tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86336056242782228152024-03-18T22:53:04.082-04:00Kittie HowardKittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-56406117969463128502015-12-19T07:55:00.000-05:002015-12-19T13:48:50.052-05:00A Christmas Shop in Salzburg, Austria <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Salzburg, Austria's Old Town slept peacefully as we wandered its cobblestone streets. Colorful displays filled windows in meticulously maintained, centuries-old wooden buildings. Summer flowers spilled over flower boxes, as if to tickle our heads when we stopped to admire a window display. We were two of the expected one million tourists who would visit Salzburg this past summer.<br />
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Because of the sheer volume we'd thought to by-pass Salzburg, as we'd done on previous trips to Austria. After all, we'd reasoned, we'd explored Salzburg Back in the Day, before "The Sound of Music" had become a serious draw, when Mozart's birthplace was little more than a visit to the composer's house, then snapping Kodak pictures of the sleepy town's castle on the hill.<br />
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But we didn't. Months earlier we'd made reservations at a B&B tucked away at the end of a village lane with a convenient bus stop for the 45-minute ride into Salzburg. After a full breakfast, we boarded the bus and, as the miles slipped away, Austria's quiet countryside morphed into an international city with a traffic ring around it to ease the congestion. Fortunately, our bus stop was near the heart of the Old Town and an easy walk to the main square, where we got a cup of coffee and watched the city awaken, probably much as it has for centuries.<br />
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Merchants opened shops. Delivery vans appeared with perishable items for thirsty and hungry tourists. Not to be out done, bakeries filled ovens with delights that tempted my full tummy. The sound of horse-drawn carriages, the clippty-clop on cobblestone streets, was music to the ears.<br />
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Coffee finished, we decided to browse the shops, including stopping <a href="http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/Europe/Austria/Bundesland_Salzburg/Salzburg-323407/Shopping-Salzburg-The_Chirstmas_Store-BR-1.html" target="_blank">here</a> at The Christmas Store, where I took the photo in the header. It's such a special stop while in Salzburg, Rick Steves highlights it in his travel program on Salzburg.<br />
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It was a magical stop. The Little Girl inside me sparkled, eyes aglow at the glittering displays of Christmas decorations, with one room leading to another as the shop deepened.<br />
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One of the clerks said they sell 100,000 egg ornaments a month, all from regulated, European Union sanctioned hatcheries and hand-painted in Austria. (The more exquisite the painting, the higher the cost.)<br />
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Upon our return to the B&B, the proprietor told us that, yes, the decorations had a "touristy" appeal, but the custom of decorated egg shells was real. Like her friends in the village, her family had its collection of eggshells with yolks elders had removed (there's a process) and kids had decorated for the Christmas tree. When one of her daughters entered the room, she <i>sparkled</i> as she described the first egg the daughter had painted.<br />
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From our house to yours, we hope the joy and hope of the holidays make you sparkle . . . and may all of life's blessings be yours in the New Year!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy New Year! May 2016 be the best ever!</td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-36538679134959240602015-11-30T20:56:00.001-05:002015-11-30T20:56:37.698-05:00What a Difference a Year Makes!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Large red bows anchor the fireplace mantle. In-between are three groupings of red apples and lemons, all tucked among sprigs of pine laced with small lights. We put up the Christmas tree, with a red bow on top, in the study yesterday. A much smaller tree, with another red bow, centers the kitchen table. Outside, wreaths (with red bows, natch!) and lights are on the lamp posts and front door.<br />
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It's nice, sitting here in the living room, feeling the quiet of small lights.<br />
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Last year at this time, this place was a mess. But walls have been painted -- Revere Pewter in the powder room, cut 50% for the upstairs spare bedroom; International Khaki on one wall in the study, its deeper khaki mate in Mr. H's man cave; Svelte Sage in the dining room, cut 65% in the living room; a historic gold (with sage undertones) in parts of the kitchen; and matched white paint elsewhere, including the garage.<br />
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We did most of the painting ourselves, including squeezing 17 tubes of caulking as we went along. Appliances and the gas fireplace logs have been replaced. Roller shutters on back doors are in. A fan was installed on the porch ceiling when the lamp posts were installed.<br />
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And so it went -- from replacing faucets and overhead lighting and blinds -- to having trees cut down and replanting, putting in flower beds and a rose arbor -- yes, so it went, for a year it seemed to be one project after another. But it finally came together -- and under budget as we did so much ourselves. The house that was a mess turned into a home.<br />
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We're settled, not in a castle, but in a home that's our castle, not a fortress -- the spare bedroom is often occupied; people drop by; we chat with neighbors who, like us, chuckle at the constant drip! drip! drip! of pine straw.<br />
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But within the projects and goals found among those in our lives here and elsewhere and in both of our families, it's been a good year. Nieces and nephews have accomplished much and continue to work toward goals. Parents are pleased with these firm footings (as they should be!) and reaching out to do things that were put on hold.<br />
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It's not that those in my world are unaware of world events and those at home, in the States. They are, very much so.<br />
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It's not that they are unconcerned. They are, very much so.<br />
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But the prevailing philosophy is, nothing positive gets accomplished if one falls prey to fear.<br />
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My grandmother used to say, depending upon the situation:<br />
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1. Don't worry so much; you'll get wrinkles;<br />
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2. Never believe the one who talks the loudest. He (or she, depending) will make you worry about his/her problems . . . then you've really got a problem;<br />
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3. If you've got time to worry, you've got time to mop my floor. (hands mop to worrier)<br />
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After mopping more than a few floors, I can honestly say it's difficult to mop and worry at the same time.<br />
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But it's also easier to worry than to mop, to which my grandmother said when one took the easy way out: That's a problem of your own making.<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-84296680579512884522015-11-10T13:28:00.000-05:002015-11-14T16:53:42.626-05:00Happy Birthday, Marines, and Connection to Tun Tavern<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Source: National Museum of the Marine Corps)</td></tr>
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November 10, 1775 is the official birthday of the United States Marine Corps. When the War for Independence (also, Revolutionary War, 1775-1783) ignited, the Second Continental Congress gave the order to "raise two battalions of Marines" for the armed conflict between Great Britain and 13 of its North American colonies.<br />
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Legend has it, Samuel Nicholas, former Quaker and, later, the Marine Corps' first commandant, executed the order at the Tun Tavern in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The tavern's manager, Robert Mullan, was the "chief Marine Recruiter." The first Continental Marine Company was comprised of 100 Rhode Islanders and commanded by Captain Nicholas.<br />
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Although some historians say the actual tavern where the historic event occurred was the nearby Conestoga Wagon tavern, owned by the Nicholas family, legend prevails and Tun Tavern is officially recognized as the birthplace of the Marine Corps. Among other events, the tavern, later adding a restaurant, "Peggy Mullan's Red Hot Beef Steak Sandwich," hosted a meeting of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and the Continental Congress.<br />
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Tun Tavern stood at a location now occupied by Interstate-95, where it passes Penn's Landing, a waterfront area along the Delaware River, and Tun Alley, at the intersection of King (later called Water) Street. Although the original tavern burned down in 1781 and much of the area's historic flavor has been lost to subsequent development, a commemorative marker on the east side of Front Street indicates the site.<br />
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I am location specific for two reasons: (1) Wrapped in tradition from the day they enter the Corps, Marines know the Tun Tavern's location, often quoting it to each other on this historic day and (2) when my husband, a former Marine, and I visited the commemorative marker's site, it was a personally scared moment for him to <i>feel</i> the Corps' beginning and be as one in spirit with past and present Marines. It can't be overstated that this feeling of oneness is at the heart of the Marine Corps.<br />
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As such, wherever Marines serve, they celebrate the Corps' birthday and their unity as one in remembering the past and serving the future with various tributes, from quiet gatherings in remote locations to gala balls on bases and elsewhere.<br />
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Part of this observance involves the cutting of a birthday cake, with the oldest Marine present passing a slice to the youngest Marine present. Everyone then partakes of the cake, symbolizing the unity birthday's unity. Even when my husband was in Vietnam, the Corps found a way for combat Marines to have a slice of birthday cake, more accurately, pieces of cake that survived being dropped from a helicopter.<br />
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The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Museum_of_the_Marine_Corps" target="_blank">National Museum of the Marine Corps</a>, located almost directly off I-95 in Triangle, Virginia, and about a half-hour south of Washington, D. C., has a Tun Tavern-themed restaurant for visitors. Approximately 500,000 visit the museum yearly. Built entirely from donations and maintained by volunteers, admission is free.<br />
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True to its linguistic heritage, <i>tun </i>from the Old English for a barrel or keg of beer, the museum's tavern serves beer (and other alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages), but also included on its menu is non-alcoholic bread pudding, a staple from Colonial times popular with Marines that's served in many of its mess halls and dining facilities. (Note: Along with interactive exhibits for kids, the museum has a kid-friendly place for families to eat.)<br />
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So, having shared in the cake ceremony at an earlier event, now, 240 years after the birth of the Marine Corps, my husband is either at the computer or using his iPad or on his iPhone, sharing birthday greetings with Marines of all ranks and ages, what Marines do on this special day. Tradition triumphs, even in a technological age.<br />
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And with Veterans' Day being celebrated tomorrow, a salute and a thank you to those past and present who've served our nation with honor, dedication and sacrifice, including my husband (USMC) in Vietnam, First Gulf War and Somalia; my father (Army) in World War II; and my grandfather (Army) in World War I.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today's Tun Tavern at the National Museum of the Marine Corps. As much as things change, they stay the same. (Source: National Museum of the Marine Corp)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of National Museum of the Marine Corps (Source: Wikipedia)</td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-81425226864761566272015-10-13T07:16:00.002-04:002015-10-13T07:16:53.939-04:00Tegernsee, Germany<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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First, our thoughts and prayers are with families in the Carolinas who suffered -- and continue to suffer -- from the tragic deaths and the ravages and lingering effects of the unrelenting rain that pounded the area, especially in South Carolina. It seemed like there was no end to the rain. What a nightmare for so many.<br />
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Late August we returned from our summer vacation. After living inside one gorgeous European postcard after another for two months, though, we were ready to sleep in our own bed (ahhhh!), exactly how we felt after gorgeous postcard trips in our own country: Arcadia National Park, Yosemite National Park, the Dakota Badlands, the Grand Canyon, Vermont's Green Mountains and small towns, Louisiana's bayous and marshes, sections of Mississippi's Natchez Trace and Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway, and the magnificent drive from Ft. Smith, Arkansas to the Mississippi River Bridge at Memphis, come to mind this groggy morning. (Hmm, can't leave out Georgia's tiny, northwestern "hook" . . . oh, so much out there!)<br />
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As such, planes, boats, trains, metros/buses and Mr. H's driving (1,200 miles) covered a lot of territory this summer and without incident, thankfully.<br />
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When not in transit from A to B, we walked a lot, easily averaging seven miles a day. Those miles added up, creating a problem with one shoe. So, we drove to Tegernsee, Germany, across the border from our hamlet in Austria, in search of a new pair of serious walking shoes.<br />
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Some highlights:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEL2rqLnJ-VLY-GV1h_VIVEni53yyWk0_H3K1knOGKZv5NVONHi7VIqGMKayEhpogQuFkXOJI2SMgSuJlLJ1WpW0YRjuTcsIkEzEnvCb4YzYUrp5Is5DpyjEFpayCv52oCPRH_Xio3KzA/s1600/400px-Tegernsee%252C_Miesbach%252C_Germany.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEL2rqLnJ-VLY-GV1h_VIVEni53yyWk0_H3K1knOGKZv5NVONHi7VIqGMKayEhpogQuFkXOJI2SMgSuJlLJ1WpW0YRjuTcsIkEzEnvCb4YzYUrp5Is5DpyjEFpayCv52oCPRH_Xio3KzA/s400/400px-Tegernsee%252C_Miesbach%252C_Germany.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks to Wikipedia, an aerial photo of Tegernsee. The town's about 30 miles north of Munich, the capital of the German state of Baveria, and about 20 miles from the Austrian state of Tyrol (Tirol).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Today, Tegernsee's primarily a spa center and tourist destination popular with Germans, Austrians, and the Dutch. Because of the many wars in Europe, history buffs know there is much to explore in the wider area. However, a footnote caught my eye: On May 3, 1945, a wounded German officer, Major Hannibal von Luttichau, first persuaded the German SS to vacate their entrenchments and then persuaded approaching American soldiers not to attach Tegernsee. Thus, the old town remains much as it was deeper in history.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Benedictine abbey built in 746 hugs the lake. (Wikipedia)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Taken from the car -- the sign welcomes visitors to a very small town en route to Tegernsee. <i>Gruss Gott </i>-- Greetings to God<i> -- </i>is a centuries-old greeting commonly heard in Bavaria and Tyrol (Tirol). Predominately Lutheran or Catholic, it's a devoutly Christian region.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">But the Bavarian regional flag also hints at something else . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQ3qnfOSDJvOwR1YAn1jokZMs7huWVLqrPsf0TPz76unNX9rrW-BQ715afG-hENqgbc8UIn8VqCuj5UCIqyyJWtYIBLVavTgmcnlbMJyUgQAO5CCcR1azymV9x-ACgVaJFyTOMoL9cz0/s1600/Hoffbrau+Haus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQ3qnfOSDJvOwR1YAn1jokZMs7huWVLqrPsf0TPz76unNX9rrW-BQ715afG-hENqgbc8UIn8VqCuj5UCIqyyJWtYIBLVavTgmcnlbMJyUgQAO5CCcR1azymV9x-ACgVaJFyTOMoL9cz0/s400/Hoffbrau+Haus.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ye ole beer hall . . . hoffbrau haus . . . especially appealing on a hot July day . . . when one can sit outside and enjoy . . . </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVi4sMVYizDOopTYDd11J4W7EUvw_83Pv4CyIZSwUCKAhCCQf7ndHe6wI1FmfXgyuHjt2a6MLg0L5FuTrSDAXwBZW81YftkJ_nG_9MpXFNgI8Ekl85L-SGhwihJPbqjV0QvIUnxiAZt3E/s1600/Beer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVi4sMVYizDOopTYDd11J4W7EUvw_83Pv4CyIZSwUCKAhCCQf7ndHe6wI1FmfXgyuHjt2a6MLg0L5FuTrSDAXwBZW81YftkJ_nG_9MpXFNgI8Ekl85L-SGhwihJPbqjV0QvIUnxiAZt3E/s400/Beer.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">a beer . . . the house brew . . . </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzbutj2lyykK1PEdV-GWZatWNBRe6dGl22LCDTPocOoix6cTbK-MSjyvNB1KQFSBdgLtqsncTFJ4eyc8BvHb_HOMRZ4YQCmFuimDCK7cLOgma64B52hnT0pRgpHWY6qVtFG1DjFNLEJfQ/s1600/Pretzel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzbutj2lyykK1PEdV-GWZatWNBRe6dGl22LCDTPocOoix6cTbK-MSjyvNB1KQFSBdgLtqsncTFJ4eyc8BvHb_HOMRZ4YQCmFuimDCK7cLOgma64B52hnT0pRgpHWY6qVtFG1DjFNLEJfQ/s400/Pretzel.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and a soft pretzel . . . there were three in the basket . . . Mr. H. didn't want one so, ahem, I ate all three, burp! LOOOVE those things . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9P0Yvho3b7gyyfvYdd5e1oub3KfrPUblMA8xEfzNsVbCueIT_ZysHw8t_CwI69m8lptZndGmG_HGtPoAS68f8hk7jHxaD3AG5tWNpqeGie5tAyngHkzcs_9Iqr-8oUcfc90CeRkOruHs/s1600/Mustard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9P0Yvho3b7gyyfvYdd5e1oub3KfrPUblMA8xEfzNsVbCueIT_ZysHw8t_CwI69m8lptZndGmG_HGtPoAS68f8hk7jHxaD3AG5tWNpqeGie5tAyngHkzcs_9Iqr-8oUcfc90CeRkOruHs/s400/Mustard.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">swirled in a bit of mustard . . . YUM!