WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MALTA?

For more years than I would like to admit, I thought Malta was just a big rock in the middle of the ocean, somewhere near Europe.  Sort of like the Rock of Gibraltar without the monkeys.  I wish someone had told me the truth, so I didn't sound like a geographic idiot when I found out Malta is a country located in the Mediterranean between Sicily and North Africa.  The country is actually a group of islands, although the main island is often called Valetta, which is the country's capital, so as to distinguish the more populated island from the rest of the country.

After our trip to Romania last month, we added three extra days in Malta because Amy, Bruce's daughter, works  for the United Nations High Commission on Refugees in their Malta office.  If the acronym UNHCR sounds familiar, it's because this agency is responsible for dealing with the enormous migrant crisis that affects so much of our world right now.   Since we focused our trip planning primarily around Romania, we assumed that our three day visit to Malta would be to check out Amy's apartment and meet some of her friends.  So when we arrived, we were pleasantly surprised to discover that Malta is a major tourist destination, offering  an array of things to do and see, like antiquities representing ancient civilizations,  cultural curiosities, and interesting beach scenery to keep visitors entertained for a couple of weeks.   

Malta's history dates back to 5200 B.C. assuring that every tourist gets some sort of history lesson, since its strategic importance involves the Phoenicians,  Greeks,  Carthaginians, Romans, the Knights of St. John, French, Turks, and the British, all of whom occupied Malta at one time or another and left their visual mark. 

In fact, Malta is such a feast for the eyes that I'd rather not bore you with descriptive text, but rather I'd like to share a video that my talented husband, Bruce, produced to document our short time there and to show you what a stunning country Malta truly is. As someone once said A picture is worth a thousand words. 

                      Marvelous Malta 2015 by Bruce Berger 

TOUCHED BY ROMANIA

I don't cry often, but I cried twice while traveling in Romania.  My first cry was connected to memories about my family and the other had to do with a personal frustration. The first cry happened while in a crowd with strangers, and that is the only story worth writing about, but first I want to share some details about Romania. 


What is there to see and learn in Romania? 

In so many ways Romania surprised us.  We had no idea we would see such gorgeous scenery, like the northern region of Maramures, which felt like we had stepped back in time.  Until I read the Romania guidebook, I didn't  know I would see four exquisitely painted monasteries dating back to the 15th Century, and intricately carved wooden gates that served as entryways to both modest farmhouses and more comfortable homes.  Who would have ever thought one could spend hours wandering through a cemetery, but this cemetery wasn't just an ordinary place.  It was incredibly different.   Located in the small village of Sapanta, the Merry Cemetery is filled with hundreds of painted  blue crosses, on which one artist, a wood sculptor named Ioan Stan Patras, ornately illustrated with a colorful drawing some aspect of the deceased's past life, including a very witty epitaph translated by our guide.  We also saw cottages with fairytale turrets and villages with cobbled-stone streets, a stunning summer palace for the longest-serving Romanian King, and the Bran Castle near Brasov, a popular attraction for Dracula aficionados.

A BEAUTIFUL PASTORAL SETTING IN MARAMURES

THE MERRY CEMETERY

16th CENTURY SUCAVITA MONASTERY, BUCOVINA

THE CITY OF SIGHISOARA, A UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE 

While touring the famous region called Transylvania, we heard stories about Vlad the Impaler, a 15th century prince, who inspired author Bram Stoker to create a blood-sucking character named Dracula.   And yet, at the same time we were reminded about the struggles Romania experienced during the Ottoman empire, the relinquishing and annexing of various parts of Romania during WW I,  the Nazi alliance during WW II, when pograms were instituted and hundreds of thousands of Jews were condemned to death.   Almost like yesterday, I remember the 25-year communist dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausecu and his wife Elena, who committed unspeakable atrocities and denied political freedom and free speech.  And then finally the 1989 Revolution, when the world watched the collapse of communism, where one regime after another fell apart before our eyes on national TV.  And finally Romania's attempts at Democracy, when they joined NATO and became a member of the European Union.

