People Remembered: Rita Ladue: My Mom's Centennial--Born 100 Years Ago Today

July 27, 2016

Plattsburgh, New York

Ten years ago today, when I was toasting my mother for her 90^th birthday, I said with all sincerity that I was certain the entire group present would be gathered once again ten years hence, on her 100^th

That would be today.  July 27, 2016.  Had she lived, and at 90 it seemed quite likely, she’d be 100 years old.

My mother’s birth name was Anna Rita Boyer, but my mother told me just before she died that because there were so many “Anna’s” going around in 1916, her parents decided to use her middle name.  She was born in Saranac Lake, New York on July 27, 1916 to Homer Boyer, born Boyea in the Malone, NY area, and Alice Hamel Boyer from Redford.  There was an older brother, Larry, and a younger sister would come nine years later.  She was loved and nurtured and grew into a Saranac Lake that was culturally rich and more than a small town should have been in the 1930’s, largely due to the influence of TB patients who flooded into the village’s “cure cottages” for almost fifty years.

She finished high school in 1936, a year later than she should have.  In fifth grade she’d’ been diagnosed with a hearing impairment that would dominate her life until the day she died.  All of us who grew up with her lived in a world of a handicapped person—a skill that paid off over the years in our patience with other handicapped persons.

Rita went to Plattsburgh, NY to study business and worked for several years at Montgomery Wards as a bookkeeper.  She didn’t make much money and would often put things on lay away and pay for them over a period of time.  Each Christmas the Nativity set she bought that way adorns our Christmas world.

It was at Montgomery Wards that she met a young delivery man, Howard Ladue, and in time they got engaged.  This was all prior to December 7, 1941.  My father enlisted in the Army and my mother, upon the advice of her mother, broke off the engagement.  Fortunately, Howard came home and they were married on September 15, 1945.

Four years later I was born and three years after that my brother, Richard, was born.  By then we were living on Grace Avenue in Plattsburgh, but my father, who’d been comfortably stationed in Honolulu during the War, wanted nothing to do with winter and moved the family to Lakeland, Florida, and move that would affect my mother, and the rest of us, for the remainder of her life.  It was not a good move, and they returned to Plattsburgh less than three years later.

In one of my earliest memories, my mother, still in her 30’s, is making a picnic lunch for my brother and me.  It was the late 1950’s and Grace Avenue was still not fully developed.  There were still large swaths of undeveloped land that was once a quarry.  Small streams and rivulets ran through large flat plates of granite.  She’d make egg salad sandwiches and lemonade that she’d pour into old vinegar bottles.  She’d pack a blanket, we’d walk north, find a place on one of the flat rocks, and my brother and I would explore the polliwogs and wonders found in the small pools that seemed to be everywhere.

Life settled into normal routine.  We went to school, my father work on the railroad until layoffs forced him to find other work. In 1961 my parents bought a business they would own until 1976—Plattsburgh Telephone Answering Service.  At first the switchboard was in our kitchen, then moved within a short period of time to a new addition in the back of the house. 

The Service was a 24/7 operation and it’s what my brother and I knew as reality for much of our growing up years.

Once my brother and I were in school, my mother found part time work as a Welcome Wagon Hostess, welcoming many new young Air Force families into the community.  In time, after we were both out of the home, she worked for Catholic Charities for a number of years.

My mother was energetic and blessed with good health, a health that stayed with her well into her 90’s.  She liked people and entertaining.  She liked nice pieces of antique glass and very old and very expensive tea cups.  She loved to go berrying and some of my fondest memories of my mother are the days we’d pile into the car, drive to Onchiota or Blueberry Hill in Keeseville.  There, she’d get lost in the act of berrying, an act that could consume hours of her time.  Many times, especially if I knew she was going to Keeseville, I go along for the ride and sit on rock ledges overlooking Lake Champlain and spend hours reading a book.

She was a great gardener and her flowerbeds on Grace Avenue and then in her condo were always lovely.  Her skill in gardening was surpassed only by her skill arranging flowers.

She had a passion for “sailing,”—mapping out a rummage sale route on a Saturday morning and spending hours scouring Plattsburgh and Sarasota, Florida, neighborhoods in search of bargains.

