pasture and meadow and wheat field without fence or house to break the view. The picture included in this week’s entry looks like a farm house, but it is really the last house of the village in Capalni. The scene was taken looking down on the house and garden from the hillside.

These small Romanian villages are rapidly diminishing in population as young people look elsewhere for opportunity. While many of the houses have been updated with plumbing, gas lines and electricity it is still a remote existence and there are not many jobs. Only the very basic items are available in the town store. The roads throughout Romanian are terrible and the drivers are worse than the roads. As hitchhiking is a common means of getting around, the lure of the city, a job and a car attracts nearly everyone infused with the capitalist idea of improving position in life.

Perhaps in a small way, both my project promoting tourism and my brainstorm about the walnut trees may allow one or two or three of those young people who, for some reason, prefer the country to the city, to stay close to home. I’ll report if there is such a success in the future.

A fish pond in the Danube Delta

2007-04-29T02:38:00.000-07:00

Rapeseed Field south of Tulcea

2007-04-29T02:36:00.000-07:00

Delta Danerea

2007-04-29T02:35:00.001-07:00

Delta Danerea

The Danube Delta is a large section of Northeastern Romania. Here the long Danube enters into the Black Sea and forms a wide area of marshes, lakes and reed beds. Much like the more famous Mississippi and Nile deltas, the Danube Delta is an ideal place for birds and wildlife. Travel occurs by boat and the settlements are small fishing villages that have begun to turn to tourism as a livelihood.

Nancy and I and Jane Walker, a long time friend visiting from the United States, took the opportunity to spend four days in the Delta last week. We were guided through the narrow channels and canals to view all sorts of waterfowl and other birds. The list of new species that are now checked off our birder’s life list include Sea Eagles, red beaked and regular pochards, great crested grebes, squaeca herons, black woodpeckers, hoopoe and the amazingly blue Romanian kingfisher.

The kingfisher is smaller than our belted kingfisher and has the most vivid iridescent blue on its back and wings when it flies. It has an orange breast and the combination of orange and blue reminds one of the University of Virginia school colors.

We found it sitting on reeds and small limbs hanging just above the water in the canals. When still, it was hard to spot, but when it flew ten meters further along the waterway it shown brilliantly. It would fly from one resting spot to another, staying just about the water. Only after leading us a long way would it over fly us back to its original fishing place. It is the symbol of Nancy’s Birdlife Romania organization so it was doubly worthwhile whenever we ran across one of the species.

We arrived in the Delta area after a two day conference in the mountain resort of Sinaia. This conference was the final gathering of our Peace Corps group which we’ve shared experiences. I presented two slide shows of pictures that the group had taken over the last two years and both were well received. Hopefully the presentations can be used as a collective remembrance of Romania.

The first of our group will be leaving country the first of June. We’re planning to check out around the 20th of July and do some exploring through parts of Europe that are still new to us. The Danube runs through eight countries and now that we’ve seen the Delta, perhaps we’ll take a hydrofoil up river to Vienna to start our journey home.

The pictures included with this entry do not show any birds. My little camera is great at landscapes, but I’m not much of a wildlife photographer. The two pictures include one of the water and reed beds and one of the rapeseed fields that line the roadway between Tulcea and Bucuresti. Rapeseed is used as an oil and as a primary ingredient in the formulation of Biodiesel.

Rismet Valley, Alba County

2007-04-10T03:56:00.000-07:00

Reciting the Watering Poem

2007-04-10T03:55:00.000-07:00

The Watering

2007-04-10T03:54:00.000-07:00

Paşte, Peste, Peşte

Last weekend Nancy and I were invited back out to a small village east of Aiud. This is the same spot where last fall we made jars and jars of the traditional Romanian food Zacusca. This time around we went to share the Easter weekend and tour the surrounding countryside.

The Romanian term for Easter is Paşte. The Romanian term for fish is peşte and the term for more than is peste. Confused? It is pretty simple actually, but only if you can remember things. I’ve been frustrated by my inability to remember. But this is a posting about our weekend and a description should include the strange tradition of watering the women.

It is a Hungarian tradition started centuries ago and modified by the coming of perfume in spray bottles. It is still common in the villages where ethnic Hungarians are plentiful. Almost like halloween, young boys go from house to house on the day after Easter with a bag in hand and a spray bottle of cheap perfume in the other. Whenever they come upon a female of any age – the spray bottles come out and the woman is coated in yucky smelling liquid. The boys then are thanked for this by a gift of money and a dyed hard boiled egg. Older boys and men and even old men join in the house to house watering. Their gift is a glass of wine or ţuica, the powerful Romanian plum brandy, instead of money.

