The Rubens in the Prado

     Peter Paul Rubens. How his name conjures images of hefty women--but this painter is so much more. His painting is luminescent, literally larger than life. And the Prado offered two massive rooms of his work. He is epic, mythic--taking the tales that have inspired mankind and translating them into oil on canvas.

    At once both sublime and sensual, not words, nor the pictures here can convey how beautiful his work is.

Image via Wikipedia     The first painting I saw as I entered was "Equestrian Portrait of the Duke of Lerma." It had to be fifteen feet tall and if allowed to touch the work, I would have sworn you could feel the satin in the horse's coat. This picture does not do the work justice.

     Included in this room was a series of work depicting the apostles--many rarely ever exhibited.

                                Image via Wikipedia     In "Abraham Offers the Tithe to Melchizedek," Rubens captured the concept of the tithe. Melchizedek is resplendent. You know he is God. And Abraham is rich and powerful, still he bows before this king and offers him a tenth of all he has. The humility, the grandeur, the positive qualities of God and mankind are captured in this work.

Image by André Durand via Flickr
     "The Adoration of the Magi" was  massive, luxuriant, gorgeous. Inspired by Titian, the little image here does not do this justice.

Pros and Cons of Spain

     Our visit turned up some delightful Spanish concepts--ones I think we would do well to adopt here in the U.S.

1.  They do not waste.

•      After we found the car we hid underground in Spain (see first Spanish blog), I couldn't get the lights to turn on in my room. With no knowledge of the hotel extension and the fact that my Spanish stunk almost as bad as the clerk's English, I returned to the desk. It turns out, in order to turn on the lights and TV, the guest must insert her card into a slot against the wall near the door. It turns on the lights. When you leave and remove the card, lights stay on for about 30 seconds, then automatically go off.
• The hallway lights are motioned censored, so they're not on all the time--only when someone needs them.
• They use ceramic cups rather than the American paper cups that fill our trash cans.

2. With that last thought in mind--they take their time.

Image via Wikipedia
• I ordered a coffee at an outdoor kiosk. It came in a ceramic cup. I sat, and drank it before I wandered about the attraction.
• At roadside stops, the coffee isn't to go. We sit, relax, enjoy and then travel.
• Meals out take a long time. You enjoy conversation and drinks and each stage of the meal.

3.  Obesity is rare--or at least to my eyes.

• Snacks come in small quantities. (Snack sized containers).
• People don't walk around with their "sippy cups" of soda or coffee or whatever.
• People walk places.

4.  They are energy efficient.

• Windmills dot the landscape.
• There are fields of solar panels.
• The railways are cheap, reliable, fast and ubiquitous.
• Their cars are fuel efficient.

5.  The people are friendly and trusting.

• One man left his shop unattended to help us find our way.
• The man from wom we rented our apartment needed a small bit of coaxial cable. The sales clerk gave him the entire role and said, take what you need, bring the rest back and I'll charge you.
• In one store, we browsed about five minutes when another customer came in. It turns out, she was the clerk who apparently ran an errand.

6.  The countryside is preserved and the little guy can make a living.

• The villages nestled together. When the town ended--the countryside began. I saw little urban sprawl.
• No mega stores--Walmarts or Home Depots or Best Buys stole all the industry. Mom and Pop grocers thrived along with the Mas Y Mas chains. You could shop in dozens of privately owned stores to find your needs. Few malls exist.

Spain, of course, has its flaws. But I learned to slow down, to savor life and enjoy. I would love to return to a simpler life.

