Best Christmas Gift Ever

We took my youngest sister, who has lived with a chronic lung disease for 14 years, to the emergency room on Wednesday, December 16 with a very bad cold. So she thought. After a slew of tests and breathing support, they recommended intubation and told her and us--me and another one of her sisters--that with her disease, she "probably would not come out of it." Ruth immediately declared  that she wasn't ready to die yet and was willing to live with constant oxygen support if she needed that in the future. I was to treasure those fighting words for many days to come.

They transferred her to the Intensive Care Unit, inserted the breathing tube, and connected her to a ventilator Wednesday evening. At that point the bubbling and feisty personality of my little sister vanished, and her body was transformed into a large lump of flesh splayed out in a hospital bed, connected with wires and tubing from every point imaginable to machines that dispensed life-sustaining substances, and monitors that reported on their efficacy or lack of it. Her face was unrecognizable: her eyes remained closed and her nose and mouth were occupied territory. Other connections came from her arms and legs, holding her poised like one of those sprawling cardboard doll puppets that I remember from childhood and have seen in old European toy collections. Still other connectors were covered by her hospital gown and a blanket. I did not dare to look.

The week before Christmas passed with early-morning visits to the hospital to check with the night nurses, the doctors on their rounds, and the day nurses. I cannot remember the last time that I was ever out of my house so early in the morning consistently for so many days; even way back in my going-outside-to-work days I took weekends off! Not now. After the hospital routine I emailed regular reports to Ruth's many friends, fielded phone calls, conferred with my two other sisters on trivial and important practical matters, spawned by the imagining of dozens of "what-if?" scenarios, and planned our small family Christmas dinner, which was to be at our house this year and now, we soon realized, would consist of eight instead of nine family members.

Prayers, positive thoughts, and skilled and caring healthcare professionals worked their many small miracles, and after a week, Ruth was ready to be extubated, i.e., to have the breathing tube that trailed down her throat removed. The aftermath of this procedure is not always as safe and certain as I would have thought, and definitely not as safe and certain as one would wish. More family conferences with "what-if?" scenarios. More "if-then" decisions. More hoping against hope.

The tube was removed Christmas Eve afternoon and the outcome is positive.  There are fewer connectors stringing out from body parts now; Ruth's mouth is free again to open and close, though she cannot produce many sounds yet, and no words. The outer part of her nose is still occupied territory, but with smaller equipment, and the eyes are open. Ruth looks around curiously with her beautiful big brown eyes and seems to be trying to fathom where she is and what has happened. I imagine she must wonder how much time has gone by, and I can only guess what memories or dreams she may have from her ten days of deep sleep. Each daily visit starts with new hopes and goals and is tempered with small achievements. It is going to be a very long process for Ruth to gain enough strength to live her life in what will undoubtedly be a new normal.  But she is back with us, and that is the greatest gift we could have.

Holiday Highlight: Krohn Conservatory

Last Friday I had one of my "we-try-to-get-together-every-month-even-if-we-don't-always-succeed" days with my sister Nancy. After a delicious lunch at O Pie O near her home in O'Bryonville, we moved on to the Krohn Conservatory in Eden Park, one of the city of Cincinnati's renowned parks. At this time of the year, the Krohn's special show was "The Poinsettia Express," and we spent a lovely hour or so engulfed in poinsettias, but we also walked through some of the permanent expositions of greenery, and that was a calm amid the storms of hectic life experiences and the season. The picture to the left shows the entrance to the special poinsettia room, where, in addition to wonderful groups of amaryllis, speckled caladiums, and crimson-and-white dappled  poinsettias, there was "botanic architecture" of Cincinnati's historic landmarks, made from locally sourced willow twigs and other natural objects, a design and assembly of the aptly named and nationally recognized Applied Imagination organization. I recognized several of the Cincinnati buildings--Symphony Hall, the Incline, the Roebling Bridge--not least of all through the efforts of my sister, who has helped me get to know the city through our almost-monthly visits.

Model trains run through this miniature landscape--Applied Imagination founder Paul Busse has always been fascinated by trains and created his first public garden railroad for the Ohio State Fair in 1982. By 1984 he had officially added model trains to the garden creations that he now makes in numerous cities throughout the United States.  One of those installations is at the New York Botanical Garden, and THIRTEEN, the WNET public television station, has made an excellent video describing the process of creating botanical architecture, especially as it is applied to the buildings of New York.

