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~ The adventures of Richard and Julie Lary

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Monthly Archives: March 2012

Staycation to Celebrate my Birthday

28 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by rajalary in Seattle, Travel

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Emerald Country Carriages, Julie Lary, Olympic Sculpture Park, rajalary, Rich Lary, Seattle Aquarium, Sky City Restaurant, Space Needle, Waterfront Marriot

Secrets Unraveled

For the past month or so, Rich has been planning a surprise weekend get-away to celebrate my birthday. He said that I’d be told what to bring, and nothing further.

Sure enough, Saturday morning, I was instructed to pack comfortable and “nice” clothing along with a jacket in case it got cold. Indecisive and uninformed as to whether we’d be taking a ferry to an island, staying in a hotel, pitching a tent, or staying in the motorhome, I packed for every possible scenario, taking three times more clothing than I could possibly need.

I first I thought we were heading to the freeway, but then it occurred to me Rich was driving to Shari’s, one of his favorite places for breakfast, and a Pacific Northwest chain. He ordered his customary fajita chicken omelet, and I opted for my usual eggs benedict with fruit. One can never have too many goopy eggs sopped up with bits of soggy English muffin.

Back in the car, Rich plugged in the GPS, which indicated our next destination was just 21-minutes away. I guessed we were either going to downtown Kirkland or Bellevue. Rich said I was wrong as we headed down the freeway Seattle. He also commented that he may have “input a waypoint into the GPS to throw me off track.”

I was still in the dark when we parked in a garage by the Bell Harbor Marina, and the terminal where the cruise ships dock. As we walked along the water front, Rich seemed a bit distressed. A light bulb went off in my head.

A few weeks earlier, Rich had commented we should use the coupons in our Entertainment Book. “Are we going to the Seattle Aquarium,” I inquired.

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re heading the wrong direction,” I snickered, smiling shamelessly.

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Seattle Aquarium
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I’d never been to the aquarium so I was pleased with Rich’s decision to use the two-for-one coupon. Unfortunately, the aquarium, in my opinion, didn’t live up to its fanfare. Although, I did enjoy tormenting starfish, urchins, sea cucumbers, and anemones in the petting tanks, and it was fun to see the tropical fish (reminded me of snorkeling in the British Virgin Islands). And I’m always amazing by seahorses. They seem too fantastical to be real.

I was thinking about why I’m usually disappointed by aquariums and I came to the conclusion that it takes only a few minutes to watch twenty different species of fish swimming in a tank. At a zoo, however, it takes considerably longer and is more engaging to see twenty different animals, stopping at each exhibit, reading the signs, and observing the animals’ behavior.

Relishing the Waterfront

When we left the aquarium, the sun was shining bright, making it very pleasant to walk along the waterfront. We stopped to watch a cat scamper up a tree after a bird. The cat was owned by an elderly man who was associated with the First Nation wood carvers, who have a small area near the Seattle Center where they’re carving several totem poles. We spoke with the man for a while, mostly about the tenacity of cats.

Still full from breakfast, we decided to take a walk before Rich’s next planned activity, lunch at The Fisherman’s Restaurant and Bar. We headed to SoDo (South of Downtown), which has many very old, but elegant buildings, along with funky shops and restaurants. We turned down a narrow alley, which was blocked by a large horse trailer. In the adjacent warehouse was a huge Percheron horse, a breed of draft horse that originated in the Perche valley in northern France.

After doing a little research, I figured out the horse, Major, belongs to Phyllis Eide, owner of Emerald Country Carriages in Redmond. Standing 18.1 hands high and weighing 2,200 pounds, Major is one of the largest carriage horses in Seattle.

Because Major’s stable mate, Troy, a Shire/Percheron, wasn’t working that day, he was rather perturbed. He kept neighing and assertively pulling on his rope. Nevertheless, I got to pet him, and was given two carrots, which he noisily slurped up, barely pausing to chew before he swallowed.

Rich, meanwhile, stood outside the warehouse, nervously wringing his hands, convinced at any moment I was going to be clomped on or pushed over by the giant horse. He’s not overjoyed with my adoration for draft horses. I’m a bit scared of horses, but fearless when it comes to rushing up to a Clydesdale, Percheron or Shire.

