Home again after time away

It’s early morning and I’m sitting by the river next to my daughter Jenny’s house in western Massachusetts. Crows are cawing overhead. Chickadees are chattering from tree limbs, and two merganser ducks are just a few yards downstream trolling the water for a fresh fish breakfast.

The rock I’m perched upon is smooth and solid. It’s a pleasant place to sit and even though the area where my daughter and son-in-law have chosen to raise their family has no shortage of enticing activities, I’m completely content simply being here in their shady backyard absorbing the sounds and sights in their little slice of New England.

A green heron hunts for fish from a log in the river

That doesn’t mean I haven’t partaken of the local wares. Dozens of stores, farmer’s markets, farms and restaurants beckon me with their goods. A new butcher shop in Northampton sells nothing but locally raised, grass-fed meat. Restaurateurs cater to the dietary needs of vegans, vegetarians and locavore customers. Bluefish — a fish my husband Ralph and I adore but rarely find in Florida — is a mainstay of New England fish markets, and we always enjoy eating it whenever we’re in the area.

Ralph and I enjoy eating lunch outdoors on the upper deck at Jenny and Brett's airbnb:
Sunny Family Friendly Home

In Central Florida, most farmer’s markets are merely an excuse for middlemen to sell commercially grown produce to unsuspecting customers, but here in western Massachusetts, farmers markets are the real deal. Actual growers sell their own organically grown tomatoes, leafy greens and just about any other in-season vegetable one can imagine. In addition to produce, everything from homespun wool to shiitake mushrooms, maple syrup, fresh cheeses, flowers and fermented foods fill the stands at outdoor markets. Just seeing the abundance of goods fills me with joy.

Ralph and Jenny at the Tuesday afternoon farmer's market in downtown Northampton, MA

Although our visit is short — just one week — time away from our Florida home provides long-term perspective. It’s helpful every now and then to step aside from normal routines and experience something different — new views, new places, new faces to see.

A new perspective from the water

As I sit on the rock overlooking the river, I think back to all the years when New England was my home. Walking around Jenny’s neighborhood picking wildflowers growing along the roadside with my grandchildren transports me back to our Cape Cod days when I did the same thing with Jenny and her siblings when they were toddlers.

My bouquet of wildflowers gathered along roadsides in Jenny's neighborhood

As a brave tufted titmouse takes a peanut from my outstretched hand, I flashback 40 years to a time when I trained a sweet little chickadee to eat out of my hand, too. I was so young then and full of passion for all of life’s possibilities.

A little titmouse will land on your hand or on a faded sunflower

Despite bumps and bruises encountered along the way, I'm still inflamed with hope and passion. Whether sitting by a cold river in Massachusetts, a freshwater lake in Florida or on the shore of an Atlantic beach, the rush of water never fails to fill me with life’s endless possibilities.

I need to be by water, no matter whether it's an ocean, lake, river or stream

A few feet away from my rocky perch, a curious chipmunk pokes its head out of a bramble of sticks. As it tries to decide if I’m friend or foe, I ponder my own reaction to a location no longer my own. I once lived in Massachusetts but then moved away.

Do I miss it? The changing seasons. The Queen Anne’s lace. The shops, the markets, the abundance of like-minded people. I do miss them a little, but the thing I miss the most is being separated by so many miles from my daughter and her family.

A quiet morning with Maya, Ella, Jenny and Brett

Just as water flows constantly downstream, each of us follows a path of our own. For me, for now and for the foreseeable future, Florida is home. As much as I’ve enjoyed being away, I look forward to being back in my own enchanted world where bamboos bend and the rising mist beckons me to push off in my boat for an early morning row through mirror-like still water.

Tiny ticks pose big threat

I like snakes. I'm not scared of them. I swim in lakes and don't worry about stepping on a snake or being bitten by alligators. But one creature does give me pause. More than that — it scares me silly.

I'm afraid of ticks, specifically deer ticks, those pencil-point-sized arthropods whose bites can potentially cause long-term medical problems in humans.

