Animal Magnetism at its Best.

Some folks might have called it a dreary day due to the lack of sunshine but for me it was perfect autumn weather, an ideal day for a carriage ride in the country, drawn by the most magnificent of steeds. Her name is Florentina and she lives on a farm with her mother, at least three cats, a faithful dog and a few pigs who are waiting to grow up and be sent away. Let's not talk about what will happen when they are sent away. Life on the farm is relatively good for Florentina. On the day we visited she got to practice what she has been trained for, taking folks on a ride in a buggy. Actually I don't know if you would call it a carriage, a coach, or a buggy since this opportunity doesn't come up that often nowadays. So I will have to describe our conveyance to you. The riders are protected from the rear by a windbreak which only partially covers you. The view from the side and the front is still fully open. You sit high and have a vantage point well above the fields through which we traveled. There are two wooden poles which are used to attach the carriage to the horse. She wears blinders as well as assorted leather straps which provide the driver one means for communicating with her. She responds well to the tone of voice and the words of the brother and sister who have trained her over the years. As we set off it is apparent that she is stiff just as I am after sitting for too long and correcting papers. As she catches her stride we speed along. Driver and horse are well aware of possible distractions: a tractor on or near the road, an Autobahn overpass or another coach passing from the opposite direction. At one point she shies from a large piece of straw on the lane. Her trainers accuse her of sloth as she begins to poke along but as we approach our destination, Mia's Backhaus, she hurries a bit knowing there is a treat waiting. We all look forward to Kuchen and Kaffee at Mia's. Florentina is freed of the carriage, covered with a blanket and set loose in a meadow. She even has company, as another horse and goat occupy the nearby pasture. This goat's job is to keep her horse company. Inside we delight to freshly baked gooseberry cake and buckwheat cake. We are sharing the space with the members of the local shooting club who are also enjoying the culinary delights of Mia's and viewing a power point prepared by one of the younger members. I can't imagine too much shooting in this group where the average ago looked to be about 80. In any case, they were seated in a typical Westphalian arrangement with all the men at one end and all the women at the other. Florentina was none too happy to leave the pasture but finally was readied for the return trip. Not only did it seem shorter but it was shorter. Florentina definitely knew we were heading home, no more doddling around. Just before arriving at the farm we encountered a large contingent of hunters packed into a van and a somewhat larger vehicle carrying their bounty: mostly hares and a few pheasants. I don't know the name of this type of hunting but someone makes a lot of noise and a line of hunters pace through the fields as their prey are roused out of their hiding places. I must say, I enjoyed the live animals I encountered that day much more than these poor creatures hanging from the outside of a truck. I had a lovely moment with one of the farm cats who was most affectionate. The dog enjoyed the human hand as well, cozying up to the heater and then freezing out in the barn and having to search for a nest of hay. During our ride I saw many cows who were very curious about our interruption of their tranquility. They would stare and then suddenly spook and all run off in the opposite direction. Horses out grazing, especially the Haflinger (an Austrian breed) with a blond mane, usually came to greet Florentina. They are very social creatures. As I accompanied Florentina back to her stall I saw her mother nuzzle her. This was followed by sugar cubes, treats all around.

300 years, 300 minutes, 300 walnuts.

Just a brief 300 year ago both sides of my family migrated from southern Germany/Switzerland to Pennsylvania. Remember there was no "Germany" or "Switzerland" labeled on the political map back then. As proof I have a print-out from a geneological website which has the Blochers and the Minnichs intermarrying even back then, back there. Now, how they got together in the year 1940 and decided to get married again, beats me. My mother told me they met at church camp and, deciding that that was safe territory for finding a spouse, got married. As I was a youngster my father taught me a lot by example. Walnuts are at the kernel of what he taught me. He brought me to the English walnut tree located at the court, a rental property he cared for with great diligence. He showed me the change from bright green hulls to old black hulls which occurs over time. We then took a lug box full of nuts home where we hammered, cracked and sorted them by the hour in front of the fireplace or the television. My father normally couldn't sit still long enough to see a full episode of "Paladin" or "Gunsmoke", but the nuts kept us busy. Next the nut meats were roasted carefully in a slow oven. This was a delicacy at the Minnich house.
Just this week I read in the daily morning column: "Guten Morgen!" in the local paper the story of a reader who bought hazelnuts in the shell and decided to hull them in front of the television in order to make his favorite nut cake. Well, it took much longer than anticipated and the television evening got longer and longer until in the end, the spouse of said nutcracker lost her patience and turned off the tube. The cake did however fortunately get made.
Pulling it all together, I was inspired to purchase a large sack of whole walnuts at the monthly flea market here in Münster not long ago and bring the traditional shelling ritual back to the Old Country once again. You know how it is at the flea market, you stroll along, getting interested in stuff, but mostly not actually stopping to buy things. This young man insisted that I wait while he cracked me a nut and gave it to me to taste and by then I HAD to buy the sackful. The next step was much more challenging however. There was no nutcracker to be found and so I grabbed the hammer. I laid it down again quite quickly once I felt the reverberations in the entire apartment building when I started to pound on a nut on a wooden board on a carpet on the floor. It just wasn't going to work. With the help of an email and a friend I had a real nutcracker in my hands by the next day. I was determined to make an "Engadinertorte", one of my favorite Swiss recipes. I was somewhat hampered by not having a small pick-like instrument which I usually use to pick out the small pieces of nutmeat, but with enough cracks of the nutcracker, we got the job done. All the walnuts which didn't go into the torte went into the slow-roasting pan and success was at hand.
My questions remain: Did my father have this practice, this habit in his genes (his German genes) or did his father teach him to do this, and his father before him, etc.? Will my son take after his grandfather and crack walnuts in his living room?