She loved all things Catholic and was Catholic to a fault, often putting the church before anything else.  One of her greatest passions was the Retreat League that she’d joined in the early 1960’s and was an active member of until it disbanded in the early 2000’s.  For years, she and her friend Louise would coordinate the annual Retreat League bazaar held in mid-November.

She loved all holidays.  I can still see multiple boxes in one of the storage closets in the back den, each box labeled with a different holiday: Valentine’s Day, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving.  She embraced each person’s birthday and the night before the big day she’d set the table with one serving of her best china, best silver and best glassware.  Balloons hung from the chandelier and gifts surrounded your plate.  For your birthday you could have anything you wanted to eat.

But it was Christmas that was the centerpiece of the holiday year.  She loved Christmas and all

things Christmas.  Sometimes, I think she thought of it in one form or another all through the year.  Certainly, there was no last minute shopping in my mother’s Christmas world.  Gifts would be purchased and stored all year long.

In November she’d scour the countryside and gather up her Christmas greens that would be woven into wreathes for the front windows and ropes to grace the mantle on the fireplace.

In early December I’d come home from school to the rich, spicy smells of her applesauce cake that she’d give to all relatives and neighbors. 

Christmas dinner she’d pull out corn cut off the cob in August and fiddle heads picked in early May.  We’d have summer treats to celebrate her favorite day of the year.

Her love of Christmas was infectious and I know it was one of the things she mourned most as she aged.  Decorating, gift wrapping, and entertaining were all scaled back and I know that made her sad.

She was widowed at 78 and lived sixteen years after my dad died.  She did a fine job creating a new life for herself.  She was an open and friendly person and wanted to meet new people.  Many of those people never knew my dad.

Twelve years after my father passed on, and five months after she turned 90, my mother made another major life transition, leaving the condo she’d lived in for nineteen years and moving into Lake Forest, Plattsburgh’s only independent living facility.  For me, it was a great relief and I was grateful for the “event” that motivated her to move.

It was a good move for her.  While it wasn’t perfect, it was much better than living alone without real neighbors.  He social side needed the company Lake Forest provided. 

Three years later, almost to the date, we had to move her out.  It was horrible for all of us.  Her fierce independence had to be sacrificed.  “I want to move into a nursing home,” she’d tell me.  In the end that’s what happened.  In hindsight, we think she’d been having a series of mini-strokes that had finally make her legally blind. 

Less than four months later, on a lovely early spring day in April, she died.  It somehow seemed fitting for her to leave the world in a season she loved so much.  She was just in time to tend the spring plantings in Heaven.

We mourned, of course, but knew that is what she wanted.  What she didn’t want was to live the way she’d been living—she’d made that very clear to me for a very long time.  There was never any need to second guess decisions that would ultimately end her life.  Her blindness, on top of her profound deafness, was too much for her to handle.  I was never sorry to see her go, knowing she would have hated living in this condition.

All of this was happening while I was away.  Just after Christmas, with her settled into a new assisted living facility, I left for Chile and was more than surprised when I called her to find out that she was in the hospital.  I lingered in South America for a bit, but was drawn home.  She was waiting for me and once knew I was home to stay she stopped eating.  I fully realized she wanted to die and I fully realized she was waiting for me to start the process.  I had no problem accepting this. 

She left this world on April 9, 2010.  The last words she heard were “I love you” spoken to her by Vicki and myself.

She had what Spaniards used to call “The Good Death.”  We should all be so fortunate.

I am both my mother and father, as all children are an amalgam of both parents.  Like my mother, I’m happiest when I’m busy, when I create and when I’m doing things for other people. Like my mother, I’m easily burned and like my mother have stopped doing some things for some people because they have simply come to expect it.

We are, it’s true, a bit of this and a bit of that.  My mother’s this and that are who I am and I can no more get rid of them then change the color of my eyes.

I spent a career working with children and knew far too many dysfunctional families.  My parents were classic parents from mid-century and far from dysfunctional and I am who I am because of who they were.

I am grateful for my mother’s moral compass, for the beautiful things she taught me, for the encouragement she gave at so many levels.

If she were here today I’d take her for a ride, drive to Rolf’s and help her pick blueberries.  At day’s end we’d stop at Stewarts and indulge in ice cream—chocolate for Mom—then head to wherever home would be.

