Sunday, August 31, 2014
Final Friday and Art in Action
I had heard about Final Friday, an art walk through numerous galleries occurring each month in downtown Cincinnati, from a sister, and then I was reminded of it again by a new acquaintance. And suddenly it was the final Friday of the month of August, so off we drove last Friday at 5:30, to catch the beginning of the event at 6:00.
Gladys, our GPS lady, sent us south on I-75, my least favorite method of getting into the city, and either she or we made a mistake, because we got close but weren't actually at the Pendleton Art Center in OTR, the "Over-the-Rhine" area that has changed from a dangerous neighborhood to become "the" new chic entertainment area in town. We parked the car and walked, and fortunately a young woman wheeling a baby stroller found us and directed us across the street and in the opposite direction to which we had been wandering.
When we got there, we found an old building--it had been the headquarters of U.S. Shoe Corporation, which itself has a fascinating history--in various stages of renovation, but with eight floors of artists' studios and galleries. What a feast for the eyes! and for the ears, with music, and also refreshments. We took the elevator to the eighth floor and figured we could walk through each studio and then descend, floor by floor, using the stairs.
I only made it through three floors Friday night before becoming saturated, so we left well before the 10:00 closing, and just in time to escape the worst of an evening rain. But Final Friday is only the start of the weekend events: Art in Action is held in the same place(s) on the Saturday following, from 11:00 to 3:00, so there we were again on Saturday afternoon. This time we knew the way to Pendleton Street and where to park, and while not as many galleries were open for demos and lessons as the night before, there were enough to make the trip worthwhile. And starting on the fifth floor, we still have not made it down to two and three.
The directory of artists and the website claim that this is the largest collection of artists under one roof in the world, and I see no reason to dispute the claim. Some artists work in the Pendleton studios while others only exhibit and sell there on the once-monthly weekend--many of the artists still support themselves with a "day job." It's a pity that there is only one weekend each month for this extravaganza, but it's a sure thing that we will be there at the end of September and many times more.
A very active Facebook page shows some of the happenings at each Final Friday.
Tar Hollow Week
For my entire adult life August has rarely, if ever, ended without the thought passing through my mind: "It's Tar Hollow week." This year is no exception, and since I am physically in the state of Ohio--home of Tar Hollow State Park--I have spent even more time this week thinking about Tar Hollow.
In my youth, Tar Hollow week was always the last full week of August; it was when my Methodist church sponsored a youth camp experience for its members from 5th grade through high school. I have no idea now whether there were 100 or 200 campers of these ages, plus or including adult counselors and activity leaders. I just know that there were a lot of people, some of whom I knew, and most of whom I did not in the early years. My one-year-older sister had the Tar Hollow experience a year before I did, of course, and she told me a little about it: you slept in cabins with four or five other campers and an adult of your own gender, you had to walk a few hundred feet to go to the group toilets and showers, segregated by gender, and your days were structured: you started with an early breakfast in the main hall and "morning watch" worship, proceeded to study and discussions on various social and religious topics, returned to the hall again for lunch, and dispersed for physical activities in the afternoon--often swimming in the small lake a short walk from the central activity area. Dinner was a substantial meal, followed, I believe, by vespers after the dining hall and kitchen had been cleaned up, all campers contributing manpower on a rotating basis. The dining hall was transformed for various group activities in the evenings: popular music from a record player with the almost-latest hits, dancing (jitterbug and square dance), games, maybe, though I don't recall any in particular, and later in the evening a mysterious activity called "the submarine races," which was never announced as an official event, but you always found out the next morning that so-and-so and so-and-so had enjoyed the submarine races last night.... It seemed as though the submarine races always started after the younger campers had made their way from the main lodge up the hills to their cabins with flashlight shining on the path so as not to trip on exposed tree roots or rocks or the poisonous copperhead snakes that we were warned about continuously.
I think it was not until the year I had finished sixth grade, or maybe even seventh, that the important addition to the curriculum and camp experience occurred for which Tar Hollow became such a turning point for me. That was when ten or twelve international college students were brought in to spend the week with us. I suppose that the purpose was to give those students--far from their homes in Asia or countries of Africa whose names no longer exist, and perhaps shut out of their college dorms until the next term started--a place to stay and a view of life in the United States beyond a small college campus in Ohio. For the campers, it introduced us to real live individuals from countries we had only heard of--or often had not--and to people of different colors, with different languages, and professing different beliefs from those that we were exposed to in small town life in Ohio in the late 1950s and early 1960s. They camped with us almost as equals--they were, after all, a good five or ten years older than we were--but they seemed more like us than they seemed like the adult counselors and chaperones.