After petting Major, we stopped in several upscale furniture stores that line Western Avenue. With seven cats, the idea of investing in new furniture is ridiculous. Aside from their claws, our cats are shedding machines, their fur ranging from black (Jujube) to white (Lila), and from short (Pu’Yi) to long (Zephyra).

Our appetites whet, we headed to the kitsch and touristy Fisherman’s Restaurant and Bar. I was mostly interested in eating the Alaskan Sourdough Bakery bread with whipped butter. Sourdough bread can be so wickedly good!

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Seattle Scenes
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I also nibbled on salad, sautéed chicken breast, broccoli, and rice pilaf. Yes, I know it was a fish restaurant, but I ages ago I read an article, which inferred the freshest fish tends to be on served on Mondays. By the weekend, the fish that was delivered earlier in the week starts to get slimy and old.

I was going to get the swordfish, but know it’s full of mercury. Rich says they won’t serve a fish that was full of mercury, but “hello,” all swordfish is full of mercury! And halibut contains worms. And I can make salmon at home… you get the idea.

Rich had a pasta dish with bits of seafood. It was tasty, but very rich with lots of cream. I was surprised when he pushed back his plate, having eaten only half of it. We’re not used to eating (and digesting) rich foods.

The best part about lunch was the view! Located at the end of Pier 57, the restaurants affords views of Mount Rainer, The Olympics, Elliott Bay, downtown Seattle, ferries going to the islands, and a construction crane building a pier to hold a 175-foot high Ferris wheel, which will open in a few months.

The wheel will have 41 enclosed, air-conditioned gondolas, and cost $12 to $15 per ride!

A Room with a View

With the weather getting warmer by the moment, Rich announced our next stop was the Olympic Sculpture Park, at the far end of the waterfront. We meandered, stopping to see a sculpture contest, watch boats go in-and-out of Bell Harbor Marina, and admire the wealth of people, kids, and dogs enjoying the yellow orb, which occasionally appears from behind Seattle’s overcast skies.

As we walked past the Marriot Waterfront, Rich commented we should go inside. I found his request rather strange because we NEVER go inside fancy hotels! Nevertheless, I was in “follow-mode” and was happy to see a very attractive, large glass sculpture in the lobby, which I immediately started photographing.

Peering through the lens of my camera, I noticed Rich was standing in line at the registration desk. Sure enough, he had made a reservation for a room with a view of the waterfront. Sneaky. Sneaky!

Our room, on the third floor, was amazing with a sizable balcony, king-sized bed, and all of the luxuries you’d find in a 4-star hotel!

Because our room wasn’t ready, we continued our stroll to the Olympic Sculpture Park. One of the nicest features of the park, aside from the many meandering trails, swatches of deep green grass, and dramatic sculptures, are red, metal chairs. There are a couple dozen scattered around the park. You can grab a couple and move them to where you’d like to sit.

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Seattle Waterfront Marriot
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Throughout the park, you can see people sitting in these red chairs, becoming like the sculptures, part of the artwork.

It’s a very pleasant experience… and presented a perfect opportunity to snap another one of our “famous” self-portraits.

After checking into our room, and with several hours of light left, we trotted down to Pike’s Market. I wanted to buy a bouquet of flowers, but they were mostly composed of tulips and daffodils, both of which I’m growing in my own garden. Instead, we looked at the produce, bought two plums to nibble on, wandered among the stores, saw the famous “gum wall,” and then on the way back to the Marriot, purchased wafer cookies and chocolates at World Market.

The only negative of the day was twice bumping into tables staffed by Lyndon LaRouche (LaRouche PAC) cuckoos that had posters of President Obama with a Hitler mustache, and the inferences that he’s going to start World War III.

I lost my cool when I initially saw them at a table near the Seattle Aquarium. I pointed out Obama’s policies weren’t even close to Hitler’s determination to take over countries, kill people, and dominate the world. Another set of crazies had set up a table by Pike’s Market. This time, only Rich approached them, trying to determine how they’d arrived at their misguided points-of-view. They claimed several retired US generals said Obama is planning to attack Iran. Then they had the gall to ask Rich to give them some money.

