tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363281702024-03-05T02:02:04.985-05:00Breiner on the roadTravel adventures of a digital journalism specialist, teaching in China, Spain, Mexico, Bolivia, Colombia, Belarus...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-59014890841678503922023-06-08T14:44:00.001-04:002023-06-08T14:44:46.515-04:00Monarch Butterly Reserve in Michoacán<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdHD7t8qav_aa6XOnE_0pKru-n6NXMwISo87erQYyDtp1IO6OvPKzt69mtAl0Zrf6L8sEFgOzg7ihTqV3w1rkfgOz5mRvh6OO1AW5is8sEfJV1HDg7HraGe_5oTTQoyNVgwgW/s1600-h/hibernating+monarch.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286141788848070482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdHD7t8qav_aa6XOnE_0pKru-n6NXMwISo87erQYyDtp1IO6OvPKzt69mtAl0Zrf6L8sEFgOzg7ihTqV3w1rkfgOz5mRvh6OO1AW5is8sEfJV1HDg7HraGe_5oTTQoyNVgwgW/s400/hibernating+monarch.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 300px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 400px;" /></a>Monarch butterflies from Canada, the Great Lakes and eastern U.S. migrate some 3,000 miles south each fall to mountaintops in Michoacán, central Mexico, to hibernate. It´s considered one of the world´s great animal migrations.<br /><br />We hiked from the village of El Rosario up to the Monarch Butterfly Reserve, a cool fir and pine forest at about 10,000 feet. Until 1975, scientists who study the butterfly were unaware of this hibernation site. Now it´s supposedly protected, but it´s surrounded by villages of poor folks who are unemployed and need money. Logging is a source of income.<br /><br />The <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122964961296720533.html">Wall Street Journal</a> just did an article on the efforts to protect the Reserve. The World Wildlife Fund chronicles activities to encourage preservation and recovery of forest illegally harvested in the reserve.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-3X3lODx-QepU6c-5r1IgC22esTzA8cc7KSIOFT1pFRKwehBfizu73jW25RITNtsr_qQRD39VgURx7fR6KvNxXuAGk7isyWFfi59cETaurM0WFne-ppCJxJFBaCA1Zzj2j5M/s1600-h/monarch+swarm.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286141678210524706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-3X3lODx-QepU6c-5r1IgC22esTzA8cc7KSIOFT1pFRKwehBfizu73jW25RITNtsr_qQRD39VgURx7fR6KvNxXuAGk7isyWFfi59cETaurM0WFne-ppCJxJFBaCA1Zzj2j5M/s400/monarch+swarm.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 258px;" /></a>It´s estimated that some 100 million to 200 million monarchs winter here. This photo by Cindy shows how they huddle together on branches for warmth. The day we were there was sunny, so a few were moving around to get water. They live off fat reserves stored up during their migration to tide them over to February, when they become active again, and migrate north to Texas and Oklahoma where they mate and lay eggs.<br /><br />In a kind of relay, the monarchs produce several generations as they migrate north, reproduce and die off. It is only the generation that hatches in late summer that migrates south and lives for eight or nine months. <a href="https://monarchwatch.org/">MonarchWatch.org has more information on the migration here.<br /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0HQITKB2IpHy1yUfM_PVRn-3aQmOWMrggB2h0q942IUynbscAO2zNPKm3tRcxV87Q4QiAwozkmxnTlgD35xI5EPcpeoYZL-tL56NuhykCrlm_jmsNy5MniD9mSvaDOdD3fOZ/s1600-h/rosario+monarch+preserve.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286142240078084578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0HQITKB2IpHy1yUfM_PVRn-3aQmOWMrggB2h0q942IUynbscAO2zNPKm3tRcxV87Q4QiAwozkmxnTlgD35xI5EPcpeoYZL-tL56NuhykCrlm_jmsNy5MniD9mSvaDOdD3fOZ/s400/rosario+monarch+preserve.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 243px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is part of the El Rosario community, which charges admission to the site and maintains the surrounding areas. They operate dozens of little souvenir and food stands along the route up to the reserve.<br /><br />We stayed in Zitácuaro the night before going up to the reserve. It´s a very busy provincial town, not very attractive, but the hotel, the Maria Fernanda, was excellent and cheap.<br /><br />And of course there is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monarch_butterfly">an article on Wikipedia</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tlalpujahua, with mines of silver and gold</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlB_BN762evESj1yFA90mAGawpyiwQvt2B2vPyCk_jR_Zq3pFwBv9nJnQ3cFKKHvzv6X7dF_N7a5jE-XuTQ_ORxNZ4KOTgsWPN6dxMLcYOn9jYU5HPjJ67J3TlY0RhvUiYhCJk/s1600-h/tlalpujahua+church.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286376894388436482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlB_BN762evESj1yFA90mAGawpyiwQvt2B2vPyCk_jR_Zq3pFwBv9nJnQ3cFKKHvzv6X7dF_N7a5jE-XuTQ_ORxNZ4KOTgsWPN6dxMLcYOn9jYU5HPjJ67J3TlY0RhvUiYhCJk/s320/tlalpujahua+church.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a>After visiting the reserve we stayed in Tlalpujahua, which bills itself as the Magic Pueblo, and it truly is a lovely small place with lots of interesting buildings. <br /><br />The town´s wealth came from silver and gold mines, which explains how a little place like this could have such a magnificent church.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXjJSMm6YiSvUkVsT0JqvC9Ee4ec6qi4106g7YPm74-dDFC3VV8Yq_XEA4sxkuFtMPdI2oIHOcnOfwH7rc9j9N8eCK73cTthwwq92KeyaqELuj145BMA-9ZHg3mJb2pNhlbvxs/s1600-h/tlalpujahua.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286368761162418242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXjJSMm6YiSvUkVsT0JqvC9Ee4ec6qi4106g7YPm74-dDFC3VV8Yq_XEA4sxkuFtMPdI2oIHOcnOfwH7rc9j9N8eCK73cTthwwq92KeyaqELuj145BMA-9ZHg3mJb2pNhlbvxs/s400/tlalpujahua.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 315px;" /></a>The town´s cobbled streets and well preserved colonial architecture captured Cindy´s eye.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbO9Ii40s9d-PrP1LzZ36czWL9DeEWBMR299Xd2YExQ0nNWhDTh6AcM_43AYtRoths0RTPSFlOOMIc4Ra29Jj2zsHcqZCNyiQdNcvc3SscZBToJmueZOyCdvql9551ufE_e9G-/s1600-h/tlalpujahua2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286368769271279890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbO9Ii40s9d-PrP1LzZ36czWL9DeEWBMR299Xd2YExQ0nNWhDTh6AcM_43AYtRoths0RTPSFlOOMIc4Ra29Jj2zsHcqZCNyiQdNcvc3SscZBToJmueZOyCdvql9551ufE_e9G-/s400/tlalpujahua2.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 299px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-25050533625071557392021-07-22T18:07:00.003-04:002021-07-23T10:27:03.017-04:00Pittsburgh: Sculpture, Macedonian wedding music, outsider art, and baseball<p>Cindy and I spent whirlwind weekend in Pittsburgh with our son, Patrick, and his wife, Jamie Agnello, both of whom have embedded themselves in the city's rich art scene. He in music, she in theater, voice work, and more. </p><p>After they finished up work on their day jobs on Friday, we went to hear Patrick's quartet play at the <a href="https://www.conalmapgh.com/">Con Alma jazz venue</a>. </p><p>The next night we went to the <a href=" https://www.simonsculpture.com/chotto-motto ">workshop of James Simon</a>, a well known Pittsburgh sculptor, who hosted an unusual musical event in the
courtyard next to his workshop, which is filled with finished and somewhat finished works.</p><p>The music was by Bombici Akustic, which performed festive tunes from the Balkan region (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/bombici/">description here</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/bombicipgh/?hl=en">here</a>).
It featured Ben Opie on the soprano saxophone, <a href="https://www.cmu.edu/cfa/music/people/Bios/randall_richard.html ">Rich Randall</a> on tapan (a Macedonian
outdoor drum), Andrew Hook on sousaphone, <a href="https://www.colterharper.com/about">Colter Harper </a>on guitar, and <a href="https://www.patrickbreiner.com/" target="_blank">Patrick Breiner</a> on the C melody saxophone. </p><p>The music has complex time signatures in measures of 7, 9, and 11 rather than our more familiar 2/4 or 3/4. <br /></p><p>Both Colter and Rich are ethnomusicologists. Colter taught at the University of Pittsburgh and now at the University at Buffalo, while Rich teaches at Carnegie Mellon.<br /></p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="275" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pqhJPc9ZASk" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe><br /></p><p> </p><p>On Sunday we took in a Pirates-Mets game at PNC park. It was pretty hot. The game went four hours. I've seen the Pirates play at the old Forbes Field in the 1960s, Three Rivers Stadium in the 1970s, and now the new PNC Park.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZhr1XK_DgRcTyRseqkiNm6GQ7aAQd8deY-XLBh2volR-NAwjTC44ccoJ3VO2Ct7MjuAvgZF1xXpVb21xSMM3TTjoK6AWqqlOpyDR1jIuvzrSkS2l73mbHbuvgmvVNdXMx7IY/s2048/IMG_6337.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZhr1XK_DgRcTyRseqkiNm6GQ7aAQd8deY-XLBh2volR-NAwjTC44ccoJ3VO2Ct7MjuAvgZF1xXpVb21xSMM3TTjoK6AWqqlOpyDR1jIuvzrSkS2l73mbHbuvgmvVNdXMx7IY/w400-h300/IMG_6337.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PNC Park. A fan who remembers one of the Pirates greats. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>On the way to the ballpark, we walked through <a href="https://www.facebook.com/randylandpgh/">Randyland</a>, a quirky art museum, and had a chance to have a bit of a conversation with the unique Randy Gilson, who has created an outdoor museum of found objects and has transformed many of them into colorful shapes. <br /></p><p>Randy is all about collecting the objects we manufacture through mass production and then throw away. He puts them into a context that makes you notice these objects and their potential for artistic expression. The museum itself is one of those old things (a building) in the old part of town that might have been torn down and thrown away. <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVqsXmaeFxE3GwB9G1BIGl5IeWlL8fW06paaHCSmTFpfC4jidDUBW633qvQqwRfCtLsBtk1zPG4lHafW9MtOo3MPb4UF7U1t0wJNDwrxfD0N1dC9l0d9cfXePwaKWWByY5rXG5/s2048/IMG_6333.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1722" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVqsXmaeFxE3GwB9G1BIGl5IeWlL8fW06paaHCSmTFpfC4jidDUBW633qvQqwRfCtLsBtk1zPG4lHafW9MtOo3MPb4UF7U1t0wJNDwrxfD0N1dC9l0d9cfXePwaKWWByY5rXG5/w538-h640/IMG_6333.JPG" width="538" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Randy has restored this house in his own unique style. The outdoor museum is in the lot alongside. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>This video captures a lot of the flavor of the museum. <br /></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="275" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Bb0QZTogX9k" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe><p><br /></p><p>We also visited the Frick Museum. Great stuff by Rubens, Fragonard, and others. They had a display with the <a href="https://www.thefrickpittsburgh.org/Exhibition-Sporting-Fashion-Outdoor-Girls-1800-to-1960" target="_blank">history of women's fashions </a>for sports. </p><p>I also liked their <a href="https://collection.thefrickpittsburgh.org/objects?query=object_type%3A%22Carriage%22+OR+object_type%3A%22Cars+and+Carriages%22&limit=40" target="_blank">Car and Carriages Collection</a>. <br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9tVaiDVOHeoxgXdYtgruRQT6UYCdP2S3orc4FyWoA_7PwiQHeZ_MKDA_ax6FYsv7T-rYkFiXHwRYm3CowOVDtg8Wab4WUHqUnOOaMFgs2knrZRbIQTtuPK5nnbmU7RSA54Y3g/s2048/frick.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9tVaiDVOHeoxgXdYtgruRQT6UYCdP2S3orc4FyWoA_7PwiQHeZ_MKDA_ax6FYsv7T-rYkFiXHwRYm3CowOVDtg8Wab4WUHqUnOOaMFgs2knrZRbIQTtuPK5nnbmU7RSA54Y3g/s320/frick.jpg" /></a></div><p>Pittsburgh is a pretty cool town. <br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-77811586834156935722021-05-24T02:15:00.000-04:002021-05-24T02:15:38.568-04:00The year I spent in the darkroom<div><p>My darkroom experiences came back to me recently in
a dream filled with anxiety. Not bad enough to be a nightmare. Just bad
enough to recall an uncomfortable feeling of things not going quite
right. And I felt like it was all my fault. </p><p>In my dream it seemed
as though I was trying to develop a roll of film in my homemade
darkroom, and failing. All the workarounds and all the cheapo
rube-goldbergian improvisations I had devised made me feel ashamed. Why
had I created this half-assed darkroom. Why had I settled for this. This
isn't a sordid tale. Just a small mystery.<br /></p></div><p>I woke with
that uncomfortable feeling of some unfinished business. Actually, I had
improvised that crude darkroom in the unused shower stall in the
basement of our house in 1966. And I really hadn't given it much of a
thought for more than 50 years. In the dream world, one image conjures
up another. People and events merge and divide. And the memories we
create are for stories we tell ourselves. They may not have much to do
with reality.</p><p>What led me to outfit a darkroom? It began when a
sophomore classmate told me about the photography club at St. Ignatius
High School. The school had a darkroom on the top floor of the old
classroom building. A biology teacher, Mr. Flynn, was showing students
how to develop film, just like private detectives did in the movies.
With only a red light to work by, they would put a blank piece of paper
in a tray of liquid, swish it around, and an image would appear. Cool.
Could I learn to do this?</p><p>At 15, I was impatient and impulsive.
The first skill we had to learn under the tutelage of Mr. Flynn was how
to thread a roll of undeveloped film onto a stainless steel spool. <br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" class="gmail-CToWUd" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxNfPtKxqDGXpH8ml8hpeB3ftgnfiJp5IzLGfp_8lvj01GyI_U9EspTaRgtZeT60N2X37ZHJsChL9wOnyCJr9XpSBlMQscyWIsU8bViTw5qx_pXFgKyHrmdo4-LrKmL8cqUeW/w200-h181/Screen+Shot+2021-03-04+at+5.10.08+PM.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>He
had us practice with rolls that had already been developed. We tried it
first in the light and then in total darkness. Any light would mar the
images preserved on the film. You had to squeeze the edges of the film
and guide it into the spool so the edges fit into the slots. The flat
surface could not touch itself at any point or it would spoil the
development of the negatives. I couldn't get the hang of it. <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">This short video </a>shows
how you had to do it. We didn't have YouTube. I eventually took the
easy way out and bought a plastic spool whose hubs rotated in opposition to each other so that the film advanced onto the spool via friction with the outside edges. But
that was later.<br /></p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>At some point, I was drafted (or volunteered)
to shoot some photos of a baseball game for the school newspaper, The
Eye. I rode the bus out to the field with the team. My camera was Dad's
old 35mm, a simple device, totally analog, all manual. No light meter.
You set the aperture and f-stop based on the available light and film
speed, then bracketed the exposures above and below your best guess. I
shot everything from far, far away. I gave the undeveloped film canister
to the editor, but the paper didn't use any of my photos. Did they even
develop the film? Nobody cared about baseball anyway. <br /><p></p><p>Somehow
I got the idea to have my own darkroom. I borrowed a book from the
school library. I was reading it in the bathtub when it slipped from my
grip and got a quick douse. Some pages were misshapen on the bottom. The
fear and anxiety I felt about returning the book seared the author's
name into my memory. It was Hans Windisch, who it turns out was a <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">world-famous freelancer</a>,
but I didn't know it at the time. I had to beg forgiveness from Brother
Balconi when returning the book. In a rare episode of Jesuit mercy, he
let me escape without fine or punishment. </p><p>Windisch and some other
authors described how to outfit a darkroom. It had to be dust free.
Dust could get on the lens of the photo enlarger or on the negatives or
on the paper for printing and spoil the images. The room also had to
have not even a pinhole of light penetrating the space.</p><p>We had a
candidate in the basement. An unused shower room about 5 by 5. If I
remember correctly, two walls were the house foundation--crumbly concrete with
peeling paint--a dust nightmare. The other two were vertical wooden slats with lots of
little pinholes of light between the boards. I scraped off the concrete walls with an iron
brush, plugged up the holes in the wooden slats with caulk and applied a
coat of dark gray paint that was left over from some earlier project. </p><p>Then
I went to Dodd's Camera on Prospect Avenue downtown and bought an enlarger,
probably the cheapest they had, and some other equipment for about 40
bucks. I lugged it several blocks to the Terminal and then took the
train and bus home. Why did I do this by myself? Why didn't I ask anyone for help? Did I actually do it all by
myself, or did I get Timmy to help me? He would have been my first choice for help. <br /></p><p>Then I needed the chemicals for developing the film and
the prints. The Yellow Pages listed a place on Detroit Ave not far from St.
Ed's. The office was on the second floor, above some stores. An old guy in an old place surrounded by lots of old stuff.
He gave me a lecture about these whippersnappers who bought chemicals
already mixed. The fools, he said. They were paying to ship all that
water. But oh Wise One, I told him, I am not of that Tribe. I will buy
the magic powders from you and mix them according to the formulas passed
down by the sages through the ages of ages, and I will store them in
the amber bottles prescribed in all the good books and ensure that they
are not defiled by the blazing light of day. And so we shook hands and
so it was done. </p><p>By this time, Mr. Flynn was giving the photo club
members some assignments. He asked us to take a series of photos that
would convince someone to move to our town. I remember taking
photographs of City Hall and the fire station, a police car, some
houses, and other buildings. These were amazingly flat and boring, but I was happy with them. I don't believe there were any people in
any of the photographs. This series I do remember developing in my
darkroom.</p><p>The room was not completely impervious to light. I could
tell the darkness wasn't complete. Light was somehow sneaking in here and there but couldn't figure out how to eliminate it. Maybe
that's the reason the images on the negatives were not crisp and sharp. <br /></p><p>To process the prints you had to put them into a tray filled with
developer, then a tray with fixer, and then they had to be washed in a
tray with holes on the side so there could be a continuous flow over the
surface of the paper, removing all the chemical residue. (Honestly, I don't remember all the steps in the process any more.)<br /></p><p>For my print washer I sliced through an
old bicycle tube, fixed one open end around the shower head and aimed
the other end at an old plastic dishpan with several holes cut into the
side to let the water wash over the prints. Total Rube Goldberg. To get
high-quality prints the temperature of the developer was critical as was
the timing of the exposure of each print. I wasted a lot of paper on
bad prints. It was all pretty slapdash, and the results were somehow not equal to Hans Windisch's work. Once I tried developing a roll of color film with my black-and-white chemicals. (Why? Probably to avoid the cost of sending it out to a lab or just to see what would happen. What happened was the chemical bath came out filled with blobs, and there were images on the negatives but they were unusable.<br /></p><p>Then it was summer 1967, and I was working nights at Malley's. And then it was fall and I was in a play at St. Augustine's, and then I was in at least one play every semester till I graduated. I must
have given up on photography. What happened to that photo enlarger and
all the other equipment? I would love to believe that I gave it or sold
it to Scott McGregor, who has made a career of photography and comic
art. But I just made that up. I have no idea. Maybe others remember. </p><p>But I remember at the time feeling ashamed that I was
not as systematic and disciplined and careful as all those other
Ignatius kids. And that was part of the feeling that came back to me
last week, some 50 years later. And I suppose it had something to do
with the fact that I was producing short YouTube videos that I could see
had little problems, some rough edges. And a podcast that I had just produced also had rough
edges. But I published them all anyway. The pattern has been to learn while doing, and accepting something less than perfect while rushing to see the final product. Impatience, impulsiveness. Nightmare.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-18189791290108406702020-08-10T15:04:00.003-04:002020-08-10T15:06:58.426-04:00In the mountains of Austria with Bridget, Phillip, and Will<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7NWwNWWX8CmrQMsPmqJP4bZ7vL4pkfLzRlHdlEVrbo72JyZON1you9-UWI_B76AfZjjvbDqUmLAPIHNxiK_8XYluYycDSxQLOdeMqp5wFsIsRFchLPfjIvCuJDwwa2P0mnya/s2048/IMG_5959.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7NWwNWWX8CmrQMsPmqJP4bZ7vL4pkfLzRlHdlEVrbo72JyZON1you9-UWI_B76AfZjjvbDqUmLAPIHNxiK_8XYluYycDSxQLOdeMqp5wFsIsRFchLPfjIvCuJDwwa2P0mnya/s640/IMG_5959.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cindy likes water falling over rocks. We saw a lot of that on our hikes around the ski resort town of Mittelberg, Austria. We were having a reunion with our daughter, Bridget, her husband, Phillip Ens, and their son, William (Will). Phillip was having a reunion with his old opera-singing pal, Heinz, whose wife's family owns the Leitner Hotel, a fabulous place for hikers and bikers in summer and skiers in winter. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyyyNApTfFVptrPxjXvBN9ruhAnP8hEWbgsea09ktWuww0p5lKMI4FtTQAe1KUwVFkKXRoY6WMuBWqIL7IlfuIVHnWG-7A9GV5JyU4lmUYWYL9YVamt8rS3xbaNwI_Sy7kqY4O/s2048/IMG_5943.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyyyNApTfFVptrPxjXvBN9ruhAnP8hEWbgsea09ktWuww0p5lKMI4FtTQAe1KUwVFkKXRoY6WMuBWqIL7IlfuIVHnWG-7A9GV5JyU4lmUYWYL9YVamt8rS3xbaNwI_Sy7kqY4O/w480-h640/IMG_5943.jpg" title="Mighty timbers for a covered bridge along one of the streams through the mountain valleys." width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mighty new timbers strengthen this old covered bridge. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzVFXTOka85cp9bH0oScUlMfz1FGrpoye6e2gdHFEG4GcIdQ41TSglxAvzi4Sampz-9ygupmnFBVNojuFUKjDMKs_mWiPlW3d0gpP5SgF6AVhbSoj72pMst6_PoXMiDCYetNB/s2048/IMG_5936.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="William and his dad." border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzVFXTOka85cp9bH0oScUlMfz1FGrpoye6e2gdHFEG4GcIdQ41TSglxAvzi4Sampz-9ygupmnFBVNojuFUKjDMKs_mWiPlW3d0gpP5SgF6AVhbSoj72pMst6_PoXMiDCYetNB/w640-h480/IMG_5936.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William and his Dad. They had fun throwing stones into the mountain stream. <span><a name='more'></a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEkIcUZpzL3Di7Tzu24KdCZPPTFOY658kbAyz7d2QzEI093RmRcLOjcTXLMztPtaElgwyUtH-hT0m_Gdta6IXta_II8iRRIGg2lOit_r7GyhHJJmDlBF8YrQwZIa9i-7MeJ7p/s2048/IMG_5929.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEkIcUZpzL3Di7Tzu24KdCZPPTFOY658kbAyz7d2QzEI093RmRcLOjcTXLMztPtaElgwyUtH-hT0m_Gdta6IXta_II8iRRIGg2lOit_r7GyhHJJmDlBF8YrQwZIa9i-7MeJ7p/s640/IMG_5929.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ice cream is a good substitute for lunch. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIFNcCb7hybA4v8b933qIMyLS3o6oAddRExJwFDsVcYZpRR25F3mw5JsBl1CzPw4vGoKs71PnhCFzLJGxcRXnKUP1tEzrJOj1LgqK6-_L5gI1oVAEE-CXJdDe62ImJ-6QwFlA/s2048/IMG_5927.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIFNcCb7hybA4v8b933qIMyLS3o6oAddRExJwFDsVcYZpRR25F3mw5JsBl1CzPw4vGoKs71PnhCFzLJGxcRXnKUP1tEzrJOj1LgqK6-_L5gI1oVAEE-CXJdDe62ImJ-6QwFlA/s640/IMG_5927.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Mom's back is the best way to travel.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GBoQPP2czQpW-wiBeKMrWP3Jk5IJYPZpbfTHxVOXeDv-cZu327XdzXhIzaZcv2-6xIl7CUxe7aQYxYycT19ftKppIn1g8atPhyG6sd3B_ia1V7f6nWYcAa_08lE11sMAFLK0/s2048/IMG_5924.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GBoQPP2czQpW-wiBeKMrWP3Jk5IJYPZpbfTHxVOXeDv-cZu327XdzXhIzaZcv2-6xIl7CUxe7aQYxYycT19ftKppIn1g8atPhyG6sd3B_ia1V7f6nWYcAa_08lE11sMAFLK0/s640/IMG_5924.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from about 7,000 feet. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqe6bBp_9ka1FkmCrdmhmOY4zMuWOlA5laZyIj7ttEBQA59EYL8rfmIIqgRQ487Gm01DNM6P7HMlgiZpp7tDenGPPItS3LGtpJCdLGVJHx_xheLj9GJdueZG7XM1VZ5FmMGsa/s2048/IMG_5920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqe6bBp_9ka1FkmCrdmhmOY4zMuWOlA5laZyIj7ttEBQA59EYL8rfmIIqgRQ487Gm01DNM6P7HMlgiZpp7tDenGPPItS3LGtpJCdLGVJHx_xheLj9GJdueZG7XM1VZ5FmMGsa/s640/IMG_5920.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa2aGwzIjC5AtpdE8Y400iytygdHVjElr8zHUjpSfF6dyoguGQxxbsuNxfACi3TIYUOxqpG3zmvmODjq-E3yn7v5MxDjWlgh8_IvgnFojKHqe4W7p8K7rUDB1ifNQnIbjKp8-/s2048/IMG_5950.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa2aGwzIjC5AtpdE8Y400iytygdHVjElr8zHUjpSfF6dyoguGQxxbsuNxfACi3TIYUOxqpG3zmvmODjq-E3yn7v5MxDjWlgh8_IvgnFojKHqe4W7p8K7rUDB1ifNQnIbjKp8-/s640/IMG_5950.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trout with ham, pesto sauce, risotto, and lentils. I had the same. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBaivmbcwfiFegnJ8qHWMhqW4pyVW7QnK8jhzDRgti4Bpa-VAMlQXRxvu9Y8YwMFpUAqkIpb2SL_-yCTU5wMlEhOwflMey8CCsGDqIMEe_DUHzRj5mgphAb-Q7vdGUsWcN17q/s2048/IMG_5948.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBaivmbcwfiFegnJ8qHWMhqW4pyVW7QnK8jhzDRgti4Bpa-VAMlQXRxvu9Y8YwMFpUAqkIpb2SL_-yCTU5wMlEhOwflMey8CCsGDqIMEe_DUHzRj5mgphAb-Q7vdGUsWcN17q/s640/IMG_5948.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phillip enjoying dinner and the view.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDTBDd_3mnTFQcfQUfcfZbFBh2-1u03l6pftrDhliYKeUZVzQWq4wLL8Ldxv_-Gp8JqBixNtLpCsdQ7unVJDxhs6KrGe0R48xWA9HkuAU2VUVOFz9bqk7FSOQqR75XF847NZ4/s2048/IMG_5945.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDTBDd_3mnTFQcfQUfcfZbFBh2-1u03l6pftrDhliYKeUZVzQWq4wLL8Ldxv_-Gp8JqBixNtLpCsdQ7unVJDxhs6KrGe0R48xWA9HkuAU2VUVOFz9bqk7FSOQqR75XF847NZ4/s640/IMG_5945.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A covered bridge.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgda0jJFpaGETtYtRAUWn_75ygfTRCOqL5FX3kBvb3BZcgNCQrYTXfxQKrEjJpFAE84VxPGTt2LDYM97WaTjF47Xm9YgkuW-uhnQBWAbzLbO0XtF76iNFp_R_poqyK9MQSlm1j4/s2048/IMG_5963.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgda0jJFpaGETtYtRAUWn_75ygfTRCOqL5FX3kBvb3BZcgNCQrYTXfxQKrEjJpFAE84VxPGTt2LDYM97WaTjF47Xm9YgkuW-uhnQBWAbzLbO0XtF76iNFp_R_poqyK9MQSlm1j4/s640/IMG_5963.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freshly cut timbers to replace the ones in the footbridge.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieL0yYu-BkxSIGqkUSWfZds3Pi_LVLPP3zVjkl6Y9h8uIYa3n2BAZCpuccgJZdygxwOsroUQzHkbr6N-a-BloXF1SQ-1J3oH_kgngxdojyj2Fyz1xuhVss1_HzX1ZhRJkCS8i2/s2048/IMG_5962.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieL0yYu-BkxSIGqkUSWfZds3Pi_LVLPP3zVjkl6Y9h8uIYa3n2BAZCpuccgJZdygxwOsroUQzHkbr6N-a-BloXF1SQ-1J3oH_kgngxdojyj2Fyz1xuhVss1_HzX1ZhRJkCS8i2/s640/IMG_5962.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hut with firewood stacked outside.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Y6EN5kcXUOxJXPkXoCPdtWtVR_2NbLyRaINPxUxU3qVpP785P48p0YRB6pJxE2Ngk-7qvWVpO_ipgRQP7bneAWo1gFRD6ZHOhrfXkUnxcK3Mko9s3wh0lDzCy3HoMqUlzZst/s2048/IMG_5954.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Y6EN5kcXUOxJXPkXoCPdtWtVR_2NbLyRaINPxUxU3qVpP785P48p0YRB6pJxE2Ngk-7qvWVpO_ipgRQP7bneAWo1gFRD6ZHOhrfXkUnxcK3Mko9s3wh0lDzCy3HoMqUlzZst/s640/IMG_5954.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-13486222054469716232020-08-05T04:33:00.007-04:002020-09-03T22:39:40.207-04:00We're mostly on the same side, but there is money to be made by driving us apart<div>It is heartbreaking to watch people I know and respect and love tearing each other apart. There have always been at least two sides to every argument, but now it seems there are only two extreme arguments. Anyone who is not 100% in agreement with our position is assumed to be ignorant or immoral.</div><div><br /></div><div>What happened to moderate opinions? Where is the middle ground? Actually, the middle ground still exists, but not in the world of social networks and much of online media. Why? There is a lot of money to be made by polarizing people on the internet. This tendency fuels Cancel Culture, but we'll get to that in a minute. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><b>The middle finger<br /></b></div>In social