I don't remember all of the international students, nor can I point to specific lessons I learned from them. This first international experience provided me more with an attitude, or an orientation, and one that has permeated throughout my life. I remember Misako from Japan showing us how to wear a kimono and fasten an obi, and Mike Badu from Ghana explaining that he needed to learn as much as possible about the modern world because he was supposed to go back to Ghana to be chief of his tribe. He was vegetarian because his people were vegetarian, and that fact provided a memorable lesson for my family when he came to our house for Christmas dinner one year and we therefore did not serve meat for this holiday dinner--this in an age and place where meatless meals were just not known.
In addition to being exposed to a world wider than I knew in my small Ohio town, I picked up a few specific skills and habits from the Tar Hollow experience. I was introduced to ping pong and became quite good at it; I enjoyed square dancing; I drank my first coffee (those early breakfasts were not for me); and I learned the value of meditation and solitude.
But to the despair of my teenage heart, no one ever invited me to watch the submarine races in the small lake at Tar Hollow.
In my youth, Tar Hollow week was always the last full week of August; it was when my Methodist church sponsored a youth camp experience for its members from 5th grade through high school. I have no idea now whether there were 100 or 200 campers of these ages, plus or including adult counselors and activity leaders. I just know that there were a lot of people, some of whom I knew, and most of whom I did not in the early years. My one-year-older sister had the Tar Hollow experience a year before I did, of course, and she told me a little about it: you slept in cabins with four or five other campers and an adult of your own gender, you had to walk a few hundred feet to go to the group toilets and showers, segregated by gender, and your days were structured: you started with an early breakfast in the main hall and "morning watch" worship, proceeded to study and discussions on various social and religious topics, returned to the hall again for lunch, and dispersed for physical activities in the afternoon--often swimming in the small lake a short walk from the central activity area. Dinner was a substantial meal, followed, I believe, by vespers after the dining hall and kitchen had been cleaned up, all campers contributing manpower on a rotating basis. The dining hall was transformed for various group activities in the evenings: popular music from a record player with the almost-latest hits, dancing (jitterbug and square dance), games, maybe, though I don't recall any in particular, and later in the evening a mysterious activity called "the submarine races," which was never announced as an official event, but you always found out the next morning that so-and-so and so-and-so had enjoyed the submarine races last night.... It seemed as though the submarine races always started after the younger campers had made their way from the main lodge up the hills to their cabins with flashlight shining on the path so as not to trip on exposed tree roots or rocks or the poisonous copperhead snakes that we were warned about continuously.
I think it was not until the year I had finished sixth grade, or maybe even seventh, that the important addition to the curriculum and camp experience occurred for which Tar Hollow became such a turning point for me. That was when ten or twelve international college students were brought in to spend the week with us. I suppose that the purpose was to give those students--far from their homes in Asia or countries of Africa whose names no longer exist, and perhaps shut out of their college dorms until the next term started--a place to stay and a view of life in the United States beyond a small college campus in Ohio. For the campers, it introduced us to real live individuals from countries we had only heard of--or often had not--and to people of different colors, with different languages, and professing different beliefs from those that we were exposed to in small town life in Ohio in the late 1950s and early 1960s. They camped with us almost as equals--they were, after all, a good five or ten years older than we were--but they seemed more like us than they seemed like the adult counselors and chaperones.
I don't remember all of the international students, nor can I point to specific lessons I learned from them. This first international experience provided me more with an attitude, or an orientation, and one that has permeated throughout my life. I remember Misako from Japan showing us how to wear a kimono and fasten an obi, and Mike Badu from Ghana explaining that he needed to learn as much as possible about the modern world because he was supposed to go back to Ghana to be chief of his tribe. He was vegetarian because his people were vegetarian, and that fact provided a memorable lesson for my family when he came to our house for Christmas dinner one year and we therefore did not serve meat for this holiday dinner--this in an age and place where meatless meals were just not known.
In addition to being exposed to a world wider than I knew in my small Ohio town, I picked up a few specific skills and habits from the Tar Hollow experience. I was introduced to ping pong and became quite good at it; I enjoyed square dancing; I drank my first coffee (those early breakfasts were not for me); and I learned the value of meditation and solitude.
But to the despair of my teenage heart, no one ever invited me to watch the submarine races in the small lake at Tar Hollow.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Great Parks
Even though we didn't get the sticker on our car until a couple weeks ago, one of the best Christmas gifts we received last year was a one-year pass to the Great Parks of Hamilton County. Now that we consider ourselves officially "settled" we have begun exploring the 17 parks throughout Cincinnati and Hamilton County to which that pass provides free admission.
