Ram Raksha

I approached the lovely white house with black shutters apprehensively on foot, after having driven by at least five times.  I shuffled with shaky knees up the front walk on a suitably gray day. I lifted my hand to the bell, held my breath and rang.  A small old man in a button up shirt, khakis and thick glasses answered the door. “Hi,” I said, “my name is Jennifer Sherrill. It’s nice to meet you. I am your granddaughter..”

Growing up, I had heard stories of this imposing house and judgmental man. I had heard how my mother had been brutally turned away for not being rich enough or classy enough for my father and as a result, neither was I. However, as I had always suspected, I had heard wildly altered versions of the truth. Though I was aware of this house a mere hour’s drive from where I was attending university, it wasn’t until my third year of study that I had gained enough pride and self respect to attempt such a drive. Despite my nervousness and clumsily stated introduction, my grandfather did not bat an eye nor did he hesitate. He simply said, “Come in.”  

I visited him many times thereafter, having found a lonely old man whose wife had passed on the year before and whose children were wrapped up in the daily details of their own lives. While I had missed meeting my grandmother, my grandfather shared lovely stories of when they were young together. We listened to old recordings of big bands and Benny Goodman and I played my grandmother’s well loved, time worn, baby grand. I never asked about my father.  Those questions were not for my grandfather to answer. 

As time passed, the house was packed up and my grandfather moved to a small apartment in an assisted living community.  With each visit I could see him standing a little less tall, having a little less energy until one visit I showed up with an optimistic pot of daisies only to be told by the front desk that my grandfather had died. ‘I should have known,’ I thought, ‘How could I  have wasted so much time?’

  

My husband’s grandfather is taller than mine was and is rail thin.  He wears white loose pants and a white tunic, occasionally covered by a sweater vest despite the Thai heat. He has need of a pair of large thick glasses and has a full head of shockingly white hair, which in combination with his white clothing, gives him an air of a Santero priest.  He naps easily though massive chaos and watches hindi soap operas at an astoundingly loud volume.  He goes for slow meandering walks each day and on his walks, he lovingly picks flowers for his daughter, my new mother-in-law. 

He has witnessed the world change from the Indian perspective. He has lived through World War II, The rise and fall of freedom fighters, India’s independence from England, and the partition of a separate Pakistan.  He has seen his daughter leave India to build a life with her husband in Thailand and he has watched his grandson walk the ‘seven steps’ with his new fair American bride.  Yet every single day at the same time, he sits at the dining room table calmly reciting the Ram Raksha as a priest reciting his rosary. Occasionally, I sat with him, enjoying the ebb and flow of the ancient Sanskrit words. 

My husband and I have since left Thailand for our home in Chicago and his grandfather has returned to his home in India. However, there is comfort to be found in the knowledge of continuity and each day as this tiny old man begins his hymn to Ram, I imagine the ear of the supreme god Vishnu bending down to listen.

La Boulangerie

written on Friday, July 15, 2011 at 3:12am 

A few years back, I found myself in love and  boarding a very large plane headed for France. In preparation, I had managed to take one semester of French which added all of about six words to my sad arsenal. I was resolved to being the quiet american girl at every gathering. 

Leaving my Chicago students happily to their summer, I arrived in the south of France in June and instantly fell head over heels. Toulouse with her beautiful bridges, rosy buildings and periwinkle blue shutters immediately claimed my heart.  I was fascinated by the outdoor markets and tiny windy roads, all of which seemed to lead back exactly to where they started. Each morning, Jonny would hop on his bike and head off to work while I would meander aimlessly through town. I was fortunate that our apartment was next to the river as my first truly comfortable phrase in french became “Ou est La Garonne?” (Where is the Garonne river?)  As long as I could find the river, I could find my way home.      

Shopping was truly terrifying as every occasion to open my mouth merely exposed my ignorance.  I started at the larger grocery stores, the Champions and Carrefours where one can remain more anonymous and can read the amount owed at the checkout on the register. The entire event would require nothing more than a mere “Merci.” Eventually though,  the tiny inviting shops of Le Quarter Sept Deniers (our particular neighborhood) drew this painfully slow witted (in French only...) girl through their doors. 