MEMORIAL TO THE VICTIMS OF COMMUNISM AND TO THE RESISTANCE

 My experiences in Romania will be stored in a very special place we call memories.  Memories are what we all hold on to and savor, hoping the good outweigh the bad.   Some travelers keep their memories vivid through photographs and written journals.  I keep my memories alive by telling stories.


Background to my story about Romania

Religion was not a factor in my growing up years.  My family never talked about God or Jesus, except to take their names in vain when appropriate.  Unlike most of my Greek cousins, I was never baptized in the Greek Orthodox church.  I was never baptized at all. Even though my mother sent me to Catholic school, that was purely for practical reasons, and not surprisingly, she yanked me out after  second grade when she discovered I envied my classmates' spiritual awakenings.   (I wrote more about this in an earlier post entitled Hail Mary, Full of Grace)

When I was in junior high, my mother had second thoughts and urged me to join a church group for teens called pilgrim fellowship.  Again, I don't think her reasons had anything to do with religion.  I'm pretty sure she hoped pilgrim fellowship would help keep me out of the backseat of some boy's souped-up Chevy, but it never did.  I stopped going after a few times because I thought the talk bordered on the ridiculous.   I vaguely remember my mother going to church services, but only a few times.  And yet, I have vivid memories of being with her when she stopped at Catholic and Christian Orthodox churches when we were visiting friends and relatives in other parts of our state.  I'm not sure the reasons why, but she often had me, as a little kid, in tow.  I remember asking her why we were there, and she would answer something like, it's a way to seek some kind of blessing.   What that meant to her at the time, I wish I knew.  But for me, a pretty young kid with no religious background, it meant nothing at all.  I recall her whispering a short prayer, lighting a few candles, and crossing herself like the Orthodox do.  "Why do you light candles," I would ask, but she never elaborated.   All she would say is, for my family.  Unfortunately I was too young to ask any more questions except, can we go home now?   

Since I figured my mother was not religious,  I always wondered why she wore a gold cross on a gold chain around her neck.  If I asked her, I don't remember any more details except I think she bought it on a trip to Greece.  In the 90s, before dementia set in, she took the cross from around her neck and handed it to me, saying she hoped I would wear it.  I never did.   Upon my return from Romania last week, I searched for her cross among my array of  jewelry, and finally found it tucked in a tiny silk bag in the back of my top drawer.  The chain slipped easily around my neck, and when I looked at myself in the mirror,  the person staring back at me was my mother.   I am wearing the cross now as I write this, hoping it will inspire me to construct a story that will give deeper meaning and a better understanding about why the tears in Romania.

My Story about September 8th

L-R  PAM, NIKKI, BRUCE, AMY

There were four of us traveling together in Romania:  my husband Bruce, myself, and two of his three adult daughters, Nikki and Amy (ages 34 & 32).   Each of us experienced the event I'm about to tell you in different ways, but a personal experience is what brought on my tears, and why I am wearing my mother's cross today. 

It was early in the morning on September 8th, our fourth day in Romania.  We were leaving Maramures and driving to Bucovina, another northern region.  That's when we saw people hitchhiking and biking along the road.  Some were men.  Some were women with children, but they all had their thumbs out, wanting to go somewhere, but as we saw the numbers grow, we assumed they were heading for  the same place.  "Hey Cristian," I said to our guide and driver, "let's stop and offer them a ride." I should have known he would scowl because picking up hitchhikers was not on our very tight itinerary, but neither was the sight we were about to see.  

As more and more people lined the sides of the road, I noticed most were in their traditional dress:  men in heavy dark jackets and white shirts.  The women wore colorful skirts of various patterns, but all had the ubiquitous cotton black kerchief tied beneath their chins.  I also noticed that the younger girls also covered their heads with kerchiefs, but theirs were trimmed with bright colors like red and blue, and most of the younger boys wore traditional straw hats, unlike the adult men who wore no hats at all.   

