The Africans, My Summer 1965 Vacation

A young man came rushing into the auditorium and onto the podium. He wasn’t expected. Prior to his arrival, the audience was busy chatting and there was a happy buzz in the room. The man stood tall and dignified and interrupted our chatter, saying loudly in a heavily accented voice, “I am Enzokee Naidoo and I am here to talk to you about my homeland, the apartheid country of South Africa.” He stopped to make sure he had our attention. He had it. We were spellbound by the authority this man conveyed. We knew that what he was about to say was something we had to hear.

It was summer 1965 and I was at a conference in Vapnagaard, a small town not far from Copenhagen, Denmark. I was 20 years old and had recently received a small inheritance of $2500. At the same time, I found a brochure about a conference in Scandinavia, with the purpose of fostering international understanding by bringing together people from many countries. My $2500 would cover the cost of airfare plus conference tuition. I decided to go, but this was my first trip out of the U.S. and it took a lot of courage make this decision. My hopes were modest: to make some friends and to have some adventures.

We were 35 men and women of all ages, from the U.S., Norway, Denmark and Sweden, Pakistan, and England, and there was one young man from Nigeria who was my same age. His name was Jim and like me, he was shy and a bit star-struck by the others who seemed to be worldly-wise and socially adept. We both hung back and observed more than we participated.

Some conference participants posing for pictures
In the center: Jim from Nigeria and Mr. Meinke, the Conference Leader

This evening like all others at the conference, the group had gathered at 7 p.m. sharp. Previous evenings we had listened to lectures on a variety of subjects by course participants and a few evenings we heard talks by our conference leader Mr. Meinke about his special interests: Soren Kierkegaard, Nordic folk-schools, Danish farm cooperatives, and international understanding. Other evenings we had recitals by local Danish musicians. Nothing terribly captivating and we always hoped the lectures or musical entertainment would end quickly so we could go out into the warm summer evenings and sing songs and do folkdances from our various countries.  Even Jim and I got into it as we all messed up the words to the songs in the different languages and clumsily tried to learn the dance steps. It was very funny and evoked lots of laughter from everyone. 

This evening, we never got out into the summer night. After Enzokee Naidoo got our full attention, his words spilled out in a rush. “Dr. Meinke asked that I talk to you. And I agreed though I don’t have much time. I must talk to you who come from all over the world about the situation of the Blacks in South Africa.”

We were hypnotized, almost holding our breath listening to this man, to his words. He continued, “The situation is horrible and one of these days it will explode into violence.  We Black South Africans are getting better housing and education and rising materially, but we are strictly limited as to the height to which we can rise. And this combination of improvements with limitations is too much for us to endure.” He told us of the measures taken by the Whites to ensure that the Blacks would stay in their place. Sadly, with anger in his voice he said, “I cannot return to my homeland of South Africa. If I return, I will be taken prisoner for my stand against apartheid.”

Enzokee was slowing down and Mr. Smith, a school teacher from the U.S, took the opportunity to ask, “Why can’t the Blacks in South Africa attempt non-violence in their struggle against oppression?” 

Enzokee was in a hurry to leave but he gave Mr. Smith a pitying look and replied, “How can you know what the situation is like?  How can you know all the attempts we made that failed?  How can you judge when you sit here nice and secure?”

After our speaker left, it was as if an electrical charge had run through his audience. Many got out of their seats, talking all at once, talking over each other, some suggesting solutions to the problems of the Blacks in South Africa. Some crying, some making angry accusations at others whom they didn’t agree with. Jim and I sat quietly, observing. This was all new information to me; I was naïve and uninformed. Shockingly I was only vaguely aware of racial problems and the Civil Rights movement in the U.S. and knew nothing of apartheid in South Africa.

Thinking back, I’m sure that Jim must have had thoughts, opinions, and reactions to Enzokee’s talk and how it related to life and politics in the newly independent country of Nigeria. However, no one took any notice of Jim or asked him to speak. Today I wonder: Was this our version of White privilege? Did we even know of the concept of White privilege in 1965?