The poinsettia tree is so high that I was unable to get its full height within my iPad camera!

"On Learning Norwegian"

As usual on my recent travels through the Dayton airport, I visited the excellent small bookstore in the terminal, and this time I came away with three books. I got through one (An Uncomplicated Life: A Father's Memoir of His Exceptional Daughter, by Paul Daugherty) and left it with an enthusiastic recommendation to my friend in Aalborg. I still had five that I had acquired in Dayton and Denmark--and we are talking physical books here--so you would think that I wouldn't need to buy another on the trip back from Orlando to Dayton. However, I walked into the Hudson book shop in Orlando and fell over a new release called Freeman's Arrival. It is a collection of short stories by various authors, described on the cover as "The Best New Writing on Arrival." I was captivated by the idea of having a whole book about arrivals in the departure lounge of an airport, and when I saw that one of the pieces was "On Learning Norwegian," by Lydia Davis, my will power disintegrated.

I did not know Lydia Davis before I picked up this book, but remembering my own long (and continuing) efforts to learn Danish, I thought I could understand why "On Learning Norwegian" might represent an arrival of sorts. Davis learning Norwegian was not like me learning Danish, however. Her story recounts her own experience in reading a 426-page (plus appendix) "novel" by Dag Solstad that "gives detailed accounts of the births, marriages, deaths, and property transactions of Solstad's ancestors in Telemark from 1691 to 1896." She read this book without previously knowing a word of Norwegian, and she didn't use a dictionary.

By the time she finished the book, she knew some Norwegian, and she understood the narrative. The story that fascinates me lies in her reflections of how she successfully (and sometimes unsuccessfully) puzzled out meaning from letters on a page.

It took her over a year to read the book. It took me less than two hours to read the 56-page story. I finished the last paragraph about a minute before we touched down and arrived at the Dayton airport.

Home for the Holidays

We are home in Cincinnati, having touched down at the Dayton airport on Thursday morning after a short trip to Denmark by way of Orlando. We spent the Thanksgiving holiday in Copenhagen. We didn't sit down for the traditional turkey dinner on Thursday with family, but we did sit down for a very good dinner and warm evening conversation with cousins of Johannes earlier in the week, and later in the week we enjoyed several days with old and good friends in Aalborg. And we had taken advantage of our Orlando safe departure point (safe because we thought we might not have to fight bad weather if leaving from Chicago or the northeast, and we were right) to spend a day with my aunt, who is approaching 92 and still living independently in Kissimmee. Good visits, all.

Now I have done three loads of laundry, and most of the books, DVDs, recipes, clothing, Christmas decorations, and food that we acquired in Denmark have found their proper places. Well, the Christmas material is in a staging area until I pack the fall decorations away--they were out a very short time this year. And yes, I did carefully avoid the customs' officer's question "Did you bring any food with you?" and waited to answer "no" until he specified "fruit, vegetables, meat." We declared the two bottles of aquavit, and I kept my mouth shut, until now, about the seven packages of kransekager that I was bringing back to the julefest of the Scribblers and Readers groups of the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati. I honestly forgot about the ham bouillon cubes, the cardamom, and the yellow dried peas for soup that I had purchased the week before. (It's hard to believe that I blanked out about the cardamom after the security agent in Copenhagen airport had thoroughly disrupted my carry-on bag, searching for a container the size of a roll-on deodorant, and came up with a spice jar instead, but these lapses happen when you travel over time zones.)

In addition to catching up with work, I have spent time creating a fun quiz for the Scandinavian fest on Monday. It has been interesting to have thoughts of, for the most part, descendants of Scandinavians who formerly immigrated to the U.S. and of friends and family who are presently living in Denmark all going through my head at the same time. Thoughts of those journeys and those efforts to create home shuffle around with thoughts generated by the book, The Almost Nearly Perfect People: Behind the Myth of the Scandinavian Utopia (Michael Booth), which we discussed at Readers and which I am using as a springboard for the Christmas party quiz. Part of the conversation with others and with myself over the past two weeks has been a new awareness of immigrants who returned to their home country--and we could include expats in that group--and why and how. And so I woke this morning with a deep appreciation of the experience of living in this modern world that now makes it relatively easy to travel periodically from one home to another and to enable individuals to preserve and strengthen ties with friends and family no matter where they live.