I can imagine her doing that today in God’s kingdom where I know she is.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Dan Ladue

July 27, 2016

Finding the Southern Cross: Day Hiking on Bolivia's Island of the Sun

Finding the Southern Cross:
Day Hiking on Bolivia's Island on the Sun

Austral autumn: April in the Southern Hemisphere. I'm sitting on the deck of my small guesthouse on Bolivia´s Isla del Sol--the Island of the Sun--wrapped in layers of wool and down, waiting for sunrise over the country´s Cordillera Real--its great Royal Range. Their snowcapped, 20,000 foot peaks dominate vistas from all points on the island. It´s been necessary to remind myself that I´m in the Southern Hemisphere, in the fall, and Lake Titicaca is actually 12,500 feet above sea level. The lake lies between massive ranges in the vast basin that comprises most of the altiplano of the northern Andes.

I’ve been on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca for over a week, day hiking on the lake's largest island. For the Inca, the lake and its islands were deeply spiritual. According to their mythology, both the sun and moon were born on this island. This was the sacred center of their world.

It´s been easy to slip into a circadian rhythm--wake at first light, follow the   sun´s diurnal path, then slip off to sleep when the sky has become a pallet of black and silver.

I start my day sitting on the deck of my simple guest house and watch the eastern horizon shade from black to grey to soft orange. The day is cloudless, the emerging sunlight white and dry, the sky a rich, deep altiplano blue that appears only at very high altitudes. The island comes to life.

There are no roads on this island--only ancient and extensive networks of paths built generations before. Two paths intersect below the balcony of my guesthouse. One heads northwest, to the other side of the island; the other climbs 200 steps to the island´s ridge, or drops 300 steps to water´s edge.

By 7:30 a.m. traffic is heavy: adolescents are hiking west to the island´s only high school and younger children are walking uphill to the small elementary school. Women carry hefty loads of handicrafts—colorful handmade woolen vests, scarves and ponchos made from alpaca wool, brightly designed place mats, and intricate silver jewelry with Incan designs—down to the lake where they´ll sell their goods to incoming visitors, most of whom just come for the day from the mainland. Men herd goats, sheep, llamas and donkeys in every direction. Within an hour the early morning flurry of activity settles down.

A sense of magic exhilarates me as I watch this morning´s ritual. I´ve not budged off the balcony since dawn and although this has been my routine for the past week, I still sit in wonder at what I see--an almost surreal feeling that I´m watching a film, set on a Greek island decades ago. Indeed, there is a deep sense of the Aegean here. The island exudes a strong Mediterranean feel. The sky is a cold, rich, brilliant blue and the lake reflects it back. But, a quick glance at the Cordillera confirms that I´m elsewhere--on the altiplano, in South America—the ¨Tibet of the Southern Hemisphere.¨

It's hard to budge off the deck, but I've been perched there for almost two hours; it´s time to eat and determine the course of today´s hike. All meals on the island are simple and breakfast is no more than fresh eggs, homemade bread and coca tea, drunk at every meal to assist in acclimatization. During breakfast I plan the day. Earlier meanderings have taken me to the island´s two highest peaks--well above 13,000 feet--and down to its shoreline. Today, I will satisfy my wandering by attempting a relatively straight forward path across the island from Yumani, my home base in the southeast corner of the island, to centermost Challa, then on to Cha´llampa, in its northwest corner--a distance of about six miles. From past experiences, though, the island´s beautiful walking routes have had their own way of luring me off trail. I

don´t imagine today will be any different. I´m told it´s a three hour walk, but I know it will take much longer. Today´s trek, like all the others, will not be so much a destination, as a journey.

It´s easy to pack: walking shorts, sturdy boots, a long sleeved shirt, a hat and plenty of sunscreen. At 15º latitude south the sun is powerful.

By 9:00 a.m. the sun has climbed high in the autumn sky and the island has settled into a routine—young people are in school, adults are where they are supposed to be. Animals have been herded to pasture, farm or market, and I´m on my way. I soon leave behind the mud and adobe structures of Yumani. Dropping away from me and rising well above me are the ancient pampas, or garden terraces. Today they are harvest-ready and richly abundant.