‘Le Petit Jardin’  (the little garden) with it’s brightly colored fruits and vegetables was my first hurdle. The lovely shop owner with her frizzy grey hair and lawn chair perch repeated tirelessly the cost of my two tomatoes until at which point she got out her own money and counted out with me the paltry amount owed. I suspect that by the next day I had been a part of the local gossip as when I ‘Bonjoured’ my way into the boulangerie (bakery) for the first time, the beautiful thin woman behind the counter seemed prepared.  As I pointed to each object, she slowly stated the name, then waited patiently for me to repeat after her... “millefeuille” mill fweeee, “chocolatine” shaw co lah teen, “pain” paaaaayn. I visited her often and each time her smile grew more broad as my pronunciations came closer to not outright insulting her beloved language. On one such visit, a new item in a tiny terra cotta dish caught my attention. As I pointed in that direction, my impromptu teacher smiled knowingly and said “Creme Catalane.” I had been introduced to heaven.  Later that evening, I spooned tiny, smooth, richly creamy bites slowly into my mouth, letting the taste melt away before beginning the next blissful bite. I savored. 

When I bought the next bit of Creme Catalane, I told myself that I only wanted to have another pretty terra cotta pot to take home.  When I bought the next two, I said firmly to myself that a set of four pots was plenty.  When I wandered in, a few days later for the fifth, the lovely skinny shop proprietress stated with censure  “Plus!!?Vraiment??!?” (More? Really?)

Life has shifted as it tends to, and Jonny has become a past love. Not long after our parting, he left France for the familiarity of his home in Bristol.  I have since returned to Chicago, married and my husband and I have happily begun our adventure together.  Occasionally though, my mind wanders back to that lovely summer. However, I don’t feel the need to dwell on lost love.  Rather, I daydream of balconies overflowing with leafy color. I dream of being surrounded by a musical language while eating delicious cheese that looks (and smells) as though it had, that very morning, been excavated from an ancient tomb. I reminisce of a sweet afternoon demi peche (cold lager with peach syrup) and of evening glasses of warmth inducing wine.  I am nostalgic for friendly neighborhood "Bonjours" and I ache to overindulge once more with multiple pots of creme catalane.

Sometimes I catch a fleeting smell of my Toulouse; fresh baked bread, the river and rosemary hedges. To this end, I have planted an entire balcony’s worth of rosemary ...As a result, my husband suspects that I may be unbalanced ;) We are planning a trip next summer and while I can’t wait to share with him the beauty of Toulouse and her Pyrenees to the south, I worry...will one trip ever be enough? 

Bear Walker...

written on Monday, August 15, 2011 at 2:42pm

In American Indian folklore, the bear is revered as  a guardian earth spirit, a witness to birth, life and a companion to crossing into the afterlife.  However, to the Ojibwa Indians who populated the northern states and Canada, the Bear Walker is a feared shape shifter, wandering the nights as a bear while acting as an omen of horrible things to come. To less superstitious modern day adventurers, a visit from the Bear Walker is no less ominous as the Bear Walker is the bringer of uncontrollable anxiety and fear..causing one to make choices against one’s own best interests.  The Bear Walker can visit anyone.. a nervous bride, a camper lost and alone, a sick person afraid of the doctor..etc.  The Bear Walker exists patiently in all of us...waiting..

The summer I turned sixteen, I packed my bags and headed to the Northwoods of Wisconsin to while away my days as kitchen staff for a small sleep away camp.  Located about 5 hours north of Chicago in Rhinelander Wisconsin, Camp Algonquin sat on pretty little Lake Snowden, and offered accelerated academic learning programs coupled with water sports. I had begun my journey to this camp, convinced that I would be worked to the bone, feeding campers not much younger than myself. However, what I found unexpectedly was the beauty of bright stars reflected on a glassy lake. I found joy in the night time playing of an old out of tune piano in a lodge with bats chirping from the massive fireplace. I found a lifelong obsession with kayaking and I found peace in the soothing call of a loon...

