A Veteran Story

Eleven. Eleven. A day we honor those who have served our country in times of war and peace,  those men and women who gave themselves over to something bigger than themselves.  My Dad is one of those people who joined the US army.  But Dad wasn't born in the US, he was born in East Germany.  Some of his earliest memories involve fleeing to the woods around their town to escape bombs dropped from American planes.  Yet he found his way to Uncle Sam's doorstep.  And ran into some future veterans along the way.

I think about this story on Veterans Day, about the first Americans Dad ever met - US servicemen.  (This excerpt is from his memoirs, multi-year project he and I have labored through together.)

"Eventually, all bombardments and artillery stopped, and the rain of bombs and fire was

replaced by hundreds of thousands of leaflets floating and fluttering peacefully from

allied planes. The leaflets advised residents to surrender and lay down all weapons and

receive the American occupation forces. Our neighborhood was covered with paper

and we scurried around to collect the excess as cheap firewood. All civilians were

also instructed to prominently hang out white sheets of surrender from their houses

and apartments. Each house in our neighborhood quickly sprouted a white bed sheets

tacked to one of the windows. For the sake of our lives, we did what we were told:

display a white flag of surrender or be prepared to die. Not all in our neighborhood were

supportive of the new occupation. There were more than a few die-hard Nazi supporters

in our neighborhood who hung their white flags under duress, with tears in their eyes.

However, the majority of us were more than glad to surrender with the symbolic white

flag if it meant that the bombing would stop and the war would be over. We just wanted

to start living life again, as normally as we could amid piles of destruction. Our dreams

were understandable, but how does a family, a community start living again when a

sizable part of the city lay in ruins, with no food, no jobs, no infra-structure,

no water, no electricity, no stores, no public transportation, and

few glimmers of hope?

A day or two after white flags bloomed from neighborhood windows, the first convoy

of trucks loaded with American infantry slowly moved into our neighborhood.

They stopped only fifty yards from our house at the end of the street where Bernie and I

happened be outside playing. We eyed them carefully and found that they looked very

friendly - not at all like the cruel enemy they were accused of being. There must have

been at least twenty of them on the first truck. With smiles on their faces, they waved

for us to come over. We cautiously approached the green-clad soldiers as they started to

unload the trucks. We were in fearful awe, as if toy soldiers and trucks from a strange

land had materialized in front of us. One of the soldiers jumped off the back of the

truck and grabbed my shoulder in a friendly way, as if I had helped him off the truck.

He smiled and said something to Bernie and I in English, which of course we did not

understand. But the language barrier quickly evaporated as he handed my brother

and I a chocolate bar and a stick of Wrigley’s chewing gum. We were delighted by this exchange in the international language of candy! We quickly devoured the treats,

savoring every sweet calorie in our sustenance-deprived tummies. The soldiers laughed

and smiled a lot, which, combined with their “peace offering” was just what we needed

to allay our fears that the Americans were a ruthless enemy. That short meeting at the

end of our street was a tentative but positive beginning to the American occupation of our

city."

Dad's school picture in E Germany

Dad, United States Army

Ryner's Immigrant Story Excerpt Part 2

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Chapter 28

New York and on to Grand Rapids

Once recovered from our seasickness, we all returned to the wonderful job of enjoying the journey.  Incredibly, the SS United States had suffered only minor damage during the storm, a testament to its sheer size and strength.   The storm set back the ship's schedule a bit, but in what seemed like no time at all, we spotted the coast of the United States.  Like flowers sprouting in spring, the city of New York slowly grew up from the flat horizon.  As the city came into frame before our very eyes, we were awed by how huge and prosperous it looked with its great skyscrapers.  Our hearts began to beat faster as we slowly entered New York Harbor.  We passed by famous Ellis Island, following the same journey that thousands before had taken.  In operation since 1892, Ellis Island had welcomed millions of immigrants like us to the United States.  A few decades before our arrival, immigration services and intake had moved from the island to a commercial pier in New York Harbor where we were headed. 

The great ship pulled into the dock and was tied down.  It took an hour or two to clear customs and collect our luggage. With some time to spare before our train left the city, our family of seven newcomers took the chance to shake off our sea legs and walk the bustling streets of New York.  The city seemed so jaw-droppingly massive, and the busyness made our heads spin, but did not quell our absolute elation at being in this new place, this new country that would be our home. Huge buildings that actually seemed to be scraping the sky surrounded us, and throngs of human beings walked briskly between office buildings, while yellow taxicabs buzzed up and down the streets.  We were fascinated by the myriad of clothing styles and cultures we saw. Even though we were dressed in unmistakably poor, European attire, nobody seemed to notice.  We quickly realized that we were in the beating heart of a totally international city.

After a warm meal and an ice cream cone, we headed to Grand Central Station where we would board our train to Detroit, then on to Grand Rapids.  Our ride to Michigan was a thrill.  The country we steamed through looked beautiful to us, and everything seemed so big!  We also couldn't help but notice how nice the buildings and streets looked.  We were so accustomed to the ravages of war damage written on every building face and street corner, that America seemed utterly pristine.  Before we knew it, the train had covered the eight hundred miles from New York and was slowly easing into the Grand Rapids train depot.  Our hearts began to beat faster as we pondered the incredible changes that we were about to experience.  A new country, a new language, new friends, and relatives that none of us, except Mother, had ever met in person.  We all scrambled off the train and Mother spotted Uncle Joe standing there to greet us with Aunt Marie, Aunt Marie's sister Katherine and her husband Ted.  Our welcome committee also included Ted's son Ted, Jr., a budding young photographer who snapped pictures as we greeted everyone.  We exchanged handshakes, hugs, tears and laughter, amazed and relieved to be at our final destination after weeks, some would say, years on this journey westward.  I will never forget that illumined, historical journey of ours:  out of the arms of Germany into the arms of loving relatives a continent away in the United States of America!