I stop often--not so much to rest, but to absorb what surrounds me, to listen to the silence, to observe this marvelous space and to listen to the low, distant sounds of waves lapping the shore and peoples' voices hundreds of meters away. The trail I´m on is mid-point between the lake and the highest peak. To my east, snuggled in a great, white blanket of clouds, is the Cordillera. I marvel at the spectacular view of Illampu at 20,897 feet. The day is very still and the sun is mid-autumn warm. I bank my back against a rock, watch and quietly listen.

Donkeys graze above me. I hear their brays and the quiet clucks of chickens. Two people tend their garden, digging potatoes by hand. The quiet conversation between two gardeners soothes me. A woman strolls by on the stone and dirt trail with her flock of sheep. Voices: a child crying, two girls talking in the distance.

The only other sounds are gentle breeze, the bleat of lambs, a steady buzz of bee and insect. This is a deeply sensual start of day. It’s mid morning, and I have a long way to go, so I move on—this time above the track on which I started.

I leave the trail, cut through paths that adjoin garden plots, and explore the landscape. I´m high above the sapphire blue lake--incongruous, really, against the parched Bolivian high plateau. I round a bend and encounter a herd of unattended sheep. By now the sun is hot. The only sounds are wind and chirp of bird. An almost unbroken silence surrounds me. By now I´m far off trail, which is perfectly fine by me. It´s almost impossible to get lost on this island.

Once again the landscape beckons me to sit. Far below, on another track, I observe an old woman, her back stooped, carrying a large bundle of firewood. Other gardeners are within sight, their fields quilted in muted shades of greens and browns, harvests of wheat, quinoa, corn, beans and carrots.

I don't know how long I sit, but the sun tells me it´s past noon. The heavy scent of sweet smelling koa bush and an Andean variety of wild thyme waft in the midday sun. Insects hum. The presence of ¨now¨ is overwhelming. I want this moment to last forever, because it's unlike anything I've ever experienced while hiking. The high, snow-capped mountains, arid landscape contrasted against the brilliant blue of the lake and the almost-perfect silence center me in the moment.

But this reverie can't last forever. I realize I´m far off trail and that I still have a long way to go, so I gather my things, and walk downhill, following one of the many garden paths, through scratchy scrub brushes, past multiple gardens, some barren, others filled with autumn harvest, past stands of high grasses then past fields of ripened wheat. Finally, after passing patches of heady smelling lavender, I reach the main cross-island trail.

I´ve come mid-point on my journey. I´m high above Challa. The village rises from the lake to form a wide, green, V-shaped valley. March is the beginning of the dry season and by now fields and hillsides have begun to lose the luxuriant green of summer. Groves of eucalyptus and cyprus dot the landscape. Homes fan out in all directions. The track I’m on is half way between the lake and the island’s highest peak. I hear the voice of a small group gardeners. Crops are tended at all points of the island and because it’s harvest time, many people labor in their fields.

I orient myself to voices, and the delicious smell of baking, and walk towards them. Two people dig potatoes. Another roasts a batch in a small fire built into the hard soil. Their donkey grazes in a pampas above them. I greet them and ask how far I am from Cha’llampa. “Three hours,” one of them tells me. It has taken me four hours to walk these first few miles.

But it´s past mid day—time for lunch. Even though I have no appetite—one of the physiological curiosities of life at high altitudes--I pull out crackers and cheese I´ve carried from the mainland and offer them to my companions. They, in turn, offer me small, hot roasted potatoes.

Small, hot roasted potatoes! This is where potatoes originated, and their taste is more intense, more delicious than ones we know in North America. We share this stunning meal, made more stunning by the people with whom I share it.

The trail beckons. I have to get to the other end of the island in less than three hours, and even though I want to stop and take a nap in the warm April sun, I push forward. No more wandering off track for me. It's time to stop this magical zigzag. It's well after mid-day and I decide to stay on track and resist the urge to be lured off—no easy task.

The scenic trail winds through rolling, scrub-covered hamlets, around bays and through sunbaked groves of eucalyptus. All this hiking is done under the white luminescent light of the high Bolivian plateau.