End of the Fall Term at OLLI

One of the reasons I have found it hard to contribute to this supposedly weekly blog of late is that I have had a heavy schedule of classes with OLLI, the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute's adult learning course offered in this city through the University of Cincinnati. I first started with OLLI in the summer of 2014--I signed up even while I was living in Spain--and attended the summer program of single-session lectures on different topics. Fall, winter, and spring sessions offer a combination of single-session lectures and regular six or eight-week courses that meet once a week.

I have two good multiple-week courses this fall. Financial Planning is one of those for which I was long overdue. It would be stretching the truth to say that I have enjoyed it. Rather, I found it valuable, since I have now reached the age where decisions have to be made about the various pots of money that I put away toward retirement during my working life. I have been fortunate to have a partner who was more interested than I in exploring investments and following the stock market; of course I should have been more involved to maximize the value of my savings, but frankly, I found it boring. Now after this class I am motivated, and while I still find investments tiresome, I no longer pass over the emails from the organizations where my money is sitting, nor do I pass the statements on without opening them. That is a small but positive and measurable outcome, I told the instructor at my last class.

The second full-term class was called Listening-Confrontation Skills: More Joy in Relationships. I took the course to concentrate on personal relationships, but much of the earlier sessions used examples from work and parent-child relationships, which have less applicability for me. It has been a long and difficult series, but the instructor asked us at the beginning not to judge the course until the final session. I heard him, but even though we have two make-up classes still to go this coming week, I can now confidently say that I have benefited from the course--at least one major argument has been averted using the techniques practiced in the class.

And then there are several one-time classes that I have experienced this term, usually presented as a lecture by a person with a passion:

• What We Wore: American Fashion, 1900–1970
• Reflections of a Tuskegee Airman, the remarkable story of two men who grew up next to each other but separately in Cincinnati, flew together but separately over Europe in WWII, and only met 50 years later
• Writers, Readers, and Buyers of Books, five presenters from the book scene in Cincinnati
• Chocolate, Chili, and Riverboats, a history of some of the families and institutions of Cincinnati
• Getting the Scoop: Maryanne Zeleznik at WVXU News, the local NPR station
• They Invented What?, a roundup of interesting inventions and how they came to be, together with a little information about patent law
• Oddities of England, dispelling the myth that the British are prim and proper--though I knew that already from my time with Brits in Spain, and
• An Autumn Tram Tour of Spring Grove Cemetery, the second largest cemetery in the U.S. and a National Historic Landmark

A discerning reader may note that many of my selections have to do with events and topics introducing me to the history and culture of my new home. It came as something of a surprise to me this week to realize that we are now approaching the one-and-a-half year mark of living in Cincinnati.  OLLI is one of the opportunities that has made the transition from living in Spain easier and more enjoyable, and for that I am grateful.

More Amazing Grace

On July 12 I wrote about our first visit to The Gathering at Northern Hills, a Unitarian Universalist congregation in Cincinnati, and my joy at hearing and singing new words to the hymn Amazing Grace. At the time I did not know the author of those new words.

Now four months later, I confess that I have been spending most Sunday mornings with this congregation. We have been welcomed and are getting to know numerous loving and caring people,  and we always find the services enlightening, hopeful, and thought-provoking. A large part of the intellectual stimulation comes from the congregation's minister, Rev. Doug Slagle.  Today, following his message on Gratitude and Confession, we sang Amazing Grace again, and this time, the name of the adaptor was given in the program.

Amazing Grace

Text by John Newton; revised by Rev. Doug Slagle

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That loved a soul like me.

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see!

'Twas grace that taught my heart to love,

And grace such love received;

How precious did that grace appear

The hour 'twas first perceived!

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

We have already come;

'Tis grace that brought us safe thus far,

And grace will lead us home.

When we've been here ten thousand years,

Together just as one,

We've no less days to sing love's praise

Than when we'd first begun!

Immigration Crises and Family Values

In between the gross excesses of the U.S. political campaigns blared daily on the evening news programs you might find a few minutes, or occasionally a longer, thoughtful story, on the unending immigration crisis. I mean the immigration crisis playing itself out in Europe, though I can think of no reason why it should end there. Earlier we saw huge boatloads of refugees from war, crossing treacherous waters and arriving on land, and the ensuing chaos as the people tried to move farther along in their journey but were stopped by bureaucracies and fear. Many of these first arrivals were men who had left early and were trying to find a new home for their families. Now the families have joined the journey, and we tend to see unending lines, comparatively orderly, of men, women, and children walking hundreds of miles in long queues, still on their way north, still trying to find countries that will take them in, if only for the length of time it takes to pass through to a place that will accept them legally.

