Inkyfinger

Things Learned in a Colombian Prison

2012-01-14T15:54:00.000-05:00

The smell of diesel fumes mingled with the aroma of cooking fires drifting through the half-open windows of our swaying bus as we careened through the Andes mountains in Colombia, SA. We were entering guerrilla territory and I pressed my face against the glass to take in the panoramic beauty of the forested peaks, wondering at the evil hidden by the lush green canopy. Occasionally, an army truck passed us with its cargo of camouflaged soldiers in the back, their weapons resting on their shoulders as they, too, scanned the forest for signs of unusual activity. All was quiet, though, on this morning ride save for the squeaking of the bus and the roar of the engine as we bounced over the highway that sliced through the heart of these ranges.

Our journey took us into the heart of Colombia where I was taking a small team of women to a high-security prison in Ibague to teach Amish quilt-making to the women inmates. Many of these women were incarcerated because of their link to a drug-lord or because they were considered an accomplice to their husband's criminal charges and were swept along to prison, as well. The majority of them were innocent and were spending many long months awaiting a trial that would probably not turn out favorably for them in the end. Most of these women and girls had children at home to support and were looking for ways to provide for them while behind bars.

In our carefully packed luggage, we carried 200 sewing kits, each complete with all the materials needed to make crib quilts for babies. It was our plan to teach the women how to make these quilts which they could then sell to provide money for their children living outside the prison. One of the women on my team owned an Amish quilt shop in Ohio and had provided the supplies for our venture, in addition to offering her expert skills in demonstrating the art of quilting.

Three hours into our scenic ride, we had left the crisp elevation of Bogota and were arriving in the tropical rain forest climate of Ibague. Pedestrians cluttered the road leading into the town, children rang alongside the bus holding up trinkets to sell, and beggars stood with arms outstretched, expecting the clink of a coin from sympathetic Americans. Weaving through the disorganized streets we shared with rickshaws, cab drivers, and BMW's, we arrived at the prison, sweaty and disheveled from our journey, and slightly apprehensive as we viewed the machine-gun toting guards stationed at the perimeter of the gate. After a rapid interchange with our driver, and a curious look at the American passengers, the guards waved us tentatively through the gate, following us with their guns.

After what seemed like hours later, and the temporary confiscation of our passports, we had passed through a triple set of security checkpoints where we were frisked as our luggage containing the 200 sewing kits was thoroughly scanned and inspected. We were then escorted by a team of 10 military guards, their no-nonsense guns poised, as they huddled us in the center of their posse while we passed through corridor after corridor of incarcerated drug lords, guerrilla fighters, murderers, and thiefs. I tried to still the clamoring of my heart as these men leared at us, their cat calls and whistles barely restrained by the warning looks from our guards.

Finally, we passed through the men's section of the prison and arrived at the area where the women were kept. They were expecting us, and 300 of them had come out into the open area of the courtyard, their faces expectant and hopeful as they gathered around our team with big smiles. The matron had selected a few women to take us on a tour of their facility, showing us where they slept and cooked their meals. The squalid conditions were as clean as possible and here and there were pots of flowers growing on a sill or a colorful blanket folded on a simple chair. They showed us pictures of their children and told us stories of how they came to be in the prison. We set up our tables and supplies, and soon were engaged in a lively session of teaching, demonstrating, and quilting as we worked alongside these beautiful women who were so eager to learn something new.

We spent three days with those women, building relationships and establishing trust, as we worked together to create something beautiful. We left them with a new skill and fresh hope in their hearts, while we came away with the realization that even in the most hopeless of environments, creativity can flourish if nurtured.

My Favorite Room

2012-01-07T17:23:00.001-05:00

I have a favorite room in my house. As I sit here writing on my blog, I look around this room and take note of the things that invite me to come here to this space where my creative energy is nurtured. Here is my list:

1. My favorite feature in this room is the large canvas of The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano. I appreciate both the sentimental aspect of the painting - it was given to us by our group of friends in Ohio as a parting gift when we moved to North Carolina in 2007 - as well as the composite of a contemporary artist featuring an Edwardian time period. Every room needs a good painting.

2. My grandfather's writing desk, in its prominent place in the corner next to a cozy winged reading chair from the 60's, is a treasure. The simplistic beauty of its cherry wood, worn smooth by over a century of use, carries secrets of my grandfather's creativity with residue of ink spilled from his fountain pen. It's slant-top cover opens to reveal drawers and cubbies to store favorite things. This desk inspires me to write.

3. The antique books propped on various tables, their embossed leather covers glowing in the candlelight, reveal a collection of history, religion, travel lectures, poetry, and world maps from the 1800's. The unique texture of their covers as I hold them in my hands and the slightly musty smell of the yellowing pages can never be replaced by the generic compilation of readings on a Kindle. Stacks of literary works will always have prime residence in my favorite room.