While all ticks are small, the tiny deer tick is so small it's difficult to feel it on skin
(Photo credit: www.onlinepestcontrol.com)

Instead of decreasing as time has gone by, my fear has grown since 1975 when deer ticks were first associated with the bacterial infection known as Lyme disease. The disease, which is transmitted by tick bites, can cause a wide range of debilitating and often ongoing conditions.

In the 70's, I lived on Cape Cod with my husband Ralph and our dog, Dibs, a schnauzer-poodle mix who spent most of her time outside exploring our wooded acreage with tail-wagging delight. In those days, nightly tick checks were part of our daily routine. Ralph would check me. I would check him, and then I'd spend a long time checking Dibs, who inevitably had more of the eight-legged blood-thirsty critters on her small furry body than either of us had.

My sweet dog, Dibs, who spent much of her time outside, was often covered with ticks when she came in at night

Back then, Lyme disease was new, and I was young. Since it was before Ralph and I began to raise a family, my own sense of mortality had yet to be awakened. I accepted the existence of ticks as just another petty annoyance like mucky March ground and trees entwined with poison ivy. Even though we lived not far from the disease's epicenter, tick concerns didn't keep me out of the woods or away from my dog.

It wasn't until an acquaintance came down with Lyme disease that my protective it-won't-happen-to-me armor began to erode. Suddenly a person I knew who was the same age as me needed to lean on a cane to be able to walk. Arthritic knots punctuated the joints of her hands, and her face, even when she smiled, was slightly lopsided and taut with pain.

Photo credit:  www.lymedisease.org

As the years went by, I knew more and more people who were bitten by deer ticks infected with the bacterium, Borrelia burgdorferi. Rather than diminish over time, the problem of Lyme disease dramatically increased. According to the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, approximately 300,000 people in the U.S. are diagnosed with Lyme disease annually. Even though antibiotic treatment is now available, the CDC reports that "Approximately 10 to 20 percent of patients (particularly those who were diagnosed later), who received appropriate antibiotic treatment, may have persistent or recurrent symptoms."

I find those statistics very scary.

Ralph and I are about to head north to visit our daughter Jenny and her family in western Massachusetts, and as much as I look forward to receiving our grandchildren's hugs and spending time with family, I do so with a certain amount of trepidation.

In 2013, the CDC reported 87 confirmed cases of Lyme disease in Florida compared to 3,816 in Massachusetts. As I prepare for the trip, I mentally remind myself to stay out of the woods, not walk through long grass and to check my body carefully — extra carefully — at least once a day. And, the CDC says that repellents with DEET can help protect against tick bites, as can products containing permethrin.

I believe in evaluating risks. In the 67 years since 1948 when records were first kept, only 22 people in Florida have been killed by alligators. Ticks are tiny, but the danger they pose to a human health — even in Florida where deer tick populations are relatively low — is huge compared to that of alligators.

Tiny deer ticks pose far greater threats to human health than large scary looking alligators

Life is fraught with fears. After careful evaluation, we can choose to ignore those fears, avoid them or face them head-on. In the case of tick-borne illness and my upcoming trip to Tick Central, I intend to play it safe through a prudent mix of prevention, protection and proactive awareness. I sure hope it works.

Photo credit:  www.michigan.gov

Springtime in New England

Ralph and I recently spent a week in New England. On the drive from the airport to our daughter Jenny’s home in Florence, Mass., I found myself fixated on the colorful landscape. Although I grew up in Pennsylvania and lived on Cape Cod for 17 years, it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced a northern spring.

Spring in New England (photo by Jenny Boas)

It was by happenstance that the timing of our trip coordinated with a flush of flowering plants, but what a stroke of luck! I was able to experience the bold bloom of forsythia bushes, the fragrant pink blossoms of crab apple trees and prolific displays of groundcovers such as violets, forget-me-nots and phlox. I was there to see tulips and lilies emerge from winter-weary ground. I saw fruit trees flower, maple leaves unfurl and everywhere I looked, I watched weeds grow at an alarming rate.

Maple leaves opened during our visit

Dandelions, that bane of many a residential landscape, were ubiquitous. The large yellow blooms dotted small yards and vast fields alike. Although I’m sure many people struggle to eradicate the invasive wildflowers from their lawns, every now and then you come across individuals who look at dandelions and see opportunity.