Here in the U.S. we tend to focus on our own immigration crisis. I have been dipping into an extraordinary book about the toll that illegal status places on children in families in the U.S. The author, Joanna Dreby, speaks about families in New Jersey and in Ohio. Everyday Illegal: When Policies Undermine Immigrant Families is an academic book; her research is thorough, but imparted in plain English. What makes this academic title also a book for general audiences, however, is her recounting of her own story and that of her two children, who somehow entered into the uncertainty of a family living with illegality through some mishandling of paperwork discovered in a divorce transaction. There are hundreds of gotchas that affect thousands of children, and this book shows in painful detail how families can be torn apart in our own immigration crisis.

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Even though I haven't read it all, I need to take this book back to the library soon. I've already renewed it once and I just don't think it's right to keep it longer. But it's worth mentioning that getting the book represents a minor everyday miracle of the library system in Ohio. This title was not available through the Cincinnati and Hamilton County Public Library system, but it came to my local public library from Capitol University, via OhioLINK, the consortium that links many libraries of different types in the state. I worked for multitype library lending and cooperation many years ago (in Massachusetts) and Ohio was a best practices model then. It is nice to see that the system still works. And it's always nice to see my tax dollars going for something good.

Back to Sundays in Cincinnati

It has been a very, very long time since I updated Sundays in Cincinnati. That's mostly because it's been a very, very long time since I spent a Sunday in Cincinnati. On the rare occasion when I was here, I was returning from elsewhere. Here's a round-up.

On August 9 I was in Chicago, relaxing after a drive across Indiana the previous day, and preparing to board a plane Sunday evening for a 14-hour flight to Dubai, United Arab Emirates. We made use of the time by finding a shopping center with a Barnes & Noble, where I bought three books, which I stored in the back of the car that we were leaving at a hotel near the airport while we were away.

The next Sunday was not in Dubai.  We had spent three interesting days there ("that's more than enough," the Emirates airline agent had said to us when we checked in, but we found plenty to do). On Sunday, August 16 we were in Cape Town, South Africa and it was the inauguration ceremony for the World Library  and Information Congress, sponsored by IFLA. The ceremony was a glorious colorful extravaganza with music and dance, celebrating Africa's story-telling tradition. It was only the beginning of a very exciting time at the conference itself and at several places--and with several people--in Cape Town and environs.

The following Sunday, August 23, we were back in Dubai, breaking up our return trip (9 hours from Cape Town, 14 to Chicago) by a single day at The Dubai Mall. Yes, we spent the entire day there, or at least that portion of it that was left after arriving very early in the morning Sunday and leaving very early in the morning Monday.

By Sunday, August 30 we were back in Ohio. But we were only returning to Cincinnati from farther north, Sidney, Ohio, where we had spent an enjoyable and emotional weekend while attending my 50th high school reunion. It was a treat to see and exchange conversation with so many classmates from 50 and more years ago.

Last Sunday, September 6, I was in Cincinnati--at least my body was. I managed to get to church and to Ikea to buy curtains and rods (we had had six new windows installed during the week and determined that we did not want to put the same old window treatments up over them). But I was a little "out of it," as I had also had periodontal surgery on Friday, aided by a good dose of sedatives and painkillers, thank you very much.

Today, September 13, I am also in Cincinnati. All day. And I have been here all week! The season has changed--I put on fall clothes last night to attend a Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati dinner, but I was back to late summer attire for church this morning. But fall activities have started, and the social calendar is already full. Scribblers group starts tomorrow, with the Readers group and Cincinnati's OLLI lifelong learning courses the following week. We are still in the middle of house renovations (replacing a wood-burning fireplace with gas), and that is a bigger project than first anticipated, as we have had a whole corner of the living room wall and flooring knocked out and now they are in the process of being replaced. We will reach a pausing point by the end of Wednesday, when the contractor goes on his late-summer vacation. That will give us time to finalize arrangements for house guests who will be with us next weekend--including Sunday--taking a spring vacation from Argentina.

I may post more detail about some of my recent adventures in the coming days--I have several jottings--if there is time. At any rate, I am delighted that we are coming to a stable period where our activities are mostly contained within the boundaries of one state.