This week, I listened to LaRouche the ludicrous, who was imprisoned for six years’ because of conspiracy to commit mail fraud and tax code violations. He said that President Obama is mentally incompetent and a British agent who gets his order from Britain (British Empire conspiracy). Oh yeah, I forgot, Bozo Bush, the village idiot was brilliant free-thinker, and not a puppet of the ruthless, heartless (he had to get a new heart because his shrived away) hawkish Dick Cheney.

Steam comes out of my ears even now, typing this account of the encounter with the LaRouche lunatics.

On Saturday night, for dinner, Rich had originally planned for us to eat at a snazzy restaurant at the Westin Hotel, but I opted for more simple and affordable food at Romio’s, a pizza and pasta joint a few blocks from the Marriot. We had a splendid meal, eating half, and bringing the rest back to our room, where there was a refrigerator (We had the rest of the food on Sunday and Monday evenings).

At Romio’s, we both had huge salads and split some dolmates (stuff grape leaves). Rich then had a few bites of fettuccini with shrimp in a sauce that was half alfredo and half marinara sauce, and I had some scrumptious tortellini with black olives, artichoke hearts, capers, and feta in a pesto sauce. We then asked for doggie bags, and happily tottered back to the Marriot to watch a little TV and enjoy the view from our balcony before conking out.

Table with a Revolving View

The next morning, Rich insisted we leave the Marriot by 9 a.m., saying we had to be at our next destination by 10 a.m. He also instructed me to put on nice clothes. After loading our suitcase in the car, we head north to the Seattle Center. Rich had made reservations to have brunch at the Sky City Restaurant, at the top of the Space Needle.

While waiting to enter the Space Needle, we bumped into two women we’d seen the night when we shared an elevator. At the time, Rich commented to one that the candy bar she was eating looked good. She reached into her coat and handed us two mini Three Musketeer bars!

The next morning, we talked to them briefly, laughing at the unlikely coincidence of seeing them the night before. They were visiting from Portland, and like us, waiting to get into the Space Needle.

Inside the Space Needle, we took an elevator to the observation deck. It was amazingly clear, perfect for taking pictures.

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Space Needle
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We then walked a short flight of stairs up to the restaurant, and were seated by a window where we could watch Seattle slowly spin by, as the restaurant rotated 360-degrees, every 47 minutes. The brunch consisted of three courses: Appetizer, entrée, and dessert. Rich has clam chowder soup with razor clams and bacon, followed by poached salmon with Chinese broccoli, roasted potatoes, pomegranate seeds, and a lemony sauce.

I had tomato bisque with a mini grilled cheese “bite,” egg benedict with crab cakes and breakfast potatoes. We both had apple/cranberry cobbler for dessert with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. We were also served a selection of sweet breads. I had lemon, and Rich chose pumpkin.

The food was very elegant and good, so good that I decided to eat half of my main course and bring the rest home… which I ate for dinner.

After brunch, Rich wanted to go to a home improvement show at the Seattle Convention Center, but parking was a challenge, and the fabulous weather beckoned us home. I spent the rest of the afternoon gardening, planting dahlia bulbs, racking up leaves, pulling weeds, and wonder when my spring bulb are going to bloom.

Check out the pictures from my very memorable and thoroughly enjoyable birthday weekend.

Morris Ridnor Gets a Motorcycle

15 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by rajalary in Rose's Writings

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Indian motorcycles, Julie Lary, morris ridnor, rajalary, rose ridnor

My grandfather, Morris “Red” Ridnor, was a slight man, not much more than 5’ 5”, 100-pounds with screaming red hair, extraverted personality, and a mischievous streak, having been babied by his seven older sisters. He was a natural story-telling, finding humor in even dire situations.

He was also nuts about motorcycles.

Wanting to join the army, in the midst of World War I, he ate a bunch of bananas and drank copious amount of water so he’d weigh enough to get accepted. Once in the army, it became clear he was too little to be put on the front lines. When asked if he knew how to drive a motorcycle, he assertively said “yes.”

He was asked to chauffer an officer around the area. Unbeknownst to him, the vehicle was a motorcycle with a sidecar. The weight of the officer and sidecar was difficult to balance and within minutes, my grandfather plowed into a mess tent!

Decades later, when my grandfather was in his 70’s, he visited the family who lived across the street from us. They had boys, one girls, a couple of aquariums of snakes, and a small mini bike. Yes, my grandfather talked them into letting him ride it. There he was, 70-some-odd years old, zipping up-and-down the street on a bike meant for a kid!