Dandelions everywhere!

On Mother’s Day, on our way back from a birding walk, Jenny and I passed a group of children and adults gathered in a field overtaken by the yellow-flowering plants. A photographer kneeling next to her tripod was taking a family portrait. As we drove by, I smiled to think how treasured that beautiful scene — a family encircled by gold — would be in years to come. The timing was perfect. A few days later, that same field was covered with dandelion seed heads, those feathery orbs of far-flying seeds attached to wispy parachutes. It’s no wonder the common dandelion is… well, so common in New England.

Another omnipresent weed that I watched emerge during the week we spent in Florence was Polygonum cuspidatum, better known as Japanese knotweed. 

Knotweeds emerging alongside a daylily

When Jenny and her husband Brett bought their house last year, their entire eastern border was covered in dense stands of towering knotweed. My husband worked hard last October to chop down and dig up the aggressive perennial but, despite his valiant efforts, new plants began poking through the ground this spring shortly after we arrived. By the time we left seven days later, numerous shoots were already leafing out, three-feet tall and growing taller.

If left alone, this is what knotweed can look like (photo by eattheinvaders.org)

As I watched the knotweed surge madly skyward, I couldn’t help but feel glad it doesn’t grow in Florida. I had the same thought as I noticed all the tiny maple trees popping up in garden beds and onion grass invading lawns.

Experiencing springtime in New England was a fortuitous bonus for a pair of grandparents whose trip was planned around spending time with family. I enjoyed taking walks in the cooler air, seeing daffodils and watching lilacs develop. I loved the color of ornamental quince flowers — a reddish, coral I’ve rarely seen in nature — and finding mounds of swamp cabbage in wetlands. 

Ornamental quince

But mostly I found myself feeling grateful to be visiting only. As much as I enjoyed a week-long taste of a northern spring, I was eager to return home to the ever-changing southern seasons I have come to love so much.

When we told one New Englander we lived in Florida, his response was, “What’s it like there now, 130-degrees?”

Florida may not be everyone’s idea of paradise, but it’s mine. Although we were away for just short time, it sure is good to be home.

Two different parts of the country...many differences

SIMPLY LIVING

We recently returned from visiting Jenny and her family in Northampton Massachusetts and - as I do every time we travel north to our daughter’s adopted hometown - I can’t help but notice how different Western Massachusetts is from Central Florida.  Far more than miles separate these two culturally, demographically, topographically and physically diverse parts of the country. 

Of the many physical differences between Central Florida and Western Massachusetts, one of the most obvious is the radically different styles of residential architecture.  Homes in Northampton are mainly wood-framed structures sided with painted clapboard or shingles intermingled with fieldstone or red brick buildings.  

Even in a downtown Northampton brick building, residents' make room for flowers 

The stucco-covered concrete block buildings that line the streets in most Florida developments are non-existent in Jenny’s quaint New England community.  Actually, planned developments, in general, are practically a non-entity as are the cookie-cutter type houses we Floridians have come to accept as a given.

Instead of sprawling one-story structures like most Floridian abodes, homes in Northampton tend to be multi-story structures.  While some have garages (often detached) many houses are without a covered parking space.  One thing they don’t lack, however, is a working fireplace.  Chimneys are omnipresent – houses might even have more than one - yet air conditioning, if present at all, seems like an annoying afterthought.  Freestanding units protrude precariously from double-hung windows like stuck-out tongues registering disgust at the very thought of hot weather.

Home’s ages differ too.  In Florida (which became a state in 1845), a house built in the 1950s is considered OLD while in Western Massachusetts (statehood: 1788), houses that have sheltered families for well over a century are commonplace.  Entire neighborhoods in Northampton consist of winding, tree-lined streets flanked by a stately assortment of just such highly functional wood-framed antiques.

Large, boxy homes, often without garages (but with chimneys) line most Pioneer Valley streets

My daughter’s house, built in the early 1900s, sits in such a neighborhood.  Its small lot is dotted with tall trees and colorful perennials.  Flower-filled yards are as much a fixture in the Pioneer Valley (the area along the Massachusetts border of the Connecticut River) as the old-time, wood-framed homes they adorn. 