"Whoa!  Stop the car,"  the four of us yelled almost simultaneously.  "We want to take pictures."   That's because we saw two men riding horses decorated like old-fashioned Christmas trees.  Covered, in fact, with so much tinsel and sparkles, we questioned whether the horses could even see.   The horses pranced around as if they were in a parade.  The riders were more oblivious as they chatted and puffed on their cigarettes.  After taking photos of the horses and the riders, we returned to the van and moved on slowly until we came to the village of Rozavela.  That's when the three of us --  Nikki, Amy, and I -- screamed at Cristian to pull the van over and let us out.   While we were screaming, let us out, Bruce was quietly preparing his camera, so he would be ready to video what was to come.  These are the times I envy my husband and his skill with the video camera.   Still images are great, but when you come upon a crowd of people singing,  horses prancing, and then a parade, that's when you wish you had a video camera so you could record it.   

"Today is September 8th," Cristian said, as if we were supposed to know what that meant.  "Today is when the Orthodox celebrate the birth of the Virgin Mary at churches around the world."  I listened to the singing, which was more like chanting, or as Nikki described it, a call and response,   I watched and I watched.  That's when the memories of my mother lighting candles in church slowly emerged.  I could feel myself choking up inside,  but I swallowed hard and held back the tears which were welling up.   Most of the people were dressed in black, so I  knew I stood out like a sore thumb with my white pants and a camera hanging around my neck.   But I wanted to take photos, so I kept a stiff upper lip struggling to hold my emotions at bay until I could capture the event.  Everything moved fast, and there were so many people standing in the way,  there was no time to check ISO,  shutter speed or F-stop.  I just snapped pictures as fast as I could, stopping only long enough to wipe the tears from my cheeks and make the sign of the Orthodox cross, just like I remembered how my mother did.  

That's when I broke down and cried.  I stopped taking pictures because I knew they would be awful anyway.  I just wanted to feel what was going on deep down inside --  in my heart, in my gut, in my legs that were shaking. I was trying to relate.  The emotions I felt were coming deep from within a place I don't often explore in my conscious mind.  This level of emotion, the one that relates to my parents, is in my subconscious and in my dreams, times when I have no control.   I walked slowly among the crowd smiling all the time at the old ladies, who were looking at me, studying me,  seeing the tears, and noticing I was crossing myself over and over.  I don't think I've ever crossed myself like this before, but I found myself doing it, just like my mother used to do and it felt natural.   One old lady looked deep into my eyes and I stared back at her.   I'm pretty sure she knew why I was crying, and I think she could see what I saw.   There, in my mind's eye, was my mother, Lucia Perkins, plain as day, crossing herself and praying as she entered the inside of a church, lighting candles, and as she said, doing it for my family. How could something so simple and so spontaneous bring up  memories charged with so much emotion?  What will Bruce and his girls think when they see me crying and my nose all stuffed up? These were questions racing through my mind.   Fortunately, the three of them were in their own worlds too, engaged in what they were seeing, taking pictures, and definitely not looking at me.  "The Archbishop is coming," Cristian said.  "I need to move the van, otherwise we'll be stuck here for hours."


 That's when I saw the Archbishop.  He wore a long black frock and a kalimavkion, a typical stiff cylindrical hat resembling a stovepipe.  He was surrounded by children dressed traditionally and holding banners displaying Christian symbols and pictures of the Virgin Mary.  Besides us there were a few paparazzi,  but no Americans or other tourists in sight.  As he walked along, the Archbishop chatted to the priest walking beside him, and he stopped long enough to listen to the villagers sing their call and response.  As he got closer to the church, the crowd grew thicker, and as an outsider, I felt funny pushing my way through the crowd just to get a picture.   I tried to blend in, but that was ridiculously impossible.     Since I didn't want to lose the complicated emotion I was feeling and because the procession was coming closer and closer,  I just settled for a place in the crowd from which to take photos. 

If you would like to feel the excitement and emotion that took place that morning in Rozavela, please click on this 2 minute video that Bruce created with remarkable footage from the event.   September 8th, the celebration of the birth of the Virgin Mary.


After the religious procession moved into the church, we returned to the van, and all Bruce and the girls could say was WOW!   Feeling like I'd been struck by lightening, I said WOW too, but knew that it would take some time for me to process the emotion I felt,  then write about my experience, and share it with you.  

After laying my soul bare, I realize that this emotion was about missing my mother. 

