Chapter 29

A New World

After the excitement of meeting everybody, Uncle Joe led us to the front of the station and started loading our family's belongings into his and Uncle Ted's car.  We were astounded not only by the large size of the cars, but that both our uncles seemed to own cars of their own. I had only been in a car three times before, but this was by far the most luxurious.  In just a few minutes we arrived at Uncle Joe's house, where again Uncle Ted's son was taking pictures of us, this time with a movie camera. We relished this celebrity moment on the porch at Uncle Joe's. 

Uncle Joe and Aunt Marie's house was huge and beautiful. Its roughly 2500 square feet were average for the area, but equated to a mansion by our standards. Nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street, the home had a living room, a dining room, a sitting room, 3 bedrooms, a kitchen, a sun porch, a tile bathroom with tub, and a basement.  We were amazed as we toured each room, hardly believing there could be so much space in a single home.

That evening Aunt Marie prepared a scrumptious meal for all of us, etched in my memory as one of the biggest and best meals I have ever eaten.  We talked and laughed, fighting fatigue to absorb every moment of that first night in our new homeland. When bedtime came, we nestled into their large, comfortable beds.  Despite the seeming luxury, sleep did not come quickly that first night, for we were just too excited by all the newness (and probably a little jet-lagged)! 

The following day, a newspaper reporter from the Grand Rapids Press came to the house to talk to the immigrant family of seven that had just arrived in town.  He talked to all of us while Uncle Joe interpreted, then he took a picture of our family.  The next day a long article appeared in the Grand Rapids Press profiling our family and our long journey from Germany to Michigan.     

Ryner's Immigrant Story - Excerpt Part 1

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Today marks 60 years since my father's family stepped onto American soil for the first time.  A few years ago, I worked with my Dad to record his memoirs.   I may have posted a few excerpts before this one, but I wanted to share more extensive piece. Mostly for my family to read and remember.  

Dateline: 1953

...The SS United States was berthed in a huge dock in Bremerhaven.  We arrived several hours before departure with all of our remaining possessions packed tightly into six suitcases. I remember rounding a corner in that old port city and catching a glimpse of the huge ship.  Its sheer size and presence took my breath away.  We were all in awe, for no ship had ever looked sleeker or more inviting to a family of seven than this SS United States looked to us.  Our last hours as a family in our German homeland were spent in a local restaurant for a light meal, an interesting last respite for me since I'd only been to a restaurant a few times in my life.  To satiate our palates before the rocky voyage, Dad introduced us to a special treat there, a new drink we had never tasted before called Coca- Cola.  What a wonderful, ironic sendoff before the bells rung to call us aboard to our future.

Chapter 27

A Rocky Crossing

The hustle and bustle of the dock was Hollywood-like.  Our tickets were checked, paperwork stamped, visas inspected, and luggage loaded away.  Our excited family then joined the throng of passengers climbing up the long gangplanks. Friendly stewards dressed in black tuxedoes and white ties greeted the passengers as we boarded, leading everyone to their cabins.  All seven of our family members fit snugly into two cabins outfitted with bunk beds.  Even though they were the cheapest quarters on the ship, and Dad had warned us they would be small, they still looked great to us!  Our family's passage and those two cabins, nine floors below the ship's decks, cost $1,600  (equivalent to about $12,000 at today's rates.)  Every penny paid for those tickets came from Uncle Joe and Aunt Marie in Grand Rapids.  Dad vowed that that someday we would repay it all. 

Once settled in our cabins, we heard an announcement in several languages that departure was imminent.  We rushed back upstairs to find a place along one of the railings, nudging ahead to get a front row seat for this historic family event.  Soon the ship's horns bellowed, ringing through my entire frame, heralding our departure.  The passengers all waved with gusto to throngs of people below who had come to see off loved ones, some for just a time, others for forever.   I remember Mother and Dad's broad smiles and misty, joyful eyes as the harbor shrunk into the horizon.

Our first stop after departure from Bremerhaven was the port of LeHavre, France where the ship took on more passengers.  The next and final stop before entering the Atlantic Ocean was Southampton, the huge seaport on the southern coast of England.  At each stop, passengers flocked to the decks to see the landscape.  We also marveled at the size of our vessel and its modern sleekness when compared to other ships in the harbors.  Early on the third day of our voyage, England's green coast slowly disappeared behind us and we turned northwest toward the open seas of the Atlantic Ocean. 