On this most recent visit, the late summer blooms – or more specifically, the bees that constantly buzzed in and out among the late summer blooms – became the focus of my attention.  I couldn’t help but wonder why I saw so many more bees there than I usually see back home in Florida, a state named for its floral displays.  In a period when bee populations around the country have being inexplicably decimated by CCD (Colony Collapse Disorder) why were the Western Massachusetts honey bees and bumblebees so active?

Bee on unidentified pink flower

I wondered if it could be because of all the flowers.  Everywhere I looked, I saw blossoming plants.  They filled up tiny front yards, backyards and the sides of houses.  They grew out of planters, raised beds and in rock gardens.  Bright pink, white, yellow and blue wildflowers flanked roadsides and spread across unplowed fields.  In Jenny’s yard alone, bees buzzed about her pink phlox flowers, slender gooseneck blooms and several other pollen-filled flowers I was unable to identify.

Bee on chive flower

    

Could the healthy bee population be a result of so many yards filled with flowering plants or was the explanation more complex? 

The Pioneer Valley is a youthful, dynamic region home to five colleges.  Farmer’s Markets and CSAs are plentiful, recycling is routine and a plethora of Subarus, Priuses and Toyota Matrixes boast bumper stickers pronouncing “Be Green,” “Coexist” and “Every Day is Earth Day.”

   

With so much visible evidence of an environmental consciousness, I wouldn’t be surprised if organic gardening was also widely practiced.  If so, a reduced usage of herbicides, pesticides and other potent chemicals might contribute to the health of bee populations.  Although it’s not definitive, research suggests that many common garden chemicals can prove fatal to bees. 

I don’t know for sure why I saw so many more bees in Western Massachusetts than I usually see around my own flower-filled, unsprayed yard but I accepted the fact with pleasure.  I took many pictures of both flowers and bumblebees and enjoyed the phenomenon along with the many other contrasts between my southern abode and this quaint New England community.

Bee on another unidentified pink flower

It’s good to go away and see other sights.  It’s interesting to make comparisons, note different styles of architecture, cultural diversities and topographical differences.  It’s fun to challenge the mind to explore new ideas and ponder the “I wonder why’s” but it’s even better to come back home to the old familiar.  We may not have as many bees in my own adopted hometown, yet it remains the place I want to be.

Books that bridge the miles

Tim Boas crossing a bridge during his solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail  in 2003

In last week's column, I shared four books that took me on virtual trips across the ocean. Today's column explores four domestic locales, places I visited in 2012 courtesy of the printed word.

When she was 22, former waitress and novice backpacker Cheryl Strayed (an invented surname chosen because it epitomized her disconnected life) began a solo trek along the rugged Pacific Crest Trail. Distraught by the recent death of her mother, racked by failed relationships and poor personal choices, Strayed hoped the 1,100-mile journey would help her regain perspective, purpose and a new direction in life.

To say she accomplished those goals is an understatement.

Partly adventure story, partly memoir, Strayed's riveting tale, "Wild," takes the reader up and down snowy mountains, across arid deserts and through remote countryside where few people live and fewer venture.

I felt a special connection to this story because my own son took a similar trip 10 years ago. When he was 18, Tim hiked the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. The following year he headed west to tackle the Pacific Crest Trail, choosing a route nearly identical to the one Strayed describes in her book. Like the author, Tim also chose to go alone.

A signpost in one of the many desolate sections of the PCT photographed by Tim in 2003

I found Strayed's story to be both enlightening and frightening. I knew few details about my son's trips when he was hiking, and after reading her story I have to admit I'm glad I was so poorly informed. Some things are best learned after the fact, including some of the crazy and (from a mother's perspective) scary solo experiences such as those described in the book. Wild indeed. Check it out at cherylstrayed.com.

While her mother's death from cancer inspired Strayed's journey of discovery, surviving a life-threatening illness motivated Kate, the main character in Erica Bauermeister's 2012 novel "Joy for Beginners," to take on a life-altering adventure of her own.

