December 13, 2011
Ever since I was a young boy in Detroit, I remember the joy of walking to the library. Before the library was built on Six Mile Road, it was the Bookmobile parked two days a week on Tracy Avenue off of Puritan. Inside on its shelves were adventures and stories I couldn't wait to take home and read. You could only take two books at a time, which only increased my desire to quickly return to that truck parked at the side of the curb.
It is amazing how some books have a telling affect on you. One of those Bookmobile stories I remember is "Misty of Chincoteague". The story still brings tears to my eyes, such is the power of books.
Years and many books have pasted since those Detroit days, but the thrill of walking to the library, taking an unknown book off the shelf, and feeling its weight on the way back has never left me.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Turkey Tails
December 7, 2011
Ever wonder what happens to those parts of slaughtered animals go, even those orts considered unfit for pet food? You may be interested in the tale of tails.
The Samoan government in an attempt to curb obesity banned the sale of imported turkey tails while at the same time applying for entrance to the World Trade Organization (WTO). In order to have Samoa reopen its market for U.S. turkey tails, the U.S. government held back its approval of Samoa's WTO application. Samoa submitted to U.S. pressure and turkey tails can once again be legally sold in Samoa.
You may argue that Samoans have a choice in the food they can eat, let alone afford. For the average Samoan, your choice of meats in the store usually is canned mackerel, SPAM, canned corned beef, chicken hindquarters, trotters (pigs feet), pigs tails and ears, mutton flaps, or lamb necks. All imported and dumped by "health conscience countries". Yummy!
Below are two articles for those who may have some interest as to what happens in the world under the term "globalization".
http://www.samoaobserver.ws/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=37229:stopping-turkey-tails&catid=1:latest-news&Itemid=50
http://www.stuff.co.nz/business/world/6062457/Samoa-rewarded-for-turkey-tail-turnaround
Ever wonder what happens to those parts of slaughtered animals go, even those orts considered unfit for pet food? You may be interested in the tale of tails.
The Samoan government in an attempt to curb obesity banned the sale of imported turkey tails while at the same time applying for entrance to the World Trade Organization (WTO). In order to have Samoa reopen its market for U.S. turkey tails, the U.S. government held back its approval of Samoa's WTO application. Samoa submitted to U.S. pressure and turkey tails can once again be legally sold in Samoa.
You may argue that Samoans have a choice in the food they can eat, let alone afford. For the average Samoan, your choice of meats in the store usually is canned mackerel, SPAM, canned corned beef, chicken hindquarters, trotters (pigs feet), pigs tails and ears, mutton flaps, or lamb necks. All imported and dumped by "health conscience countries". Yummy!
Below are two articles for those who may have some interest as to what happens in the world under the term "globalization".
http://www.samoaobserver.ws/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=37229:stopping-turkey-tails&catid=1:latest-news&Itemid=50
http://www.stuff.co.nz/business/world/6062457/Samoa-rewarded-for-turkey-tail-turnaround
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Skating into the 70's
November 28, 2011
Today is the 70th anniversary of my birth. Other than heralding in the beginning of another possible decade of life, the date lacks the significance of the 5th when you can start school, the 16th when you can get a driver's license, the 18th when you become an adult, the 21st when you can legally buy alcohol, and the 65th when you are officially considered old and when you used to be able to retire and collect your meager pension.
There is something to celebrate about birthdays ending in a zero. You hear from those who have not forgotten you are still alive, or want to know if you are still alive. Their greetings may come in the form of a personalized note, a birthday card which gives a zero birthday an air of importance, Facebook, electronic greeting card, text, phone call, and some show up at your doorstep. Whatever their means to mark the occasion, it makes you feel good.
Yet dates, years, and birthdays soon pass into the ocean of time, unless you do something memorable. The year may be forgotten, but not the event. For me, it is to celebrate my birthday at the local roller rink along with the other 5 year olds, an event even the rink owner and tiny celebrants could not believe was happening. There is something to be said about "zipping" around the rink trying to keep time to "health club" music as you avoid those fallen little shits in your path, and putting the fact behind you that on your 12th birthday you broke your arm with a church group doing the same thing with wheels on your feet. Certain birthdays you and others don't soon forget.
With my son, Nicholas III
The few, the proud, and the brave
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Bus World
November 8, 2011
What makes travel exciting is that you chose to put yourself in a strange and different place. You see and experience a new world, sometimes more uncomfortable or seemingly more exotic than the place you call home. Of course for those who call your destination home, you are the strange and exotic person. For them, your discoveries are their everyday drudgery.