 

THE REALM OF THE VLACHS

For many years in my life I didn't know exactly what I was.  I don't mean to imply that I was necessarily searching for meaning or purpose.  That came much later and is worthy of a separate post.  Instead, I wanted to know about my background. What was I?   My parents were born in rural villages that are now in Northwestern Greece, speaking a language they called Romanian.  I always wondered why my mother's maiden named ended in the letter U, like many Romanian names, while my father's ended in OS, like most Greeks.  The spelling of these names added to my confusion.  My father drank thick black coffee that came from Turkey, and to complicate matters further, my favorite uncle called me Pamela, the Great and said we were Macedonians, the land of Alexander.  As I've written in a blog post entitled Self Acceptance, I know that while my parents identified themselves as coming from Greece, our family really belongs to an ethnic minority group called Vlachs, who migrated as shepherds to Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Romania and Greece, and while there are very few of us left, I'm hoping to find some in Romania.   

Yes, in a few days we will set off for Romania, where we will spend ten days exploring a country that in some ways is part of my multi-ethnic heritage.  There might be some sad moments if I let myself dwell on the stories my mother told about her sister and husband who were executed in Bucharest during war times,  and the fact that my father's brother was a prisoner of war in a camp there as well.

Romania is a country that is just beginning to reveal its history, beauty and charm to travelers who are interested in exploring the Balkans. And for me, wouldn't it be great to connect with some present-day Vlachs! 

Stay tuned.  The adventure will soon begin.

SIX WAYS TO REMEMBER PEOPLE'S NAMES

Remembering people's names has never been a problem for me.  To my surprise I identified most of the kids in the Wabanaki camp photo from 1952.  Well, they do say that the older we get, the easier it is to remember what we did as kids than what we did yesterday.  

I think I remember people's names because it's important to me.  It's also in my DNA,  my extrovert personality, and from being surrounded by strangers early on.  My mother-in-law said she  didn't care about remembering a person's name.  I'm sure she meant the name of the clerk selling her shoes, or her seat mate on a plane (unless it happened to be a man who was good looking).    In contrast, I'm sure she remembered the name of her new neighbor in case she wanted to borrow a cup of sugar, or the name of the person who booked tee times at her golf club.   Her comment about not caring shocked me, but it gave me an easy out when Bruce and I were about to be married, and she asked if I was going to take Berger as my last name.  Call it dumb luck,  smart luck, or whatever, but it was one of those situations when the words tumbled out of my mouth before they were thought through in my brain, and usually this type of verbal outburst gets me into trouble, but this time it was brilliant.  "No," I answered, "because if I do, I'll be called Pam Berger." And, as I spoke those words,  I ran the two names together and called myself pamburger  (which, of course, sounded like hamburger), and when I did this, my future mother-in-law burst into laughter and said, "If I were you, I'd keep my maiden name too."   Voila.  First in-law problem solved.  

Today at my pilates class, a young woman I didn't know offered to loan me an extra padded mat she had in her car when she saw  I forgot mine.  "My name is Pam Perkins," I said.  She responded with "My name is Sara."   When she handed me the extra mat,  I said "Thank you, Sara,", and at the end of the class, I returned the  mat and said her name again, "You sure were a lifesaver, Sara."   "No problem," she replied, but didn't use my name.   I wasn't bothered because remembering people's names is not in everyone's DNA like I think it is in mine.   

When we owned Perkins Motel, my parents would recite names over and over as guests checked in and out every day.  I followed suit.  Mom and Dad, but especially Mom, remembered names too.  "The Kennedys are in room 5 and her parents, the Hendersons, are next door in room 6," Mother would tell Daddy.   Or they might say, "Pammy, take some extra towels to rooms 10 and 11, where the Stockdale family is staying."  That's the way my parents referred to their guests every day.   I think genetics plays a role because in my brother's recently published memoir  By Way of Luck,  he mentions by name many of the people he worked with early in his professional career.   I admit that screen actor John Wayne and Playboy publisher Hugh Hefner are not names one forgets, but that he could remember the names of secretaries to the people he reported to really did amaze me.  He would prefer I didn't say this, but it was a long time ago.    Anybody can Google facts, but I know it's impossible to Google the name of someone's secretary, but having been one,  I know that buttering up the secretary is key to getting in good with the boss.