The flurry of conversations continued around Jim and me, and got louder more out of control until finally Mrs. Johanson, a Dane of about forty, climbed on a chair and said authoritatively in clear English with her lilting Danish accent, “Sit down and be quiet. One person talk at a time.”

Mr. Keystone from England took the floor and talked for close to an hour, telling us about the year he spent in South Africa as a reporter for a London newspaper. We were quiet. We were listening and we took in, as best we could, the last sentence of his talk, “The solutions you’re proposing for a peaceful settlement, or for slow progress, they won’t work. The White apartheid government is entrenched. It is as Enzokee said, ‘There will be a battle to bring down apartheid, we just don’t know when’.”

Mr. Keystone had succeeded in calming the group down slightly. At some point Jim left to go to bed but some of us – me included – stayed together past midnight. The others were talking, trying to adjust their thinking. I remained quiet, trying to take it all in. In truth I had no idea what to do with all the information and opinions and strong emotions swirling around me.

There was no laughing or dancing or singing outside that night.

In the days that followed, our normal life at the course continued, touring during the day, lectures or music at night. My expectations of having an adventure at the conference were met. As far returning home changed by Enzokee Naidoo or any of the others I met, sadly or perhaps to be expected, it didn’t happen. Before my summer adventure in Scandinavia, I was apolitical and back in the U.S. I returned to my normal way of being: head in the sand, still apolitical. But I was primed for my next adventure, which happened in 1966 after college graduation when I moved to San Francisco. That is another story for another time.

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The First Republic of Nigeria was formed in October 1963, barely two years before the conference. In January1966 a military coup deposed the government of the Nigerian First Republic. In July 1966 there was a counter-military coup followed by years of unrest and inter-religious wars.

On April 27, 1994 apartheid ended in South Africa after several years of negotiations between the governing National Party and the African National Congress. 

POSTSCRIPT:   This story had been published on the website Kaleidoscopewojo.com which unfortunately no longer has a presence on the web. I am most grateful that the folks who hosted the site accepted my story and I am sad for the loss of  access to the many creative and beautiful and meaningful stories that appeared on Kaleidoscopewojo.

Clara's Stories: 1950-1962 Becoming a Published Writer

During the late 1950’s when I was in my mid-30's, I scrimped and saved enough to take one trip to Europe. We went to Paris, that I remember, and to Switzerland. Probably also to London but I'm not sure. In the postcard, I'm wearing the flowered dress, happily eating with friends I met on the trip.

But…my dream of becoming a published writer and my hope of finding a nice single Jewish guy to hang around with and possibly marry – neither was happening. That is, not until Rolland Metzger of Dixon, Illinois came along. He visited Chicago some weekends to get culture and to see if he could find a nice Jewish woman to woo and marry.

In 1960 we two Jewish singles met and started keeping company.

Rolland thought I was wonderful and amazing, talented and full of life. He believed I could do anything I wanted. He couldn’t convince me to marry him until 1967, but in 1962 he helped me to follow my dream of being a writer. 

I had discovered the Famous Writers School correspondence course, founded by Bennett Cerf, a well-known publisher/author, and other "famous" writers. I remembered taking the course, that was all. Then I found several workbooks from the course and I see the advertising flyer with this Bennett Cerf  quote,“Do you have a restless urge to write? If you do, here is an opportunity for you to take the first important step to success in writing.”

Even though many years have passed, I remember the excitement I felt when I contemplated his question and my answer, spoken quietly (to myself), a resounding Yes!

I lost my nerve until Rolland held my hand so to speak -- in reality, he sat next to me -- as I took the big step of enrolling in the course. I registered with the pseudonym Leva Missman, a very catchy name, don’t you think? I used Rolland’s Dixon address instead of mine in Chicago. I was apprehensive about attempting to be a real writer and needed the assurance that in case I failed, no one, not even the instructors, would know my real identity. I was grateful to Rolland for going along with my deception. 

