Moday Musings and Mumblings

I'm a child of the sixties, more correctly a teenager of the sixties. A flower child. An aging hippy who is excessively hippy in a different way now, sad to say. But truth is truth. Having grown up in the era I did, I don't easily trust the government or the press. I recall how my generation was manipulated by both. Manipulated AND wrongly portrayed.

For example, we've all heard history books are written by the winners. Right? So we have to research beyond what's spoon-fed to us in those history books.

We're told health care systems in other countries, classified as a form of socialism, are poor with slow available care. Speak to a Frenchman or German and their opinion and personal experiences are vastly different than what the government and news outlets tell us.

I've got this wonderful step-son so like his father--intelligent, humorous, gentle, and great to talk to. Kelly lives in Berlin, working as head product developer for Mozilla. His wife is a native Berliner, having grown up in the Communist sector of Berlin. The part we'd heard was so horribly bad people died trying to escape across or under the wall.

Katrin told us she loved living in Eastern Berlin. She had a legal job, an apartment, security, good medical care. Then the wall was torn down. Gone was her job, the roof over her head, her currency or security, and care provided by the government. But that was Communism, thinks I in surprise. She talked about how hard it was for her and her relatives to find work and housing. She explained communism did not provide everything. What is provided was the opportunity to have everything for those who worked.

I asked if they weren't happy after the wall was torn down. That's what we were told. She scoffed and said she'd gone from a legal clerk on her way to being an attorney to a shampoo person in a beauty shoppe. She and her relatives crammed into a dingy apartment instead of the beautiful apartments they each had before the sides came together.

Calvin and I listened to her talk about her experiences. Frankly, we were in shock. We'd always been told differently by the government and media. Had we been lied to or was her experience an anomaly? Were her memories jumbled bits of truth and fiction? She now owns her own business, a benefit from her knowledge of laws. Our Katrin is an intelligent, hard-working woman. In fact, she's recently had her company go totally "green" to benefit the environment.

I think the best thing Calvin and I have learned from her is a throwback to the sixties and seventies. Don't trust blindly. Ask. Always question. News outlets and news entertainment centers that taint their broadcasts with an inflection of voice or a raised eyebrow or downright shouting should be believed with half a grain of salt. Be your own truth advocate. Read. Research. Question. Heck, question me! Who am I? A 67-year old romance writer with mush for brains as I madly write toward deadline. Have a great week, everyone!

Monday Musings and Mumblings

Calvin and I love traveling internationally. How wonderful to experience other cultures. I'm an architectural freak, so seeing different building styles intrigues me. So does studying history and eating new foods. Calvin loves outdoor cafes and watching people hurry by. If he can have a cup of espresso to sip and a WiFi connection for his iPad, he's in heaven. Simple pleasures for simple people. Two humans who would do no harm.

So you can imagine our heartache over the bombings in Paris, our favorite city, and Brussels, someplace we'd thought of visiting during the hot summer here in Virginia. Calvin, my news hound, has informed me of every new revelation in the investigation as I pound out word count to meet my upcoming deadline.

One of my sons called to say--not ask, but say--you two aren't traveling anywhere internationally in the foreseeable future. Kids. Once they pass the age of forty, they think they can order me around. Imagine!!!

Imagine also, people who believe their "higher being" tells them to kill and maim nonbelievers.

Walk away from nonbelievers, I get.

Avoid, sure.

Engage in a nonviolent civil discourse face-to-face and NOT on social media, by all means.

But violence? My God doesn't demand it. Mine is a God of love. So I get my bloomers in a twist when goons with guns and attitudes larger than their IQ's seek out those they perceive as enemies and harm in the name of a god ... any god. To me, it's an excuse to kill. Like the long-held feud of generations past--the Hatfields and McCoys--the beginnings of this hate is said to stem back to the Crusades. But, folks, sometimes we need to lay hate aside and pray for goodness.

Just as all Christians aren't completely good. We can't judge all Muslims by bands of radicals. Good and bad reside on both sides. Evil resides in this unprovoked indiscriminate murder. It's not about religion; it's about absolute power.

So, no, we won't be traveling abroad for awhile. I'll miss it. Calvin will especially miss Berlin where his only child, his son lives. Danger seems to lurk everywhere. Here and abroad. Our world is quickly becoming an unsafe place filled mainly with people who would rather spread love and goodwill than harm and hate. Yet we are crippled with fear by a few. Sad and troublesome.