The Origin of "Pringles"

I had coffee and conversation with a friend at Panera in Finneytown this week. Finneytown is one of the north-of-Cincinnati residential areas that I have passed through frequently on the bus or in the car as we go into downtown Cincinnati by way of Winton Road.  Though I have thousands of hours of commuting time in all sorts of weather and road conditions under my belt, those days are past, and I am no longer an adventurous driver. Nevertheless I felt perfectly comfortable driving there by myself in the middle of a sunny afternoon, and I arrived early, as I usually do, since I don't really believe that you can get "everywhere" in Cincinnati in about a half hour, and always allow more time. I am wrong more often than I am right--it almost always takes less time than I allow.

We were in my friend's neighborhood, and after we talked, I offered to drive her home. I was watching carefully where I was going, so I could get back again, and after we made a couple turns I noticed the sign for Pringle Drive, though that was not where we were headed. Then she remarked casually that Pringles were named after this road! Oh, that's where the inventor lived? I asked. No, but the product manager at P&G who was working on their potato chip product back in the '60s happened to live in this general area, before the new product with the innovative shape and container was named. He and a colleague or two car-pooled, and as he passed one day he noticed the name of the street and thought it was catchy. Neither he nor any other Pringles associate actually lived on Pringle Drive, but the street is forever enshrined because its name caught his eye and his imagination.

Pringles, which I have seen in numerous countries throughout the world, is one of the hundreds of consumer brands that I recognized as a Procter & Gamble (P&G) product even before I came to Cincinnati. But it turns out that my recognition is outdated. Since I moved here and read The Enquirer I have been aware that P&G is downsizing, selling off tons of its brands. They sold Pringles in 2012 and it is now owned by Kellogg.

The Wikipedia article about Pringles gives a good history of the "potato snack," as it is now called, and speculates--but without this exact story--about its name. I like this one.

Two-Car Family

Nothing makes me feel more American than the fact that we have once again become a two-car family. Two cars for two people. During most--but not all--of our working life in New England, we had two cars and set off for work in different directions and on different schedules. But when we moved from New England, with one of us retired and one working at home, we downsized to one car.

It's hard to believe that we existed for a good five years with no car at all. That was in Spain, when we lived in an apartment on the main street of Roquetas de Mar, with a bus stop outside the door and within four or five blocks of the sea-side promenade.  We walked; we biked; we took the bus to the nearby city of Almería; we depended only occasionally on the kindness of friends to drive us to an event; and we occasionally rented a car when we wanted to go farther afield. We were in much better shape physically than we are now.

Five years later, but still in Spain, we were in the process of moving farther to the east and northward up the Mediterranean coat to the Torrevieja area in Alicante province. It was a minimum three-hour car trip (without stops) between the two areas, and it took us almost a year to explore the new area, decide on a new house, sell our apartment, and get settled. Even before we chose the exact house we eventually moved into, we knew we were going to need a car, because everything was so much more spread out in the Torrevieja environs than it was in Roquetas. We bought a "new" used car from Goldcar, the company we had used for renting umpteen cars to go back and forth. It was a silver-gray Ford Fusion, German-made but American-branded, the first American car I had personally ever owned. Throughout our life in the U.S., we had been regulars with Volvos and Toyotas after my husband gave up on the blue Camaro convertible my father had encouraged him to purchase in 1967 "because he knew Susanne would like it."

The house that we moved into in Algorfa, near Torrevieja, was within a five-minute drive of everything you would ever need on a daily basis, and a good deal more. It was within walking distance of nothing, however, unless you counted the Sunday outdoor market (but you would die of gas fumes walking along the road to the market because of the hundreds of cars that came from longer distances). And so when our good bikes were stolen we did not replace them, and we got used to driving the short distances to shopping and entertainment together, or occasionally as a single, but only a couple times did we ever have a conflict when one of us wanted to be in one place at the same time that the other wanted to be in a different place. It worked for our semi-retired, active, but joint life in Spain.

We bought a car here even before we moved back permanently to the U.S., because we knew we were going to move, and we knew we would need one. The used Avalon sat in a rented storage area for the last six months we were in Spain. Now we are permanently and fully back home in the U.S., in a condo where I, at least,  can actually walk to drugstores, the hairdresser, restaurants, a liquor store, and various other establishments (but not a good supermarket), and where there is a a bus stop outside the door that takes you into the city. Our activities have changed, though. We still go to a number of social events together, shopping, and medical appointments. But we have added adult-ed classes, a book group, and meetings with other painters and writers. During the spring session of the OLLI adult-ed classes, I gave up two desired classes because we could not coordinate the drive schedule. And if I go off for a lengthy book group and luncheon meeting with the car, Johannes feels cooped up not being able to drive ten minutes to Lowe's or the frame store or somewhere else to work on a project.