By the time most of the gentlemen came to the home where we were staying, they had been to most of the other houses in the village and had been enjoying many glasses of ţuica. The younger lads were much cuter. I’ve included a picture of a trio of boys, one reciting the obligatory poem that is said prior to the spraying.

Most Hungarians are either Roman Catholic or Protestant. Nearly all Romanians are Orthodox. This year, both eastern and western churches celebrated Easter on the same day. Many years it is actually two holidays as the church calendars do not align.

The day before the watering, on Easter, we had ridden back into the mountains of that region to an isolated series of villages where the steeped ridge thatch roof was still in use. Near the village of Kismet in Alba county, which is about 60 km from Cluj, the road was dirt and the mountains steep. Our hosts asked if Americans would recognize the area as Romania. We suggested many Americans assume that this is how most Romanians still live. Truth is, only in this isolated village have we seen the thatch roof. Most Romanians live in cities or towns with access to nearly all the supplies of a modern life.

Two Photos for the Upcoming Presentation

2007-03-19T12:05:00.000-07:00

Two Work Projects

2007-03-19T12:03:00.001-07:00

Work Projects

This posting I thought that I’d tell you about two projects that I’ve been spending some time on. The first is a compilation of photographs from all members of our Peace Corps group. Our last joint conference is in April; called the Close of Service conference, although most of us will still have another three months before winding up our service here in Romania. It is my plan to have a CD slide presentation complete with music to present the photographs of our two year effort here.

There are two categories and two separate presentations. I asked each volunteer to send me five of their favorite photos of volunteers and then five of their best pictures of Romania. So far I’ve gotten a good response from the group and have assembled the views of Romania into a presentation of over 230 slides. The volunteer portion of 180 photos has to run a little faster to its music for there is only so much viewing of each other that we’ll be able to bear. I’ve entitled this part of the program, “Faces Only a Mother Could Love”. The plan is to have a copy of the CD available for each volunteer to use as a remembrance of our work and of each other.

The second project that I’ve become involved in is a brainstorm of mine. My assignment with the organic farmers association has enlightened me to both the great difficulties and the opportunities that most Romanian farmers face. I’ve come up with an idea to plant Walnut trees (you may call them English Walnuts but they’re really Carpathian Walnuts – check out Wikipedia) on small plots provided by rural landowners.

I’ve been encouraged by other Peace Corps volunteers who see this as an opportunity to assist their communities in generating some income and putting land to use that currently is underutilized. Walnuts grow naturally here and many rural households have an old tree out back that they harvest in the fall, but nowhere do real orchards exists. I’ve had fun working out the idea of it all and bouncing that idea among colleagues, but now, it’s time to turn an idea and an inspiration into actual progress. I’ve always been a pretty good thinker – the doer part has usually been my problem, but this plan appears so solid and useful that it needs to get done.

This posting has been more about my mindset than about observations of my surroundings, but staying busy and accomplishing small steps has helped me gain a sense of accomplishment. I’m excited about the outcome of both the picture gallery and the walnut project. Both pictures accompanying this post are included in the slide presentation but that’s all I’m showing anyone. The rest will remain behind closed computer doors until the premier next month but if you’re interested in more details of the walnut project, let me know.

Moonset over the Sahara

2007-03-10T12:47:00.000-08:00

Berber Woman of Matmata

2007-03-10T12:45:00.000-08:00

Olives in the Madina Market in Sousse

2007-03-10T12:44:00.000-08:00

First Crocus and Tunisia

2007-03-10T12:39:00.000-08:00

First Crocus and Tunisia
Blog Entry 10-03-07

Reporting the first blooms on the earliest of the 85 crocus bulbs (brandusa de primavarii) that I planted in the little flower bed outside our block apartment building last fall. 85 bulbs in a small space will make a fairly impressive display in a few years as the bulbs naturalize. Even now the bright little yellow and gold flowers of the snow crocus brighten the area. The three strawberry plants I set in last spring have multiplied and are beginning to leaf out in several new spots.

Yesterday the neighbors trimmed back some of the branches of the cedar trees leaving more sunshine to come to the patch which will make a positive difference this year. Now, if I can only teach them to pile the fall leaves from the cherry trees atop the bed to form a mulch, then I will have left a legacy.