My grandmother, Rose, wrote about my grandfather’s first and subsequent adventures on motorcycles.

w w w w w

Ever since brother-in-law Hy gave him a bicycle for his Bar Mitzvah, Grandpa’s great dream had been to own a motorcycle.

He would make a nuisance of himself at the shop on 79th Street [Manhattan], inspecting the machine parked on the sidewalk, asking questions, asking prices.

Finally came the day he could enter the store with dignity befitting a man who had ten dollars cash in his pocket. It had taken a year of working to accumulate the few dollars not needed elsewhere; now they were burning a hole in his pocket.

For $45, $10 down, balance 60 days, Mr. Stein, the proprietor, let him have a 1917, on cylinder, pedal starter Indian.

Mr. Stein didn’t think to ask his age, evidentially assuming he was sixteen, so Grandpa didn’t volunteer the information he was only fifteen. But, with fingers crossed, he answered yes, his father did know of the purchase and approved.

A contract was signed, and into Grandpa’s hands was delivered a beautiful dream.

Had he ever ridden a motorcycle before? No, but that would be no problem, he assured Stein and himself. After all, he was a real pro on a bicycle.

Rarin’ to try out the symbol of his adult stature, he listened with impatient mind to a quick course of instruction.

“Foist,” Mr. Stein said, pointing out the various controls, “t’row out da clutch, den pedal until ya get rolling’. T’row in clutch, release spark on dis yere right handlebar; open gas t’rottle on dis yere left handlebar. Easy like, jest a toin of da wrist. And dat’s all. Da engine starts and ya’ rollin’,” he grinned and waved his hand triumphantly.

“Ta slow do’n, jest toin the gas t’rottle in opposite direction. Ta stop, shut off da gas, step on brake pedal, t’row out clutch. Dats all. Got it?”

Grandpa nodded vigorously.

“So get goin’. Go d’n East End, sving ‘round and come back. Get on. I help ya get started.”

With alacrity, Grandpa straddled the seat, fingers firmly gripping handlebars, feet on starter pedals.

Stein got alongside, hands holding onto the saddle and back fender, and as he ran along pushing and shouting instructions, Grandpa pedaled, ready to manipulate clutch and spark.

Suddenly with a quiver and shake, and a mighty RRoooMMPP… a-w-ay he went.

At first, it was a frightening sensation. The motor seemed a monster, headstrong and beyond control, bent on speeding him to destruction. And when it swerved a bit, Grandpa’s heart skipped a beat. He tensed, his fingers wrapped around the handlebars, his knees hugged the gas tank so tight he became as one with the machine.

But as he found himself still upright and rolling smoothly along, he relaxed. Now it became a wondrous, glorious thrill. He raised his head; the wind stung his checks, ruffled his mop of red hair.

He felt tall and powerful. Imagine, he, barely past the hundred mark, master of a monster, weighing over double his weight. And look, Ma, no pedaling. What a joy!Rose_cropped

Gaining confidence, he twisted his wrist to feed more gas. And more. And just a little more.

Now he was going too fast. Instinctively, his wrist turned in reverse direction. But nothing turned with it. He tried again.

Something was stuck. The cycle wouldn’t decelerate.

The harder he tried, the faster the cycle seemed to go. He was probably going no faster than 25 miles per hour, but in those days of slower pace, it seemed like flying, and the roar of the motor added to the feeling of speed.

Telling himself not to panic, he concentrated on unsticking the throttle, and completely forgot he could apply the brake.

Now he was approaching the intersection of East End Avenue, beyond, which stretched a planked walk with a foot high wood curbing on the piers over the East River.

He decided to make a right turn into the avenue….. a wide swing… but heavens preserve us, look….!

Down the avenue, heading into the same intersection, clippety-clopped a team of tremendous draft horses, pulling a huge wagon.

Grandpa’s mind whirled. He couldn’t slow down, too risky to jump off; a right turn might miss the horses, but smash him into the wagon; straight ahead he’d plough right into those animals, couldn’t miss.

Either way, he was a goner. What to do?

Too late. Time had run out.

Gluing his seat to the saddle, his fingers to the handlebars, neck into shoulders, forcing his eyes from the approaching team, he braced himself for carnage.