Johannes has always said that his next car would be an electric car, so off we went a month ago to look at a used all-electric car. We test-drove it and agreed to think it over. But we failed to pass by a Toyota dealer on the right side of the street on the way home without stopping to look, so several hours later we found ourselves the new owners of a used Prius, which is partially electric.

The Prius is now sharing space with the Avalon in what used to be a comfortably open double garage with one car and a lot of side space. Now it is cramped and we have to be careful how much we are carrying when we get into or out of the car--either one of them. The Avalon has become somewhat neglected, since the Prius gets twice the miles-per-gallon that the Avalon gets and suits almost all our driving needs. Only twice, I believe, have both cars been out of the garage at the same time. I don't think we are driving any more--in fact, maybe less, since we no longer have to make some contorted trips to accommodate two passengers in two different places. The OLLI schedule will come out in a couple weeks, and I am happy that I can choose what I want without worrying about whether Johannes will choose a course at the same time at another location.

I do, however, have to worry about which car my sun-glasses and a/c sweater are in, where the library books and reusable grocery bags are, and whether I have the right keys for the right car at the right time. And then there is the matter of the garage door opener, of which we inherited only one when we bought the house. I am sure we can buy a second, but then we would have to program it!

There is always a price to pay.

A Walk in the Park

The walk was a week ago Friday and the park was Smale Park, a large park in various stages of development on Cincinnati's riverbank, adjacent to downtown Cincinnati and immediately across the Ohio River from Covington, Kentucky.

The day started with a bus ride into the city. It had been nine months since I had taken the bus, and I planned to catch it at a different stop from where we had run after it in the mall parking lot last fall. This stop was a short walk from my garage door. I checked the schedule carefully, planned on getting there ten minutes ahead of time, since only one bus comes per hour, and allowed five minutes for the walk. The walk took one minute tops, and the bus came fifteen minutes after the published time. Still, I was in the city at the Government Square depot just 45 minutes after I got on, on time. The route passed through areas with which I was familiar, and I was glad to see that I could get to two grocery stores, historic Findlay Market, and the Music Hall by bus if I ever feel the need to do it that way.

Meeting up with my sister at Fountain Square was easy, and we walked down Walnut Street toward the riverfront. Our first stop was to look around at the various statues in front of and around the Great American Ball Park. We had heard the sculptor talking at an earlier OLLI lecture this summer, and there were still signs of the 2015 All Star Game that had taken place just three days earlier. The weather was good: bright and sunny, not humid, and still under the 91 degrees F. that would show up on the temperature gauges later in the day.

We moved on to the 45-acre Phyllis and John Smale Park itself and saw its welcoming water cascade and splash-and-play water fountains roomy enough for a baby stroller to be driven through, which was happening. On to a 19-foot earth-based piano with 32 bells and keys and chimes that ring out when kids dance on them--if they are big enough to trip the sensor (For very young children it takes a team effort). We stopped on the waterfront and observed how high the river has grown this wet summer, and my sister oriented me to the several towns along the other side, in Kentucky Walking  farther west we eventually came to Castellini Esplanade, with picnic table and benches recalling the names of many early farmers who came from what are now three states to sell their produce.

We never found the spiral labyrinth we had read about, but some people did, for that is where you can rent bikes, segways, and tandem or quad-cycles to navigate around on, and we saw lots of people on those, especially the bicycles for two side-by-side. We did find Carol Ann's Carousel, a lovely old-fashioned structure with paintings of Cincinnati landmarks, and watched as children found their places and whirled around, and as parents and grandparents watched them with enjoyment.

Then we made our way to Moerlein's--"the official after-game gathering place"--for lunch, and afterwards we walked back up into downtown and toured the Hilton Netherland Plaza and rode the elevator up to the 49th floor of the Carew Tower, the "highest elevated building in the city of Cincinnati," to get a view of the city and the winding river that separates it from Kentucky. Finally we walked back to the Government Square area and found our respective buses and returned home after a special day for me of learning about some of the highlights of Cincinnati history and architecture.

Spanish Tapas in Cincinnati

I've been too busy to write about them before, but there were two significant events in June before we left to sell our house in Spain. The first was that we "catered" an afternoon of tapas at our new home here on June 7; the second was that we "catered" an evening of Danish smørrebrød the following week.