media, people seem to revert to the most primitive forms of behavior. It
is as though we are in our car with the windows rolled up and find
something annoying about another driver. We shout, we curse, we honk,
and we even give the other driver the finger. This is behavior we would
rarely if ever use in a face-to-face conversation. But social media
insulates from us the other person. The other person becomes the Other. </div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><b>High fives for Our Side<br /></b><div>Have you heard about algorithms? These computer programs are designed to encourage emotional reactions on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the rest. The social media platforms make more money from their advertising when people spend more time on their content. <b>They make more money when you reaffirm opinions you agree with by sharing and commenting. </b>They also make more money <b>when you react out of anger, fear, or hate</b> and share it with others and comment on it.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Law and Order doesn't exclude Black Lives Matter</b><br /></div><div>As a friend of mine writes: "Another point that needs to be made is that we all need to be on the lookout for arguments that have the <b>false underlying premise that one view necessarily excludes and opposes the other. </b> Saying that I support law and order and safe neighborhoods does not exclude me from also supporting "Black Lives Matter." Conversely, if I am a supporter of "Black Lives Matter" doesn't mean I have to support defunding police. Exercising freedom to protest does not mean that all protestors want to see looting or approve of it. It is a strategy for those who wish to divide us and to make it appear there is no middle ground to listen, reason together, appreciate each other's world and each other's worries and fears, and come up with [possibly] imperfect solutions to try and make our lives more fair and more just." <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If you follow social media, you might find yourself depressed by the way you and your beliefs--no matter whether you are liberal or conservative, White or Black, in favor of law and order or in favor of protestors--are trashed and ridiculed by others. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>What to do with Confederate monuments</b><br /><div>If you followed
social media and the news media, you might think that were basically two
positions on what to do about Confederate monuments and symbols. I was
struck recently by a poll done by the Wall Street Journal and NBC News (Video below). The poll asked people, "What should be done with Confederate monuments?" and they were given four options.</div><div>1. Completely remove and destroy them</div><div>2. Move them out of public squares into museums or on to private property</div><div>3. Leave them, but with a plaque that adds historical context</div><div>4. Leave everything as it is now</div><div><br /></div><div>The most extreme positions, Nos. 1 and 4, got the least response.</div><div>10% chose option 1, completely remove and destroy them. <br /></div></div><div>16% chose option 4, leave everything as it is now. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Almost three-fourths chose the less extreme options<br /></div><div>31% favored moving them out of public squares into museums or private property</div><div>41% favored leaving them, but with a plaque</div><div><br /></div><div><iframe allowfullscreen="true" frameborder="0" height="288" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" mozallowfullscreen="true" scrolling="no" src="https://video-api.wsj.com/api-video/player/v3/iframe.html?guid=4907C3EB-FCCB-4CFE-A3A3-28EDD0FC8BAA" webkitallowfullscreen="true" width="512"></iframe><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In other words, on a polarizing issue, as reporter Gerald Seib noted in the video, there is a large group of people choosing the more moderate responses. Americans have many points of view, but most are moderate. As Americans, we have more in common with each other than you might believe if you spend a lot of time in social media.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Another polarizing force driven by money: cable TV</b><br /></div><div>Another bad place for people with moderate views to spend time is watching cable news. Fox News is the most popular cable TV channel, especially among conservatives and Republicans. On the other side are CNN and MSNBC, which appeal to liberals and Democrats, among others.</div><div><br /></div><div>Again, these cable channels need you to spend lots of your time and attention on their broadcasts and websites to make money. They have to fill the time, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and keep people watching. What gets their attention and makes them watch? <b>Images of violence</b>, whether they are trying to show that <b>demonstrators are lawless terrorists or that the police are fascist thugs</b>. Violence grabs attention and sells advertising. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This divisiveness shows up in other news media as well, where even respected outlets have staked out positions that are "patriotic" or "resistance". Those tendencies make moderate people skeptical and undermine the media outlet's credibility even in investigations that are impeccably professional. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>The apolitical profiteers</b><br /></div><div>And we haven't even mentioned the completely apolitical actors whose only goal is to make money. Bad journalism, sensational headlines, clickbait, and outrageous lies attract people to click, if only to see if there might be some truth behind the headline. <b>Sensationalism sells.</b> It's a fantastically lucrative business. Always has been. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><b>Cancel Culture</b><br /></div><div>Two recent incidents involving
the New York Times suggest that liberals have become intolerant of any
viewpoints that conflict with their own. First, a group of Times
employees mobilized to <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/media/2020/jun/07/new-york-times-editor-resigns-tom-cotton-oped-protests">demand the resignation</a>
of an editor who approved publication of a conservative senator's
opinions. Then a conservative columnist on their staff resigned, saying
she had been <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/media/2020/07/14/bari-weiss-resigns-new-york-times/">harassed and bullied </a>by "a far-left mob" that included her colleagues. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Into this breach stepped an all-star team of liberal opinion leaders and artists who <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/10/arts/open-letter-debate.html">published a letter </a>in
Harper's magazine that "warned of a growing tide of illiberalism and a
weakening of 'our norms of open debate and toleration of differences in
favor of ideological conformity',” as described in the New York Times.
In other words, these liberals were worried that some of their fellow
liberals were becoming intolerant of anyone who expressed any ideas in
conflict with their own.</div><div><br /></div>And then, the same
article described a backlash from others on the left--minorities and
marginalized groups--who criticized the letter signers as missing the
point, that the issue was not ideology and opinions but power:who has it
and who doesn't.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>We need solidarity, not divisiveness</b></div><div>All of this polarization is heightened and exaggerated in an election year. It seems everyone we know is crazy. People I know and love and respect act like savages in social media, shouting at each other, insulting each other. This is behavior they would not engage in if they were face-to-face with their counterparts. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In the middle of an economic crisis of historic proportions, that is leaving people without enough food to feed their families, and a health crisis of historic proportions, we should be seeking ways to pull together, to work out our differences and work toward a common goal. As Americans, we share more common beliefs than the politicians want you to believe. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Dialogue, compromise, shared purpose</b>. These should be our watchwords now. However, it is in the interest of various political actors to make us stake out a position on one side or another rather than listening to our counterparts. My social and professional circles are definitely in the liberal-Democrat echo chamber. And frankly, I am tired of hearing people rant against the White House and its supporters, even when I agree with them.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Listen, and listen some more</b></div><div>Get out of social media and have a conversation with someone who disagrees with you. <b>Don't try to persuade them</b> that you are right. Find out what they think and feel and why they think and feel that way. After you have listened, listen some more. Then wait. <br /></div><div>They might ask you what you think and why. Then maybe there will be a conversation rather than a shouting match. <br /><b></b></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-1253223274657506232020-07-23T04:51:00.000-04:002020-07-23T15:39:08.393-04:00Public drinking and parties drive new coronavirus outbreaks, but sports give us some relief<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZd1TH_9_-syJWO9pb5Z3grRRio4DavbF7yYhdaBWfE4zFXvNqd-IZkPmpiVi3g6kBiHFltgW43r8mQxUcmv_Rp0GE070XVqV8xtgiR6FprvfT0Is3-o_FOoLwpZ_dWmo-7za/s1600/Miguel+Indurain+tour+de+france+25+years.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZd1TH_9_-syJWO9pb5Z3grRRio4DavbF7yYhdaBWfE4zFXvNqd-IZkPmpiVi3g6kBiHFltgW43r8mQxUcmv_Rp0GE070XVqV8xtgiR6FprvfT0Is3-o_FOoLwpZ_dWmo-7za/s320/Miguel+Indurain+tour+de+france+25+years.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local boy Miguel Indurain celebrates his 5th Tour de France win 25 years ago</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
The virus has come
roaring back in our province because of parties. New rules this week in
our province of Navarra after big outbreaks of the virus among young
people:</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
- Bars and discos have to close at 2 a.m. rather than 6 a.m.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
- <b>No public drinking of alcohol is allowed on the streets between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.</b> Which must mean that in the past it WAS permitted to drink alcohol on the streets between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
- <b>From these new rules I conclude that after 6 a.m. you CAN drink alcohol on the streets. Is this a great country or what?</b></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
I'm
part of the Dawn Patrol at the local cafe, which opens at 6:30 a.m. during the week and 7:30 a.m. on
the weekends and has both daily newspapers. Having a coffee and reading the paper in the cafe is a ritual. I wear a mask between sips
and maintain social distance. </div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<b>Up all night</b></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
The only time that young people show up
that early is if they've been out all night. In Spain, among teens and
young 20s, it has always been a thing to stay out all night with your
friends. You come home at dawn. Parents expect it. We of the Dawn Patrol
see young people only when they are staggering and talking loudly with
extravagant hand gestures. They're not dangerous because in this
country, not everyone is carrying a gun. <br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
Big headline yesterday was that <b>emergency room doctors were complaining </b>that
the doctors at the local public health clinics were sending too many
routine cases to the ER. Our neighborhood clinic is doing visits over
the phone rather than in person. So if someone thinks they have
something acute, and they don't feel like the advice from the doctor
made them feel better, they might head to the ER. Both the ER docs and
the clinic docs are government employees, and the ER docs think the
clinic docs aren't pulling their weight.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
Top of the front page in today's paper: it's the 25th anniversary of local boy <b>Miguel Indurain's</b> <b>fifth straight Tour de France victory.</b> His pueblo is in the Pamplona metro area so he's in the paper all the time. </div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
Also,
on Sunday, the local football team, Osasuna, finished what for them was
a fantastic season, 10th place out of 20. This was their first year
back in the major league; each year, the three worst teams from the
first division descend, and the three best from the second division move
to the first. Every day there are at least five tabloid pages of
stories about Osasuna, the last game, the next game, the contracts, the
coach's thoughts. </div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
"Osasuna"
, the name of the team, which is celebrating its 100th anniversary,
means "health" in Basque, in the sense of "strength" or "vigor". </div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
With
all of the local outbreaks in the northeast of Spain, around Barcelona,
France was talking about closing the border with that province,
Catalonia. </div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
Cindy
and I have stopped our weekend jaunts in rental cars. Partly from fun
fatigue, partly from caution. Cindy is cross-stitching and letting her
hair grow, which involves a lot of work. This week I am attending an
online symposium on online journalism from the U of Texas and writing
some blog posts about some of the sessions. <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://jamesbreiner.com/the-war-on-journalists-intensifies/&source=gmail&ust=1595572042321000&usg=AFQjCNFmNjPKCTr1zHSSzd0uTpVgfaUpaQ" href="https://jamesbreiner.com/the-war-on-journalists-intensifies/" target="_blank">The War on Journalists Intensifies</a> and <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://jamesbreiner.com/who-owns-the-local-news-outlet-its-a-key-success-factor/&source=gmail&ust=1595572042321000&usg=AFQjCNGXNpFN_0dNwSJwA66lwnAx9u-zXw" href="https://jamesbreiner.com/who-owns-the-local-news-outlet-its-a-key-success-factor/" target="_blank">Local ownership is a Success Factor in the news business</a></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<b>Related:</b></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-town-in-need-of-some-consonants-aoiz.html" target="_blank">A town in need of some consonants: Aoiz</a><br />
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/06/birthplace-of-st-ignatius-loyola-and.html">The north coast of Spain and the birthplace of Ignatius Loyola</a></div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/05/more-exploring-in-navarra-at-source-of.html">Exploring Navarra: the source of the rivers</a><br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-walled-city-of-artajona-and-ancient.html">The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds</a> </div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-1409573487551061152020-07-08T13:51:00.001-04:002020-07-08T13:55:07.214-04:00We visit the home of the vultures and the eagles<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAsF_zeDej6koxVrpwgiubE2DJyLXV9paSeWHXINR6XX2s2hy5sU59zS5YfaXWDPySDlccC1JWF1HudJBn7LQ5N9oc9qhLDsteLp2r3TNNmGbu-sENiRE7x5yqMJ4NT5o6Ke4/s1600/IMG_5798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAsF_zeDej6koxVrpwgiubE2DJyLXV9paSeWHXINR6XX2s2hy5sU59zS5YfaXWDPySDlccC1JWF1HudJBn7LQ5N9oc9qhLDsteLp2r3TNNmGbu-sENiRE7x5yqMJ4NT5o6Ke4/s640/IMG_5798.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eagles, vultures, and hawks build their nests in niches of the rock faces. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYec2YxSn5zyb0FgdJNYomY89oG9gXJvfN7LAaCWuL5VKOjDmIGmTxn2yZwte67alFciNiveySrQxtM67cywg977_V2taWzQbVkBGTXL2MksFu9YSjI35ReGqpyKFkKNsSVddr/s1600/IMG_5794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYec2YxSn5zyb0FgdJNYomY89oG9gXJvfN7LAaCWuL5VKOjDmIGmTxn2yZwte67alFciNiveySrQxtM67cywg977_V2taWzQbVkBGTXL2MksFu9YSjI35ReGqpyKFkKNsSVddr/s400/IMG_5794.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridge spans an old rail line, now a bike path.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It takes only about a half hour to get to the town of Irurtzun and the hiking trail known as "the vultures' overlook" <i>el balcón de los buitres</i>.<br />
<br />
The trail itself is only about three miles in a loop, but it rises about 900 feet (a <a href="https://www.wikiloc.com/walking-trails/irurtzun-balcon-de-los-buitres-mirador-3409904" target="_blank">map of the trail is here</a>). <br />
<br />
The first third of the trail is quite steep and challenging before rising above the town and valley.<br />
<br />
The Sunday we were there we heard the pipes and drums of a traditional Basque band playing <br />
below us in the town.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
High above we could see different types of raptors. The vultures tend to be a bit more social and float on the thermals in groups, doing their famous circular dance of death. Or maybe they're just sightseeing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1tevnOK7nPg1WWpnAFe_nUq2NHBeFvBpzg9GxICfNkc0APk0hAQEW0vXIE9nH0YtQUSjZ3lEIaxVK-_MQVbN8Amb_1wLscj8QeSXxwuxjrYr0KeHZ0PFdK7IjxJBKwU-nm9AC/s1600/IMG_5800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1tevnOK7nPg1WWpnAFe_nUq2NHBeFvBpzg9GxICfNkc0APk0hAQEW0vXIE9nH0YtQUSjZ3lEIaxVK-_MQVbN8Amb_1wLscj8QeSXxwuxjrYr0KeHZ0PFdK7IjxJBKwU-nm9AC/s400/IMG_5800.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the few relatively flat places on the trail.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Eagles and hawks tend to be loners. They were often too far above to get a good look at their coloring. This post will not have dazzling closeups of the birds.<br />
<br />
<b>The lady cop </b><br />
<br />
As with most of our hikes since the pandemic, we ran into very few other people. Two women who appeared to be in their 30s seemed to be just behind us or just ahead of us on the climb and the descent.<br />
<br />
When we were at the bottom, at the end of the trail, I chatted them up. One of them was a member of the provincial police department. I mentioned that I had just read in the paper that police had decided not to prosecute most of the cases in which people were cited for breaking quarantine. The fines can be up to US $660.<br />
<br />
When I told her that I had been stopped and written up by a police officer on the second day of quarantine (I was running in a park), she said it was unlikely they would fine me. The only people getting fined, she said, were people who had been cited four or five times. It would cost too much if anyone decided to take the case to court rather than paying the fine.<br />
<br />
So, four months after the municipal cop stopped me and took down my particulars in a little notebook, I haven't heard anything. Let's keep it that way, people. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27GkJ-6fu8Fln-Fo_Qh9VSYe4JT1iVXlcHxgReOgq7tjZp0ckCvhgTZPBzkq58hVw4C9LNpQln3fPsTmsNnE6qMg9aE77agGUj5vEZGGAjVPxEPfaHP3d9W-Ox24jdR6zRlHI/s1600/20200607_131703_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27GkJ-6fu8Fln-Fo_Qh9VSYe4JT1iVXlcHxgReOgq7tjZp0ckCvhgTZPBzkq58hVw4C9LNpQln3fPsTmsNnE6qMg9aE77agGUj5vEZGGAjVPxEPfaHP3d9W-Ox24jdR6zRlHI/s640/20200607_131703_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the vultures' overlook, those enormous sheets of rock are called the Two Sisters. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxASFTFGN9CicYnGH7bvIvg9QfqRersdFDke8BBQIJsASqoHVt4UHWJS6IvwniNAAvLM06N2Dcu-qTPEO3rkxWzVCm6PM2Ar027kFsEKFXFVV9-vMChRres7r0Rc_pmEwpmjG/s1600/20200607_144346_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxASFTFGN9CicYnGH7bvIvg9QfqRersdFDke8BBQIJsASqoHVt4UHWJS6IvwniNAAvLM06N2Dcu-qTPEO3rkxWzVCm6PM2Ar027kFsEKFXFVV9-vMChRres7r0Rc_pmEwpmjG/s400/20200607_144346_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical Basque domestic architecture in Irurtzun.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-n-nwKhn1nauxL5Kd5_B2zeUtXhbMrTLv1-bDn9sqHGMAWd0qjlfYbkQDAKq63mq6rgP-zo-ru26CYVNW4g_2-mt3nSJAwkuFgyg3Id6mpI3Rpyi_tPoLK54dTrqMjt3kuTiv/s1600/20200607_151521_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1157" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-n-nwKhn1nauxL5Kd5_B2zeUtXhbMrTLv1-bDn9sqHGMAWd0qjlfYbkQDAKq63mq6rgP-zo-ru26CYVNW4g_2-mt3nSJAwkuFgyg3Id6mpI3Rpyi_tPoLK54dTrqMjt3kuTiv/s320/20200607_151521_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcAD-qs-9YPi6zIrEoRk9F18Ma6V8t7RERf9fm2mECBGI8xTNQvqhl3gzUey9fLOGkDUOwJqrtSfw0uHmpd_YfnVrvHyZ2JyLq51paED_-4mngY6YwIMWI9BME2HJqTFwJ0zh5/s1600/20200607_151641_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcAD-qs-9YPi6zIrEoRk9F18Ma6V8t7RERf9fm2mECBGI8xTNQvqhl3gzUey9fLOGkDUOwJqrtSfw0uHmpd_YfnVrvHyZ2JyLq51paED_-4mngY6YwIMWI9BME2HJqTFwJ0zh5/s640/20200607_151641_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just below the rock face at the top of the photo is the vultures' overlook. Signs point to the trail head.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Related:</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-town-in-need-of-some-consonants-aoiz.html" target="_blank">A town in need of some consonants: Aoiz</a><br />
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/06/birthplace-of-st-ignatius-loyola-and.html">The north coast of Spain and the birthplace of Ignatius Loyola</a></div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/05/more-exploring-in-navarra-at-source-of.html">Exploring Navarra: the source of the rivers</a><br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-walled-city-of-artajona-and-ancient.html">The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds</a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-44766446379677760302020-07-07T09:42:00.003-04:002020-10-11T05:44:58.303-04:00The town in need of some consonants: AoizCindy picked Aoiz for a day trip because it had a hiking trail to a famous hermitage or some such, so why not. When we arrived in the parking lot at the head of the trail, we were struck by this view of a medieval bridge. (Photos are from June 5; it was still cool here.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfLNH5YhtC9vxHmVXw3rzToMF_E7DhHHrRvRHywKF-lC0yx6Q4KHMpIMvNovUaRuqBXbbZDxxopejDOV6yh9bTnjVTyTuBMkQm2I0v2dCWWmWMdSe-kPXuKAHX8TROsIkGQnTh/s1600/Bridge+at+Aoiz.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfLNH5YhtC9vxHmVXw3rzToMF_E7DhHHrRvRHywKF-lC0yx6Q4KHMpIMvNovUaRuqBXbbZDxxopejDOV6yh9bTnjVTyTuBMkQm2I0v2dCWWmWMdSe-kPXuKAHX8TROsIkGQnTh/s400/Bridge+at+Aoiz.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This bridge across the Irati River dates to medieval times.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Irati River, which it spans, is the same one that Hemingway fished in during his first visit to Pamplona. It had wonderful trout. That fishing trip was fictionalized famously in his first and best novel, "The Sun Also Rises", also known as "Fiesta". (Perhaps his worst novel is also about fishing and is the one that is most read, "The Old Man and the Sea", but we won't go there).<br />
<br />
Speaking of old men, we ran into one by the map at the trail head. I asked him how local people pronounced the name of the town. "ah-oh-EETH", he said. I repeated "ah-oh-EETH", but evidently something was not to his satisfaction. So he said it again, a little louder and more emphatically. And I said back to him again what I thought I heard.<br />
<br />
We went back and forth like this, but apparently I was a hopeless case. We chatted some more. The gentleman said he was 87 years old, retired for 27 years, walking with the help of a cane. He had worked in a furniture factory, if I'm not mistaken. He gave us some advice on what we should absolutely not miss on the hiking trail and headed off. I should have taken his picture. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgter7eK1nDjA9RMA9SosMbh1mBUATkZESrKWBZkGKztYnC3o4pUOka4MWCAAtK6itaFFF5oIMNNnd277j8NerdbYUhjgYp1Nkiw8uPnDt74OUJi2DWkV6H-G6Jj0tSzZniATgj/s1600/Aoiz+map.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1209" data-original-width="1600" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgter7eK1nDjA9RMA9SosMbh1mBUATkZESrKWBZkGKztYnC3o4pUOka4MWCAAtK6itaFFF5oIMNNnd277j8NerdbYUhjgYp1Nkiw8uPnDt74OUJi2DWkV6H-G6Jj0tSzZniATgj/s400/Aoiz+map.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Senderos balizados</i>, "marked trails" around Aoiz (Agoitz in Basque) and the reservoir.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a name='more'></a>The trail followed the Irati River for a while, and we saw some guys fly-fishing.<b> </b>We wondered if they were catching anything.<b><br /></b><br />