Our first park visit was to Glenwood Gardens. It was an overdue visit, as the entrance to this park is next door to one of the Kroger supermarkets that we frequent--the one closest to my sister's house where I stayed before we got our own place, and the Kroger still between our house and hers. Although we had driven by the entrance numerous times, we had never explored it, so we did a couple weeks ago. In between some lovely gardens, a lake, and well-maintained walkways, we found an exquisite gift shop. Fortunately, it was about to close for the day, so the only thing we picked up that time was a superb booklet with descriptions and maps of all the parks in the system. Winton Woods and Sharon Woods are names familiar to me and not far from where we live; Johannes and I took my father on a paddle boat tour around a lake in Winton Woods one summer in the past. Miami Whitewater Forest is another known name; though farther away, I remember a family bike ride there while I was visiting several years ago--the last time my father was on a bike. Now I look forward to exploring the other parks all over the city and county.
This morning we headed off to another park--not part of the Great Parks of Hamilton County system. I had my eye set on the VOA Park, northeast of Cincinnati in the West Chester/Mason area. I had heard about the Voice of America museum and park earlier this summer at a lecture that was part of the summer session of the University of Cincinnati's lifelong learning program. This morning seemed like a good time to explore, and after a short drive of about 20 minutes, over to and then up I-75, we found ourselves at the entrance to the VOA Park. There I discovered another system of municipal parks, though these were not part of the Great Parks system. We had crossed from Hamilton into Butler county, and now we were entering one of the MetroParks of Butler County. MetroParks uses the same membership model as Great Parks: you pay a modest fee ($10 per year) and affix a sticker to your car's windshield, and you get free entrance to the entire (county) system of parks until the end of the calendar year. So we now have two stickers on our front windshield (Hamilton on the left, Butler on the right) and also ten more parks to explore through the end of 2014.
Unfortunately I had not re-read my notes from the Voice of America lecture. The museum--a forthcoming museum at that--is not in the park itself. Nor is it yet open on a regular basis. But we found it, and we will return again some time when it is open--the next time being Saturday, September 20.
Our first park visit was to Glenwood Gardens. It was an overdue visit, as the entrance to this park is next door to one of the Kroger supermarkets that we frequent--the one closest to my sister's house where I stayed before we got our own place, and the Kroger still between our house and hers. Although we had driven by the entrance numerous times, we had never explored it, so we did a couple weeks ago. In between some lovely gardens, a lake, and well-maintained walkways, we found an exquisite gift shop. Fortunately, it was about to close for the day, so the only thing we picked up that time was a superb booklet with descriptions and maps of all the parks in the system. Winton Woods and Sharon Woods are names familiar to me and not far from where we live; Johannes and I took my father on a paddle boat tour around a lake in Winton Woods one summer in the past. Miami Whitewater Forest is another known name; though farther away, I remember a family bike ride there while I was visiting several years ago--the last time my father was on a bike. Now I look forward to exploring the other parks all over the city and county.
This morning we headed off to another park--not part of the Great Parks of Hamilton County system. I had my eye set on the VOA Park, northeast of Cincinnati in the West Chester/Mason area. I had heard about the Voice of America museum and park earlier this summer at a lecture that was part of the summer session of the University of Cincinnati's lifelong learning program. This morning seemed like a good time to explore, and after a short drive of about 20 minutes, over to and then up I-75, we found ourselves at the entrance to the VOA Park. There I discovered another system of municipal parks, though these were not part of the Great Parks system. We had crossed from Hamilton into Butler county, and now we were entering one of the MetroParks of Butler County. MetroParks uses the same membership model as Great Parks: you pay a modest fee ($10 per year) and affix a sticker to your car's windshield, and you get free entrance to the entire (county) system of parks until the end of the calendar year. So we now have two stickers on our front windshield (Hamilton on the left, Butler on the right) and also ten more parks to explore through the end of 2014.
Unfortunately I had not re-read my notes from the Voice of America lecture. The museum--a forthcoming museum at that--is not in the park itself. Nor is it yet open on a regular basis. But we found it, and we will return again some time when it is open--the next time being Saturday, September 20.
Oktoberfest in August
Last week I expressed surprise that the Oktoberfest in MainStrasse would occur in September. The first weekend in September, as I subsequently discovered. Now, however, I have already been to an Oktoberfest in Cincinnati, and we are not yet in September.