4. The golden wheat-colored marbleized walls of this room give the aura of a French chateau in Provence. The walls are the perfect background for The Singing Butler, as well as the 4-foot wood-framed mirror with peeling white paint which my parents displayed in their first home during the 1940's and which I now call mine. Across the room, a column of hand-painted vintage plates from my grandmother's china cupboard keeps watch over the library table with its Grecian pillars. This room is the color of inspiration.

5. No favorite room is complete without a gleaming wooden floor, covered with an Oriental rug. While I have always had a soft spot for fine rugs, this one is an exceptional find from the Winston-Salem Rescue Mission where I discovered it under a pile of bedding in the warehouse for $12.00. An Oriental rug lends a feeling of royalty to the humblest of cottages.

6. The last thing about this room I love is the eclectic collection of vintage chairs, designed to be snuggled in and placed strategically next to lamps for reading and writing. With a vintage leather footstool to prop my feet and an engraved silver coaster on which to rest my wine glass, these chairs welcome me to relax after the rigorous routine of a busy day to enjoy the solace of their cushiony depths. A good chair is an inviting presence in a room.

These are some of my favorite things in this favorite room of my house.

The Tree

2012-01-02T10:19:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a Girl who lived with her family in a beautiful cottage in an enchanted forest. All around this cottage were trees who whispered the names and secrets of God. Each night as the Girl laid her head on her downy pillow, she followed her dreams into a land more magical than the one she lived in.

The Father was the tender of the trees and there was one sapling especially that required extra care right from the first moment its roots were sunk into the rich soil of the forest. It was a wispy Tree, lacking the luster of the floral laden branches of the Magnolia trees, or the promising strength and endurance of the towering Oaks in whose shade it was planted. But the Tree, in spite of its frailty, had unusual characteristics that made the Father pay closer attention to this one than all the others.

The Mother noticed this Tree one day as she was meandering down the path in search of blackberries. Seeing her husband kneeling by the Tree, cultivating the soil around the roots, she saw it literally begin to sprout buds before her eyes. Upon closer inspection, it seemed the buds were little eyes that winked and sparkled with secrets too ancient for its young life. She mentioned this to her husband who nodded in reply and kept mulching the virgin earth, adding a fistful of compost every once in a while.

Time passed and with the Father’s encouraging touch and gentle pruning, the wispy Tree lost its wispiness and began pushing its limbs skyward even as its roots sank deeper into the forest floor. The whisperings of the tall oaks caressed its branches each night as its leaves shivered in anticipation of the day when it too would be able to reveal the magic hidden inside when the Father planted it in this forest.

Storms came to the enchanted forest from time to time and one particularly dark and evil tempest threatened to uproot the Tree and send it flying over the tops of the whispering oaks. While the storm was intense and frightening, it was not nearly as disconcerting as the eerie stillness that came later. The Tree felt a spiny finger tracing the outline of several branches, leaving a trail of poisonous words that began eating through its still-tender bark. The Tree looked at the words and became confused. Soon it could no longer hear the whisperings of the tall Oaks or smell the fragrance of the Magnolias as all its energy was being used to decipher the evil letters that had by now covered two of its limbs.

One morning the Girl awakened and remembered something she had seen in the land of her dreams. She dashed out of the cottage and headed down the path towards the not-so-wispy Tree. It stood there in the half-light of morning, two of its branches drooping slightly at its side. Gently the Girl touched the branches and noticed the scrawling letters carved into the bark. Insects had gathered and were clustering around the exposed cambiun layer, causing even greater discomfort to the Tree. As the girl pondered the evil words, they filled her heart with dread. She knew the words were from the Enemy of the forest and would need to be removed before they spread throughout the Tree and caused it to die.

She went in search of her Father, who left his forest tending duties immediately to come to the aid of his special Tree. He pulled a pruning tool from the leather pouch around his waist and swiftly cut off the graffiti-lined branches. He put salve on the wounds where the cut had been made, then knelt to cultivate the soil once again around the roots. As he did this, a miraculous thing happened.

If the Girl would not have been watching, she would not have believed it if someone told her. But as it was, she happened to be the first one to see the tree demonstrate its magic. Little buds began bursting across all the remaining branches of the tree. As the buds popped to the surface, they opened up gently to reveal pools of shimmering gold. The gold spilled from the buds, weaving their way along the branches until the whole tree was covered with a glorious shining of extraordinary luster.

The Father noticed the shining, too, from his place on the forest floor as little drops of gold began to spill around his knees. He looked up at the tree in wonder as the gold began to form words. The Girl stood on tiptoe to read the glorious script that was starting to emerge. It was just like her dream! The secrets of God were written on the branches for everyone in the forest to see!

As for the Tree, even as the gold covered its bark, it grew larger and stronger and taller than it would ever have imagined. And now it knew its purpose! It was to write the secrets of God that the tall Oaks whispered during the night. It was to describe the fragrance of the Magnolias. It was to invite others into this magical place to sit in the shade of its nurturing branches as the lifegiving words caused their dreams to become real.

And the Girl lived in the shade of the tree, her heart illuminated by the golden words dropping from its canopy.