There was a whizzing blur, the sound of distant shouting, and whoosh, he shot across the intersection missing dooms by a split second, continued racing on, still tensed up, and WHAM! With a bone-jarring, teeth-rattling jolt, the front wheel of the cycle hit the curbing, releasing and ungluing the rider at all points, and beyond.

Without pause, up rose the cycle’s rear wheel standing it on end. Up, over and out, like a human cannonball shout out of a gun, soared Grandpa into space. Over in a somersault, out into a flat sprawl, and spa..l..ash… a bellyflop into the cold wetness sending a fountain of water into the air.

Another splash and the cycle hit the drink. Both sank like stones, but after a moment Grandpa rose to the surface sputtering and spewing.

He didn’t panic. He was no stranger to the waters of the East River. When he was about ten and lived on 9th Street, the river was the ‘ole swimming hole.

There they would come, a whole gang of barefoot 9th Street kids, to escape the stifling heat of the tenement streets and luxuriate in the smelly, dirty coolness of the river.

Stripping down to underpants, the ‘affluent’ would have swim trucks, they would pile shirts and pants on the ‘chiggy’ boy. Each boy took turns being “chiggy.’ It was his job to stay topside and at the first sight of a cop holler ‘chiggy’ and run with the clothes.

The swimmer would either hide behind the pillars or swim further downstream until the ‘menace’ had gone. Swimming in the river was now permissible, but the kids took their own permission.

They learned quickly the art of staying above water. They had to. There was no lifeguards around, or shallow water, and the tide was strong. You either swam or else.

When a non-swimmer came amongst them, the swimmers would go down first, string a rope from pillar to pillar. The beginner would then slide down the ladder, grab the rope with one hand and practice strokes with the other.

The others would climb the ladder pack to the planking, hold their noses and jump off, or execute what they thought were fancy dives or just plain plop in.

There were always a few older… 14 or 15 years… boys around. They were protective of the smaller ones, hauling them back when they ventured too far, keeping down horseplay, making sure they did not exhaust themselves.

There was no lack of activity on the river. Boats, large and small, barges, tugs, paddle wheelers, constantly on the move, up-and-down, hooting, wailing, and whistling.

Sometimes, they roughed up the waters, other times they created gentle rollers, and it was fun to roll along with them.

Every so often there would be cries of ‘goldfish’…. Excrements from the sewer outlet below… but, that didn’t faze them.

It is a wonder they didn’t come down with all sorts of plagues, but evidentially, they built up immunity.

So now when Grandpa found himself in the East River, he just took his bearings, swam with the current to the first ladder and lumbered up to the landing.

Shoes squishing, clothes dripping, he made his way home, climbed the five flights of stairs, opened the door, and met his father.

That old gentleman took one look at him so soggy and forlorn and exploded in alarm, “What happened to you!”

“I was swimming.”

His father stared incredulously, “With all your clothes on?”

Grandpa nodded numbly and squished into the bedroom.

There came a loud knocking at the door and an angry Mr. Stein strode in. But he was not half as angry as Grandpa’s father when he heard his son had been sold a motorcycle.

After six tries and coming up daughters, he finally sired a son. Trying again, and missing again, the fates called a halt and the count remained at 7 to 1. So Grandpa’s father looked with no favor upon any contraption that might deprive him of one for whom he so persistently labored.

By the time Grandpa’s father had told him off, Mr. Stein, beating a heavy retreat, was grateful he would not be sued for endangering the life of so precious a son.

It was quite a while before Grandpa ventured to own another motorcycle, and this time, Mr. Stein had no fault to find with payment. In the interim, Grandpa learned to ride expertly, through the generosity of his friends in lending him their cycles.

More often he’d ride the buddy seat, and occasionally when someone had to drop out of a planned trip, he’d fall temporarily heir to the cycle.

That was how late that summer he was the ninth member of a group on a weekend run to Albany. His first long run, about 150 miles. He was thrilled. The Great Adventure. And it made an excellent starter for the week vacation from his job.

Off they started this early Saturday morning for the Albany Post Road. Everything was going a-okay. The road may not have had the smoothness of roads today, but neither was the traffic as rough.