Thus begin multiple voyages of personal transformations. As a reader, I traveled along with the seven main characters, with special attention focused on Kate's riveting ride down the river. Like Kate, I too have always found such an adventure intriguing yet peppered by a generous helping of fear. As I watched this fictional character overcome both mental and physical obstacles, I felt my own objections loosen. My strengths and joy expanded. Maybe someday I'll have the courage to take a similar trip in real time instead of vicariously experiencing it through the pages of a book. For more, go to ericabauermeister.com.

A vicarious experience was the only option in Jean Kwok's 2010 novel "Girl in Translation." I loved this book because it offered insight into a world I would otherwise have known nothing about — that of Chinese emigrants to Brooklyn in the mid-20th century, when working in sweatshops was commonplace and acclimating to a new culture was fraught with obstacles.

As a person who enjoys historical fiction, I found Kwok's artfully drawn characters and situations offered lessons in both cultural nuances and historical facts. I was drawn into the characters' personal struggles and aspirations. As with all good reads, I couldn't wait to find out what happens next while simultaneously not wanting the book's ending to come. When it finally did, I was satisfied with the result. I like novels that don't disappoint, that serve up a hearty helping of edification along with entertainment wrapped up neatly with a positive conclusion. Interested? Go to jeankwok.com.

In the search for contemporary novels of a light, upbeat nature, author Claire Cooke never disappoints. I discovered Cooke in May and proceeded to devour five of her 10 books. My favorite so far, and the one that took me on my most memorable travel adventure, was "The Wildwater Walking Club," which combined several of my interests — gardening, walking, travel and friendship.

The story, which takes place in 32 days, follows the lives of three women living in the same Massachusetts seaside neighborhood. Through their daily walks together, Tess, Noreen and Rosie rack up much more than miles. As their pedometers click off more and more steps, their friendships grow. Deeper understandings of individual problems develop, solutions to problems are found, and new directions chosen.

For me, one of the story's highlights was the trip the women took to the West Coast to attend a lavender festival. At that point, my virtual involvement with the story became so intense that I had no choice but to go out and buy a lavender plant to add to my garden. Look into it at clairecook.com.

I can't think of any book I've read cover to cover that hasn't taken me on some sort of journey. Although I may not physically traverse narrow mountain paths, navigate raging rapids, experience the stifling environment of a sweatshop or inhale the fragrant air at a lavender festival, I can always depend on books to take me on memorable adventures. Books are my ticket to different times and places. They introduce me to unfamiliar cultures and perspectives and make me aware of myriad new ideas.

Travel is indeed grand.

Travel the world by reading books

Books have taken me on many a journey...

Simply Living
December 24, 2012

I didn’t do much traveling in 2012.  Aside from a few trips to Northampton, Mass. to visit Jenny, Brett and our grandchildren, I never left the state, let alone the country.  However, my lack of physical travel doesn’t mean I didn’t take some incredible journeys.

Thanks to the world of literature, books took me across the ocean, throughout the United States and even back in time to bygone eras.  In this week’s column, I’ll share four of my favorite international adventures, exploring books that took me on virtual trips to Afghanistan, Japan, France and Italy.

 

One of my first on-the-page journeys of 2012 was to far away Afghanistan.  While most news stories about war torn countries are unbearably depressing, we occasionally hear about one with a positive theme.  Such is the case in The Dressmaker of Khair Khana by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon.  Lemmon, a former ABC news reporter provides an intimate in-depth study into the world of Kamila Sidiqi, a young woman whose entrepreneurial efforts helped thousands of Afghani woman overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles.  With little more than a bit of thread and fabric and an abundance of hope and sisterhood support, Sidiqi’s extraordinary efforts changed the lives of her community forever.  The Dressmaker of Khair Khana is a humanitarian story that reads like a novel, uplifting as well as culturally enriching.