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxGOxvYnVwLg5NKuhQ0QfjLUp9ReuXH63l_40PsibtKHB8OvsPgVdia9ikRQg9Qp6beA7xN1642CjXhoYhOWuhBAMNORGN95tdJoHufKQO_UhKc4J8di7YkBqGqdeqxUSXNgWEjYijCs/s1600/Sausages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxGOxvYnVwLg5NKuhQ0QfjLUp9ReuXH63l_40PsibtKHB8OvsPgVdia9ikRQg9Qp6beA7xN1642CjXhoYhOWuhBAMNORGN95tdJoHufKQO_UhKc4J8di7YkBqGqdeqxUSXNgWEjYijCs/s400/Sausages.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mr. H. ordered wurst and German potato salad . . . the latter is to him as pretzels are to me . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i1lRgkaekCNi7KeQ5RfZGx6OlFTM4kZcoqmA9bAGSJN27GyWCQgAMOAsnE8I5j7-3saw0p2DehYxQwaNEg5onr8vXy_UkwliYe4LEAx-XSbBwRjZAfD71uSVSbVw83OnGUoLc50KkDI/s1600/Radi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i1lRgkaekCNi7KeQ5RfZGx6OlFTM4kZcoqmA9bAGSJN27GyWCQgAMOAsnE8I5j7-3saw0p2DehYxQwaNEg5onr8vXy_UkwliYe4LEAx-XSbBwRjZAfD71uSVSbVw83OnGUoLc50KkDI/s400/Radi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I ordered radi, a white radish with a spicy "bite" common to the area that comes thinly sliced . . . sometimes called the "Munchen radi," it goes great with beer. (I had a small beer; Mr. H. drank water because he would be driving later.)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2JT-1vhO4xOWLBZGUrjUuaKvISabPAzKl-OxlSyIN0crUWnJ9IW7swz68XYvaECqD7ChDCWq5gvHaQuz7mmOaTtb9XjMj_h_TFT7xH8KHWTH-3QlQoKS3dIlaymsbf59hgimOqcfugY/s1600/Tegernsee+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2JT-1vhO4xOWLBZGUrjUuaKvISabPAzKl-OxlSyIN0crUWnJ9IW7swz68XYvaECqD7ChDCWq5gvHaQuz7mmOaTtb9XjMj_h_TFT7xH8KHWTH-3QlQoKS3dIlaymsbf59hgimOqcfugY/s400/Tegernsee+Sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Afterwards, we walked along the lake for about an hour . . . </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTRcGpgWmYeSuRAUPpxqAbZ0jtMgEFhBFhjZKPqocG8EqyMocmKs-qXot4SgwcN1h8D1PTvT6KsEhuddSyy_zm8gCvMbCi9khvVfv5XwdUtld8IEaIzu41xnpHkW-TnSWUCvd8R4kR93I/s1600/Tegernsee+Water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTRcGpgWmYeSuRAUPpxqAbZ0jtMgEFhBFhjZKPqocG8EqyMocmKs-qXot4SgwcN1h8D1PTvT6KsEhuddSyy_zm8gCvMbCi9khvVfv5XwdUtld8IEaIzu41xnpHkW-TnSWUCvd8R4kR93I/s400/Tegernsee+Water.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">eventually stopping for -- you guessed it, apple strudel . . . and lingered over a cup of coffee . . . people were out . . . bicyclists filled bike lanes . . . ducks begged for food at the lake's shore . . . birds chirped . . . a beautiful day we didn't want to end . . . but we also had a mission: those shoes. So, we returned to the car . . . </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38G5z_kGppwD-PA1wRyvV87IICiyRHxJlGOvZPxLViEfO10zEgVR8c4s-H953OGDbW4yVLWCjog7wzEvOhby8AMU55r_0IdddVh3VY7yTQxb23l5QIaX7AQjASvUYhQOPC3ZcmbQtiz8/s1600/Tegernsee+Shop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38G5z_kGppwD-PA1wRyvV87IICiyRHxJlGOvZPxLViEfO10zEgVR8c4s-H953OGDbW4yVLWCjog7wzEvOhby8AMU55r_0IdddVh3VY7yTQxb23l5QIaX7AQjASvUYhQOPC3ZcmbQtiz8/s400/Tegernsee+Shop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and headed into town . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiu7BSe94zgu-rdBgZ0fmUvUBwLaayL_u2huc2uOzPaoCJKTawgbHnwQLBbNiDFaoJqoOKHxIcqxXs8D2EnMz_WUn1VY3H8kVOHCVUCSJuizFpH8-Rddw7OiyF3v5G061uz_YbI7mvrk/s1600/Tegerensee+Sale%253AShoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiu7BSe94zgu-rdBgZ0fmUvUBwLaayL_u2huc2uOzPaoCJKTawgbHnwQLBbNiDFaoJqoOKHxIcqxXs8D2EnMz_WUn1VY3H8kVOHCVUCSJuizFpH8-Rddw7OiyF3v5G061uz_YbI7mvrk/s400/Tegerensee+Sale%253AShoes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">to this shop . . . where nothing on sale was in my size, but a pair of Nike's worked . . . same price as in the States, even with the tax . . . so very happy to have new "wheels" . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfx9rTa3460l2Ssj1BwAMJLQBM6cYetq4tMsWQHaPjWTpqUl540DkXgPPKIzhWKZ34lmhyKv5OVHpDQwPFHH_LqLKTQQXNa8gkSOeaLSISZuAsOGB-UthVUp3uQEEYJFeI7NPB9qOtusM/s1600/Country+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfx9rTa3460l2Ssj1BwAMJLQBM6cYetq4tMsWQHaPjWTpqUl540DkXgPPKIzhWKZ34lmhyKv5OVHpDQwPFHH_LqLKTQQXNa8gkSOeaLSISZuAsOGB-UthVUp3uQEEYJFeI7NPB9qOtusM/s400/Country+Road.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">we returned to the country road that linked Tegernsee . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc-U1eJVeFS0jZ9drhKc1bvtgoi71W0p3nyMy1hhSJrVfwfubB8xKLQa19jWBzn_5CcS1EoDFKHs0nkiJDq6QHYPPMdYz_9jAlUoYsy4sQb70hyphenhyphenWTEuvc6kzyvAL9evY9GsfotfwwHYUM/s1600/Post+am+See.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc-U1eJVeFS0jZ9drhKc1bvtgoi71W0p3nyMy1hhSJrVfwfubB8xKLQa19jWBzn_5CcS1EoDFKHs0nkiJDq6QHYPPMdYz_9jAlUoYsy4sQb70hyphenhyphenWTEuvc6kzyvAL9evY9GsfotfwwHYUM/s400/Post+am+See.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and our Austrian hotel . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6QHrSHnldcf-ByfmH5xrCLjH-3kTCWM9eSQiDfxu_j-SG0jm38Em6ph_LFsAgPKQwsC5m01KxXzUhyphenhyphengLKso8lc4w6n4yTDF31YvKDf2scYL062l66y9t6IIjzJO1RlwfTGzODjnk2VTc/s1600/Room+Post+am+See.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6QHrSHnldcf-ByfmH5xrCLjH-3kTCWM9eSQiDfxu_j-SG0jm38Em6ph_LFsAgPKQwsC5m01KxXzUhyphenhyphengLKso8lc4w6n4yTDF31YvKDf2scYL062l66y9t6IIjzJO1RlwfTGzODjnk2VTc/s400/Room+Post+am+See.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and our room . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQn8EFxWneM2gRK2ojPqzL3UgmXFmdXH6SGJ8VjVjgjdzsNmZ9WT5KzSzXHUcSFFFTvC9UTsbSafalAB9Dn-P68-ohKp224bXs6uUzZquMv_NqczqkLrUwnc8sEeVGN1aJYuq10lQ7i0/s1600/View+from+room+Achen+am+See.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQn8EFxWneM2gRK2ojPqzL3UgmXFmdXH6SGJ8VjVjgjdzsNmZ9WT5KzSzXHUcSFFFTvC9UTsbSafalAB9Dn-P68-ohKp224bXs6uUzZquMv_NqczqkLrUwnc8sEeVGN1aJYuq10lQ7i0/s400/View+from+room+Achen+am+See.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">with its gorgeous view during the day . . .</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3k3FSqQG_cGFB6Xvw2V4_Kb3QyuYKS-M1XZXauRVfQLadi54rcaDo4nEuz2cVw3AsKGb7lLtysvPz-UjdVg6uFF9mfRbWzByeGhvvXalnU0nvvmjZej5MHIep6Wf7mzKmw2gWq_jJ9ic/s1600/Moon+over+Lake+Achen+am+See.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3k3FSqQG_cGFB6Xvw2V4_Kb3QyuYKS-M1XZXauRVfQLadi54rcaDo4nEuz2cVw3AsKGb7lLtysvPz-UjdVg6uFF9mfRbWzByeGhvvXalnU0nvvmjZej5MHIep6Wf7mzKmw2gWq_jJ9ic/s320/Moon+over+Lake+Achen+am+See.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and at night. From Arkansas to Austria, the sound of music caresses one's soul.</span></td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-48749980213733403982015-07-23T05:28:00.001-04:002015-07-23T05:28:41.767-04:00Venice Charms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Originally a settlement on Italy's mainland, Venice's inhabitants relocated to a series of man-made islands in the nearby marshy Adriatic Sea in order to escape plundering bandits. By the late 13th century, Venice had grown into a major commercial and sea power.<br />
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Although we're staying in Lido de Jesolo, across the Bay of Venice from the city, last week we were part of the huge influx of tourists who visit this remarkable city with stone buildings that rise out of the sea, as if by magic when viewed from the distance. After a convenient bus ride to the ferry port and a relaxing, air conditioned 45-minute ferry ride, we approached Venice.<br />
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As with other visits, my heart thumped with excitement. Venice is eternal. Venice is beauty. Venice is romance. Venice is imagination.<br />
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Some highlights:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRJKn5lXgMFLiZmEaUl7tAsKf8Zz7Yuf00GMzYoINIeh2MNm4Fzs39p3ijpvHGXJuj1Xdke2mfWYSatmHKU1cYp5pjphIgXyLGAvN6QhCnsJKYxaQlhArXBjGGrC3KdYizkzsRW-ICLs/s1600/Metropole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRJKn5lXgMFLiZmEaUl7tAsKf8Zz7Yuf00GMzYoINIeh2MNm4Fzs39p3ijpvHGXJuj1Xdke2mfWYSatmHKU1cYp5pjphIgXyLGAvN6QhCnsJKYxaQlhArXBjGGrC3KdYizkzsRW-ICLs/s320/Metropole.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our ferry docked feet from the Metropole, one of the most expensive hotels in Venice. Well-heeled tourists arrive by private taxi and dock at the hotel's private landing behind the hotel. If you saw "Casino Royale," one of the scenes was at the landing. But the real reason I mention this hotel is because it was once Europe's first orphanage. During Venice's lively history, mistresses of the city's elite would leave their babies on the doorstep for the nuns to care for. Those girls who had beautiful voices filled choirs. Others learned lacemaking, their handiwork sold on Burano, one of Venice's islands (that is especially beautiful in the morning). Vivaldi, who wrote the opera "The Four Seasons," worshiped in the orphanage's church. Several years ago, one of the Metropole's receptionists showed Mr. H. and me the circular stone stairway that had led to the balcony where the choir sang. Now cordoned off for safety reasons, seeing well-trodden steps was an awesome experience.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Marco's (St. Mark's) church in the piazza. The exterior pressure washing finally completed, the church is magnificent! The doge's palace is to the far right. Musicians play in the evening across from the church.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venice spreads out from San Marco's. This canal runs from the Grand Canal, in the far distance. There are no cars, etc. in Venice. However a causeway does link Venice with Italy's mainland, with a parking lot for those who own cars.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHtQLrVpOZ-TIA_1_ktj3kEJbNB3t4OPlJGLYMSBeIIPEsrTxIKKsH8H7P-VNq_r_wtgyoMKWBckVc9QnA-hMgQQkDRYfbw60oJQ5LqTqSmC5sCqHVbg_54kxiq8K7suDBzyBh3Rm7Yw/s1600/450px-Rialto_Bridge_Grand_Canal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHtQLrVpOZ-TIA_1_ktj3kEJbNB3t4OPlJGLYMSBeIIPEsrTxIKKsH8H7P-VNq_r_wtgyoMKWBckVc9QnA-hMgQQkDRYfbw60oJQ5LqTqSmC5sCqHVbg_54kxiq8K7suDBzyBh3Rm7Yw/s320/450px-Rialto_Bridge_Grand_Canal.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wikipedia's photo of the Grand Canal and the Rialto (shopping area) is much better than mine. One year we took a water taxi to the Riato's back entrance (fish market) and continued onward to the Rialto Bridge, eventually returning to San Marco's. Signs with arrows help the tourist return.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the way, so many shops. This linen shop caught my wistful eye.</td></tr>
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The latest fall fashions on display. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Except for the piazzas, passageways are narrow throughout Venice. Everything comes in by boat. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsNh9BTBL95edHtSr_QcpQJhYk7TzbaSP0DVimoCCUATq6_EJE8XR7aeP1s73anqZXbqkMXLmVva_oTqu-ZQxR1hkyYFBtOth8bN_qElFux9o7blvJe-1AcNao-AkL-YGb264ykg98Kc/s1600/Murano+Glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsNh9BTBL95edHtSr_QcpQJhYk7TzbaSP0DVimoCCUATq6_EJE8XR7aeP1s73anqZXbqkMXLmVva_oTqu-ZQxR1hkyYFBtOth8bN_qElFux9o7blvJe-1AcNao-AkL-YGb264ykg98Kc/s320/Murano+Glass.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But it's a short boat ride for the famed Murano glass from the nearby island of Murano. Because Venice was so densely populated, fire was a constant threat centuries ago, especially from the furnaces where artisans made the blown glass. And also because these glass blowers were like rock stars in their day, the Venetians decided that it was easier to protect themselves from fires and keep these artisans under closer watch if the entire operation moved to Murano. Artisans who divulged glass-blowing secrets had to escape Murano quickly or else suffer the severe consequences. Although they don't show very well, the clowns in the photo are extremely intricate, with attention to the smallest detail and brutally expensive. A bit of caution: Although there are many affordable Murano glass souvenirs, always labeled as such, the Chinese have flooded the market with very cheap imitations (wine corks, letter openers and the like) that initially look good but often crack later. <br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amid all the shops, these actors in the theatre district handed out flyers advertising a play during a festival the following weekend.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhnxYj4Zcd-fXM0ShWdsHb-ujL0cQiN_QL-hR30F7tCKScTzl6vof9pEcJhBsuo34pt2HmswH7KEEHqxiftVDRC7baH2dm_krV5ZGV4KAupNR8xEqd3MFLhRTZqmmHwXLMDusAjuhoGQ/s1600/Gondola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhnxYj4Zcd-fXM0ShWdsHb-ujL0cQiN_QL-hR30F7tCKScTzl6vof9pEcJhBsuo34pt2HmswH7KEEHqxiftVDRC7baH2dm_krV5ZGV4KAupNR8xEqd3MFLhRTZqmmHwXLMDusAjuhoGQ/s320/Gondola.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course, Venice wouldn't be Venice without a gondola ride. This is one of the passenger loading areas.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikM2OVX6-SHap05CJspapQddgxmcnqSOod76agUsME5TTdvVe45EJC4gonhn7h975Xv7b5cX9CHdJIwy79b02UrN9QMgaXoUfsWjJ65zQH8LHN3cBeiixsQI_spajzQDhSYaUIBIIPAss/s1600/Bridge+over+Canal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikM2OVX6-SHap05CJspapQddgxmcnqSOod76agUsME5TTdvVe45EJC4gonhn7h975Xv7b5cX9CHdJIwy79b02UrN9QMgaXoUfsWjJ65zQH8LHN3cBeiixsQI_spajzQDhSYaUIBIIPAss/s320/Bridge+over+Canal.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />And one of its many canals.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nor would Venice be Venice without a nice coffee and a treat while the gondolas glide by . . . ahhhh!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next stop: Vienna, Austria. </td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-51827471469872301692015-07-13T12:03:00.000-04:002015-07-13T13:27:15.695-04:00Welcome to Amsterdam!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Our Royal Dutch Airline KLM overnight flight from Washington, D. C. to Amsterdam was on approach to Schiphol Airport. A massive windmill farm filled a section of the North Sea below. Morning breezes effortlessly turned their sleek white blades as the Netherlands' shoreline came into view, a view that soon revealed another of the country's reclamation projects. A portion of the North Sea had been diked off. Pumps drained the trapped water to create new land that would enlarge the airport's runway capabilities in the immediate view and create more farmland in the larger view, much like the patchwork of green fields and and irrigation canals that came into view as the plane circled somewhat in preparation for landing.<br />
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The Netherlands, about the size of Maryland, is a compact country with strict zoning ordinances, where even the semblance of wasted space, say, near an intersection of highways, is turned into a park, however small, with leafy trees, flowers and benches. We knew from previous visits to the Netherlands, but especially from a visit five years ago when we rented a car and toured the country for a week, that most of the Netherlands consisted of farms and quaint villages. Although it surprises many, the Netherlands is the world's second largest agricultural exporter, with the United States as the largest exporter.<br />
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As the jet's wheels hit one of Amsterdam's elongated runways made possible by a previous reclamation project and we rumbled toward the terminal, Mr. H. remarked, a certain amount of awe in the former military man's voice, "Schiphol's huge now, at least twice the size of Dulles (the Washington, D. C. international airport)." And, so, five years since our last visit -- but this time on foot, with a multi-day bus/rail pass for longer city trips -- we began our five-day exploration of Amsterdam, a city we love, a city that 2,400,000 call home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Netherlands's constituion mandates that Amsterdam is the capital of the constitutional monarchy, but the actual seat of government is in The Hague (Den Haag), where the World Court is also located (a gorgeous building we visited some years ago.) Approximately 800,000 live in Amsterdam central, with about 2,400,000 in the larger metropolitan area, making it one of the most densely populated cities in the world. But because of the city center's horseshoe-shaped layout, the many canals, and the city's amazing transportation infrastructure, we never felt lost in a sea of humanity. We were only a couple of miles from the city center, with nary a pedestrian around, when I took the above photo. We'd paused to listen to the birds chirp, Nature's iTunes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During a walk along another canal, the driver of this electric car (so marked on the door) parked near a boat as cyclists rode by. It's impossible to overstate the Dutch's forward approach to environmental measures.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love street vendors, and Amsterdam has a lot, ranging from displays of old books, to paintings, to jewelry to odds and ends. However, don't be deceived. They are strictly regulated.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJK4z635-XSHv7Sf0sj1hiBMTB7MXruJZy0RVDkQ9dtOx67TI_0dUPfpQt1Jz1EPl0R5mboqDb1Tks000QXS4hIM1wOtvPS5gZKy0DTg9GU1S8GFezNLAxSUxZGLGePBqke0Q7YvXEPw/s1600/Flowers+Everywhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJK4z635-XSHv7Sf0sj1hiBMTB7MXruJZy0RVDkQ9dtOx67TI_0dUPfpQt1Jz1EPl0R5mboqDb1Tks000QXS4hIM1wOtvPS5gZKy0DTg9GU1S8GFezNLAxSUxZGLGePBqke0Q7YvXEPw/s400/Flowers+Everywhere.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower shops abound. I thought prices were very reasonable. When we returned, about an hour later, these bouquets of flowers had been sold. In Rotterdam, the Netherland's second largest city -- and a major port, much as Amsterdam is a financial hub -- there's a massive covered area where thousands (!) of tulips, in a jaw-dropping panoply of color, await overnight shipment to all parts of the world, another reason why Schiphol is so huge. KLM's cargo jets work the time zones so that tulips arrive fresh daily. Of all the tours I've been on during our travels, that unbelievably gorgeous and utterly huge collection of tulips remains a definite highlight.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVb6euyzNHrH-zARUcsgXw29WXpcXUtOL-B8uDR1in0o1iS77CMUmCwdqRuCTwYvmlP3CQdEXPxUVNow1yPWnrFFFwRwwXAinR6dqKIMv3zzZUhraulBoXkaul-gB7aLS_XyN5LELBW2E/s1600/To+Kill+a+Mockingbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVb6euyzNHrH-zARUcsgXw29WXpcXUtOL-B8uDR1in0o1iS77CMUmCwdqRuCTwYvmlP3CQdEXPxUVNow1yPWnrFFFwRwwXAinR6dqKIMv3zzZUhraulBoXkaul-gB7aLS_XyN5LELBW2E/s320/To+Kill+a+Mockingbird.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before leaving North Carolina, a neighbor asked if Europeans understood English. The answer is unequivocally yes in the Netherlands. Very aware the Dutch language doesn't travel far, the government embarked upon teaching English in its schools decades ago. Although it's possible to encounter those of a certain age in the countryside who aren't fluent, it's almost impossible to encounter anyone younger than, say, 40, who isn't fluent in English. (Most Dutch also speak German.) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9B7qIF9u7A2NuA4oY9bWXyzHF8U3By4vDm6JzSFyPPAQe9Sd-By2v7REd4nbhoTrY8bzpEEj9bnabwUTgz7Ke4FBnmCGXfhgUm_bSyZGwAQ9geJjHAeW3FGvRHZ2AeGIdIv8EYw-rhg/s1600/Pelican+at+Royal+Zoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9B7qIF9u7A2NuA4oY9bWXyzHF8U3By4vDm6JzSFyPPAQe9Sd-By2v7REd4nbhoTrY8bzpEEj9bnabwUTgz7Ke4FBnmCGXfhgUm_bSyZGwAQ9geJjHAeW3FGvRHZ2AeGIdIv8EYw-rhg/s320/Pelican+at+Royal+Zoo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pelican in the Royal Zoo roamed rather freely, more intent on peace and quiet away from a nearby squabble among his feathered family than my camera. The pelican is also Louisiana's state bird. (Even though I have a love/hate relationship with zoos for obvious reasons, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd like to return to the marshes/bayous and alligators. Probably not, I finally concluded.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-_5x0qE4yxeXg4310I-p2QjA8hYBCpj73IZwqHPKf1UPyoCCa7G2Prnl9Z_jcn0_sZRJ57Dw49_H_Rcfkb80NDOePsK1ZK-MNO3Tw4x6zwE5ju7UN3itEL-elRZKmdEBnbMxOMJD-To/s1600/Cafes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-_5x0qE4yxeXg4310I-p2QjA8hYBCpj73IZwqHPKf1UPyoCCa7G2Prnl9Z_jcn0_sZRJ57Dw49_H_Rcfkb80NDOePsK1ZK-MNO3Tw4x6zwE5ju7UN3itEL-elRZKmdEBnbMxOMJD-To/s320/Cafes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outdoor cafes seemed to be on every corner and always filled. We stopped here for a beer and a snack. Okay, I'll fess up, my snack of choice was Dutch fries dipped in a mayonnaise sauce. But even with the city rail pass, we averaged seven miles a day walking, so I justified the calories. Before various states legalized pot, Amsterdam's "brown" coffeehouses or pot houses were extremely popular with Americans, with long lines waiting to get in (but excluding yours truly as I've never been interested in that stuff . . . not being judgmental, it's just not for me). But not so much now as the novelty has worn off. However, counter image, Amsterdam has seriously tough laws for those who do hard drugs. Like passing on the right in Germany/Austria, just don't do it!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anne Frank's house, a must-see stop for anyone visiting Amsterdam. The BBC is presently working on a documentary about Anne Frank, as told through the memories of one of her surviving friends. The horrors of what happened during World War II -- or any war -- can't be forgotten.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1fp80ipuj8tR2y5I4gpwdQ2prJt3geR8c2n8rj3WTMZr5Ek8bfbbNB7KtHZZgDTyzDx0e32KBQVcUqQYrYpXkSQw-JX9vF_CCILJbr6-iErMhUof7AomRimcO3G0SAc8dN0CJappUBE/s1600/Night+Watch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1fp80ipuj8tR2y5I4gpwdQ2prJt3geR8c2n8rj3WTMZr5Ek8bfbbNB7KtHZZgDTyzDx0e32KBQVcUqQYrYpXkSQw-JX9vF_CCILJbr6-iErMhUof7AomRimcO3G0SAc8dN0CJappUBE/s320/Night+Watch.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An outdoor bronze display of Rembrandt's "Night Watch" (beneath the painter's statue) that was magnificent, almost as magnificent as seeing the painting in the Rijksmuseum. Consistently rated one of the finest museums in the world, the Rijksmuseum also contains 400,000 volumes of books/manuscripts climatically housed in tunnels beneath the building as there isn't enough space in this already huge complex for everything. Truly, the day's visit was an artistic feast of Dutch history. Mr. H. particularly loved the boats and military uniforms through the ages. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkc3Qy46KowvSDxGo66OWv2-jDHIsG28iRcjWwwoNm4892cIifr2e4bEnVelKrMZliqTofq-x-clx5NNAsTyX4_QzUBCPNnBJkNBWEVsBQaOdLzialjwOt3qUXtiuOgW9SkvvNJ9KnWc/s1600/Schipol-Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkc3Qy46KowvSDxGo66OWv2-jDHIsG28iRcjWwwoNm4892cIifr2e4bEnVelKrMZliqTofq-x-clx5NNAsTyX4_QzUBCPNnBJkNBWEVsBQaOdLzialjwOt3qUXtiuOgW9SkvvNJ9KnWc/s320/Schipol-Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But as one feast ends, another begins. Yours truly at Schiphol. Next stop: Venice.</td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-33976679803467175872015-06-25T20:02:00.001-04:002015-06-25T20:02:38.985-04:00Off to Europe!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our two suitcases are packed (one each) as we finalize last minute stuff before our early morning departure tomorrow for D.C. and Saturday flight to Europe.<br />
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I'm not saying exactly where just yet as the Big Plan ***drum roll*** is to post from our various stops. Since my new computer breezes along, it should be a lot easier than struggling as I did with the old one. (What a mess that was, sheesh!)<br />
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And, you're right, Alex, I'm loving my iPhone! Have learned to shut the phone part off, go about my way, and catch up later. But we do have international plans for the trip. Life's good!<br />
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Hope to check back in soonest!<br />
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Happy Summer, Everyone!<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-80567590944236652672015-06-22T17:55:00.000-04:002015-06-23T11:24:47.508-04:00"The Princess and the Pea"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Confederate flag and a pea: What's the segue? Read on . . .<br />
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With Danish writer Hans Christian Anderson's book of fairy tales in one hand, I opened the door to the living room. This hot August afternoon I wanted to be in the quietest and coolest room in the house to re-read a fairy tale.<br />
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Of the book's many fairy tales, "The Princess and the Pea" had caused a fifth grader to do some serious thinking, but not about the story's handsome prince. I was too young for that.<br />
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No, it was this business about sleeping on 20 mattress piled high above a pea and waking up bruised and sore, what happened in the story that proved a rain-drenched maiden was a real princess, not an impostor trying to snare the prince.<br />
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Even though none of the book's fairy tales had had a princess with freckled cheeks, I dismissed that as a minor technicality. Hans Christian Anderson was from Denmark (I'd checked the map), a long way from South Louisiana, and couldn't possibly have known about Southern princesses: belles with peach-dripping voices, delicate manners, a certain frailty, and a determined focus that usually won the day.<br />
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Being a Southern princess-in-training was another ignored technicality. To my way of thinking, a princess was a princess, thus opening the way to conduct an experiment: sleeping on a mattress with a pea between the mattress and the box springs.<br />
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After re-reading the fairy tale, to make sure I had it right, I closed the book as I stood up and moved toward the piano, where I'd hidden a pea shelled that morning behind the metronome. Seizing the moment -- it wasn't often the house was this quiet -- I slipped into my bedroom, pulled up the bedspread and top sheet, then lifted the mattress with one hand as I reached to position the pea where my back would be while I slept.<br />
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Just as I'd positioned the green pea, my mother entered the room. "What are you doing?" she asked, causing me to jump as I jerked my hand out and the mattress and bedding fell down.<br />
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"Nothing," I murmured, eyes down, following that princess training rule perfectly. "Just looking for something."<br />
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After a long pause that ended with a perfectly executed turning sweep, my mother said, "Make sure you straighten those pillows on your bed."<br />
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That done, afternoon eventually turned into evening, then bedtime. Positioning myself just as the fairy tale princess had on the fairy tale's cover page, I was almost too excited about my experiment to fall asleep, but eventually did, with my fingers laced together above the sheets.<br />
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When morning's sunlight danced on my face, I stretched, only to cry out as I grabbed my shoulder. The aches and pains worsened when I stood. Tears fell when I reached for my robe on the nearby chair.<br />
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At that point, my mother, with her built-in radar for disaster, entered the room. "What's wrong?"<br />
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Not knowing what else to do, I dissolved into tears, explaining between sobs I ached because I'd slept on a pea, not exactly a sane thing to say to anyone. But that's what I believed.<br />
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In the long morning that followed, my mother stripped the bed to soak the white sheets in Clorox to remove green pea stains prior to washing the sheets. As best that could be determined by my attorney father (who first had to determine if I knew the difference between real life and a fairy tale), during the gymnastics of placing the pea beneath the mattress, my jerked hand and the swoosh of the mattress and bedding falling into place had caused the pea to roll forward, eventually out of the bedding and onto the floor and hide, as peas do, until I stepped on it before getting into bed.<br />
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But even worse than pea-stained sheets, the doctor had to come -- what doctors did Back Then for people who had money to pay them -- and examine my shoulder. Because I'd slept in an unnatural position all night, a muscle had frozen. He gave me a shot near the muscle to relax it. That hurt, really hurt, almost as much as my siblings teasing me for a week. But I sucked it in. What else could I do? I had been stupid.<br />
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So what's the point of a childhood story from another era that seems like yesterday?<br />
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It's this: Just as my pea belonged in a bowl with the other peas shelled that morning, the Confederate flag belongs in a museum with other Civil War memorabilia.<br />
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Yes, my fanciful experiment provided a story to tell on the stoop, but I also disrupted a household and caused unnecessary worry and expense. When conflicted, the greater moral always gives way to the lesser moral. I was wrong. And when I got it through my head -- fully understood -- that I'd been wrong, I apologized to my parents.<br />
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It's a step in the right direction -- getting it through some people's heads -- that South Carolina's elected officials will discuss what to do about the Confederate flag's status. It's a discussion that should spread throughout the South.<br />
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More importantly, these discussions should lead to positive actions, not only to remove the flag from state buildings and state flags, but that the South's secession and subsequent actions resulted in "A Failed Experiment in Nationalism," what is written above the back steps of Confederate States of America president Jefferson Davis' home in Mississippi. And if one doesn't know what nationalism is, well, the problem deepens. And part of why, at war's end 150 years ago, General Robert E. Lee advised against flying the flag.<br />
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But just as a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, I say to South Carolina's legislature, "Tear down that Confederate flag. It's oppressive. It fosters hatred. It's about race. And you know it."<br />
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"We are one Nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." We are the United States of America.<br />
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My condolences to the families and friends of those massacred in Charleston.<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-64299672327643429802015-06-04T09:09:00.001-04:002015-06-04T09:09:45.617-04:00"Kermit" Takes a Hop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Kermit," the tree frog named after the famed Muppet, decided to remain on our back porch and feast upon the insects that neared his perch, the light fixture we'd had installed on the side wall. Although the rosemary, basil, mint, and citronella plants mosquitoes hate had kept the tormentors at bay, Kermit not only decimated those who'd managed to get through the defenses but had added flies and other morsels to his dining pleasure.<br />
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Life was good!<br />
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Mr. H., whom mosquitoes love, could sit outside in peace, no longer bitten or buzzed by the little drones. As such, many a delightful evening passed as glorious sunsets crowned sun-drenched days.<br />
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The evening respite also calmed hectic days filled with gardening in the morning, before temperatures soared, and household projects in the afternoon. Although the interior looked fresh and no longer reflected the mess the renters had made, projects remained.<br />
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After completing a kitchen project, I poured a glass of iced tea and headed for the porch, only to stop dead in my tracks.<br />
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A black snake had slithered up the far wall and waited, within inches of snacking on Kermit.<br />
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As I raced though the kitchen, I plopped the glass of tea on the counter, then slammed the garage door open for the broom, raced back to the porch, opened the door near the light fixture, stepped back and banged the wall with the broom.<br />
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In the nano second before the snake lunged, Kermit hopped through the opening, onto the hall floor.<br />
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Not sure if the snake had a poisonous colorful marking on its head, I banged the door frame with the long broom, shut the door and stepped back as the snake coiled around the light fixture.<br />
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I then called 911. No false bravado here. I don't like snakes!<br />
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The patrolman who came uncoiled the snake with a long, somewhat curved metal prong. He said it was a non-poisonous Garter snake and repositioned the reptile in the thicket at the very far side of the house, as removed from Kermit as possible.<br />
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In an established, tree-filled, sometimes wooded, residential area that hugged water on one side and wrapped two 18-hole golf courses on the other side, everyone had a snake story, now including Kermit.<br />
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Problem was, I couldn't find Kermit to congratulate him on his daring escape. After placing bowls of water in strategic locations, I decided to close off that part of the house and wait until evening, hoping his nocturnal instincts would kick in.<br />
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When Mr. H. called from the Chapel Hill area that afternoon, I didn't tell him about the little frog who'd charmed his way into our hearts. Actually, there wasn't time. Well, okay, there was. I thought it wiser to focus on the positive. Kermit would be found.<br />
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And there really was much to talk about. Mr. H.'s nephew had graduated, with honors in Economics, from the University of North Carolina, had turned down a job in Durham for a job in Nashville and had been accepted into Vanderbilt's evening program for a combined M.B.A. (Masters of Business Administration) and J. D. (law) degree.<br />
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That evening, much to my delight, Kermit returned. When I neared the sink in the bathroom, I saw a green blob by the faucet. But excitement quickly turned to worry. Kermit had shriveled up, a tiny shadow of his former self.<br />
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After covering him with a hand towel (he was too weak to jump), I carried him outside, to the wall opposite where the snake had been. To my relief, he clung to the wall. He also tolerated a few fingertip splashes of water from the bowl of water on the floor before hopping further up the wall.<br />
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By morning, Kermit had regained some of his weight and snoozed behind the MiracleGro box in the corner, behind the chair where I always sat.<br />
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He refused to venture beyond this wall until after I'd scrubbed down where the snake had been.<br />
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No doubt about it, Kermit was a Phi Beta Froga.<br />
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But, as Mr. H.'s nephew had transitioned from one phase of life, prepared as possible for the next, so had Kermit.<br />
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He left the porch about a week later.<br />
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Kermit turned out to be Clementine after all.<br />
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When Mr. H. returned from Chapel Hill, he saw another, much smaller frog next to "Kermit" on the porch's pillar. Since we now realized the male frog was smaller, we knew what was coming.<br />
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That evening we avoided the porch so Kermit and Clementine could have a peaceful honeymoon.<br />
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By morning, Kermit was gone. For a few days Clementine hugged the wall, near a dark goo covering a mass of eggs, then disappeared.<br />
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Several days later, the dark mass flattened. Whether tadpoles had dropped into the bowl of water below and survived remains one of those questions Mother Nature will answer later, hopefully when another Kermit appears and the glorious cycle of life renews itself.<br />
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Computer updates: I now have a new Apple laptop, loaded with goodies, all discounted nicely as it's last year's model. Apparently the only real difference between last year and this year is that this year's pad doesn't click. Never mind. The WiFi mouse eliminates the need for a port. But I'm seriously careful about the computer's re-charge port. I fried the mouse port on the old computer by yanking it out too hard.<br />
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So far, I'm loving my new Apple. It's much lighter, does more stuff and is easier for a computer dinosaur like me to operate. That said, getting to this point was a technological hole that took time and money to get out of.<br />
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Another new toy is my first iPhone. But the jury's still out on this one. People really do expect immediate replies to texts. Sheesh! I think one has to be careful technology doesn't turn into a mental heroin.<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-3704198919144161892015-05-20T14:31:00.000-04:002015-05-20T14:31:41.700-04:00Introducing "Kermit"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Kermit (<i>Hyla cinema</i>) lives on my back porch. We met while I was hosing down the porch. <i>What's that</i> <i>green blob?</i> I thought, diverting the hose in time.<br />