Reflections of 2011

2011-12-31T10:02:00.000-05:00

Appalachian Trail. Romance in Corsica. Lovers heartbreak. Education. Love won and lost. Friendships strengthened. Tears. Trips to Ohio. The Blue Ridge on a fall day. Chocolate at The French Broad. U2 in Pittsburgh. Fresh hope. Mt. Mitchell in the snow. New vision. Accomplishments. Dreams awakened. Mozelle's. New love. Fireworks. Twenty-four dinner parties. Boot camp. Discovering Asheville. Songwriting. Summer worship camp. Great Pyrenees dog show. Family closeness. Youth hostel. Banjo. Musing at sunset. Eclipse in the cow pasture. Pumpkin pie. Pilot Mountain. Fresh pine. Lamb on the grill. Kisses from a Golden Retriever. Firelight and music.

Turning the Page

2011-12-26T09:06:00.000-05:00

Shades of pink stretch lazily across the sky as the world wakes up to the "day after". I sit here with my French press, feet propped on the needlpoint footstool, the heater humming quietly as I take the first sips of smooth Colombian. The tree winks sleepily from the corner, still stately in its Christmas splendor, waiting for the dismantling to come when it will be moved to the porch as a winter home for the birds. I look across the yard where our neighbor, Bo, is removing the garland from his white fence and I know that soon our neighborhood will lose its magical holiday appeal as decorations and lights come down until the next holiday season.
This year has passed so quickly and I feel as if I flew through each calendar month with lightning speed. When I open my journal, though, and read the entries chronicled during various months, I can see there were highs and lows in the progression of the year. There were times when I felt the days crawled and I was in a slump of disapointment over a dream that seemed far away, or felt keenly the lack of close friends nearby to share a tear over a glass of wine. At other times, the days and nights flowed sweetly in a harmonic symphony of work, school, and family.

Some of the best times happened around my table when friends came to dinner and life experiences were shared over good food and wine. We ate warm, crusty bread dipped in olive oil from Sicily and talked of travel experiences to places like Peru, Brazil, Corsica, Switzerland, France, and Wales. We sunk our forks into garlic-laden stuffed manicotti and delighted in storytelling and joke cracking and poetry reading. We enjoyed the distinct flavors of bison and lamb from the grill while listening to blues and jazz. We were cultured by live performances of classical concertos while enjoying the best cheesecake on the East coast, made by a friend.

Heaven happens around the dinner table, so in reflection of this past year, we had a lot of heaven going on in our home. And that's a good tradition to carry into the next year as we get ready to turn the page of the calendar once again.

Passion

2011-09-29T10:28:00.000-04:00

Enroute to destiny. Living, breathing, pulsating rhythm of passion. Forward motion. Propelled by a combination of fear and courage. Reaching. Refusing to be defined by past failures. Breaking out of tight spaces. Carving out a new life in a fresh field. Joy in the present. Hope for the future. A dreamer awakened to the possibility of reality. Taking pleasure in the undiluted elixir of life.

Thoughts from Hemmingway

2011-08-06T14:53:00.000-04:00

"In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet but unused." - in Preface to "The First Forty-nine"

6 A.M. is for the Birds (and Fitness Freaks)

2011-08-04T19:42:00.000-04:00

My quest for physical fitness began several months ago when I enrolled in a Nutrition and Fitness class at school for the summer. And in case you're wondering, the class was a pre-requisite to graduate from Forsyth Tech, so don't give me too much credit. Those who know me well also know that my husband carries the genes for maintaining a strict discipline of physical fitness, not me. Which is probably why it's a good thing I had to sign up for the class.

Our instructor opened the semester by warning all of us unwilling participants that we would be continuously sore throughout the entire 10 weeks of the course. Mr. Warren, a former high school football coach, had no qualms about putting us through sweaty routines of regular exercise during each class session, no exceptions. We learned how the body works, discussed a minefield of dietary pitfalls, memorized muscle groups, studied nutrition guidelines and food labels, and developed our personal exercise prescriptions. We did squats, lunges, hurdlers, push-ups, sit-ups, and throw-ups. (Ok, no throw-ups but our gastrointestinal area was certainly heaving at times.)

Halfway through the semester, I decided to enlist the help of my husband to keep me accountable on the days I had to do workouts outside of the classroom. We got extra points for doing this and I had been having a hard time staying committed, due to my lack of enthusiasm about exercising. Four weeks later, I passed my class with an A and the ability to maintain moderate to high levels of physical activity for an extended period of time without feeling like I was going to die.

Happy with the results I experienced from having a one-on-one trainer, I asked my husband to continue helping me as I work towards to my fitness goals. He gets me out of bed three mornings a week, when the alarm clock beeps at 6:00 and no one is awake except the birds. I start off half-heartedly, but by the time he has put me through 45 minutes of boot camp routine, I am fully awake, invigorated, and ready to start my day.

While I don't have the ripped body of an athlete, I am thrilled with the fact that I am gaining endurance, losing inches and body fat, dropping pounds, and feeling more confident about myself. I feel healthier, sleep better, have more energy, and feel less stressed. Most importantly, it feels good to know that I am taking care of my body and increasing my chances of living a longer, healthier life.