Being good with names does take a little know-how and practice.  Here are some tricks I've used over the years.

1.  Make eye contact with the person whose name you are hearing for the first time and notice only him or her.  Don't glance away.  Notice the color of their hair, their smile, and whether or not they are wearing glasses.  Don't forget that remembering the clothes they have on will not always help you, but if this is a one-time event, by all means, take the wardrobe into consideration.  When I met Bruce Berger face-to-face for the first time after our initial Match.com connection, I noticed the color of his hair, his beautiful smile, and his thick distinguished mustache (which he just shaved off).   I also noticed he was wearing glasses.  Now, reader, after doing exactly all the things I just told you to remember someone's name, I will always wonder, in amazement, why I introduced him for the first time to a group of friends as Bruce Bingham.  This I will never truly understand.

2.   Repeat the new person's name and ask them a personal question without sounding weird.  Carol, do I know you from the gym?  Barbara, how often do you hike?  Hilda, is your husband as good a golfer as you?  Bill, how long have you been listening to jazz?

3.  Visualize their name in your head as you are being introduced.  If the name is unusual, ask the person to spell it.  As they do so, visualize the letters and repeat their name again.  Am I pronouncing that correctly?  Wow, Indrani, what an unusual name?  Juthica, what a beautiful name.  Does it have a particular meaning?   I've never heard the name LuRhea before.  Is it a family name?     Don't laugh, but some times I take this to an extreme and write out the person's name with my thumb and forefinger on whatever surface happens to be available at the time -- a surface that is not obvious to the person, of course, like the side of my right thigh.  Remember, I'm using my fingers, not a pen!  As an aside, reader,  I want to mention that the Indrani I know has a mother named Juthica, who was born in Calcutta,  but how do I explain that I still think of Indrani's brother, now an established physician  in Colorado, as Mongoose, a nickname his parents gave him when he was a small boy.   I doubt he calls himself Dr. Mongoose in his medical practice, but if he did, that certainly would be a name to remember.

4.  Give your first and last name when you introduce yourself.  For example,  Hi, I'm Pam Perkins and not just Hi, I'm Pam.  Often when you use your first and last name together, the other person will do the same.  Or if they don't,  ask what is your last name?  Often hearing both first and last names is helpful.  There also might be a chance you know someone with the same name.   "Oh, that's interesting.  I know another Pamela Perkins.  She is a science fiction writer who lives in Texas."  

5.  Mnemonics are very helpful.  Try and identify the person's name with a mnemonic.  For example, you might think of a rhyme when you are meeting Mary for the first time at your garden club.   Mary, Mary, how contrary, how does your garden grow?    Here's another possibility.   You are at a travel presentation on France and you meet a woman named Francie.   When I met my friend Ulla for the first time, I realized how I puckered my lips to say oooooola, a name I love to say.   When I am introduced to someone whose name is Nicole,  I always say Oh, I have a daughter Nicole.  I try and identify the person's name with something or someone I know.  And how about alliteration.  Pam Perkins is alliterative, for sure.  So is Bruce Berger.  PP/BB! 


6.   Name Tags.  If you are having an event with more than ten guests, and some are strangers to one another, ask people to wear a name tag.  If you think this sounds corny, please know that at our wedding reception 14 years ago,  we asked people to wear name tags and I'm sure it contributed to a very lively party.  I loved watching people discover each other.   I saw a friend walk up to a stranger (another one of my friends) and say,  "Oh, Helen, I've heard about you from Pam for years.  It's so nice to finally meet you."  This way I didn't have to worry about introductions at my wedding.  Wearing a name tag helps to create the possibility for an interaction, begin a conversation and establish a connection.    Name tags are not for everyone, but they sure worked for us.

Now, I know this sounds like bragging,  but I tend to remember dates too, but I don't have a clue how this works in my brain except to say it has nothing to do with math.  I flunked Algebra I in high school.  Bruce knows that he is only required to remember one date.  The only problem is he isn't sure which date.  Is it the date we met or the date we married?   I would give him an A plus if he remembered both, but what's most important to me is that he remembers my name.