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<b>Devastating layoffs in Aoiz</b><br />
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The town is small, but 239 people, about a tenth of the population, had jobs at the Siemens Gamesa plant manufacturing rotor blades for wind-powered generators. But <a href="https://spainsnews.com/siemens-gamesa-will-close-its-plant-in-aoiz-navarra-with-239-employees/" target="_blank">the company just announced</a> it was closing the plant because it was not as efficient as other plants and was too far from ports for international shipping.<br />
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The Aoiz plant has produced blades for rotors that are 400 feet in diameter, but Siemens said the profitable market is for rotors of more than 500 feet in diameter. It would cost too much to modify the plant, the company said.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjiA1NRi7suQrlrsn91tQJYyWcYnIZE8eBPs6LwUX6Y-HNwGZj4ndojG989HMXRJm2eo3DSzEKTzOXZUzJrE4QVl6xdbEO1aKdk4PxOoMdKw6jfoha87cbOuhN3ak3iYWRRurO/s1600/San+Roman+hermitage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjiA1NRi7suQrlrsn91tQJYyWcYnIZE8eBPs6LwUX6Y-HNwGZj4ndojG989HMXRJm2eo3DSzEKTzOXZUzJrE4QVl6xdbEO1aKdk4PxOoMdKw6jfoha87cbOuhN3ak3iYWRRurO/s400/San+Roman+hermitage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hermitage of San Román</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We hiked up the trail to the site of a famous peace treaty, the Hermitage of San Román. In 1479, two aristocratic families that both claimed the throne of the Kingdom of Navarra agreed at this site to end 30 years of warfare.<br />
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From here we descended on a trail that took us through some lovely forest.<br />
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At the end of the trail, we saw the two guys who had been fishing. They were young, sitting down with their backs against a wall, having a smoke. I asked them if they had caught anything. No, they said. It's catch-and-release. They seemed kind of reluctant to talk. My gringo accent? Excessive curiosity? Old people are so annoying. <b><br /></b><br />
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<b>Related:</b></div><div><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/we-visit-home-of-vultures-and-eagles.html">We visit the home of the vultures and the eagles</a><b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/06/birthplace-of-st-ignatius-loyola-and.html">The north coast of Spain and the birthplace of Ignatius Loyola</a></div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/05/more-exploring-in-navarra-at-source-of.html">Exploring Navarra: the source of the rivers</a><br />
<div><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-walled-city-of-artajona-and-ancient.html">The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds</a></div><div><br /></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-22460169435821185262020-07-07T07:37:00.004-04:002020-07-08T14:15:24.546-04:00The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7v5NwKmSVmMn_n53XLW2-H8SaCn3Oj9DuPQ8iXFYU1sfwlv2az-Wa-InGxygteoHcQyU38gaRv8nXjOc__4qg8qXPm6j5rmArJMR337uqZYzBHzzgP2VZMRm1xLkUuZpx4VXo/s1600/IMG_5790.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7v5NwKmSVmMn_n53XLW2-H8SaCn3Oj9DuPQ8iXFYU1sfwlv2az-Wa-InGxygteoHcQyU38gaRv8nXjOc__4qg8qXPm6j5rmArJMR337uqZYzBHzzgP2VZMRm1xLkUuZpx4VXo/w500-h375/IMG_5790.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The walls and tower of Artajona date to the 12th century. </td></tr>
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Cindy loves castles and walled cities, and there are plenty of them in Spain. One is less than an hour away, in the <a href="https://www.turismo.navarra.es/eng/organice-viaje/recurso/Patrimonio/3111/El-Cerco-de-Artajona.htm" target="_blank">town of Artajona</a>, which has 14 towers. The fortress was first built about 900 years ago. Invading armies have found an easy path into and out of Spain through Navarra.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVi3vg5zC1j0PoQSh3K1AC4QjZhyphenhyphennk88vVtTI4OYdkpVck4NxDs7acKZAUSrE6ubwMZMRUP8oBKL4yQDD5EWGquNIcM-0soCDnZnKhtp5TUpnWvgHP3Xb3XjCCOI7JIdf_6C3/s1600/IMG_5789.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVi3vg5zC1j0PoQSh3K1AC4QjZhyphenhyphennk88vVtTI4OYdkpVck4NxDs7acKZAUSrE6ubwMZMRUP8oBKL4yQDD5EWGquNIcM-0soCDnZnKhtp5TUpnWvgHP3Xb3XjCCOI7JIdf_6C3/s320/IMG_5789.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Local history is a chronicle of kings (who are like warlords) and princes (who are like gang leaders) pillaging back and forth, taking each other's land, goods, and people. The winners then build churches to honor the divine powers and saints who made it all possible.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM2XJljjRF4klKTk7D9C0Wztiotqr3FyXQLaeYBEJ6PIqCRrIof9XJst7LQF_3NYW0_5bd69lrugKIo1cz4H6yTfw4Qb_cv9ZRmRRrVC5rDSaGCHFIv3r7sthavONcxau4opV/s1600/IMG_5756.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM2XJljjRF4klKTk7D9C0Wztiotqr3FyXQLaeYBEJ6PIqCRrIof9XJst7LQF_3NYW0_5bd69lrugKIo1cz4H6yTfw4Qb_cv9ZRmRRrVC5rDSaGCHFIv3r7sthavONcxau4opV/w500-h375/IMG_5756.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We took the scenic route to reach the dolmens of Artajona.</td></tr>
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Before arriving there, though, we wanted to look at the nearby<a href="https://www.turismo.navarra.es/eng/organice-viaje/recurso/Patrimonio/3115/Dolmenes-del-Portillo-de-Eneriz-y-Mina-de-Farangortea.htm" target="_blank"> funerary dolmens</a>
that have been dated at between 4,000 and 5,000 years old. Little is
known about the people who built them except the tools they used and the
types of animals and plants that were part of their diet. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGjgu5cW-x6Uz6JBrthDqPB-4FHIt1YEyHS6Zy6LIUhGa0QkKA6LfI0DVxyBzwmbg5jhRjOc8d_aOq53AKjaBPQ_9R1MMMHfXlJjt4eJfjLcgoTG9_IDToNBcqWBmXtTv6uf7/s1600/2020+june+jim+Artajona+dolmens+jim+.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGjgu5cW-x6Uz6JBrthDqPB-4FHIt1YEyHS6Zy6LIUhGa0QkKA6LfI0DVxyBzwmbg5jhRjOc8d_aOq53AKjaBPQ_9R1MMMHfXlJjt4eJfjLcgoTG9_IDToNBcqWBmXtTv6uf7/s400/2020+june+jim+Artajona+dolmens+jim+.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These burial sites were excavated and opened to the public in the 1990s.</td></tr>
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We bumped into an older guy at the dolmens, and I chatted him up. Turns out that he spent his summers with his grandparents nearby the site of the dolmens. At that time, the site had not been completely excavated.</div>
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There were no paths or stairs or signs, he said. It was not a tourist destination. It was a place where kids would play. He was retired now. He stopped several times and looked around. He said he was trying to identify the places where he and his friends used to play.<br />
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In the video below, you can see the lovely forest path that leads to the megalithic burial stones. Wildflowers are on either side, and the stones can be seen toward the end, at the top of the frame. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="400" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/V85G61KwN_k" width="480" youtube-src-id="V85G61KwN_k"></iframe></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQFoOtTxzOM-vHVgsh7J5m5bjwcnPKx7it91OjKMx3Ll7Znln1yub85mEZs5Qw2Hm4UBEIA5B_RP-T6AL4l5VaqX9xl1d1Ocup_ghwTHfLhnyBgmbEuf2LTUerrVuNhJdFDuC/s1600/artajona+from+the+dolmens.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="977" data-original-width="1600" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQFoOtTxzOM-vHVgsh7J5m5bjwcnPKx7it91OjKMx3Ll7Znln1yub85mEZs5Qw2Hm4UBEIA5B_RP-T6AL4l5VaqX9xl1d1Ocup_ghwTHfLhnyBgmbEuf2LTUerrVuNhJdFDuC/s640/artajona+from+the+dolmens.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artajona and its towers are visble from the dolmens. The burial sites are on the top of a hill and dominate the landscape.</td></tr>
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<b>Also:</b></div>
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/06/birthplace-of-st-ignatius-loyola-and.html">The north coast of Spain and the birthplace of Ignatius Loyola</a></div>
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/05/more-exploring-in-navarra-at-source-of.html">Exploring Navarra: the source of the rivers</a></div>
<div>
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/we-visit-home-of-vultures-and-eagles.html">We visit the home of the vultures and the eagles</a><b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-walled-city-of-artajona-and-ancient.html">The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds</a></div>
</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com031140 Artajona, Navarre, Spain42.587644399999988 -1.764835214.277410563821142 -36.9210852 70.897878236178826 33.3914148tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-58227177930042525902020-06-29T12:56:00.002-04:002021-05-24T02:11:56.814-04:00The North Coast of Spain, and the birthplace of Ignatius Loyola<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVoxzQK-2MRPrDO4L6TDZ2isy86zt73TbLtHlYgzrImQUwO2XeTxHQWFAMBeriIPeWfGhyphenhyphenYEDCRFwBm1NlF9B3HvqOzsbZelRehZlOzRQKHjTSKF1k3-73cdM91nzIoiFh_Ql/s4032/Jim+at+Lezo.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVoxzQK-2MRPrDO4L6TDZ2isy86zt73TbLtHlYgzrImQUwO2XeTxHQWFAMBeriIPeWfGhyphenhyphenYEDCRFwBm1NlF9B3HvqOzsbZelRehZlOzRQKHjTSKF1k3-73cdM91nzIoiFh_Ql/w400-h300/Jim+at+Lezo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getaria is a beach town between San Sebastian on the east and Bilbao on the west.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mQweqjWjdrG0PuEHsJlzajUd1jEHCJIgDMQATckfN82TZv3jXVlwzFFdy7T5S-K72b2tKJCSHLFhTt4VYNPeCpId-3IVfEYUnWhzBHW1VMquPjejXRCq45-6GeIUMyDK05mv/s4032/IMG_5819.HEIC" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mQweqjWjdrG0PuEHsJlzajUd1jEHCJIgDMQATckfN82TZv3jXVlwzFFdy7T5S-K72b2tKJCSHLFhTt4VYNPeCpId-3IVfEYUnWhzBHW1VMquPjejXRCq45-6GeIUMyDK05mv/w400-h300/IMG_5819.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hondarribia, with the river Bidasoa and France in the background.</td></tr>
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<b>Zoom in on the map to see more detail about these places. </b></div>
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Last week we made a couple of trips to the North Coast of Spain on the Bay of Biscay. At the bottom right on the map is Pamplona, and on the upper right is Hondarribia, a Basque town separated from France by the Bidasoa River. </div>
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Hondarribia had a strategic location, so over the centuries, the occupants fortified it with high walls all around. They built and rebuilt it many times since the Middle Ages. Cindy loves castles and walled cities. This wall is one of the best preserved. Normally in June the town would be overrun with tourists, many from France. </div>
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But the border had been closed because of the coronavirus. We visited on June 22, the first day we could travel outside of Navarra (Hondarribia is located in the neighboring Basque province of Guipuzcua). It was also the first day the border was open with France. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the city gates. Much of Hondarribia's medieval architecture has been restored. It's a pedestrian city. </td></tr>
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We were surprised to see that the city had a three-star hotel with the family name of the wife of Cindy's nephew--the Hotel Juaregui. The name means "palace" in Basque. The Juaregui family opened the hotel in the mid-1930s, just before the Civil War. We dined under the blue awnings. Great lunch of grilled red tuna and mozzarella salad. No idea if there is any family connection.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Juaregui's restaurant is called <i>Embata</i>, a Basque word for a stormy northwest wind. We were comfortable under the awnings.</td></tr>
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That day we were content to head straight home. It's around 90 minutes by car from Pamplona.</div>
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<b>The harbor at Passaia</b></div>
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Cindy had been plotting out some interesting places for us to visit, and we decided to check out the commercial port of Passaia just east of San Sebastian. On the east side of the inlet is the town of Lezo, which has some charming structures built into the vertical cliffs. The novelist Victor Hugo lived here for a time.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The inlet at Passaia</td></tr>
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We walked through the little town toward the mouth of the inlet, and all along the way we found kids jumping into the water. But there was a definite hierarchy. Close to the houses and stores, the young kids were being watched by some parents. No lifeguards anywhere.</div>
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A little farther out were the high schoolers, and finally, on the steepest and most dangerous rocks were the young adults. Some alcohol, some weed, lots of music. Suddenly, we saw a huge ocean-going ship being towed into the inlet. The kids on the rocks had a close-up view.</div>
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Seeing such a big ship in such narrow passage reminded me of seeing the big Lake Erie ore ships navigating the crooked Cuyahoga River in Cleveland. It made me wonder about the quality of the water all those kids were swimming in.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The big ship headed for its berth, tugboats front and back.</td></tr>
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<b>Getaria, the whale watchtower</b></div>
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We headed west of San Sebastian to a town famous for whale hunting, Getaria. The Basques were known as great whalers <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Basque_whaling#Beginnings">as far back as the seventh century</a>. Getaria received a royal concession for whale hunting in 1204. The Basques taught whaling techniques to the British and then the Americans. </div>
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We wanted to see the sights the town is famous for: the hermitage, lighthouse, and whale lookout.</div>
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All of this tourist stuff is near the top of a steep hill crisscrossed with hiking paths. We were quite exhausted when we got to one of the whale watchtowers, called a <i>vigia</i>, 350 feet above the ocean. On one side were beaches filled with tourists, on the other were surfers trying to catch a wave. The view was spectacular.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The surfers prefer this beach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hundreds of these whale watchtowers dotted the coast. All the crews competed to reach the whales first.</td></tr>
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The Basques sailed all over the North Sea and North Atlantic harvesting whales as well as cod, which they preserved in dried, salted blocks known as <i>bacalao</i>. It became one of the protein staples of the Middle Ages. Mark Kurlansky chronicles this in detail in his book <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/review-of-cod-a-biography-of-the-fish-that-changed-the-world-152948483/"><i>Cod</i></a> and also in <i><a href="http://www.workingwaterfrontarchives.org/2002/09/01/the-basque-history-of-the-world/">The Basque History of the World</a></i>. </div>
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<b>A basilica to honor St. Ignatius Loyola</b></div>
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The town of Loyola is southwest of Getaria, and since coming to Spain five years ago, I had always wanted to visit. It's the birthplace of St. Ignatius Loyola, who founded the Jesuit religious order almost 500 years ago. My maternal great-uncles, as well as my father, brothers, nephews, and grand-nephews have all gone through the Jesuit institutions in Cleveland--St. Ignatius High School or John Carroll University, or both. </div>
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For better or for worse, Jesuits schools are famous for strict discipline and expectations of excellence. Look no further than James Joyce's <i>A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i> to find examples of their arbitrary punishments. But it's also true that many of them had a lasting positive impact on malleable hearts and minds like mine. Jesuits are associated with power brokers and intellectual elites; they also inspired grass-roots revolutionaries with their teachings of liberation theology. (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Society_of_Jesus">Wikipedia summarizes their controversial history.)</a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ignatius Loyola's family home. Photo from<a href="https://loyola.global/" target="_blank"> Loyola Global.</a></td></tr>
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But I did not realize until I arrived in Pamplona five years ago that the fortress in the center of town was where Ignatius Loyola the soldier was wounded in battle. He suffered a leg wound that caused him horrible pain over several years, a pain that prompted visions and a religious vocation. The first thing you see when you walk into the visitor center in Loyola is a sculpture depicting a scene from that battle.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fellow soldiers attend to the wounded Ignatius Loyola at the battle of Pamplona.</td></tr>
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He was from an aristocratic family with an impressive home, but we were unable to go inside. It was still closed because of the corona virus. The home is towered over by <a href="https://loyola.global/en/basilica#the-basilica">the basilica</a> that it is attached to. There is quite an extensive complex, with a retreat house, youth hostel, and library.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Basilica was begun in the 17th Century. Photo from<a href="https://loyola.global/" target="_blank"> Loyola Global</a>.</td></tr>
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In front is a park with gardens and playgrounds. It was filled with families and children running, kicking footballs, riding bicycles and skateboards. The basilica was open.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dome and the interior are magnificent.</td></tr>
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We gawked at the rich interior and and took lots of pictures. Mass was scheduled to start in less than an hour. We decided to head home. It's about a two-hour drive back to
Pamplona along narrow, curving roads. Basque country is rugged like
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<b>Arrupe and Hiroshima </b></div>
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The hotel in Loyola is called the Arrupe, which sparked a memory for me. During my last year at St. Ignatius high school, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pedro_Arrupe" target="_blank">Father Pedro Arrupe</a>, the Superior General of the Jesuits, came for a visit. I met him briefly and have only vague impressions--a quiet, humble man. Like Ignatius, he was also a Spaniard from Basque country. </div>
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Father Arrupe was a missionary in Japan during the war and was in the outskirts of Hiroshima the day the atomic bomb was dropped. He and his fellow Jesuits set up a makeshift hospital to care for the injured and dying, an experience that was seared into his memory. </div>
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It was several years after his visit to Cleveland that Father Arrupe coined the phrase "men for others" as the theme for all Jesuit education. I like to think that was part of our formation while we were there. It's what I try to communicate to the men and women I teach and work with today. </div>
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<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">We visit the home of the vultures and the eagles</a><b><br /></b></div>
<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">Exploring Navarra: the source of the rivers</a><br />
<div>
<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-34333393401102323802020-06-15T08:43:00.000-04:002020-07-03T03:35:28.576-04:00The University of Navarra, No. 1 with employers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiiHWtzbJXUMmtNeodrsl27DOj6cJnDiP7udLiPWly-spG0dv_B1eUITe_FSChOJxrEc87C6gMD5d0O69WJFiEsbc-_qs8Yw3GBPGz3CKsu8RTjPEeP2cSfb3O8k4Krf9p-8n/s1600/jim+breiner+teaching+economics.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1302" data-original-width="1174" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiiHWtzbJXUMmtNeodrsl27DOj6cJnDiP7udLiPWly-spG0dv_B1eUITe_FSChOJxrEc87C6gMD5d0O69WJFiEsbc-_qs8Yw3GBPGz3CKsu8RTjPEeP2cSfb3O8k4Krf9p-8n/s320/jim+breiner+teaching+economics.png" width="288" /></a></div>
The <a href="https://www.unav.edu/en/home" target="_blank">University of Navarra</a>, where I work these days, has the best reputation among employers of all Spanish universities. This according to <a href="https://www.topuniversities.com/university-rankings" target="_blank">QS World University Ranking 2021</a>.<br />
<br />
In the category of "employability", Navarra, a private Catholic university, also ranks 71 among all universities around the world among employers. The ranking is based on a survey of 50,000 employers. Tsinghua University in Beijing, China, where I worked for two years, ranks 6th in this global ranking. (MIT was first.)<br />
<br />
Both UNAV and Tsinghua rank among the top 100 (51-100) in media and communications programs, where I teach. In Spain, UNAV ranks second, behind the Universidad Complutense de Madrid.<br />
<br />
QS has been doing these rankings since 2004. This year the rankings include 1,200 universites from 80 countries. The rankings are based on academic ranking, reputation among employers, number of students per professor, percentage of foreign professors, and percentage of international students. Seventy percent of the information for the ratings comes from research by QS or third parties and 30 percent from the universities themselves. <br />
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Having worked at UNAV for five years now, I can say that the administrators and professors all take seriously the notion that we are trying to "formar buena gente", which roughly means to develop our students into good citizens (literally translated, it means "to shape good people"). They live it and breathe it. QS doesn't actually measure that in the rankings, but the result shows up there. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-90795783354739168242020-05-29T02:20:00.005-04:002021-05-21T04:56:16.428-04:00More exploring in Navarra: at the source of rivers<div>
One of the great things about Pamplona is that we are so close to nature. The city itself has a population of about 250,000, and in just a few minutes, you are out among small farms and villages. In less than an hour, you can be in a nature preserve.</div><div><br /></div><div>With some quarantine restrictions relaxed, we are now allowed to travel within the province of Navarra. So we rented a car on two successive weekends and headed out. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>The sacred salmon</b><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About two weeks ago a Pamplona guy bagged a 10-pound salmon within minutes after the season officially opened. He caught in the Bidasoa River near Bera, a place we visited on Sunday (May 24). It's up in the mountains quite close to France. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxPjI5DlFsnDzqyPvSdHVsU_f5uKhPoM8b3mgUSMgtrKcBY_gRYuuoNwdzc0s8n6CUKs6QoXVXASGWFOvz5HK0SJz-RgaQ-vOkhxZMk7dv5FAeG_FLAf_hL4DkKo9-3Kl4ups/s1600/first+salmon+of+the+year+in+pamplons.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1342" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxPjI5DlFsnDzqyPvSdHVsU_f5uKhPoM8b3mgUSMgtrKcBY_gRYuuoNwdzc0s8n6CUKs6QoXVXASGWFOvz5HK0SJz-RgaQ-vOkhxZMk7dv5FAeG_FLAf_hL4DkKo9-3Kl4ups/s640/first+salmon+of+the+year+in+pamplons.png" width="640" /></a></div><div>
A restaurant in San Sebastian offered him 500 euros (about $550) for the <i>lehenbiziko</i> (first salmon<i>, </i>in Basque)<i>. </i>But David Miranda thought it would dishonor the <i>lehenbiziko</i>. He saved it for a celebratory family dinner. Basque culture and customs run deep here. The writer for the Diario de Navarra newspaper adopted <b><a href="https://www.diariodenavarra.es/noticias/navarra/zona-norte/2020/05/18/el-primer-salmon-del-bidasoa-690471-1009.html" target="_blank"><i>a dramatic, literary style</i></a></b> to tell the tale. The salmon population has been recovering in recent years. Dams have been removed and pollution reduced. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We visited Bera on a Sunday morning a few days later.<br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmhgZjg2bnhGOQh-RW2c9gEEIhnLDTGiywe_Uqcrhw7G8zC3WnUc24JiimUh7yViM-vZgDsJRHvoR9FftTIBYhfMQnQDbZ7Uhtak_iwQwW0Ry1lpLZF92T_XOwdO5S0BE0kt6/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmhgZjg2bnhGOQh-RW2c9gEEIhnLDTGiywe_Uqcrhw7G8zC3WnUc24JiimUh7yViM-vZgDsJRHvoR9FftTIBYhfMQnQDbZ7Uhtak_iwQwW0Ry1lpLZF92T_XOwdO5S0BE0kt6/w640-h480/sunday+morning+bera+town+hall.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The town hall (<i>ayuntamiento</i>) and square in Bera. At 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, there normally should be a crowd of people coming up to the church. This day, no mass. There were small gatherings of people at cafes and restaurants, tables six feet apart. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRKil-_yrF5BOrq7a7nL4ahVZoZ6X7ljwkX2FvzFDMlUrcGw-KDVOHCDGeq9SjvVRO7m8VcIIDB_4gORPxhxwCXZJTX2AqBIDtYlBaIfn1mRavN3GjcKkxmkVD7J-JcPFJEQi/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRKil-_yrF5BOrq7a7nL4ahVZoZ6X7ljwkX2FvzFDMlUrcGw-KDVOHCDGeq9SjvVRO7m8VcIIDB_4gORPxhxwCXZJTX2AqBIDtYlBaIfn1mRavN3GjcKkxmkVD7J-JcPFJEQi/w400-h300/bridge+in+bera%252C+spanish+fought+napoleon.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In 1813 a small group of British troops "fighting heroically for the independence of Spain" defended this San Miguel bridge against a much larger division of Napoleon's army.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>