Hitting Redial

2011-07-29T08:57:00.001-04:00

The fingers of panic were tightening their hold on my chest as I desperately hit the redial on my cell, listening impatiently to the three rings which culminated in an overly cheery voice saying "the mailbox you have reached is full." My daughter, who was spending the night in Paris on the way home from her vacation in Corsica, was not answering her phone. Alternating between texting and calling, I had been trying to reach her for the past 8 hours. The thing that had put me over the edge was when her friend from Corsica messaged me, saying he had been conversing with her via Blackberry Messenger, when she quit responding. He was worried, because she was alone in Paris and had told him she was having a drink with a girl she had just met.

It's in situations like this when I wish I had never heard of a girl named Natalie Holloway or watched the movie Taken. I should have just listened to my husband, who calmly assured me she was fine, then promptly rolled over and fell asleep. But no, I had to pace the floor until 1:00 AM, when I knew she was scheduled to depart her flat with a taxi for the airport. If she did not call me by then....my panicked brain could think of all kinds of scenarios.

My phone lit up and buzzed with an incoming text, just when I felt I was going to suffocate with fear. Relief washed over me as I realized my daughter was fine and she was enroute to the airport. And why had I not been able to reach her? She had forgotten to charge her phone the night before and the battery had gone dead. Post nighttime drama, I can think rationally and accept this plausible reason why I couldn't communicate with my daughter, but in the inky darkness with the Atlantic Ocean and thousands of miles separating us, it didn't seem so realistic.

I guess that's how it is with God and me sometimes. When I am crawling through the dregs of a hopeless situation or wallowing in the torment of self-doubt or misplaced destiny, He can seem far away and unreachable. I go into redial mode, sending up the same rote of prayers with desperate angst. He hears me, that's the good news, but I think it would be more refreshing for both of us if I kept my communication with Him original, fresh, and constant. Besides, He's as close as my charged-up (or lack of) spiritual awareness allows Him to be.

Summer Travels

2011-07-25T19:30:00.001-04:00

Bonifacio, Corsica

Our family vacations have always been predictable. We have vacationed on the coast of North Carolina for the past 15 years, first on the Cape Hatteras National Seashore and then for the past 5 years on Topsail Island. Our children grew up with the joys of cramming into a large beach house with all their cousins, spending many enjoyable hours in the waves, getting a sunburn in spite of the bottles of sunscreen used, building sand castles, catching ghost crabs, fishing for sharks, and then when weariness settled into their bones, gathering around a big table piled with home-cooked food the adults had prepared. This summer, though, we deviated from the routine of our usual summer vacation.

It started when our oldest daughter, Natalie, announced she was flying to Paris this summer to meet her boyfriend, then on to Corsica, a small island in the Mediterranean Sea, to spend two weeks with his family in their home. Then, our second daughter, Rosemary, decided to spend two months at A Place for the Heart, a music/art/ministry school in Sophia, North Carolina. This changed the dynamics of having a typical family vacation, so while our girls were off enjoying their diverse experiences, my husband and I took our son to the coast, in an attempt to keep up the annual ritual of beach-time with the cousins.

While I missed not having everyone together this summer, we all enjoyed some amazing times. Here is our journey in pictures.

Porto Vecchio

Leo and Natalie

Harbor at Porto Vecchio

Rosemary with fellow student musicians

World Race Training Camp in Tennessee

Students enjoyed a weekend at Apple Lodge in the Blue Ridge Mountains

Ethan and Fred on the Pier in Surf City

Aunts, Uncles, Cousins (this is only half of us!)

Summer vacations are for making memories, and we made lots of them this year!

Seaside Dawn

2011-07-16T10:27:00.000-04:00

Early dawn.

The light gently spreads

across the vast terrestial canopy above me,

turning the sky from inky blackness

to whispers of blue

illuminated with vibrant bursts of red and pink

as the sun begins its slow ascent at the far horizon.

I sit with my toes dug into the cool sand, a warming mug of coffee in my hands,

enjoying my front-row seat at nature's art show.

A wave crashes into the shore and sweeps toward my feet,

changing its mind at the last minute, receding to its powerful source.

It comes back a few seconds later with renewed energy as the tide is slowly coming in.

I know that in a few more minutes,

my chair will be awash in seawater, but I don't care.

This is the beach.

And I am at my leisure

with no schedules to keep

or tasks to occupy my mind.

My to-do list for today is short:

1. Enjoy the beach.

Next week, its back to reality

with school and schedules and medical notes to transcribe,

and dishes and laundry and the thousand tasks a mom does.

But today I can sit and not have a care.

I throw back my head and laugh with exhilarating freedom

as the tide engulfs my chair and I am baptized in glorious seawater.

Femme

2011-07-10T09:38:00.001-04:00

~~Fem~~Me

Free to be me -

To take on the identity

of my earthborn skin

and eternal soul.