Both these events were sponsored by my first sister and brother-in-law as fundraisers for their church fellowship. Both had been planned for months--the seats were auctioned off at the church last October--and the dates had been carefully selected to avoid any foreseen conflicts with the four hosts involved. The first change was that both the sponsor-host and the caterer-hosts moved house between the auction and the event. As the time neared, we all decided that it would be easiest to handle the food preparations and serving at our new home, and that gave us the motivation to get things organized for entertaining after our move, as well as help in doing it! Perhaps not knowing the guests in advance removed some of the tension from first-time entertaining, too.

For the record, here (below) is the menu for the tapas festival, the first event.

Taste of St. John’s

An Afternoon of Tapas

Sunday, June 7, 2015

“Bienvenidos”

Cava

Endibias (endive with tuna filling)

Tortilla Española (Spanish “omelet” with potatoes, spinach, and onion)

Olives

Almonds

Queso manchego (Manchego cheese) and jamón serrano (serrano ham)

At the Table

Cóctel de Gambas (shrimp cocktail)

Barras de pan (Bread)

Albóndigas (Meatballs) en salsa con guisantes (peas)

Patatas alioli (Potatoes with garlic mayonnaise)

Gazpacho

The quintessential Spanish summertime soup

Paella Valenciana

with chicken and chorizo

Sobremesa (Afterwards)

Dulces (sweets) y café

From my point of view it was a good party. I had fun planning a diverse but representative menu, canvassing food stores throughout Cincinnati for the right ingredients, and working with my sister on the project. There were no culinary disasters. The guests said they had a good time, and the conversation flowed. There were enough left-overs to spread around the next day, but not too many. That was a good thing, because by then we were on to Denmark...!

A Danish Dinner

There are plenty of tapas restaurants in Cincinnati--and everywhere else--so the guests at that event had a pretty good idea of what to expect. But Scandinavian food is not as well known, and the Danish open-faced sandwiches called smørrebrød are not available in restaurants here. They are, however, available in our home almost every Saturday evening, so preparing for this event was not difficult at all. The only problem was accepting that some of the wonderful food combinations had to be left out, because, after all, the dinner had to be consumed in one sitting. Below is the menu that I finally settled on.

Taste of St. John’s

June 14, 2015 at 6:00 PM

Smørrebrød

Danish Open-Faced Sandwiches

Snitter

Appetizers

Hardcooked Egg with Herring Bits ~ Paté of Sprat with Cucumber

 “Victor Borge”

The favorite sandwich of the Late, Great Dane

Smoked Salmon, Egg, and Shrimp on White Bread with Dill Mayonnaise & Caviar

“Stjerneskyd”

 A Shooting star, or fireworks

Baked Breaded Tilapia with Remoulade, Shrimp, Caviar, & Tomato on Dark Bread

 “Hans Christian Andersen”

What the Famous Storyteller Ate When He Wasn’t with Company

Mushroom & Chicken Liver Paté on Whole Wheat Bread, with Tomato, Aspic & Horseradish

“Summer Salad”

Egg with “Italian salad”

or

Sliced New Potatoes with Curry Mayonnaise and Fried Onions

Citronfromage

A classic light summer lemon dessert

There was a bit of a cosmetic glitch in this dinner, with the lemon dessert, which is definitely not traditional with the smørrebrød but is traditional in spring and summer, and the weather was perfect for it. It tasted fine, too. Again, the conversation flowed--this time with beer--and inspired.

Amazing Grace

It's been a busy month and a half, but we are now home again in Cincinnati. This morning, through the grace of The Gathering at Northern Hills, I was introduced to new words to a well-known song whose melody haunts all who hear it, but for some of whom the traditional lyrics strike a disturbing chord. Here is "Amazing Grace" from a less individualized, more loving perspective.

Amazing Grace (Adapted)

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That loved a soul like me.

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see!

'Twas grace that taught my heart to love,

And grace such love received;

How precious did that grace appear

The hour 'twas first perceived!

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

We have already come;

'Tis grace that brought us safe thus far,

And grace will lead us home.

When we've been here ten thousand years,

Together just as one,

We've no less days to sing love's praise

Than when we'd first begun!

No author attribution was offered for this version of the hymn that replaces the original by John Newton in my heart, and I have not found a source after a short research session. But I did find a Wikipedia discussion of modern interpretations that provides some interesting perspectives. It includes a mention of the wonderful documentary on "Amazing Grace" produced by Bill Moyers in 1990, which I recall seeing, and links to several excellent recordings of the piece by various artists.