How could time have passed so quickly? It's the end of the school day and children walk home. Teenagers ignore me, but not the younger ones. The girls are dressed in pinafore-like dresses and wear broad-brimmed straw hats with a ribbon running down its back.

“Candy?” they ask me?

“Pencils? Pens?”

“Photo. Photo.”

I take their photos, give them the coins they ask for. These children are beautiful, innocent, isolated in a safe cocoon from the wider world. They are part of the magic. Free, as they are, from outside influences, they live a traditional island life that keeps them isolated from the chaos that pervades life off the island. Out of necessity, many of them will find themselves leaving. There is no hurry here to grow up.

By late afternoon I’ve hiked the entire length of the island’s ridge. I feel as if I’ve been walking in a dreamscape--an Andean version of a glorious European fairy tale. All around are thatched-roofed adobe houses, their gardens fat with corn and beans, larkspur and gladiola. Zinnias and asters provide a dazzle of color. I feel a sense of triumph as I finally reach the dusty, lakeside town of Cha´llampa. It’s taken eight hours to meander from Yumani to here, but at this hour hiking back is not an option. I haggle with a pescador, settle on a price, step aboard his fishing boat and ride the cold, wavy waters back to where I started.

Back in Yumani, at shore’s edge, I begin the slow 300 step walk back up to my guesthouse—no easy task after a long day’s trek. I shower and soon I'm sitting on the terrace looking out at Lake Titicaca, at the last boats ferrying people from one side of the island to the other. It’s early evening, and the Cordillera Real is tinged in pink alpenglow. Day begins to close. On the track next to my hotel women shoo small packs of llama and alpaca up the hill. A team of goats follows seconds later. The aroma of someone's dinner entices me to begin the long, steady climb to the island’s ridge, high above my hotel where I’ll find a smattering of restaurants.

I’m not completely acclimatized to being at 12,500+ feet above sea level and my ascent, up steps the Incas built centuries ago and whose descendants still use, slows, at times, to a step-by-step crawl. I still get light-headed climbing and breathing is labored. When I ascend, everything seems to be done in slow motion.

The isleños are settling in for the night. Three women sit in a sheltered courtyard and separate grain. A girl and her grandmother herd their sheep into a safe enclosure. A flock of chickens cackle into the soft autumnal evening. I am suddenly startled by a herd of goats racing down the path; a drove of ten donkeys follow. All around me I smell good things to eat.

At last I reach the 12,800 foot ridge and sit on the balcony of one of several restaurants. None can be distinguished from each other. All have the same menu, the same terrace, the same fabulous view. A full panoramic vista unfolds. Daylight diminishes. A small armada of fishing boats plies the night waters for trout and kingfish. The sun sets quickly over the western end of the island. Time stands still for a brief moment; day lingers to twilight, then to darkness and cold. The sky overhead has changed from blue to saffron to inky plum.

Dinner choices are few and plainly served—fresh lake trout or an omelet, a light vegetable soup with quinoa and coca tea. Once finished, I put on my jacket, slip on gloves and hat and step into the clear, cold antipodal night. With no ambient light, the sky is alive with color, texture and design. Venus and a rising sliver of moon hang in the east. The Milky Way is a great, white river.

Before I pull out my flashlight to guide me down the Incan steps, I search the sky, find the Southern Cross, locate its two pointers, and draw an imaginary line to its axis. I turn 180 degrees, face true north and whisper into the deep and silvered night, “Home.”

Back in my guest house, I slip between cold sheets, beneath a pile of alpaca blankets, give profound and humble thanks to my Creator God, and drift off to sleep.

I'm Daniel Ladudavich and I'm from Slovakia

Mexico City
April 8, 2016

De donde viene? Where are you from?

It's not an uncommon question here in Mexico. I'm clearly not Mexican and if there are any doubts, my accent gives me away immediately.

In other years it's not been too much of an issue, but in this year of the rise of Facist Donald Trump and his anti-Mexican stance, it's downright dangerous.

Twice I've been verbally attacked when I say I'm American. The last time was the last time.

Now I'm Daniel Ladudavich and I live in Slovakia.

Quick. What do you know about Slovakia?

Precisely.