No constricting molds

of societal expectancies

or self-delegated conformist roles.

Woman -

Pure, undiluted, God-formed, original.
- Naomi Gingerich
Copyright 2011

An Amish Upgrade: English Tudor Birthing Center

2011-06-13T19:56:00.001-04:00

The rooms that once housed a family of five, brought new life to marriages, and embraced a varied stream of tourists, Old Order Amish neighbors, and vagabonds in search of a warm meal and soft bed will now continue that flow of graciousness in a whole new way. Gilead's Balm Manor, a spacious English Tudor home situated in a beautiful wooded setting next to a pristine lake in Ohio's Amish country was built by my brother, initially to provide sanctuary for his family, then later to function as a romantic bed and breakfast with honemoon suites and lavish European decor. Now, the 8,000 square foot estate will become the new Birthing Center for Amish women to have their babies.

Like a showy tiger lily standing out from a bank of green foliage, the manorly luxury of Gilead's Balm stands in stark contrast to the plain farms owned by their Amish neighbors on all sides -- neighbors who at first turned hostile shoulders to the non-Amish family who had ventured into their midst. Eventually, my brother, with his charisma, charm, and a heart bigger than the state of Texas, won the trust and confidence of this reserved and severely religious sect of Amish and they accepted him on neighborly terms. I am convinced it was this unusual friendship the Amish offered my brother and their subtle disregard for religious boundaries that emboldened them, years later, to purchase this lavish jewel of real estate for their own use.

My brother, who is now a pastor and whose greatest joy is birthing spiritual babes into the Kingdom of God, will be delighted to know that his former home will continue to be a life-giving place of new birth. And I can promise that the Amish birth rate will increase. Who wouldn't want to give birth in the Queen's Suite, in front of a marble fireplace, with a jacuzzi waiting in the sidelines to aid with recovery? (If the Bishops won't make them tear out all those frivolities!)

2011-06-04T19:43:00.000-04:00

I Never Rode a School Bus

(The musings of a modern writer as she reflects on her life growing up in a sheltered Mennonite home in the 60’s and 70’s.)

I never rode a school bus

Or ate candy at the Fair;

Never saw the circus

Or was dropped off at Day Care.

I never watched cartoons

Or learned of Mickey Mouse;

And Big Bird was the silly goose

That lived behind our house.

I never joined the Girl Scouts

Never learned to dance;

Never wore a fancy hat

Or a pair of pants.

Never watched a movie

At the drive-in theater;

Never heard of Star Wars

Or the villain Darth Vader.

I never heard a pop tune

Blast from a radio;

Or, God forbid, the Beatles

On a vinyl, turned low.

I never learned the pledge

Of Allegiance to our flag;

Never stalked celebrities

Or read Teen Mag.

I never rode a school bus, but…

I learned the art of grabbing a goat’s teats in just the right way to coax a steady stream of milk into the pail.

I helped deliver baby calves.

I mucked out stalls with a pitchfork.

I milked a herd of dairy cows by age 14.

I spent every day of my childhood, following my dad around on the farm, learning to do the tasks he did.

I frolicked with lambs.

I learned to cook for a houseful of company at a moment’s notice.

I sewed all my own clothes.

I invented games to amuse myself.

I rode a bicycle everywhere.

I drove a tractor, pulling a full load of hay, before I was in 6th grade.

I could bake a cake from scratch.

I spoke two languages.

I traveled the world with my imagination.

I went to bed each night, feeling safe and secure in my sheltered Mennonite world, surrounded by pastures and cornfields, with a moon overhead and a God watching out for me.

-Naomi Gingerich
copyright 2011

Teat Dip and Opera

2011-04-03T14:44:00.000-04:00

You gotta love a guy who mixes up teat dip while smoking a fine Cuban cigar, listening to opera on the radio, and drinking a Bud Light. Only in America, with the diversity of our cultures, would something like this even make sense. My brother-in-law, who services dairy farmers across the heartland of fertile Amish country, is about as all-American as a guy can get. He built his entrepreneurial business from scratch, driving a large dairy products truck that he takes all over the back roads of Ohio, keeping farmers supplied with everything from the above mentioned teat dip, to milk replacer, to black galoshes for sloshing through manure. He votes Republican, believes in the stars and stripes, promotes hometown football, goes to church on Sunday, and drinks Bud Light. And now, apparently, he has taken on the interesting twist of listening to opera.

That is what makes America so great and is why this diversity in culture should always be treasured. Only in America would it make sense that a 49-year-old mom (that would be me) who grew up washing the teats of dairy cows and teaching newborn calves how to suckle a bottle of freshly mixed milk replacer would be in a Biology lab with a doctor of Veterinary Medicine from West Africa, a young punk rocker kid with a genius for science, and an African American minister who writes papers like sermons.

In America, it makes sense that we know how to enjoy fine Cuban cigars or imported beers, but also appreciate the fact that Bud Light is the king. It makes sense that we can love Nascar or enjoy mud wrestling, or watch a ballet -- all in the same week. And it makes sense that we can enjoy this diversity and appreciate the intercultural connections we have in our schools, our communities, and our country while celebrating the all-American traditions that make our nation so great.