 The first Famous Writers assignment was to answer the question “Why Do I Wish to Write?” The instructor returned my essay with some well-deserved critical comments. Oh boy, it sure stung to read criticism of my work. You writers out there will understand. Rolland had to hold my hand and sit by my side as I moved from being a writer-want-to-be to becoming a good, or at least a competent, writer.

The note identified with (1) includes great advice that I’ve taken to heart and reads:

“Use some contractions to provide a more conversational tone.”

Much about the course comes back when I find a folder labeled “Women’s Angle,” and I see the seven articles published in the National Informer newspaper.

Here's how it happened.

After my first essay, the pieces I wrote for Famous Writers were mostly about how women were taken advantage of at work, when shopping, by loan companies, and even at dancing schools. As I grew more confident in my writing, my instructor informed me it was time to submit my work for publication. He suggested I send one of my stories to the National Informer newspaper for their “Women’s Angle” column. The magazine’s motto was “Truthful News of All Facts of Life.” It sounded good to me. I submitted the story “How American Stores Cheat, Use and Abuse Female Shoppers,”[1] under my own name Claire Le Brint. To my surprise, they accepted it. I hadn’t heard of the National Informer and hadn’t seen a copy, but no problem. I was to be published and paid for my work. I was ecstatic.

A check came in the mail along with a letter indicating that my story would appear in the September 23, 1962 issue. When I got a copy of that issue, I was shocked. The banner headline on the first page was RED CHINESE EAT BABIES! with the subheading in slightly smaller bold print Innocent Children Victims of Communist Prosperity. I skimmed through the paper. Most of the articles were patently false like the cover story, or super-trashy like we find today in the National Enquirer. But you better believe I was very proud of my article, which was “Truthful News of one particular Fact of Life.” I pasted the article on yellow card stock so I could keep it forever and jotted down the date and name of the publication. On the back, I wrote the headline and subheading, then I tossed that tabloid paper in the trash where it belonged.

I was appalled by the newspaper and most of the articles. Rolland and I conferred and we decided I might as well submit more articles to the Informer. The readers, we figured, needed at least some “truthful news,” if only they could recognize it. I was being paid and published, no small feat for a novice writer. Here are titles for the rest of my Informer articles. [1]

·         Why Are Women Workers Treated Like Dopes?

·         How Dancing Schools Suck In the Suckers (wow)

·         Stupid Store Clerks Gyp Housewives

·         Housewives Ain’t As Smart as Retail Loan Sharks

·         FM Radio Becoming Lousy Just Like AM Radio??

·         How Business Places Hook Women on Free Gimmicks

So I, Claire Le Brint, had become a published writer! That was enough for me for the time being. Over the next ten years I was busy working, getting married, changing my name to Claire Metzger, moving to Dixon, getting used to Rolland, and traveling to Chicago with Rolland fairly frequently to take advantage of the city's cultural marvels.

But I will never forget the National Informer and my first big break. Can you blame me? What a story that is!

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For more Clara stories, purchase the book Betsy Fuchs: Twists and Turns There Once Was a Dream, an imagined memoir based on the life of Betsy's aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger. 

Clara's Story: A Working Woman's Dream (The Painting Went Up)

Aunt Claire's portrait hangs on my living room wall. 

Claire was a single working woman when the painting was done, by her friend Yasha Kaganov.

Along with the painting, I framed an article written by Claire about Yasha's portrait. I don't know where or when the article was published. I often look at the painting and contemplate what she wrote about her life in the article. I invite you to join my contemplation by considering the questions Claire posed and her reflections about "our working lifetime."

Did (Yasha) see me as creature made for sunlight and open places?
What am I doing in a closed-up little office and a tight little career girl apartment?
 I reflected. We are caught in the trap of the city, for years, for our working lifetime, but there is still hope, says the painted canvas, if we don’t forget there once was a dream.

Aunt Claire was my mother's sister. Claire was born in 1914 and died at age 88 in 2002. She was single until she finally met the right man, Rolland Metzger, and consented to marry him in 1967, after a long courtship. 