Our first week was camper free and designated for staff training as we all learned our routines. Life was not nearly all work though and on our third night in residence it was announced that, following campfire, there was to be a bear hunt.  There were to be no actual harming of any bears involved, merely a simple late night stroll through the woods in hopes of spotting a cuddly big bear.  After about a ten minute walk down a gravel road, we took a tiny trail into the depths of the forest, making noises as only a group of twenty inherently does. Foliage closed in, blocking out the stars and filling our nostrils with the scent of humidity and pine. After a few minutes of imposed silence, we heard the first twig snap. We all froze, my palms clammy and my heart racing.  ..Snap!! (held breath)  Crack.. (I grabbed the hand of the person nearest) ...CRASH!!!  Our hiking guide unnecessarily shouted at us to turn and run.  We raced out of the forest and halfway down the gravel road towards camp, our hearts leaping in our throats and our first bear hunt under our belts.  Later, I was told that there weren’t actually any bears in that particular forest, rather just a slightly chubby camp owner who found joy in scaring the wits out of his staff and campers.  However, the bear hunts continued through the summer and as the staff was loathe to spoil the fun for any of the campers..we kept the lack of bear tidbit to ourselves.

To celebrate the dog days of summer, my new husband and I loaded the car with our usual travel fare... Coke zero, granola, a road atlas and a complete lack of conviction as to where we would be spending the night. We kissed our massive cat goodbye, pointed the car north and were on our way for a week long wander through Northern Wisconsin. 

As we tend to get started late, dinner found us in a dreary gray Lake Geneva, merely an hour and a half from home. We fortified ourselves with a lake view table, clam chowder and close proximity to a lovely wooden bar complete with a carved bust of a woman.. and by ‘bust’ I mean an incredibly perky bust!!  I kept my eyes focused on the lake’s water and my soup while my husband’s eyes trained somewhere over my left ear towards a wooden nipple... 

We quickly made up for time in the trafficless Wisconsin evening and stumbled onto our trusty hotel standby, La Quinta, in Stevens Point. I finished out the night studying travel guides while “That 70s Show” played on in the background. In my reading I discovered that the town of Mount Horeb happens to be the Troll capital of the world and even has trolls guarding the bridge entering the city. However, at the height of my excitement, my loving and occasionally logical husband mentioned that we had already passed Mount Horeb by at least 150 miles and absolutely NOTHING could provoke him to turn the car back around towards that direction..not even trolls! (next road trip..) 

The following day, Ameya and I drove past my beloved Rhinelander and stopped for lunch in the lovely touristy lake town of Minocqua. Surrounded by a multitude of small lakes, Minocqua is perfect for countless watersports and is home to the “Min-Aqua Bats,” the world’s oldest amateur waterski team. (By the use of the word ‘oldest,’ I am convinced that they are referring to the age of each individual teammate?) There is also a downtown strip full of restaurants, and t-shirt shops in one of which Ameya bought a t-shirt emblazoned with “Call of Doody” (which parallels his favorite video game, Call of Duty..I can only pray that he doesn’t wear this shirt when he sees his patients!!) We wandered into a pool hall filled with healthy sized local high school kids and had a quick lunch of pizza and Pepsi, before piling back into the car and continuing north. (This was to begin Ameya’s horrifying discovery that absolutely No One in Wisconsin serves Coke.) 

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Wenabozho, the Ojibwa ‘Puck,’ had many adventures the world over. Upon finding himself on the shores of Lake Superior, he spotted the largest beaver he had ever seen. In his excitement, he built a dam of dirt and sticks, thus trapping the massive beaver. However, the beaver eventually broke free and as it swam away Wenabozho frantically grabbed large handfuls of the earthy dam, throwing them after the quick beaver. As each handful fell to the waters, an island was formed, and thus the Apostle Islands were born.  