A month ago I was on the beach in Acapulco. The week before Semana Santa. I was alone. There was really no one on the beach except the guy who rented me the beach chair, and he was usually sleeping and not readily close by. Even the normal number of vendors had dwindled. It was the calm before the storm of the Holy Week/Easter madhouse.

Late afternoon. A guy is walking down the beach, stops, asks me in broken English where I'm from. Everyone just assumes I'm American. I tell him New York.

He smiles. “I used to live in Philly. I worked in a restaurant. I loved Philly. Philly cheese steaks.”

The he changes. Fury wrinkles his face. “My wife is still there. My kids. I was deported. I hate your country. I hate Trump.”

He begins screaming at me. He's a big guy—much bigger than the average Mexican—and he's scaring me. He gets closer to me. I don't say anything. Spit starts to spray from his mouth.

I get up. No one is around.

“I'm not my country,” I tell him. Makes no difference. He's angry and I'm his target. It's happened before.

Had I been with someone it wouldn't have been so bad, but he was frightening me.

I get up, pack my things, start to walk in the direction of the beach chair guy, who's not there. No one is around.

This diffuses the situation. He leaves. I wait until he's a safe distance away, then return to my spot. It's late in the afternoon. I wait 'til the sun begins to set and make my way back to the hotel.

I tell myself that's it. From now on I'm from some place else.

Slovakia. Bratislava. Yeah. That's an idea. And if pushed, I work with the embassy in Mexico City. No one knows jack about Slovakia.

Which brings me to yesterday.

I stop into a mom and pop store to buy something.

“De donde viene,” the owner asks me.

“Europe,” I tell him.

“Que parte?”

“Slovakia.”

He then tells me how much Mexicans hate Americans.

“Pemex. Isis. Drugs.”

He's right. The government's dropping the nationalization of its massive oil reserves and we all know who the market's going to. The monster that lives to the north.

He's right. George W. Bush—the good “Christian”--wages war with Iraq and look what happens. All hell breaks loose and Isis rises. Imagine what Ted Cruz, with his Messianic certainty, will do. Another good “Christian.” How the message of Jesus has been perverted!

He's right. Americans point their finger at the rise of the drug cartels in Mexico and blame Mexico without looking honestly at its own face. The drugs are heading to American markets. What is it about my country that requires so many people to drug themselves into oblivion? 

I tell him I understand, that being neighbors to a large super power is difficult. I tell him it's the same in Slovakia, that Germany eats up everything around it. I tell him we were part of the Soviet Union, and that I get it.

We've reached a solidarity, me, the Slovakian, and him the Mexican, against the mega-powers within our scope.

We shake hands. He needed to vent. Who knows what would have happened had I identified myself as an American.

So from now on I'm Daniel Ladudavich and I'm from Slovakia. And if push to come to shove, I'm from Bratislava and I work for the embassy.

But from now on, as long as I'm here, I will not be Dan Ladue, an American!

What a sad, sad commentary on the United States of America! How we have slid since 9/11!

67! 2/3 of a Century

March 30th, 2016

Mexico City, Mexico

The day I turned 25 was a cold, rainy day in Plattsburgh and I remember sitting in my easy chair, in the northeast corner of my apartment on Brinkerhoff Street watching the rain fall and feeling very depressed.  A quarter of a century!  How could that be?

Well....that was 42 years ago and I've live long enough to see a third of a century, a half of a century and today...a third of a century!

I've said this before, and I'll say it again. My father's words on his 80^th birthday, more than 23 years ago, have held me well through the years: “I've had a good life.”

“I've had a good life.” Such powerful words from him and I am grateful he said them, because it's a mantra I hold for myself as well. While I certainly have some regrets, the list of good things in my life is far longer.

Each day is a gift and each day is filled with good things. I try to give thanks daily for all God has given me.

A local Mexican friend, turning 50, recently asked me what wisdom I could convey to him. What have I learned in two-thirds of a century? Wisdom? I felt like an old man when he asked me, but he's an intuitive sort of fellow and he was very serious as he wanted to apply the applicable ones to himself.

1. Forgive. Walk away if you have to, but forgive!
2. Be grateful. “In every thing give thanks.”
3. The glass is always half full. There is always something to be grateful for.
4. Be generous with you time and with your resources.
5. Take Dolly's Levi's advice: “Money's like manure. It's no good until you spread it around.”
6. If there's something you want to do, do it! Don't wait.
7. All theologies break down to this: unless you love others as you love yourself, and unless you love God as yourself and others, religion means nothing.