Living Like a Spaniard

Mountains outside Alicante

The Calpe W

        We left Ronda and traveled six hours to the coast. The scenery changed--often times becoming the bland rolling plains similar to central Spain. At the coast, things changed. Jagged, bare mountains rose to the left of us, the Mediterranean rolled out to the right.                                            Calpe. Located on the Costa Blanca is landmarked by the giant Pinon Ifach--a Gibraltareque rock rising from the Mediterranean. Two sandy beach curve away from Ifach's peninsula creating a geographic W. Once explored, Calpe doesn't offer anything too exotic.
      We walked the beach. Daily we visited grocery stores--Spain has many on every few blocks as all the refrigerators we'd seen were tiny, apartment sized appliances. Our top floor apartment offered stunning views of the sea and the fishing fleets and the beaches, but we had no TV or radio, no Internet. We had each other and quietness.
      As we neared the end of week two, the desire to return home beset us. As Americans--and me--as a DeFord--we were used to going all the time. Used to rushing through lines, grabbing our "sippy" cups of coffee or coke and getting it done.
     Throughout Spain, if you took a cup of coffee it was served in a ceramic cup meant to be drunk in the establishment that sold it. If you nursed it for hours, that was okay. You had time. Time was free. Enjoy it.
     Somehow I slowed down. I found myself sitting at Spasso's, a seaside cafe, nestled in a leather chair. For a euro, I'd order my coffee (no refills), use their free wifi and enjoy "human" contact, sea breezes and sunshine.
     Slowing down, enjoying life, and appreciating my own person circumstances became three Spanish characteristics I don't want to lose.

Standing Upon the Rock

     As my ship glided past in the night, I strained to see the mighty British rock guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean. Darkness swallowed it and we sailed on to Cadiz. This time in Spain, I would not only see Gibraltar, or Gib as the locals affectionately call it, I would climb it.

Image via Wikipedia     A chance to speak English and the evocative power of the Rock of Gibraltar drew us to the tiny British outpost. The town itself crowds itself on the western slope of the giant rock. To get in, we had to go through British customs--more a formality than an actual inspection. We then walked across the airport landing strip and entered the town.
Image via Wikipedia     We took a cable car to the top. Here we stopped of a can of Coca Cola light and walked out onto the patio to catch a glimpse of the formidable rock. The sign out of the cafeteria said no food was allowed beyond that point. Of course that referred to food--not our drink. I brought my freshly opened, expensive can of Coke out onto the patio and placed it on the binoculars pedestal and pointed my camera.
     Before I realized it, a Barbary ape with her baby snatched my soda, ran to a clear space in the middle and took a sip. It turned out she didn't like Diet Coke and left the can and me not knowing if I should laugh or scream at losing my soda.  Didn't those apes know they were supposed to be living halfway down the mountain?
     The views were breathtaking. Neil and I explored the top, walked down, saw hundreds of apes and incredible views. We walked and walked and walked and walked. Came to a dead end, backtracked and walked some more.
     At Casemates Square we ate fish and chips, then wandered back across the landing strip and back into Spain. A delightful, British day.

El Castillo de los Reyes Christianos

             The ILT (AKA GPS) got us to Córdoba fine. It’s very good with its gross motor skills. However, once there, it took us down "streets" that made the roadways of Arriate look huge. The tires of our tiny Clio scrubbed the curbs of these two way streets.

            We found a parking spot—somehow with few problems once we got to the real roadways and set off to find the Mezquita. I asked—people told me to walk through the arcos, turn derecho or derecha—two distinctly different meanings and voilà. Or I should say hay usted.

            We wandered through arcos and little streets and asked once more.

            “Vaya por los arcos…”

Those words were spoken at the speed of light, so I understood only the hands. I have learned the language of hands well.

We walked through another arch, and before us spread what I thought was the Mesquita. It cost less to enter than guidebook said the Mezquita should and it certainly didn’t match the descriptions.

Had we seen the Castle after the grand cathedral of Córdoba, I would have thoroughly enjoyed every square inch and lingered throughout the afternoon—but anxiousness to see the former mosque took away the glory of this old castle.

A fortress, today almost a perfect square, had sat here since Roman times—and it grew to serve the purpose of various dynasties. Its final design settled in 1327 under the reign of Alfonso XI.  However, the gardens demonstrate the Arab influence. They reminded me of the Alhambra, only more impeccably maintained. Ponds and fountains, flowers and trees, all made this an exquisite experience—one not to miss.