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Two weeks later, I can't decide if Kermit adopted us or we adopted him. He's learned not to perch on the door frame leading into the kitchen; we've learned to rattle the door prior to opening it in case he's forgotten.<br />
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With an emerging personality and a dedication to devouring mosquitoes and other insects attracted to porches, Kermit is actually a green tree frog common to much of the coastal United States, from East Texas to southern Delaware. In what has turned out to be an increasingly complicated, but pleasantly addictive sphere of interest simplified by Google, various groups of green tree frogs exist. Seeing a small green frog doesn't necessarily mean the diminutive amphibian is Kermit's sibling.<br />
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So, let's ignore extensive Google searches and stick with Kermit, so named in homage to Jim Henson's famous Muppet. Approximately 2.5 inches (6 cm) long, with bulging eyes, skinny legs, large toe pads, and a light yellow stripe along the sides, my Kermit appears to be fully grown.<br />
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Except that this morning's Googling raised the distinct possibility Kermit is really Clementine.<br />
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Male tree frogs are smaller than females and have wrinkled necks because of the vocal sac to call females. Kermit -- er, Clementine -- possesses a flawless neck a model like Cindy Crawford would envy. After a meeting of the family politburo (Mr. H. and Yours Truly), the decision reached meant Kermit remained Kermit. It wasn't a unanimous decision, even if there was logic to Mr. H's argument: Whoever heard of a frog called Clementine?<br />
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What swayed me resulted from Googling the name <i>Kermit</i>. Thanks to Wikipedia, this is what I learned: Kermit is a male name found mainly in the U. S. It's a variant spelling of <i>Kermonde</i>, a surname on the Isle of Man, a self-governing British dependency located in the Irish Sea between Great Britain and Ireland. Kermonde is a Manx language variant of MacDiarmata, an an Irish language variation of MacDermond. U. S. President Teddy Roosevelt named a son Kermit for a Manx ancestor.<br />
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The last native Manx speaker died in 1974. Thanks to significant recordings and attention paid to grammatical structure and other linguistic necessities prior to 1974, a language once considered extinct enjoys a slow recovery. Seventy-one students now attend a school where instructors conduct classes in the Manx language. Through this on-going process since the 1980s, two Isle of Man residents are now considered native speakers, as they grew up speaking Manx in the home.<br />
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So, in homage to Jim Henson's Kermit and to those who work to save an endangered language, Kermit remains Kermit.<br />
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* * * * *<br />
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After struggling with computer issues far too long, Mr. H. and I are going to the Apple store in Durham on Tuesday. It's a two and a half hour drive. The port where my mouse connects is the main culprit. I damaged one of the prongs inside, probably by yanking the cord. (No, not switching to a pad!) The secondary problem is this laptop is almost six years old, definitely a dinosaur with other issues in today's fast-moving technological culture. The other problem, of course, resulted from an unhinged schedule while this computer was in and out of local geeks' care. Simply put, one gardening project led to another and I, umm, played hooky.<br />
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The photo of the flowers in the above header is of my garden in Virginia last year. (The white spot is a rock from the quarry to restrain erosion.) My North Carolina garden is seriously bigger and on the edge of looking like the garden I'd imagined. (Oh, I hope so!) However, the garden also attracted Kermit and other critters I'll introduce as time passes. I'm learning so much on this porch, sitting here, watching the world go by.<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-56558083398786988772015-02-04T11:53:00.002-05:002015-02-04T11:53:52.105-05:00An Amazing Edit!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Prior to our North Carolina move, I smoothed out the draft for the next book in the Remy Broussard series. A week later, I returned to the manuscript and wasn't happy with it. The excitement I'd felt at having gotten it right disappeared into furrowed brows. Something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The elusive <i>it</i>, that all-inclusive, third person, singular pronoun, had reared its squishy head.<br />
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Time passed.<br />
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Like a shimmering bowl of Jello that turns into a gooey mess when one attempts to hold the gelatin, <i>it</i> eluded me.<br />
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More time passed. But that was okay because the up-coming move meant I had better things to do than worry about <i>it, </i>which I continued to do, of course, deep-down, where I thought the now-personified <i>it </i>wouldn't dare to go.<br />
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Ha!<br />
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Fortunately, life intervened<i>.</i><br />
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I ran into Lynn at the mall, seriously. My forty-something, somewhat recently divorced friend was on her lunch break and had to get back to work. I was headed downstairs to catch the Metro when we rounded the same corner. After laughing about how we'd bumped into each other, we decided to have lunch the following week and get caught up.<br />
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As much as I tried to leave <i>it </i>at home, the interloper tagged along. "Send me a copy of your manuscript, and I'll have a look," Lynn offered.<br />
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I demurred. Even though she was "fresh eyes," Lynn was an in-house (salaried) attorney for a major corporation, not an editor, which is what the manuscript needed.<br />
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She persisted.<br />
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Two days later, I e-mailed Karen with my thanks and the manuscript attached.<br />
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She replied two days later from the coast of Spain, where she and Current Boyfriend had impulsively decided to go for a long weekend.<br />
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I shrugged both of them off and returned to packing boxes, unable to stuff <i>it</i> into one.<br />
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Two weeks later, I opened Lynn's e-mail with a jaundiced eye, rolled my eyes when I read her rushed note about the edited manuscript attached, only to have my eyes pop when I saw what she'd sent: a detailed line-by-line edit, along with comprehensive summaries of story elements, overviews and suggestions.<br />
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Lynn had compartmentalized her flighty love life and zeroed in on my manuscript with her considerable legal skills as if she were preparing a brief.<br />
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True to what I'd requested, she'd by-passed faint praise -- addictive "love this" comments or exaggerated praise writers love but which can enable insecurities -- for comments about what worked and what didn't work and <b>why</b>. Hallelujah!<br />
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What had been eluding me now jumped out at me when I re-read the manuscript: One of my adolescent characters was a bit too young.<br />
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Yes, of course, duh! <br />
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But a deeper problem lurked. Lynn, from Pennsylvania, had had difficulties believing a <i>Southern</i> woman (a character's mother) could be strong and decisive. "Shouldn't a Southern woman be more submissive to her husband?" she'd commented.<br />
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Huh? Not the women I'd grown up with and known in South Louisiana. Or anyone else's mother, for that mater.<br />
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Whoa! What the reader believed -- whether perceived or not -- had to be taken into account.<br />
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So I asked three women who'd spent little or no time in the South to read my manuscript. One of the three caught the age problem. All three commented that a Southern woman should be more submissive.<br />
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When I asked the three to elaborate on their images of Southern women, replies included "downtrodden" and "uneducated." Wow, heavy stuff.<br />
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But characters are creations who come to life in an imagined environment in a plausible setting. One of my challenges is to return to my character and develop her more fully. She needs to interact with historical accuracy for the times but in a believable manner so that her actions don't break the reader's esthetic distance.<br />
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For the most part, I'm going to grapple with this and other manuscript issues on Facebook.<br />
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While this blog will occasionally have posts about writing milestones, the blog's main focus will be on Louisiana stories and points of interest -- what got me into blogging in the first place.<br />
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In other words, it's time for a bit of tinkering. If you'd like to join be on FB and share my manuscript's journey -- with in-put greatly appreciated -- I'm <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KittieHoward?fref=ts" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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My next blog post will be about Pikeville, North Carolina. There's no set date. I'm as erratic and incorrigible as ever. :)<br />
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About the A-Z Challenge: I've revealed "Q is for Quebec." Since no one guessed where in the world we're going that begins with "Z", the location will remain a secret (unless someone guesses it correctly later).<br />
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In the meantime, let's move on to "X". Can you guess where we're going that begins with "X?"<br />
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Postscript: About that exciting Super Bowl game: One second, Mr. H., a serious Patriots fan (and member of the Red Sox Nation), sat slumped in his chair, as sad as sad could be; the next moment, his arms shot up as he shouted "YES," as happy as happy could be. For me, his reaction was a priceless, forever memory.<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-31589594042278754362015-01-19T07:11:00.000-05:002015-01-19T09:26:22.629-05:00A-Z Challenge: Traveling with Kittie!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The A-Z Challenge is right around winter's corner. That's a good thing. Actually, two good things: spring's coming -- yay! -- and an idea popped for a Challenge theme: travels.<br />
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Specifically, you and I hitting the friendly skies for places around the world that match the alphabet that I've visited. Thanks to a great trip to Quebec, the alphabet opens up for a magic carpet ride.<br />
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Yep, I'm excited!<br />
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In spite of the awful news that steals headlines, there really is more good in the world than bad. It's time to feel the goodness and hear the laughter<i> </i>that fill most people's hearts. I've met so many along the way, in large cities and small towns and villages, who've brought a smile.<br />
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But, um, can you guess where we're going for Z?<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-51294719333438349772015-01-12T21:34:00.000-05:002015-01-12T21:34:07.941-05:00Humanity Strong!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Those with sane minds and peaceful hearts reacted as one to the murders in Paris last week, mindful as well of the massacre in northeastern Nigeria, earlier massacres in Kenya, still reeling from from beheadings of innocents and other acts of horror that have filled the news for far too long and, millions strong, raised theirs voices in unison: "Je suis Charlie."<br />
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The French love satire. It goes to the heart of who they are, the products of a deep history that gave a newly independent United States the Statue of Liberty, that gave the world Voltaire.<br />
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Francois-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), known by his <i>nom de plume</i> Voltaire, was a French Enlightenment writer, historian, and philosopher famous for his wit and his advocacy of freedom of religion, freedom of expression, and separation of church and state. He wrote more than 20,000 letters and over 2,000 books and pamphlets. As a satirical polemicist, he frequently made use of his works to criticize intolerance and religious dogma. (Wikipedia)<br />
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Some of Voltaire's philosophical sayings include:<br />
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Opinion has caused more trouble on this little earth than plagues or earthquakes.<br />
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Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.<br />
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Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so, too.<br />
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The truths of religion are never so well understood as by those who have lost the power of reason.<br />
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To the wicked, everything serves as a pretext.<br />
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Woe to the makers of literal translations, who by rendering every word weaken the meaning! It is indeed by so doing that we can say the letter kills and the spirit gives life.<br />
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It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.<br />
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Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do!<br />
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Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.<br />
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I might disagree with your opinion, but I am willing to give my life for your right to express it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Voltaire: "Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.." (Photo source: Wikipedia. For more of Voltaire's sayings go <a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Voltaire" target="_blank">here.</a>) </td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-61593296023374212732014-12-16T22:57:00.000-05:002014-12-16T22:57:25.388-05:00Who's Naughty and Nice on Your Holiday List?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A roller-coaster year ends in a lovely home in a beautiful coastal North Carolina neighborhood. I'm grateful for our lifestyle. True, hard work got us here. But not without help. I'm grateful for parents who paid for my university education, bought my first car and otherwise helped a newly-married couple get established.<br />
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I'm grateful for Mr. H's university education, the cornerstone of his success. True, he worked hard. But not without help from his family.<br />
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<b> </b>Actually, no one in either family accomplished anything without help.<b> </b>My father had his university degree when World War II ended. But with thousands of returning sailers, soldiers, and Marines entering the job market, his degree meant little. The G. I. Bill saved the day. Once my father obtained his law degree, the sky became the limit. Reasonably so! We didn't live in a mansion. We kids had our chores (for which I'm grateful, as I learned how to manage my time and do useful stuff.)<br />
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The G. I. Bill also provided Mr. H's brother the opportunity to obtain his Masters Degree in physics.<br />
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Increased education led to increased incomes -- taxed incomes that had to help offset initial financial investments. One has to pay one's way in life. (Except corporations like Gulf Oil. They had so many loophole exemptions the company didn't pay any corporate income tax last year.)<br />
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When I began working, only 10% of women had a university degree. I was set. That wouldn't be the case today. When I was a kid in Louisiana, a woman couldn't be a real estate agent because "that would take a job away from a man." That wouldn't be the case today. I'm grateful there are increased opportunities and more people can succeed on their own merits, without prejudice or bias. However, more progress is needed. You know what I mean.<br />
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As the fire in the fireplace flickers, I feel warm and secure . . . and wishful. Twenty miles from where I live are poverty grids beyond words. I wish I had a magic wand to put heat in homes, food on tables, and toys under Charlie Brown Christmas trees.<br />
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I wish I could bring in a properly run factory so more people would have work, not that a factory would be popularly received in this semi-rural area. Very commonly in the South, what was is how it should be.<br />
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With a limited education, there's scant opportunity for work, unless one gets lucky and lands a non-military job on the Air Force base in Goldsboro or the Marine Corps base in Jacksonville or with the county government or if the Federal government builds more roads or if one works for a mom-and-pop business, like shrimp or fishing boat. <br />
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I wish I could replete the oceans, rivers and streams. When shrimp here are in season, they're delicious. But they're small. What's called a "large-sized" shrimp in the market is actually an "average-sized" shrimp. Actually, I type this with a tinge of sadness. Not that long ago wild-caught shrimp labeled "large" were huge.<br />
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But what about those here who graduate high school and go on to get a college diploma?<br />