Claire was 52 years old and I was 23 when she married Rolland. From then on, until she died, we were close and she was  a big part of my life.

I knew of her life with Rolland but I knew nothing of her life as a single working woman, until Claire died and I inherited the painting, along with many published and unpublished articles and stories written by Claire. Among them was the undated, unattributed newspaper article, "The Painting Went Up." A better title might have been  "A Working Woman's Dream."

Claire's life is a story worth telling, with many ups and downs, or as Claire put it, "(My) life is so full of twists and turns."  

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First Prayer: Asking for Rest and Comfort

In 1995, I started to write prayers in my journal. They sometimes comforted me. Here is the first prayer I wrote, along with the journal entry that inspired its creation.

November 1995 -- My 86 year old father is staying with me, I hope temporarily.  He is sleeping in the living room of my one bedroom apartment.  My father is very depressed and is sleeping 24 to 36 hours at a time.  I need something to get me through this difficult time.  The idea comes to me that I need to pray and I write this prayer to the universe, hoping God or the universal spirits will help me.

Take it Easy Today

Spirit of the Sun and Moon –

Help me. Remind me that this is a new day.

As I open my eyes, help me to see the colors and objects I enjoy.

Remind me that Lizzie my cat and my family love me.

As I get up remind me that I can take it easy today
    I have done enough.

The trees rest in the winter,

    the leaves which have fallen become nourishment.

Let me get nourishment back from the universe today.
And give me comfort today.

I pray to be open to receiving on this day. And direction comes:

Keep trudging – if that is all you can do.

May I walk the beauty way.

Lead me to the pastures where I may rest.

Amen

Regarding the last three lines of my prayer
"Keep trudging..." is of unknown origin (the Universe?)
"May I walk..." is from a Native American chant.
"Lead me..." is a riff on the 23rd Psalm.

For additional prayers and to read about my prayer journey, go to  http://betsysprayers.com

Let Me Introduce You to My Dear Ones, Now Departed

Some talk to the living and get wisdom. I talk with the dead and imagine the wisdom they would have imparted to me. I bring questions to them and also present them with problems and challenges I face in my life. And I gain wisdom from what I imagine to be their different perspectives.

My first imagined conversation with my parents and grandparents, Zichronam Livracha, of Blessed Memory, took place in October 1999. The subject was God and Prayer and since then we have other conversations on a wide range of topics. After my Aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger and Uncle Rolland Metzger died, I expanded the conversation to include them along with my Aunt Perle LeBrint. 

Let me introduce you to my loved ones, now dead, who participate in conversations with me, along with a few snippets of wisdom from other conversations I've had with them.

My mother, Rose LeBrint Fuchs, who died in January 1991 and my father Leonard (Len) Fuchs who died in March 1997.  

Wisdom from Rose: "On the street of by the by, one comes to the house of never."
Wisdom from Len: "This too shall pass."

 

Leonard and Rose, date unknown

My grandfather, Henry Fuchs, my father Len’s father. Henry was a wise and gentle man, who had strong faith in God. Henry was married to Anne Fuchs (my father’s mother) for over 50 years. When Anne died, he made a second marriage to Bea Winston.  

My grandmother Anne Fuchs, my father Len’s mother. Anne had a heart condition that severely limited her ability to function. Preparing a Sabbath meal for our family tired her out. My two sisters and Ihad to be very quiet and good when we were around Grandma Fuchs. When I was 10, Anne had a stroke that paralyzed her right side. She walked with a brace and she could not speak except in jumbled up words. Because of her health problems and to my great regret, I hardly knew her. 

Anne and Henry had only one child, my father Leonard.

Wisdom from Grandpa Henry "You are in the thick of it and that is a good thing, but it is hard. Pray to God and write to God and talk to us. We are your inner resources. We are inside you." 
Wisdom from from Grandma Anne: "I am an observer from all these years of not being able to talk. Sometimes it is good to observe and to take time to listen and to breathe." 