No pictures this posting of the crocus – first year so they are a little thin as expected - pictures instead of Nancy and my trip to Tunisia. We spent a week’s vacation stationed by the Mediterranean Sea near Sousse. It is a well developed tourist center catering to many English, French, Romanian and other European tourists looking for a bargain. Only three hours away by plane from Cluj, it was also convenient for us.

The main attraction for us was not the fine sand beach or the clear water, but seeing a new country, a new continent. Three Peace Corps companions spent the vacation with us and none of us had the least sense of being in an unfriendly country or culture. We were welcomed. Sometimes, too welcomed, as it became easier for us to use our Romanian and explain that we were from Cluj in order to deflect some of the aggressive salesmanship that is practiced there. Only a few hawkers knew enough Romanian to deal with us – they knew every other language though - so by saving we came from our adoptive homes we escaped some of the sales pressure.

The country itself was fascinating. The home of the Berbers and Carthage and ancient Roman ruins and 52 million olive trees and the scene for much of the first Star Wars movie and desert oases of date palms Tunisia surprised us with its diversity. Parts of the country were pastoral beauty, parts rugged scenery, part sandy scrub, but all of it interesting.

Romania and Tunisia have much in common. In some ways Romania seems more advanced, but in others, particularly agriculture, Tunisia appears to have established a more sustainable economy. Both countries also share some obvious problems, particularly trash disposal and other environmental issues. Development is never easy and in some areas not wise, but it appears that in both countries there are segments determined to bring their nation into modern society and segments unwilling or unable to grasp the change necessary to accomplish that goal.

We Peace Corps volunteers, by our example hopefully show the better part of advancement. Perhaps it’s only a few crocus in the garden in early spring and an attitude that suggests, these crocus will be here for years, long after Nancy and I leave. They’ll be here to brighten your path, and we plant them not only for ourselves, but for you.

The Colors of Romania

2007-02-28T02:40:00.000-08:00

photo by Lorna Babby - "The New Romania"

Romanian Construction Taste

2007-02-28T02:39:00.001-08:00

Romanian Construction

Last entry I commented on the way that Bavarian Germany had managed to successfully modernize without much changing the atmosphere of the towns and villages. In Romania, there is much modernization taking place; people are upgrading their apartments, building new homes, shopping centers and businesses. However, it is a particular taste and style of architecture quite apart from the former traditions of the country.

The method of choice in construction here is the cement mixer. I believe that Romania has more of those mini cement mixers per capita then anywhere on earth. Every construction site has pile of sand, a pile of gravels and a cement mixer in front. Every site also uses lots of lumber, but not for the building, but as scaffolding and cement forms.

The nice thing about cement is the adaptability to shapes and curves. And Romanians love to add curves to their new construction. Often times the building is asymmetrical with a curved side and a straight side. The main portion of a building is supported by cement rebar columns and then a lighter cinder brick is used as filler. It’s odd for me to watch the walls go up without regard to the use of a level, but because the cement supports are level, the wall filler need not be.

Romanians, as a rule, don’t trust banks. When they have excess cash, instead of putting in a bank for safe keeping, they’ll put it into construction of their new house or addition. Once the money runs out, the project sits idle until more cash comes in. It appears to me that much of the country is in the process of being overbuilt. People have too big a house for their needs, but what else are they to do – it’s their retirement savings.

One thing I highly appreciate is the thermal windows and doors that are used. The idea for these came from Germany and they really are more efficient than what I’m used to back in the United States. Many of the cement buildings are not well insulated, but the windows work great, opening both sideways and from the top.

But the particular aspect of modern Romanian construction is the love of bright pastel colors. I can only offer theories as to why, but ever since the revolution of 1989 and now, with an improving economy, there is every imaginable color used in construction. The picture included with this entry is from a friend, Lorna, who sent me the photo in a collection of her shots. I’m putting together a slide show from all us volunteers to show at the Close Of Service conference and I borrowed her picture of a house to illustrate the state of current taste in Romanian home construction. Her example is not curved, but it sure is bright.

Grosswiengarten, Germany

2007-02-22T11:36:00.000-08:00

Nurnburg, Germany

2007-02-19T12:01:00.000-08:00

Nurnburg, Germany

This past week I spent five days representing my organization, the association of organic farmers of Romania, at the BioFach conference in Nurnburg. This conference is the world’s largest organic trade fair and show and this was the first year that Romania had more than a token attendance. I and 14 others – farmers, traders, certification experts and supporters travel the 15 hour road trip to Nurnburg. It was quite the experience.