As the ship set off into the expanse of the sea, we settled in enjoying the delights of life on board.  The food was absolutely heavenly. We received meal service three, and sometimes four times a day.  Such indulgence was just what we needed after all the post war years of food shortages and constant skimping.  And the best part was that Mother didn't have to cook any of it, she could just enjoy being served for once.  Our fate seemed too good to be true: this family of poor refugees seated at a big round table covered with a fine linen table cloth, sitting in comfortable chairs on expensive carpeting.  Smiling, efficient angels stood by in this gilded heaven, waiting to serve us all the good food we could eat!  The table steward would even give me second portions of dessert if I so desired. Besides eating great food, there were plenty of other activities to enjoy, like billiards, ping-pong tables, shuffle boards, lounges with live music, and on and on.  As passengers in the "cheap seats," we could only wonder what first and second-class passengers might be enjoying! It seemed that nothing could dampen our joy.

On our second day in the Atlantic, the wonderful, sun-kissed weather we had enjoyed began to change.  The sky turned dark and ominous and soon the giant ship began to move up and down in a precarious manner.  Dad assured us that all was normal, telling us that the oceans may roil up a bit, but everything would be fine.  His assuring words made us feel better because we knew he had been at sea often, and surely had endured worse than this.  However, no sooner had Dad calmed us with his words than the storm's turmoil grew.  With alarming speed, the weather worsened as dusk fell.  A few short hours later the ship was rising and falling with incredible force, digging its bow so deep into the dark, heavy seas that the triple screws propelling the ship in the stern would come clear out of the water and shake the entire ship.  Soon everyone realized that we were being gripped by a mighty and dangerous Atlantic storm.   Herman, Bernie and I, who had been walking topside, were told to go below.  We took one more look outside before our descent and could see only huge ocean waves all around, boiling to heights nearly as high as our enormous vessel.  It was an awesome, frightening spectacle.  The ship's crew strung ropes along stairs and hallways for passengers to hang onto since attempting to walk up or down stairs was like boarding a county fair ride with constant jostling.  The dining rooms cleared as people ran to their cabins as quickly as possible.  With the constant rocking and rolling, rampant seasickness was unavoidable, and it struck with the same fury as the seas!  With the exception of most of the crew and a handful of passengers like my Dad who had been at sea before, all became very, very sea sick.  I have few memories as miserable as those sixteen or so hours being cooped up in our cabin, all of us expelling every last bit of all the magnificent food we had indulged in to that point.  The cabin stewards would knock on our door offering food and anti-seasickness pills, but nothing helped.  Our insides were losing this battle to the raging Atlantic.  We could only pray that the boat would hold up better. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the seas began to calm.  What we didn't know at the time was that the SS United States, its passengers and crew had just endured one of the most violent storms ever observed in the Atlantic Ocean.  In fact, that same storm front continued eastward towards Europe, gathering even more strength.  It struck the coasts of England and the Netherlands with awesome fury killing almost 3,000 people and doing incredible property damage to both nations.  The great Atlantic Ocean Storm of early 1953 was one of a kind, and I still marvel that our family went through it.  But it is also unsurprising that my gallant father had yet another sea survival story to tell. 

Go to Part 2

The Greatest

Happy 70th Birthday to Muhammed Ali.  Here's an excerpt from from a memoir project I've been working on with my Dad.  Interestingly, he's had several encounters with Mr Clay / Ali.


....On one such business trip, my manager and I were traveling in first class and our seats happened to be right behind a very familiar face - the great boxer Muhammad Ali.  I'd always assumed that most celebrities fly first class to be left alone.  However, only a few minutes after we were airborne, "The Greatest" turned around and asked us if we wanted to hear some of his poems - a hilarious question from a guy that was known to everyone!  Here was the former heavyweight champion on his way to recapturing his title and suddenly was kneeling on his seat to face us, reciting his poetry.  He entertained us for a long time with all kinds of other crazy stuff - more poems, predictions of greatness to come, and exactly how he was going to knock out his opponents to regain his heavyweight crown.  Eventually, he moved to the tourist class behind us where he did the same thing for the passengers there. 

Interestingly, this was not my first run-in with the boxer.  A few years earlier, when he was not yet champion and still went by Cassius Clay, I had seen his big bus outside a restaurant/bar in Sacramento.  Naturally, I wanted to see him, and needed to make a visit to the restroom anyway.  Once inside the restaurant, I did not see any sign of him and assumed he had left.  But on the way into the men's room I literally crashed into him as he was leaving.  He was huge and all muscle, and knocked the wind out of me.  He gently apologized for the inadvertent collision and went back to entertaining the bar patrons. 

I was to see Ali one more time, many years past his boxing prime. He had been secretly chosen to be the torch bearer to light the Olympic flame at the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games of 1996 in Atlanta.  He stood just thirty feet from our section and my wife, Evelyn and I watched as this now weakened and ill athlete struggled to control his shaking hands to lift the torch that would light the massive Olympic flame.  The occasion was so sad, but also strangely encouraging and undoubtedly unforgettable for the eighty-thousand people there to witness it, along with millions watching around the globe.  

Passive Aggressive Notes - Home Edition

This is a spray bottle of cleaner that I use around the house.  I mix it from a concentrate, but have marked the bottle so we know what it is. It has a lovely fresh lemon scent.