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Most don't return. They work in Raleigh, Durham, Charlotte and beyond. The sky's the limit. In today's different era, they dream of living in mansions. And many will. Some will buy a condo on the beach to return here on weekends.<br />
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Having said all of that, there are numerous pockets of enormous wealth here, where our home would be a guest cottage near a monster home. It's tucked away wealth. Massive homes sprawl along shorelines. On islands. The county built an air strip for homeowners, even abolished the tax on the sale of airplanes delivered here.<br />
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When the county imposed a water view tax, the rich didn't care. Nor did they care about the 2% food tax. Rich here means <i>really </i>rich. (Vermont has a food tax; Louisiana has a food tax. New Hampshire has a water view tax.)<br />
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I wish I had a magic wand so a woman I know can sell her house in Morehead City. About 1200 square feet, the white-sided house sits on a tree-lined street in a pleasant area, but from another era. If you stood on the roof of her house on a cloudless day and squinted hard, you might be able to see the ocean. The water view tax is killing her.<br />
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It's like there's an ocean between the haves and the have-nots.<br />
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For all of the incredibly nice people I've met here and elsewhere, I wish you the happiest of holidays.<br />
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For all of you in Blogville who've been so forgiving about my erratic posts and have stuck with me, I thank you from the heart and wish you the happiest of holidays.<br />
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For those on my naughty list, the ones who don't understand that no one climbs life's ladder without help, I wish you a holiday moment when you see, <i>really </i>see, that the holiday season is not about you.<br />
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Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Hub and I are hitting the road soon, Asheville for Christmas and Virginia for New Years, both with family and friends. Happy New Year, everyone! I hope all of life's blessings are yours in 2015 and beyond!</h4>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-14953375443561707832014-12-09T22:02:00.000-05:002014-12-09T22:03:24.185-05:00Welcome to North Carolina: Hello, Gorgeous; Link to Conquering Your Fears<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Although we made numerous trips between Northern Virginia and Coastal North Carolina to get possessions in place, our North Carolina home was operational in June. No glitz or glam -- air mattresses, a coffee pot, kitchen and bath basics -- but life was good, made even better by the excitement of it all. There's a lot of truth to the refrain "Nothing could be finer than Carolina in the morning."<br />
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One such morning I awoke as dawn broke, slipped on my robe, and went to the back porch. After expanding one of the collapsable beach chairs we'd brought with us, I sat down, stretched my legs as I looked around -- at the sun-streaked sky, the lazy white clouds -- and inhaled a glorious breath of fresh air tipped with pine and the scent of salty ocean breezes that had wafted my way.<br />
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I exhaled as I sank deeper into the chair, then froze. The largest orange cat imaginable had crept out of the azalea bushes at the back of the yard.<br />
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<i>No, wait,</i> the mind reasoned. <i>That's not a cat. That's a . . . that's a FOX</i>.<br />
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I must have stirred, for he faced me.<br />
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"Hello, Gorgeous," I whispered, then smiled as he headed for the nearby thicket of trees. The shy, non-aggressive fox was young, probably returning from a night's hunt in our wooded, river-banked area.<br />
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I haven't seen him again. But one can always hope . . .<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Vulpes vulpes </i>or Red Fox is common in North Carolina and one of three species common in the U. S., the other two being the Kit Fox and the Swift Fox. The Red Fox's tail is about 70% as long as the head and body length. The shy, non-aggressive fox is thought to be monogamous, mates early January onward, and has pups late February-April. Average litter has five pups. The female, called a 'vixen', stays with the pups while the male hunts for food. When pups are around 10 months old, they're usually out on their own. The Red Fox is not endangered. (Photo source: Wikipedia; for a YouTube video of five Red Fox in a Raleigh, NC, yard, go <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XyhAH8N7vuI" target="_blank">here.</a>)<br />
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I thought I'd link this post to an article about overcoming one's fears. Shy and primarily nocturnal, the fox hunts mice, woodchuck, squirrels, eats insects, birds, and eggs and has been known to dig into uncovered garbage. (Note: Counter-legend, a fox seen during the day probably isn't diseased if there's a variety of habitat available, as there is here.)<br />
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The Red Fox has to be wily, but cautious, to survive. A large, aggressive feline can bring a young fox down. So, where is the line between caution and fear? For each of us, it's in a different place. We all have fears. That's the nature of being human.<br />
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A 20-year old adult probably wouldn't assess a situation as a 40-year old adult would, both generations either out of experience, fear or a combination of both. Experience tempers judgment; fear paralyzes judgment. A helpful link to overcoming fear is <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/15/conquering-fear_n_3909020.html" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-26832495803910998092014-12-01T21:04:00.000-05:002014-12-01T21:04:03.701-05:00Welcome to North Carolina!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You have no idea how many times I've longed to resume blogging. But these past months have been such a whirlwind of activity there hasn't been time.<br />
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When last at the keyboard, around the end of March, the crud that had invaded my gorgeous body turned out to be a formidable foe that required kick-ass antibiotics and serious rest. (Your kind Get Well wishes also helped. Thank you!)<br />
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Back on my feet, Mr. H. and I listed what remained to be done prior to listing our Virginia condo for sale and got busy. Chipped fingernails and sore muscles later, the For Sale sign went up. (Gosh, but that sounds easy. It wasn't!)<br />
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By the 10th day on the market, we'd received four offers. We decided to go with the first offer because of the proposed lender's solid reputation. In a nutshell, we received our asking price, and the buyer paid all of the closing costs, a considerable savings to us.<br />
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Now that we had a closing date for the condo, the trips between Virginia and North Carolina began. Our house had been rented out. Floors needed to be replaced, walls painted, and so on.<br />
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These trips started out as fun, marking off Interstate exits, like Emporia and Pikeville, as Virginia's rolling terrain flattened into Eastern North Carolina's coastal landscape, but ended up being more like "Noooooooo, not another trip." If you've moved before, you know exactly what I mean!<br />
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Long story short: More chipped fingernails and sore muscles later, Mr. H. and I looked around our house, decided we were IN and relaxed with morning cup of coffee on the back porch. Have you ever heard pine trees "whispering" when a gentle wind blows? It's nice, very nice and, in that moment, when Nature and soul are one, going through all of That to get to This is worth it.<br />
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However, I don't know if we'll remain here. For tax purposes, we have to live in this house for two years. It's a lovely house that's turning into a loving home and is not a problem. The problems lie elsewhere. In the years since we last lived in North Carolina, the state and counties have charted paths that often conflict with the whispering pines. We don't want to move again, heavens, no! But I sometimes think North Carolina is a bit too high and tight for us.<br />
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Anyway, as life in North Carolina unfolds, I'm going to share my experiences with you, and we'll see where this takes us.<br />
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(It's nice, very nice to be back home in Blogville. Missed ya!)<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-86071587608972761512014-03-17T22:04:00.000-04:002014-03-17T22:04:09.678-04:00Link to Characteristics of Creative People; Blog on Mini Hiatus <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A couple of weeks ago, when I made my news junkie rounds of blogs (from conservative to liberal), I came across a post about the characteristics of creative people on Huffington Post that did more than catch my eye: It made me smile. The link is <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/04/creativity-habits_n_4859769.html" target="_blank">here.</a> I think you'll smile, too. It's seriously great!<br />
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Otherwise, my laptop's been sitting on my desk, lonely and sad without me (I'd like to imagine) as days have ended with me flopping into bed, too tired from preparing for the North Carolina move to give it a goodnight pat, or, like today, too feverish from the crud going around to do much of anything.<br />
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The good news is, Mr. H., who is rarely sick, is on the mend. Yes, we both had our flu shots. But this isn't the flu or pneumonia. It's just a nasty crud that lays one low for a bit. In the meantime, my blog's on hiatus . . . there's no sense pretending I can do more when I can't.<br />
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Really hope this winter bug hasn't nipped at you! xoxo<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-77280432454996920202014-02-26T08:55:00.001-05:002014-02-28T23:00:32.168-05:00Look at the Pecan Tree Ahead<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was growing up in South Louisiana and lived with my parents on my grandparents' farm, I loved opportunities to ride with my grandfather in his green Ford truck when he went to the back pastures. Even though the layout of the pastures was as familiar as the sun rising in the morning, trips rippled with excitement. I couldn't wait to see how much calves had grown, if the green casings on pecans had begun to turn or how many cows were at the watering hole.<br />
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Actually, the watering hole was a dynamite hole about the size of a respectable pond that did double duty as a fishing hole. Sometimes, after we'd checked to see how the cows were doing on their rather sloped side (perhaps a calf had ventured too far), my grandfather would drive to the opposite far side of the watering hole, where he'd stop, get out of the truck and remove a knife from the tool box in the truck's bed.<br />
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When this happened, I could barely sit still. We were going fishing!<br />
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Later on, I'd learn to select my own bamboo pole from the thicket not far from where we'd stop and run the line, then add the stopper and hook. On this particular day with no day or month, with just a warm sun and a gentle breeze to anchor the time, I focused on threading a worm on the hook that was high enough to entice a fish but not so low as to feed a turtle.<br />
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My grandfather didn't know how catfish and turtles had taken up residence in the watering hole, what had once been flat land. But many years later -- more years than I could imagine at the time -- my grandfather and I sat on the bank with our fishing poles. Since the cows sullied the water, we both knew we wouldn't keep any fish we caught. But that didn't matter. It was the sheer joy of being there.<br />
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However, on this particular day with no name, I caught my first "eating-size" catfish that we wouldn't eat, barely able to contain my excitement as I focused on getting the fish to shore. That done, I jumped up and down -- whee! -- and couldn't wait to tell my sister Sarah what had happened, pins and needles Sarah wouldn't be home when we got home -- as if a three-year-old had Wall Street appointments beyond her afternoon nap -- and fidgeted in the green Ford truck that wouldn't go fast enough.<br />
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And, so, this was how I learned to work toward a goal. My grandfather told me to look into the distance, where I knew my house was, and then focus only on the pecan tree in front of me. Since the truck was moving, the tree ahead would become another tree ahead, and I would reach my house, my goal, faster than if stared into the distance, wanting it to be.<br />
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Fast forward the day-with-no-name to today and the goal is that my husband and I will list our place for sale the first week in May. Now that the first load of stuff is in a North Carolina storage unit, we need to focus on the expected work one does before listing a dwelling.<br />
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Dog work that, like the tree ahead, moves steadily forward each day.<br />
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We hope to be settled in our NC house by June, even if this one hasn't sold. Many, many thanks for your very helpful paint/decorating suggestions. True confession time: Instead of devoting time to my blog, free moments have been consumed by paint palettes too easily Googled. However, that did lead to one decision being made: beige walls in the great room. Now, <i>which</i> beige remains to be determined. . . that next tree ahead.<br />
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My apologies for being so slow in visiting you. Obviously, my old routine of visiting blogs in the evening fell apart -- something about being too tired to think and/or nodding off with my hands at the keyboard while flopped on the sofa -- so I'm switching out evening for morning visits. I think I'll still be as slow as a turtle -- one can only do so much -- but will plod along, from one tree to the next.<br />
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Have a great day, everyone!<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-68857322656537139522014-02-15T10:15:00.002-05:002014-02-15T10:42:53.426-05:00A Colorful Question Amid Snow, Snow and More Snow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
While California struggles with a parched earth and the worst drought in over 100 years, snow keeps blanketing other states. From my window, the snow looks pretty, a Currier and Ives winter landscape that kisses the snow-filled horizon . . .<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCl_BtRkcLnQNUW0g42VcW1pSki6Y4oazmjIOFduRV9VWZuL0NGRuqxcubrwiLn5AILo_7dum17VJ69j5fnGDinz2QlQkPrDmqvBwrP2BKYCZ2p5L9CrJKksIcR9ouaO_zA3YeFB4n7s/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCl_BtRkcLnQNUW0g42VcW1pSki6Y4oazmjIOFduRV9VWZuL0NGRuqxcubrwiLn5AILo_7dum17VJ69j5fnGDinz2QlQkPrDmqvBwrP2BKYCZ2p5L9CrJKksIcR9ouaO_zA3YeFB4n7s/s1600/images.jpeg" height="301" width="400" /></a></div>
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. . . whoa, more snow's coming today and tomorrow . . . a couple of inches here in Northern Virginia . . . a foot and a half projected for Maine. For us here, temperatures will rise to the mid-50s next week. We've been warned the upcoming melt could lead to flooding. Yeow!<br />
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During the hiatus, hub and I have busied ourselves preparing for the upcoming move to Eastern North Carolina. Since the first wave of stuff that made the downsizing cut will go into a storage unit there in mid-April, we boxed many of the books and collectables that have come to be an extension of who we are, a good thing. One's life needs a decorative touch, warm reminders here and there of goals achieved in another time, another place that nudge the spirit to focus forward, to experience what lies behind the next 'mountain.' An African expression comes to mind: A river that doesn't flow stagnates and dries up.<br />
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But I've given much more thought to paint. Specifically, which palette will work best in our new home? Here's the frontal layout: traditional foyer with dining room to the left, study to the right; after a wrap-around, two steps lead to the sunken living room, almost a great room if it weren't for the family room off of the kitchen (to the back, left). Since long panes are alongside the house's entry door and large Palladium windows are on either side of the fireplace that anchors the living room's far wall, there's plenty of natural light, perhaps too much at times.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvYOuOdJ8_pL2e1KUPG2lBxJInnu0V56wEzNQB_H6rxBwsvwBP7e5KpIM2JMTdP6wu4J6fk8YDZqCxjLfcsKdnmTGHmLVchR4-uwPTp7xVfHIMooIyNi_8-x1YAmMHuC_CzPY02fWP5g/s1600/11954322131712176739question_mark_naught101_02.svg.med.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvYOuOdJ8_pL2e1KUPG2lBxJInnu0V56wEzNQB_H6rxBwsvwBP7e5KpIM2JMTdP6wu4J6fk8YDZqCxjLfcsKdnmTGHmLVchR4-uwPTp7xVfHIMooIyNi_8-x1YAmMHuC_CzPY02fWP5g/s1600/11954322131712176739question_mark_naught101_02.svg.med.png" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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Since we're just a few minutes from the beach, I'm in a quandary about how to create a light, airy entrance without turning the house into a beach cottage. I'd love your suggestions as to which paint neutrals/colors you'd use. . . without using blue as I left my 'blue stage' years ago and don't really want to return. . . and, no yellow as the living room area is currently a light yellow . . . nice, but stale looking to our eyes . . . it's time for a change . . . Please, please, how would you switch out that yellow?<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-59319637099764318792014-01-21T07:39:00.000-05:002014-01-21T07:39:37.545-05:00Jekyll Island, Georgia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When my husband was in the Marine Corps, we had three tours at Camp LeJeune, the Corps' sprawling base near Jacksonville in southeastern North Carolina. Since he deployed often, I'd sometimes visit my family in Louisiana. The usual route was south to Atlanta, west to Montgomery, south to Mobile, and west to New Orleans. During one return trip to Camp LeJeune, I opted for a bit of variety and didn't cut north at Mobile.<br />