I was amazed. Amazed at the huge size of the fair, semi-amazed at the efficiency of the way over 2,000 exhibitors were handled, and fully amazed at the level of interest that Romanian organic products generated among buyers. I also felt useful as the main English speaker for my organization. Contacts were generated, that if followed through, will be beneficial to my association and to organic agriculture for years to come. I came away feeling that the businesses and farmers that took part, whether members of our association or not, were well pleased with the results.

I have no report of Nurnburg, itself, as all we saw was the conference center. Our hotel was in a little village about 40 km. south of the city. Groswiengarten was a town set on the top of a hill and consisted of perhaps 1,000 to 2,000 residents. Nurnburg is in Bavaria so this village was typical of that region. It was like staying in a Colonial Williamsburg. The houses were all in the traditional, high roof design, close to the road with lots and farm buildings behind the house. We are used to ‘old’ here in Romania, but in Germany every house in town had been completely remodeled into the 21st century without altering the impression of quaintness and charm of 200 years ago.

Groswiengarten was a town featuring the catholic church and our group of Romanian farmers accidentally stumbled into the carnival celebration on the Saturday night before Ash Wednesday. It was an experience. The women of the town, old, young and in between, dressed up in chicken costumes. They’d go from bar to restaurant to entertain, drink, laugh and drink some more. Some of the men were dressed as a cross between a circus clown and a devil, but once offered a little of the famous Romanian drink of Tuica, they became our best friends.

And when the chicken women found that one of our members was a veterinary doctor that raised over 1,500 head of poultry they became best of friends with him. When they mistook me for the mayor of St. Cloud, Minnesota I became a good friend to them as well. It was a good time, and harmless for us, for we were all careful about our intake of booze and beer – unusual for a group of Romanians – and were in bed by 11 pm. The chicken women stumbled down the street to the next bar, and I heard some of the party go by the hotel window around 2 a.m. headed home, or somewhere.

I’ve no picture of the chicken women, but I will post one of the village.

In the Manastur Forest in Winter

2007-02-06T05:39:00.000-08:00

Cancer Society and Heifer International

2007-02-06T05:38:00.000-08:00

Heifer International and the Cancer Society

Last Saturday evening Nancy and I went to see the local Cluj basketball team play. The team is professional in the sense that the players are paid and last year its star player was a young American, LaVar Seal. This year LaVar is back and two other Americans are also on the club. The team represents Cluj in the Romanian number one league and also participates in some wider European matches. We have become good friends with LaVar’s Romanian agent, Simona, and we go to support her as much as watch the games, although they usually are pretty good entertainment.

This past weekend was a bit different. We went as volunteers selling raffle tickets for the Romanian Cancer Society. Another Peace Corps volunteer had suggested the raffle as a way to raise money and awareness of the Cancer Society’s efforts. The Society had never done a successful Tombola before and the director was a little leery, but with four dinners from area restaurants and a round trip bus ticket to Rome as rewards and the help of a dozen Romanian and American volunteers covering both entrances to the arena plus the generous donation of the Cluj team’s share of the gate receipts, the Society raised the equivalent of over $1,700 dollar. Small potatoes by American standards perhaps, but a great success here.

On Tuesday Nancy and I, along with two out of town Peace Corps volunteers visited the Romanian headquarters of Heifer International which is located here in Cluj. For those of you might not know Heifer, they are a group that offers a small start of livestock – goats, dairy cattle, pork, fish and bees here in Romania – to rural households that would otherwise be without. The households must promise not to eat the livestock until there is offspring, and then also must promise to pass some of the offspring on to others who can then participate. We had explained to us the projects currently underway in Romania and meet with the dedicated staff. We came away impressed with the efforts to revitalize a portion of the rural areas of this country.

Heifer has always been one of Nancy and my supported charities. As Christmas gifts we often donate a pig or goat or water buffalo in the name of a relative or friend. It was nice to know first hand, that the money is going toward meaningful projects. While the headquarters office was in a new building and certainly had all the refinements of a classy operation – a mark against it in our book - it was also apparent that money was actually working its way down to the underprivileged of the country in a way that could actually make a difference.