I have a habit of leave the bottle out on the counter instead of putting it away.  Most often this is because I intend to use it again somewhere, then forget or get distracted by another pressing issue, say, a toddler falling down the stairs or something.  Or its because I'm too lazy to pry the child lock off the under-sink cabinet.  My propensity for leaving out the Meyers spray frustrates Jeff.   I'm sure it's in an endearing way, like, "aww, that silly Katie always leaves the cleaning spray and aluminum foil out.  I'd sure miss that little quirk if she weren't around." Right? I'm sure it's endearing... 
One day I came home to find that Meyer's cleaner had a new label: 

Poor Spray, feels so abandoned on the counter, must have note instructing user what to do when user is finished.   I now refer to the Meyers as "Put Me Away Spray."  With this new moniker and new directive, I have gotten better about actually putting Spray away.  But clearly I've not been good enough.  My sickness must run deep, for I recently found this NEWER label written on the bottle:

Such high stakes now, with this new (passive?) aggressive note.  I like to think I put Spray away even more often now.  But my record is not peerless. Now, if Jeff sees "IfYouHateJeff" Spray out, he just lets out a beleaguered sigh. 

The bottle is running out of room for labels, but what note would you leave to get the Spray put away?

In Georgia Augusts, I Dream of Seattle

Nothing makes me long for the Pacific Northwest more than late summer in Atlanta.  By this time of year my patience is worn thin with sticky mornings and evenings, and unbearable afternoons littered with thunderstorms that seem to do nothing to break the humidity's stranglehold.  But yet, every third day or so by this time of year, you catch a fleeting breeze that cools, that doesn't carry the burden of 70% water.  It sneaks in, cools your face and sends a reminder of what summer in Seattle can feel like.

Three years ago, in an August much like this one, Jeff and I headed west to visit family, soak in nature, and cool our internal temperatures a few degrees.  We hiked, strolled, boated, ate and played frisbee in beautiful places.  We had sun, drizzle, downpours, fog, sometimes in the same day.  We loved it. 

While I toil to till the parched earth of our fledgling garden and rue the damage that critters have wrought on everything but the zucchini (it just died from lack of water.  Sorry old boy.), I think of my uncle's garden in Kent.  How plump and delicious the blueberries were as I picked hundreds of them, my mouth watering in anticipation of eating every one.  I think of how awestruck I was by the massive, "pesky" weed of a blackberry bush gone rampant across from Uncle Bernie and Aunt Karen's house.  I had to run back to the house for buckets, tupperware, whatever I could grab that would hold the bounty of those deep purple blackberries.  My Aunt and Uncle seemed indifferent to my collecting the sweet fruit, while I acted as if I'd never seen a bush nor tree bear anything but leaves in my life.   That is Seattle, bountiful in rain, thereby bountiful in beautiful flowers, summer fruits and vegetables and rich green grass.  The reward of the gloom I suppose.

So as I wallow in the heat of Georgia's August, I dream of Seattle, and Vancouver and the San Juans, and how one day I'll show Hadley these places because they are so stunningly beautiful.  

Points if you can name where each of the following was taken. (and if you guess "Katie's Uncle's back yard" on that last one, you're genius)

 

Buckley O'Weaver

As we lead up to St. Patrick's day, I felt it appropriate to do a tribute post to the Irishman in the house....our dog.

Here reads the description of the Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier from the AKC website (emphasis added): 

A truly Irish breed, the "Wheaten" has a special connection to St. Patrick's Day, having first appeared in the show ring at the Irish Kennel Club Championship on March 17, 1937. The name of this breed describes the characteristics of the coat–soft, silky, with a gentle wave, and of warm wheaten color. 

Underneath is a formidable dog that enjoys plenty of exercise every day. Most Wheatens are natural greeters towards people, and extremely alert in their surroundings. They are quick learners and love to travel with their owners. The Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier was first recognized by the AKC in 1973. 

Known for more than 200 years in Ireland, the "Wheaten" shares common ancestry with the Kerry Blue and the Irish Terrier, but was not owned by the landed gentry. They were the poor man's dog, an all-purpose farm dog, given to patrolling the borders of small farms, ridding them of vermin, herding sheep and hunting with his master.

Wheatens tend to be less scrappy than other terriers but they are true terriers and will be more active than many other breeds, enjoying plenty of exercise every day. They relate well to children and can adapt to city, country, and suburban life. The Wheaten is single coated and sheds minimally, but needs regular grooming to keep its coat mat free.

Clearly we picked the right breed for our family since we are not, in fact, landed gentry (despite the fact that we currently own 2 properties. Ugh. More on that another time).   Buckley has been a fantastic dog for us, first as a newlyweds, then as parents of a baby, now toddler.  He is exceptional with our little girl, and she loves him.  In fact, every morning, when her fussing gets loud enough to rouse me from slumber, I go into her room, pull her out of her crib and the first thing she says is not "mama!" or "baba (bottle)", it's "woof woof." 

Descriptions are correct that this breed needs lots of activity.  Even from his youngest days he has been a great walking, jogging and hiking companion with seeming boundless energy.  The downside to that energy is that he has always been a leash puller, despite our best (well, sort of ) efforts at training.  And his energy is only limited by the temperature and length of his coat.  See, Wheatens, or at least our Wheaten, get uncomfortably hot pretty easily.  One sunny Saturday, we took young Buckley  to a hike up Blood Mountain.  Once we'd reached the top, poor pup was hot and thirsty, seeking water at any cost.  He found a small, stagnant mud puddle and proceeded to roll himself completely around in the gray soupy muck, much to the chagrin of passers-by.  We were frozen, wanting to pull his squirmy body out of the nastiness, yet entranced by the spectacle.  Gosh he was dirty after that. That's our Buckley, sad eyes, playful heart.