Córdoba—Introducing the Mezquita

             Leaving the mountains of Andalucía, we found the first “wetlands” of our trip. The land leveled out and the city of Córdoba rose before us. Here we visited two magnificent buildings: the Mezquita and Le Castillo des Reyos Cristianos (The Castle of Christian Kings).

            The Mezquita—no picture we have can do this justice. It was a church in Visigoth times, turned into a mosque and returned to a cathedral. When you enter the cathedral, 850 red and blue columns surround you, a visual forest—too dark and too grand to capture in a photograph. At one time, archways opened to the Patio de los Naranjos let light pour in. When made into a cathedral, beautiful windows filled in the archway.

            In the far corner (facing south, which is unusual) is the Mihrab, the mosque equivalent of a high altar. Muslims faced the Mihrab, a fixture in all mosques, to worship. Ornate as all Arabic architecture, the photograph doesn’t capture the beauty of three thousand pounds of glass and enamel decorate it.

            In the center of the room, sixteen columns were removed to make a chapel, fronted by the Royal Chapel—a burial place for kings—never opened to the public. However, Córdoba was kind, and the chapel is not entirely walled off. The dome and the walls can be glimpsed—stunning.

            In the Tesoro (Treasury) is a HUGE monstrance—the Christians wanted something glorious enough to hold the body of Christ. During the Feast of Corpus Christi, sixty days after Easter, they still parade this through the town.

            Then we come to the Cathedral itself. Glorious in gold and silver and carved mahogany.

            España—muy guapa.

           

Ronda-

            Set in the heart of Andalucía, in the beautiful Serranía de Ronda mountains. Its gorge—El Tajo—is a 360 foot drop of breathtaking beauty. The New Bridge (Puento Nuevo) was built in 1751 and still supports cars and tourists and still displays the glory of this countryside.

View from Puento Nuevo

            After walking over the bridge, I travelled down to the bottom of the gorge along a dirt path with no guard rails to the Jardines de Cuenca—a feat unacceptable in the US. Worth every breathtaking step (literally). Stunning.

Puento Nuevo from the Jardines de Cuenco

            In Moorish town, behind tiny (two way) streets that barely fit one mini European car, lay the city walls. Walking through arches and down cobbled steps, we arrived at the Arab baths. These were well preserved—used during Arab occupation for hygiene as well as socialization. From here, you can get a faboulous view of the old bridge (a relative term)—also still in use.

The Bullring

            The bullring, a quarter of a mile down the road, birthed the “art” of bullfighting in Spain. It originated as a training grounds for soldiers and has developed into an art form. The fight takes place in three acts: the first is a parade, the second a lot of fancy tricks by the matador, the third features the kill. And the kill is barbaric. Picadors pick the bull with darts to “drain” the stress of the journey and the matador, with a curved blade, must stab the bull in the precise spot to kill it instantly. In Ronda, only one bullfighter died in the ring and his remains were buried there.

LOST (Part 2)

            …So we unloaded the few little things we had in our Hobbit room (except it was up and not down). It had to be no more that 15’x15’ with a king sized bed. I felt like Alice when she grew too big. We then began our search for our car.

            Neil swore he’d find it. Remember, it was buried in a garage somewhere in Madrid—but we really only had about a kilometer radius to search. I’m not sure who was the silliest—Neil for saying he could find the car when he gets lost in Plattsburgh, or me—for believing him. I guess desperate minds believe anything.

            We crossed the bridge with no problems. But then—all the roads here fan out from traffic circles. I think we had four choices. I followed Neil up one. About a quarter of a mile up he said, “This isn’t right. I think it’s the other.”

            We walked up that one—again a quarter mile. This road had wrought iron fences like the one where we parked the car. But again—the wrong road. Back we trudged and then up a third, then back, then peaked down the fourth—obviously wrong.