We both work for Non-profit agencies on a daily basis, but it was good to view or participate in different organizations work these past few days.. It gave us a sense of accomplishment that sometimes we miss in our own organizations.

Matt and His Lady Friend

2007-01-24T01:06:00.000-08:00

Mind Set of a Peace Corps Volunteer

2007-01-24T01:02:00.000-08:00

The Mind Set of a Peace Corps Volunteer

There were 67 of us Romania20, as we are officially known, at the beginning of our training. That was twenty months ago and we have just over 6 months to go before completing our term of service. If I count correctly 15 have left early for health, family or adjustment reasons. It was announced recently that almost an identical number - 14 - have put in for an extension of service. That makes us a nice symmetrical group, about as many people want to stay longer as had to go home earlier.

Nancy and I are not one of the 14 putting in for longer duty. We had considered it and a transfer to a different country for another two years held certain attractions. There have also been times in the past year and a half when we considered leaving early, so I suppose we are also symmetrical – part of us wanting to stay longer, part wishing to go home early.

As we got to know our colleagues during our initial training there was speculation as to who would successfully complete two plus years of service and who wouldn’t. Of those that have left, many were a surprise to me. Of those that have stuck around, many are a surprise to me. Contrary to my opinion of myself, obviously I am not a good judge of character.

Even now, if asked as to what makes a person able to complete a job for so long away from home, in a different culture with a different language, I couldn’t say. I am not sure exactly what there is in common between those of us who remain. Some people have been rewarded by their efforts and have seen the difference they can make. Others have a determination to finish their assignments even if on some days they can’t see that difference. All of us came to Romania to offer something of ourselves and there is joy when that something is appreciated and dismay when it seems that it is not.

On Monday evenings Nancy hosts an English Conversation Club which I often attend. People come to practice speaking English. This past week’s discussion was an amazing dialogue about the sacrifices and the compromises that people had to make while living under the Communist system. These were not the petty matters of lack of bananas or the need to stand in long lines, these were the moral choices that had to be made that meant having a job, or having a place to live, or being placed in jailed, or placing others in jail. It was amazing to hear these young adults speak of their youth under the totalitarian dictatorship and the choices that their parents had to make to survive.

This was a discussion that 17 years ago could not have been held. Even now it was painful to discuss. At one point I was asked “Why didn’t you come to help?”, meaning ‘why didn’t America stand up to Russia?” We didn’t come to help then because of fear of World War III, but we have come now. The need is not as great now, but there is still a need. I believe that we volunteers make a difference with our openness, our smiles and laughter, and our willingness to be volunteers. If we also accomplish ‘something’, a tangible measure of success, that is even better.

The picture accompanying this blog update is my favorite photo of a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. I am not sure the cow truly appreciated that fact that Matt gave up a portion of his life to come and spend it with her here, but she doesn’t look like she minds, either.

Iulia Ioana and her Grandmother

2007-01-16T10:43:00.000-08:00

Botez

2007-01-16T10:42:00.000-08:00

Botez

2007-01-16T09:55:00.000-08:00

Botez

Two family traditions that are cause for public ceremony in Romania are the wedding and the Christening. Last fall Nancy and I attended a Nunta, a wedding. This past weekend we were invited to join with many of our neighbors for a Botez. The young lady being Christened was six weeks old and she is the grandchild of our landlord and upstairs neighbors, Teo and Doina. The family is Orthodox and the service was performed in a small chapel off the orthodox theological seminary here in Cluj. A priest presided and he had a student assistant and two student cantors.

Bianca Maria was given her name, dunked in the holy basin three times, sprinkled with oil and had various rites done to her, including placing her on a white cloth on the floor of the alter. She was an excellent subject, remaining quiet for all except the third dunk into the water. The picture included above is just after that third dunk.

The parents of the child do not do much during the ceremony but admire. The work is left to two sets of God parents. The women take turns holding the baby while the men hold the candles. At one point they are led by the priest in walking two circles of the alter with a white ribbon tying them together. I am not sure of the significance of the rituals, but I do know that it is very important for every child to be associated with their name or patron saint. It is almost as if they have two birthdays a year – one on their birth date and the second on the celebration of the day of the saint for whom they were named. There is no Saint Bianca so Maria will serve as her patron.

After the ceremony at the chapel, the party moved to a hotel dining room where we enjoyed a full five course dinner and much celebration. The baby was provided a room to sleep in and she only made her appearance eight hours later when the cake showed up. Meanwhile the rest of us ate and danced and sipped our wine and danced and ate some more. The day lasted from 12:30 to nearly 10 that night.