  

While also based in contemporary times, Wendy Nelson Tokunaga’s 2009 novel, Love inTranslation took me to an entirely different country and culture – modern day Japan.  This cross-cultural look at Tokyo society is viewed through the eyes of an aspiring young American singer who ventures overseas in hope of learning the whereabouts of her absent father.  While the story is rich with humor and tenderness, it was the artfully crafted characters and intriguing glimpses into Asian culture that drew me in and kept me turning pages long after I should have shut off the light and pulled up the covers.  When I finally closed the book late one night after a marathon read, I felt like I had returned home from a long and rewarding trip to Toyko, eager for a return visit.

 

I’ve never been to France but after reading Pamela Druckerman’s 2012 memoir, Bringing UpBébé : One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting I felt like getting on a plane to cross the ocean.  Not that Druckerman’s book is a travel journal.  It isn’t.  It is an exploration of French parenting techniques written by an American journalist living and raising her own young children with her British husband in modern-day Paris.  However, in the process of exploring the ways French parenting differs from American child-rearing, Druckerman takes the reader along on her daily travels in and about that most romantic of cities.  While telling her tale, the author skillfully exposes a multitude of intriguing cultural differences between the two countries. 

Since my own daughters were struggling with similar childrearing issues as the author, I hoped to find a few helpful tips within the pages.  I couldn’t have been more pleased.  Not only was the information helpful, I found the entire book to be a fascinating and insightful read.  

Although categorized as non-fiction, Bringing Up Bébé reads like a novel with a homespun, somewhat self-deprecating and totally entertaining style.  After finishing the book, I passed it on to my husband and then ordered copies for each of my daughters.  It was thoroughly enjoyed by all.

Adriana Trigiani’s 2012 novel, The Shoemaker’s Daughter, is one of those stories that span time as well as continents.  As the story followed the lives of Ciro and Enza through their travels from the Italian Alps to small town Minnesota to bustling Manhattan and back to Italy, I once again found myself caught up in a cultural adventure.  New insights, points of view and perspectives were artful presented in a spellbinding story of love, loss, resilience and hope.  

How fortunate it is to have access to broadening adventures.  Thanks to libraries, bookstores, online resources and word-of-mouth recommendations, a stay-at-home reader like me can travel the world through the magic of words.  

In next week’s column, I’ll share a few of my more domestic adventures; books that have helped me explore the cities, small towns and wilderness areas of our own treasured country. 

Isn’t travel grand!

The best part of any trip is coming home

The last leg in any trip is the dirt road home

SIMPLY LIVING
June 27, 2011

Home.  What a wonderful word.  Only four letters but they encompass so much. 

I was away from my own home last weekend to spend time with my very pregnant daughter and her sweet husband in Northampton, Mass.  Jenny and Brett will soon be first-time parents to not one but two babies.  Before the twins are born, I was eager to spend time with the child I birthed 30 years ago. 

Northampton, Mass. is a vibrant college town nestled in a fertile valley where lush gardens and tall trees surround pretty wood-frame houses.  Jenny and Brett live on the bottom floor of an older two-family building.  It is a lovely place in an exciting area. 

Our visit was the perfect balance of at-home and in-town time.  We filled the hours with meandering walks through picturesque neighborhoods and intimate talks in the cozy quarters of Jenny and Brett’s house.  We perused weekend tag sales as well as the offerings at local shops.  In addition to tasty creations cooked up in their kitchen, we lunched at a favorite restaurant and participated in a strawberry shortcake supper to celebrate a nearby town’s 250-year anniversary.  I was able to catch up with mutual friends with enough time left over to pull a few weeds in Jenny and Brett’s garden. 

The trip was a success yet I was elated to return home.

Home.  How happy I was to be back in my own bed with my husband by my side.  My yard.  My garden.  My potted plants in the porch.  My kitchen table.  My favorite food in the fridge.  Patterns and routines of my own creation. 

Going away can be wonderful but coming home is the best.

I’m grateful to be so content.  Some people struggle their entire lives to find a place where they feel so at peace.  On my trip, I renewed contact with one such person, a young traveler friend who has spent years at a time in far off locales exploring different cultures. 

“What do you want to do,” I asked her, “now that you’re back in the States?  Where would you like to be?  Do you want to settle down?”

I found her answer unsettling. 

“I have no plans,” she said.  “I could be anywhere, go anywhere, do anything I want.”