Happy St. Patrick's Day to our little Irishman.  Maybe we'll give him a sip of beer tomorrow....just to watch him sneeze.  Works every time.

Will you be celebrating your Irish Heritage on the 17th...or just wearing green so you don't get hassled by co-workers and store clerks?

Dear Friends, Here is a brief update on the Weavers... 2007 was a fine year for us. We celebrated our 3rd year of marriage in March. We both, graciously, attended one anothers' 10-year reunions. Mine celebrated 10 years since high school at Greater Atlanta Christian. Then a few weeks later we were on campus at Messiah College in Pennsylvania, re-uniting with Jeff's old college buddies. We also made several trips to see family in Lancaster, PA; Ann Arbor, MI; Point Clark, Ontario; and Sarasota, FL. Jeff is still employed by Emory University School of Medicine as the Director of IT for the Department of Medicine. Katie quit her job at National Allergy Supply earlier this year, but continues to do contract writing for the company, in addition to several other free-lance writing assignments. She also developed and maintains the website for her sister's newest business venture, Evan Taylor Designs. Jeff and Katie still love music, staying involved with their church's music ministry, as well as some other projects. Katie has had several concerts in Atlanta over the past year, and the Weavers maintain ties, albeit loose ones, to their band The Ming Dynasty. They hope to actually play somewhere, as a full band, in early 2008. Maybe they'll even write some new songs. Perhaps the most exciting thing for us this year was the acquisition of an adorable Wheaten Terrier puppy in late February. Buckley is almost a year old and has given us tremendous amounts of laughs, cuddles, leaves, dirt, and chewed things. We love (almost) every bit of it! We are thankful for you, and pray you have a wonderful Christmas season and a memorable 2008. Love from the Weavers

To Mom

We may be a day or 2 removed from mother's day, but I still feel it important to say a few words to thank my mum. She is an incredible woman.
Jeff (and Dad) helped me make her dinner for Mother's Day, which was an incredibly daunting task: she's an excellent cook.

It wasn't a disaster. The grill caught fire, and we had to call mom in from the bullpen to help w/ damage control (i.e. suggestions for finishing off the fish since the grill was now non-functional). But by-golly it worked and we enjoyed ourselves.

to mom.

if I sing, it is because mom sung first
if I create good food, it is because mom was the original maestro
if I make people laugh, i am thankful that mom first made me laugh
if I know a dang thing about "homemaking", its because mom always kept ours with grace and class
if I travel to the ends of the earth, its because mom did it first
if I smell a flower and smile, its because mom has always done that
if I utter strange and memorable expressions, it is because my mom said them first
if I love people well, its because mom first showed me how to love
and on...and on..

thanks mom.

What I've Learned From My Dog

Three years ago, Jeff and I became accustomed to hearing that all-too-familiar phrase: "How's married life treatin' ya?" and again and again we were made to reply with various words and phrases that fit within the metaphor. Now that we have done what 3-years married people do and gotten a dog, the new chorus sounds something like this:
“Aah. Dogs are good preparation for having children”

Some people, a few of you perhaps, think that is entirely untrue and ridiculous. After all, you can’t stick your child in a crate when you leave the house unless you want to wind up in a “crate” of sorts called jail. You can’t half-heartedly throw your baby into the backyard unsupervised, hoping that he or she doesn’t find a way to dig out. Dogs don’t require boobs or other special equipment to get sustenance. Children don’t poop or pee in response to command words. I can sit Buckley on my lap when we ride in the car, doing that with your baby means you're breaking the law and shamed by America just like Britney Spears. Those greatly functional and fashionable designer "pet totes” with mesh cut-outs don't work so well with babies.

So, yes, dogs seem less difficult and poor preparation for babies.

However, children don’t chase and corner birds and small rodents with the intent to kill and eat them (do they?). Babies don’t smell like an old mop when they get wet. Kids don’t sniff each other’s butts on the playground to greet each other. Small children don’t instinctively hump legs, stuffed animals or other small children.

But alas, the similarities abound. Which is why the majority of our friends agree that Buckley, our Softcoated Wheaten Terrier is preparing us fairly well for the transition of having kids. I’ll use the following points to illustrate this, with parental buzzwords in italics. While Buckley is growing like a sprout, he is still a puppy and liable have accidents indoors when his routine is out of whack. Schedule is important. If he naps too long or too close to bedtime, he is feisty and whiney. He has boundless energy, and we relish the opportunity to wear him out so he will crash at night. He does not readily obey when he is distracted by toys, friends, people, etc.. In fact, he proves himself to be quite stubborn. We have to adjust our life and schedule to account for our dog. Weekend getaways aren’t as easy. Bringing our “child” places means a car packed with pack n play (crate), snacks (food), bowls, treats, favorite toys, etc. We never had this much stuff to schlep when it was just me and Jeff!

Parents…are you relating yet? Buckley loves mud, dirty puddles, rolling in leaves, stealing other dogs’ (and kids') toys and eating other dogs’ food. He requires of us a newly heightened peripheral vision I’d only seen before in parents. Grandparents and neighbors love Buckley, but they don’t want to keep him forever. Add to that, Buckley is tad high-maintenance with a special gluten-free diet. Wheat gluten can agitate his tummy and is not as good for his hair (coat). Such a diet is recommended for the breed (not just Buckley).