LETTERS FROM WABANAKI

When my mother dragged the well-worn steamer trunk down from our attic and said "It's time to get ready for camp," she was talking to me.  I went away to camp every summer from the age of six until I was thirteen.   And not for a one-night sleepover.  And not for just a week.  But for the entire summer -- 8 weeks, from late June until the end of August every year.   The way I remember it, camp was eating an ice-cold fudgsicle on a hot, sticky day.  Or better yet, riding high on the ferris wheel at Old Orchard Beach.   In other words, I remember loving camp.     

This trunk was heavily used

The idea of being away from home for eight weeks did not scare me, even at my young age.  My parents sent my older brother, Jima, and my sister, Nitsa, to summer camp too, so when I was six, my turn came around.  That was 1950, when my parents were still working 24/7, first in the restaurant they owned on Main Street, and later, Perkins Motel.  "Aunt" Chick and "Uncle" Chuck, who owned Camp Wabunaki, gave families from Littleton a big financial break because they lived in a nearby town and knew most of the local kids.  I credit camp for giving me a great start early in life.   I learned to play sports, like tennis and archery, do arts and crafts, ride a horse, and make friends with kids  from far away places and various backgrounds, much different than mine.   

A few months ago while looking through some personal stuff I hadn't seen in years, I came across an old manila envelope on which were written two words in faded ink.



                   LETTERS FROM CAMP 1950-1958



DEAR DADDY   HOW ARE YOU.   THIS AFTERNOON I THREWUP IN THE INFURMARY. ARE YOU COMING UP FOR PARENTS WEEKEND.  I AM MAKING A PUZZEL.  MY NURSES NAME IS PHOEBE STEPHENS.  HOWS THE RESTAURANT.  IS MOM WORKING HARD.  DID YOU SELL THE KITTENS.  I HAD A SHOT IN MY REAR.  TELL THE WAITRESS I GROWN AN INCH.  TELL ELSIE, JILL EWING AND PATSY TO WRITE AND ME ARE SICK IN THE INFURMARY. 

                  

                                        
               

L-R  Peggy Ann Root, Me, and ?

DEAR MOM AND DAD.  HOW ARE YOU AND JIMA AND HELEN.  TODAY WE ARE GOING SWIMMING AT FOR OCLOCK.  I CAN'T WAIT.  LOVE AND KISSES  PAMELA

                                      
                                  

Me -- Second from the left in the front row next to Debbie Gassman

                                                                  July 13, 1952

DEAR MOM AND DAD.  I WISH YOU WOULD COME UP AND SEE ME SATURDAY.  PLEASE SEND ME SOME WRITTING PAPPER AND ENVELOPES.  SUSAN HOLLY DIDN'T LIKE CAMP SO SHE WENT HOME AND TOLD THEM TO COME AND GET HER.  SHE WENT HOME THIS AFTERNOON I THINK.  SO SEND ME SOME MORE COMIC BOOKS.  SEND MY BEACH ROBE.  SEND ME SOME OF MY BOOKS.  DON'T SEND ME ANY GUM.  YOU CAN SEND ME CANDY THAT'S O.K.  HOPE YOU LIKE THE WABUNAKI WHISPERS.  ROSES ARE RED. VIOLETS ARE BLUE. YOU VISIT ME AND I'LL LOVE YOU.   PAMELA
                 

L-R  Me, Lee Berndt, Jill ? (Counselor), ?, and Roberta Ahlgren

DEAR MOTHER   HOW ARE YOU.  CABIN 8 AND 9 WENT ON AN OVERNIGHT TRIP.  IT WAS BUGGY.  THE BUGS WERE BITING.  IT IS SUNDAY TODAY.  THERE IS GOING TO BE A HORSE.  LOVE AND KISSES   PAMELA 

             

L-R  Debbie Glassman, Me, and Joyce Ann Graves

DEAR MOM AND DAD    HOW ARE YOU.  WE HAVE A COUNSELOR NAMED TERRY TERRILL. SHE WAS NITSAS COUNSELOR WHEN NITSA WAS TEN.  I HURT MY FOOT VERY BAD AND PLEASE COME TO SEE ME AT FOURTH OF JULY.  LOVE AND KISSES    PAMELA