Anne and Henry 1955 with their granddaughters Betsy, Judy, and Sue

My step-grandmother Bea Winston Fuchs. To Bea, my sisters and me were accepted as if we were her own granddaughters. Bea and Henry were married almost 20 years. They both died in 1979, Henry in March when he was 99 years old and Bea at age 80 two months later in May.

Wisdom from Grandma Bea: "Embrace and love your family and your step-family equally. Much joy came to me and your Grandpa Henry from joining our families together." 

 

Grandpa and Bea 1965 (as we called them)

My grandmother Anna LeBrint, my mother Rose’s mother. Anna and my grandfather Abe had five children within eight years. She felt that having so many children was a burden. In addition to being a mother, she was a business woman, buying and selling two flats and three flats in Chicago’s Albany Park neighborhood.

My grandfather Abraham (Abe) LeBrint, my mother Rose’s father. To quote my mother, Abe “had a love affair with America” and had a successful printing business in partnership with an American born friend.

My aunt Perle LeBrint was the youngest of Anna and Abe’s five children. She lived with and was financially dependent on her parents her entire life. Perle was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at age 27 in 1945. Anna watched out for Perle after the diagnosis, ensuring that her daily insulin was administered safely and correctly. Perle died in 1965, four months after Anna died.

Wisdom as told by Grandma LeBrint to her daughter Claire: "I want my children to do well, take vacations, have careers, and marry well."
Wisdom from Grandpa LeBrint: "Dare to take advantage of all the opportunities our great country offers and to step out of your comfort zone. In my life, I didn't have the nerve to follow this advice as fully as I might have, but you can do it."
Wisdom from Perle: " Mine was a comfortable safe life with no complications so it seemed. But safety and comfort are overrated. Get out there and keep taking chances. I wish I had."  

Anna LeBrint 1961, Abe LeBrint, date unknown

Perle LeBrint, date unknown

My aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger, the fourth child of Anna and Abe. Claire was a single working woman in Chicago until age 53 when she married Rolland Metzger and moved to Dixon, Illinois,.

Uncle Rolland Metzger came into my life after he married Claire in 1967.

Claire and Rolland had one house in Dixon and a second house in Chicago. I was very close to them and would sometimes drive to Dixon to visit, but frequently they came to Chicago to go to the theater, their favorite restaurant Ann Sather’s and also to join us for holiday meals at my house. Claire and Rolland survived my mother and father. Claire died in 2002; Rolland in 2005. They were like parents-contemporaries- friends to me. They had a young attitude and enjoyed keeping company with me and my husband (when I was married) and my friends.

Wisdom from Claire: "My philosophy was 'Life is full of ups and downs,' but I didn't always remember this philosophy when I was in a down period. I hope you will do better at remembering."
Wisdom from Rolland: "Put your money in Roth IRAs." and by his example: Diversify your career skills and find new ones after retirement. (He became a computer expert and tax consultant after retirement.)

 

 Claire and Rolland 1979

1966 San Francisco Working Girl Among the Hippies

Perhaps the Mamas and Papas song California Dreamin’ gave me the idea to leave Chicago and head to San Francisco, after I graduated college in March 1966. Or it might have been the taste of freedom that I got during my 1965 solo trip to an international course in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden.

I did no research and no pre-planning. I had some money to cover expenses for a few months, but I had no job lined up and knew no one who lived in San Francisco. I didn’t know about the hippies and flower children who were flocking to San Francisco. This wasn’t surprising. During my college years 1962 to 1966, I paid no attention to the “outside world.” In fact, I wasn’t even aware of -- and I don’t remember to this day – where I was and how I felt when JFK was assassinated (on November 22, 1963).

My parents were dismayed and worried about my going alone to a new city and they demanded that I write them weekly once I got there. In 1966, long distance telephone calls were expensive and considered a luxury so requiring that I call regularly was not an option. My mother visited me once and decided I was doing OK.