If anyone remembered that the speed limit was 30 miles per hour, no one mentioned it. With cut-outs wide open, creating an ear-splitting clatter, which may have been music to their ears, but startling to the drivers of cars going by (which I suspect is precisely why they did it), they gunned motors and competed in outracing and out-passing each other.

They were chewing up the miles and having a ball.

Grandpa was third from rear when the end cycle roared alongside and instead of a challenge to race, the driver was jabbed an urgent finger toward the rear. Then the other cyclist roared past also pointing to the rear. Grandpa took a look….. the law!

Quickly he joined the pack. Hunching over, heads down, they put on the speed… 35… 40… 45… 50…

When they were overtaken, one of them dared to look back. The officer was turning down a side road; he was giving up.

They slowed and shouted in glee. They had outrun the cop. He had a new Indian Chief cycle, more powerful than any of theirs, and he had chickened out. They felt triumphant, exhilarated, congratulating each other on superb riding.

Feeling pretty secure they formed into position, continued on but at a more moderate speed; only five miles above limit.

Some miles later, coming into Marlboro, there seemed to be an obstruction about a quarter mile ahead. It looked like a line of yellow ribbons fluttering across the road. One the side stood a small knot of people.

They slowed down. A bright light of comprehension slowly dawned in each mind. As they crawled up, there it was… a road block. A constable and two deputy sheriffs waited.

So the cop hadn’t chickened out after all. Why wear himself out chasing when a telephone call would do the job for him. Chalk up one for using the ‘ole noodle.

Making a great show of dismounting, they sauntered over to the welcoming committee. After answering a few questions without evasion, no sense trying to bluff it out, they followed the constable’s car to the courthouse in town.

As they rode, one assured the other that certainly no one would take seriously a bit of innocent fun by a bunch of young exuberant kids, especially since they were out-of-towners. The most they would get would be a severe tongue lashing.

Quiet and respectful, they stood before His Honor the constable, judge and jury. He recited a list of charges. Came the pronouncement… ten dollars or ten days. Each!

Ten dollars! Each!! Was he a joker or something? If they pooled all their money they could scarcely come up with ten dollars, let alone ninety dollars.

Ten days it was. Into the backroom they filed. The courthouse was a store building. In front, the sheriff’s office; in the rear several cells with barred windows looking out onto an alley.

But they were downhearted. Young, the eldest only seventeen, without cares or worries, they thought it would be fun. The Great Experience. Something to boast about to their buddies hogtied to those dreary tenements.

And it wasn’t too bad. Word about them got around town, and in the evenings young girls would come to the windows brining ice cream cones, candy, the makings for rolling cigarettes.

The talk, wisecracks, bragging would flow fast and furious, as with young folks anywhere. The boys went all out trying to impress the girls with their worldliness. After all, they did come from the Big City.

The evenings went quickly, but the days did not. Farmed out to pick currants, they were driven to the fields at seven in the morning, returning at five. Pay, a dollar a day. Fifty cents went to the sheriff for transportation and lunch, the rest to the boys.

It was sun-scorching, back-breaking work even if they made sure not to overwork, and it did them no harm. The fresh clean air sharpened their appetites. They were fed plain, but wholesome food, so that on return Grandpa’s father was well pleased with the way he looked, and the weight he had put on during his weeks’ vacation with a farmer in the country.

The field were not worked on Sunday so the constable lopped a few days off and they returned to life as usual.

But all through the year, Grandpa kept remembering the farmer’s invitation on that last day. “Iffen any you fellers wanna come back next year, you come right along. And bring ya friends.”

Rose Ridnor

March of the Ants

06 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by rajalary in Rose's Writings

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Tags

ants, Julie Lary, rajalary, rose ridnor

My grandparents lived in a small stucco bungalow in Burbank, with a great room in the front, dining room, kitchen and laundry room to the left, and two bedrooms and a bathroom with pink tiles to the right. A few steps down from the great room and off the laundry room was a den, which had originally been a large patio.

Off the den was a large concrete patio with a metal awning. Often, there was a trail of little black ants traipsing across the patio, lining up in single file to sneak into the house through a crack in the foundation.

I was intrigued by the ants. They were very tiny, delicate and determined. My grandmother wasn’t overly concerned with them, leading me to believe it was okay if they entered the house in search of food and water.