Bera's location near the border has made it a focal point in historic conflicts. During the Civil War, 1936-39, thousands of Republicans fled the Fascist regime to the friendlier France. Bera is the marker farthest north on the map below.<br />
<br /><iframe height="380" src="https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/embed?mid=1MJwDyKnCMV6N50AuCDIiju6EVSNSjNJj" width="500"></iframe>
<br /><div>The map shows the places we visited during five days of feverish travel after being confined for two months because of the corona virus.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>A nature hike</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">Among
the other places we visited on Sunday was a park called Bertizko Jaurerria Parke
Naturala in the town of Mugairi. It has an arboretum, and it is the jumping-off point for
several hiking trails. There was one 4-mile route we thought we could
handle. For the first mile or so it was all uphill, very steep. Then we
traversed a ridge through forest that started out as mainly oak, then
European chestnut (<i>castaña</i> in Spanish, used to make castanets), and then beech. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The
European chestnuts are supposed to be quite long-lived, some for more
than a thousand years. They seem to survive by creating new selves
within the old. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6zW8Ta3OKwMwkx9IJ85pSpYSdNkSjDOiAyrmKiRBJXzkpjyY7LVv-qk70eHQA6_xfJIJPgSj_w0g73qRQd8owX8CXjG_Y7JtdK-itoL59AKWIunhmhzyTh7hJgOL0HDypUMV/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6zW8Ta3OKwMwkx9IJ85pSpYSdNkSjDOiAyrmKiRBJXzkpjyY7LVv-qk70eHQA6_xfJIJPgSj_w0g73qRQd8owX8CXjG_Y7JtdK-itoL59AKWIunhmhzyTh7hJgOL0HDypUMV/w300-h400/cindy+and+european+chestnut.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">European chestnut.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCSe68wu6vnQH5lpbif74-3tf-rK4IziYkY7KvED4j_Iuqhsl3l1bU2EWMu61iXUnNC1pzKnvKUbE9CxgDEDGyil7IwjPpqOroNLfJSH7uj7QmvPaF5W0e0WI6dF4Y_usmNalA/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCSe68wu6vnQH5lpbif74-3tf-rK4IziYkY7KvED4j_Iuqhsl3l1bU2EWMu61iXUnNC1pzKnvKUbE9CxgDEDGyil7IwjPpqOroNLfJSH7uj7QmvPaF5W0e0WI6dF4Y_usmNalA/w480-h640/stream+in+the+park.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We crossed dozens of little streams along the ridge.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFdVHBPC-oXR-kZVTvfWT9_eKsW-pJGPOM6-btKHgZPy0aWh81qti0znTEa3pToQ-PfPGxUjAlp3kPNtFvfsLaUhh3CV9SecJ76Qa3ivZiLKHcgmufpYZYT1MV8hHT_DVI0uw/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFdVHBPC-oXR-kZVTvfWT9_eKsW-pJGPOM6-btKHgZPy0aWh81qti0znTEa3pToQ-PfPGxUjAlp3kPNtFvfsLaUhh3CV9SecJ76Qa3ivZiLKHcgmufpYZYT1MV8hHT_DVI0uw/w300-h400/purple+flowers.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Purple foxglove, one of many wildflowers in Bertizko Jaurerria Parke
Naturala </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div><b>Abárzuza and the Irantzu River canyon</b><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But before we got to Bera that weekend, Cindy picked out a hike up the canyon of the Irantzu River. The trail starts at a historic monastery near Abárzuza, southwest of Pamplona.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJuvpEFAk_NpX7TEXpTPPMslS-WfLvZGjHq3vvkA_Sjgqyo-JDZLm86ZpWe__cz_Azf1uDQXA-8xTNhIvIfqQhNL0o52SyEQ6M0hr-0c0rx8n_aECqB4CraCeDA87T40VaL-n/s1600/cindy+in+Irantzu+canyon.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJuvpEFAk_NpX7TEXpTPPMslS-WfLvZGjHq3vvkA_Sjgqyo-JDZLm86ZpWe__cz_Azf1uDQXA-8xTNhIvIfqQhNL0o52SyEQ6M0hr-0c0rx8n_aECqB4CraCeDA87T40VaL-n/s640/cindy+in+Irantzu+canyon.png" width="480" /></a><br /><br /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Irantzu Canyon. The river, at this point just a stream, runs along the left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><div style="text-align: left;">In one of the nearby villages, Mués, is a sculpture garden that is a memorial for local people assassinated by the fascist forces in 1936. The sculptures, by a local man named Pablo Nogales, actually seem inspired by some of the wind-worn and water-abraded surfaces of the Irantzu canyon. We saw Nogales sculptures in several of the nearby villages. Some in medieval style, like the one of the pilgrim below, and others more abstract. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Related:</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-town-in-need-of-some-consonants-aoiz.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #213abb; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" target="_blank">A town in need of some consonants: Aoiz</a><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/06/birthplace-of-st-ignatius-loyola-and.html" style="color: #213abb; text-decoration: none;">The north coast of Spain and the birthplace of Ignatius Loyola</a></div><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/05/more-exploring-in-navarra-at-source-of.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #213abb; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Exploring Navarra: the source of the rivers</a><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-walled-city-of-artajona-and-ancient.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #213abb; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The walled city of Artajona and ancient burial grounds</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CPCZwwnLfnC6qcE1CZp1NXEKoOuj7jQ8kILpMR0I4MF391GwQhhcttzsIf8veJOlHp19F8z_EozrD3xHKZsDvsZI70vD2DwGKWW53QzAKDyGEL9Shma9qtlMYuhTjVg9BlnF/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CPCZwwnLfnC6qcE1CZp1NXEKoOuj7jQ8kILpMR0I4MF391GwQhhcttzsIf8veJOlHp19F8z_EozrD3xHKZsDvsZI70vD2DwGKWW53QzAKDyGEL9Shma9qtlMYuhTjVg9BlnF/w300-h400/IMG_5645.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pilgrim. Mués is on the Camino de Santiago.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCq4e54dID5DclhWmSolfKTr3DMijWV1DUj_b5j4Xv2lqiYLhVYGuJVU8IPH6D4_d8gMyCsUp6ugaav0LMk6mWVMv6rxEcVgSdfLv3GlZ6bpzQaxvFevMroaKqA5SfwyMVxVe0/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCq4e54dID5DclhWmSolfKTr3DMijWV1DUj_b5j4Xv2lqiYLhVYGuJVU8IPH6D4_d8gMyCsUp6ugaav0LMk6mWVMv6rxEcVgSdfLv3GlZ6bpzQaxvFevMroaKqA5SfwyMVxVe0/w480-h640/IMG_5648.png" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A couple and child (to the right). The texture recalls the rock faces in the Irantzu canyon. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-78997887155712127962020-05-28T11:01:00.002-04:002020-05-31T05:01:06.244-04:00Some pre-quarantine travels to Albarracín and TeruelWe did some travel over Christmas--Pittsburgh, New York City, Karlsruhe, Germany. And after Christmas, before the corona virus hit, we went pretty far southeast, to <b><i><a href="https://www.turismodearagon.com/en/ficha/albarracin/" target="_blank">Albarracín</a> </i></b>and <b><i><a href="https://www.turismodearagon.com/en/ficha/teruel/" target="_blank">Teruel</a></i></b>, where there was still a lot of snow.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9HWtPEzRHC446-p0ul-XBp08U9osZIrtMJw8YUH_4yyhl0qw9FjIAA53oU9ViLSnm7IUIGrWLLmy1U9LQAOVPgBPHLkqc-HxCjkByhDavhmZKLbknRoFBVQ46AD6KK72g8qL/s1600/IMG_5506.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9HWtPEzRHC446-p0ul-XBp08U9osZIrtMJw8YUH_4yyhl0qw9FjIAA53oU9ViLSnm7IUIGrWLLmy1U9LQAOVPgBPHLkqc-HxCjkByhDavhmZKLbknRoFBVQ46AD6KK72g8qL/s400/IMG_5506.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Albarracín is famous for its Moorish wall and fortress.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9aNGvHw4sqYJ4Qqu-3e28-OiSZL3ZkfClkThVKCvlGdnp64nskK7Wss9PQ-qXNnWGhUoMIkbH9w3zcDo1cn-LBXPlUOTA9BydqDvC9AqRB6nYgdz-_9mkxKMW08JHz4S7nL1/s1600/cindy+above+albarracin.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="1600" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9aNGvHw4sqYJ4Qqu-3e28-OiSZL3ZkfClkThVKCvlGdnp64nskK7Wss9PQ-qXNnWGhUoMIkbH9w3zcDo1cn-LBXPlUOTA9BydqDvC9AqRB6nYgdz-_9mkxKMW08JHz4S7nL1/s400/cindy+above+albarracin.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cindy above Albarracín</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The towers of Teruel.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMH5SPfKt8o7MJB51Unql11pOPB77uYx-NxbDE9RHpcI6vGXmd0xrwMyTEYM3RIvtk-1gDnQF0X0XKygeJtTfVpwY1fTucDEmCb-FxdVO2_7EjH2XUolW6x0FnH-ha7S6GX1M/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMH5SPfKt8o7MJB51Unql11pOPB77uYx-NxbDE9RHpcI6vGXmd0xrwMyTEYM3RIvtk-1gDnQF0X0XKygeJtTfVpwY1fTucDEmCb-FxdVO2_7EjH2XUolW6x0FnH-ha7S6GX1M/s320/teruel+art+museum%252C+snow+sculpture.png" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A snowman in the sculpture garden in Teruel</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teruel's aqueduct <b><i><a href="http://www.patrimonioculturaldearagon.es/bienes-culturales/acueducto-viaducto-de-los-arcos-teruel">dates from the 1500s</a></i></b>. </td></tr>
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We also went hiking through a nearby park that was <b><i><a href="https://www.allavamos.es/recorrido-por-las-pinturas-rupestres-de-albarracin-sierra-de-albarracin-teruel/" target="_blank">famous for its rock paintings</a></i></b>, which are 5,000 to 7,000 years old. Actually, <b><i><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=dibujos+rupestres+teruel&tbm=isch&chips=q:dibujos+rupestres+teruel,online_chips:albarrac%C3%ADn&client=firefox-b-d&hl=en&ved=2ahUKEwiassqu5NbpAhXO4YUKHcehCdYQ4lYoAXoECAEQFw&biw=1307&bih=693" target="_blank">these pictures </a></i></b>give you a better idea of the rock paintings than the ones we were able to get.</div>
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We enjoyed the hike in spite of the snow and cold.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rock paintings are protected, hard to get close to.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGcRyhZ_vnVTwTXjPC2Cw96R6nPTYJPpRjJK6nOBqn8FBgCLulELm8ia_CUDu0Jmpcg95FuvvClF0I6g6viIVhJFhdEHzKm4ss9ZWWFQYsb4Jt3nTTBylDFo-nvEHus9XLXjh/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1504" data-original-width="2056" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGcRyhZ_vnVTwTXjPC2Cw96R6nPTYJPpRjJK6nOBqn8FBgCLulELm8ia_CUDu0Jmpcg95FuvvClF0I6g6viIVhJFhdEHzKm4ss9ZWWFQYsb4Jt3nTTBylDFo-nvEHus9XLXjh/s320/Screen+Shot+2020-05-28+at+4.45.35+PM.png" width="604" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of rocks to choose from for a rock painter.</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-8566164387476673752020-05-23T14:24:00.003-04:002020-07-07T09:07:51.553-04:00We explore the province of Navarra: mountains, churchesTwo weeks ago, the government lifted some quarantine restrictions in some areas of Spain where there have been fewer cases of covid-19. Since then we have been exploring Navarra.<br />
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On Friday, we drove about a half-hour northwest of Pamplona to the Sierra de Aralar, which has lots of mountain hiking trails. I can hear Cindy on a video call with her siblings right now, and she is describing it as "awful". It was sunny, 85 degrees, uphill. What's not to like? Seriously. I enjoyed it.<br />
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We were lost, however. The maps of the various trails were very confusing (<i><b><a href="https://www.turismo.navarra.es/eng/organice-viaje/recurso.aspx?o=4074" target="_blank">here's the map of the trails</a> </b></i>leading from the village of Iribas, where we started), and we weren't sure exactly where we were except that we were somewhere on a mountain. At one point, as we tried to figure out where we were, we stopped to rest, and some cows came down the trail from the direction we were headed.</div>
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We were a little bit scared. The cows entered the clearing where we were resting and blocked the trail in both directions. And they were so close, they looked enormous, even though they were very docile. We don't know from cows.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Basque house in Iruntzu, starting point for many hikers.</td></tr>
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Today, Saturday, we decided to take advantage of the cloudy, cool weather to hike up to the top of the mountain El Perdón (Forgiveness). It's about seven or eight miles or so from our house to the top of Perdón, but we decided we would just do the top part, from the village of Zariquiegui (a Basque name, pronounced zar-ee-key-AY-gy). We drove there and parked the car we rented. </div>
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We were in no hurry, so we spent a lot of time admiring the tiny wildflowers that were all along the path. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdia61rkbgh2qEO1jYpHXKh94ndE_XA9s4fg4aMSY36cpIIg0HQie-3eWq1pQ89U61cQbG515BHV0_0kKDzDiraEc8PiMLOA4m_QhQPgF5z-vN70OJSwLdttGgBXujayEsN9aD/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdia61rkbgh2qEO1jYpHXKh94ndE_XA9s4fg4aMSY36cpIIg0HQie-3eWq1pQ89U61cQbG515BHV0_0kKDzDiraEc8PiMLOA4m_QhQPgF5z-vN70OJSwLdttGgBXujayEsN9aD/w640-h480/purple+wildflowers+on+the+camino.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This purple wildflower (viper's bugloss, <i>Echium vulgare</i>) looks even more fascinating the closer to it that you get.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZK5E5rFNS3c8hTdqJLlamGTI7O-N68W6Ij6BPMJOs6oMnmO6y3RluAfvAwBz8ERWJTxZg_suFHmeo9NJ9l9vdjzmALIeXcw5tpenvCNnq2d-WlXbuHKV8EpxyCskxK9zfTzE/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZK5E5rFNS3c8hTdqJLlamGTI7O-N68W6Ij6BPMJOs6oMnmO6y3RluAfvAwBz8ERWJTxZg_suFHmeo9NJ9l9vdjzmALIeXcw5tpenvCNnq2d-WlXbuHKV8EpxyCskxK9zfTzE/w400-h300/more+little+flowers.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Asters and allies, according to my iNaturalist app.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMdWtN9S4XBc8_Gdq5XGRjY7cQdAc8rb4q8MVoi3WOXjDlwsXUyAEXTXbYpmuH_LBZiPAYd5svs9u9iBO32YhELwIP66dFWLtd6h6FKuZejzsJKjM8CtzB7CVkexg7Nu7CPMK/s1600/jim+photographing+on+camino.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMdWtN9S4XBc8_Gdq5XGRjY7cQdAc8rb4q8MVoi3WOXjDlwsXUyAEXTXbYpmuH_LBZiPAYd5svs9u9iBO32YhELwIP66dFWLtd6h6FKuZejzsJKjM8CtzB7CVkexg7Nu7CPMK/s400/jim+photographing+on+camino.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Get close to those little flowers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYRCGKL3wrtvvFxzyh1PwbH4epI-U8CndN00wl9LLxFsd5ZIKTz6IHbP3KqsTartiNF0O_DSmG7LOcCsC2wx_M7d5RV6M8cBxzL42roU8jbr8v88MqKKEK3ReLTjsYiLhJGDW/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYRCGKL3wrtvvFxzyh1PwbH4epI-U8CndN00wl9LLxFsd5ZIKTz6IHbP3KqsTartiNF0O_DSmG7LOcCsC2wx_M7d5RV6M8cBxzL42roU8jbr8v88MqKKEK3ReLTjsYiLhJGDW/w240-h320/more+wildflowers.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cindy on the Camino.</td></tr>
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The path from Zariquiegui up to Perdón is one that we have walked with Mary, Tom and Nancy, Lainie and Joe and Danny (Jimmy was nursing an injury), Timmy and Mady. . . . so we're waiting for Betsy and Tom, Mike and Mourine, Danny, and Rich and Janet. </div>
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The path, by the way, is part of the Camino of Santiago, a pilgrimage route that is more than 1,000 years old. The route leades to the city of Santiago de Compostela in the northwest of Spain. </div>
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The Camino passes right through Pamplona. In fact, it passes right through the campus of the University of Navarra, where I teach. So I have often see pilgrims as I walk to work at around 7:30 in the morning. What's the attraction? The legend is that some of the mortal remains of St. James (Santiago), one of the 12 Apostles lie in the church. </div>
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All along <a href="https://followthecamino.com/camino-de-santiago-routes/"><b><i>the pilgrimage route</i></b> </a>through the north of Spain, there are great cathdrals built, in part, with the contributions of pilgrims. We have visited some of them. Burgos has a wonderful cathedral. We also visited one in Arcos a few weeks ago.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The yellow line marks the Camino route that passes through Pamplona. The route is about 500 miles from the French border, and many people take around 30 days to walk it. Much of it is quite hilly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flat steel sculptures of pilgrims from the Middle Ages on the peak of Perdón. More wind-power generators are on the ridge in the distance.</td></tr>
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Last week we visited one of the churches northeast of Pamplona that is also on the Camino. In Los Arcos. It is modest outside, magnificent inside. We happened to walk in as someone was practicing on the organ, which dates from the 18th century.</div>
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But I digress.</div>
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<b>The grain in Spain</b></div>
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It was extremely windy today on the top of Perdón, and the wind generators were whump-whump-whumping. The ones in this photo are around 150 feet high to the point of the rotor. Some of the blades are manufactured here in Pamplona. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's Cindy at the bottom, to give you a sense of scale.</td></tr>
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You may recall that Don Quixote, that famous latter-day knight created by Cervantes, mounted his trusty steed, Rocinante, to attack what his deluded mind saw as ferocious giants. In reality, they were windmills. The point being that even in 1600, when Cervantes was writing his comic epic, wind power had been harnessed for processing the grain in Spain.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgI_TF1jcW68etx4x_CcxCECccyg35mjqOk8tLh0UVky79eQFJ_81fjnisuP8i5uvkm_B2SgBqY16USGTzRcUG5OvTPY_vU8-2IdNwgqLKelcg6AgKBTCDuY1JcNtbIJJ-Ixs/s1600/view+from+the+camino.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgI_TF1jcW68etx4x_CcxCECccyg35mjqOk8tLh0UVky79eQFJ_81fjnisuP8i5uvkm_B2SgBqY16USGTzRcUG5OvTPY_vU8-2IdNwgqLKelcg6AgKBTCDuY1JcNtbIJJ-Ixs/s640/view+from+the+camino.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The view from up there is fantastic: dozens of little villages, a patchwork of farm fields, and off in the distance, the foothills of the Pyrenees. But our smartphone photos flatten everything out. That's the tradeoff for not using a more sophisticated camera. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Navarre, Spain42.6953909 -1.676069114.385157063821154 -36.8323191 71.005624736178845 33.4801809tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-4518867333093563732020-05-05T06:26:00.003-04:002020-05-29T00:38:07.801-04:00Economists ask, What is a mother worth?Sunday was Mother's Day, which got me thinking about our Mom and how much we appreciated her. You can't put a price on that. Or can you? Should you? I think we all should put a price on motherhood.<br />
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It took economics for me to change a lot of my thinking about mothers and motherhood. Actually, those ideas had been changing slowly over a long period of time. But things really got started when I read an article about, of all things, the history of the statistic we know as the <b>Gross National Product, or GDP. </b><br />
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I was preparing to teach several courses at the University of Navarra in Spain. They had invited me as visting professor of communication, and I was supposed to teach economics and the economics of media. I was fearful of being revealed as a fraud.<br />
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Although I had written about business and economics for most of three decades, my formal education in the field consisted of a solitary but memorable introductory course taken in college a century ago.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpQJumCzd68ux3nvf9V1SB-6hG0EtShPk0lwwLU9hUq6ikEakofJdOKjYsxqNylQ6eHDDA2ZgbtZr4P7TY7YFQ4aJGr3O1SuVSr7v0jeXqn8i8eCpn4qDWl9BmX3Mr4ac9rL7/s1600/pixabay+lecture+hall.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpQJumCzd68ux3nvf9V1SB-6hG0EtShPk0lwwLU9hUq6ikEakofJdOKjYsxqNylQ6eHDDA2ZgbtZr4P7TY7YFQ4aJGr3O1SuVSr7v0jeXqn8i8eCpn4qDWl9BmX3Mr4ac9rL7/s320/pixabay+lecture+hall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not our university, but one like it. </td></tr>
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My new teaching colleague had written a book in Spanish called Economics for Communicators. Reading it made me realize that, although I had been applying economics theories in my journalism for years, I did not know or understand those theories well enough to be able to explain them to a bunch of 19-year-olds. Nothing is scarier than confronting a classroom of skeptics eager to expose your ignorance with ruthless glee. <br />
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So I was doing my homework on microeconomics and came upon an article in the Financial Times: <b><span style="color: blue;"><i><a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1qaqjrg3tBYSGN2mDm9FF0XVB2XKjKlhp/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Has GDP outgrown its use</a></i></span>. </b><br />
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<b>What GDP doesn't capture or value </b><br />
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The article made a couple of points that got me thinking about how society values what women do, and mothers in particular. GDP really grew out of the Depression of the 1930s. President Franklin D. Roosevelt wanted to know, in essence, how bad things were and which government policies could make things better, as <b>Diane Coyle </b>describes in the article mentioned above.<br />
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Coyle actually wrote a book about the history of GDP and many of its limitations. She noted that this widely used metric does not, for instance, put any value on whether a country is investing in its transportation or health-care infrastructure. <b>GDP doesn't include the value of many activities--for example, illegal drug sales, volunteering, or the work of a stay-at-home spouse and mother.</b><br />
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A parent's work includes giving an ethical and cultural education to the next generation so they can contribute their physical labor, ingenuity, and innovation to their community, even to putting their lives on the line to defend it. What is parenting worth?<br />
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If a parent's work in the home is valuable, economists can and should be able calculate its value--in market terms, a price. Prices help us decide whether we do or don't want to do things. Prices measure the value we place on certain social goals. Social Security and Medicare taxes are the price we are willing to pay to take care of older generations. Taxes on cigarettes are the price of damage to public health and a disincentive to smoke. <br />
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GDP also does not count the time that parents spend as volunteers on school, church, and recreation activities. This work brings value to the entire community through the contributions of the younger generation when they become adults--a positive externality, in economic terms. Mothers often bear most of the responsibility for this. <br />
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<b>The social agency as the extended family </b><br />
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When I got involved with the United Way in Baltimore, I visited lots of social service agencies. What struck me was that these agencies were usually attempting to replace the social supports that would be supplied by an <b>extended family</b>. From child care for working parents, to food and health care for the poor, to job training for the unemployed, many of these agencies were doing what you used to ask your cousin or uncle or sister-in-law to do for you. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Uncle Joe, could you see if you can find something for Marie? She's a good girl, been in some trouble, but she's smart, and wants to learn and just needs a job to get started. But she'll have to take time off once a week to meet with her parole officer." "OK, tell Marie to come by and I'll put her to work in our office." </blockquote>
These days we expect social service agencies to do that, and it has a
cost. And we expect Marie to work, but, who will take care of Marie's
baby boy? And who will drive her to work, since she can't afford a car and there is no public
transit that connects her home and work? Do we have an agency for that? And have we invested
enough in public transportation rather than wider expressways to the
suburbs?<br />
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<b>Measuring the right things to get the right results</b><br />
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I explained my misgivings about GDP's usefulness to an economist I know. "But it's the best thing we have," he said. "Everything else is opinions and anecdotes and political ideology."<br />
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GDP is often used to measure a country's economic well-being much like sports analysts evaluate a player by their batting average or points per game. But even sports analysts know that there are many other metrics that have to be taken into account to fairly evaluate a player.<br />
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So, economists and policy makers dissatisfied with GDP have developed a field of new metrics called <i><b><a href="https://www.investopedia.com/terms/h/happiness-economics.asp" target="_blank">Happiness Economics</a></b></i>. These metrics attempt to quantify how effectively policymakers are using their resources to<b> improve the quality of life</b> for their citizens. Investopedia explains some of the thinking this way:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
"For people earning low levels of income, many economists discovered
that more money does generally increase happiness as it enables a person
to buy goods and services considered essential to the basics of life
such as food, shelter, health care, and education. But there is believed
to be a threshold, somewhere in the region of $75,000, after which no
amount of extra money is reported to boost life satisfaction."<br />
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"Other
factors that impact happiness include the quality and type of work
people are doing, as well as the number of hours they are working.