Be safe.

Why am I a Magnet for the Absurd?

I was talking to a friend yesterday, and she remarked how interesting things seem to happen to me. Well, now, I don't know if I'd call them interesting, but they do put me into the category of "Magnet for the Absurd." Or as my co-workers used to say, "Oh, that's vintage Vonnie." I just seem to be at the wrong place at the wrong time or do the dumbest of things without even realizing it. I've been told my mind is in the clouds. Truth be told, my mind is working on a story and I'm not always aware of my surroundings--until it's too late.

Take the day a guy flashed me on my way to work. I'd eased my Thunderbird to the curb in front of a house, got out of the car and turned around to see

the man of said house--naked--standing at the open doorway, stroking himself. I quickly looked away, thinking nah, I didn't see what I thought I saw. So, just to make sure, I turned and took another gander. Sure enough, he was smiling and stroking, posing and pulling, grinning and grabbing...and just like him, I could go on and on with this. So. I squared my shoulders and hurried into work, told my supervisor what I saw and called the police. The phone conversation went something like this. "Ma'am, could you identify him?" And in all my air-headedness, I replied, "Oh yes! If he was naked from the waist down, I could spot him in an instant. I don't know if I ever got a good look at his face though." There was a long pause and I think I heard someone snickering. "Could you give me the address?" When I gave it to him, he sighed and said the guy had a history of exposing himself, but was seeing a court-appointed therapist. Well, lucky me to be there when he fell off the wagon--or out of his clothes.

Once I'd gotten my kids through college, a girlfriend and I took a Caribbean Cruise. Too bad my luggage didn't make it to the docks. There I was, stuck on a ship for seven days with no change of clothes. Having never traveled like that before, I was too naïve to pack my carry-on with more care. In it I'd crammed my camera, jewelry, make-up, curling iron, nightgown and several romance books. You know, essentials. Two weeks after I'd arrived home, my luggage did, too. It had gone to Rio de Janeiro.

The cruise ship was nice enough to give me a replacement suitcase and a stipend to spend on ship for clothes. Too bad the ship only stocked small sizes and I was most definitely NOT small. I bought men's t-shirts and shorts and was relegated to hand washing my one set of undies in the sink every night. Two evenings, cruisers were expected to wear evening gowns or tuxedoes to dinner. Guess who didn't pass dress code? Oh, and flying home to BWI airport from Miami, my new luggage was lost, too. It had gone to Texas. So, my luggage got lost coming and going. What are the chances of that?

Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. While on our cruise, the ship docked in Jamaica. I'd signed up for a day trip to Dunn's River Falls used in many movies, like James Bond's "Dr. No". We climbed the falls, the cold water spray a relief in the steamy heat of the island. Once I made it to the top, I ambled to a series of shacks where locals were hawking their wares. I spoke to a lady selling beads and joked with her about needing love beads since I'd been alone for eight years. Little did I know the man in the next hut was taking in my every word. He had wood carvings and I was intrigued, asking questions as he slowly led me into his hut. What kind of wood was he using? How long did it take him to carve this fish? Did he use the same size knife or tool for all his carvings? Next thing I knew he'd banded his arms around me and pulled me to him. He was fondling me--fondling me, mind you! "Take me to America with you. I'll make you a good man. I'll make love to you until you can't walk." The man was well over six-feet and so was his...so was his....oh, myyyy. I made a fist, put on my "angry Mother face" and growled, "Get your hands off me or I'll deck you." I must have startled him for his hold loosened. I turned and ran for the tour bus.

My sons chewed me out when I got home and told them the story. "Mother (it's always a bad sign when they call me that...kinda like a reverse of me calling them by their first and middle names), what were you thinking of when you went off on your own like that?"

I went off on my own in Berlin, too. Calvin was happily working on his book in a coffee shop, and I wanted to see more of the city. So I set off for parts unknown, taking pictures and enjoying the energy of Germany's capital.

On Rykestrasse, it was the policemen guarding what looked like a church that snagged my attention, and I walked over to what I later learned was Berlin's Ryke Street Synagogue. Nearly 70 years after it was badly desecrated and damaged in the 1938 Nazi pogrom known as Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass), Germany's largest synagogue had recently reopened after being restored to its original glory at a cost of 5 million euros (7 million American dollars). Neo-Nazis had made several bombing threats and thus the armed guards. I was unaware of all this as I neared the religious-like structure that chilly March morning.