Finally, Modern Art Up Close.

The day "Le Musée des Gobelins" was closed became the day to visit "Le Centre Pompidou" at Beaubourg, the Contemporary and Modern Art Museum of Paris. If I knew more I could explain the difference between contemporary and modern to you but I am merely a "babe in the woods". To get to the highest level where the view of Paris is most splendid, you ride up a series of escalators encased in plastic and perched on the exterior facade of the glass building. In summer it can be a sauna-like hot house. Fortunately it was the first day of October and a bit cooler though not crisp. The view is more satisfying than that from the top of the Eiffel Tower, more accessible; no "ants" here. Once in the exhibition hall, I was drawn into the world of modern art. One piece actually consisted of 50 black and white postcard-sized photos of "100 Boots" posed in various locations including Solana Beach, La Jolla, Loma Santa Fe, Leucadia, San Diego, Mission Gorge and New York all taken between 1970-72. Naturally I was fascinated that this work was on display in Paris. Judging from the bits of information I could assemble the artists whose work I viewed were from around the world. But once again I was drawn to the work of yet another American whose neon installation featured 17 different slang terms in French for vagina in a variety of colors. As my feet grew weary I happened upon the collection of art videos available for viewing on the computer with headphones. What fun! Of course I knew the name of none of the artists so I randomly selected female names. Some dealt with difficult subjects such as abuse in creative and disturbing ways. But what impressed me most was the variety. I think if I lived in Paris I would purchase a general museum pass so I could stay as long or as short as I wanted and come as frequently as I liked.

Saturday in Paris.

An autumn Saturday in Paris with world class rugby in the air. Welsh, Irish and English people in the streets. But two women not in a hurry wound their way through crowds in Beaubourg, les Halles, and St. Germain, roughly the distance of 12 Métro stops. At Beaubourg in the large space outside the Centre Pompidou modern art museum, crowds mingled, artists spread out their merchandise, defenders of causes collected supporters, and men on stilts caught the eye of passers-by. Four of these very tall figures were equipped as African mothers with babies attached and masked faces. Mostly, Parisians do not move out of your way. You move out of their way. Streets are narrow, but sidewalks are even narrower. The only folks who seem not to have a destination are the young teens flaunting their young bodies laden with electronics and metal. There were however plenty of sidewalk café sitters. Most tables were taken. Occasionally you could hear loud cheers as Fiji or Wales scored in Rugby. By the time we settled at a table in St. German the big screen was filled with ex-players making comments about games already won or lost and those to come. At "Horse Tavern" it seems beer was being consumed by the "tapped glass cylinder standing roughly one meter high". A table of young men was rapidly working their way through their second one. My table mate was trying to speak French to the Irish who were responding in something I couldn't make out, but most likely English. She was encouraging the Irish to beat Argentina so things would go well for the French. Returning to the 10th arrondisement by metro was a cramped affair. Saturday nights in Paris it seems most everyone is out and about. Rather recently it became exceedingly easy to rent a bike in Paris. So with trusty computer and credit card in hand you reserve your bike and later drop it off where ever you like. Whatever your means of transport you must be aggressive. Perhaps this is one reason Parisians so like to while away the hours in a café watching the crowds go by.

A Day on the Loire.