Until I met fire ants in Texas, I never felt a need to harm an ant. Instead, I was amused by their tenacity. The most assertive action I took against them was to place a leaf or rock in front of one of their parades to see if they went under, over or around the obstacle.

This essay by my grandmother, written in September 1963, explains why she didn’t bother to put out ant poison.

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I wish to heavens ants would stay out of my house. I hate to kill them.

They are so industrious. Scooting around on all fours…? Sixes? Eights? They push, pull, balance bits of matter a mere pinpoint to several times their size.

As so adventurous. You will find scouts reconnoitering the territory from the farthest, darkest corner to the ceiling overhead, and rug underneath.

I came into the kitchen this early, barely light morning and groped to the sink to draw water for the cereal. Something looked odd. I put on my glasses, turned on the light… the sink and thereabouts was just black with ants.

Rose_croppedI shook my head in wonder and despair. Some weeks before when company came to dinner, I was just too exhausted to finish the last of the dishes. With misgivings, I stacked them in the dishpan, and went to bed worried that I would have to fight an army of ants the next morning. There was nary a one.

Now here with everything clean and dry, with absolutely nothing around, the place was crawling. So it might be as my friend says, they come not for food, but water. This late in the summer, with no rain, the grounds are dry no matter how much we hand-water.

Looking to plug their point-of-entry, the best way to rid of ants, I followed their narrow black ribbon, three and four abreast, some coming and some going. I was absolutely amazing by their circuitous route.

From the sink, they traversed 40 feet of counter, slithered down the wall to the floor, to the door opening, hugging the baseboard, and then zigzagging across the laundry to the door of the den, a few steps lower than the rest of the house.

Instead of taking the long way, marching down the two wide and deep stairs into the den, they veered to the far corner of the door sill, skimmed down the wall, and across the floor until they encountered a throw rug. You and I would simply have gone right across the rug, but for some reason, they circled it to reach the opposite side.

Angling off, and maneuvering an obstacle course of table and chair legs, they ended up at a tiny opening beneath the baseboard in the paneling. Tunneling through they reached the outdoors.

In a straight line, their march would cover 32-feet, but with the zigzagging, detouring, backing up, circling, I would add at least three feet.

Now 35 feet, doesn’t seem much of a distance, until you consider that a man, built perpendicular, could project his whole body about 15-20 inches at one stride, whereas an ant built horizontal, must cover the entire distance with his body.

If an ant is about ¼-inches long, he would need to propel himself four times to cover an inch; 50-60 steps to a man’s one. Thirty-five feet equals 420 inches; if a man’s stride covers 20 inches he would need to take… oh dear, let me not get mired in deep waters.

I wish I was a mathematician so I could figure out the comparative distance between man’s and ant’s journey.

Another remarkable thing, if an ant has climbed the outside wall of the kitchen, stolen through the window over the sink, snooped around, and Eureka! Water! I could understand that!

But it had to cross the den, climb stairs to the laundry, and then to the kitchen, and finally, mount counters to reach the sink. It must have taken real scouting and a power nose to smell out water at that distance. And it could easily have been misled by the door leading into the living room at the opposite end of the den. There wasn’t an ant within eighteen feet of it.

And there was no fooling around. From closing the kitchen door at night to opening it the next morning was only eight hours; considering their size not a very long time to scout, report, organize, and get a continuous line moving both ways.

There must have been thousands upon thousands of these uninvited creatures, but when they left there as not one bit of evidence around of their visit, as would be with other pests. They are clean.

But much as I admire them, they gotta go! If I turn my back, they will walk off with the house!

Rose Ridnor

No Broom Can Compete. Silence Broken.

04 Sunday Mar 2012

Posted by rajalary in Rose's Writings

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Rose_croppedNo broom sweeps as cleanly as does the wind. With huffings and puffings it swirls every bit of leaf, debris and earthly dust neatly into corners and against curbings.

But better be quick and pick up the litter for without warning, it could well reverse itself and scatter every last bit of leaf and debris into as slovenly a mess as only the wind can make.

w w w w w

Living just off a main avenue, with cars constantly tearing up and down the street with plentiful of neighborhood children, exuberant with laughter, shouts, cries, quarrels, passing the door, afoot, on bikes or skates; with planes zooming overhead, sonic booms rattling doors and windows; a neighbor who if he isn’t beating his drums in frenzied abandon is, as any hour of day or night, blasting his hi-fi with the kookiest jazz, there aren’t many moments of absolute silence.