From My Bedroom Window

I opened my eyes this morning to the view I often have now, to the window on my left that lets in morning light through its top two panes while shielding me from the view of the row houses across the shared backyard gardens. Bless those honeycombed blinds that can be lowered to hide the bottom and reveal the top, which were already installed in the bedroom when we took over the house in February. I make sure that they are positioned with the bottom half of the window covered and the top half open before I go to bed each night, because I love to lie in bed in the morning and watch the sky come to life, sometimes with clouds moving across, sometimes with breezes blowing the leaves and upper branches of the trees, sometimes with streaks of sun shining through. No sun this morning, but the expanse of the sky was there, and pretty soon a cup of hot coffee appeared magically at my bedside, too, so my reverie could continue.

This morning I was remembering how I used to wake up in the bedroom in our house in Spain, where the window was on the right (and so was I) and where, if I had been able to look out the full-height glass doors to the French balcony, I would have seen tall yucca trees instead of the broadleaved trees we have now. Of course, I never saw those trees when I woke up because in Spain windows are covered for the night with rolling metal awnings to keep out noise, temperature, intruders and, alas, any morning view. We will be going back to that house in three weeks to close its sale to new buyers, and fortunately we have decided not to stay in the house for the few days we are there. A few months ago the yuccas were cut down on the advice of the real estate agent, who had listened to potential buyers note that the house seemed dark with their foliage. I was devastated, because the yuccas had shielded us from the view of the neighbors across the street and passers0by along the street during the day when the awnings were open, to the extent that I felt perfectly comfortable changing my clothes without covering the window. No one will be able to do that now, with the trees gone, but the new owners won't know that you once could. I think they are going to be an awful lot hotter during the summer months with the sun boring in than we were, too, but that's not my fault.

Final Friday at the Pendleton

It had been a long time since we were able to get to the Final Friday-of-the-month open gallery evening at the Pendleton Arts Center. We first went last summer, but our attendance dropped off when the evenings got darker earlier and also when other social engagements and travel intervened. So we were happy this past week that an empty spot on the calendar showed up on the last Friday of May and that it was good weather for driving into Cincinnati. We drove down Winton Road, avoiding the interstate at rush hour. Then with the help of Gladys, our GPS lady,  we maneuvered through the twisty, curving and unknown (to us) streets of the inner city, and arrived on Pendleton Street just around 6:00 PM when the galleries were opening. The parking lot was already full, but we found on-street parking a couple blocks away in a residential neighborhood, in front of some old brick houses where families were sitting out on the stoop to enjoy the evening breeze, and small children were blowing soap bubbles.

One of the nice things about Final Friday is the opportunity to talk with the artists. We met and had a nice discussion with Katherine Thomas in the gallery she shares with seven other artist members of  the Cincinnati Art Club on the first floor. I was enchanted with her realistic paintings built around a bit of fancy--the row of houses built by the side of a piano keyboard and surrounded by sheet music, currently shown on her homepage, really caught my eye and brings music to my imagination as I think back on it.

We popped into the gallery of Philip Compton, who does "iPhoneography," because I remembered him from previous visits. Alas, he wasn't there when we were, but his business manager gave us a glass of wine and we chatted about his technique and his subjects. All his work starts as digital photographs taken with his iPhone; then he works with 20 or so different apps and his creativity to produce vastly different works, some recognizable from the original photo, some not.  All are striking or beautiful or surprising, and many are two or three of those. A few are available for viewing on his Facebook page.

We chatted at length with glass sculptor Joseph Drury, who works in recycled glass to produce gorgeous works of art that you can see on his homepage. He collects used glass from everywhere he can and told us that when he came to open the gallery this week, there were bottles and sheets of glass waiting at his door. I didn't know that European and U.S. glass manufacturing used different techniques in production and thus need different techniques in reworking them, but Joe told us how he had found out the hard way not to blend the two. We then had a far-ranging discussion of which beer bottles are the preferred, both for art work and for their contents. Now I am wondering whether the green Carlsberg bottles we collect slowly but regularly at our house will be useful for him in his domestic or international works.

When we left the Pendleton building two hours later and walked to the car, the families were still sitting out on the stoop but the children had used up all their bubble water. We were surprised to discover Reading Road at the next corner and followed it for a leisurely 45 minutes all the way out to our normal driving area.