Several studies show that job satisfaction is more important than income
levels. Boring repetitive jobs may give little joy, while
self-employment or work in creative skilled jobs can lead to greater
satisfaction."</blockquote>
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One study in this field is the annual <i><b><a href="https://worldhappiness.report/" target="_blank">World Happiness Report.</a></b></i> It ranks countries on GDP but also on how effectively they are performing on quality-of-life measures such as household income, life expentancy, infant mortality, public corruption, public safety, and, yes, individual optimism or pessimism. Just how these rankings are calculated--sources of data, the weight given each factor--is explained in impressively technical detail in the report. The metrics are constantly being revised and updated.<br />
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In the graphic below, notice that the U.S. ranks 18th in the happiness index although it has very high GDP per person. Many Latin American countries rank much higher than you might expect. It's because people there have strong social connections with their communities--extended family being one factor. The full list of 153 countries is on p. 19 of the report. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-ngYs30wWkrxBRUdnku7dZvocNU2izyIrm1kvST6Y6jcGMv4EXX59FKoUmzTrr_akX_IBnUUWql62osF0w3VaRibyRioB2p_CHKOoFlJLWyPneITzNYR9nh0kgC24nQpVgJe/s1600/World+Happiness+Rankings.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1450" data-original-width="1428" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-ngYs30wWkrxBRUdnku7dZvocNU2izyIrm1kvST6Y6jcGMv4EXX59FKoUmzTrr_akX_IBnUUWql62osF0w3VaRibyRioB2p_CHKOoFlJLWyPneITzNYR9nh0kgC24nQpVgJe/s400/World+Happiness+Rankings.png" width="393" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to enlarge. P. 19, World Happiness Report 2020</td></tr>
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<b>Back to Mom </b><br />
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So, all of this reading got me thinking about how I personally valued what mothers do. The self-examination left me feeling ashamed. In doing genealogical research, for example, I had focused way too much on tracing the paternal lines of our ancestors. I neglected the stories of how the women had contributed to the family history. If you will, the family's happiness score. <br />
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The reflection made me think about the time 25 years ago that I hired a woman who was a few months pregnant. She had very good credentials. Our understanding was that she would tell us when she needed to leave to have her baby and when she wanted to return.<br />
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There was no paid maternity leave, but she and her husband didn't need the income. She simply wanted to work as a journalist. She also wanted to breast-feed the baby, her first. I was not as accommodating as I could have been with her unconventional schedule. After a few weeks, she left. It bothers me that I didn't place enough value on what she was trying to do for her child. It didn't fit our business model. It also didn't fit our society's model at the time for valuing motherhood, child care, and family stability.<br />
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Another realization, also was gradual. Over the years I had slowly come to appreciate how much more time Cindy spent than I did on the work of raising our three kids, despite working full time. She focused more energy than I on finding the right day care for them, then monitoring whether they did their homework, shopping for their clothes, worrying about their lunches and dinners, paying attention to their schedules of non-school activities, taking them to church, etc., etc., etc. I was involved but never as much. Not by a longshot.<br />
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For many years, Cindy worked from home as a senior computer programmer and analyst. She took time off, however, when our third and youngest, Patrick, was born. Before returning to work, she spent a great deal of time researching where to find the best day-care for Patrick. Not until then was she ready to go back to work.<br />
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If our three kids are productive members of society--and they are--it is largely because of her work. In order to produce more Cindys, society has to find the right mix of services and incentives so that this work of mothering (or parenting, to tip the hat to fathers doing this work) gets done well. We didn't need financial support, but others do. This is especially true these days in developed economies, when both parents work, either by choice or necessity. All of society benefits from their work.<br />
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<b>The work of grandparents </b><br />
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We have lived in Spain for five years and in China for two, and grandparents play an important economic role in both countries. Grandparents take kids for walks or for play in the parks. They take care of their grandkids during the day so the young parents can work. This
arrangement surely existed for the last 100,000 years or so of <i>homo sapiens</i>. I mention this because it goes back to the mention above of the importance of the <b>extended family</b>. In these two countries, several generations of a family often live within a few minutes drive of each other.<br />
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In the U.S., we push kids out the door at 18. They go to college or take jobs far from home. This is good for the economy--free labor markets, free movement, upward economic mobility--but it comes at a social cost. Very often, parents with children live too far from the rest of their families to help them through the many crises they confront. The social cost of this separation is measurable in the price we pay for private social service agencies and public social safety nets to replace what the extended family does for a person.<br />
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<b>Value creation for society</b><br />
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Cindy's mom, Dorothy Kuhn, worked from home as a piano teacher to help support the family. My mom, Ruth Breiner, went to work in a public library as soon as her youngest, Betsy, started school. <br />
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My mother's mother, Anna Lavelle, went to work at 15 when her father died, leaving behind 10 children. My mother's grandmother, Anna Gilles Hausser, was left a widow at 38, with four children. She and her oldest son and daughter then took over and ran the family bakery business. My father's mother, Magdalena Frowerk, went to work in a shirt factory as a teenager and helped support her family.<br />
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<b>Who's saving us from covid-19? </b><br />
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One of the many discoveries of the covid-19 crisis has been that many of the front-line jobs defined as "essential"--grocery store clerks, nurses, health care workers, social workers, meat packers--are women. Just look around you.<br />
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These are people who can't work from home. They have to take public transit or drive to work. If they don't work, they don't get paid and lose their health insurance, if they are lucky enough to have it. And these are the people who are most at risk of getting infected.<br />
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A new study by the Brookings Institution, a think tank, found that among the top five occupations with the most exposure to the disease, three of them--nurses, home health care workers, and meat packers--were making less than $12 an hour (<b><i><a href="https://www.brookings.edu/research/how-to-protect-essential-workers-during-covid-19/" target="_blank">the chart is at this link</a></i></b>). And many of these jobs are held by immigrants and women (more on this <a href="https://www.npr.org/transcripts/848829948" target="_blank"><i><b>in a podcast</b></i> </a>from The Indicator from Planet Money).<br />
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Compare that $12 an hour to the emergency unemployment benefit from the federal government: $15 an hour ($600 a week), but these essential workers can't quit and go on unemployment, even though unemployment
would pay more. They have to be laid off. But employers need them, so
that won't happen. <br />
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In the U.S. we have a legal system that operates on the presumption that you are innocent until proven guilty. But in our social welfare system, it's the opposite: you are deemed to be unworthy--either lazy or stupid or faking it--unless proven otherwise. In Europe, the presumption is the opposite: if you are poor, it's probably not your fault. If some fakers and gold-bricks get through, that's a price they're willing to pay to make sure the truly needy are helped. <br />
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So what is a mother worth? What is the care and love of a parent worth to society in terms of forming the next generation of contributors to the strength and stability of the community, to the next bearers of the community's cultural heritage? Whatever that value is, we in the U.S. have not begun to recognize it in our public policies. We need to treat each mother as if she were our own mother. And that means more than sending her a card and flowers once a year. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-87856997085077061412020-04-08T02:16:00.001-04:002020-04-15T09:27:15.600-04:00Letter from Spain: Living in isolation, Day 24<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpjHlRqUdU-HnACrIyy6UcvdZ3ABUfr2bueQl6hXxM1F7AWY-yOCFKV5mvXtQzz8_WCZGNslcblABh9HiuZ-Ppng5yJTKea5rzlQX2v1XpZs6LR47YY6dRCpSmECQGZfsrZU3-/s1600/Pamplona+from+balcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpjHlRqUdU-HnACrIyy6UcvdZ3ABUfr2bueQl6hXxM1F7AWY-yOCFKV5mvXtQzz8_WCZGNslcblABh9HiuZ-Ppng5yJTKea5rzlQX2v1XpZs6LR47YY6dRCpSmECQGZfsrZU3-/s400/Pamplona+from+balcony.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our balcony in Pamplona. Outside, it's spring. </td></tr>
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I felt the first impact of the corona virus on March 12. Attendance in my Economics class was abnormally low, only 11 of the 24 students. Normally, I have attendance rates of close to 90%.<br />
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What happened? The numbers of sick and dead in Spain had started to rise. The fear was Spain might become another China, Iran, or Italy, where the virus was infecting and killing thousands.<br />
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I heard that students from Latin America and Asia were getting phone calls from worried parents, telling them to come home. News of growing numbers of infections in Europe had spooked them. Besides, the Easter break was nearing, and they wanted their kids home for all the traditional family gatherings.<br />
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My Chinese students told me by email that they had gone home because health standards were higher there than in Spain, where people were still behaving as though there was no danger. They would be safer in their home country, they believed. (These two students and a Japanese student were immediately put into quarantine upon arrival back home. As of a few days ago, all are safe.)<br />
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Still, the <a href="https://www.unav.edu/en/home" target="_blank">Universidad de Navarra</a>, where I teach, had not yet canceled classes in Pamplona. I told students that for our next class, as an experiment, we would have class virtually, via a Zoom teleconference. "Just an experiment," I told them.<br />
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Then I <b>went for a swim at a public pool. </b>Far fewer swimmers than normal. Afterwards, I asked the lifeguard if I was taking a risk of catching the virus from other swimmers. After all, the water is in and out of people's mouths and noses. "Nah, no worries," he said. "The chlorine will kill anything in the water." Still, I made a mental note not to use the pool again. The next day, city authorities closed all the pools and community centers. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw4vu8-V09jB2i6NzD-2Ef7Nt4YqXZrK4z6Vq7DDKeNrbDti_9-7e3DSyaGsVeW60rcjh0fbKDb8TEqwM6qe0d-jvRX_zDew5RvLat0I0PSccpJxvFYo6GNUqj_k-ygHSVRx0/s1600/police+car+on+our+street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1379" data-original-width="1600" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw4vu8-V09jB2i6NzD-2Ef7Nt4YqXZrK4z6Vq7DDKeNrbDti_9-7e3DSyaGsVeW60rcjh0fbKDb8TEqwM6qe0d-jvRX_zDew5RvLat0I0PSccpJxvFYo6GNUqj_k-ygHSVRx0/s400/police+car+on+our+street.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A patrol car stopped on our street today. A municipal police car like this one stopped me while I was jogging on a
bike path in a park. National and provincial police are also patrolling
the streets of Pamplona to enforce the lockdown.</td></tr>
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<b>Busted: "Stay home" </b><br />
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Two days later, March 14, President Pedro Sanchez issued a decree<a href="https://nyti.ms/2WbrFmo" target="_blank"> declaring a nationwide lockdown </a>to prevent the spread of the corona virus. Our university canceled classes. The decree required people to stay in their homes unless they were going to shop for food, medicine, or other essentials. Only essential workers would be allowed to circulate, going to and from work. At this point, <b>"essential services" included beauty parlors, banks, and tobacco stores, which also sell lottery tickets.</b> <br />
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Three days after the decree, March 17, <b>I went out for a run </b>on a bike path through a park near our apartment. This was my third day in a row. I figured I wasn't risking contaminating anyone or getting infected, and I hadn't seen any police. As I rounded a bend, I saw a cop car stopped on the bike path, next to a couple of dog walkers, so I turned around and headed back home.<br />
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Then I heard a car coming up behind me on the path. The cop pulled up beside me and waved me over to the passenger window. <b>The cop scolded me</b> and said I was not supposed to be out of my apartment. Then he got out, asked me for my ID. I didn't have it, I said, because I was just wearing running shorts.<br />
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The cop looked frustrated and angry. He told me he was going to issue a citation and fine me. Then he asked for name, address, birthday, foreign ID number, and telephone number and wrote it all down in a tiny notebook. I had to correct him a couple of times when he repeated the information back to me. I use Latin American pronunciation, which confuses people sometimes. <br />
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I forgot to ask the cop what the fine would be. Later I saw in the paper that fines were ranging from 100 to 600 euros, about $110 to $660. As of April 7, I haven't gotten a letter. Maybe he'll lose track of his notes or transpose a couple of digits.<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/reuters/2020/03/25/world/europe/25reuters-health-coronavirus-spain-quarantine.html" target="_blank"><b> Dog walkers, it turns out, are exempt from these restrictions.</b></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidbgXZe45pWXCDQEzvRbfHVItdJN6re31JhyZ1Iall_e3qQKvjL1J7mMXIZSza_Vbf4-1XqL310Y6wM9ZvX4s5XAHc-cyPsDgwVdN8wxi-wjTcDaZn6fgA8vuCWrB2BOoE9uC-/s1600/eroski+ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidbgXZe45pWXCDQEzvRbfHVItdJN6re31JhyZ1Iall_e3qQKvjL1J7mMXIZSza_Vbf4-1XqL310Y6wM9ZvX4s5XAHc-cyPsDgwVdN8wxi-wjTcDaZn6fgA8vuCWrB2BOoE9uC-/s640/eroski+ad.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A supermarket chain offers advice for shoppers the week before Easter: "plan ahead, make a list, shop during the least busy times, stay 6 feet apart". And at the lower left, a hashtag slogan to share on social media: "With you [now] more than ever". </td></tr>
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<b> Restrictions even tighter </b><br />
<br />
A week after the original decree, <a href="https://www.lavanguardia.com/politica/20200322/4825005059/coronavirus-sanchez-comunica-autonomias-prolongacion-15-dias-estado-de-alarma.html" target="_blank">President Sanchez extended the decree</a> to at least the end of March, and then to April 14. He tightened the restrictions even more to <a href="https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2020-04-02/spanish-virus-deaths-rise-past-10-000-with-950-new-fatalities" target="_blank">require some manufacturers to shut down,</a> effectively paralyzing the economy through at least the end of April.<br />
<br />
The result was that last week, just as in the U.S., <b>the number of unemployment claims</b> exploded. Spanish workers can absorb this kind of crisis better for a number of reasons.<br />
<ul>
<li>Unemployment benefits are extended for longer periods than in the U.S. </li>
<li>People don't lose their health coverage when they lose their job. The national health care system covers everyone, including Cindy and me, since I am a taxpayer and registered on their system.</li>
<li>Extended families are very tight here and provide a safety net that would require a dozen different social service agencies or charities in the U.S.</li>
<li>Also, there is an extensive underground cash-only labor market. So some people will be making money in spite of layoffs. <b></b></li>
</ul>
<br />
<b>Nightly applause for health care workers</b><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0G_6Ws5xn1APJORga61Xiy7XBtJFs9f4GBzd14caH73jIXChMADPE1_IiB02Wdmyt0pGvsZm1SDSRwJHQqjQXne5DfwzjiGNpYggr4mUD2wdMc5wzyIACvqwxNZGaMjRbc4hY/s1600/applause+for+health+care+workers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0G_6Ws5xn1APJORga61Xiy7XBtJFs9f4GBzd14caH73jIXChMADPE1_IiB02Wdmyt0pGvsZm1SDSRwJHQqjQXne5DfwzjiGNpYggr4mUD2wdMc5wzyIACvqwxNZGaMjRbc4hY/s320/applause+for+health+care+workers.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"To applaud, subscribe to the facts". By ElPais.com </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Each night at 8, people all across Spain get out on their balconies (multi-family, connected housing is the rule here) to applaud the health care workers who are risking their lives during the crisis. Neighbors call to each other across the streets and alleys. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jamesbreiner/videos/10157125082259849/?t=8" target="_blank">Channel 4 broadcasts images of this live every night.</a> It's very touching and a sign of solidarity. The message to the front-line health care workers is "we recognize your courage".<br />
<br />
My sister Mary, a photographer in Cleveland, Ohio, has been taking pictures of <a href="https://photos.shutterfly.com/story_invite/db923047-da41-4a7c-a487-a8d77b2c884a?cid=SHARALLI&_branch_match_id=616529799116839871" target="_blank">people out on their front porches</a>, maintaining social distancing. She is participating in a grass roots campaign called the <a href="https://www.thefrontstepsproject.com/" target="_blank">Front Steps Project </a>that encourages people to share these photos and contribute to local charities. The political folks may be trying to "control the narrative" for their point of view, but ordinary people are trying to show their solidarity, both in Spain and in the U.S.<br />
<br />
Here in Spain, the government is a tenuous left-leaning coalition led by the head of the Socialist party. Of course, there are right-wing polemics against the Socialist government's policies. But mostly people seem to have the spirit of pulling together. That may be easier here. Spain is so much smaller geographically and in population. And the crisis has been worse here. <br />
<br />
TV is full of public service messages by sports figures and celebrities emphasizing <b>#yomequedoencasa</b>, "I'm staying home."<b> Government officials were on TV tonight</b> emphasizing again that people must stay home this week, Holy Week. They must not attempt to visit family members, second homes, or condos at the beaches because the risk of spreading contagion still is great. Police are fining people and sending them back home. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8cUKVSSJmVqzQRgquTV2TuVgsgpoI089NCPGDHd4YEahZRk6r70D8MMumMyJ1aYCxF2i464BM_KHOJcHHQFD4aKmQ-gtAnjRnygMipCM0Wloy4SWhs305Dky8W5-xOW5_pP9/s1600/My+sister+Elaine%252C+her+husband+Joe%252C+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1440" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8cUKVSSJmVqzQRgquTV2TuVgsgpoI089NCPGDHd4YEahZRk6r70D8MMumMyJ1aYCxF2i464BM_KHOJcHHQFD4aKmQ-gtAnjRnygMipCM0Wloy4SWhs305Dky8W5-xOW5_pP9/s400/My+sister+Elaine%252C+her+husband+Joe%252C+.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solidarity while in isolation. My sister Lainie, her husband, Joe, their son Danny, and his girlfriend, Michelle. Part of my sister Mary's Front Steps project. Joe, a teacher, is giving his classes virtually. Lainie is a physical therapist, working part-time. Danny is an actuary working virtually. Michelle, principal french horn player in a symphony, is practicing several hours a day. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Our days and nights</b><br />
<br />
Cindy's routine has not changed much. She is retired. Her daily routine includes reading the books she has on Kindle, planning vacations that we may or may not ever take, organizing the hundreds of photographs she has taken in recent months, cleaning our 750-square-foot apartment, planning menus and shopping lists, tracking our expenses to the centavo, and other tasks that put things in order.<br />
<br />
Cindy used to have <b>lunch and English conversation sessions </b>once or twice
a week with various university professors and administrators. All that
has ended. <br />
<br />
Every day at around 1:30 she used to go for coffee at our local <b>cafe/bakery </b>and then on to the <b>supermarket.</b> Now the bakery allows only one person in at a time, and no one is allowed to sit down. The supermarket often has a line out the door, but it might take only 15 minutes or so to get inside.<br />
<br />
I went to the bakery several times during the lockdown to say hi to the owner and employees, who have become friends. Also I went to the supermarket but have stopped. We decided about two weeks ago that my leaving the apartment wasn't worth the risk. I'm in <b>two high-risk groups</b>. I take a drug for my gut that weakens my immune system. And I am officially an old person--on Social Security and Medicare.<br />
<br />
Cindy does an <b>exercise routine </b>involving some pilates and some aerobics. I've been doing about an hour a day, some aerobics and some pilates. After the run-in with the cop, I ran the stairs in our five-story apartment a few times. Then I decided the enclosed stairwells represented a risk, especially when I was breathing so hard. If any airborne cooties were floating around, I might inhale them. <br />
<br />
<b>WhatsApp nights, Zoom classes</b><br />
<br />
We have nearly daily WhatsApp video conversations with Bridget and Will in Germany, and Christine and Ada in New York City. We also connect with Patrick and Jamie but less often.<br />
<br />
I have been giving my classes on Zoom since March 17. Previously a class would consist of two 45-minute sessions with a 15-minute break. Now a Zoom class is 30 or 40 minutes total and the emphasis is not on a lecture but
on their questions and comments about reading material. Attendance has been good: 19 or 20 per class. Some of my kids are in Colombia, where a 10 a.m. class starts at 3 a.m., or Brazil, where it's 4 a.m. So I record the class for them<br />
<br />
The new online dynamic actually makes them more responsible for the material. In a traditional session, I would interpret the readings for them. I would show them how to be critical readers. Now, the burden is more on them.<br />
<br />
These are 18- and 19-year-olds with little or no experience in most things economic. So when I teach them about interest rates, and why a $100,000 loan for a home mortgage has an interest rate of only 4% while a credit card loan has a rate of 20% or 25%, they don't always get it right away. <br />
<br />
<b>Reading, writing, research</b><br />
<br />
Nobody believes it when I tell people how hard university professors work, even if they are actually teaching only 14 hours a week (as I was in the first semester) or 4 hours (this semester). My colleagues have to go to many meetings every week. There are committees and subcommittees and commissions and study groups. The model is 1,000 years old, from the first universities in Bologna, Oxford, Paris, and Salamanca, among other places. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, because I don't have a Ph.D. and am a mere assistant professor, I escape many of these meetings, but not all. However, my time is consumed by grading the many written assignments I give students. In the fall, with <b>270 students in three completely different courses</b>, that was exhausting. This semester, with 24 students in only one course, I'm surfing. <br />
<br />
So what else am I doing? I'm involved in <b>four academic research projects</b> that require lots of time for writing, reading, proofreading, and collaborating. Also, I scheduled some consulting gigs for this semester, two of which have been canceled. The third one is for a German publisher's foundation, <b>Deutsche Welle Akademie</b>, in which I am mentoring the founders of three journalism startups, one in Africa and two in Latin America.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There were also <b>two journalism conferences</b> that I was planning to attend, one in Italy and one in Austin, Texas. Both were canceled. I use those for networking and learning and collecting material for research. Here's a link to one of my research publications: <a href="https://isoj.org/research/social-capital-to-the-rescue-of-the-fourth-estate-a-playbook-for-converting-good-will-into-economic-support/" target="_blank">Social Capital to the Rescue of the Fourth Estate: A Playbook for Converting Good Will into Economic Support.</a> And this one is in Spanish: <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://telos.fundaciontelefonica.com/telos-109-asuntos-de-comunicacion-james-briner-algunas-senales-de-la-revolucion-mediatica-desde-america-latina/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">A return to public service and a focus on the user: Signs of the media revolution in Latin America.</span></a></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">I've started a reading program around <a href="https://jamesbreiner.com/more-routine-journalism-is-being-done-by-robots-is-that-good/" target="_blank">how artificial intelligence is affecting journalism.</a> It turns out that robots are faster and more accurate than humans at producing a lot of routine journalism, particularly sports and financial results. Most people, even journalists, can't always identify when an article was produced by a robot. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><b>Goofing off </b></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">Now, with lots more time on my hands, I'm listening to lots of podcasts and watching a lot of movie classics that the Cleveland Public Library has through its Kanopy service. I recommend "Room at the Top" and any of the movies that Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni made together. Both of those actors are brilliant. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;">Otherwise, I read things recommended by friends and family members. Also I've been reading some the monthly selections of our old book club from Columbus, Ohio. President for Life Jeff Cabot has maintains an updated list. They've read a lot of books since we left Columbus in 1995. I have some catching up to do. </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORQYw_p5kEnDEqnCAwwMlRyGTR7z_FGbaiSru8w-fbONzC7ETk9oB1TTaqYbGWqGshLJseq4PJcHYoxC41u_Cs2g57GXiCIBW_BjU-_eJ4fN4Oyk1FKAIhUJu7XEiMMnJJpRC/s1600/caixa+ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORQYw_p5kEnDEqnCAwwMlRyGTR7z_FGbaiSru8w-fbONzC7ETk9oB1TTaqYbGWqGshLJseq4PJcHYoxC41u_Cs2g57GXiCIBW_BjU-_eJ4fN4Oyk1FKAIhUJu7XEiMMnJJpRC/s640/caixa+ad.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The daily newspapers here have few advertisers except those that emphasize how they are helping during the crisis. This one, from Caixa Bank, talks about how they have 2,500 specialists on staff to help small businesses and the self-employed get access to cash and lines of credit. Like the ad for the supermarket chain above, the hashtag slogan is "With you [now] more than ever."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>News media are getting hammered</b><br />
<br />
In an ironic twist, news websites around the world are getting more traffic and less advertising than ever. People want reliable information about the virus, but many advertisers have either canceled all their advertising or are blocking their ads from appearing next to any <a href="https://jamesbreiner.com/advertisers-avoid-media-that-cover-the-corona-virus/" target="_blank">content that mentions "covid-19" </a>or "corona virus".<br />
<br />
To make things worse, reputable news media have a lot of competiton for digital advertising from unethical websites pushing sensationalistic conspiracy theories and misinformation. At least <a href="https://www.newsguardtech.com/misinformation-monitor-march-2020/" target="_blank">132 websites tracked by Newsguard</a>, which calls itself "The Internet Trust Tool", are pushing false conspiracy theories. It should be no surprise, but sensationalism is a lucrative business. It sells. Social media and search engines tend to amplify content that gets a lot of hits. Algorithm driven software then steers ads to those sites, which translates into revenue for unethical publishers.<br />
<br />
<b>Don't watch cable TV or any TV</b><br />
<br />
A recurring theme in the media I subscribe to--Washington Post, New York Times, New Yorker, Wall Street Journal-- is how depressed people get from following the news on TV and in social media. At least here in Spain, I can ignore 90% of it.<br />