            We started the process all over. Finally we took a little road along the “river.’ (They appear to be not much more than evaporating creeks). Little things began to look familiar—a bench, the park along the river, we turned up a side road because of obstructions and what did I spy? The wrought iron fences.

Image via Wikipedia            Two more streets and the cervasaceria we stopped at came into view. We turned back down the road and there stood our garage. We scurried in, found our itty-bitty Clio and drove to the hotel.

            Our twenty-five minute trip lasted over three hours.

            Now all we had to do was figure out how to turn the lights on in our room. (Or how to use a bidet—what use are they?)

LOST (Madrid Style)

            It was an omen. After four hours trying to get a Blackberry set up for our overseas adventure, as I sat in the airport in NYC, I couldn’t make a phone call. As I waited for my plane, I decided to call my mother and tell her how easy it would be for her when she joined us in Spain. The call wouldn’t go through. If it didn’t work here, how could it in Europe?

            I took a deep breath and decided to act grown-up about it (and you know how well I do that). After an uneventful and sleepless flight we descended to Madrid. With our landing, the European attitude descended upon me. Calmly, with patience, I passed through customs, presenting the entrance paper filled out on the plane. The custom’s official handed back the receipt—one I needed to present upon returning—the one that couldn’t be lost. I tucked it into my passport. And yes—but you’re getting ahead of the story.

            We picked up our bags, decided to change some, not all our money—mistake two. Got our car and a GPS which should more accurately be named ILT (I’m Lost, Too). Thus ended the well-planned version of our trip.Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia            We decided to drive south from Madrid because we had a seven hour layover in the airport—we could drive faster. We’d stay in a hotel whose name we couldn’t pronounce. It was located a mere twenty-five minutes from the airport, and we’d walk about a bit to get the feel of this foreign capital, find a restaurant and enjoy.

           "ILT" didn’t know where the hotel was. She directed us through the city all right, brought us to a road just minutes from our destination, then sent us into a tunnel.

            And the tunnel went on and on and on and on. And on. (It was a LONG one).

Once back in daylight, wandering crowded streets with no names posted, with directions in spewed out in meters, “ILT” wended us through the shoppers and tourists and Madrilejos, back onto a major road, and somehow back into the same tunnel.

We took a different exit from the tunnel, wended other unfamiliar streets, took a side road, a quick exit onto another road and…yep. The tunnel.

I think we hit that thing four times. Each time, as we entered, the "ILT" told us we would be at our destination in one more minute. It would display the little checkered flag announcing our arrival just as daylight disappeared from the tunnel and we lost satellite reception.

Finally out once more, we took fate into our own hands. We were near our hotel (albeit in two hours rather than twenty-five minutes). We found a garage. Parked. Neil, who did all the driving—(thank you, Jesus)—wanted to take a cab.

We found a Cervaceria, got a Coke, took a bathroom break and asked directions.

And can Spaniards speak fast! The waitress drew directions on a napkin. Somehow we figured she said we could walk faster than we could drive. And I understood next to nothing.

I should say nothing. I couldn’t even follow her directions on the napkin.

We took a cab.

And in two minutes we arrived at the hotel. Neil assured me he could find the rented car, parked in an underground garage, on an unnamed street somewhere in Madrid.

And I found that believable.