I'm glad for people like my brother-in-law who make me realize that different is good. While he may not have a complete appreciation for the gusto of Pavarotti, he is willing to step outside the norm of his cultural habits to embrace something new that will add flavor to his life. And that is something we should all be willing to do.

One-Stop Beauty Shop

2011-03-02T20:15:00.000-05:00

Are you tired of feeling frumpy after a long day at the office? Do you wish for that slinky, sexy shape to come back into your hips? Would you love to flash your long, gorgeous legs as you walk downtown in a designer skirt that's meant for the runway? Do you dream of a wrinkle-free face and a bosom that actually fills out your bra size instead of depending on the not-so-secret Victoria's Secret? For all my 40-something friends out there who are screaming yes, I have good news for you! You can walk into a one-stop-shop with all your anti-aging problems and emerge a transformed woman.

The advertisement in a magazine I picked up today, assures me I can have botox treatments to achieve those luscious, pouty lips, chemical peels to get rid of tired facial skin, wrinkle fillers to make those laugh lines disappear, breast augmentation to give me that pumped-up model look, laser hair removal so I can throw my razor away and never look at it again, vein treatment for those dead-give-away signs of aging legs, and, can I hear a hallelujah, LIPOSUCTION!

Now, girlfriends, I ask you, with all these tempting offers, what are we waiting for? Oh, there is this little thing called money.

Whoopie Pies -- An Amish Comfort Food

2011-01-17T08:17:00.001-05:00

A long weekend off from school and work usually finds me in the kitchen, whipping up some comfort foods for my kids and their friends as I settle into the culinary role of a gourmet cook with a lifetime of Amish recipes to pull out of my apron pocket. On the surprise menu today were Whoopie Pies, which are my kids's number one favorite, and which I don't make very often. In fact, as my son was stuffing his face with the soft chocolate confection, vanilla cream oozing from the side of his mouth, he informed me this was the first time I had made them in 3 years. It makes sense that my statistic-spouting son would keep track of the number of appearances his favorite sweet would make on our table.

Legend has it that the Whoopie Pie originiated among the Amish in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and were made by the women to pack in lunchboxes for the farm workers. Whenever the famers would open their boxes to eat their lunch and would see the little chocolate pies, they would yell, "Whoopee!" And that's where the name Whoopie Pie came from.

Here's the recipe, for those of you who would like to try a taste of Amish goodness at your table:

4 cups flour
1 tsp. salt
1/2 cup cocoa
Mix these dry ingredients together in a bowl and set aside.

1 cup milk, with one 2 tsp. vinegar mixed in to make it sour. Set aside.
1 cup boiling water, mixed with 2 tsp. soda. Set aside.

1 cup of shortening or butter
2 cups white sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla

Cream shortening and sugar, add eggs and beat. Add dry ingredients to above mixture alternately with milk, vanilla, and water. Drop onto cookie sheets and bake (one heaping tablespoon of mixture per cookie). Bake at 350 for 5 minutes on lower rack of oven, then 5 minutes on top rack of oven. Cool, then make into sandwich cookies, using cream mixture in the middle.

Vanilla Creme:
Mix together:
1 cup butter, softened
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
Cook 5 tablespoons flour and 1 cup milk on medium heat until thickened. Remove from heat and cool. Cream well with above ingredients, then spread generously onto cookies.

Wrap It Like the French

2011-01-11T10:35:00.002-05:00

While waiting for our daughter to get through customs at the airport in Charlotte recently, we watched as passengers from the newly landed flight from Paris came walking down the ramp that channelled all international arrivals towards baggage claim. It was a feast for the eyes as several hundred Parisians, displaying their impeccable taste for fashion, passed us with chic suitcases in tow. There were lovers with arms entwined, elderly gentlemen with their silvered hair topped with a beret, classic middle-aged women with fur-trimmed collars, young women with knee-high boots and long flowing hair, business men in black overcoats and carrying briefcases, and college students in pea coats with backpacks. And every last one wearing a magnficent scarf.

The scarves ranged in size, color, and texture, with the majority of them being the bulky knitted variety that, to create them, would have kept your grandmother's needles clicking for a year. These large scarves serve their purpose during the winter when Parisians, who walk everywhere, brave the snow and frigid temperatures. But besides the warmth factor, these scarves seem to be the ultimate fashion statement.

So if you're looking for an accessory to jazz up your wardrobe, purchase a scarf and add a colorful taste of French fashion to your life.

Gucamole - Smashing Success

2011-01-09T18:19:00.000-05:00

After last night's chickpea disaster, it was good to have a successful cooking experience with the new recipe I tried for hand-smashed guacamole. And what a success it was! I took one ripe avocado (peeled and pitted), forked it into smooth perfection, then added a can of green chili peppers, one clove of chopped garlic, a handful of fresh cilantro, minced shallots, and several generous twists of freshly ground black pepper. The end result was a mouthful of hot loveliness that kept us reaching for more. Served with freshly made parmesan and garlic chips, it was the perfect Sunday night appetizer.