Bianca’s older sister, Iulia Ioana, just turned four. A charming, irrpressable young lady. We often hear Iulia when she is visiting her grandparents and she brings our apartment block to life. Notice that all the feminine names end in the letter ‘a’. All Romanian women’s names do except for Carmen. Not sure how Carmen slipped in, but every other name ends in ‘a’. We wish these two particular ladies well as they progress through their youth. There is much for them to look forward to for their country is changing rapidly.

A wooden church in Maramures

2007-01-08T11:54:00.000-08:00

On the Road in Poienile Izei

2007-01-08T10:40:00.000-08:00

2007-01-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

This week's blog entry is a continuation of the interesting Christmas we spent in Maramures County. One of the Peace Corps volunteers has intentionally sought out a site to teach English in a little village at the end of the road in the most traditional of Romanian areas. Eleven of us visited her for Christmas. What follows was taken directly from the information provided by the village. Please pay particular attention to the final portion explaining the Viflaim play. I did not correct the translation. Compared to many translations we read, this one is well above average, but it is also apparent that it was not reviewed by a 'native English speaker'.

The wooden church of Poienile Izei, with thatched roof, was built in 1604. Its interior frescoes, dating from 1783, are Australian Aboriginal-style paintings depicting the torments inflicted by the devil on sinners who fail to obey the rules represented in the frescoes.

The red walls depict dozens of sinners being tortured by demons with goat-like heads and clawed feet, while beneath them processions of sinners are driven into the mouth of hell – an enormous bird’s head with fiery nostrils.

The pictures constitute an illustrated “rule book” too terrifying to disobey – the scenes presumably formed the nasty part of a huge Day of Judgment. Its message is still understood by the villagers.

●A huge pair of bellows is used to inflict punishment for farting in church
●A woman guilty of burning the priest’s robes while ironing them is herself pressed with a hot iron
●Adulteresses are courted by loathsome demons
●A woman who aborted children is forced to eat them
●A liar is hung by his tongue
●A witch is gored by cows for casting a spell on them
●A farmer is plowed by two devils for stealing his neighbor’s land
●The person who sleeps while the priest is preaching is forced to lay on a burning bed and endure the devil’s violin

Other paintings in the church include gardens and distant cityscapes; from the balcony you can recognize Adam and Eve, the Fall and episodes from the lives of Christ and John the Baptist.

The “Viflaim” – religious theatre in Maramures

There is still present in Maramures a diversity of folk theatre, among which the “Viflaim” has an important status – a play acted by a group of lads in the first days of Christmas.

The variations nowadays in rural collectivies largely use the Petru Biltiu-Dancus's text (1875); he was a teacher in Ieud. The test was published by his son, prof. Ioan Biltiu-Dancus in 1924. It is said about the text that the author transformed a text with 'traditional origin' which was simple, primitive and turned it into a real, dramatic play. The author also says that the play "was assimilated by the people and transformed upon their taste."

Village actors of the “Viflaim” try to give the characters the features and concerns of the local customs and spectacular visions, very proper to their way of living. What is impressive is the complexity of action, the costumes, the lyrics and the extraordinary masks. All characters are masked but the most peculiar masks are the ones that represent the devils. The costumes, handed down from generation to generation, are taken care of and adorned by every possessor; the noisy objects of the devils – bells of all sizes – are periodically cleaned.

In the Viflaim there is a certain orientation towards the spectacular; the attendants are enthusiastic while following the devils' performance, the extraordinary movements, grimaces, antics, jokes and rhythmic noises. The play gains a lot of grandeur by the fantasy act of the 'Old Man', one of the main characgters. Everything is completed by the masks - they give a certain color to the winter feasts.

Traditional Romanian Carol Singing

2006-12-31T02:53:00.000-08:00

Christmas Festival in Maramures

2006-12-31T02:52:00.000-08:00

La Multi Ani

2006-12-30T02:52:00.000-08:00

La Multi Ani

On the first of January, 2007 Romania will officially become a member state of the European Union. This is a big deal here. It is something that the government has worked toward for over a decade and it marks the acceptance of Romania and Bulgaria as partners in a democratic, capitalistic and western looking union.