This wonderful world of pet ownership vs. kid parent-ship collided beautifully last weekend when a caravan of us - pets and kids - arrived at my parents cabin in North Carolina for a smallgroup retreat. Peripheral vision activated we all kept watch on our respective charges. But our concentration waned and all of a sudden “mine” had laid a big un-tidy load on the floor of the house, then “Kristen’s” ran unknowingly through it, across the lovely rug with poopy footprints. When Buckley saw the running child he gave chase and said child then jumped on the couch to avoid his pursuer…making yet another brown footprint. We discovered the scene in its aftermath where frustration gave way to laughter. And in between, we acted fast and every spot was sprayed, scrubbed and removed with success.

Despite these teeth-clenching bumps in the road when I want to send Buckley on a one-way Wheaten Terrier pilgrimage back to Ireland, I sure do love him. Its hard to say no to that sad-eyed, long-eyelashed, black-nosed visage. I don't think Jeff and I are quite at Best In Show obsession, but we have our moments.

I think that in getting Buckley we've learned a little more about ourselves, and I daresay, about God. He has been known to use animals and creation to speak to people about His nature. Lest I seem like some sentimental sap, I must say that I enjoy few things more than the excitement with which Buckley greets us. He loves with no questions or conditions, just that little thumb of a tail leading his whole hind-end in hectic wagging back and forth.

PHOTOS: From Blood Mt., GA. Courtesy Marilyn and Matt.
Buckley loves hiking. He also gets hot easily with his thick Wheaten coat.





After a sunny hike to the top, Buckley's panting led us to a small puddle. We figured he may want a drink.







It was quickly evident he wanted a bath.










It was too late to stop him, and too funny to watch










rasta dog

On Curious Food Traditions

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!
One of the things that made our time in France last fall so wonderful was the wealth of new food experiences we had (like Jeff's chestnut creme Belgian waffle at right). Well, back here stateside, I’m stuck again with Chick-fil-a, China Inn and Tex-mex. While I’m quite fond of any of the above, they tend to blend into the humdrum of life.

Then arrive the holidays. That particular time of year when we gather with family, whether willingly or unwillingly, and somehow the nostalgia of it all seems to brush the rough edges a little smoother. And there is none so central to these holiday gatherings as food, and at no other time of year do more traditions make their way to the communal table. For example, my employer went all out for a traditional Thanksgiving meal (okay, well, it was a potluck. They bought us Turkey, I brought store-bought pecan pie). However, for Christmas, we had catered barbeque lunch. Call it bucking tradition, but who knows that for some of you, the smell of pulled pork and vinegar sauce means nothing less than Merry Christmas.

My family’s holiday table has never been too steeped in oddity, but we like tradition. Turkey for Thanksgiving, never anything made of sweet potatoes (to Jeff’s horror), and Sister Schubert’s yeast rolls. Christmas dinner tends to center around a pork roast or some sort of beef with a fancy name. I believe this year was “standing crown roast”. Methinks we should have all been seated in some royal hall, wearing pelts and fancy headgear lifting our goblets. Sadly, it was just my sister's kitchen table, though we did raise our goblets, er, glasses to Christ, since He is after all the reason we do celebratory things this time of year like indulging in crown roast and Sister Schubert’s yeast rolls (yes, we have them on Christmas too).

While I appreciate my family's traditions, one thing I love about being married to Jeff is the decidedly Amish-country bent that his family’s traditional meals have. Foods of which I could ne'er have dreamt have been gracing their holiday table for years. And now, I can freely say, I’d been missing out before I had them. Have you experienced home-made hamloaf? Think meatloaf, but with a sweet glaze and several lovely Mennonite women with head coverings joining you. Corn pudding is another Lancaster favorite. It joins the ranks with Himalayas Indian food as something Jeff and I will eat until we’re sick.

Then there are the food oddities that have nothing to do with Pennsylvania Dutch culture or the northeast, but are just Weaver. Jeff’s mum’s homemade pizza is always served with applesauce and peanut butter, unabashedly, as if these were natural pairings. Chicken Corn Soup is another favorite of mine, and in his family’s home, it’s always served with blueberry muffins. Logical, perhaps not. The warmth of tradition that makes all right in the world for an hour, absolutely.

We all have them, odd holiday meals that serve as benchmarks for us, funny dinner-table traditions that no one else could understand.

What are some of your family’s traditions or regional foods that may seem odd to us, but make you smile?

Almost Famous: The Music Addition

aaah, the simple days of 1 yr. ago.
No car, just legs. -->
Before my intended post...I'll fish for sympathy, or laughs, or both with a brief rundown of the Weavers' last 36 hours. We've, wrecked our new car rendering it undrive-able. Today we (read: I) got a ticket with the other car - illegal left turn. Immediately after, it got a flat tire. In short, the wreck was not our fault and nobody was hurt. Ticket, I deserved it. Tire, 2 plugs could not fix the gaping hole...only removing the darn tire from its frame and patching it from the inside could remedy the problem, for now. And, while I waited for the fix in the freezing cold, I thought again of those blissful days in France when we didn't have to deal with bloody cars. Done.