Me on the Bottom, Ann Dockham on top

DEAR NITSA   I AM FINE.  WE HAVE SWIMMING EVERY MORNING AND EVERY NIGHT.  WE HAVE A GIRL FROM HI.  SHE DANCE BOOM BOOM BOOM    LOVE PAMELA                
           

DEAR MOM AND DADDY    HOW ARE YOU TODAY.  THIS MORNING NITSA SEND ME A MAPLE SUGAR MAN NAMED PETER.  PLEASE SEND ME SOME CRAYONS.  I LOST MINE.  I STILL AM IN THE OLD INFURMARY.  I HAD A VISIT WITH THE DOCTOR YESTERDAY.  LOVE PAMELA     
                

DEAR MOTHER    HOW ARE YOU AND THE FAMILY.  TODAY IT IS RAINING.  WE STAYED INSIDE OUR CABIN PLAYED GAMES.  PEGGYANN PLAYING WITH MY BATON.  THESE ARE THE KIDS IN MY CABIN  JOYCE ANN GRAVES, PEGGY ANN ROOT, DEBRA GLASSMAN.  I AM HAVING FUN HERE AT CAMP.  IM GLAD YOU SEND ME HERE.  MY TOP ON BEACH BALL.  I LOST IT.  DON'T SEND ME ANY GUM.  SEND ME LIFESAVERS IN A LETTER   LOVE PAM

            

L-R FIRST ROW:  ME AND DEBBIE GLASSMAN,
L-R SECOND ROW:  PEGGY ANN ROOT, MARGO ? (COUNSELOR IN
THE MIDDLE) AND JOYCE ANN GRAVES

                           

                                    July 10, 1955
DEAR MOM AND DAD.  I AM MAKING A YELLOW + WHITE DOG LEASH FOR CEASER.  DO YOU LIKE THIS STATIONARY?  I THINK IT IS VERY CUTE.  CARLEE ASTLE GAVE ME THIS.  TRY TO MAKE IT PARENTS WEEKEND SAT. ONLY BECAUSE THERE IS GOING TO BE A SKIT A WATER SHOW AND YOU CAN SEE ME RIDE.  THEN YOU CAN LEAVE SUNDAY.  HAVE LOUISE COME UP.  SHE + NITSA IF POSSIBLE (O.K.)   TODAY IS THE HOTTEST DAY IN MY LIFE.  WE ARE GOING TO STAY DOWN TO THE BEACH ALL AFTERNOON.  THE BUGS ARE HORRID.  THERE ARE THREE ALIVE HORNETS NESTS ABOVE MY BED.  I'M SCARED.  I SAW CYNTHIA TODAY.  SHE IS FINE. LASTS NIGHT WE HAD LATE NIGHT.  THAT IS WE STAYED UP UNTIL 9:30.  WE HAD A SNACK, WROTE LETTERS, PLAYED GAMES.  I WORKED ON MY DOG LEASH.  IT IS THIS LONG SO FAR  _________________________  I TRACED IT ON THIS PAPER.  PLEASE SEND ME SOME 2 CENT POSTCARDS LIKE I MAILED TO YOU.  I PASSED MY FOREHAND IN TENNIS.  I AM WORKING ON MY BACKHAND.  IN ARCHERY I PASSED MY BOWMAN IN WHICH THE WHISPERS MY CABIN MATE WOULD  NOT PUT...........................
           

Me and Debbie Glassman (my best friend at camp)

After reading my childhood letters many times, I realize that while my annual camp experience was a bonus for me and I learned a lot, I was terribly  homesick for my parents, although I tried hard not to show it.  It's difficult for me to say this out loud, even sixty years later, but while I asked Mom and Dad to visit me in almost every letter I wrote, my recollection is that they never came once.  Not even on Parents' Weekend.   Maybe when I was growing up, I figured my parents were just too busy, but now that I know better,  I think it was simply called neglect.    All in all, camp was a wonderful time in my life.  And yet, there were some painful experiences that I've never fully shaken off.  I'll save telling you about these for a later post.  