For two years there has been a large timepiece set in the heart of Bucuresti counting down the days, hours and minutes to the accession. The parliament has passed new and updated previously unenforced legislation which will become effective on Monday. Many speeches and great fireworks will commemorate the New Year and the new era for this country. Yet a large number of people are apprehensive about the changes that will come with the requirements of unification and with those thousands of new laws and regulations required to comply with European standards.

No one knows for sure whether travel will be easier, whether it will be easier to work in Europe. No one is certain the effect that being a partner with the rest of Europe will mean, and many people see the changes that they have had to make and will make a cost higher than they are willing to accept. Yet there is a sense that Romania has always been a part of Europe and that is where this country belongs.

Depending upon which view of the country I see, to me Romania is either a nation in a hurry to catch up to the development and progress of the other former Eastern Bloc countries already admitted into the EU, populated by dynamic people determined to make a success of themselves and their homeland, or it is a backward place, full of antique ways of thinking and of working, inhabited by a people content to accept the status quo and unwilling to trust in themselves or their countrymen. It is a country headed in two directions at once and the EU accession is a symbol of the steps toward progress and dynamism.

Nancy and I spent Christmas in the backcountry of Maramures with a knot of 13 other friends and volunteers. It was a traditional Christmas filled with singing “colende multi Americane” and being invited into homes for good food and strong drink. It would be wonderful to be able to preserve the best of these traditions as well as encourage steps toward a more progressive society. Progress that abandons a sense of place and history is not good, however traditions that maintain poverty and a degradation of the environment are not good either. The challenge facing Romania is to somehow keep the best of the traditions while changing toward a more prosperous, clean and equitable country.

I raise my glass of tuisca to Romania on the acceptance into Western Europe and wish them well on their balancing. La Multi Ani.

2006-12-22T02:10:00.000-08:00

The Annual Christmas Poem

2006-12-22T01:59:00.000-08:00

For the past 30 years at Christmas I've sent out greetings via an original poem. I understand it has become quite the tradition to receive the poems, and my list of mailings has gradually increased to well over a hundred families now, but unfortunately, I still miss folks that I should send greetings so, I've included the poem and pictures on this year's blog, just in case you, dear reader, are not on Nancy and my mailing list. (If we did miss you and you'd like to be included in next year's edition drop me a note with your address).

We are off to the back country of Maramures for Christmas. We'll be staying at a bed and breakfast there with about a dozen other volunteers and participating in as much 'culture' as we can including midnight and morning church and carolling - both English and Romanian - around the neighborhood. We are looking forward to it, and hope that you will have as enjoyable a holiday as we expect.

And now, as promised, the 31st annual poem for Christmas...

December, 2006

I wonder if wisdom should be associated with age,
As if accumulating experience makes us sage?
I feel no smarter now, know no more then I knew
Than some thirty years past when first I threw
Word next to word, rhyme beside rhyme,
And Line upon line to mail at Christmas time.

Mellower I am perhaps, but wiser? I think not.
My mind now has gaps, blank spots and slow rot.
Corners of the brain are so cluttered and jumbled
No telling what words my mouth may have mumbled.
Of some things though, I feel fairly assured
Learned either through fair days or trials endured.

Faith I have that on these facts I’m true, that I’m right:
One: somethings are better dark. Two: others bright.
Three: some days need sunshine. Four: others need rain.
Five: crazy thoughts may be brilliant or merely insane.
Six: it’s our spot, our perspective, that colors our view,
Makes us value customs, people, places old, places new.

As our spot changes, our view and perspective adjusts,
So may change also our longings, our loves and our lusts.
Morning Glories prove one man’s weed is another’s flower,
Depends upon which man, depends upon which hour,
A splendid pale blossom or a choking, entangling vine
Depends on one’s viewpoint, and upon the sunshine.

As I age it’s not wisdom I hope for – no sage will I be -
But acceptance is my wish for us all, for you and for me.
I desire that our burrs be softened, hard edges removed,
Our harshness buffered and rough places smoothed,
Be slower to anger, quicker to smile but with less spittle
And that we learn to accept one another a least just a little.

From Cluj-Napoca we wish you the best Christmas
And most hopeful of New Year’s, and may we mellow as we age.

Tim and Nancy

The first snow of winter

2006-12-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

Aunt Elinor and the Meaning of Fireflies

2006-12-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

Earlier last summer I posted a rememberance of Nancy's Aunt Anna. Many of you commented on that posting. This time I have the pleasure of doing something similar for my Aunt Elinor, of Carlisle, Pa.