Now to Music


Some of my favorite family photos include one of my Uncle Henry at a young age hunched with full concentration over his shiny accordion. I don't recall if the moment was captured while the family was still in Germany, or if it was state-side. Regardless, this image was a telling sign of things to come for the Wittgens family. Many a Michigan family reunion has included Uncle Henry leading us through accordion sing-alongs. Seriously. And I love every minute of it.

A few years before my Oma died, we discovered a Mandolin hidden away in the corner of her tiny home, another hint at the music in our veins. My Uncle Jim used to serenade me with that WWI classic about studdering "K-k-k-katie, beautiful Katie."

And one of my greatest Grand Rapids family memories, and I think others would agree, is our trips to "Roaring Twenties", which later became "Good Time Charley's". The whole Wittgens clan would cram around a long table - kids at one end, adults at the other. We'd eat mediocre pizza and wait with bated breath for the main attraction. When that giant pipe organ would ascend from the musty floorboards like it had a thousand nights before, with all the fanfare of a head of state. Smoke, flashing lights and ooh's and aahs became accompanyment to the booming pipes of "Good Time Charley" serenading us during that magical rise from nowhere. As the night progressed we would sing along to old favorites, the adults would make their way to the small dance floor and surprise, or likely embarrass, us kids with their refined dance moves to some Sousa waltz.

I remember returning to Good Time Charley's some years later, and from the settling smoke of Charley's Pipes a karaoke set had arisen. Sad for Charley, but perfect for a few of us cousins who put together a parent-pleasing rendition of "My Boyfriends Back". Dubbed "the Wittgens Chicks" from then on, we cousins became the talk of the family for our musical antics. Now, many years removed from karaoke and those living room jam sessions on Aunt Betty's old Hammond organ, we're still making music.

My cousin Andrea Wittgens may have missed out on that fateful karaoke night, and her career is the better for it: she just opened for Grammy-award winning artist Shawn Colvin a few week's ago! How cool is that. Andrea's a Seattle singer-songwriter who I daresay I look up to. She used to awe me with her acrobatic swan dives and flips from Aunt Betty's diving board, now its her voice and songwriting. Check out Andrea's web site and new EP, Alibi.

The Ming Dynasty is a little musical project that I've been working on with Jeff and some other friends. Now, we haven't opened for any Grammy nominees or anything, but we have ascended to MySpace-dom. I admit to being a rookie at this whole thing but if you want to listen to a few songs and be our "friend", come visit our MySpace page.

We've not played a show as a band in a long time, but Jeff and I did have a pretty cool "solo" gig a few weeks ago. We recently took a trip to Brazil to visit some friends and while there, we did an extremely "unplugged" performance of 2 Ming Dynasty tunes. Our audience was a group of youth, both middle-class and poor, orphaned teens, togther on a friday night in a run-down public school activity area in a Rio de Janeiro suburb. About 35 youth (a few future fans pictured below) listened, and sang along as we played through a couple of our songs. They may not have understood many of the words but they were incredibly appreciative and became quite a Ming Dynasty fanclub. One of the students' moms actually works for a Rio radio station (albeit an easy-listening station) and was a tad over-enthusiastic about the music, assuring us a radio-sponsored concert there should we return. We all had a good laugh about the whole thing.

What made this performance so special and unique was the kids and their enthusiasm for music. Knowing even small pieces of some of their heartbraking stories, we were so glad to bring song to those kids for a few minutes. Many of you have asked to see pics from our Brazil trip. I apologize that life has become quite full since our return and the media still sits on our camera.

Final World Cup Thoughts

7-9-06
I feel rather exhausted at the moment. I’ve just finished mopping up the last of my “breakfast for dinner” scrambled eggs and toast. Sure, I awoke at 7:45 this morning after a late night, sang in two church services, and just a few short hours ago my house bustled with the excited faces of American soccer fans. Those who came into this World Cup adventure swearing that they wouldn’t care, then finding themselves swept up. That made me happy. But I didn’t know I would be so exhausted and sad when it all ended.


As anyone at our little Championship gathering can attest, the Weaver allegiances were unmistakable: A giant blue hydrangea with a hangtag reading “Allez Les Bleus” adorned my front door. My table spread with all things red, white and blue to support… France of course. There was Parisian kitch (from Target no less), blueberries, cherries, and the requisite baguette, butter and camembert. Sadly, the $10 Champagne still rests comfortably on my fridge’s top shelf. There was no need for uncorking or celebration this afternoon.

Sure, I am sad that France lost, but sadder still at the surprising exit of Zinedine Zidane, who had fast become my tournament hero. The 34 year old star returning to the game, as beautiful as ever, exchanging handshakes and hugs with opposing players, rarely feigning fouls (“diving”) during games. His playing is beauty and Zidane seemed to me a class act. Which is why his senseless head-butt to the chest of an opposing player, resulting in his ejection was so frustrating. Even had France won, what a blemish to endure. French papers reported the stunned disappointment of French fans, packed onto the Champs Elysees, unable to relive the glory of ‘98.