<br />
You may have already read part of <a href="https://jamesbreiner.com/why-you-might-hate-the-news-media-and-some-journalists/" target="_blank">my rant about why people hate the news media </a>and how cable news is undermining the credibility of all media. To relieve stress, consult your social media only once a day and don't watch cable TV. You'll feel better that way.<br />
<br />
Wake
me when it's time to vote. That way I won't have to see all the
political ads. At least in Spain, I won't see most of them. Then wake me
when the election is over. It's less stressful that way. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-44356461997383741812020-02-03T05:34:00.000-05:002020-02-04T03:04:58.058-05:00The art of the obituary: summing up a lifeBack when newspapers existed only in print, aspiring journalists had to make their bones writing obituaries. While those of literary pretensions considered this beneath them, writing obituaries actually requires mastery of the basics of good journalism--accuracy in the who, what, when, where, why, and how. And, if possible, capturing the spirit of a human being's life in just a few hundred words.<br />
<br />
Today, many newspapers have outsourced the writing of obituaries to funeral directors and legacy.com, which means much of the art is lost.<br />
<br />
In my first newspaper job, at the Painesville Telegraph in Ohio, the readership included a large community of Finnish immigrants who came to work in the salt mines under Lake Erie. Spelling all the family names correctly in an obituary represented a mighty challenge. Some random Finnish names will give you the idea--Armas Oiva Sarkkinen, Toivo Suursoo, Jukka Kuoppamaki.<br />
<br />
Immigrant obituaries offered the possibility for fascinating stories. When and why did they emigrate? What was the journey like? How did they meet their spouse? Where were they stationed during the war? (because there is nearly always a war in these stories).<br />
<br />
I remember an editor telling me, "This is often the only story that will ever be written about that person. Their family members clip and save the story. You have to get every detail right." <span data-offset-key="26c3b-0-0"><span data-text="true">A well written obituary is sometimes the best thing in a newspaper. The drama of one person's life: pain and glory.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNGNtUgnO2DCQNqg1VtLj0yWUIvZgwxSx-9RnjjHbwE2npOsLfJZGuCWaryqykBVSwHZT3fbLsu-w9CAqtHp3ta8o_lmKY09Qx4reLSBh02wCm_E8JtE4ShyphenhyphenX2nEGHRi1piMu/s1600/Louis+Kovach+obituary.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="1582" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNGNtUgnO2DCQNqg1VtLj0yWUIvZgwxSx-9RnjjHbwE2npOsLfJZGuCWaryqykBVSwHZT3fbLsu-w9CAqtHp3ta8o_lmKY09Qx4reLSBh02wCm_E8JtE4ShyphenhyphenX2nEGHRi1piMu/s640/Louis+Kovach+obituary.png" width="640" /></a></div>
Once while covering suburban news at the Columbus Dispatch, I interviewed a 20-year-old who had started a business designing and building helium and hot-air balloons for advertising and transport. He had earned a license as a commercial balloon pilot and took people for rides.<br />
<br />
His name was Louis Kovach. He crackled with intelligence. Turns out his fascination with balloons had started early and evolved into a drive to know all their history and the science behind them: how they were used by armed forces as far back as the 18th century; how they were designed and built; which materials were used. He spent three months in Europe during his high school years visiting centers of balloon research. He relied on translators except in Hungary, his father's native country.<br />
<br />
Louis's father was a nuclear safety engineer, so the son's scientific bent may have come naturally. The younger Kovach dreamed of one day flying a balloon around the world, so he studied global weather patterns and interviewed experienced pilots. He was convinced it could be done in a hot-air balloon. (This was 1980; a Swiss and Briton <a href="https://napavalleyballoons.com/highest-balloon-flight-longest-records.php" target="_blank">accomplished the feat in 1999</a>.) <br />
<br />
College would have to wait. A year after I interviewed him, he was giving a ride to a couple when the wind carried the gondola toward an electric transmission tower. He told the passengers to lie on the floor of the gondola for their protection. When the balloon hit the tower, Kovach was thrown backwards, and the backs of his hands struck a transmission line. He was electrocuted, and the balloon fell about 15 or 20 feet to the ground. His two passengers were only slightly injured.<br />
<br />
At the time of the accident, I had been transferred from the suburbs to covering state government and politics. So I am not sure why I ended up writing Louis's obituary. Maybe I asked. Louis's energy and vision had impressed me, and his death saddened me.<br />
<br />
At an informal memorial gathering of friends and family, I met Louis's father. He told me a Federal Aviation Administration investigator said that Louis's actions probably saved his passengers' lives. The elder Louis Kovach was glad to be told that a reporter had been impressed by his son. He wanted the world to know how proud he was of young Louis. <br />
<br />
I am not sure that many newspapers today would cut a reporter loose for half a day to drive up to a memorial gathering and interview grieving family members face to face, which is what I did. I don't claim it is a great obituary, just the best I could do that day within the newspaper's limits of space and time. Today it probably would have been the job of a funeral director or the family themselves to write the obituary.<br />
<br />
Somehow it seems more valuable for a community institution, like a daily newspaper, to call attention to the achievements of someone who has died and lament their passing. People value these stories. A publication with some skilled writers could even specialize in them. I'm surprised that no one has figured that out yet. <br />
<br />
<b>Related: </b><br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2019/06/life-and-death-in-spanish-village.html" target="_blank">Life and death in a Spanish village</a><br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2011/04/cordobas-main-attraction-mix-of-jewish_12.html" target="_blank">Córdoba's mix of Muslim, Jewish, Christian culture</a> <br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2019/09/from-cold-war-to-freedom-and-back-again.html" target="_blank">What we learned traveling in northern and eastern Europe</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-68514283961557572182019-10-18T02:19:00.000-04:002019-10-18T02:19:35.836-04:00When Elijah Cummings sang along with Garth Brooks<i>This column was originally published in the Baltimore Business Journal 17 years ago ( Dec 23, 2002, edition). Cummings<a href="https://www.cbsnews.com/news/elijah-cummings-has-died-baltimore-congressman-is-dead-at-68-cause-of-death-longstanding-illness-and-health-issues/" target="_blank"> died on Thursday</a>, </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://static.politico.com/dims4/default/eed05b2/2147483647/resize/1160x/quality/90/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fstatic.politico.com%2F1d%2F50%2Ff5077fb2469fa6f7feb576312e75%2F20170210-elijah-cummings-getty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="800" height="173" src="https://static.politico.com/dims4/default/eed05b2/2147483647/resize/1160x/quality/90/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fstatic.politico.com%2F1d%2F50%2Ff5077fb2469fa6f7feb576312e75%2F20170210-elijah-cummings-getty.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cummings, from <a href="https://static.politico.com/dims4/default/eed05b2/2147483647/resize/1160x/quality/90/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fstatic.politico.com%2F1d%2F50%2Ff5077fb2469fa6f7feb576312e75%2F20170210-elijah-cummings-getty.jpg" target="_blank">Getty Images in Politico</a></td></tr>
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It takes a big man to admit he is wrong, and it takes an even bigger man to admit it in a public forum. That makes Congressman Elijah Cummings a very big man indeed.<br />
<br />
Cummings, a Democratic congressman representing Baltimore City and Baltimore County, was recently named head of the Congressional Black Caucus. In this role he will be expected to speak up for African-Americans all across the country, especially when they may be slighted because of their race. <br />
<br />
In a speech at a business breakfast last summer, Cummings admitted that he once was guilty of a bit of profiling himself. Cummings was invited with other congressmen to a reception at the White House by President Bill Clinton to hear a variety of musical acts, including Gladys Knight and the Pips and other pop music icons.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<b>Garth Brooks, the last act</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.bing.com/th?id=OIP.W96A3HavdUSaSyIbFjrOvgHaEK&w=300&h=168&c=7&o=5&dpr=2&pid=1.7" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="475" height="177" src="https://www.bing.com/th?id=OIP.W96A3HavdUSaSyIbFjrOvgHaEK&w=300&h=168&c=7&o=5&dpr=2&pid=1.7" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://a.abcnews.com/images/Entertainment/GTY_garth_brooks_jt_150903_16x9_992.jpg" target="_blank">Garth Brooks, ABC News Photo</a></td></tr>
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Then it came time for the last act, country singer Garth Brooks. Cummings took it as a signal to make a stealthy exit. He figured he wasn't going to hear anything he liked from a guy wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Unfortunately, it's not easy to duck out of a White House reception.<br /><br />
Then Brooks began to sing. As Cummings tells it, the words stole him over and moved him deeply. As he retold the story to the business audience, Cummings read the lyrics in his own rounded, prophetic tones.<br />
<br />
"We Shall Be Free" goes like this:<br />
<br />This ain't comin' from no prophet<br />
Just an ordinary man<br />
When I close my eyes I see<br />
The way this world shall be<br />
When we all walk hand in hand<br />When the last child cries for a crust of bread<br />When the last man dies for just words that he said<br />When there's shelter over the poorest head<br />
We shall be free<br />When the last thing we notice is the color of skin<br />And the first thing we look for is the beauty within<br />When the skies and the oceans are clean again<br />
Then we shall be free<br /><br />
It goes on with words that any American would be proud to sing.<br />When Cummings finished reading, the audience was left to ponder what was said and who had said it. It got me thinking. We all do what Cummings did. We make assumptions. We judge people by how they dress, how they look, the color of their skin, who their friends are.<br /><br />
In business, it's a survival mechanism to size people up quickly and make judgments about their character, reliability and motives. If we are honest with ourselves, we will admit that we do our own profiling of the people we meet and, by reflex, stereotype them. Admitting to ourselves that we do it is the first step toward overcoming it.<br /><br />
After the White House adventure, Cummings went to Target to get a copy of the Garth Brooks CD. Of course, the clerk could not understand why a black man would want to buy a country CD, what with stereotypes and all.<br /><br />
Cummings gives us all a great example. He admitted that he was too quick to judge. He gave a hearing to someone he thought represented something alien and found a common humanity. Then he embraced the other man's song and learned to sing it. Funny thing is, the other man's song turned out to be the song of himself. We could all be better by taking the time to learn another man's song.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-65231441566495374982019-09-01T10:16:00.001-04:002019-10-13T22:25:18.316-04:00From Cold War to independence: what we discovered in the less-traveled Europe this summer<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sQPXmx9blC0YmwxZXcICxwt6XdqB9IwKCJ1JVgvU9NplYuHaMaBARLHLF1_VOR6newS9du9iHmKZj3tM3Jz-tMmeYfeTtxXqr5n6mTZIgVxspmxX3UA5Gr_yndmonrthxBK4/s1600/russian+orthodox+church+in+helsinki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sQPXmx9blC0YmwxZXcICxwt6XdqB9IwKCJ1JVgvU9NplYuHaMaBARLHLF1_VOR6newS9du9iHmKZj3tM3Jz-tMmeYfeTtxXqr5n6mTZIgVxspmxX3UA5Gr_yndmonrthxBK4/s640/russian+orthodox+church+in+helsinki.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Nevsky_Cathedral,_Tallinn" target="_blank">Orthodox church in Talinn</a>, Estonia, built by the Russians in 1900 to remind the locals, Who's your daddy. Estonians regard it as a symbol of Russian oppression and have discussed in Parliament the possibility of demolishing it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We experienced a massive awakening this summer that came from several directions. 1. First, Cindy and I went on a <a href="https://www.gadventures.com/trips/baltic-adventure/4198/itinerary/" target="_blank">two-week discovery tour</a> of the three tiny Baltic countries that have been subjected by multiple foreign powers over the centuries, most recently by Stalin's Soviet Union and Hitler's Third Reich--<b>Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia</b>. As a kind of icing on the cake, we spent a couple of days in Helsinki, in <b>Finland</b>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6rlSx52tGrGgGs3eNoD5ZYfViVLlnsRwlF3h2w769ekWOBNH5xv_D7feZMXFr7zago3nIQBkKjOsJbdnFzm_8oPziLG342TE7F45KSiAjZAtU7U0FIGD2Q3qfQ7SGdrm3p1R/s1600/Baltic+countries+map.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6rlSx52tGrGgGs3eNoD5ZYfViVLlnsRwlF3h2w769ekWOBNH5xv_D7feZMXFr7zago3nIQBkKjOsJbdnFzm_8oPziLG342TE7F45KSiAjZAtU7U0FIGD2Q3qfQ7SGdrm3p1R/s320/Baltic+countries+map.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Baltic adventure. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
These three tiny countries, with combined population of around 6 million, celebrated their independence in the early 1990s with the collapse of the Soviet Union, and now they try to survive in the shadow of Russia, which is trying to bring back all its former satellites.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0PTrQTY-K0TTVcKsd7iSYf7NT7oHwnRSJiol8H5OIpIw3OR0wARLnlDCigXyqH-K4CvGXkFlPfj1JF74vBenjRaEZGN0GeZLUErq2Bg3ONl8glP5YVVq8PyApfPit3ahg6k6/s1600/Jim+on+Split+in+Lithuania.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0PTrQTY-K0TTVcKsd7iSYf7NT7oHwnRSJiol8H5OIpIw3OR0wARLnlDCigXyqH-K4CvGXkFlPfj1JF74vBenjRaEZGN0GeZLUErq2Bg3ONl8glP5YVVq8PyApfPit3ahg6k6/s640/Jim+on+Split+in+Lithuania.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Nida, Lithuania, on the lovely barrier island known as the Curonian Spit, which borders Russian territory.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK2LSD5uIgt8ZmEhU7uplotVqwcLSGGsqRp_amJhGJ8XX7t7keycfG7dHAA7mggUtdsPQdDuY4D_PmZLHb1zdJbP7ilFXU0nFOwvOVO2c3TI7HOHgHDTJkTD7tExdMQGoJtJ7/s1600/windmills+in+Estonia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK2LSD5uIgt8ZmEhU7uplotVqwcLSGGsqRp_amJhGJ8XX7t7keycfG7dHAA7mggUtdsPQdDuY4D_PmZLHb1zdJbP7ilFXU0nFOwvOVO2c3TI7HOHgHDTJkTD7tExdMQGoJtJ7/s640/windmills+in+Estonia.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Windmills on the island of Saaremaa, Estonia. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At every stop, we experienced rich natural beauty of hills, forests,
wetlands, and farmland. Along the seashore, the sand was filled with
bits of amber, which locals use for jewelry and even food additives. Each of the three countries has its own language. Estonian is the outlier. It is related to Finnish and distantly to Hungarian, and these strange three are unrelated to any of the Indo-European languages.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjWJaj65Y0F1EYJPcVKcsPtRtlubX9ZfrCmAmfgWO10Yh_kKmkbeEXQAuGf2rYEVpNhDsuOKxnwYmwHCS7hLzKpq7Wnm3jyqgf4A31egL40Bllc1V9LYq7zHd9n-HhjSOph8a/s1600/Ninth+Fort+memorial+in+Kaunas%252C+Lithuania.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1034" data-original-width="1600" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjWJaj65Y0F1EYJPcVKcsPtRtlubX9ZfrCmAmfgWO10Yh_kKmkbeEXQAuGf2rYEVpNhDsuOKxnwYmwHCS7hLzKpq7Wnm3jyqgf4A31egL40Bllc1V9LYq7zHd9n-HhjSOph8a/s320/Ninth+Fort+memorial+in+Kaunas%252C+Lithuania.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
At left, our Lithuanian guide, Bob, in front of the Ninth Fort Memorial near Kaunas, which commemorates the 45,000 Jews and others who were <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ninth_Fort" target="_blank">executed here by the Nazis. </a><br />
<br />
The truth is that local people collaborated with Nazis in the genocide in all the countries where they operated. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqU7T6DwPKnvz_ZIFgdjf1Dzvwl79tFdqwxGXKm0rmjZJt70LGv7pQofQTWmZ2_9Z3m3d0hdnvLBr2f5A6sZh7_31tKE8SpPM67bZwu5NaGxZGaYcW9mn3x5oI2abrLhwiod8/s1600/Baltic+countries+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="1600" height="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqU7T6DwPKnvz_ZIFgdjf1Dzvwl79tFdqwxGXKm0rmjZJt70LGv7pQofQTWmZ2_9Z3m3d0hdnvLBr2f5A6sZh7_31tKE8SpPM67bZwu5NaGxZGaYcW9mn3x5oI2abrLhwiod8/s640/Baltic+countries+map.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do these maps of Northern Europe confuse you? The national boundaries
have shifted with invasions, war, and then peace treaties. Poland
doesn't exist in 1914 (the map at upper left). It was divided up in the 18th century among the
three great powers at the time, Russia, Germany, and Austria. Gradually
it emerges as a light green shape in the center map of the bottom row.
The maps are from a museum in Latvia. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
2. Before we left on our Baltic trip, I was exploring <b>Eastern and Central European media</b> for the first time as part of a paper I was working on with two colleagues. I developed case studies of <a href="https://newsentrepreneurs.blogspot.com/2019/06/20-media-from-four-continents-achieve.html" target="_blank">five independent media</a> in those regions that were achieving financial sustainability. (The paper has been submitted to a peer-reviewed journal and we are waiting to hear whether it's accepted.)<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0UoA3ybJOUMMLq5DaSxrmbbM0SqgR2_T6Zc4QxN_uDPrUvYWoLLxNokVWZ8nQKE77oHE9bEgjyA_VqKZ8DVPzccsdSA3MaSLP_zvLZ1yOe3eNjcYyU80RcMN5-Lh6pd98faO/s1600/Roof+made+from+sea+reeds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0UoA3ybJOUMMLq5DaSxrmbbM0SqgR2_T6Zc4QxN_uDPrUvYWoLLxNokVWZ8nQKE77oHE9bEgjyA_VqKZ8DVPzccsdSA3MaSLP_zvLZ1yOe3eNjcYyU80RcMN5-Lh6pd98faO/s320/Roof+made+from+sea+reeds.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roofing from sea reeds can last 70 years. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
3. Also before that trip, I had been invited to prepare an <a href="https://e-jcn.eu/about-the-project/" target="_blank">online summer course for the College of Europe</a>, based in Warsaw, Poland, on the topic of "The monetization and sustainability of news in the digital age." In order to make it relevant for the course participants, I started to look for more examples of these types of media in the former Soviet Union and other regions where independent quality media are under attack.<br />
<br />
4. Back in the U.S. for several weeks, we visited our old book club in Columbus, Ohio, which was reading George Orwell's <i>1984, </i>a thinly disguised portrait of the Stalinist Soviet Union and, by extension, any ideological dictatorship.<br />
<br />
One of our book club members of Polish ancestry had a story to tell about Stalin. Her grandparents and their seven children were living on a farm in eastern Poland in 1940 (it's now in Belarus, an example of arbitrary borders) when the Soviet army invaded. <b>People in that area of Poland were considered "anti-Soviet elements" by Stalin,</b> and some 320,000 were loaded onto trains and shipped east. My friend's family was sent 1,000 miles east into Russia to work in a logging camp. They endured months of near starvation and cold.<br />
<br />
Then a year later, when the Germans invaded Russia, Stalin agreed with the British to let Poles form an army to fight the Nazis. He let the exiled Poles leave Russia under British protection. My friend's grandfather and uncle joined the new Polish army, while the rest of the family then went on a long odyssey to British refugee camps in <b>Iran, Tanzania, and England</b>. Finally they made their way to Cleveland, Ohio.<br />
<br />
After all their ordeals, America was paradise to them. "I think it’s fair to say their tenacity and resilience through the most trying circumstances certainly influenced the character of my siblings and me," my friend said.<br />
<br />
By coincidence, some eight years ago, while I was working with newspaper publishers and editors in Belarus, I spent several days in Baranavichy, which was where my friend's family had their farm before being sent off to Russia. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjJ8KFDKQ_xE1HCPpfhogFqc9SFVRtT8Ov3XiXmCutt70A47uWexJlw-wu1WAylTqAcM9n9qPyxU2MnBLlpa60ORO_PgmH2TqPL7hjRzomRirjx4gcNwLe8KqUkvUy-pBLhir/s1600/Synagogue+in+Warsaw+museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjJ8KFDKQ_xE1HCPpfhogFqc9SFVRtT8Ov3XiXmCutt70A47uWexJlw-wu1WAylTqAcM9n9qPyxU2MnBLlpa60ORO_PgmH2TqPL7hjRzomRirjx4gcNwLe8KqUkvUy-pBLhir/s400/Synagogue+in+Warsaw+museum.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Ukrainian synagogue has been re-created inside the Jewish museum in Warsaw. Poland's medieval rulers established laws that protected Jews, so Poland had the largest population of Jews in Europe in 1940 when the Germans invaded. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
5. My next lesson came when the College of Europe <b>invited me to Warsaw</b> late in August to present a series of workshops on the topic of sustaining quality journalism. They invited 80 of the 600 participants from the online course to Warsaw for these workshops. When I was not leading the workshops, I visited two marvelous museums in Warsaw, one on <a href="https://www.polin.pl/en/about-museum" target="_blank">The History of Polish Jews</a> and the other on <a href="https://www.1944.pl/en/article/the-warsaw-rising-museum,4516.html" target="_blank">The Warsaw Rising of 1944</a>, in which the Polish resistance army attempted to drive the Nazis out of the capital.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWhnTwDvPEke5UXEUAFhvWYn2p9GawtmdR1Oc7fsGVxv4_trm_s9ew3I12s1BuV-66dqffFBSsKRPdp8XSkF-6wxT6k3oRPSid-PgQryouJQYPY4VrKHErPfOKyTk8zVdjIrq/s1600/Monument+to+Heroes+of+the+uprising.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="1600" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWhnTwDvPEke5UXEUAFhvWYn2p9GawtmdR1Oc7fsGVxv4_trm_s9ew3I12s1BuV-66dqffFBSsKRPdp8XSkF-6wxT6k3oRPSid-PgQryouJQYPY4VrKHErPfOKyTk8zVdjIrq/s400/Monument+to+Heroes+of+the+uprising.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monument to the Poles of the Warsaw uprising. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
6. The university apartment where I stayed had a small library with books in several languages on Poland and central Europe, including <b><i>Rising '44: The Battle for Warsa</i><i>w</i></b>, by Norman Davies, and the personal history of <b>Vaclav Havel</b>, the playwright and former political prisoner who, in unlikely fashion, became president of Czechoslovakia and then the Czech Republic after the collapse of the Soviet Union. His remarkable story, <i>To the Castle and Back</i>, is told through his diaries, internal memos to staff, and interviews with journalists. Havel is viewed by many as the <b>Nelson Mandela of Eastern Europe</b>, since he was imprisoned for five years and later became president of his country. <br />
<br />
I spent my evenings reading these two books. All of this immersed me in the political, economic, and media history of the region. <br />
<br />
<b>We won the war, end of story </b><br />
<br />
Most of our American version of World War II is that of what is called the <b>Greatest Generation</b>. According to this narrative we rescued Europe from the Fascist regimes of Germany and Italy and made the world safe again for democracy.<br />
<br />
We don't really have much sense of how the war ravaged more than two dozen nation states of Europe, how tens of millions of people were displaced from their homes and moved around like cattle, nor of the region's complex mix of ethnic and language groups, competing religions, arbitrary boundary changes, and so on.<br />
<br />
Much of the political turmoil in Europe in the last two centuries can be understood as local ethnic and cultural minorities trying to be recognized within the arbitrarily drawn boundaries of nation states. And really, if you look at the history of the Middle East since 1914, you see a similar story. <br />
<br />
It really is naive and presumptuous of us in the U.S. to assume that we can expect our notion of democracy to work in all of these complex contexts. History has shown us that it doesn't work.<br />
<br />
<b>Warsaw restored</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOn8Tg0fnnvFYaaWb-U0ImWAinVoZtVuTMj6yJydqC7B5s2L59wPObby4Fi4RBvmcYk1wNaDL1ebdpS-slk8D2FHwqLOzFMkduHAX-qGWaCy96HLbTkZ20Bsyd4rpO4vWVAA0/s1600/warsaw+market+square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOn8Tg0fnnvFYaaWb-U0ImWAinVoZtVuTMj6yJydqC7B5s2L59wPObby4Fi4RBvmcYk1wNaDL1ebdpS-slk8D2FHwqLOzFMkduHAX-qGWaCy96HLbTkZ20Bsyd4rpO4vWVAA0/s400/warsaw+market+square.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<b>Warsaw's market square</b>, meticulously restored after being reduced to rubble by the Germans. Hitler had ordered his troops to kill everyone -- men, women, and children -- and destroy all the buildings in the neighborhoods where the Polish resistance fighters were most active. The Soviet Army was just across the river, and Hitler didn't want anything left standing for them to take control of.<br />
<br />
The <b>Nazis crushed the Warsaw uprising</b> after two months, and many historians blame the British and Americans for not bringing timely aid to the resistance fighters. The British and Americans air-dropped some supplies, much of which fell into German hands, but they did not provide the air support that the resistance fighters sought. So the Germans bombed and shelled them mercilessly.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVra6xAdpJyV6VeWacyqDhGhlEin8waNo8WDhNvWGIYEXZwiD49Z_LN4QKegF7JgnahfHPiDfNdCMa3RFyX7dhaFzYULyjmpUkI9sQUP-HsdHzavVq-Oz8sWtgw6ZevZy5rOL/s1600/Restored+Old+Town%252C+Warsaw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1026" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVra6xAdpJyV6VeWacyqDhGhlEin8waNo8WDhNvWGIYEXZwiD49Z_LN4QKegF7JgnahfHPiDfNdCMa3RFyX7dhaFzYULyjmpUkI9sQUP-HsdHzavVq-Oz8sWtgw6ZevZy5rOL/s400/Restored+Old+Town%252C+Warsaw.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Town Warsaw. Teams of architects and historians recreated the buildings as they were before the war. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Krakow survives</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpvfE6ZCFS4eLaz7Blg31jZ5qLJKoH1r9KiJ-2ibz4zsi-6pvAC9LKiZTO0aRxthsNZd3kI8nUN5nIuZUgIDO66N6rmGM9hvcj2whyphenhyphen8q_gHuVU-f-qySLjBcX7HC87Kttk5Yk/s1600/Krakow%252C+tourist+town.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpvfE6ZCFS4eLaz7Blg31jZ5qLJKoH1r9KiJ-2ibz4zsi-6pvAC9LKiZTO0aRxthsNZd3kI8nUN5nIuZUgIDO66N6rmGM9hvcj2whyphenhyphen8q_gHuVU-f-qySLjBcX7HC87Kttk5Yk/s400/Krakow%252C+tourist+town.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tourists flock to Krakow from all over Europe. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The German headquarters in Poland was based in Krakow, the country's ancient capital. It lay far to the south of Warsaw and escaped shelling and bombing since it was outside of the Soviet Army's path to Berlin.<br />
<br />
Today tourists come to admire the medieval and Renaissance architecture and visit <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oskar_Schindler" target="_blank">Oskar Schindler's factory</a> in the city, which became a haven for some Jews to escape the Holocaust. They also make day trips to the concentration and extermination camps at nearby <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auschwitz_concentration_camp" target="_blank">Auschwitz and Birkenau</a>.<br />
<br />
We human beings have animal instincts, but we aspire to be angels. <br />
<br />
In Poland -- what today is Poland -- the memories of humanity's sublime achievements and savagery are very much alive. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc34N9Qh4Phj606foXB99VIx22AKyI89OUFU4C8OWs9zi_nZB_C9dJPcDUvb6O-IlCgKg8jsAbsSI0nyaE6KE1yBPhIorGMgCyDRjv9z1cLiYF3W9bwjMx8ns4bDOFcx6TBeJR/s1600/krakow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1222" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc34N9Qh4Phj606foXB99VIx22AKyI89OUFU4C8OWs9zi_nZB_C9dJPcDUvb6O-IlCgKg8jsAbsSI0nyaE6KE1yBPhIorGMgCyDRjv9z1cLiYF3W9bwjMx8ns4bDOFcx6TBeJR/s640/krakow.jpg" width="488" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krakow's market square is a major tourist attraction.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Also:</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2019/06/life-and-death-in-spanish-village.html" target="_blank">Life and death in a Spanish village</a><br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2011/04/cordobas-main-attraction-mix-of-jewish_12.html" target="_blank">Córdoba's mix of Muslim, Jewish, Christian culture</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-65982900740454774532019-07-25T15:56:00.000-04:002019-07-25T15:56:18.643-04:00PG17: How to cuss politely in various Spanish-speaking countries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmQKavhFECvmKRBq6V1MTpawSGedt4zhRRCLbPCiZ2SNxrlobFAqgmbPRmnuKJYM-Zey_ZcgLQmt3UxX_pJXtw6XkY2tHadmzKbygglzycl_Fc33V-RR2MCpJ_qtj4-mhzOiA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-06-28+at+8.54.04+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="856" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmQKavhFECvmKRBq6V1MTpawSGedt4zhRRCLbPCiZ2SNxrlobFAqgmbPRmnuKJYM-Zey_ZcgLQmt3UxX_pJXtw6XkY2tHadmzKbygglzycl_Fc33V-RR2MCpJ_qtj4-mhzOiA/s200/Screen+Shot+2019-06-28+at+8.54.04+AM.png" width="200" /></a></div>
For any of my Spanish speaking friends, I apologize for the bad words that will appear in this blog post. But there are differences in the grossness of particular expressions from one country to another, which might be educational and useful.<br />
<br />