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Since the day was still young when I reached Pensacola, I decided to push onward, to Jacksonville, Florida. I quickly realized I'd traded the long haul between Mobile and Montgomery for an even longer haul -- the 460 miles to Jacksonville, Florida. Instead of doubling back, the sensible solution, I decided to push on as I never been east of Tallahassee, the state capital.<br />
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Umm, the answer turned out to be more pine trees, not exactly exciting, and since I didn't want to get caught up in Jacksonville's morning traffic, I cut north, to Brunswick, Georgia. It wasn't long before I saw a sign for a Holiday Inn, a good thing as the bright summer sky had turned into a purple-laced sky.<br />
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The exit led to a narrow two-lane road that cut through tall marsh grasses, not exactly a welcome sight, but another Holiday Inn sign encouraged me onward. Since my VW lacked air conditioning, I rolled down the passenger's window for more fresh air that humid summer night. More frogs serenaded me, a dubious touch beneath a pitch black sky and marsh grasses taller than my VW (well, okay, it was a Bug).<br />
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What seemed like a million miles later, I pulled into a one-pump gas station. The attendant assured me the Holiday Inn was "down the road a little bit." I translated that into about two miles, and, sure enough, a Holiday Inn appeared.<br />
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After the lady at the desk lectured me about not getting a room in Jacksonville, she handed me the key to what turned out to be a suite overlooking the marsh and waters beyond. Surprised at how the lady had upgraded my room, but too tired beyond a shower and crawling into bed, I wouldn't know about the view until morning, when I stretched to the sound of birds chirping.<br />
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I was on St. Simons Island. It was magnificent, gorgeous beyond words.<br />
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Fast forward to the return trip to Virginia my husband and I made from New Orleans a couple of weeks ago, and we're on Jekyll Island. Since developers had turned St. Simons Island into a hodgepodge of tourist traps through the years, we fled to Jekyll Island and what turned out to be one of our favorite stops during our trip home.<br />
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Jekyll Island is one of Georgia's four barrier islands. Its 5,700 acres include 4,000 acres of solid earth and approximately 1,000 acres of mostly tidal marshlands. Along the eastern shoreline are eight miles of wide, flat beaches. My header is a photograph I took on a bitterly cold, windy (50 MPH) day that will forever warm my memories of a pristine island.<br />
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Wealthy northern industrialists own Jekyll Island and used it as a secluded winter getaway until 1947, when the State of Georgia bought the island for use as a state park. Since 1971, state law has mandated 65% of the island's beaches, salt marshes and forests remain unspoiled. As a result, the island has 20 miles of hiking trails and some of the most majestic, moss-covered trees imaginable.<br />
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There's no McDonald's or shopping center on the small island. Nearby St. Simons Island provides whatever one needs. The 35% of the land that can be developed has been done so with strict regulation by its managers, the Georgia state legislature, that preserves/encourages the island's cash cow eco-tourism business. But more about this later.<br />
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Beyond the island's pristine vistas, Jekyll Island also a deep history that deserves further exploration in upcoming posts. In the meantime, some Polar Vortex brrrr! photos:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7y2dXsGy80KCW8hAsgO7MOWeo7JQ5Fw5_joO7PucmlcRNhWHBLzOuKp49Xm8LSvavc_DWen70PjPRzShM0zQnnU85_TP4R2-ydvD0PGKrBVQMr2jMzi8DyECM-X5MtcUqIY_TD6JB8I/s1600/Driving+to+JI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7y2dXsGy80KCW8hAsgO7MOWeo7JQ5Fw5_joO7PucmlcRNhWHBLzOuKp49Xm8LSvavc_DWen70PjPRzShM0zQnnU85_TP4R2-ydvD0PGKrBVQMr2jMzi8DyECM-X5MtcUqIY_TD6JB8I/s1600/Driving+to+JI.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Water and marsh grasses -- from the car as we drove across the causeway to Jekyll Island from St. Simons Island.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3gdBYDGjEZeQkrUWTvnYX5y0IE3yZDaEhiCNk0ujws37IaN0-LQMRjk3SqU1t-gyFBISd3NJGbp6_NnUP796EH1GORicOV1RBN-0yxQ-ohaERRvxsrVljso6PoigHgOyRwmNruNFUCU/s1600/Overhanging+Trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3gdBYDGjEZeQkrUWTvnYX5y0IE3yZDaEhiCNk0ujws37IaN0-LQMRjk3SqU1t-gyFBISd3NJGbp6_NnUP796EH1GORicOV1RBN-0yxQ-ohaERRvxsrVljso6PoigHgOyRwmNruNFUCU/s1600/Overhanging+Trees.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over-arching trees on Jekyll Island.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlzUn32L8kHbDHaHvwoImU6EWa_2-0jIBStzUGRLMAFPZrIH-yMCxkqGw72wFd_vkmsnIh7OO-9_mKWqAscG15jTBed3-g-qe1k-SMBFA5ltd3LSK2yzLdAWAB8t9xPNtmIdcf7-FWs4/s1600/Moss+on+Trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlzUn32L8kHbDHaHvwoImU6EWa_2-0jIBStzUGRLMAFPZrIH-yMCxkqGw72wFd_vkmsnIh7OO-9_mKWqAscG15jTBed3-g-qe1k-SMBFA5ltd3LSK2yzLdAWAB8t9xPNtmIdcf7-FWs4/s1600/Moss+on+Trees.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spanish moss on trees.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8nRxzewhJTwhCaNEcu5tR2Hh-Dx5WLZcdm3jdI-VFQjOsKAb5RVveAEx45BuN5nMq68-VlEFad-aJpTqln1aKjkdvENCUHuTMN_szQHN5Td2nYjVvC-U-L9BhtqRDL-Nw9mfxIcn27M/s1600/Hiking+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8nRxzewhJTwhCaNEcu5tR2Hh-Dx5WLZcdm3jdI-VFQjOsKAb5RVveAEx45BuN5nMq68-VlEFad-aJpTqln1aKjkdvENCUHuTMN_szQHN5Td2nYjVvC-U-L9BhtqRDL-Nw9mfxIcn27M/s1600/Hiking+Trail.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the easier hiking trains.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsu4O__suV4QNUWU46rl8LY_sXtgSCIpgDyxtk5yCY-zuwY6817SGyoQFTu5rMuIcgcuzkzOEP9LrqCn0T3MRfr_htptvjTaih36HGRzmlzJ5tzSIdOJZOatjuck33Nkdu0cJjTrb17Y/s1600/Pelicans+on+Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsu4O__suV4QNUWU46rl8LY_sXtgSCIpgDyxtk5yCY-zuwY6817SGyoQFTu5rMuIcgcuzkzOEP9LrqCn0T3MRfr_htptvjTaih36HGRzmlzJ5tzSIdOJZOatjuck33Nkdu0cJjTrb17Y/s1600/Pelicans+on+Beach.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took this of pelicans on a restricted part of a beach with a zoom lens. One can't go everywhere as there are nesting areas.<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-3100877249298405052014-01-12T22:35:00.000-05:002014-01-12T22:39:01.256-05:00An Old Bull in Namibia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Late Friday night and 2,992 miles after we left for the holidays, my husband pulled into the driveway and turned off the car's ignition. Home! As fabulous as the trip was, it felt good, being home. We were also tired. . . very tired. Like for so many in the United States, the weather had challenged throughout the trip, but especially the sleeting rain in North Carolina that had followed us almost to our driveway.<br />
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But this morning, now rested and with the sun shining and birds chirping, it's a new beginning.<br />
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Or a sad ending, depending upon one's viewpoint.<br />
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Someone in the Dallas Safari Club had the highest bid, $350K ($350,000), to shoot a black rhino in Namibia. Please note I used the verb <i>shoot </i>because it will be a carefully managed canned hunt, meaning the animal can't run away.<br />
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My husband, the Marine who knows about weapons, is appalled (his word). As I've mentioned before, he's a man's man who not only talks the talk but walks the walk. Simply put, there's no whining at the poker table. Show up with your big boy/girl pants on or stay home.<br />
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Flying in a private jet to a far off country, wearing expensive hunting clothes, and pulling out a high-powered weapon to shoot (execute?) an old rhino in a defined space because his bee no longer buzzes is <i>sick</i>, the kind of sick that's perverted if one isn't ultra rich. It's the kind of rich that flips off school kids donating saved pennies to organizations that work to save the rhino. It's the kind of rich where Pro Life is morality for the masses but a Second Amendment right for the rich.<br />
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Of course, if Namibia had acted responsibly and not offered the permit for auction, much could have been prevented. Namibian officials could have put out an all-call for donations for aging rhinos to live out their years in viewing areas.<br />
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Think of the children who could've watched the rhinos on web cams, a real learning experience about what's good in life instead of kids wondering how an adult could impose a Death Panel on an old animal that symbolizes not only Nature's grandeur but the enormous work done by so many to save the rhino from extinction.<br />
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I'm disappointed in Namibia.<br />
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Not that long ago, when my husband and I lived in Macedonia, we flew to Windhoek, the capital of Namibia, picked up our rental car, and drove across parts of the Namib Desert to Swakopmund, where we spent Christmas in a quaint, modest hotel that was so special we'd longed to return.<br />
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We'd also like to make that drive again. For some reason, Namibia is at a latitude that attracts meteorites. They're everywhere. Huge. Gigantic. Small. The quiet drive traverses attractive villages surrounded by golden desert dotted with meteorites in every shape imaginable.<br />
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Approximately 2.2 million people live in one of the least densely populated countries in the world. 319,000 sq. miles (825,000 sq. km). By all accounts, Namibia is a stable, multi-party parliamentary democracy, a middle income country that Bloomburg says is easier to do business in than South Africa.<br />
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In the 1990s, Namibia -- then known as South-West Africa -- split from the Union of South Africa (which had governed it since 1910). DeBeers, the South African diamond behemoth, sold 50% of its 100% ownership of its diamond mines there to the new government, thus forming Namdeb Diamond Corp. partnership.<br />
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During the drive my husband and I made, we saw signs that restricted access to certain areas, specifically the Pomona area, because of the enormity of the diamond mines there. Now, I want to be perfectly clear: This isn't a 'Blood Diamonds' set-up. But you're not going to walk along the Atlantic Ocean's beaches and pick up diamonds to take home as souvenirs. That's a fact!<br />
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Besides diamonds, Namibia enjoys an ever-expanding tourist trade (that's become too expensive for our wallets), a viable agricultural infrastructure, and mines significant quantities of gold, silver, uranium, and base metals that are sold on world markets.<br />
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Although Namibia, like other countries, has pockets of inequity, it is not a poverty-stricken, failed state like Somalia or suffers famine issues found in the Sahel (Kenya, Ethiopia, and elsewhere). There is no reason why a country blessed with Namibia's diamonds and precious metals, along with the enormous economic and business contributions/investments from the United States, Canada, Western Europe, South Africa and China, has to sacrifice a rhino to raise money to stave off poachers. No no no no. Cook the stats as you will, Namibia, but I smell a rat!<br />
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And weasels in Dallas. But let's be honest: In this era of the ultra rich, too many spoiled adults can't resist a $350K temptation, not when forgiveness is around every hallelujah corner. Shame on you Dallas Safari Club for showing the world you don't have bees that buzz in your little boy/girl pants, just money to toss around.<br />
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Question: Is your very active and influential PAC (Political Action Committee) going to release a video of the shot heard around the world?<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-89209945117057241122013-12-20T19:14:00.000-05:002013-12-20T19:15:35.235-05:00Amazing Grace; Off to Louisiana and Texas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
From our house to yours, my husband and I send wishes for a joyous Christmas and a Happy New Year!<br />
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In the spirit of the Season, the incomparable Judy Collins, with the Boys' Choir of Harlem, sings<i> Amazing Grace</i><i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p5NCyuRhoGY">here.</a></i><br />
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A YouTube video of <i>Amazing Grace </i>sung in Cajun French (<i>LaGrace du</i> <i>Ciel</i>) by Les Amies Louisianaises is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56LNciQaabw">here.</a><br />
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We leave early Monday morning to join friends at the Biltmore (near Asheville, North Carolina) for Christmas. On the 26th, hub and I cut south for New Orleans and holiday cheer with family and friends in the Bayou State. Then, on the 2nd, we go to Houston for a couple of days as it's our turn to make the trip. We hope to be back in Virginia around the 10th -- and back to blogging. But, whoa, let's slow this train down and enjoy the holidays first. The little kid in me can't understand how they take so long to get here and then go by so quickly.<br />
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Happy Holidays, everyone! XOXO<br />
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-24035098281581045582013-12-04T14:38:00.000-05:002013-12-05T07:59:11.100-05:00Cooperstown's Baseball Hall of Fame; Blog Hop's Dream Vacation: Churchill, Canada<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Cooperstown's Baseball Hall of Fame was a nostalgic-filled visit that warmed the heart. But now that the suitcases have been unpacked and a certain degree of order has been restored, our holiday trip seems deeper in time than a week ago. Worry about the weather and anticipation and excitement about the trip have blurred into a feeling of contentment that nourishes memories.<br />
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I hope your holiday memories are just as warm and apologize for taking off without wishing each of you a Happy Holiday. But with that storm fast approaching the East Coast, we decided to leave a day early and rushed around in a crazy, organized fashion that kicked in to make it happen, a decision that turned out for the best.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5VLAKLXRyuKuLQIewGiopRTNGMf2jIyu8b3kiUXPvN7ByToZg4r1nGCAmB7kaWgbNhr7rak7t6yh7K2CCs6BWB4QiQSLElm21WU34_UlSze1acnx5MIc7RIC17PDhq36eCWBkRCZT4M/s1600/Pennsylvania.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5VLAKLXRyuKuLQIewGiopRTNGMf2jIyu8b3kiUXPvN7ByToZg4r1nGCAmB7kaWgbNhr7rak7t6yh7K2CCs6BWB4QiQSLElm21WU34_UlSze1acnx5MIc7RIC17PDhq36eCWBkRCZT4M/s400/Pennsylvania.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading north from Virginia, I-95 wasn't clogged, something to smile about in spite of the bitter cold.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGHj_Ds2GeWc2vZkd5am2uu8zEp0JdyFP3Kq41EHZB9TB06BZ7l4PVVz6t0IWzcolQy3LuQ23Q0qhItEIIpJch4McpMzI9Rt3P3nSG6M7OprPZuRgNPx7PUIlnlgx1UQO5p7qqjIBQmA/s1600/Snow+Scene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGHj_Ds2GeWc2vZkd5am2uu8zEp0JdyFP3Kq41EHZB9TB06BZ7l4PVVz6t0IWzcolQy3LuQ23Q0qhItEIIpJch4McpMzI9Rt3P3nSG6M7OprPZuRgNPx7PUIlnlgx1UQO5p7qqjIBQmA/s400/Snow+Scene.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New York was a winter wonderland of green and white, even if my camera didn't think so.</td></tr>