  The Apostle Islands off the coast of Northern Wisconsin, were said to be named by french fur traders for the twelve apostles of Jesus but as there are 22 Islands, this name slightly lacks in descriptive quality. Taking the Apostles even further from their namesake is the presence of Devil Island. Story tellers say that all of the Apostles were at one time inhabited by the Ojibwa Indians...except for Devils Island as it was believed that countless evil spirits were already in residence. Devils Island is home to multiple sea caves formed, beaten and battered by the storms and tireless waters of Lake Superior. When the wind blowing through the caves is just right, chilling sounds can be heard echoing off the island, deterring potential visitors.  The Apostles are also home to a Cat Island, but as this is one of the smaller islands, it is unlikely that our obese cat would even fit..

At the beginning of each of our road trip adventures, Ameya hops into the driver’s seat (even though I am clearly the better driver..) and I grab the atlas to navigate.  Ameya, never truly knows where we are headed, merely a general direction.  He simply goes where I tell him to. (I hear that this is a very valuable quality in husbands.) After a combined driving time of about 8 hours, we saw our first signs for Bayfield, gateway to the Apostles.  We drove the last few miles excitedly before rounding a final bend, enabling us to see Bayfield, Lake Superior and the Apostles spread magnificently before us. We drove downhill into town, and stopped at the Winfield Inn office to get keys to our room and to pet what potentially could be the oldest cat on the planet.

Ameya and I had rented a cute cabin-like room at the ‘House on the hill,” which is aptly named since during our stay we hiked steeply up what felt to be a 45 degree incline after every glutinous meal in town. Upon getting our keys, We promptly dropped our bags on the outrageously comfortable bed, met our resident chipmunk and headed downhill to explore the town.  

According to a 2000 census, Bayfield has approximately 700 year round residents.  However, the Apple Festival in October brings nearly 40,000 visitors to it’s shores and at least half of the homes are weekend and summer homes.  For lack of a better word, Bayfield is simply beautiful, with it’s clean air, clear Superior waters, stunningly painted rambling victorian houses and incredible amounts of lush flowers and gardens. Bayfield has also been ranked as the ‘greenest’ city in Wisconsin and signs of that are everywhere in the abundant recycling bins, water conservation reminders, and general awareness of it’s inhabitants to be graceful good stewards of the beauty before them. The downtown strip is full of quirky restaurants, art galleries, ice cream shops and a multitude of colorful flower boxes.  .  

Each morning Ameya and I would lightly load up on granola (and in his case, Coke..) and each evening we tried a different restaurant.  For our first dinner, we found ourselves at Greunke’s with it’s clutter of 1940s memorabilia and world renowned fishboil (which unfortunately was not happening the night we were there.) We sat down happily to incredibly tasty fresh whitefish sandwiches and draft Leinenkugel. Ameya, who likes to point out when he is the only brown person in the room (he forgets that I was one of three pasty people at our wedding in Thailand) was surprised to see that we had been seated next to an East Indian man, his pale wife and their three young overly energetic girls.  Our next dinner consisted of flavorful pasta at Ethel’s who boasts of having Bayfield’s best pasta, but as far as I could see, Ethel’s was Bayfield’s only pasta. However I would easily rank Ethel’s above many of the Italian places I have eaten at in Chicago. We sat at a table near a genial pudgy older man with a beard, who I was convinced was actually Santa Claus for the way kids were gravitating towards him.

For our final dinner, we took the advice of our kayak tour guide and Bayfield resident home painter Rob and went to Maggie’s. Maggie’s is a unique restaurant in a hot pink and turquoise house (painted by Rob) filled with hundreds, if not thousands of pink flamingos.  We walked into an hour wait and happily ordered drinks to pass the time. (mine was coincidently named ‘pink flamingo’)  We both ordered broiled whitefish sandwiches which were amazingly generous in size and tasted wonderful. I suspect that in my future there will be late night unfulfillable cravings for this flavor.  Anyone visiting Bayfield MUST visit Maggie and her millions of flamingos! 