Aunt Elinor is preparing to celebrate her 100th birthday this week. Her family had put out a call for rememberances and stories to offer as a tribute to her long life. This week's post is my contribution to that tribute. It might not make much sense to those of you who do not know the particulars involved, but instead of taking the time to explain, I thought that perhaps it would be better to let the blanks be filled in as if it were your relative, for we all have family history and memories.

Aunt Elinor and the Meaning of Fireflies

My Mother and Elinor were best of sisters. They grew up in what must have been a family of rambunctious boys, Jack, Marshall, Charley and Allie. The first two of those come to mind as particularly dominating figures. I suspect that while mother got by on sweetness, her sister held her own in every regard. The ties the girls formed, growing up in that household lasted in life for 90 years.

Carlisle was a destination of choice throughout my youth. Granddad and I both spent time here; he for the entire summer, I for at least a few weeks each year. As I was near the end of my generation of cousins the big house would have seemed uncharacteristically quiet as Nora and her brothers had all moved on to school and careers by then and the grandchildren were yet to appear in large numbers. It was almost as if I had my Aunt and Uncle and their wonderful house to myself.

It was always with a mixture of great respect mingled with a little fear that I came to Carlisle for my visits. Remember, I was a little boy, shy and quiet, and I had a bit of a trouble of connecting all the cast of characters in Carlisle. There was Uncle John, although then I couldn’t figure out who’s uncle he was, Aunt Mary, Grandma Green, Millie and Lady. Lady was the collie dog and she was kept mostly in the barn. I’m sure there were other names to successive dogs, but looking back, it seems to me they were all collies and they were all named lady. It was not the characters or the dog that caused my little fear, for they were all the most friendly of folks, but my Aunt. This apprehension should not be seen as something negative, for fear mixed with acceptance builds fortitude.

As I say, I was a quiet and shy child and many of the most cherished hours I spent with my Aunt were not with her at all, but sitting on the back sun porch working a picture puzzle or roaming what seemed to me to be an immense yard, hiding behind shrubbery in hopes of catching a rabbit in my box snare. On perhaps the first visit that my memory can distinguish I achieved my one lasting bit of fame in Carlisle: I enlightened my Aunt to the pleasures of Captain Kangaroo. For many years after, she would give me credit for her education on that subject. That was a winter visit, where I was sent while Mother underwent physical recuperation from some illness or other. You understand, back then it was a long journey from New York to Carlisle, not something one took lightly. They were special visits; looked for occasions; holidays when none were listed on the calendar. I was never told of what physical ailment my mother had, only that I enjoyed my time with my Aunt.

Fall, winter and spring visits were fine because that was when the sun porch was bested suited for puzzles, but the best visits were the summer ones. I can’t say that my Aunt actually taught me how to catch fireflies, but her yard on a summer’s night certainly offered much practice to correct my imperfect technique. I remember the great patience Uncle Joe would have with me – but he had that patience with everyone; he was the most patient man I have ever had the privilege to know, and I remember the great encouragement my Aunt offered.

Granddad and I were best buddies. He lived with us nine months of the year and in Carlisle the other three. No story of Aunt Elinor can be complete without understanding the connection between father and daughter. Granddad, like myself, shared the same feelings of admiration and fear. We knew who the boss was whenever we were in Carlisle. And we knew it was best not to upset the boss. I don’t know that she ever thought of herself as boss, but she was. Unquestionably.

Thirty-three years ago, Richard Nixon was still president, but only barely. Granddad received a letter from President Nixon congratulating him on 100 years of life. I don’t know whether the Presidential letter still goes out to the centurions or not, I suppose we’ll find out, but it seemed ironic at the time that one of the last official things President Nixon did was sign Granddad’s congratulatory letter. Granddad’s party was in Carlisle, just as Aunt Elinor’s will be. As I watched the festivities, I noted the unconscious shift of family power to my generation. My other aunts and uncles were there, of course, but they had reached retirement age and the buzz of activity was from and about my cousins. Now, I’m sure, the same will be noted by some quiet observer this time around. The generations of my brothers and cousins, those successful men and women who carried on the heritage of Granddad and his children, will slip power to their children and then to their children’s children.

I can only hope that those children and the children of those children had the same lessons of patience and encouragement taught them via the pleasures of catching fireflies on a summer evening in Carlisle as I.

Tim Hulings