The Germania Society kicked off the Oktoberfest season this weekend, the fourth in August. I have learned that this is "The Original Cincinnati Oktoberfest." I believe it, because this year is the 44th festival. The Germania Society itself was founded in 1964 and is celebrating its 50th year this year. (I find it interesting that the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati is also celebrating its 50th anniversary in 2014.) The Germania Society maintains a large park and clubhouse northeast of the heart of Cincinnati, and that placed the festival just 15 or 20 minutes due west of our house. (A new acquaintance and I joked this week that "you can get almost anywhere in Cincinnati in 20 minutes or so." I have yet to see that time estimate disproved.)
It was a huge Oktoberfest. Even before we approached Germania Park we saw signs for off-site parking, with big yellow school buses transporting people to the venue. We didn't turn in time, though, and continued to the park. Fortunately, they still had on-site parking, and eight or ten volunteers guided us through a maze of pathways to the next available meadow parking area. It was right next to the giant inflatable cat playhouse for the children, we noted so that we would not forget where we had parked when we were leaving. We passed by other kiddie amusements, and a grown-up rat race game tent, as we made our way over the meadow and by several food and drink stands.
We walked around to get an overview of what was available, but we were drawn to the covered pavilion, which provided some shade, folding chairs at long tables, and loud German music (interspersed occasionally with other popular favorites) by the music group AutoBahn. We had fortified ourselves with bratwurst, bierwurst, and a beer before we found our seats. My bierwurst was topped with the best sauerkraut I have ever eaten.
After music and dancing (the hokey-pokey, among others) we walked again through a beautifully shaded picnic area and also through a shop selling gorgeous authentic German dirndl dresses. Then we were told that they were serving sauerbraten in the Klubhaus--and it was air-conditioned. We found that, but were far too full to partake of sauerbraten or even a German pretzel.
Unfortunately, the characteristic Cincinnati heat and humidity finally showed itself yesterday. It was 90 degrees Fahrenheit, which is only 32 or 33 Celsius, but the humidity was high enough so that little droplets of water were raining down on us.
We only stayed a few hours at the Germania Society Oktoberfest, but I imagine that next year we will plan our day(s) better and take in more of the three-day program of music, dance, a parade, and food. And I suspect that it will not be the last Oktoberfest we attend this year.
The Germania Society kicked off the Oktoberfest season this weekend, the fourth in August. I have learned that this is "The Original Cincinnati Oktoberfest." I believe it, because this year is the 44th festival. The Germania Society itself was founded in 1964 and is celebrating its 50th year this year. (I find it interesting that the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati is also celebrating its 50th anniversary in 2014.) The Germania Society maintains a large park and clubhouse northeast of the heart of Cincinnati, and that placed the festival just 15 or 20 minutes due west of our house. (A new acquaintance and I joked this week that "you can get almost anywhere in Cincinnati in 20 minutes or so." I have yet to see that time estimate disproved.)
We walked around to get an overview of what was available, but we were drawn to the covered pavilion, which provided some shade, folding chairs at long tables, and loud German music (interspersed occasionally with other popular favorites) by the music group AutoBahn. We had fortified ourselves with bratwurst, bierwurst, and a beer before we found our seats. My bierwurst was topped with the best sauerkraut I have ever eaten.
After music and dancing (the hokey-pokey, among others) we walked again through a beautifully shaded picnic area and also through a shop selling gorgeous authentic German dirndl dresses. Then we were told that they were serving sauerbraten in the Klubhaus--and it was air-conditioned. We found that, but were far too full to partake of sauerbraten or even a German pretzel.Unfortunately, the characteristic Cincinnati heat and humidity finally showed itself yesterday. It was 90 degrees Fahrenheit, which is only 32 or 33 Celsius, but the humidity was high enough so that little droplets of water were raining down on us.We only stayed a few hours at the Germania Society Oktoberfest, but I imagine that next year we will plan our day(s) better and take in more of the three-day program of music, dance, a parade, and food. And I suspect that it will not be the last Oktoberfest we attend this year.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Sunday in MainStrasse
After the morning news program this Sunday morning we felt the need to get out of the house and see something different. Where to? Anything but shopping, we both agreed! A little investigation and MainStrasse Village, in Covington, Kentucky, seemed like a good idea.
We took the long way around. Instead of driving straight south on i-75 or even diagonally on I-71, we took I-275, which runs in a circle all the way around Cincinnati--through Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana. We drove first toward the east, and then eventually south and back west before crossing the Ohio River into Kentucky. After all, the objective was to see something new, and I had never been on this stretch of I-275 before, or at least so that I remembered it. We got off the highway shortly after crossing into Kentucky and set the GPS for Philadelphia Street in Covington, because though I could easily find Covington on the Cincinnati map, I could not read the fine print for Philadelphia Street.