I could never have imagined 67 when I graduated high school in the class of '67. Now I'm a member of the other class of '67. Nor could I have imagined it that day in 1974 when I turned 25. I have far less time than more, and I keep cramming as much into my life as possible. Who knows when the bomb will drop. As a result, I embrace each day as the gift it is.

So how did I spend #67? I woke early, treated myself to a taxi and caught a bus from Tasquena to Oaxtepec, 3,500 feet below Mexico City in the balmy state of Morelos. I spend the day at a resort, laying in the sun, reading, writing, reflecting. At lunch I stopped in my favorite restaurant there, and when they told me it was closed, I said...”but it's my birthday.” A few minutes later the waiter came back with an offer—fish or chicken. “Chicken,” I told him. Then a few more minutes later he came back, this time with a waitress and a piece of cake. On the PA system Las Mananitas was playing—the traditional Mexican birthday song. I almost cried. The kindness of strangers.

Much later, back in Mexico City, my friend Gerardo showed up with a piece of cake, a candle and a gift—a license plate from the State of Mexico.

Two days later, at the Casa where I volunteer, I was feted with a cake, speeches (I've known these people since the days of CAFEMIN), Las Mananitas again and a lovely lunch.

What a birthday! The day just overflowed. It was a perfect start to the next third century!

Christmas Market Photos: Lille, Prague, Vienna, Bratislava, Budapest--December 2015

                            Lille, France  November 20, 2015

                                   Lille  November 20, 2015

Lille  November 20, 2015

                               Prague  November 28, 2015

Prague  November 28, 2015

     Bratislava, Slovakia  December 3, 2015

                                               
                                              Bratislava  December 3, 2015

 Bratisalva  December 3, 2015

                                    Budapest, Hungary  December 5, 2015

                               Budapest  December 15, 2015

                                Budapest  December 5, 2015

                                                Budapest  December 5, 2015

                          Vienna. Austria  December 7, 2015

                                 Vienna December 7, 2015

                                 Vienna December 7, 2015

Vienna December 7, 2015

                                  Vienna December 7, 2015

                                  Vienna December 7, 2015

                                   Vienna December 5, 2015

In the End: Christmas Markets and Allied Cemeteries

Plattsburgh, NY
December 11, 2015
Latitude 46º 69' N

In the end, it was nice to travel off season. Still, December in Europe is busy because of, well, Christmas, but it's not like summer when hordes take to the road. There were seats on trains and hotels cost less. The weather was just fine—not warm and not super cold. I've learned a lesson—when you want to really see a place, come in the winter.

In the end I fulfilled a dream and saw Saint Nicholas come into Amsterdam's harbor. I also took in Christmas markets in five different places—Lille, France, Prague, Vienna, Bratislava and Budapest. What a dream come true. I know these aren't the last!

In the end, the Allied cemeteries of Flanders moved and stilled me. There go I, but by the grace of God...had I been a young man a hundred years ago.

In the end, I added one more country to my ongoing list of attaining 100! The Czech Republic was #92!

In the end, I reconnected with two old friends—Lomme and Ina in the Netherlands and Ruxandra in Vienna. How nice to see them again!

In the end, there was pitifully little sun. But I'd not travelled to Europe in December for the weather. What I got, instead, was a nighttime that dazzled with the lights and joy of Europe's Christmas markets.

In the end, the snow I'd hoped for never materialized.  There was, for a brief moment, a small snow fall in Southern Belgium and a snow squall I attempted to walk in, but the romantic idea I had of Vienna or Prague blanketed in a thin layer of snow never happened.  

In the end, I'd come full circle with Vienna and Budapest, constantly ran into the young man who spent wonderful time there in his 30's. But it's true that you really can't go home again, nor was I trying. Still, it was nice to re trace steps and relive in memory, another, more distant, time.

In the end, I learned once again that the world is athrill with beauty and excitement, but only if one chooses to see it. Despite terrorist attacks, despite the world's myriad problems, it truly is “a beautiful world.”