I am discovering a new world to explore. It is as strange and as foreign to me as any of the several places on this earth I have been fortunate to visit. It is the world that exists on the public bus.
Now for many of my ilk and my children, taking the metro in Beijing is more exciting and certainly not as frightening as taking the bus downtown. The choice is clear. Your shiny, protected, comfortable bubble wins out every time. But imagine what may happen if you chose to take the bus. What adventures may be in store for you? Here is my entry for today.
The rush hour bus is nearly full when I get on and search for a place to sit. There is a backpack next to a young chocolat-skinned seemingly immigrant girl sitting next to the window. I ask her if she would would move it so I could sit down. She does. As the bus empties, she crawls over me to sit on a jump seat in front of me with her backpack on her lap.
The young African-American man in the seat behind me is on his cellphone trying to tell people at an insurance company his new Minneapolis address. He has recently moved from Springfield, Illinois. He has to make three calls before he gets to a person who can make the changes so he can be reimbursed for medical expenses incurred in Springfield. He slowly spells his name, making fun of the fact that his parents named him Galvin, rather than Calvin, a source of much confusion as to who he is. He goes on to spell his street, but when it comes to spelling Minneapolis, both parties are stumped. He asks another older passenger if there is an abbreviation. The passenger says, MPLS. I am sure no one outside of Minneapolis and probably only a few who live here have ever heard of that abbreviation. The young man then calls a friend and tells him, he soon should get a check and pay him the owed money. I hope he gets his check. Thank goodness he gives the zip code.
There is a well-dressed Middle Eastern couple asking other passengers if this is the stop for Fairview Hospital (There are several throughout the metro area). They don't know. The stop is at the center of the University of Minnesota campus. As the bus disgorges most of its passengers, the confused couple rushes off the bus with the crowd and ends up standing alone on the sidewalk not knowing where they are. They remind me of similar incidents during my travels as I find myself standing alone, not knowing where I am or who to turn for directions.
As I walk out of the office building in St Paul, I see the bus I want pull away. An elderly out-of-town couple stops me in their car to ask for directions to the University of Minnesota Hospital. They are miles from the hospital and have been lost for over an hour. Their MapQuest printout is only for the neighborhood around the hospital. I say I am happy to show them the way and hop in their car. Just before they are to turn off to the hospital, I hop out of the car, just in time to catch the same bus I missed miles back.
The bus driver asks those who pass their wallets over the bus electronic fare meter without hearing its responding beep to show him their pre-paid bus card. Puzzled, he explains the electronic meter is broken and he wants to see the card, those riders not being charged. Each person hurriedly fumbles to show their card while others wait impatiently in line wondering about the delay. A girl with cornrows similar to the style and dressed like the girls in Senegal, sits down behind me. Just before departing, the young bus driver turns in his seat to the rear of the bus and light-heartedly calls out, "You showed me your company ID card instead of your bus card. I now know where you work". I have no idea she understood what he said, whether it is the driver's attempt at a joke, or more. She makes not a sound. He closes the door and off we go.
A tall, big man with Eastern European features struggles to get on with two heavy plastic bags dangling around his neck, pulling a suitcase, and carrying a stuffed garment bag and some other clothes, including a new pair of large, shiny black, three inch elevator shoes. He unwraps himself of his load as he searches his pockets for the fare. He continues standing next to what appears to be his worldly possessions. At his stop, he puts the plastic bags around his neck, gathers his luggage, and leaves. The young petite Asian girl next to me looks at him and then at me. We laugh about why would a 6'4" man need elevator shoes. I remark to her that he probably has quite a story to tell. But after the girl gets off the bus, I wonder about her story.
What makes travel exciting is that you chose to put yourself in a strange and different place. You see and experience a new world, sometimes more uncomfortable or seemingly more exotic than the place you call home. Of course for those who call your destination home, you are the strange and exotic person. For them, your discoveries are their everyday drudgery.
I am discovering a new world to explore. It is as strange and as foreign to me as any of the several places on this earth I have been fortunate to visit. It is the world that exists on the public bus.
Now for many of my ilk and my children, taking the metro in Beijing is more exciting and certainly not as frightening as taking the bus downtown. The choice is clear. Your shiny, protected, comfortable bubble wins out every time. But imagine what may happen if you chose to take the bus. What adventures may be in store for you? Here is my entry for today.