Though we were already on the outskirts of Covington, Gladys Perry Smith (cousin of Gloria Pérez Sanchez, our GPS lady in Spain) sent us in a convoluted way back out and around Covington, the better to use the interstate highway rather than city roads, unfortunately. Nevertheless we arrived soon, just one exit south of the Ohio River. From there it was an easy two turns to the free parking lot of MainStrasse Village, which is a lovely neighborhood, larger than I had pictured, with unique house styles and interesting shops and restaurants. A nice and helpful gentleman taking a break outside the Magic Shop told us that not a lot would be open on Sunday, but that it was well worth strolling down a few blocks on Sixth Street until we got to Main Street. So that is what we did.
It was warm though not sunny, and by the time we came to the corner of Sixth and Main, we were ready for a bathroom break and a bite to eat. We stopped at the Cock & Bull Public House--not very German, we thought, but there were lots of people sitting at tables outside next to the Goose Girl fountain (inspired by the Grimms' fairy tale) but still with tables to spare. After our necessary visits inside we decided to join those outside--the air conditioning was too cold for us and it was not humid. It could have been really hard to choose from the beer menu--the Cock & Bull has 50 beers on tap!--but Carlsberg is one of them. We matched that up with a shared plate of two fish sliders, accompanied by "pub chips,"also described by our server as Saratoga chips. The fried fish was as good as I've ever had in England, and since it was a slider, I didn't feel guilty for eating too much,
While we ate and drank we browsed the two pieces of literature we had picked up at a sidewalk information center: one glossy brochure from the MainStrasse Association and another plain paper flyer depicting a MainStrasse Walking Tour, complete with an excellent map, architectural descriptions of 25 or so buildings, and a few pictures. The MainStrasse area stems from the 1840s, when German immigrants started arriving in Covington due to promotion of the similarities in typography between the Rhine River Valley and the Ohio River Valley. Most of the 800 buildings surviving today were built by the late 1870s, and though a large number are still residences, many have been converted into the restaurants and shops that make this an active urban entertainment district.
We walked around several blocks after our little lunch but did not do the full architectural tour. That will have to wait for another day, which may come a bit sooner than we had expected. Two people told us that, not surprisingly, MainStrasse has an excellent Oktoberfest each year. And one wisely informed us that it comes in September.
We also learned, from a card on the table at the Cock & Bull, that the MainStrasse pub is not unique. There are four in the Cincinnati area, and one, it turns out, is in our neighboring village, but in the village center, off the "beaten path" that we traverse frequently between towns. So now we have another place to explore.
We took the long way around. Instead of driving straight south on i-75 or even diagonally on I-71, we took I-275, which runs in a circle all the way around Cincinnati--through Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana. We drove first toward the east, and then eventually south and back west before crossing the Ohio River into Kentucky. After all, the objective was to see something new, and I had never been on this stretch of I-275 before, or at least so that I remembered it. We got off the highway shortly after crossing into Kentucky and set the GPS for Philadelphia Street in Covington, because though I could easily find Covington on the Cincinnati map, I could not read the fine print for Philadelphia Street.
Though we were already on the outskirts of Covington, Gladys Perry Smith (cousin of Gloria Pérez Sanchez, our GPS lady in Spain) sent us in a convoluted way back out and around Covington, the better to use the interstate highway rather than city roads, unfortunately. Nevertheless we arrived soon, just one exit south of the Ohio River. From there it was an easy two turns to the free parking lot of MainStrasse Village, which is a lovely neighborhood, larger than I had pictured, with unique house styles and interesting shops and restaurants. A nice and helpful gentleman taking a break outside the Magic Shop told us that not a lot would be open on Sunday, but that it was well worth strolling down a few blocks on Sixth Street until we got to Main Street. So that is what we did.
It was warm though not sunny, and by the time we came to the corner of Sixth and Main, we were ready for a bathroom break and a bite to eat. We stopped at the Cock & Bull Public House--not very German, we thought, but there were lots of people sitting at tables outside next to the Goose Girl fountain (inspired by the Grimms' fairy tale) but still with tables to spare. After our necessary visits inside we decided to join those outside--the air conditioning was too cold for us and it was not humid. It could have been really hard to choose from the beer menu--the Cock & Bull has 50 beers on tap!--but Carlsberg is one of them. We matched that up with a shared plate of two fish sliders, accompanied by "pub chips,"also described by our server as Saratoga chips. The fried fish was as good as I've ever had in England, and since it was a slider, I didn't feel guilty for eating too much,
While we ate and drank we browsed the two pieces of literature we had picked up at a sidewalk information center: one glossy brochure from the MainStrasse Association and another plain paper flyer depicting a MainStrasse Walking Tour, complete with an excellent map, architectural descriptions of 25 or so buildings, and a few pictures. The MainStrasse area stems from the 1840s, when German immigrants started arriving in Covington due to promotion of the similarities in typography between the Rhine River Valley and the Ohio River Valley. Most of the 800 buildings surviving today were built by the late 1870s, and though a large number are still residences, many have been converted into the restaurants and shops that make this an active urban entertainment district.