Bayfield may potentially have the nicest most warm shop keepers as store after store found us chatting endlessly with those behind the counter. In one particular case, we even hugged goodbye before leaving the store.  We met Rufus in one such store. Rufus is a gorgeous old English Sheepdog who acts as a large rug while his owner runs a small art gallery and stitches beautiful pictures into cards to sell. We were informed that the overly fluffy white and gray Rufus brings joy to people through visits to local schools, hospitals and retirement homes. He is extremely cuddly however, once one forgets to pet him, he gives a little yip reminding his admirer of his incredible bumbling cuteness.  While driving around to see area orchards, we ended up at Good Earth Gardens where despite closing time having passed, the owner, a proud older man with perfect posture, showed us around and pointed out broken branches and crushed flowers...signs of a visit by a local bear. We lingered, playing fetch with katie, his agile black lab and talked of our lives.  Everyone we met, it seems, visited Bayfield and simply never left.

Bonnie Bergman was working in another lovely shop filled with beautiful artwork from local artists including herself.  Despite there being a mere 15 minutes till closing, we instantly struck up a lively conversation covering all topics including our home and her youth in Chicago, our beloved pets..those here and those no longer with us, and our political views.  Bonnie comically informed us that she had been a radical in her day and now wears her ‘bleeding heart Liberal’ earrings.  I joked that my husband is secretly a republican but won’t admit it as he knows I wouldn’t have married him. We shared pictures of our kitties..ours via cell phone camera, hers in the form of a painting. And we bought a couple of cards with her beautiful paintings.. one depicting a lovely twilight lake bridge titled “There used to be a Bridge.” Upon our leaving, we hugged goodbye, and wished each other well, feeling as though we had each found a kindred spirit.

                                            ***********

Measuring 14 miles long and 3 miles wide, Madeline Island is the largest of the Apostles and is home to the tiny town La Pointe. Named for the Indian wife of a french fur trader, Madeline is the only island not to be a part of the Apostle Island National Lakeshore as it is open to commercial development.  Ameya and I enjoyed a 20 minute ferry ride from Bayfield to La Pointe, and had a light lunch of fish tacos at the beach while watching evil children chase baby ducks. After lunch we went off in search of a bear and gnome woodcarver I had read about, dreams of a Chicago gnome infested balcony filling my head.  However, dreams died as the price tag for a foot tall gnome read $400!! 

We rented bikes intending to cycle to the far side of the island to see the renowned lagoons, but upon reaching the far side of the island, we were told that bikes were not allowed into the park. Being from Chicago, where bikes magically disappear even when locked, we opted not to leave the Treks unattended while we went on a three mile hike.  We left the park, backtracked a few miles and continued on our way to the other side of the lagoons, where we vowed to not speak with any park rangers, hoping our feigned ignorance would be enough to explain the presence of our bikes in the park.  We stumbled onto a beautiful beach with clear water and colorful smooth stones lining the bottom at the mouth of the calm inland lagoons. 

Our trip back to La Pointe was filled with outdoor life as we spotted multiple deer, saved two fat fluffy catterpillers from the middle of the empty road, and tried to avoid squishing the grasshoppers as we rode on. Our path was a smooth flat two lane highway completely surrounded by thick trees, occasionally offering tantalizing glimpses of a blue Lake Superior.

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‘Tandem kayaking leads to divorce,’ or so we were told by our aforementioned kayak guide.  Rob was another transplant, as he had spent years living in Kenosha and working in Chicago before the lure of Bayfield won out. He and his wife, each around 40 years of age, spend their summers kayaking away, leading tourists on trips to the islands, sea caves and shipwrecks, while the off season months bring out Rob’s paintbrush. He led our group in a quick instructional class on how to paddle properly and to exit the kayak if it tips, before we lined up our kayaks on the waters edge.  I sat in the back with Ameya in the front and watched helplessly as he fought to hook his waterproof ‘skirt’ around the mouth of the kayak.  Minutes passed as other paddlers successfully launched while Ameya continued to struggle. Frustration mounted when near Ameya’s breaking point, the elastic of the skirt magically fit over the kayak and we were able to launch. We paddled leisurely while chatting with our guide about the surrounding area and normal non tourist life in Bayfield. We paddled past pretty sailboats, large lakefront houses and over a sunken shipwreck, while being informed by Rob that after years of marriage, he and his wife NEVER share a kayak.