The rush hour bus is nearly full when I get on and search for a place to sit. There is a backpack next to a young chocolat-skinned seemingly immigrant girl sitting next to the window. I ask her if she would would move it so I could sit down. She does. As the bus empties, she crawls over me to sit on a jump seat in front of me with her backpack on her lap.
The young African-American man in the seat behind me is on his cellphone trying to tell people at an insurance company his new Minneapolis address. He has recently moved from Springfield, Illinois. He has to make three calls before he gets to a person who can make the changes so he can be reimbursed for medical expenses incurred in Springfield. He slowly spells his name, making fun of the fact that his parents named him Galvin, rather than Calvin, a source of much confusion as to who he is. He goes on to spell his street, but when it comes to spelling Minneapolis, both parties are stumped. He asks another older passenger if there is an abbreviation. The passenger says, MPLS. I am sure no one outside of Minneapolis and probably only a few who live here have ever heard of that abbreviation. The young man then calls a friend and tells him, he soon should get a check and pay him the owed money. I hope he gets his check. Thank goodness he gives the zip code.
There is a well-dressed Middle Eastern couple asking other passengers if this is the stop for Fairview Hospital (There are several throughout the metro area). They don't know. The stop is at the center of the University of Minnesota campus. As the bus disgorges most of its passengers, the confused couple rushes off the bus with the crowd and ends up standing alone on the sidewalk not knowing where they are. They remind me of similar incidents during my travels as I find myself standing alone, not knowing where I am or who to turn for directions.
As I walk out of the office building in St Paul, I see the bus I want pull away. An elderly out-of-town couple stops me in their car to ask for directions to the University of Minnesota Hospital. They are miles from the hospital and have been lost for over an hour. Their MapQuest printout is only for the neighborhood around the hospital. I say I am happy to show them the way and hop in their car. Just before they are to turn off to the hospital, I hop out of the car, just in time to catch the same bus I missed miles back.
The bus driver asks those who pass their wallets over the bus electronic fare meter without hearing its responding beep to show him their pre-paid bus card. Puzzled, he explains the electronic meter is broken and he wants to see the card, those riders not being charged. Each person hurriedly fumbles to show their card while others wait impatiently in line wondering about the delay. A girl with cornrows similar to the style and dressed like the girls in Senegal, sits down behind me. Just before departing, the young bus driver turns in his seat to the rear of the bus and light-heartedly calls out, "You showed me your company ID card instead of your bus card. I now know where you work". I have no idea she understood what he said, whether it is the driver's attempt at a joke, or more. She makes not a sound. He closes the door and off we go.
A tall, big man with Eastern European features struggles to get on with two heavy plastic bags dangling around his neck, pulling a suitcase, and carrying a stuffed garment bag and some other clothes, including a new pair of large, shiny black, three inch elevator shoes. He unwraps himself of his load as he searches his pockets for the fare. He continues standing next to what appears to be his worldly possessions. At his stop, he puts the plastic bags around his neck, gathers his luggage, and leaves. The young petite Asian girl next to me looks at him and then at me. We laugh about why would a 6'4" man need elevator shoes. I remark to her that he probably has quite a story to tell. But after the girl gets off the bus, I wonder about her story.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Halloween
November 1, 2011
The Great Pumpkin must have been looking out for me. Due to an illness to my Halloween roller skating partner, Nicholas' girlfriend Heidi, I spent the night safely at home, only to be visited by The Little Pumpkin Seed, my grandson Rainn.
The Great Pumpkin must have been looking out for me. Due to an illness to my Halloween roller skating partner, Nicholas' girlfriend Heidi, I spent the night safely at home, only to be visited by The Little Pumpkin Seed, my grandson Rainn.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Soup Bones
October 19, 2011
Readjusting after an intense experience like Peace Corps is the pits. One would think that this being my second time, it would be easier, but it’s not. You may think the feeling is due to returning to the “Same-O, Same-O’, but the “Same-O, Same-O” isn’t the same anymore
I like soup. The weather is getting chilly… soup time. To make good soup, you need a soup bone. I have been to four supermarkets filled with every meat cut you might think to serve, but nary a soup bone. Most of the meat comes to the store, either prepackaged or butchered in some Iowa or Nebraska meat processing plant. Modern supermarket butchers now are stock boys with funny paper hats. There are marrow bones for dogs, but no soup bones for humans.
This is what I mean by the difficulty of readjusting. When you are away, everything is new and exciting. When you return, all is new, except you.
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