We walked around several blocks after our little lunch but did not do the full architectural tour. That will have to wait for another day, which may come a bit sooner than we had expected. Two people told us that, not surprisingly, MainStrasse has an excellent Oktoberfest each year. And one wisely informed us that it comes in September.
We also learned, from a card on the table at the Cock & Bull, that the MainStrasse pub is not unique. There are four in the Cincinnati area, and one, it turns out, is in our neighboring village, but in the village center, off the "beaten path" that we traverse frequently between towns. So now we have another place to explore.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Things and Stuff
We made it all the way through to Saturday this week before making our Ikea run, but then we headed out at 9:15 for the free breakfast and to pick up just a few small things on our list: an office lamp, two pillow cases, and knobs for various doors and drawers in the kitchen and bathrooms. We didn't find the knobs, but we got the other things, plus two small pieces of furniture--the last pieces, I feel sure. One was a small console table for the entry way--a place to set the shopping bags, library books, mail to post, and other little things that need to be taken down from our third-floor apartment to the car on the next trip down. Or perhaps to set a shopping bag, or stack of books, or the mail or newspaper when first coming in the door on a trip up.
The other last piece of furniture was one of Ikea's brand-new Billy bookcases, with birch veneer panel doors, to be used in the dining room to hold the nice china and other dining room objects that don't fit in the oak curio cabinet that was my parents' last gift to me, and which has stood in a sister's house during the entire time I was living in Spain. It's odd that this cabinet was among the last things we moved into our apartment. I had expected that it would be the first, simply because we had it, and the dining room table and chairs, and we had to go out and buy everything else when setting up the household. Having spent so much time (and money) buying household furnishings in the last month, and realizing the order of purchasing them, has made me contemplate the value of things of various types in my life.
I had overestimated the quantity of everyday things that I had stored. I had one set of dishes, one set of everyday cutlery, both of them, incidentally, the sets we had entered on our bridal registry wish list almost fifty years before. I had virtually no cooking utensils, neither pots and pans (having given away many heavy Wagner Ware pans, despite a sentimental loss, when I thought I would never use them in the U.S. again) nor vegetable peelers, mixing bowls, nor measuring cups and spoons, and the like. Not surprisingly, if you think about it, acquiring the paraphernalia for food preparation took precedence over moving the cabinet and unpacking the other "pretties," some also wedding gifts, that are only used on special occasions. I am pleased now to have reached the stage where I have the place and the time to do the final unpacking of the "pretties," and that will happen today, or this week, if, as I suspect, there are still a couple boxes of Royal Copenhagen china packed away at my sister's condo.
My contemplation of the value of things both practical and sentimental is also being fueled by my current reading of Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things, by Randy O. Frost and Gail Steketee. Frost's work was highlighted on the CBS Sunday Morning program a couple weeks ago, and that reminded me of the book, which was "Highly recommended" when it was reviewed by Choice magazine three years ago, not to mention the positive notice it had gotten in psychology literature, The New York Times, NPR, and hundreds of user reviews on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Goodreads. My own clutter probably does not reach the hoarding stage, but considering the amount of paper and books that I managed to accumulate in our house in Spain in ten years, I would rather not invite a psychologist in to render a professional judgement.
Changing location and setting up a new household with only the few things that can be carried in an airplane or shipped at sufficient expense to make sure you don't ship unimportant items, plus the items that have been stored in boxes in a closet for the past decade, offers a brand new, clean slate. It also offers the opportunity to develop new habits, and I am trying hard to alter my daily actions so that I do not accumulate too many things and too much stuff to sort through, discard, or move when that time comes again. Even more importantly, I am trying to maintain a clear vision of the world around me in our modest but adequate home, because I think a clear and uncluttered visual space will help keep a clear and uncluttered mind, and I'm reaching a point in my life where I value that immensely.