Unlike the hippies, I was a working girl, earning a living at a series of 9 to 5 jobs. I had three clerical jobs in one year; they were easy to find and easy to leave. I moved three times in that same year, from a rooming house in Pacific Height to an apartment with pot-smoking roommates in Haight Ashbury and then to a studio apartment on 7th Avenue, just south of Golden Gate Park. 

I had a wild time in my own way. But certainly not as wild as the hippies I wrote about in this January 4, 1967 letter to my parents. At the time, I had a clerical job with the American Red Cross and was making plans to find an adult profession, either in social work or as a teacher.

Hi Mom and Dad:

You asked about the hippies of San Francisco, the gypsy beatniks who abound in this city. I used to live in the Haight Ashbury neighborhood, on Cole Street with a few roommates. One of the reasons I moved from there was that I didn’t like the run down condition of the neighborhood due to so many unemployed kids who crowded into apartments and hung around on the streets.

Last weekend, I spent a few hours at a festival of sorts in a long grassy strip between Haight Ashbury and the Golden Gate Park. There were some folk-rock groups and some weird musical groups playing far out instruments, and throngs of people milling around. There was a group of Hell’s Angels, and they were fascinating as were the hippies. These kids, most are in their late teens and early 20’s, are a modern day version of gypsies, with their weird dress (ranging from rags to vintage clothes from the 1920’s and earlier) and their raggedy kids, and their uninhibited ways. Many are on pot (marijuana) much of the time and LSD is widely circulated. When I lived in Haight Ashbury, I felt threatened by the hippy life style. They seem to live from day to day in a way I couldn’t stand, because I need security.

I admire their freedom though. They improve on a lot of petty things that the well-fed middle-class in the U.S. is obsessed with. In some ways, I want to be like them – to be part of that cult.

My job plans are taking form. I’ve applied for a welfare job. If it comes by next September, I’ll take that job and see what I think of “social work.” If I don’t get the welfare job, I will go to San Francisco State and work on my elementary school teaching credential.

Had a New Year’s party with Peter, who is a grad student at State, working on his master’s degree in set design. He is very creative in the use of wild unusual materials. We had a good punch and everyone got high, though no one got drunk or sick. Most of the people I invited didn’t show up, so it was mainly Peter’s drama friends. But it was fun, and I never lacked (for) someone interesting to talk to. A college classmate of mine was up from San Diego State, where he is studying biology, and he came to the party. He was very “out of it.” I think he is not used to mixing with offbeat characters. I knew no one except Peter, my college classmate and a friend from Cole Street, but I drank enough punch and I suppose I’m quite outgoing when the choice of people looks interesting.

I can’t say it enough, I’m so proud of you both and of our family, for we are all interesting people who don’t stagnate, that’s for sure.

Love, Betsy

P.S. Got your annual New Year’s letter (pictured below). I didn’t like it because at the moment I’m not “planning for a social work career,” as you indicated, and somehow the whole thing seemed braggy (sic) and very smug. We have reason to be smug about our successes, but it makes the possibility of setbacks, which always come, very hard.

How can the Fuchses fail or have rough times? Kind of inhuman picture of us.

Achievements reported in the Fuchses 1967 annual New Year's Letter:

Susan - eldest daughter: Married to a doctor, home-maker, new mother.

Betsy - planning Social Work career.

Rose - mother: back to college (at age 60), all A's so far.

Len - father: nominated to Chicago Board of Education, moved to larger office.

Judy - youngest daughter: National Merit Finalist. Freshman at Cornell (University). 

Great Grandfather Henry and charming wife Bea (step great-grand mother).

The P.S. in my letter foreshadowed my setbacks in trying to find a profession suitable for a woman college graduate in the 1960’s.  At the time, there were only two: social work and teaching.

In spring 1967, without much thought or planning, just like when I made my decision to go to San Francisco, it came to me that it was time to return home to Chicago. I was frustrated with the routine job at the American Red Cross and with my boss who gave me what I considered “make work.” I felt like I couldn’t continue working at The Red Cross and stay sane. 