An elderly couple were there, hugging and sobbing. I approached them to see if I could help. A silly idea, really, since I spoke no German. Luckily the man spoke broken English. His name was Abram and hers, Sarah. They were brother and sister, living in Israel. This had been their synagogue growing up until WWII when their entire family was taken to a concentration camp. Abram and Sarah, being the youngest, were the only two of their family to survive. They'd returned to Berlin to see their childhood synagogue, their family's place of worship, restored--and they were overcome with emotion. I can't recall what I said to them, but in an instant they both had their arms around me, and the three of us cried together, as if we were old friends reunited.

They held my hands and asked me to go inside with them. I declined, telling them I couldn't intrude on their personal reunion with their synagogue. Off they toddled, holding hands, their heads touching as they talked. I waited outside for a while before I entered.

I had to go through several metal detectors and a guard took me aside and spoke German to me. Not having a clue what he'd said, I smiled. Hey, it's the universal language. Right? Right! He repeated whatever he's said earlier. I shrugged. He called over a stern looking female guard. She looked me up and down and repeated what the male guard had said. I told her I was American and did not speak German. In an irritated huff, she motioned me on.

I approached the elevator, admiring it's carved wooden paneled doors and trying to decide how best to tour the building. I decided to start at the top and work my way down. I pressed the button for the top floor and felt I'd entered the hushed embrace of something very sacred. I found the door to a special meeting room and opened it, taking a couple pictures of the twelve ornately carved chairs around a table waxed to a bright shine. I moved on to the next closed door. Now most people would see a closed door as a sign, but not me. I opened the door to the shocked expression of a rabbi. He asked me what I was doing there...at least I think that's what he asked me. Did I mention I don't speak German? He took me by the arm and escorted me to the elevator. Once I stepped on it, he too said the same German phrase. I thought maybe he was asking me if I was Jewish. I told him I was a Baptist. He shook his head and leaned in to press the button for the third floor. That night when we had dinner with my step-son, Kelly asked what we'd done that day while he was at work. I told him about my experience at the synagogue. He asked what phrase they kept saying to me. I tried to repeat it, bungling it, of course. He evidently got the gist of it and gave me a correct version. I nodded and told him that was it. He nearly fell out of his chair laughing. They'd been telling me the zipper in my pants was open.

As my kids would tell you, I'm not fit to be left alone. In fact, Mike told Calvin not to let me go off on my own in Paris or Berlin when we go next month. To which Calvin said, "Why, when your mother has such wonderful, unique experiences?" Even so, he shot me a warning glance. I think I may be grounded...

First impressions of America

My stepson and his wife were in the States last week. Katrin is a native Berliner. This was her first trip to the United States. They'd been in Ontario the week before to attend the wedding of her daughter, Svea. So by the time they reached Virginia Katrin, who hadn't taken a large vacation in years, was getting weary.

"I can't believe how much time Americans spend in their cars. They drive everywhere and it's always a long ride. Ten minutes to get here, fifteen minutes to get there."

When I told her my son had an hour and twenty minute commute to work every day, her chin dropped.

One must remember that public transportation in Berlin, and most European cities, is widely used. Berlin is alive with trolleys, metro systems, trains and taxis. The streets pulse with energy as throngs of people walk everywhere. Katrin was missing that. "I just want to walk down the main street of an American city and hear the noises of traffic, smell the aromas from neighborhood bakeries and eateries and hear music spilling out onto the streets from little shops." Sorry, hon, that ain't happenin' here. This is the land of mass produced food and shopping malls.

She had fallen in love with the Dollar Store; it appealed to her frugal German nature I suppose. She'd also made the important discovery of an American institution--the yard sale. "Look at this leather purse. I bought it for a dollar!"

Katrin had never heard cicadas, polluting the night's silence with their constant noise. "I kept hearing this noise in the background, all the time at night. I thought I was loosing my hearing or something."

They've gone back to Berlin now. We enjoyed having them here and especially enjoyed hearing her impressions of America. Different cultures have multi-colored, many-layered differences. Still, underneath the many differences, we are all humans. As JFK said, "We all breathe the same air. We all have the same hopes and dreams for our chldren."