The other last piece of furniture was one of Ikea's brand-new Billy bookcases, with birch veneer panel doors, to be used in the dining room to hold the nice china and other dining room objects that don't fit in the oak curio cabinet that was my parents' last gift to me, and which has stood in a sister's house during the entire time I was living in Spain. It's odd that this cabinet was among the last things we moved into our apartment. I had expected that it would be the first, simply because we had it, and the dining room table and chairs, and we had to go out and buy everything else when setting up the household. Having spent so much time (and money) buying household furnishings in the last month, and realizing the order of purchasing them, has made me contemplate the value of things of various types in my life.I had overestimated the quantity of everyday things that I had stored. I had one set of dishes, one set of everyday cutlery, both of them, incidentally, the sets we had entered on our bridal registry wish list almost fifty years before. I had virtually no cooking utensils, neither pots and pans (having given away many heavy Wagner Ware pans, despite a sentimental loss, when I thought I would never use them in the U.S. again) nor vegetable peelers, mixing bowls, nor measuring cups and spoons, and the like. Not surprisingly, if you think about it, acquiring the paraphernalia for food preparation took precedence over moving the cabinet and unpacking the other "pretties," some also wedding gifts, that are only used on special occasions. I am pleased now to have reached the stage where I have the place and the time to do the final unpacking of the "pretties," and that will happen today, or this week, if, as I suspect, there are still a couple boxes of Royal Copenhagen china packed away at my sister's condo.
My contemplation of the value of things both practical and sentimental is also being fueled by my current reading of Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things, by Randy O. Frost and Gail Steketee. Frost's work was highlighted on the CBS Sunday Morning program a couple weeks ago, and that reminded me of the book, which was "Highly recommended" when it was reviewed by Choice magazine three years ago, not to mention the positive notice it had gotten in psychology literature, The New York Times, NPR, and hundreds of user reviews on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Goodreads. My own clutter probably does not reach the hoarding stage, but considering the amount of paper and books that I managed to accumulate in our house in Spain in ten years, I would rather not invite a psychologist in to render a professional judgement.
Changing location and setting up a new household with only the few things that can be carried in an airplane or shipped at sufficient expense to make sure you don't ship unimportant items, plus the items that have been stored in boxes in a closet for the past decade, offers a brand new, clean slate. It also offers the opportunity to develop new habits, and I am trying hard to alter my daily actions so that I do not accumulate too many things and too much stuff to sort through, discard, or move when that time comes again. Even more importantly, I am trying to maintain a clear vision of the world around me in our modest but adequate home, because I think a clear and uncluttered visual space will help keep a clear and uncluttered mind, and I'm reaching a point in my life where I value that immensely.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Multinational Cincinnati
By history and tradition, Cincinnati is a German city. There are traces of its German roots everywhere, and I can hardly think of the word Cincinnati without remembering the faux German title of a book that stood in my parents' bookshelf years ago when I came to visit them: Vas You Ever in Zinzinnati? This title, I now realize after investigation, is almost 50 years old--it was first published in 1966, the year after I left Ohio.
Of course, we know already that there are other ethnic groups in Cincinnati. Last winter when we visited here we joined the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati, went to its Christmas Party (St. Lucia Fest), and hope soon to join others of its activities. Coincidentally, the Scandinavian Society is celebrating its 50th birthday this year, which means that it was new when Johannes arrived in Cincinnati in November 1966; he didn't know about it then, and he, too, moved from Cincinnati early the following year.
This week at Cincinnati Eye Institute we were telling the story of Johannes' immigration (an old company, Avco Electronics, "imported" a bunch of European engineers in 1966 and 1967 because the U.S. had not produced enough of its own at that growth period). My doctor did not remember the now-defunct Avco Electronics plant in Evendale--he said that he had only been here 22 years. And then he remarked that Cincinnati had grown into a better city in the past two decades; he remembered that when he first arrived, the entire city had only one Thai restaurant, and one restaurant of another ethnic group that I can't remember, and one restaurant of a third ethnic group that I can't remember. But not German. Now, he said, things are much more cosmopolitan.
Indeed they are. There are two Thai restaurants within a mile of where we live, and we live in the 'burbs, though still within the I-275 perimeter. And a Benihana. Italian. Mexican. Another "non-denominational" Asian. The Peruvian restaurant I visited once has moved farther north, but still exists. And two very nice (and expensive) American cuisine establishments, but we won't discuss here the countless U.S. fast food and chain restaurants, only some of which I am familiar with.
It's not necessary to go out to eat ethnic, either. Within walking distance of our apartment is a Spanish-language grocery store, which I investigated this past Thursday afternoon when I needed to buy some mozzarella cheese. I didn't find the cheese there, though I browsed the aisles and came away with a couple condiments that I needed (not the colorante that I add to rice in Spain, but the Sazón Goya is probably more authentic because it has at least a little saffron in it). And then when I came out of Las Delicias I saw that there was a halal grocery just two doors down. They didn't have mozzarella either, but I found a great source for red lentils and other legumes.