Chickpea Disaster

2011-01-08T17:26:00.000-05:00

I picked up a vegetarian cookbook at Ed McKay's bookstore several weeks ago and have been working my way through the recipes. Today, I decided to try Chickpea Falafel, which was supposed to look like the picture above. Unfortunately, it didn't turn out that way.

I processed the chickpeas, fresh garlic and parsley, cumin, and an egg as the directions instructed. Meanwhile, I heated the peanut oil while I formed the pureed chickpea mixture into little balls. The first two little balls that went into the sizzling oil immediately did what they were supposed to -- turn golden brown in 2 minutes. The next ones literally fizzled apart one by one, no matter how carefully I dropped them into the oil.

The end result was two perfect little crispy falafels and a bowl of fried crumbs. Determined not to waste my time or the ingredients that went into this disaster, I dished up the crumbs into a nice bowl and served them with a side of Cilantro Mayo dip, spiced with red chili peppers. My husband, good man that he is, ate every last bite and asked for more.

An Impossible Romance

2011-01-08T09:31:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, a girl went to Paris and met a boy. In this city of love, where ordinary things appear magical, and magical things happen every day, their friendship blossomed like a sweet flower in spring. Then came the day when the girl had to leave and as she boarded her flight, tears blurred her vision as she remembered the wonderful times she had enjoyed there and the amazing people she had met. Spring turned into summer and summer turned into fall, and while the leaves changed to crimson in Charlotte, the girl wistfully thought of the boy and their sweet moments together in that faraway city, even as she wrapped her Parisian scarf around her neck and walked to her car after a long day of work and school. And the boy, as he gazed at the Seine from the privacy of his balcony at night, thought of the girl who had captured his eyes with her classic American beauty and her warming smile that reached into his soul.

Fall turned into winter and the boy asked the girl to come and spend the holiday with him in the city of magic where they had met. The girl, who was as much in love with Paris as with the boy, accepted the invitation, and with the presents barely unwrapped from under the tree, took off for her enchanting adventure.

As the taxi dropped her off in the courtyard of the boy's home, she was momentarily dazed at the wonder of it all. Across the street was the Muse d'Orsay, which housed all the Impressionist paintings she loved; down the street within view was the Louvre, where she and her friends had spent many afternoons studying art (or was it the naked sculptures?); and all around her were architectural masterpieces that looked down on her in lofty majesty.

Then the boy came to meet her and as he embraced her with welcoming arms and led her up seven flights of a 17th century spiral staircase to his flat on the top floor, she knew this was real and she was indeed a princess in her very own fairy tale. The magical days that followed were filled with shopping in designer boutiques, elegant luncheons of champaigne and dessert, late dinner cruises on the Seine, venturing into the underground of Les Egout (Paris's famed sewer system portrayed in Les Miserables), visiting the Eiffel in all it's golden nighttime glory, riding with the boy on his Vespa through the cobblestoned alleys of the oldest districts of Paris, eating at exclusive restaurants with food fine enough for royalty, and walking through Montmartre, the neighborhood of famous writers and artists.

Every morning, while the girl was still asleep, the boy went to the bakery around the corner to purchase a fresh croissant for her breakfast, which he served on a tray, along with a bowl of fresh strawberries topped with real cream. They spent their days laughing together, dancing together, walking together, and riding all over Paris together, enjoying each other's company. And at night, they climbed the ancient staircase to the boy's apartment, tired but happy. As the moon rose over the Seine, casting its glow on the sparkling water, the girl fell asleep with a happy sigh of contentment.

All too soon, it was time for the girl to go home. They gazed into each other's eyes and as he kissed her good-bye, the boy wondered if she would come again, and the girl left with the city and the boy a little more firmly in her heart than before.

As US Airways flight 867 touched down in Charlotte, the girl gave a small sigh as a tear trickled down her cheek. Theirs was an impossible romance, with an ocean and committments that kept them apart. But for now, they each carried the golden memories of their time together. And that would have to be enough.

Step Away From the Cake

2011-01-04T20:04:00.000-05:00

Today I said "no" to the birthday cake everyone was having in the office. I also said "no" to the homemade Moravian cheese straws and a handful of Reece's peanut butter cups someone offered me. I mean, what's an office after all, if there is no food to share? Unfortunately, this kind of junk is not allowed on my 2-week total body cleanse. So with the taste of my Vegan Pea powder shake still lingering in my mouth, and the promise of a handful of almonds for my lunch, I walked away from those seductions with weakening resolve.

Bok Choy Kicks Off 2-Week Body Cleanse

2011-01-03T19:00:00.000-05:00

Stuck in the 5:00 rush hour traffic of people heading home from work, I mentally went over the displays of fresh produce in the grocery store, deciding what to have for dinner. By the time I reached the Food Lion parking lot, I had decided on a stir fry of bok choy, with cabbage and sweet yellow onions added for some interest. My husband and I started a 2-week total body cleanse today so the menu will be extremely easy for the next few weeks: vegetables, vegetables, vegetables.