A simple example is the word <b><i>mierda</i></b>, or shit. <b>Argentinians</b> tend to use this word casually in conversation. For them, it's vulgar, but not too bad. If something is no good, it's "<i>una mierda</i>". However, in <b>Bolivia</b>, when I dropped this word into conversation, I was told it was considered the height of vulgarity. I was warned not to use it casually.<br />
<br />
In <b>Mexico</b>, where I lived for several years, men refer to jerks and assholes as <i><b>cabrones</b>, </i>the literal meaning of which is <i>cuckolds</i> (for any young Americans reading this, a cuckold is a man whose wife sleeps around behind his back). It's definitely an insult, but Mexican men also use this word quite casually among friends, as we might use "pal" or "buddy" or, among the young, "bro". However, here in <b>Spain</b>, when I used it once in conversation, my friends reacted visibly. They said <i>cabrón</i> is extremely vulgar and insulting here, more so than in Mexico. Be careful with it. <br />
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<a name='more'></a><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3UnMoCW9fdesCJQ02TqAV4zBWepT_CvPVXNHHd3az9CMrbX7fXFxag2kX5wAyPac5K9yQgrvOwyw5EkkAl1bitTuedgJT7Gai5Z8PHonk-JuypUHD4Z_10xAfdvvttOfErsm/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-06-28+at+8.57.02+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3UnMoCW9fdesCJQ02TqAV4zBWepT_CvPVXNHHd3az9CMrbX7fXFxag2kX5wAyPac5K9yQgrvOwyw5EkkAl1bitTuedgJT7Gai5Z8PHonk-JuypUHD4Z_10xAfdvvttOfErsm/s200/Screen+Shot+2019-06-28+at+8.57.02+AM.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Chingonary.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The true artists and poets of cursing are <b>Mexicans</b>. Their creativity in expression knows no bounds. It takes an entire book to list and explain all the expressions derived from the word <b><i>chingar</i></b>, the rough equivalent of our f-word in English. The book is called (translated) <a href="https://www.amazon.es/El-Chingonario-Diccionario-Chinga-Derivados/dp/6074570701" target="_blank">The Chingonary: Dictionary of the use, reuse and abuse of chingar and its derivatives</a>. Some friends in Mexico, knowing my interest in language and cuss words, gave me the book as a present. (Incidentally, in other Spanish-speaking countries, <i>chingar </i>means simply to bother or annoy; it is not considered vulgar at all.)<br />
<br />
The poet and philosopher Octavio Paz <a href="https://www.lainsignia.org/2007/julio/cul_009.htm" target="_blank">devoted several pages</a> of his book about Mexican identity, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Labyrinth_of_Solitude" target="_blank">The Labyrinth of Solitude</a>, explaining the deep cultural and historical context of <i>chingar</i>. It is best captured in an idea I heard expressed various ways: "<i>o el chingado o el chingón</i>". You're either screwed or the one doing the screwing.<br />
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A Mexican journalist in one of my classes at the digital journalism center in Guadalajara gave me the compliment of saying the course was <i>muy chingón</i>. A <i>chingón </i>is, roughly translated, "a bad mother-fucker", so in this context, it means the course was really good. <br />
<br />
As it happens, <i>chingar</i>'s historical, cultural, and linguistic context is closely related to the other word that Mexicans use to curse and describe the universe, namely <b><i>madre</i></b>, or mother. There are also entire books on the subject of Mexican concepts of mother, including several chapters of Paz's aforementioned book.<br />
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Mexican concepts of mother range from the <b>Virgin of Guadalupe</b> (divine, powerful, wise, generous, beneficent) to <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Malinche" target="_blank">the Malinche</a></b>, the native woman who aided the Spanish conqueror Cortés and bore his son (therefore devious, traitorous, evil, and mother of all downtrodden Mexicans). Mexicans' use of the word echoes in may ways the historical and social context of "mother-fucker" for American blacks--a ruling class and race taking advantage of their mothers. <br />
<br />
By the way, a German philogist, writing in Spanish, has
explored the differences in word taboos, including <i>madre</i>, in various Spanish-speaking
countries <a href="https://www.tremedica.org/wp-content/uploads/n7_G_Haensch7.pdf" target="_blank">in this essay</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>"At full mother" </b><br />
<br />
I've been away from Mexico for several years, so I was recently unsure of how to use a particular phrase using <i>madre</i> --did it mean something was good or bad?-- so I consulted the <a href="https://www.wordreference.com/definicion/forumtitles/madre" target="_blank">reader discussion forum on the use of "madre"</a> in Wordreference.com. What I learned once again was that Mexicans' use of expressions containing <i>madre</i> is a complicated subject. According to experts in the forum:<br />
<ul>
<li><i>Estar de poca madre</i> (literally, to be not very mother-like), usually means "it's very good", but, depending on your tone, it can mean "it's very bad". This was the one I had doubts about. Easy to see why. </li>
<li><i>A toda madre </i>(literally, at full mother) means "really good".<i> Me fue a toda madre</i>, "It went great for me."</li>
<li><i>Valió madre</i> (literally, it was worth mother), means it was worthless. </li>
<li><i>Anda todo madreado</i> (literally, it's going mother-like), means "it's going really bad". </li>
<li><i>Estoy hasta la madre</i> (literally, I'm at the limit of mother) means, "I've had it", "I'm up to here with it", "I'm sick of it". </li>
<li><i>Dar algo en la madre</i> (literally, to put something on the mother), means to throw it away, get rid of it, destroy it. </li>
<li><i>Te pongo en la madre</i> (literally, to put you on mother) means "I'm going to give you what for" or "I'm going to bust you one". </li>
</ul>
So being "madre" in Mexico often means something bad in the extreme, unless it means the opposite. No wonder they need a forum to explain this to people from Spain, Venezuela, Argentina, and other parts of the world.<br />
<br />
There is no ambiguity I know of around the expression <b><i>estar padre</i></b>, to be father-like. Which means good. (Although in the word forum, a young person said this expression is used only by old people. Say, over 30.) It is also common to hear someone say something is <i>padrísimo</i>, or really really good.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>(Oops! I wrote about this a few years ago: <a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2010/07/cussing-and-slang-in-mexico-its-all.html" target="_blank">Cussing and slang in Mexico is all about Mom</a>) </i></blockquote>
<b>"I obscenity in the milk of their engines" </b><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/ab/Pessebre_a_la_pla%C3%A7a_de_Sant_Jaume_-_caganer.JPG/1280px-Pessebre_a_la_pla%C3%A7a_de_Sant_Jaume_-_caganer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/ab/Pessebre_a_la_pla%C3%A7a_de_Sant_Jaume_-_caganer.JPG/1280px-Pessebre_a_la_pla%C3%A7a_de_Sant_Jaume_-_caganer.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caganer" target="_blank">Caganer in official Barcelona Nativity scene. </a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In Spain, they use different words to express their joy and frustration with life. Among them are <b><i>cagar</i></b>, to shit, and <b><i>leche</i></b>, milk. I have heard people here say "I shit in the milk of those jerks." In Hemingway's novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls", the Republican partisans fighting against Franco use the expression frequently. One of them sees the enemy planes overhead and says, "I obscenity in the milk of their engines." For America's squeamish audiences, the publisher replaced "shit" with "obscenity" throughout the novel. Another cultural difference.<br />
<br />
Every day I hear people say, <i>es la leche!, </i>it's the milk! to describe something or an event that was really good. And if something is bad, it's <i>mala leche</i>, it's bad milk.<br />
<br />
The Australian art critic Robert Hughes, in his 1992 book, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/599106.Barcelona" target="_blank">Barcelona</a>, about the city's art, history, language, and culture, described what he saw as the local obsession with bodily excretions, in particular milk and shit. He described how it is a tradition to include in Nativity scenes a character known as <span id="goog_537509720"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">el caganer</a><span id="goog_537509721"></span>, "the shitter" or "the crapper". <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caganer" target="_blank">Why? It's complicated</a>. <br />
<br />
<b>Ho . . . </b><br />
Enough of that . . . stuff. Here in Pamplona, the preferred exclamation is <i><b>joder</b></i>, or the f-word, pronounced in English <i>ho-DARE</i>. But in polite conversation, people will often say just the first syllable, <i>¡ho!</i>, with a very heavy glottal sound, almost like clearing the throat.<br />
<br />
In our informal daily coffee klatches, my colleagues, including the women, have no problem saying<i> joder </i>to punctuate their stories to convey surprise, shock, or disappointment. But somehow if I ever use this word, it seems to produce a kind of shock, a negative one.<br />
<br />
I can't curse here except in my own language. It gives me a kind of visceral, physical pleasure to say, "That's bullshit." No Spanish word approximates the many and varied meanings this word can have, nor the emotional impact and satisfaction it can evoke when uttered with conviction. The Brits have a good equivalent for bullshit: "That's bollocks," a word that literally means testicles. However, "It's the dog's bollocks" means really really good. Go figure.<br />
<br />
<b>Related:</b><br />
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2019/06/life-and-death-in-spanish-village.html" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2019/06/life-and-death-in-spanish-village.html" target="_blank">Life and death in a Spanish village</a><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2015/06/in-pamplona-they-party-like-its-1591.html" target="_blank">In Pamplona, they party like it's 1591</a></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com.es/2015/06/20000-year-old-cave-art-and-north-coast.html">20,000-year-old cave art and the north coast of Spain</a><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com.es/2015/04/barcelonas-art-and-architecture-make-it.html" style="color: #777777; text-decoration: none;">Barcelona's art and architecture make it a favorite</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx/2011/04/cordobas-main-attraction-mix-of-jewish_12.html" style="color: #777777; text-decoration: none;">Cordoba's main attraction: mix of Jewish, Moorish, Christian cultures </a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx/2011/05/basque-language-has-mysterious-origins.html" style="color: #777777; text-decoration: none;">Basque language has mysterious origins</a></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-77437606232489573302019-06-17T10:54:00.000-04:002019-06-18T05:53:30.563-04:00Life and death in a Spanish village<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVX5fjkMoen5sHNQI33EfUBCfB3cHa0eYCiuM2MJVMkW4LjSOlmZjCkZ3xnyCf-cAxrGBlMix2KdDRnDGCY_EhW2KgriCXt7sz8nAd6QyVQxXO_sCD5rJj4cMcgjRehq6c7ni4/s1600/Villanueva+de+Aezkoa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="800" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVX5fjkMoen5sHNQI33EfUBCfB3cHa0eYCiuM2MJVMkW4LjSOlmZjCkZ3xnyCf-cAxrGBlMix2KdDRnDGCY_EhW2KgriCXt7sz8nAd6QyVQxXO_sCD5rJj4cMcgjRehq6c7ni4/s640/Villanueva+de+Aezkoa.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Villanueva de Aezkoa, from <a href="http://rutasdenavarra.com/">RutasdeNavarra.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A friend of mine grew up in a <i>pueblo</i> about 35 miles from our home in Pamplona, in the mountains near the border with France. <br />
<br />
His father died a few years ago, and his mother, in her 80s, was living by herself in a huge house with many rooms that she once rented out as a B&B. For many years she kept a big garden in back where she grew vegetables for the table and raised chickens and pigs.<br />
<br />
When her health began to fail, she was diagnosed with an incurable illness. My friend's sister took a six-month leave of absence from her job to care for her mother at home.<br />
<br />
In the last three weeks of her life, a doctor and a nurse from the national health care system came to see her every day. This despite the fact that the village doesn't have its own clinic. My friend drove the winding roads from Pamplona each night to be with her. His wife also often stayed with her. Even beating the speed limit, the drive takes about an hour and a half each way.<br />
<a name='more'></a> <br />
<br />
<b>The funeral</b><br />
<br />
The wake was in the family home, the closed casket on display in a front room. When it was time for the funeral mass, my friend, his two adult sons, and some family members lifted the casket and marched behind the priest through the streets to the 15th century gothic <a href="http://www.aezkoa.com/ayuntamientos-del-valle/hiriberri-villanueva/" target="_blank">church of San Salvador</a>. The town has less than 100 residents, but the family is well known and the small church was packed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6e30yqFhxxaYuIfpDswGbe9k01hOXjQMk9KZChXVTLcz9y2RoUfOx9GMblJxzRO0EPGzV3QvAVULnEa5OqaYjYHID4kXoBp1kArxquf_wZD75pvKSbSNVJy1o98p8YbaRu6h/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-06-17+at+10.28.53+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1600" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6e30yqFhxxaYuIfpDswGbe9k01hOXjQMk9KZChXVTLcz9y2RoUfOx9GMblJxzRO0EPGzV3QvAVULnEa5OqaYjYHID4kXoBp1kArxquf_wZD75pvKSbSNVJy1o98p8YbaRu6h/s640/Screen+Shot+2019-06-17+at+10.28.53+AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A street in Villanueva de Aezkoa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Three priests concelebrated in front of a magnificent baroque altar piece, a retablo, perhaps 20 feet high and filled with dozens of sculptures of biblical figures.<br />
<br />
<b>The burial </b><br />
<br />
Then the pallbearers carried the casket out of the church and led a procession to the cemetery about 100 yards away. The trees around the grave bowed and shook menancingly with the gale-force winds that are common in this mountain pass. No one seemed to notice.<br />
<br />
The priests led the mourners in prayer, the casket was lowered into the grave, and then three neighbors picked up shovels, dug into a pile of dirt and began filling the grave. Everyone watched as the men took their time and carefully shaped the dirt on top into a neat rectangle with angled edges. Then family members placed flowers on top and began receiving mourners at graveside.<br />
<br />
Home, church, and grave, all within a stone's throw of each other. <br />
<br />
<b>Basque roots </b><br />
<br />
Afterwards, we went to my friend's house to have some wine and beer and local Basque culinary specialties. Many of the people in the town have Basque roots. Aezkoa is a very Basque name. <br />
<br />
The village has always been a transit point for goods and animals from one side of the Pyrenees to the other. And depending on who was ruling France, Spain, the Province of Navarra, or the Basque Country over the past thousand years, it might have been a transit point for some illicit traffic. The law enforcement authorities know all these people. Some are family. A man has to make a living. <br />
<br />
The area always had good trout fishing, and its fame became global after an American journalist and novelist described his <a href="http://www.gourmetfly.com/Spana.htm" target="_blank">outings on the nearby Irati River</a>. His name is like money in the bank. <br />
<br />
<b>Related:</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2015/06/in-pamplona-they-party-like-its-1591.html" target="_blank">In Pamplona, they party like it's 1591</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com.es/2015/06/20000-year-old-cave-art-and-north-coast.html">20,000-year-old cave art and the north coast of Spain</a><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com.es/2015/04/barcelonas-art-and-architecture-make-it.html" style="color: #777777; text-decoration: none;">Barcelona's art and architecture make it a favorite</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx/2011/04/cordobas-main-attraction-mix-of-jewish_12.html" style="color: #777777; text-decoration: none;">Cordoba's main attraction: mix of Jewish, Moorish, Christian cultures </a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span><br />
</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><a href="http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx/2011/05/basque-language-has-mysterious-origins.html" style="color: #777777; text-decoration: none;">Basque language has mysterious origins</a></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-21503512493018527742019-05-01T14:37:00.000-04:002019-05-10T01:45:29.433-04:0010 days in Morocco: a crossroads of different cultures<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjThpwzt7AHA6Nw2jAt2Xttc75hEJC_5acfOVvSWzDJyqPebA1nsQo7v0h6LNO7cliHk8Xu8Bj_80k5hAJXJcRgs70YFAWu45LCQzPsVLOwLBFXhjVgc6cAt_g1fPc-mqReThc/s1600/Morocco+trip+map.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="938" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjThpwzt7AHA6Nw2jAt2Xttc75hEJC_5acfOVvSWzDJyqPebA1nsQo7v0h6LNO7cliHk8Xu8Bj_80k5hAJXJcRgs70YFAWu45LCQzPsVLOwLBFXhjVgc6cAt_g1fPc-mqReThc/s400/Morocco+trip+map.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We started in Casablanca, drove to Meknès and Fez, then crossed the Middle Atlas Mountains, and followed the Ziz Valley down to the Sahara at Merzouga. We made many stops all along the way. Ourzazate is Morocco's Hollywood, with natural backgrounds and some constructed ones used for movies and TV. The trip finished in Marrakesh. We took a fast train to Casablanca and spent an extra two nights there before flying back home to Pamplona. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This was a trip that I was <i>not</i> looking forward to. I pictured an impoverished third world country where rich foreign tourists are accosted on all sides by squads of poor beggars. I pictured endless featureless desert. I worried that I would be unable to tolerate the eight English-speaking strangers who would also be part of this tour. These worries made me realize that I am an expatriate snob and a cantankerous old fart.<br />
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But Cindy had it on her list of places to visit, and my sister Nancy and her husband, Tom, jumped at the chance to make the trip. <b> </b><br />
<b>First surprise</b>: Our other eight traveling companions turned out to be fun and interesting -- four Canadians from Calgary and four members of a family from Boston and Louisville.<br />
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157704902901432" title="Group shots, Morocco"><img alt="Group shots, Morocco" height="476" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/47706968862_1c9b84a645.jpg" width="640" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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(Put your cursor on the photo above to see all the photos in the slideshow.)<br />
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<b>Second surprise</b>: the tour itself disrupted all of my assumptions and stereotyped expectations about North African culture and people.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjarXSS13vfh23cB9TLMQ9a2HNem0BWiyZbY8SceAKWzzYqfb-CRJ_Jmc4P1iGXJM0jGJGf_bi77XuiwossNsPJM7IiMlju38U-Vb2qJ-IrffuJn7Lm34_PIug3rBJKyw6DnE_N/s1600/yassin+and+nomad+familly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1234" data-original-width="1600" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjarXSS13vfh23cB9TLMQ9a2HNem0BWiyZbY8SceAKWzzYqfb-CRJ_Jmc4P1iGXJM0jGJGf_bi77XuiwossNsPJM7IiMlju38U-Vb2qJ-IrffuJn7Lm34_PIug3rBJKyw6DnE_N/s400/yassin+and+nomad+familly.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yassin, our guide, introduced us to a nomad family that hosted us in their tent with sweet tea. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Cindy organized everything through <a href="http://gadventures.com/">Gadventures.com</a>,
which is a partner of National Geographic tours. One of their goals is
that clients are "travelers" on an adventure of discovery, not tourists:
in other words, the goal is appreciation, learning, connection, not
just gawking and shopping. So we often took "the road less traveled by."<br />
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Our tour's main guide, Yassin, is a member of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berbers" target="_blank">Berber ethnic group,</a> and there are three main ones in Morocco. Yassin spoke his Berber dialect, Tamazight, as well as Arabic, French, and English. He had personal relationships with many of the people we met along the way. He has been doing this work for 13 years.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlr-SMkGF2PASu0rfXajD0nOEafas0Jeck9-FO7zdfEkUJtyd7Lty4yYfnhTedKihbKbgwpIkh9Bs0oEUYM1YDmOQZBsNeBEGmacwoR1oFWzeMtfGE6HOkmzUzb9InO-Dy3GG4/s1600/IMG_4075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlr-SMkGF2PASu0rfXajD0nOEafas0Jeck9-FO7zdfEkUJtyd7Lty4yYfnhTedKihbKbgwpIkh9Bs0oEUYM1YDmOQZBsNeBEGmacwoR1oFWzeMtfGE6HOkmzUzb9InO-Dy3GG4/s640/IMG_4075.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Berber nomad family we encountered on the road from Fez to Merzouga. They herd sheep and goats, and they set up their tent along the highway to invite travelers to tea for some extra income. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Our first stop on the road from Casablanca to Fez (spelled Fes by the French) was Roman ruins at Volubilis.<br />
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157704878177252" title="Volubilis"><img alt="Volubilis" height="455" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/33871532648_604e7c245c.jpg" width="600" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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(Put your cursor on the photo above to see all the photos in the slideshow.)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7M5aLf7Xs9_PBNOmUKFEXeATus4FrCTC7WemRrvBO0RQVWShxjFfK4Mwk8zWhnz-kdVUxzOKtKcMKdVEjPTwL48XJVDYzfZ1VzARDhIZhHY3CVW33rhFLaMM4C_VgENbQWmR/s1600/Volubilis+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="1600" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7M5aLf7Xs9_PBNOmUKFEXeATus4FrCTC7WemRrvBO0RQVWShxjFfK4Mwk8zWhnz-kdVUxzOKtKcMKdVEjPTwL48XJVDYzfZ1VzARDhIZhHY3CVW33rhFLaMM4C_VgENbQWmR/s640/Volubilis+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Volubilis was important for production of olive oil, grain, and various metal ores long before the Romans took control of it. The area is still an important agricultural center. </td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCTxRnixA12-G2qjo9bLw246AcfGuuHBx-sYi1lNikFbkicff1LI0MrTM0KeUxO7sIV5Yn-OG5euIevjBiL5Vxp_k32a5Uerol8keBisNnfkXOuOu_CgnKwovhJImqVGr0rG-2/s1600/Meknes%252C+gate+to+imperial+city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="979" data-original-width="1600" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCTxRnixA12-G2qjo9bLw246AcfGuuHBx-sYi1lNikFbkicff1LI0MrTM0KeUxO7sIV5Yn-OG5euIevjBiL5Vxp_k32a5Uerol8keBisNnfkXOuOu_CgnKwovhJImqVGr0rG-2/s400/Meknes%252C+gate+to+imperial+city.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We stopped to visit the ancient imperial city of Meknès, famous for its elaborate gates. We also visited the palace of one of its kings, who loved horses and kept 12,000 in his stables. He also had several hundred wives in his harem. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqCvGGfjT9zsrIL3-yVMbfv24k1e8P1q03kEXDIWCnEEM6Wntm4v0vajdkh1xithdaWs-RX6SjtQsSufVpZjxV6cuGneqzXyfWuO2zw_h-0r2wQz9MYqZvXYQYIgWK4Pp29W5n/s1600/Our+Berber+guide+in+Meknes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqCvGGfjT9zsrIL3-yVMbfv24k1e8P1q03kEXDIWCnEEM6Wntm4v0vajdkh1xithdaWs-RX6SjtQsSufVpZjxV6cuGneqzXyfWuO2zw_h-0r2wQz9MYqZvXYQYIgWK4Pp29W5n/s320/Our+Berber+guide+in+Meknes.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our guide in Meknès was from the Berber ethnic group.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Berber culture</b><br />
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The Berbers are the people who occupied Morocco long before the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, and other invaders.<br />
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One of the things that makes Morocco different from the rest of North Africa culturally, socially, politically, and economically is that they were never dominated by the Turkish empire the way that its neighbors were -- Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, and Egypt.<br />
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Another difference is how much the <b>cultures of Morocco and Spain flowed back and forth </b>over many centuries, based on the changing politics and power. This affects language, art, architecture, and religion. For example, the minarets of Morocco -- the towers from which Islamic clergy call the faithful to prayer -- are rectangular, like those in southern Spain, where the Arabic and Muslim influence was strongest. Elsewhere in the Muslim world, minarets are circular. <br />
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<b>France and Spain in Morocco</b><br />
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Arabic speaking Muslims conquered much of the Iberian peninsula (Spain and Portugal) starting in the 8th century, and they ruled much of it for almost 800 years until the so-called Catholic kings, Ferdinand and Isabella, <b>conquered Granada in 1492</b>, and <b>expelled all Moors</b> who refused to convert to Catholicism. These rulers are the same ones who hired <b>Christopher Columbus</b> in that eventful year to find new commercial routes to the west. And in that same year, the Catholic kings <b>expelled all Jews. </b>Those who converted to Catholicism could stay. <br />
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Along the Mediterranean coast of Morocco today, many people speak Spanish and there are two cities that are declared Spanish soil, Melilla and Ceuta.<br />
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But south of the Mediterranean, we found French spoken by most of the people involved in the travel industry. My sister Nancy and I enjoyed <b>using our rusty French </b>to communicate with the local people. The <a href="http://www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-9780199846733/obo-9780199846733-0029.xml" target="_blank">French presence in North Africa</a> began in the 17th century but expanded early in the 19th century. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMrNJ2AosJi1JH5_bniwYtmP_iW5ci1IkV16QbuVMCN6ROJUFWtUuJyMAWPmKUk-aM0-mDoCD7w4l8LCns2HN2rluDDOh8JVIVpQn47I-mPwmZMVceZxxlJ-jSItUFd4CDdBX/s1600/Moroccan+military.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="1600" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMrNJ2AosJi1JH5_bniwYtmP_iW5ci1IkV16QbuVMCN6ROJUFWtUuJyMAWPmKUk-aM0-mDoCD7w4l8LCns2HN2rluDDOh8JVIVpQn47I-mPwmZMVceZxxlJ-jSItUFd4CDdBX/s640/Moroccan+military.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were told never to take photos of police or military or there would be problems. Here, though, they were posing to show all of the different branches of military. A few days later, in Casablanca, some naval officers began yelling at Nancy when she tried to take a picture of the entrance to the naval academy. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0Wl1ilZ4n4NOip_ZzkuRYiWkkCAw3YIhhHUBZ8p-9BP_moKWGPAEJBLiKylxMSdSsduxyrqqi4f2XAQLGbXlkkfeBsyH1Vu6oHAAYsVA8wClY1qzzHLNk0aTPpnY5Lm1Vyac/s1600/Our+Fez+guide+and+mosaics.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjq4iQN_Hmhdt4EyjHrp5CRP_OQ8aMU3NxifXGh3KfzTg8-Ys307ei1IVYtCJvUbeMFMsIM3FbkhwzF1h7ApY809Hpzn2rJa9MthNdetwvWTBU1tcHpwO5Hb4guPnYAeKcIIhx/s1600/Jim+overlooking+Fez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjq4iQN_Hmhdt4EyjHrp5CRP_OQ8aMU3NxifXGh3KfzTg8-Ys307ei1IVYtCJvUbeMFMsIM3FbkhwzF1h7ApY809Hpzn2rJa9MthNdetwvWTBU1tcHpwO5Hb4guPnYAeKcIIhx/s320/Jim+overlooking+Fez.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Fez is cool and green. Its medina (the
old city, within walls), is famous for its labyrinthine streets (some 9,000) and
many souks (specialized markets for rugs, pottery, shoes, clothing,
etc.) <br />
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(Put your cursor on the photo below to see all the photos in the slideshow.)<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157704878047072" title="Fez, Morocco"><img alt="Fez, Morocco" height="375" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/40782042523_41144bda86.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfx5YbDHxuQ83vZAntgpmqJJrwAae3qsW2tVra3dCFd6Rr1gsVAWI2r2uLoAEYFPvaCVqV3pyKau-gUEUifcFq7AKCU8H25zLhfHVIrwMvZ6XsKHCz7wrUiVR-0YsDsbGTyLb/s1600/donkey+caravan+fez+medina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfx5YbDHxuQ83vZAntgpmqJJrwAae3qsW2tVra3dCFd6Rr1gsVAWI2r2uLoAEYFPvaCVqV3pyKau-gUEUifcFq7AKCU8H25zLhfHVIrwMvZ6XsKHCz7wrUiVR-0YsDsbGTyLb/s640/donkey+caravan+fez+medina.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A donkey caravan in the narrow streets of the medina of Fez. Look out.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0Wl1ilZ4n4NOip_ZzkuRYiWkkCAw3YIhhHUBZ8p-9BP_moKWGPAEJBLiKylxMSdSsduxyrqqi4f2XAQLGbXlkkfeBsyH1Vu6oHAAYsVA8wClY1qzzHLNk0aTPpnY5Lm1Vyac/s1600/Our+Fez+guide+and+mosaics.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0Wl1ilZ4n4NOip_ZzkuRYiWkkCAw3YIhhHUBZ8p-9BP_moKWGPAEJBLiKylxMSdSsduxyrqqi4f2XAQLGbXlkkfeBsyH1Vu6oHAAYsVA8wClY1qzzHLNk0aTPpnY5Lm1Vyac/s320/Our+Fez+guide+and+mosaics.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tiny tiles in the mosaics are hand cut rather than molded. </td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA99XiLlPcPnQLn21V7WhSa4PrkSq-OpaFuxuvtJVBgMTa2NM-6-iDFPVa7MtNzlyOr5cwaIB0_UncG34Oe0J4Jsf3Kg7JtLTEMDkE7EQTJQM6jxMerC-WgR-foRezo9Phdrs1/s1600/Fez+narrow+streets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1045" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA99XiLlPcPnQLn21V7WhSa4PrkSq-OpaFuxuvtJVBgMTa2NM-6-iDFPVa7MtNzlyOr5cwaIB0_UncG34Oe0J4Jsf3Kg7JtLTEMDkE7EQTJQM6jxMerC-WgR-foRezo9Phdrs1/s400/Fez+narrow+streets.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very narrow streets in the Fez medina. </td></tr>