I didn’t have the patience to wait until September to learn about the Welfare job.

And I missed the seasons.

And I missed my parents. 

I got a job as a recreation/social worker at Chicago State “Mental” Hospital and took teacher certification classes at night. But I didn’t have the maturity to keep the Chicago State Hospital job and couldn’t control the seventh graders in during four weeks of student teaching. So for me social work and teaching were out and instead, I took a nice safe job as an office clerk. Nothing for Mom and Dad to brag about in their next New Year’s Letter.

Eventually, with loads of on-the job training and the help and support and encouragement of great bosses and work-colleagues, I found a profession that suited me in the field of System Analysis/Information Systems. By then, my parents were retired and traveling the world and were grandparents, so they had other things to report in their New Year’s Letters and they no longer needed to report on my career. Or maybe they didn’t because they never could figure out what I did as a Systems Analyst/I.S. Support Technician. 

Like a Circus Parade

January 5, 2014

Bea and I are sitting on the couch in her living room, in our pajamas, looking out of the big plate glass window at the snow coming down.  As usual she has her Android and I have my tablet and we are both on Facebook. 

She posts this picture with a comment:

“Welcome to the south suburbs winter wonderland. I saw a snow mobile going east on one of the larger roads. I'm lucky a neighbor blew out my sidewalk. Hopefully, I'll make contact with a snow removal guy tomorrow! I'm sure not going anywhere today.”

I add a comment on her Facebook timeline::

 “Sitting across from you seeing the same thing. LOL”

And we giggle.  

We share pictures and stories about the Chicago snow storm that our friends are posting on Facebook and the time goes by, and the snow keeps piling up.

But underneath our lazy amusement and Facebook fun, we worry – when will we get plowed out and we are restless – we want to take a walk in the beautiful snow.  It’s Chicago. It's winter and the snow is deep on sidewalks and streets and the temperature outside including what they call “real feel” these days is 30-40 degrees below zero.  Schools are closed. We know we must stay in.

I’m staying with Bea for a week as she recovers from major laparoscopic surgery.  Our cars are snug in her two-car garage, which is unfortunately at the end of a long driveway.  We have plenty of food, we are enjoying each other’s company, and it is very beautiful outside.  It’s only one day of snow and cold, but we are already tired of being snowbound.

January 6, 2014

Bea gets the name of a snow plow outfit and calls them.  Nope. They are not taking any new customers.  She mentions that she is recovering from very recent major surgery and they take pity on her and soon we see a big snow plow truck and three men at her house, ready to tackle the snow.

It is just like a circus parade coming down the street.  Something is happening!

Bea has recovered amazingly well and is able to be up and about, moving more slowly than usual.  We are so excited about the snow plow that we are on the move, from the front of Bea’s  house to the back, looking and snapping pictures out of the front window, the side windows along the driveway, and the back window by the garage. Back and forth, again and again we go, reporting to each other on the progress.

 “The two guys are shoveling in the back.” 

“The truck with the plow is going down the driveway.” 

“Now it is backing up!” 

“See how they are piling up the snow.”

“You can see the pavement.” 

We marvel at how coordinated the guy in the truck is with the two guys shoveling.  They each do their part; they know what they are doing and never get into each other’s way. 

Finally they are done. The driveway is clear, the sidewalks in back and front and the stairs are shoveled.  After Bea gives the guys a generous tip, we fall down on the couch and of course we post our pictures of the guys and their truck and the plow on Facebook .

Bea adds this comment with her pictures ”Found a wonderful snow removal company! What a marvelous job! Whew!”

My pictures are slightly different and I include this comment “Rescued by great team. Great relief. But still staying inside today”.

We are out of breath from the excitement of it all and we are exhausted.  We no longer have to go anywhere on this cold snowy day.  We are satisfied that we had our own version of the circus parade coming through town.

Beatrice Friend, of blessed memory, died on January 6, 2016.  She was a loving and wise friend, the sister of my heart, and this story is posted as a reminder of how full of life she was and of how many wonderful memories we made together.