I Fell In Love: Sarah

     Thirty-four years ago I met the most wonderful person I've ever known. She lay on my belly, her beautiful round face staring up at me. Eyes bluer than any robin's egg held mine. I fell in love with the child who would become my closest friend.
     She's a faithful friend. Once the bond had been made, Sarah will not abandon those she loves. I've seen her hurt and listened to her tears over a friend who would no longer return her love. Sarah has a plethora of good friends, but she grieves over the one lost one just as Jesus mourned the one lost sheep. She continued seeking the connection that broke and her love an persistence restored it.
     No mother could be so devoted. All who meet her children acclaim their goodness. One couple decided to have children because of the example set by Caroline and David. Why are these children good? Because my daughter pours love and discipline into them.
     Sarah will sacrifice time on holidays--and her own family time to travel to be with family. As most live on Long Island, the few vacation days she has are spent catering to the needs of those she loves. She drove 300 miles one way, on a weekend, just to attend my surprise party (and surprise retirement fete). She couldn't dream of missing it.
     Her talent amazes me: look at her photography, photoshop skills, scrapbook pages. She plays the flute and oboe and designs amazing rooms in her house.
     She adores Jesus, loves her family and Neil and me. My best friend and kindred spirit.

Bullfighting

Image via Wikipedia
Do you know where in Spain bullfighting was born?
Why was this event created?
Why do they call the  rings: "Plaza des Toros?"
Why is the cape red? Who is the most revered bullfighter in its birthplace?
Before going into the ring, where does every matador stop?
Where in the paper will you read about bullfights?
Image via Wikipedia*****************************************************
Shortly, Neil and I will be heading off to Spain--and forcing our travelogue on anyone sweet enough to read my blog. One of the first places we'll travel is to the birthplace of bullfighting: Ronda, Spain in the Andalucia region. It began here to train knights in combat.

Ronda actually uses a ring and always has. However,  bullfights used to be held in the village square, thus the term Plaza des Toros.

The most revered bullfighter in Ronda is Francisco Romero, who, according to Rick Steves, melded chaotic and noble bullfighting to create the current format. He is also credited with the using the red cape. The bull is color blind and the color of the cape was probably used to camouflage the blood. His son Juan made it more an art form and his grandson, Pedro, who killed 6,000 bulls in his career.

Image via Wikipedia
As bullfighting is an "art," the results are found in the culture section of the newspapers.

Last of all, the last stop a matador makes before entering the ring is at the chapel--he prays to Mary in hopes of seeing her again.

Unfortunately, (Or probably fortunately for me) we won't see a fight. They're held in September. We will however tour the ring.

A Case for Intolerance

I will climb out on the proverbial limb and utter an obscene word: intolerance. Sometimes it's good.


Take for example smoking. When I first began teaching, smoke swirled around my classroom. I asked for an air purifier and got this teeny little machine that had minimal effect on my air quality. My room abutted the teachers' room. It had no outside windows and the the smoke wafted through the cut-outs in the ceiling that allowed the fluorescent lights to run.


We all experienced smokey restaurants, businesses, homes, cars, mass transportation. Today, no one can light up on school property--not even in their car with the window rolled up. Smokers used to congregate at doors of businesses and stores to smoke. Today, many places require that they stand a distance away from the entrances. We no longer tolerate the health destroying effects of tobacco.

The same goes with dog droppings. Years ago, no one cleaned up the "litter" and only the property owner was expected to scoop the poop--or the walker, in whose case had to scrape the poop. Today our local rec park stocks plastic bags to make it possible to clean up after dogs. Homeowners will stop recalcitrant dog owners and insist on this basic decency.

Image via WikipediaWe've become intolerant of sex abuse--those guilty can never erase the stigma of their crimes; intolerant of physical abuse; intolerant of driving under the influence

Isn't it time to become more intolerant? Cursing? Indecent clothing? Sexually explicit comedy on sitcoms? Stereotyping Christians as intolerant or hypocritical? Sexually active behavior? Pornography?


Without foregoing mercy, love, kindness--without forgetting Christ's forgiveness, we need to take a stand against what is offensive and wrong, refuse to accept it. If we do, perhaps these behaviors will follow in the fate of second hand smoke and dog doo-doo.

Fourth Amendment Rights

The fourth amendment to our constitution states: "The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized." 
Image via Wikipedia 
Increasingly, our government is violating this right in the name of safety.
Anyone who has read my blogs or facebook posts, understands my position on airline searches, especially the new scanners which create a virtual strip search. We've heard about Arizona's law that questions suspected illegals when stopped for a traffic violation.
How many have heard of the search and seizures here in northern New York?