I suppose some people think her situation idyllic but to me the thought of constantly traveling from one place to another is disconcerting.  Where is your home base when you are constantly on the move?  Where are your roots? 

In my mind, the very concept of home involves the putting down of roots.  Home is a respite, a safety net, a place where I can retreat from worries, disappointments and woes.  It isn’t always perfect but it’s always there.  It is shelter, security and asylum when needed. 

As I flew back from New England, I thought about home and pondered its meaning.  I was on a full flight.  Passengers who were either returning from or en route to a home of their own occupied every seat.  Although we come from different backgrounds and live in different places, I suspect each of us share similar yearnings.  At the end of our trip, we all want to arrive safely at our destination.  We want to feel welcome and secure.  We want to be home

I went away for a weekend and I had a great time.  But the best part – the part I treasure most – happened after my drive back from the airport.  It was when I stepped out of the car and into my husband’s waiting arms. 

Each of us defines home differently.  To my young friend, it’s a backpack and the excitement of exploration.  To others it’s four walls surrounding a big hearth.  And sometimes it’s as basic as a loved one’s embrace. 

A Far Eastern experience that's close to home

Long aisles filled with boxes and tins of tea entice both Asian and non-Asian customers

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 30, 2011)

I don't go to Orlando often, so when I do, I pack as many stops into my trip as possible. Inevitably, one of those stops is an Asian market.

O-Town has dozens of stores to choose from, but the two I like best are Dong-A Co. (816 N. Mills Ave., 407-898-9227) and 1st Oriental Supermarket (5132 W. Colonial Drive, 407-292-3668).

The 1st Oriental Supermarket is on Orlando's west side, making it a few miles closer to home. Although the distance is shorter, it is still worlds away from any comparable American grocery-store experience.

Established in 2003 and located in a former shopping plaza in Pine Hills, the 42,000-square-foot supermarket claims to be the largest Oriental market in Florida. No matter when I go, the store is crowded. Customers of various ethnicities load up carts with products from their homelands that aren't readily available elsewhere.

For me, a person with limited travel experience outside the continental U.S., an ethnic market is like a virtual travelogue. America fades away as I step through the double glass doors. Cantonese, Vietnamese and other tongues replace English. Foreign sights, sounds and smells surround me. No matter where I look, I see something unfamiliar, and I love it. Without having to board a plane, I have been transported to the Far East.

This is no Epcot experience. This is the real deal. Employees aren't trained to cater to tourists. If anything, they display a certain amount of impatience toward the English-only crowd. Asian markets are busy, get-what-you-need-and-get-going places. Stores such as 1st Oriental Supermarket are the Far Eastern equivalent of Sam's Club or Costco. They provide a wide selection of products, often in oversized packages, at low prices with limited service.

Ostensibly, I go to the market because I'm running low on tea. Colorful tins and boxes of tea occupy both sides of a long aisle at 1st Oriental Supermarket. I can search for a specific type, shop by brand or seek out blends for certain ailments or needs. A seemingly endless array of teabags and loose-leaf varieties competes for my attention.

Inevitably, I leave with several selections, including my current favorite, Prince of Peace brand organic jasmine green tea. I usually opt for the 100-bag box for $5.95. My local Publix, which doesn't carry the Prince of Peace brand, sells a similar product for $3.96, but that's for only 18 bags. At American groceries, economy-size packages of tea are simply not available.

Although tea is my excuse for traveling 27 miles to shop, that's not all I buy. I always come home with some packaged items as well as a selection of seasonally available fruits and fresh produce. On my most recent trip, I purchased six egg-shaped white sapotes, a bunch of bok choy and two types of dried ginseng root.

Sapotes are South American fruits that have found a niche in Vietnamese and Filipino cuisine. After examining the display of about a dozen different kinds of bok choy, a Chinese green that's like a cross between cabbage and spinach, Ralph picked one and added it to our cart. Asian grocery stores stock an abundance of leafy green vegetables, most of which are unfamiliar to non-Asian consumers.