A PERFECT HORSE

For two weeks in 1955 I learned to ride a horse  --  the happiest two weeks of my life in summer camp.  "This is a one time deal," my mother said.  Although I was disappointed to hear her words, I knew my parents worked hard to send me to camp, let alone shell out another hundred dollars for something they considered frivolous.  

The stable hand told me that Skippy was an old horse and wouldn't be coming back to camp next summer, but would go to greener pastures instead, a euphemism for something I didn't want to know.   A brown and white pinto, Skippy held steady and stayed patient while I put my foot in the stirrup and climbed up on him and wiggled my then-little butt in the saddle.  Deliberate in his movements, Skippy knew to be gentle with me, an eleven-year-old kid, who had never been on a horse in her life.  Most of the time we walked or trotted around the ring,  but once on a trail ride, I kicked him hard, and he ran fast, while my head and heart went into overdrive.   I rode him every day for two weeks, but I knew falling in love would be a mistake because Skippy wasn't coming back to the stables next summer, and neither was I.   

PAM AND SKIPPY, SUMMER OF 1955

After summer camp I didn't think much about horses until I met a real horsewoman, who was my roommate at Gould, a boarding school I attended in Maine.   Helen was only 15, but in my mind she was a horsewoman, not a horse girl.  And she still lives a horsey life on a ranch in Bandera, Texas.  When we were roomies at Gould, she never invited me to the stables, but I loved to inhale the horsy smell from the clothes she wore and the hand-tooled leather saddle she kept in her closet. 

Fast forward fifty plus years.   I am at home watching Nature, a weekly program on public television that I used to associate with old people, especially since my mother, in her later years, never missed the show.   This particular episode was about Lipizzaner horses, and the photography and story were incredible, so I recorded it.   Finally, when Bruce had some time to watch TV,  I accidentally pushed the "delete" button instead of the "watch now" button, so he never saw that show.   My carelessness upset me because those beautiful horses made a big impression on me, and I wanted to share their story. 

A month or two later, Bruce said, "I think I have some good news for you.  We will be very close to the Lipizzaner breeding farm when we are in Slovenia in May, and I think the farm is open to the public."  "There's a breeding farm in Slovenia?" I responded.  "I always thought the horses were in Vienna or somewhere in Austria."  I was partly right because yes, the Lipizzaner horses were originally bred in the Austrian Empire,  but over the years as borders changed, that area is now in the country of Slovenia, although now there are breeding farms in many countries around the world.   

Our reservation for the tour was for 1:00 p.m., the only tour of the day, with a performance at 3:00 p.m., and we had quite a ways to drive.  The instructions on their website made it clear we had to be prompt, so when we took a wrong turn on the road, couldn't find the parking lot on their enormous grounds, and then had to find a bathroom, I was getting anxious. Fortunately, we arrived with not a minute to spare, just as the tour was about the start.  

The English-speaking guide told us that the Lipizzan is one of the oldest breed of horses in Europe, a true horse of royalty, developed by the Hapsburg monarchy for its use during war and peace. The breeding history and foundation lines are too complicated to detail  in this post, but if you click on this link www.lipizzan.org, you will find a website with ample information about these beautiful animals.  Basically, Lipizzans were bred over many generations using stock from the Karst horses, the Neapolitan breed and horses bred from Spain, Germany and Danish lines, along with the Arabians.  Lipizzans are born black-brown, but they gradually lighten to a white coat, which can take six to ten years.  What struck me most about these powerful horses is how proudly they hold their heads.

My camera clicked furiously during the tour and the exhibition, where the horses performed highly controlled stylized jumps and other movements of classical dressage.  After the performance, we went outside and stood along the fence to watch hundreds of  horses run from the pasteur back to the barn where they sleep at night.  Here are a few photos I took, and a short video clip I copied from YouTube for you to enjoy.   Click here.  

Reader, if you have a chance to see the Lipizzaner horses, I urge you to take it.   I am thrilled to have had the unique opportunity to get close to some of the most beautiful, elite and athletic animals on earth.  

RUNNING TO THE BARN