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After a fabulous Thanksgiving with friends in Rhinebeck, New York, at the Beekman Arms, the oldest continually operated inn in the United States, we went to Cooperstown, New York, to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. We'd stopped briefly years ago on a return trip from Toronto, Canada, just long enough to whet hub's appetite to see more.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_3gsqdaRq5gE9BGmb5D45DVk-4yGwXREOB6-wknLp1QetPcGcZrBZUyQ4lFML-oUlhCN05p9rS9swQQIr_xNpYaDpZd8ou0wb-kOU-aQqWl4d6KlqUF1U7JmQGms5Jtrqh2PYWQjWXw/s1600/Hall+of+Fame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_3gsqdaRq5gE9BGmb5D45DVk-4yGwXREOB6-wknLp1QetPcGcZrBZUyQ4lFML-oUlhCN05p9rS9swQQIr_xNpYaDpZd8ou0wb-kOU-aQqWl4d6KlqUF1U7JmQGms5Jtrqh2PYWQjWXw/s400/Hall+of+Fame.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Museum's impressive Hall of Greats inspired . . . a strike out doesn't mean the game's over.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKi-q3rIq6Szj7yZ49YDnvWkN8ah8Hdl0Gpi5glYM_y3bNil9WljHKgN6cQXOLyhotylmmB7g5zcuVG-eE1WEnZdZ6jP5VuNyIDUdxqojCKJyqTQ40vZ7sYZ1Tn9T_1h5xfmYu9tCDkc8/s1600/Hall+of+Fame+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKi-q3rIq6Szj7yZ49YDnvWkN8ah8Hdl0Gpi5glYM_y3bNil9WljHKgN6cQXOLyhotylmmB7g5zcuVG-eE1WEnZdZ6jP5VuNyIDUdxqojCKJyqTQ40vZ7sYZ1Tn9T_1h5xfmYu9tCDkc8/s400/Hall+of+Fame+(3).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moments of reflection . . . distinguished careers . . . amazing statistics . . . legends that live inside kids of all ages.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPnCQ02KPbTSUvZ0IzRiEvWE9Z3_2LkIZ0ec9g-k_LWaGFkxbX7DFiVFRTXsIogXO_41JPZLIbUOuON4g9NeWT9eOS3BfOYo4lk5UdfOKpkO4r5_5QluMZVEgwDO0PKqhp3JGpr0Ct-I/s1600/Hall+of+Fame+Info.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPnCQ02KPbTSUvZ0IzRiEvWE9Z3_2LkIZ0ec9g-k_LWaGFkxbX7DFiVFRTXsIogXO_41JPZLIbUOuON4g9NeWT9eOS3BfOYo4lk5UdfOKpkO4r5_5QluMZVEgwDO0PKqhp3JGpr0Ct-I/s400/Hall+of+Fame+Info.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This sidebar really caught my attention. With sports so popularized in the media, I hadn't realized how thin the cutting edge was, a reminder as to how important those stats are and not necessarily the personality hype around the player. Along with skill, dedication and hard work are important. There's Kardashian 'success' and then there's the real thing, the illusive 'it' in life money can't buy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXlnizbx7EGMkWy4vwVWa84ikxRZoVAHjcGV9umkHogfET_EfMWvEACWs009fHT1_V-gsS3h_ztJUA2DedXwIpTg3xzKDkJ92zoTUmnWi8A6Aknwlx37YAU0tGskujMjMdcMb2Ym3ADM/s1600/Catcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNXlnizbx7EGMkWy4vwVWa84ikxRZoVAHjcGV9umkHogfET_EfMWvEACWs009fHT1_V-gsS3h_ztJUA2DedXwIpTg3xzKDkJ92zoTUmnWi8A6Aknwlx37YAU0tGskujMjMdcMb2Ym3ADM/s400/Catcher.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hub was a catcher in both high school and college. A man's man who not only talks the talk but walks the walk, the team awarded him the game ball for the only game of cricket he's ever played so you know he's got his baseball act together. I took this photo of a bronze baseball scene outside through one of the Museum's windows.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHULB_kW6nhPyRXUm6vauSES4iOlDm-z1R3la_K4oEEKsCA62Cj_-i0JiXPHRv8xlqgwU_MgriwgtZwT2HwnjdVJq8RnDRRStV9L0elOFDuxqWqlqveqNtboSRESH616kdJ6zKQOhnASA/s1600/Boston+Red+Sox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHULB_kW6nhPyRXUm6vauSES4iOlDm-z1R3la_K4oEEKsCA62Cj_-i0JiXPHRv8xlqgwU_MgriwgtZwT2HwnjdVJq8RnDRRStV9L0elOFDuxqWqlqveqNtboSRESH616kdJ6zKQOhnASA/s400/Boston+Red+Sox.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like sports aficionados everywhere, he knows his stats, but hub's also a member of the Red Sox Nation, where is loyalty is absolute. Thanks to our trip, he now has a Red Sox clock on the wall in his man cave, with a faux marble World Series plaque added to his collection, as is the new fleece jacket. Hmmm, I think the move this spring to our house in North Carolina comes just in time. . . which brings me to what's really been occupying time here: renovating the kitchen as we're selling our condo. Anyone who's been through the renovation process knows there's no translation to the mess it creates and the time it occupies. In the meantime, one step at a time . . . we're almost there. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've never known a baseball fan who didn't have a role model. Hub's is Ted Williams, the legendary great who suspended his Red Sox career twice, in 1943 for three years to serve in World War II and in parts of 1952 and 1953 as a USMC aviator in the Korean War, returning to baseball both times to a career that kept getting better and better, earning him a place in the Hall of Fame his first time at bat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDi8cB_98xr_rtj4oCUv5P1tJIQwQ1oj7E4Lo17ZLYPBFN9SYl4F0DlqcdpkNW7afYj46YHUF7Nl63AzCnebgiQjMovoRW7mvODwRvYRQnUITEcuIcs3bBFUnnsA2w4PjQ2SPoi_sKCiE/s1600/Norman+Rockwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDi8cB_98xr_rtj4oCUv5P1tJIQwQ1oj7E4Lo17ZLYPBFN9SYl4F0DlqcdpkNW7afYj46YHUF7Nl63AzCnebgiQjMovoRW7mvODwRvYRQnUITEcuIcs3bBFUnnsA2w4PjQ2SPoi_sKCiE/s400/Norman+Rockwell.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Norman Rockwell's iconic 1949 "Saturday Evening Post" cover, sometimes referred to as 'baseball's Mona Lisa,' invoked hub's memories of passions tempered by raindrops . . . "there's no crying in baseball" . . . </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0n9BbHFjjmUuj-pR6UJiKF0941KvGFnRaxz7-dxF__4Azv92dO0_ZLctNEsAYJJvQICbWnAtT_VzrefvZqqZs45R_UvPDktS_LvBxjwHh6z8r3dySU2fxCBPT2djj6IzfL2IB4GMuaM/s1600/Cooper+Inn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0n9BbHFjjmUuj-pR6UJiKF0941KvGFnRaxz7-dxF__4Azv92dO0_ZLctNEsAYJJvQICbWnAtT_VzrefvZqqZs45R_UvPDktS_LvBxjwHh6z8r3dySU2fxCBPT2djj6IzfL2IB4GMuaM/s400/Cooper+Inn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">. . . warm memories he shared as we walked back to our room at the Cooper Inn . . . </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">. . . as if the icy footprints were a heart's song . . . </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the song every kid hums as he/she prepares the glove for spring practice. . . "take me out to the ball game . . . " </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My dream vacation would be to visit Churchill, Canada, on the western shore of the Hudson Bay in the province of Manitoba, to see the polar bears. Global warming has so adversely affected their habitat I fear the polar bear will eventually become extinct. It would be an awesome experience to see these magnificent animals in a natural setting.</span></td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-17719571855583132252013-10-06T09:04:00.000-04:002013-10-08T14:38:07.657-04:00Beaches of Normandy--June 6, 1944: The Air Campaign; Tips for Visitors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The Invasion of Normandy by Allied forces on June 6, 1944--code-named Operation Overlord--combined air, naval, and ground forces in the successful campaign. A previous post (<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8633605624278222815#editor/target=post;postID=7544929393244401401;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;po">(here)</a> focused on our over-all two-week, self-guided visit to Normandy's historic--and sacred!--beaches this summer. My previous post <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8633605624278222815#editor/target=post;postID=7544929393244401401;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;pos">HERE</a> focused on the Ground Campaign. This post focuses on the Air Campaign. I spent considerable time researching historic film footage to link whenever I could.<br />
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Photos and historical notes will follow after the tips.<br />
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<b>TIP</b>: We met many Canadian and American tourists who were disappointed--some angry--at how little they got to see on their professional tours. The Beaches of Normandy are not a complicated area to navigate. Tourists should be especially wary of operators who offer tours that enter at one airport and exit at another. Lodging isn't as expensive as you'd think. We flew into Paris, took the train to Caen, picked up our rental car, and after two days at the Best Western, hit the road. Since we'd lived in Africa, we knew the often inexpensive Mercure Hotel, a French chain, gave good value for the money. It was our choice to spend two weeks in Normandy, but the circuit could be done in a week.<br />
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<b>TIP</b>: Pick up your rental car in either Paris or Caen, not Bayeux as there aren't as many rental cars available there. Caen was in and out, no problems. <b>TIP</b>: Rent a diesel car. By the end of the first week, 500 miles later, we hadn't used half a tank. <b>TIP: </b>It surprised how close many sites were. Tour operators pick one, allow little time and move on, when, in truth, with little effort, the visitor could see much more. Visiting Pegasus Bridge and nearby Merville gun battery set the stage for the Invasion's force and power and what troops/airmen encountered throughout. When you reach the beaches, the impact of what they went through is beyond words.<br />
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<b>TIP:</b> Be wary of tours that stop in Bayeux but don't allow time to visit the Bayeux Tapestry. This was where we encountered the angriest tourists. Buyer Beware definitely applies!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The bottom sign accompanied local road signs throughout Normandy, making it very easy to get around. The beaches (Sword, Gold, Juno, Omaha, Utah) are along a 50-mile stretch. With so many liberation markers, we didn't have a problem finding interior sites as well. We used our road map more more for short cuts to leave country roads for Interstate-type highways for the cities.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quiet country roads. (Personal photo)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">But the beach road leading into Honfleur to the north of Sword Beach, a gorgeous historic town, was congested, more so to Le Harve, but worth it. During our two-week trip, we didn't see one road accident anywhere. (Personal photo)</span></td></tr>
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When I told someone about the trip my husband and I took to Normandy, he said he'd visited a few years ago and that the experience "brought me to my knees." Whether physically or mentally, he was right. It was a matter of considerable internal debate about whether or not to take my shoes off and let waves at Omaha Beach that had once run red with blood lap my feet.<br />
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When my husband, a career U. S. Marine with the Silver Star from Vietnam, learned of my quandary, he said, taking my camera. "Go. That's why they were here--so you could go." So I did. . . an overwhelming experience for which I lack the words.<br />
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The Invasion of Normandy by Allied Forces on June 6,1944 actually began at 2200 hours on June 5. During Operation Neptune. Five assault groups (130,000 men) departed the English Coast in 6,939 vessels to cross the English Channel in convoys via mine-swept corridors.<br />
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Units involved in the Allied Airborne operations were:<br />
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American 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions : 15,500 men; 1,662 aircrafts and 512 gliders;<br />
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British 6th Airborne Division: 7,990 men, 733 aircraft and 355 gliders;<br />
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1st Canadian Parachute Battalion came under the command of the 3rd Parachute Brigade of the British 6th Airborne Division. Historic footage of the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IR_irPSXAZ0">HERE.</a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">General Dwight David Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander, addresses paratroopers prior to D-Day, U.S. Co. E, 502nd Parachute Infantry Brigade (Strike), 101st Airborne Division ("Screaming Eagles), Greenham Common Airfield, England, at approximately 8:30 p.m, June 5, 1944. This photo and a video are at the Visitor's Memorial Hall at Omaha Beach. The photo above is from Wikipedia because mine from a museum had too many reflections.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">D-Day drop by 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion. The unit was also at the Battle of the Bulge and the airborne assault on the Rhine River and elsewhere as the war came to a victorious end.</span><br />
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At 0005 hour Allied aerial attacks began, specifically targeting coastal German batteries between Le Harve and Cherbourg, France.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C-47 airplane at the Pegasus Museum. When my husband and I lived in Kenya, we flew in a privately owned C-47 to the Masai Mara. Awesome experience! (Personal photo)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior view. (Personal Photo)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The YouTube link to archival footage of what the air campaign accomplished with these bombs is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4n3ljyjgk08">HERE.</a> The video is inclusive of Allied participants. About six minutes into the video, you'll see the Pegasus patch, for example. The footage opens with naval bombardments, then about two minutes into the approximate seven-minute footage, the aerial bombardment and paratrooper drops begin. It's the best air/naval/ground campaign footage I found.</span></td></tr>
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During the Invasion of Normandy, the British objective was to neutralize the zone between the Orm River and the Dives River, capture the German's Merville gun battery and designated bridges. At 12:16 on 6 June, 181 men in six Horsa gliders, five landing within yards of Pegasus Bridge, surprised the Germans and took control of the bridge in 10 minutes, losing two men in the process.<br />
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(Note: for those interested in an in-depth description about securing the Merville gun battery, an article by Neil Barber for the UK's 1940s Society is <a href="http://www.1940.co.uk/acatalog/battle-for-merville-battery.html">here.</a>)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pegasus Bridge as it looked on June 9, 1944. You can see the Hosa gliders lying around. (Wikipedia)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7xmPoqtDGDOJRJmKeg62jT_70kbuHRLJg3H3gnnA0CF0NZ2ze-lxviNYS5NMzr9qEmRqmc0bi7u7Mjl7-dReNO9RIVJgykuiQXClxRSwmcjkdHbL1MbHOhwXzKVzZb4qi657i81N1CI/s1600/Pegasus+Bridge+German+bunker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7xmPoqtDGDOJRJmKeg62jT_70kbuHRLJg3H3gnnA0CF0NZ2ze-lxviNYS5NMzr9qEmRqmc0bi7u7Mjl7-dReNO9RIVJgykuiQXClxRSwmcjkdHbL1MbHOhwXzKVzZb4qi657i81N1CI/s320/Pegasus+Bridge+German+bunker.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">German bunker near Pegasus Bridge. You can see it in the above photo, across the river, a bit to the right of the bridge. (Personal photo)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_EYLqqXZElrKKgReJO2hgIBul2kE9Jk7ICgTUoLoDnEngDDHwE-sUluW5PbedeDrvaxNl4F1hzqVViYhY2zhd2gY_QxEjwL5ogObm58cpLZ6u46RNoBZJBvAimtvg9BMpCblQ04HCBU/s1600/jeep:pegasus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_EYLqqXZElrKKgReJO2hgIBul2kE9Jk7ICgTUoLoDnEngDDHwE-sUluW5PbedeDrvaxNl4F1hzqVViYhY2zhd2gY_QxEjwL5ogObm58cpLZ6u46RNoBZJBvAimtvg9BMpCblQ04HCBU/s320/jeep:pegasus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the jeeps that crossed the old Pegasus Bridge, originally called Benouville Bridge and built in 1934. Along with the old bridge, this is one of several jeeps at the Pegasus Museum complex. (Personal photo)</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9y93HLSJjYIYR9SN6OnOYycewK_spQ8p1aWzQKdVE_uzlV6JMMHTl-0uJQ8xHbCwk4a4FaohKh9VxtZvIXFf0P9Lrgrpyyt-V-Gn32iIV-RHeNCNte5Oh-GKPNPYp7Uz5zauFaiAVZQ/s1600/pegsusus+bridge:bagpiper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9y93HLSJjYIYR9SN6OnOYycewK_spQ8p1aWzQKdVE_uzlV6JMMHTl-0uJQ8xHbCwk4a4FaohKh9VxtZvIXFf0P9Lrgrpyyt-V-Gn32iIV-RHeNCNte5Oh-GKPNPYp7Uz5zauFaiAVZQ/s320/pegsusus+bridge:bagpiper.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The new Pegasus Bridge, built in 1944 and in much the same location as the old one, was re-named Pegasus Bridge in 1944 in honor of the British forces. The name's derived from the shoulder emblem work by the forces, the flying horse Pegasus. (Wikipedia/Personal photo) Pegasus and the nearby Ranville Bridge were major objectives of Operation</span> <span style="font-size: small;">Deadstick, part of Operation Tonga in the opening minutes of the Invasion of Normandy. Major John Howard's unit also took Ranville Bridge, thus significantly limiting the effectiveness of a German counter attack.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>A note about the bagpiper in the re-enactment above:</b> William "Bill" Millin, July 14, 1922-August 17, 2010, popularly known as "Piper Bill" was the personal piper to Simon Fraser, 15th Lord Lovat, Commander of Special Services Brigade. Although military rules restricted bagpipes to a unit's rear, Lord Lovat asked Piper Bill to play while British forces were under fire. Captured German prisoners said they hadn't shot Piper Bill because they thought he was crazy. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">For many bagpipers it's one of life's goals to play the pipes while crossing the bridge. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the hundreds of German bunkers along the Normandy coast and inland. It took raw courage to drift toward the ground hanging from a parachute as weapons in fortifications blasted. But there's a military expression that says the one who controls the night controls the terrain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Interior of bunker. (Personal photo)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">By August 23rd, when Allied Force and the Free French Resistance had secured all of Normandy, they controlled the night and the terrain, the beginning of Hitler's trip to hell.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JAOktXwXKWO1Ey3-JPShJcGXm3IHa6LlePn6jvxBAaUvpax8Lzi9vhVEhzad_O3u1zhS_QzYhDMiO6nhDOZyLpWGSvVYG3b-no3B6Kej0CIiKer35Qx65YIwBZTMPpfWUPtNvv0CBOA/s1600/Newspaper+Invasion+Headline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JAOktXwXKWO1Ey3-JPShJcGXm3IHa6LlePn6jvxBAaUvpax8Lzi9vhVEhzad_O3u1zhS_QzYhDMiO6nhDOZyLpWGSvVYG3b-no3B6Kej0CIiKer35Qx65YIwBZTMPpfWUPtNvv0CBOA/s400/Newspaper+Invasion+Headline.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">One of the victorious newspaper headlines across the United States. (Bayeux Museum)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<span style="font-size: small;"> Personal photo</span>)</td></tr>
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<b>An overall summary of the timeline:</b><br />
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At 0010 hour on June 6, 1944, parachuting of reconnaissance groups began.<br />
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At 0020-0040 hour, commando attacks with the British 6th Airborne Division Gliders on bridges began.<br />
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At 0100 - 0230 hours, parachuting of successive waves of troops from regiments and brigades forming British and American divisions commenced.<br />
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At 0320 hours, heavy equipment and and reinforcements by glider arrived.<br />
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At 0430 hours, assault on St. Mere-Eglise (St. Mary's Church, but it's also a village)) began by 82nd U. S. Division, 505th Regiment.<br />
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At 0550, naval bombardment of German positions began, preceding the approach of amphibious ships and landing crafts.<br />
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At 0600 hours, attacks by medium and heavy bombers on German fortifications along the Normandy Coast totaled 1,333 bombers and 5,316 tons of bombs. Bombardments ceased five minutes before H- hour and troop disembarkation:<br />
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0630 for American Forces (Utah Beach and Omaha Beach);<br />
0710 attack on Pointe du Hoc, 2nd U. S. Ranger Battalion;<br />
0730 for British Forces (Gold Beach and Sword Beach)<br />
0800 for Canadian Forces (Juno Beach)<br />
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<b>Historic footage of the Air/Ground Invasion from the History Channel uploaded to YouTube (2:53 min) is</b> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPU4p7UQOtU">HERE!</a> (Give it a few seconds to start.)<br />
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<b>The American Airborne objective</b> was the establishment of a bridgehead on the west bank of the Merderet River; capture St.-Mere-Eglise, Beuzeville, Pont l'Abbe, and close roads to Utah Beach.<br />