Anyone who finds the unfamiliar fascinating will enjoy a visit to an ethnic food store. At 1st Oriental Supermarket, entire aisles are devoted to bags of dried mushrooms, cans of syrupy fruits and packages of seeds, roots and dehydrated fish. Live fish and eels swim in a 1,000-gallon tank. Customers can choose what they want for dinner, then take it home, filleted to their specifications.

The store also contains a meat market, fresh poultry corner, bakery, Chinese medicinal herb area and assorted housewares, cookware and personal hygiene items. There's so much to see, I often feel I'm on sensory overload.

The Internet does a great job of bridging physical distance, but it's not yet able to duplicate the experience of picking up and touching an object, inhaling its fragrance or savoring its taste. Sometimes a hands-on approach is needed to foster real understanding. Shopping at an ethnic market is an easy, inexpensive way to expand horizons and broaden your palate without having to travel far from home.

Traditional map best guide for a trip through the past

Technology provides us with GPS units and online navigational tools, but if you're lost, sometimes a good old-fashioned map is the best way to get back on track

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 29, 2010)

During the past 10 months, my husband and I have lost all three of our remaining parents. My mother's funeral was Aug. 17 in the hamlet of Ellenville, N.Y., the town where she was born, grew up and met my father. I hadn't been back to Ellenville since my own childhood, when several times a year my parents and I would drive from our home in Yardley, Pa., to upstate New York to visit my mother's family.

Although most of my memories of those times are foggy, I can clearly recall the pretty countryside. When planning my trip north for the funeral, I made the decision to absorb as much of that beauty as I could.

"You flew into Allentown, Pa.?" my cousin asked. "You could have landed in Newark. It would have been so much closer."

My cousin was right. If I had flown into Newark, I would have had a shorter drive, but I also would have had to navigate through one of the ugliest parts of New Jersey. There would have been lots of traffic, noise, unpleasant odors and unattractive sites.

It might have been a more efficient route, but efficiency wasn't my goal. I was seeking serenity. I wanted to fly into a smaller, calmer airport. I wanted to drive down quiet country lanes. I was seeking as much peacefulness as possible to buffer what I expected to be a less-than-pleasant occasion, the funeral of a parent.

If it hadn't been for flight delays, things would have worked out as planned. Unfortunately, the plane to Allentown landed several hours late, dashing expectations of daylight driving. Instead, I set off in my economy-priced rental car just as the sun was setting.

I thought I was well prepared. I came with a Google Maps printout of my route and a portable GPS as a backup. Nonetheless, I managed to get confused. Google Maps told me one thing, while my GPS said another. Thanks to a kind storekeeper who gave me an actual map, I finally managed to get on the right road, but by then it was quite late and I needed a rest. I pulled into a small motel.

I had heard the term "fleabag motel" before, but until that night, I had never experienced one. For the outrageous sum of $57, I paid for a room inhabited by ankle-biting bugs. Too tired to realize what was happening in the dark, I discovered my predicament when I awoke in the morning.

Within minutes, I packed up my few belongings and was out the door. Despite ankles now covered with itchy welts, the morning drive was exactly what I was after. The countryside was beautiful. Colorful wildflowers lined the roads. Stone houses sat beneath towering trees. The small roads I had purposely selected wove their way through undulating mountains. It couldn't have been prettier.

I got to Ellenville with time to spare. I explored the town, browsing through shops and driving down side roads. The funeral was traditional. I saw relatives I hadn't seen since childhood. We all did our best to breach the years and rekindle old relationships. After a communal meal at a local restaurant, I said my goodbyes and left for Allentown.

This time, I was driving in daylight. I turned off the GPS, threw the Google Map printout on the car floor and relied entirely on a good old-fashioned paper map. My drive was delightful as I made my way through one pretty town after another. Two and a half hours later, my rental car was returned and I was back at the airport.

Funerals are never happy occasions, but I sought to make the best of this one by paying homage to the countryside where my mother grew up. Although not everything went as planned, I considered the trip a success. I reconnected with relatives, relived bits of the past and honored the place where my mother's life began.

My mother used to say, "If you have a mouth, you can't get lost," and she was right. With her advice in mind, I asked for a map and became unconfused. Even in death, a mother's wisdom rings true.