So when one early Sunday morning I stepped out alone into the patio, and there was silence, a golden silence, it hit my ear with an acute awareness.

Even the air was still. Not a cloud moved in the deep, blue sky. All the world seemed asleep, and I held my breath for fear of arousing it.

I bent to turn the sprinkler key, for that is what I came out to do, but as the sound of the squishing water, I quickly turned it off. Let all be quiet. Let nothing destroy so rare a moment.

To accent the hush, form the tree over yonde4r came the rustling of leaves as a blue, feathered, grey breasted bird flitted from branch-to-branch. It trilled a long observation into space. Back came a short chirp. Then a chir…eee, chir…eee… as another joined the conversation.

A wonderful glorious symphony of musical silence.

Then, RAHoo…oohooo… The quiet was shattered, the magic broken. Down the street, a motor was laboring in a harsh whine. More ohoos, then VAHroom… roohm… brip.p.p.p… the engine sprang into noisy life.

Well, so be it. Let noise reign supreme. With a vengeance, I turned the sprinklers on full force, returned to the house and slammed the door tight shut.

Rose Ridnor

Invocations #10 and #11

03 Saturday Mar 2012

Posted by rajalary in Invocations

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May 2, 1984

We meet here today, O Lord, in celebration of two events: Mother’s Day and the 8th anniversary of the founding of our Emanuel Seniors.

For all the original members who, by Your Grace, are still with us, and all who have joined since, we offer up our thanks and appreciation.

We hope it is Your will that we Emanuel Seniors keep meeting in mutual friendship and interest for many anniversaries yet to come.

June 6, 1984

In these years of our life, O Lord, when all is not as it was, and those we know grow fewer in number, we are ever more aware of our need for the sound of a friendly voice, and the touch of a friendly hand.

And just as we need, so do others.

With bowed head we ask Your help, O Lord, to keep our mind and heart free of ill-will and ill-thought, so we may be ever ready to extend a friendly hand and a friendly word to those around us, and to our own self.

Both of these invocations, written a roughly a month apart, have the same themes: Friendship, appreciation, and the ability to offer solace. My grandmother was 77 years old when she wrote them. She would live another thirteen years, passing away less than a month after her 90th birthday.

As one ages, they naturally lean towards strong, mutual friendships that can offer a kind voice, loving touch, and warm thoughts when it becomes challenging to do daily activities, and little aches and pains become more bothersome.

My grandmother, however, never seemed to outwardly need the support of others. While a tiny woman, she was emotional and physically strong, and the one to offer rather than ask for help.

In 1954, at the age of 47, she wrote in a journal, “Some children believe in an equal division of the family – the “givers” (the parents naturally) and the “takers.” My mother, her daughter, would have been 21 at the time, either living at home or with a man named Herbert Ross.

Recently, I was told my grandmother was mortified my mother was living with a man. She would try to cover up the scandal, making up stories as to why my mother wasn’t home. Ironically, after my father passed away, when I was nine and my brother eleven, my mother reignited her affair with Herbert. My brother and I were asked to lie about her liaisons

For nine years, we feigned ignorance about the cars in the driveways, man in the house, trips to Mammoth (where he had a summer and ski camp), mid-week escapades, why my mother couldn’t come to the phone, and much more.

In 1965, at the age of 56, my grandmother wrote, “Gratitude to the parents for past favors is not passed back to the parents, but on to the new children. But the ingratitude comes roosting home to mama and papa. So for your own peace of mind, expect no gratitude from your children, and try to overlook and not make an issue of their ingratitude.”

My mother was 35 at the time, and no doubt, wrapped up in her own life with two children, and a husband who worked six-days a week at his garment factory in downtown Los Angeles.

Even though my grandmother wrote “expect no gratitude from children,” she’s wrong. A person’s role, whether a child, parent, grandparent or friend, isn’t what determines their ability to express gratitude. It is the person.

And while my mother seemed to have little gratitude towards her mother, as a granddaughter, I’m deeply appreciative to my grandmother for having given of herself, asking little of me except to listen, learn, and one day, put my writing to good use.

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