The border patrol has the right to stop any public transportation within 100 air miles of any international border, including coastlines. According to Udi Ofer, a lawyer for the ACLU, 2/3 of all citizens live withing this area.
In effect, the agents can board any bus or train or boat and if they suspect someone of not being a citizen, they can demand to see their papers. However, in this country, it, so far, has not been mandated that we must carry proof of citizenship at all times.

In the feature case, a Chinese student who attended Potsdam State was arrested under suspicion of something. He ended up in varying jails for four months. Meanwhile, all his papers were with the sponsoring teacher. Unfortunately, he returned to China and his parents will not let him return to the United States. It is sad when China feels we are too controlling.

In a similar vein, my friend and her husband stopped about a half-mile from the U.S. border. He needed to fish out his enhanced ID which was in his wallet and on which he sat. When he arrived at the port of entry, the agent asked him why he stopped a half mile away. He then sternly warned him to not stop until he got to the station. How did they know he stopped? What difference does it make?

A good female friend with red-headed and fair-skinned was stopped, frisked, manhandled and handcuffed at the border. She had the misfortune of bearing the same name as a black man on the wanted list. The same thing happens repeatedly to Sylvie Nelson of Saranac Lake. She's stopped repeatedly, handcuffed, frisked in front of her kids because her name is similar to a black man's from Georgia. She's cleared each time, then stopped the next.

Sadly, Big Brother is watching and we may need to head to China to find some liberty. 

Lucky Baby by Meredith Efken

If you love the cliche and love to predict the outcome of conflict, if easy answers is your comfort in a good book, then skip Meredith Efken's Lucky Baby.

Her book presents a poignant look at four dynamic characters as their lives change when Meg Lindsay decides to adopt a child from China. As the principal violist for the Noveau Chicago Symphony and a Christian married to an atheist physicist, Meg and husband Lewis, decide to adopt a little girl with a cleft palate. With a child in their home, Meg knows she'd create the idyllic life.


However, the arrival of the child, Eva Zhen An, forces Meg, Lewis and Eva's devoted friend in China, Wen Ming, to confront the mother issues that have wounded their lives.



No answers come easily. No choices are made because of the obvious. Warm. Funny. Poignant. Laced with the highly poetic magic realism, Efken's book is guaranteed to touch your life and stay with you for a long time.



I recommend this book without reservations.

Lessons from Scrapbooking

            I’ll state the obvious. I love to scrap. The pictures I use create loving memories—even of the hard times, like when I ran a race in a hurricaine or the water innudated my basement. I take a picture and then laugh as I recall the events that prompted me.

            It’s a messy hobby. My daughter and I will attend scrapbooking weekends. We need two hotel dollies to haul our supplies in. We’re given space at six foot tables and we wall ourselves in. We shuffle through paper, embellishments, die cutting machines. It’s ugly.

            But the end result is divine.

            Almost more than scrapbooking, I like card making. I take scraps of my scraps and create beautiful cards. Then when I’ve finished, I take scraps of those scraps and make more cards. And then…

            You get the picture.

            This is so like God working in our lives. We make a mess, tear apart the fabric of our lives and He gathers up the pieces and rearranges them. The results are beautiful. There’s nothing He can’t restore and perfect.

            And if you think He cannot redeem you or make something beautiful of your life, think of: Matthew, Mary Magdalene, Legion, David and his murder of Uriah, Rahab, Jacob and many other.  If He mended them, He will make you as glorious.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end (Eccl 3:11).

Losing My Jewels

            My case is hopeless. I have no reward waiting for me in heaven. None.

            I’ve spent it all here on earth. I tried not to. I’ve tried to save them for heaven, but no matter how hard I try, I always get back more than I give. Only a few samples of my attempted generosity will prove my impoverished state. (Please note, I am not bragging about my generosity. I do want something in heaven).