Our departure from Bayfield was made slightly easier since the blue skies and sun that had blissfully marked our entire visit had been replaced on our final day by ominous dark clouds. After a morning visit to a local used bookshop (where I could have easily spent weeks..) we headed back through the rolling hills of the Amish country and raced storms into Steven’s Point where I had mindlessly left my phone days earlier.  a few hours later, upon encountering masses of road construction, we knew that home was near and the dog days of summer were soon to end...

Counting Sheep...

Written on Friday, March 18, 2011 at 2:35am

A few years ago there was another night when I had difficulty sleeping.  I had travelled solo to Ireland the week before Christmas, flying into Belfast with just a small carry on and the most snot filled cold of my life. (In fact, the cold that has kept me home recently doesn't even compare..)   I had rented a small car to drive to a tiny cottage on Lough (lake) Melvin between Donagal and Sligo. I had no experience driving on the other side of the road as the first roundabout nearly finished me off and my directions were full of such gems as "turn right at the holy well" and "follow the road past the old petrol station."  However, I somehow managed to find my way to my little cottage, having turned my projected two hour drive into a mere five.

 A couple days later, I finally felt healthy enough to explore past the safety of the cottage  and had driven into Sligo, the home and final resting place of the folklore king Yeats.  Yeats, who spent his entire life collecting stories of Irish spirits and fairies, had started my fascination with  Ireland. As a child I had read his collections and had come across one story in which a musician wandering home drunk from a gig falls asleep in a quiet field. He wakes up later to the most beautiful music he has ever heard and realizing he is hearing the fairies play, he eavesdrops shamelessly before returning home to play those very melodies he had overheard. I had come to Ireland for a similar sort of inspiration ;)  I meandered aimlessly through Sligo's cobbled narrow streets full of happy Christmas shoppers before buying some tea, cold remedy, soft kleenex and a couple books to while away the quiet nighttime hours.    

Sometime in the small hours of that night (the cottage lacked a clock) I was in bed reading.  The walls of the cottage around me were made up of large stones and a turf fire burned low in the fireplace next to the bed, emitting a wonderful warm earthy smell. Pillows were at my back and a heavy down blanket was pulled high. The headboard of the bed was against the window and a soft rain had begun to fall distorting the night outside.  

I was deep into stories of changelings and people being carried off by the 'wee people' when I heard a soft tapping at the window.  I nearly jumped out of my skin as I realized that I was in a secluded cottage further that a run away from any other and at such a late hour, my light was perhaps the only one visible for miles.  As my heart rate slowed, I rationalized the sound away, explaining to myself out loud that it was just a stray branch in the wind. After a few minutes I settled in and began reading  "The Piper and the Puca" when I heard the light tap yet again. I shivered in anxiety..was this my own puca coming to take me on a wild ride, or perhaps some crazed Irish mass murderer seeing an easy target...  I looked towards the window seeing nothing but darkness and raindrops.  'It's just the wind..just a branch," I told myself, "just a branch.."  Nervously I settled back into my pillow.  "RRRAT Tap TAP!!!!"  I lept high off the bed, quickly grabbing the heavy fire poker. After all, I would NOT go down without a bloody fight! I turned towards the window, quickly adopting a battle stance only to scream in girlish terror when confronted with the horrifying face of...... a sheep!?!!  

I immediately donned my shoes, flinging open the front door in my haste and moments later happily found myself in the middle of a dark misty Irish night sitting on the front door step while petting an incredibly fluffy and agreeable sheep. 

Upon my return to the States, my custom form asked if I had been in proximity to livestock.  I lied.

I hope you all had a wonderful St Paddy's Day and won't feel any Guiness induced nastiness tomorrow :)  And now I am off to count my sheep!