I hope they don’t blame “Zizou” for the loss, Italy played outstanding defense and deserved to win. But I’m still sad to say bye to Zidane that way, and equally as unready to say goodbye to this quadrennial funfest of international togetherness. To flag-waving Germans who finally feel safe to rally around their country again. To Ivory Coast players whose World Cup presence halted civil war. To the mediocre American broadcast team on ESPN and ABC who tried their darndest to get all of us ignorant gringos to like soccer. To my lovely, non-sporty mum screaming at the TV and talking footie like she’s been watching it for years. To now-empty pubs, and streets and city-squares that hosted millions of fans of all colors, sizes, economic backgrounds all there together to watch, dream and soak in every moment of one of the globe’s great equalizers: sport.

Thanks for enduring the soccer craze. I’ll get back to restaurant reviews and travelogues soon enough. Allez Les Braves.

Copa Mundial

sorry for your team...(5th of World (FIFA) that is a
big mistake...)

bisous de france

i write you later after we win the world cup
-Matthieu B., in an email to me

As predicted by some of our French friends, the US is down and out of this World Cup, in no small thanks to their inability to create offense. So now my sights turn to the remaining teams. It seems that nearly each country gives me a reason to root for them. Here are some of my favorites (In no particular order)…

Germany – This is an easy one. My people. I am a Wittgens, the child of a German immigrant. Before his family fled the Russian occupation, then emigrated to the US, my dad spent his youth in East(ern) Germany playing fussball in the streets and rooting on Borussia Dortmund. Surely the host nation has my Deutschland heart. I think... They sure looked brilliant against Sweden, I would not be unhappy if they took it all this year.

France – Mon pays deuxieme. You don’t spend 4 months in, amidst, around a country like France and not love it, at least not if you’re Jeff and Katie Weaver. We watched Ligue 1 matches with friends, saw the national rugby team play live, drank Pastis, and trash-talked about soccer. As Matthieu kindly pointed out, our team didn’t live up to the hype, mais franchement...neither have les bleus so far. I still have to root for them though, at least their rouge, blanc et bleu made the 2nd round.

To have France pitted against Spain (Tuesday afternoon) is a difficult quandary. Spain is like my forbidden fruit. The one nation in Europe that most intrigues me, and the only mainland nation where I can speak the native tongue, yet I’ve never been there. I have good friends from Spain and I really love Manchego cheese. But I must raise a glass of Bordeaux rather than Tempranillo for this confrontation.

England – Another of football’s alleged superpowers who have looked less than stellar this tournament. From a pure aesthetic standpoint, the boys in red and white have possibly the best looking team on the pitch, and a charming feature film named after one of their stars. I’ve lived in England for a spell, watched many a Hyde Park pick-up game, and even taken in a Tottenham match at Whiteheart Lane. I know how much pride the English have for their footie. Take it from our favorite ex-pat in London (check out his Blackgate Blog!). I'm sure there will be utter devastation (and lots of drinking) the day England loses.

Speaking of drinking... The keeper on my recreational team is English. He showed up for our game the other night after 5 hrs and even more pints at the pub watching his boys battle. Best part is, he kept an amazing game for us, helping us win. Gotta love the English.



Switzerland – Perhaps Jeff's and my favorite country in Europe. God lives in those mountains (right Michael S.?!). I’ve had some of my most memorable experiences in Switzerland, as has Jeff. The
vistas,
cheeses, chalets, they all seem near heaven to me. I don’t think the Swiss have a yodler's chance to win the Cup (don't know what that means but it's got a nice ring); however, for their next match vs. Ukraine, I'll pick chocolate over borscht. Allez les Suisses.

Brazil – They epitomize the beautiful game. The yellow clad artists show gamesmanship and skill unlike other teams. And their team is favored to win this thing again. The culture of Brazil intrigues me: soccer and samba, carnivale and caparinhas, and on and on. I was a Latin-American studies minor in college, but never visited Brazil or learned Portuguese. I’ve heard that if you visit, you’ll never want to leave. I have friends from Brazil, and friends living in Brazil (more on them later...we hope to visit this fall.) I even have a small Brazilian flag. I need an excuse to wave it some more, so I’ll pick them to move on, probably to the finals.


Australia – The Socceroos have a cute name. Their fans boo like our US fans (all the others’ whistle when their angry). Or maybe their just yelling “kangaROOOO”. (I apologize for those who’ve heard that “joke” already from me.) The Aussie’s have played with such grit and excitement that they’ve probably converted longtime cricket and rugby fans into soccer crazies. Plus, who understands that Australian rules football anyway? I’ve got friends (okay, and an old flame) who’re Oz, and they love their country and will be feverishly rooting on their boys to victory at some ungodly hour in the streets of Sydney. While I love Gelato as much as the next person, I'd love to see Vegemite nation triumph in the upcoming Aussie-Italy clash (Monday).

And a word on Ghana – The Black Stars knocked out my US team. However, as I stood kavetsching with friends about our missed chances, I realized that whatever doom or frustration I've felt is SO far eclipsed by the sheer joy in the entire nation of Ghana, it makes it easier to take. My highschool biology teacher was from Ghana. A friend and co-worker once lived in Ghana. Plus, I'm a sucker for the underdog. All said, I think their next opponent (Brazil) is just too good.


So, there is my culinary, cultural, and virtually un-strategic reasons for picking favorites.

And finally..for a TRUE insider view and wonderful commentary on the world cup proceedings, and Europe in general, visit Andrew and Donna Helms' blog. They're back home stateside now, but their fan-hood and fun euro experiences make great blogging. (I should know, Weaver blog has gone way downhill since we left inspiring France).

So who are you pulling for?