            I’ll start with “Gloria,” a friend prone to blood clots. Once again she was hospitalized, so I decided to brighten her day with a visit. Besides, one of my husband’s congregants was also in the hospital, so I could double my rewards with very little effort.

I’m a woman with a mission, thus, as usual, I rushed my husband up the walkway to the hosptal entrance. As we approached the front doors, I nearly fell over a poor woman in a wheel chair.

            “Excuse me,” I said. I do have manners even if I’m spiritually bankrupt.

            “Carol?”

            I actually looked at the woman. “Gloria! I was on my way to see you.”

            “It was a beautiful day, so I came outside.”

            I looked around, noted the truth of her statement. My husband didn’t know Gloria, as we recently married, so I sent him off and stayed to enjoy the sunshine with my friend.

            “I’m sorry about another clot. You have to be discouraged,” I said.

            “It’s not bad. I have chance to relax, catch up on my Bible study and have extra time with the Lord.”

            “But isn’t this a painful way to do it?” (My ‘Eyore’ side always predominates.)

            “No. God is in control. That’s enough for me.”

            I bent over, hugged her and we chatted about Jesus and families and church until her husband took her back to her room.

            Gloria revived my faith. Her words and actions reassured me of her love for me as well as God’s love. I left to find my husband and knew I got more from my visitation than Gloria.

            Another case is “Flora” whom I met on a missionary trip to Romania. She’s a gypsy, a group who faces a great deal of discrimination. She can’t find a job because she’s “dark.” Lack of finances keeps her on the verge of eviction from sub-standard housing. On those occasions I get a plea for help.

            Which of course I send. (Still hoping for that jewel).

            I’ll send about $100 which translates into lots more in Romania. She stays in her home, gets medical help and a little extra. Then all I hear from her is good news: her growth in God or gratitude for my love. The occasional money doesn’t make a big dent in my budget because God more than adequately pays my bills. I know my small service to Flora is just that: small.

            In truth, I never do what I do to be applauded. I take Matthew 6:1 seriously. “Be careful not to do your acts of righteousness before men, to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.” But somehow, others see. Others give back much more than I give. And the gratitude I receive, toots my good deeds like a trumpet from the rooftops.

            My only hope is to keep trying. Someday someone won’t notice. Someday I won’t get more than I give. But I doubt it.

Happy Birthday, Vera DeFord Rau

Picking the defining trait of my mother daunts me. Could it be her generosity? She is, without doubt the most generous person I know. The quintessential example would be the time she took the whole family—22? of us—to Punta Cana for a Club Med vacation. It took place in 1992, and to this day, we relive the memories.

Yet, her love extends beyond her financial generosity. If any of us needed help, she’d give it, regardless of her personal situation. When cancer struck me, she drove the four hundred miles up her, took care of me for weeks, bought me clothes and yard furniture and brought me roses every day. She does the same for each of her six children.

Her devotion to her family and friends is unparalleled. As I write these words my mind says the phrase sounds cliché. But it’s not when it comes to my mother. She is easy going, gives in to other people’s desires, wishes to please above all things. But don’t mess with her family. We WILL celebrate Christmas together. When I make my summer trek to Long Island, we WILL have a get together. She’s happiest surrounded by her children (despite their ages—and I’m aged).

Adventure intrigues her. She’s scuba dived with my family, traveled to Russia and Egypt and Turkey. She’s seen Europe—both alone and with family.

And her art work is beautiful. Whether in oil, pastels or watercolor, my mother knows art. We spent hours in the Metropolitan Museum of Art studying the masters. Our homes are decorated with her “cast offs” which intrigue friends who see them.

She’s been married three times and widowed twice. Sometimes her husbands created difficulties hard to bear. However, she never speaks ill of any. She understands human nature, sees the good through the bad and loves unconditionally.

Today, July 27, she turns 80. I can’t imagine life without her, so she better last at least another twenty years. Happy birthday, Mom.