Then on Friday morning we drove east for ten minutes to a fabric store, looking for pillow inserts for some decorative pillow covers we had picked up in Singapore last summer. We found them, and we also found the largest Asian supermarket that I have ever seen, in my limited experience in Asia and in any of the Chinatowns in much larger U.S. cities. There were lots of labels I couldn't decipher, but there was an incredibly large and beautiful fresh produce section where I saw lettuces and cabbages and more unusual greens that I can hardly wait to explore using.
I ended up buying the mozzarella at one of my "regular"grocery stores, Kroger and Meijer. Meijer has a pretty decent international foods section itself, I have noted. But nothing in comparison with the one-of-a-kind Jungle Jim's (though I guess they have opened an affiliate now) in Fairfield, Ohio, about a half hour up the road. Jungle Jim's deserves a post of its own. That, plus Ikea, is where we are able to buy the many varieties of herring and dark bread that we use for our weekly Danish smørrebrød.
And that is what I am going to prepare right now. But we lost our source for Carlsberg beer, the perfect smørrebrød accompaniment, this week. We can't remember where we got the first six-pack three weeks ago. So this week we'll internationalize our smørrebrød with German beer.
Of course, we know already that there are other ethnic groups in Cincinnati. Last winter when we visited here we joined the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati, went to its Christmas Party (St. Lucia Fest), and hope soon to join others of its activities. Coincidentally, the Scandinavian Society is celebrating its 50th birthday this year, which means that it was new when Johannes arrived in Cincinnati in November 1966; he didn't know about it then, and he, too, moved from Cincinnati early the following year.
This week at Cincinnati Eye Institute we were telling the story of Johannes' immigration (an old company, Avco Electronics, "imported" a bunch of European engineers in 1966 and 1967 because the U.S. had not produced enough of its own at that growth period). My doctor did not remember the now-defunct Avco Electronics plant in Evendale--he said that he had only been here 22 years. And then he remarked that Cincinnati had grown into a better city in the past two decades; he remembered that when he first arrived, the entire city had only one Thai restaurant, and one restaurant of another ethnic group that I can't remember, and one restaurant of a third ethnic group that I can't remember. But not German. Now, he said, things are much more cosmopolitan.
Indeed they are. There are two Thai restaurants within a mile of where we live, and we live in the 'burbs, though still within the I-275 perimeter. And a Benihana. Italian. Mexican. Another "non-denominational" Asian. The Peruvian restaurant I visited once has moved farther north, but still exists. And two very nice (and expensive) American cuisine establishments, but we won't discuss here the countless U.S. fast food and chain restaurants, only some of which I am familiar with.
It's not necessary to go out to eat ethnic, either. Within walking distance of our apartment is a Spanish-language grocery store, which I investigated this past Thursday afternoon when I needed to buy some mozzarella cheese. I didn't find the cheese there, though I browsed the aisles and came away with a couple condiments that I needed (not the colorante that I add to rice in Spain, but the Sazón Goya is probably more authentic because it has at least a little saffron in it). And then when I came out of Las Delicias I saw that there was a halal grocery just two doors down. They didn't have mozzarella either, but I found a great source for red lentils and other legumes.
Then on Friday morning we drove east for ten minutes to a fabric store, looking for pillow inserts for some decorative pillow covers we had picked up in Singapore last summer. We found them, and we also found the largest Asian supermarket that I have ever seen, in my limited experience in Asia and in any of the Chinatowns in much larger U.S. cities. There were lots of labels I couldn't decipher, but there was an incredibly large and beautiful fresh produce section where I saw lettuces and cabbages and more unusual greens that I can hardly wait to explore using.
I ended up buying the mozzarella at one of my "regular"grocery stores, Kroger and Meijer. Meijer has a pretty decent international foods section itself, I have noted. But nothing in comparison with the one-of-a-kind Jungle Jim's (though I guess they have opened an affiliate now) in Fairfield, Ohio, about a half hour up the road. Jungle Jim's deserves a post of its own. That, plus Ikea, is where we are able to buy the many varieties of herring and dark bread that we use for our weekly Danish smørrebrød.
And that is what I am going to prepare right now. But we lost our source for Carlsberg beer, the perfect smørrebrød accompaniment, this week. We can't remember where we got the first six-pack three weeks ago. So this week we'll internationalize our smørrebrød with German beer.
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