Our day on the Loire would not have been complete without the good friend who lives now in the heart of of Angers but spent many years in Paris and collected copious memories visiting the sights of the Loire as well. Our little French car barely fit through the narrow alleys of the upper city as we approached her apartment. Having her in the car made for easy banter about the route along one side of the Loire or the other, various little riverside villages and frequent detours. It's essential to spend a full day along the Loire for the light changes the way you capture the water with your eye. Along the south bank or is it the left bank, you drive very close to the edge with the houses virtually touching the road and a full open view of the Loire and all its splendor on the other. We all agreed that cars would preferably be forbidden here so the inhabitants could have their peace. Apparently in summer there is a stead stream of cars. The most westerly of the famous castles of the Loire was our first major destination. Saumur and its many high towers dominates the cliffs of the left bank. We could see that major renovations were underway due to the collapse of the foundations and wall closest to the river a few years ago. Since entering the castle was out of the question we viewed the exterior and captured the view over the river and the town. The highlight was lunch of course. We sat ont he terrace with Saumur directly in front of us. Aas the sun played hide and seek with the clouds we alternatively removed and put on our wraps. It was glorious being outdoors knowing winter was on its way. We all had fish and at least one of the plates held tiny little fish of the Loire fried to a crisp somewhat smaller than the French fired served alongside. The creme caramel was a luscious finale to an exquisite repast. Next on the menu for the day was a well-known, oft-visited abbey: Abbaye de Fontevraud, where we would encounter a plethora of visitors speaking a multitude of languages. But before entering the abbey, we happened upon the studio of an artist specializing in stencil illumination as practiced by medieval monks. Examples of his craft were on display. He was very happy to explain the details of his work which include cutting holes in metal templates, preparing paints and dyes made of real substances. It seems, for example, that he uses gold leaf. He emphasized that he doesn't normally take commissions but works on what interests him. There are in fact only s mall handful of such artisans left, mostly in France. His work includes the front plate of an "antique" edition of the "Book of Morman" which he brought to Salt Lake City himself. In fact our chat with him was merely prelude to the visit to the Abbey, which became a series of little surprises. The first delight was saving two euros (three dollars) getting in by flashing my PHHS staff ID. The second surprise was having to go down a series of steps upon entering the chapel. Recently renovated, the effect was a light, almost white stone interior with occasional patches of magically spectral sunshine. What wasn't clear was the gender of the large German tour guide (enigma: low voice, large bust). What became clear as we moved through the extensive complex was that those nuns centuries ago had a life divided between prayer and work. Only one room, the calefactory, was heated. It was there where stitchery and embroidery were practiced. Most unusual was the architectural design of the kitchen. This building consisted of a number of cooking alcoves with smoke holes some 20 meters above. From the outside, the roof had been textured and structured to look quite like an Eastern Orthodox tower. Imagine a light coating of snow on the shingles and the effect is even more pronounced. The well-labeled kitchen herbal garden is rivaled only by the medicinal garden. Final surprise: the apple orchard doubles as a cemetery. When I think of our return route, back to Angers, I will remember the frequent interruption in the stream of traffic by little red lights which forced the traffic into a single lane due to major road work, all caused by the instability of the foundation of the highway due to frequent flooding of the Loire. Think of the Loire as a large flood plain with numerous branches, forks, and islands. Some houses were built on bits of high land so that when flooding occurs the resident can commute by boat. There are even whole villages which are periodically cut off from roads and become island communities It appears that the aesthetic value of living in these places outweighs the practicality of moving elsewhere.

Hazebrouck, France: Early Morning Mass.

Be at the church on time. You are the one who unlocks the door. One or two will be waiting for you: the regulars. You will switch on the lights as you go in. Someone offers to light the meditation prayer candles for you since she knows you have so much else to do. I tag along. I am but a shadow. The Saint Corneille Chapel in the alcove is to be prepared for the 8:30 mass. We hurry into the sacristy passing the door marked "Danger, Do Not Enter!" You open the door to show me the danger: there is literally no floor. There had been an infestation of mildew in this small meeting room and major measures had to be taken. So we wound our way through several very narrow and awkward angles past the space where the priest puts on his robes to the supply cubby. It was there where you collected the makings of the Last Supper and more: pressed and starched linen napkins and a shiny metal basin into which you counted the right number of small pale wafers made by the Good Brothers. You poured white wine into the chalice. In addition you had to fill a tiny decanter with water. You told me it was for the priest to wash his hands in advance but later you explained that a few drops would be added to the wine so that the people too could be part of the transfiguration. You checked the liturgy of the day and carefully moved the ribbons to the assigned pages. You allowed me to carry the consecrated wafers back through the labyrinth to the Holy Table. After all was prepared we sat and waiting quietly for the arrival of the "retired" priest who would set all into motion. Since I have been present at mass very few times in my life, I'm never quite sure what to expect, but I was definitely astounded by the vigor with which this octogenarian preached. From his seated position he sparkled and smiled and spoke with passion. Although I didn't catch every word, it was evident this man is well-read and knows a lots about life. You told me he says mass at the home for retired nuns on days when he isn't in your neighborhood church, that he takes confession on request, and doesn't appear to be retired at all. More than twenty people were there for mass that morning and not all of retirement age.