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<b>St. Mere-Eglise:</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDvXJjlIV62bscizIETUUANEEAKZpEiDRgiWqI9HLkPn5W3keMe704ZJMEBBojFK4Hax6B-fyTIzVwAdSkBGFCORDMAmPOQzukIFqS9NYGMVKrthV8kPWZLpsl_5OiLJVIhrl2xVU88J0/s1600/af38c7804576e3c929386f8a1c838cd1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDvXJjlIV62bscizIETUUANEEAKZpEiDRgiWqI9HLkPn5W3keMe704ZJMEBBojFK4Hax6B-fyTIzVwAdSkBGFCORDMAmPOQzukIFqS9NYGMVKrthV8kPWZLpsl_5OiLJVIhrl2xVU88J0/s640/af38c7804576e3c929386f8a1c838cd1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Founded in the 11th century, St. Mere-Eglise was one of the significant battle sites during the Hundred Years War and the War of Religions fought in Europe. During the Allies Invasion of Normandy, the village stood in the middle of route N13, which the Germans would have most likely used on any counterattack on the American troops landing on Omaha Beach and Utah Beach. Units of the U. S. 82nd Airborne and the U. S. 101st Airborne occupied the village during Operation Boston, but not without re-enforcements from nearby Utah Beach. Elements of the parachute drop did not go well. . . </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Monument to American paratroopers. All but three of the 25 men listed were killed on June 6, 1944. Many were from Easy Company, made famous by the mini series, "Band of Brothers." I'm listing the names on the monument of those who died because it's the names that define "ultimate sacrifice": <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">William S. Evans, Joseph M. Jordan, Robert L. Mathews, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Thomas Meehan, William S. Metzler, Sergio G. Moya, Elmer L. Murray Jr.,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;"> Richard E. Owen, Murray B. Roberts, Gerald R. Snider, Benjamin J. Stoney, Jerry A. Wentzel, Ralph H. Wimer, George L. Elliot, Herman F. Collins, John N. Miller, Carl N. Riggs, Elmer L. Telstad, Thomas W. Warren, George Lavenson, Robert J. Everett J. Gray, Terrance C. Harris.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNUvGgg_uX_-4oDt0OQAaQVTBA6eRwX7A6QOutsZRJ1Ml_ZhvpbdjNCEUHEOqIFC5heIAMh-5RPSvg_NSk2F5q21Ex9CJoEEjFRu9bFGk7KuCTl1SxJQUQ9HIKMgHuOygpZTn7GECS7w/s1600/3211458_f520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNUvGgg_uX_-4oDt0OQAaQVTBA6eRwX7A6QOutsZRJ1Ml_ZhvpbdjNCEUHEOqIFC5heIAMh-5RPSvg_NSk2F5q21Ex9CJoEEjFRu9bFGk7KuCTl1SxJQUQ9HIKMgHuOygpZTn7GECS7w/s320/3211458_f520.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Re-enforcements arrive at St. Mere-Englise. My photo of the photo wasn't clear. This copy: Always Free Hub Pages; link to site is <a href="http://alwaysfree.hubpages.com/hub/American-Paratroopers-in-St-Mere-Eglise">here.</a> </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The same street today. When we visited it was a bright sunny day with many people out. Note the arch in both photos. (Photo link credit is <a href="http://alwaysfree.hubpages.com/hub/American-Paratroopers-in-St-Mere-Eglise">here</a> as above.)</span></td></tr>
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To the left, directly across the street is St. Mere-Eglise church. Note the parachute on the bell tower. (Personal photo)</div>
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Private John M. Steele (1912-1969), made famous by the 1962 movie<i> The Longest Day</i>, hung from the church as depicted in this monument. American soldiers from the U. S. 82nd Airborne parachuted into the area west of St. Mere-Eglise in successive waves. The village had been the target of an aerial attack. A stray incendiary mom had set fire to a house east of the village. The church bell called villagers to form a bucket brigade that German soldiers supervised. </div>
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However, the fire had lit up the area when two planeloads of paratroopers from the 1st and 2nd Battalions were dropped in error directly over the village. They were easy targets for the Germans. However, the Germans thought Private Steele was dead, hanging from from his stretched parachute cable and ignored him. Even though he was injured during the entrapment, he played dead and was one of the few to survive the carnage. </div>
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The Germans realized he wasn't dead when they later cut him down. Taken prisoner, Private Steele escaped and rejoined his unit, 3rd Battalion, 505th Regiment, and fought with his unit's attack on the village. St. Mere-Eglise was the first village in Normandy liberated by American forces. A YouTube link to historic footage is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzJreztONMk">HERE.</a> Although parts are somewhat dark and grainy, I wish I'd seen this before our trip. (Wikipedia/Personal photo)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The next battle awaits . . . (Airborne Museum, St. Mere-Eglise)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Monument in St. Mere-Eglise to American paratroopers. (Personal photo)</span></td></tr>
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There are so many monuments throughout Normandy that are unit specific or smaller ones that are fallen hero specific. (Personal photo) Many families pay visits to lay a refreshed poppy wreath, often with a child old enough to understand placing the wreath. Although visitors remained at discreet distances, the private ceremony tugged at hearts. (This photo and the ones that follow are personal photos.)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poppies grow along the road in a rural countryside . . .</td></tr>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8633605624278222815.post-75449293932444014012013-09-03T09:26:00.000-04:002013-09-03T09:49:46.926-04:00The Beaches of Normandy and the Invasion of Normandy: June 6, 1944<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After we picked up our rental car in Caen, France, we explored Normandy for two weeks, driving about a thousand miles as we criss-crossed the province. We stayed in large towns like Bayeux and small seaside towns like Luc sur Mer, dipped down to Brittany to see Mont St. Michele, wound our way back through the countryside to Honfleur, not far from La Harve, then returned to Caen to turn in our rental car.<br />
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Without a doubt, Normandy has some of the most gorgeous scenery possible. The rolling terrain with broad vistas, apple orchards, dairy cows in quiet pastures, and golden hay fields are post cards forever in my mind's eye. Stone walls outlining roads leading into villages with stone buildings and narrow streets enchanted.<br />
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The food was amazing. We feasted on steamed mussels (<i>moules</i>) in a variety of sauces, had picnics with baguettes filled with fresh crab or one of the area's incredible cheeses, shopped for seasonal fruit (melons, especially) in markets, and sipped 17-year old cider in the evening that was a cross between a port and a champagne. For breakfast, we'd go to the local patisserie: chocolate croissants for hub and anything with apples for me -- and didn't gain an ounce as we walked, climbed and hiked until the muscles no longer ached and our tempo increased.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10nSUR3VbnQkOgijXQVyo-cQIQqsx704f6Xdldhyphenhyphenz4RZZhiz8sgwhJ0axBurvf62jJFGJIUhf0PBSgq6OcQ-rRJ4JcV30DEfLEXP6qyRLqRDoPc2ESmuMtWlbbf_QWaVQs53eKs85zWM/s1600/baguettes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10nSUR3VbnQkOgijXQVyo-cQIQqsx704f6Xdldhyphenhyphenz4RZZhiz8sgwhJ0axBurvf62jJFGJIUhf0PBSgq6OcQ-rRJ4JcV30DEfLEXP6qyRLqRDoPc2ESmuMtWlbbf_QWaVQs53eKs85zWM/s320/baguettes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One kilo (2.2 pounds) of mussels per order, with a side bowl of frites. The mussels are tiny, very sweet, and plucked with the fingers. Ohhhh, yum!</td></tr>
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The people of Normandy were even more amazing: friendly, kind-hearted, and compassionate -- really solid, down to earth people. And, yes, many spoke English, especially the younger ones (who study it in school and want to practice).<br />
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But our ultimate destination was Utah Beach, where my husband's uncle was during World War II. Code-named Operation Overlord, the Invasion of Normandy was the largest armada ever assembled: 1,213 warships; 4,126 transport vessels; 736 ancillary craft; 864 merchant vessels; 195,700 personnel. Purpose: to liberate German-occupied France and kick Hitler's butt to hell.<br />
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Major military units that participated in the Invasion of Normandy, June 6, 1944:<br />
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British 6th Armoured Division; British 6th Airborne Division;<br />
British I Corps; British 3rd Infantry Division;<br />
British 27th Armoured Brigade<br />
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Canadian 3rd Infantry Division;<br />
Canadian 2nd Armoured Brigade<br />
(Note: Because the Canada Act wasn't passed until 1982, there were Canadian units co-mingled with some British forces as Canada had a different standing within the Commonwealth at that time.)<br />
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U.S. V Corps; U.S. 1st Infantry Division;<br />
U.S. 29th Infantry Division; U.S. VII Corps;<br />
U.S. 4th Infantry Division; U.S. 101st Airborne Division;<br />
U.S. 82nd Airborne Division<br />
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Casualties, June 6, 1944:<br />
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Germany: 240,000 killed or missing<br />
Britain: 11,000 killed; 54,000 wounded/missing<br />
Canada: 5,000 killed; 13,000 wounded/missing<br />
United States: 29,000 killed; 106,000 wounded/missing<br />
France: 12,000 civilians killed or missing<br />
(Note: It's commonly agreed exact statistics aren't possible. This is an agreed upon estimate by the various countries. Also, after the initial invasion, soldiers and/or airmen from other countries participated in the liberation of Normandy. These include: Belgium, Greece, the Netherlands, Australia, New Zealand, Norway, and Denmark. There were many individual monuments (including one to 800 Danish troops) to heroic achievements throughout Normandy, but there was no overall casualty list that I saw.)<br />
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Planning for D-Day had begun in 1943. The English Channel's erratic weather caused much concern, as did the asymmetrical tides. The English Channel is the only place in the world where there are four tides, one every six hours. But when it's low tide on the French coast, it's high tide on the English coast. Also, there were only 10 days a month when the tides were suitable for an amphibious landing. Originally planned for June 5, 1944, General Dwight David Eisenhower, the Supreme Allied Commander, changed the landing to the following day because of projected weather conditions. On June 9th, the worst storm in 40 years hit the English Channel.</div>
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<b>Sword Beach</b>. D-Day is much too complicated for my simple blog, so I'll share a few things I learned from each beach. The tide affected all of the five beaches: Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha, Utah. The tide above, at Sword Beach, will pull back to the yellow ball to the upper left of the black rock (center).</div>
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Same spot six hours later. The four yellow balls are under water. The fewest casualties, 127, occurred at Sword Beach. But the British had to slug their way toward the more fortified interior to take their objective, Caen, where William the Conqueror's massive fort controlled the high ground and town. There is a very large British cemetery in Caen.</div>
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Beyond the yellow ball were these metal monstrosities to snare boats. They were also hidden among the natural hedgerows that had to be navigated once one crossed the beach. The hedgerows will be highlighted more in an upcoming post.</div>
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<b>Juno Beach. </b>The Canadian objective was to provide a flank to the British at Sword Beach then capture a German airfield at Caen. Bunkers lined the terrain above all the beaches, part of Hitler's Atlantic Wall. This particular bunker at Juno Beach deceives because it's slanted. Since Juno Beach was the flattest beach, the angled bunker provided a wider killing range. Weapons could also rotate, thus enlarging the field. Juno Beach was also the second most heavily fortified beach.</div>
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Because of this canal that split part of the beach, my husband, the military man, spent considerable time at Juno Beach. (While in the military, he'd received a Navy League award for conducting 26 amphibious training exercise landings without incident so had a keen eye for beaches.) What this canal did was establish a brutal killing field. Hub was very reflective when we left as he'd been in combat and understood why that cross stood exactly where it stood. There is a large Canadian cemetery south of Caen where those who died in the Invasion are buried.</div>
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<b>Gold Beach</b>. Arromaches is the town fronting a wide sweep of beach with this protruding rocking anchoring the far end. After the British established a beachhead, they headed towards Route 13 to reach Bayeux and cut off the road to Caen. Very crucially, the British installed a bridge that had taken a year to design and build in England. Called the Mulberry Bridge, a remaining part can be seen to the lower left. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52jn-xXDsaye4V4GzF9X3dMbNPldWPvHhXEc_yvoYAeaIPJEy3IeimSo4O3NoKpDX0bm9X0AFMb6xJd8WAAyf7_72mnCPFvhDb9-Ub3AUgp2Hax_2U5pp-5V-qYvaZZZI1BrzNRn3B2k/s1600/270px-Arromanches-les-Bains_port_artificiel_Mulberry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52jn-xXDsaye4V4GzF9X3dMbNPldWPvHhXEc_yvoYAeaIPJEy3IeimSo4O3NoKpDX0bm9X0AFMb6xJd8WAAyf7_72mnCPFvhDb9-Ub3AUgp2Hax_2U5pp-5V-qYvaZZZI1BrzNRn3B2k/s320/270px-Arromanches-les-Bains_port_artificiel_Mulberry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A better view thanks to Wikipedia. Parts of the bridge, called Mulberries, are in the water. The Allies had to get supplies ashore as quickly as possible in order to continue the attack. Historians say that these Mulberry bridges (more like heavy pontoons) and the cutting of German communication lines by the Free French Resistance prior to the Invasion were essential to Operation Overlord. Hub thinks the French Resistance hasn't been given enough credit for its participation in the War.</div>
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A slight diversion: When we left Normandy, we took the train to Paris from Caen and stayed at The Westin on the Right Bank. When we stepped outside in the morning, we were surprised to see this movie scene being filmed. That's an American tank from one of the museums. We were told the film involves free French Resistance fighters and American soldiers, all actors, of course. To the right are prisoners (actors) from France's Vichy government forces. Basically, the Vichy government didn't just capitulate to avoid being overrun by Hitler, it conspired with Hitler. The collaboration remains a shameful period in French history the people are still coming to grips with. The storefront behind the tank had a period 'drop' with some nasty anti-Jewish slogans.</div>
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A member of the film crew swung a 'smoke' canister after the tank sputtered to life. It was kinda bone-chilling to see the tank roll forward. We were told the name of the film is "Diplomat" and that Scarlett Johanssen is in it.</div>
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<b>Omaha Beach.</b> The objective of U.S. forces was to secure a beachhead and link up with British forces to the east at Gold Beach and U.S. forces to the west at Utah Beach. However, contrary to what planners had though, Omaha Beach, a 5-mile stretch, was the most heavily fortified. Difficulties with the tides caused many landing craft (Higgins boats) to miss their target and/or to offload troops too far out. Many drowned. Defended by the German 352nd Division, of the 12,000 soldiers, about 4,000 were teenagers, many conscripted from German-occupied countries such as the Baltics. (Conscripts were also at the other beaches. Of Hitler's generals, only Rommel believed the Allies could land at Normandy. His other generals, too steeped in World War I tactics, believed as Hitler did, that the landing would be at Calais. Hitler slept until 12:30 pm on D-Day. His advisors were afraid to awaken him with the news the Allies had invaded shortly after midnight. Although Rommel commanded the whole area, he couldn't move the Panzer divisions without Hitler's approval.)</div>
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One of the German bunkers above Omaha Beach. Although I took the same photo, this is from Wikipedia. My little camera couldn't handle the ever-changing skies as the clouds rolled in and out, depending upon the evolution of the tides. During our two weeks, we experienced only one really bright, sunny day.</div>
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View from inside one of the other bunkers. By the end of June 6th, U.S. forces had secured two small areas, primarily by scaling the bluffs at Omaha Beach. They'd shoot hooks into the bluffs (Point du Hoc) and climb ladders. As Germans shot lead climbers, others moved up until those small areas had been secured. Because the interior wasn't as heavily fortified, once these footholds had been gained, forces could exploit the weakness in the German defense and secure more ground.</div>
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Reflecting pool at the American cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach.</div>
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Over 9,000 markers, including 169 Stars of David. Seemingly endless and very, very reflective -- as are all of the Allied cemeteries -- and also very sad -- so young -- so brave -- but Hitler's boil had to be lanced -- and no one country could stop him -- I'm truly grateful to those who gave so much -- </div>
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<b>Utah Beach. </b>Despite being somewhat off course, this landing went well and suffered the second fewest casualties (200). By the end of the day, over 25,000 soldiers and equipment were ashore. On July 16th, my husband's uncle Frank, who had been in training in England, landed here with other reinforcements, with his unit going with Patton's Third Army and the eventual Battle of the Bulge, which he survived. (However, Normandy wasn't considered secured until August 24th, so tough fighting remained.) During an earlier training exercise off the coast of England prior to D-Day, a German U-boat had torpedoed one of the landing craft, and 638 Americans had died. Still, Hitler didn't believe a landing was possible at Normandy.</div>
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A thatched cottage in Normandy. Home is where the heart is, wherever we live. But, by June 6,1944, Hitler's concentration camps had consumed close to 12 million people: six million Jews and almost six million Gypsies, Catholics, those with various handicaps and others not deemed worthy of the blond-haired, blue-eyed Master Race and Thousand Year Reich that Hitler envisioned. Hitler was neither blond-haired nor blue-eyed. Many historians think he was part Jewish. Still, his rhetoric prevailed.</div>
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To be continued . . . the aerial bombardment, parachutists and gliders . . . </div>
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Kittie Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07756250649095903317noreply@blogger.com26