My kids groaned loudly as they saw me dish the steaming pile of vegetables onto a platter and set it in the middle of the table. From past experience, they know that when we go through these cleansing ordeals, they will have to resort to scavenging in the pantry for their own non-healthy dinner of Mac and Cheese or a frozen pizza if they refuse to eat the organic greens I serve each night.

The first week will be easy as we eat our way through spinach, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus and romaine lettuce. After that, things will be a bit more challenging and I'll have to throw in some brussel sprouts, kale, and snow peas. I'm sure by the end of two weeks, I will be more than ready to sit down to a meal of pasta with homemade alfredo sauce, accompanied by a crusty loaf of french bread. But for now, please pass the bok choy.

A Twenty Dollar Christmas

2011-01-02T14:37:00.002-05:00

(Photo courtesy of Rosemary Gingerich Photographs)

I went Christmas shopping this year with twenty dollars in my pocket to spend on each child. Not much, I grant you, but I was determined not to let the Scrooge of a tight budget in an economic down-time determine my Christmas spirit and love of giving gifts. Thinking "outside the mall," I headed to the not-so-trendy part of downtown where the Winston-Salem Rescue Mission kept its warehouse of cast-off treasures.

As I walked through the crowded aisles of old sofas, mismatched bookcases, sad-looking lamps with shades askew, and collection of smudged glassware from the 70's, my eyes were searching for something that would please my loved ones. It didn't take long for me to find the darling little wing chair (pictured above) that was a perfect fit for my slender daughter's form to curl up in, or the pair of reproduction paintings featuring a quiet street in Paris, and the little book of poetry featuring the writings of Browning, Dickinson, and Rossetti. And the price for these treasures? Twenty dollars.

With one child crossed off the list, I still had two more to shop for and lots of Christmas spirit remaining! I meandered through the spacious building where men (former alcoholics, but now cleaned up and given a new chance at life, similar to the furnishings they were selling) were busily moving furniture, chatting in small groups, and assisting the handful of customers who had come to shop on Chrismas Eve. Tucked away in a corner, I spotted a wicker picnic basket, complete with leather shoulder strap and filled with pretty utensils for a picnic; a white wicker shelf; a faux marble soap dish; some Italian-looking decorative wall molding; and two vintage CD's - Myles Davis, and a concerto from An American in Paris. These things were perfect for my firstborn, who has her own apartment and is always in need of accessories. And all for $20.

I ended my delightful shopping expedition with some camping equipment for my son and as I was paying for my pile of treasures at the cash register, I felt such joy in finding things that were so uniquely perfect for each child and for such a reasonable price I could afford. I felt double the joy in knowing that my Christmas dollars, though meager, were going to support a good cause and enabled the Rescue Mission to keep bringing in men from the streets and giving them hope to start a new life.

As I drove home that day, I realized it was the best Christmas shopping day I had ever experienced. And when my kids opened their gifts on Christmas morning, and laughed with delight at the gifts I had chosen, I knew it was the love in my heart they felt more than the amount of money I had spent. And that price tag was worth way more than 20 dollars!

2010 In Reflection

2010-12-20T09:32:00.002-05:00

2010 In Reflection

Travel Paris    Eating in Café's    Laughter    Art Collections    Galleries    Trade Street on a Friday night Tears
    The Blue Ridge Mountains     Fireworks     Good-byes     Solitude     Choices    Music    Homemade instruments        Moonlight picnic in 40 degrees    Italian Wine Festival    Teen Dance Party     Organics    Mellow Mushroom pizza     Krankie's Coffee     Saturday night music downtown     New clients Research on Women's Rights, The Holocaust, Slavery No beach vacation    The love of a dog    campfires    date nights at 6^th and Vine    promotions    loneliness    first car    newly licensed driver    firelight and movies     poetry    blogs     camping trip to Mt. Mitchell (freezing _ _ _ off)
hanging on to dreams Starbucks on a rainy day    reading the newspaper     sad novels     hypothermia    s'mores    Hiking    Skype    festivals    the river      Montes Cabernet 2008     sunlight filtering through trees     rescue     new friendships     intimacy with God     passionate debates around the table dinner with loved ones    extending our family walking by faith making ends meet thankfulness dream-filled nights searching for answers    reading maps Milan road trips to Ohio     restoration of Grandma Stutzman's health
Berlin, Germany Rosemary's guitar Pilot Mountain     spiritual growth Charlotte music lessons    tree-climbing    a sunset in the mountains Boone
Irish pubs    missing friends    losing teeth pain    disappointment    self-discovery    joy    overcoming fear    journaling     thrift stores and GoodWill
growing creativity and inspiration art contests NODA doing hard things
Scholarships     wanting to give up achievements    Phi Beta Kappa    authenticity pushing through obstacles     re-focus    believing in miracles love     emotions    hope.
."…But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint." Isaiah 40:31