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Our guide in Fez took us to the neighborhood in the medina where he grew up. His mother
tongue is Berber, but he also spoke Arabic, French, and, of
course, English.<br />
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<h3>
On the dunes of the Sahara</h3>
The drive from Fez in the north to Merzouga in the south was about 10
hours, but we stopped several times for lunch or coffee or to see
particular sights, such as the oases that lie in the valleys between the
mountain ridges.<br />
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Some of the towns along the route have
become ski resorts with architecture that looks very Swiss with steeply
slanted roofs to shed snow easily. Along the roads are snow fences to
prevent drifts forming on the highways.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nU4Ifwf-mvpb_DI8cEAtBolD2KCGo_UxLwX0mhPhBKRfkUhkqsKg9a0TdoAqYNFxyaB7jJdakhDEpQAuQjHc2fAC5a4jpukI6P1UAabHDm3zTz33iOgD_ZIbJC7CCaNX1P3u/s1600/Barbary+apes+in+Atlas+Mountains.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1600" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nU4Ifwf-mvpb_DI8cEAtBolD2KCGo_UxLwX0mhPhBKRfkUhkqsKg9a0TdoAqYNFxyaB7jJdakhDEpQAuQjHc2fAC5a4jpukI6P1UAabHDm3zTz33iOgD_ZIbJC7CCaNX1P3u/s320/Barbary+apes+in+Atlas+Mountains.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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We saw barbary apes -- a species of monkey -- at one place. They are also found on Gibraltar.<br />
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Cindy and Tom decided to take a camel ride in the evening when we got to Merzouga on the edge of the Sahara. I wasn't interested, recalling problems when riding a recalcitrant horse on another trip. Their three-hour trek took them far enough out into the dunes that they couldn't see any sign of the town. Just occasionally some other caravans. The quiet and the emptiness were impressive. I regretted not going. <br />
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The next morning, we went in a 4x4 out onto the dunes and went for a walk. It would be very easy to get lost in the dips between the dunes. It was astonishing to see how some plants manage to find water when there is apparently none to be found. And around some of the tufts of grass or bush, you could see the tracks of birds or lizards or other small creatures. Life finds its niches.<br />
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Arab traders enslaved black Africans to work in their mines and plantations in Morocco starting in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arab_slave_trade" target="_blank">the 9th century at least</a>. Some of the descendants of those slaves, the ethnic group Gnaoua, live in the village of Khamlia, which we visited to hear them play some traditional music (click on the video above). <br />
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We learned how to take a scarf and twist it into a turban that covers the head, the back of the neck and, when needed, the face, to keep the wind-blown sand away. Morocco is very windy everywhere, all the time, it seems. The video below proves it; but this was later, at Aït Ben Haddou Kasbah. <br />
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<h3>
Hollywood of the Sahara</h3>
The casbah (can mean fort or castle
or palace) at Oarzazate (pronounced wahr-ZAH-zah-tay) and the
surrounding area have been used for location shots for lots of movies
and TV shows -- <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0449467/" target="_blank">"Babel"</a> and "Game of Thrones", for example.<br />
<br />
Some
film and TV production studios have large sound stages here, but they
also use the natural exteriors for shooting historical and fantasy
dramas. I wondered if the Monty Python movies might have been shot
around here, but no; those were shot in Tunisia using many of the sets
from Franco Zeffirelli's "Jesus of Nazareth."<br />
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We stopped several places along the highway
from Ourzazate to Tinghir, including to see this jeweler in the slideshow below. We also saw many casbahs that face the Dades River
gorge and have their backs against the cliff, for defensive purposes.<br />
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(Put your cursor on the photo below to see all the photos in the slideshow.)<br />
<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157708347628794" title="Casbahs and oases"><img alt="Casbahs and oases" height="375" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/40782345283_e22f7784f5.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Tomboctou in Tinghir was filled with African art and sculpture. Each room was unique.</td></tr>
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<h3>
Marrakesh</h3>
This is a city famous for its markets. In its heyday, it was a place to buy hashish. Not sure that's a good idea today. We spent our first evening there having dinner in one of the pop-up restaurants that are set up nightly in the main square, La Place, or Djema el-Fna in Arabic, a name which few of us could remember.<br />
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At these restaurants, you could order the traditional tagine (a kind of stew with meat or fish and vegetables, with varied seasonings) or couscous, which also had many variations. Each restaurant welcomes guests with a little song, as in the video below. Martin, the Canadian wildlife expert, makes a brief appearance in the video and politely excuses himself, in true polite Canadian fashion.<br />
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The specialty of our particular restaurant was goat's head, Grande Tête, the most expensive item on the menu at 80 dirham, around 9 dollars U.S. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goat heads. A local delicacy. The most expensive item on the menu. </td></tr>
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157708348667234" title="Marrakesh"><img alt="Marrakesh" height="326" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/40784327843_b8f0789a98.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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We also visited two palaces and a madras, or school. The art and architecture, as you can see in the slides, is magnificent. <br />
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<h3>
Casablanca</h3>
We took a train from Marrakesh to Casablanca and ended up in a compartment with two local guys. We started chatting with them in English. Turns out both of them were involved in telecommunications and engineering. One was more on the programming side, the other more on the construction side. With us, they spoke in English. After a while, when they were speaking in French, we commented on their conversation, and then began a lively chat in French on politics, our remarkable government, their remarkable constitutional monarchy.<br />
<br />
Morocco on the surface is a lot more progressive, more open, than many of its neighbors, and its government seems to be a lot more stable than its neighbors. The newspapers and TV programming I saw were very timid, very much promotional. So it left me wondering if dissent was being suppressed.<br />
<br />
Reporters without Borders ranks Morocco as having <a href="https://rsf.org/en/ranking" target="_blank">among the least press freedom </a>in the world, ranked at 135th out of 180 (Norway and Finland rank 1 and 2, the U.S. ranks 48th). So there is a lot of censorship and self-censorship, and those who don't restrain themselves go to jail. <br />
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Tom Lukens, a huge movie fan, wanted to visit the replica of Rick's Cafe from the movie "Casablanca". The 1941 movie was shot in Hollywood on sound stages, not on location. So the Casablanca cafe is a replica of a fake, you might say. Still, it does try to capture some of the atmosphere of the film in its design. The food was good and not pricey.<br />
<br />
It was Sunday night in Casablanca, and we went for a walk through the old medina, where local folks were stocking up for the next week's work and looking for bargains in clothing, toys, tools, and what have you. Very few foreigners or tourist types were in the crowd.<br />
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157678029395437" title="Casablanca"><img alt="Casablanca" height="410" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/47751123491_e78de2a660.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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(Put your cursor on the photo above to see all the photos in the slideshow.) <br />
<h3>
The Grand Mosque</h3>
<a href="https://www.lonelyplanet.com/morocco/casablanca/attractions/hassan-ii-mosque/a/poi-sig/1379578/1331580" target="_blank">This magnificent building </a>was designed by a French architect and constructed almost completely with local materials by local artisans and craftsmen. It is relatively new, completed in 1993. Supposedly the grand square can hold 100,000 people (totally believable), while the inside can accommodate 25,000. The scale is breathtaking, and has a dramatic setting, with the Atlantic's wind and waves buffeting its base.<br />
<br />
Tourists are only admitted during the times between the five daily prayers. We heard tour guides speaking in French, Spanish, Arabic, Japanese, German, and Chinese.<br />
<br />
Very impressive.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-45296888518914073942019-03-02T15:27:00.004-05:002023-01-29T09:09:52.632-05:00A history of the Hausser family in Cleveland<i>Note: I wrote this for the Hausser family reunion in 2003 and updated it in 2017. The narrative is based on public documents and interviews with family members. Corrections and suggestions are welcome, as are photos and documents. -- Jim Breiner, 2 March 2019.</i><br />
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<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><b>Avon Lake, Ohio, 1927.</b> Nan and Gus Hausser and "The Hungry Five" at one of the cottages on Lake Erie that members of the bakers union could rent during the summer. The twins, Kathleen (Curly) and Eileen, age 6, are on either end. Jim, age 3, is next to Curly, then Leona, 10, the oldest, next to, Ruth, 7. </td></tr>
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It was a union of a West Side Irish family with an East Side German one when Anna Frances Lavelle and August Hausser got married Nov. 21, 1916, in St. Rose’s Church on the West Side. The bride wore a green velvet dress. Nan, as she was known, was 30, five years older than her husband and very touchy about the subject of her age. The groom, known as Gus, worked in his family's bakery. They had met at a dance. Both of them had lost their fathers when they were teen-agers and took responsibility for raising their younger siblings. Both of them were also children of immigrants, her side from Ireland and his from Germany.<br />
<br />
While they were courting, Gus would take the streetcar across town to her home at 4116 Whitman Ave., near the old Lourdes Academy. Many times after their dates, Gus, who rose before dawn to work in the bakery, would fall asleep on the streetcar on the way home and ended up riding it back out to the West Side. <br />
<br />
Their marriage produced five children – Leona, Ruth, Kathleen (Curly), Eileen and Jim -- and a host of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and this is part of their story. It is a story of a family and a family business. <br />
<br />
<b>Gus Hausser’s roots</b><br />
<br />
August “Gus” Hausser was born in Cleveland in 1891, first child of German immigrants Anna Gilles and August Hausser. <br />
<br />
<b>Anna Gilles, </b>grandmother to the Hungry Five, said that her family left Germany so her brothers would not have to serve in the Kaiser’s army. In the 1880s, when the Gilleses left, the Germany of the northeast was Prussian, Protestant, and militaristic. This ideology and political philosophy clashed with that of the German Catholics in the south and west of Germany. They lived in the west, in a village called Landkern, not far from Coblenz and the Rhine River. So it was natural that Anna’s father, Anton, and mother, Maria Elizabeth (Berenz), would decide that things might be better elsewhere. At the time, 90,000 Germans a year were immigrating to the United States.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gilleses came from a village near Coblenz.</td></tr>
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The first to cross the water was Anna’s brother Nicklaus, who had come with family friends in 1881. He worked out west in Nebraska, among other places. <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1McjoaWLuNqt0TOJZCMYfYZKQWD7KZyOHwryD_K2zZwY/edit?usp=sharing" target="_blank">His short self-published autobiography is here.</a> About six years later, the head of the family, Anton, came to Cleveland to establish himself and earn enough money to bring over the rest of his family. The first to join him was the eldest son, Johann, 20. A passenger list in the Library of Congress shows that Johann Gilles came over by himself on the ship Rhynland, from Antwerp, Belgium. He arrived in New York on Aug. 31, 1888. The ship’s manifest lists his destination as Cleveland. On April 15, 1889, the remaining 10 Gilleses (mother and nine children; the 12th child was born in America) arrived in New York from Rotterdam aboard the ship Amsterdam. Anna, 17, was the oldest of the Gilles children aboard that ship.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>A sad side note. <a href="https://books.google.es/books?id=nXChNrqjrakC&pg=PA50&lpg=PA50&dq=gilles+sweet+school+fairview+park+named+for&source=bl&ots=AhhXJjWGQS&sig=ACfU3U25G5jX28VT59wI-luEPH-3bBeJxQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjRicK8m-TgAhXE1-AKHVe_A8IQ6AEwBHoECBMQAQ#v=onepage&q=gilles%20sweet%20school%20fairview%20park%20named%20for&f=false" target="_blank">Gilles-Sweet elementary school </a>is named for two Fairview Park men who served in the military and died during World War I, one of them being Fred Gilles, son of Nick, the first Gilles who immigrated to the U.S. Fred became ill and <a href="https://www.influenzaarchive.org/cities/city-louisville.html#" target="_blank">died during the flu epidemic in 1918 while at Camp Zachary Taylor</a>, the Army's largest training base, near Louisville, Ky.</i></blockquote>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gilleses and their 12 children, 1896. Back row, left to right: <span style="background-color: #fff2cc;">Anna (Ruth Breiner's grandmother, who ran the Hausser bakery, is 25 here),</span> Christ, James, Peter, Nicklaus, John, and Elizabeth. Front row, Gertrude, Eva, Elizabeth (the mother), Matthew, Anton (the father), Joseph, and Anthony. These 12 children eventually had 58 children of their own.</td></tr>
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<br />
Anna
later told her children and grandchildren how she had worked as a
housekeeper in a castle on the Rhine. When she first arrived in this
country, Anna did the same kind of work for a Jewish family on the East
Side. The Gilles family eventually settled in a house at 1616 E. 36th
St., then known as Aaron St. (Anna's daughter, Elsie Hausser, <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1cGUsl2voSYmQoLEWdl5vk3z_ahFHO7de" target="_blank">described it in her own family history,</a> from which I am borrowing heavily. This history is rich in detail.)<br />
<br />
<b>German at home</b><br />
Anna’s grandchildren recall that she would sometimes converse in German with her son, Gus, to keep the children from knowing what they were talking about. But at times, she resisted speaking German. Grandson Jim recalls a scene in the bakery between Anna and Gus in which he was speaking German to her, but she insisted on replying to her son in English.<br />
<br />
Ruth recalls running errands for her grandmother. “I did her grocery
shopping after school from fourth grade on and made 25 cents a week.
Can’t remember how often – not every day but more than weekly. People
shopped more often then because they didn’t have freezers and
refrigerators, only iceboxes with real ice, so food didn’t keep as long
then. She was always very kind. All the customers of the bakery liked
her very much. She took the time to chat with them. She said they were
her livelihood, which was true, but it was more than that. She was truly
interested in them. She had varicose veins and wore heavy elastic
stockings but never complained. As time went on, she spent less time in
the store, because of her health, I suppose. And we, the granddaughters,
began taking our turns working after school in the bakery in high
school and full time as the business grew.”<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna Gilles Hausser and her children in an undated photograph. She became a widow at age 38. <span style="background-color: yellow;"></span>Seated next to her is Herbert. Standing are August (Gus), Elsie, and George. The two oldest helped their mother run the bakery after their father died in 1909; Gus was 17 at that time and Elsie 14. Both George and Herbert finished high school and university. George became an executive in labor negotiations for the Plain Dealer. Herbert founded an accounting firm, Hausser and Taylor, that became one of the biggest in Ohio.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCHnwU1NYZHItkeiwrbyfl7Q-zs7Y-APmJFDuyv3GWMLYE_lXxyy2VvITCnu6Smnbif7FPQARbeygiAgno0-8WXZCxZIlKu25vRrYcDiH9ZYR7JkJDrNLY-a04AnhJGufxZ-i/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-03-02+at+8.13.41+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="908" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfCHnwU1NYZHItkeiwrbyfl7Q-zs7Y-APmJFDuyv3GWMLYE_lXxyy2VvITCnu6Smnbif7FPQARbeygiAgno0-8WXZCxZIlKu25vRrYcDiH9ZYR7JkJDrNLY-a04AnhJGufxZ-i/s640/Screen+Shot+2019-03-02+at+8.13.41+PM.png" width="640" /></a><b>The Gilles Family reunions.</b> As children growing up in the 1950s, we Breiners would go to an annual picnic called the Gilles reunion, which for us meant ice cream, hot dogs, and participating in all kinds of games and competitive events. We really did not understand the family connection: Anna Gilles was our great-grandmother, and she had died in 1940, a person as distant in a child's mind as, perhaps, George Washington. Anna and her 11 brothers and sisters had big families, so my grandfather, Gus Hausser, had 54 first cousins, and who knows how many our mother had. We were in the next generation. I don't remember attending those events much after I turned about 10, in 1961. Either we stopped attending or the reunions stopped being a good idea. In the early 2000s I contacted a Gilles relative in Anaheim, Calif., who had a database of more than 300 descendants on a CD-ROM. Martha (Sabol) Wright has <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1IyD8UhHwXdGR5P2V-YzYkiIJTeM-7Y33/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">provided this photo </a>from the 1954 reunion, which includes Breiners, Hearns, and Haussers (marked with red dots). Let me know if I missed marking anyone in the photo. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3QF6QR6yesbzIdW-MyTI3HHu9DgcWR989h5xmvhB_q64f7Y8Pl-bmqR9BF_wBSn9UkxYO1jHC_pu9OVXtkhbc5OSzNvUkz9jnZ3MRZitPdaoFLGb8Ua2Kx6TgGhTHGyiHQ4U/s1600/Gilles+reunion+1954.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="1600" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3QF6QR6yesbzIdW-MyTI3HHu9DgcWR989h5xmvhB_q64f7Y8Pl-bmqR9BF_wBSn9UkxYO1jHC_pu9OVXtkhbc5OSzNvUkz9jnZ3MRZitPdaoFLGb8Ua2Kx6TgGhTHGyiHQ4U/s640/Gilles+reunion+1954.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1954 Gilles family reunion. Click on this picture to make it larger. Breiner kids in the picture: Rich, Dan, Mike and Jim in first row, Nancy in the second, and Tim, held by Dick Breiner in the third row, center, next to Ruth Breiner and her mom, Nan Hausser. Next to them, Jim and Lois Hausser. Kit and Mike Hearn in the first row. Dick Hearn in the back row next to Herb Hausser. Bobby Marcus is next to Mike Breiner in the front row. </td></tr>
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<br />
<b>The first of three bakers</b><br />
Anna’s future husband, August Hausser, immigrated to this country from Germany at age 21, around 1888. His mother had died of smallpox when he was young. His stepmother was cruel and unkind to the children, who one by one left home and came to America. August had learned the baking trade in Germany, so he had a skill to work with when he arrived here. His son and grandson would follow him in the craft.<br />
<br />
His daughter, Elsie Hausser, said in 1981 that August was from Wittenberg, made famous by Martin Luther, in northeast Germany. This would make sense, since August was a Lutheran. But family members reported in the 1920 census that his birthplace was Stuttgart, which is in the western province of Wurttemberg. Maybe both are true; he was born in one place and grew up in another. Or this could be one time that Elsie, a very detail-oriented and precise person, was mistaken. If so, she could be forgiven. Wittenberg and Wurttemberg sound similar in German. <br />
<br />
It is not known how August and Anna met. They were married in 1890, when Anna was 19, a year after she arrived in this country. August and Anna had four children, August (Gus), Elsie, George and Herbert. In 1902, August Hausser rented a bakery at 3811 Payne Ave. on the East Side, and the family lived in the attached home. The bakery was in the back, the living quarters in the middle and the shop in the front, so the bakers had to walk through the living room with the baked goods destined for the store. Elsie recalls that they would track flour through the house. It annoyed her because it was her job to clean up after them. <br />
<br />
<b>Sneaky Catholics</b><br />
One of the biggest issues in the family was religion. August was a Lutheran. Before their marriage, he promised Anna Gilles that their children could be raised Catholic. But he didn’t keep his promise. So Anna would sneak out of the house to go to church, probably at St. Peter’s on E. 17th St. (The church is in fine condition at this writing in 2003). She also contrived to have her sister, Gertrude, who was living with them, sneak the two youngest boys out of the house and have them baptized. None of the children were raised as Catholics until after their father’s death. Then they all entered the church and took instruction. The elder Hausser might have been horrified to learn that one of his sons, George, went so far as to spend some years studying to be a Catholic priest. <br />
<br />
<b>August Hausser died </b><b>of tuberculosis in 1909</b>, at age 42, leaving his wife, 38, to take care of four children on her own. Fortunately, he had saved $6,000 in cash and had a $1,500 life insurance policy. His oldest son, Gus, 17, had been working in the bakery for several years, so he was not totally unprepared for his new role. <b>He was to be the second Hausser baker</b>. As Gus’s younger sister, Elsie Hausser, recounted in her 1981 family history, the bakery was in a crisis at that time. It had lost its biggest customer, who was skittish about buying from a store whose proprietor had died of a deadly infectious disease. <br />
<br />
However, Anna found other customers, survived and prospered. She was fortunate to be surrounded by siblings and their spouses, who offered help and advice. In 1913 Anna had the opportunity to buy a bakery and 10-room house at E. 85th and Superior, and paid $10,000 cash for it. The family moved upstairs -- Anna, her sister Gertrude and the four children.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuXrYidCGrESJ5wpv03v-s_3tlUz7Uwa-XcARR8W7fQEIQkEoGt4LKz5U5Wko2iN8QiJ7G_AcxEmtk88Mo5bBSX0e8ajutLbMd5ew9-ezvGnvpgy5Nx9ExcNyDS5bzr1jy4xP/s1600/004+bakery.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1085" data-original-width="1600" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuXrYidCGrESJ5wpv03v-s_3tlUz7Uwa-XcARR8W7fQEIQkEoGt4LKz5U5Wko2iN8QiJ7G_AcxEmtk88Mo5bBSX0e8ajutLbMd5ew9-ezvGnvpgy5Nx9ExcNyDS5bzr1jy4xP/s400/004+bakery.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hausser Bakery at E. 85th St. and Superior. Eileen is shown arranging the
display in the store window. Anna Gilles Hausser and her family lived
upstairs on one side, and her son, Gus, and his family lived for a time
on the other side. Later, Curly and Andy Sabol, for the first five years
they were married, lived above the bakery.</td></tr>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
(A side note: After August
Hausser’s death, his brother, Fred, and his wife, Louise, who lived in
Hartford, Conn., kept in touch. One year at Christmas, they sent
August’s granddaughters a dollhouse. “Oh, it was a beauty, it was
beautiful,” Leona recalls. “We gave it later on to Uncle Herb’s two
daughters, Marilyn and Janet. [Herb Hausser, brother of Leona’s father,
Gus]. It was wonderful, a beautiful thing. They mailed it. Can you
imagine that?” Fred Hausser’s son Milton later became an insurance agent
and was living in West Hartford, Conn., in 1973 when Jim Breiner
visited him. At the time he was breathing from an oxygen tank because of
emphysema, brought on by smoking three packs of cigarettes a day.
Milton had one son, Lee, who was living in that area.)</blockquote>
<br />
Anna continued to run the bakery with Gus and Elsie helping. “She was a beautiful woman, really,” granddaughter Leona says of Anna. “Beautiful long blond hair all twisted up in the back. My uncles and my father were really very protective of her in so many ways. They didn’t want her on her feet all the time. And if they were going out somewhere at night, I would go over there and sleep with her overnight. I remember she braided her hair and she taught me to braid it. And I said, when I get big, I can get long hair and braid it like you. [Leona laughs at this; she became a nun and had to wear her hair short]. Very sweet. She really stood up to my Aunt Elsie. My Aunt Elsie said she was sure that the bums, as they were called, came from the park and came to us first because they knew they could get a handout. Elsie said, ‘They’ve got us spotted, Mom.’ And grandmother said, ‘Never mind, never mind,’ and gave them what they needed.” <br />
<br />
<b>Education first</b><br />
The three of them -- Anna, son Gus and daughter Elsie -- ran the business. Gus managed production and Elsie eventually ran the shop out front. That bakery provided the means to send the younger boys, George and Herb, to good schools. George went to Loyola College (now St. Ignatius High School), and Herb attended a business school downtown. The bakery’s earnings also paid for all five of Gus’s children to attend Catholic high schools, the girls at Notre Dame Academy and Jim at St. Ignatius. It was only years later that they learned their grandmother had paid their tuition because their father’s salary would not cover it. Later George and Elsie made sure that Gus’s grandchildren could attend Catholic high schools as well.<br />
<br />
<b>Elsie</b>’s generosity was matched by her high expectations. “She was a tough lady to work for,” Leona recalls. “We were readers, so we all had a turn at the bakery, and we would bring a book over for when nothing was going on, and, absolutely, no reading, you had to be busy. Look busy even if you weren’t, that was her expression. Later on we found out, long after, that she had dated one fellow and they were very serious and he just dumped her without a word and she never got over it. She never dated. She worked hard all her life.”<br />
<br />
Ruth writes, “Uncle George and Aunt Elsie [brother and sister] were my godparents. Well, how lucky can you get. Elsie insisted on paying for my wedding gown. She and her girlfriend, Helen Keller, also a maiden lady, went with me to Faster Frocks, a special shop on Carnegie for wedding stuff. Looking back, I think they enjoyed the whole process, and it’s really very touching – these two ladies who never had the chance to wear one themselves going through the process of selecting a wedding gown.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2I-h7Zk1EVxZIMuDZTatotPk11oFeadpuUYAK0ved5ejU5VhSR0RfNnSgTHUWvjCZD1nvawsNyBSZ84k3uX-cOFdOqj0vaMuVMaFMatiwr85O0aYl0Qgg5KzZmRP5bfzomoZU/s1600/1988-181+Summer+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Eileen+Hausser+Hearn%252C+Herb+Hausser.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="1600" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2I-h7Zk1EVxZIMuDZTatotPk11oFeadpuUYAK0ved5ejU5VhSR0RfNnSgTHUWvjCZD1nvawsNyBSZ84k3uX-cOFdOqj0vaMuVMaFMatiwr85O0aYl0Qgg5KzZmRP5bfzomoZU/s400/1988-181+Summer+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Eileen+Hausser+Hearn%252C+Herb+Hausser.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herb Hausser in 1988. He had a great mind for business. At left, his niece, Eileen (Hausser) Hearn</td></tr>
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<b>Herb</b>, the younger brother of Elsie and George, had a great sense of humor. “Herb always reminded me of Bob Hope,” his nephew Jim recalls. Herb had a great mind for business. He went to work for an accountant, but then quit and started his own firm. He built it into one of the largest accounting firms in Northeast Ohio. When Anna Gilles died in 1940, Curly recalls, Herb walked away from the gravesite and broke down in tears. It was the first time she had seen a grown man cry.<br />
<br />
<b>George</b> was the intellectual of the family and had a dry wit. He was drawn toward theology and philosophy. Ruth recalls that her Uncle George spent some years in seminary. He was supposed to go to Rome and study, but he left because there was not enough intellectual inquiry to suit him. Still, he went back, tried again and then decided it was not for him. He had a last interview with Bishop Schrembs, who was “very kind.” Ruth says, “Someone, I don’t remember who, told me that he repaid the diocese for the money spent on his education after he had a job. Bishop Schrembs commented that he was the first person to ever do that.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKljekPMb18jGXeaptNl0qHhHeOcdf8FATJl9VYSgL5tFx8k9iuZ_ZFL6J1Xnwm_Y3MpwLwD-DuKSw13imRreMCR41LdC0eosI3ifN7EFhv5isVvBL4bUhmOKxa5BFoIL_UdQ/s1600/022+George+Hausser%252C+Ruth+%2526+Dick+Breiner.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="1354" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKljekPMb18jGXeaptNl0qHhHeOcdf8FATJl9VYSgL5tFx8k9iuZ_ZFL6J1Xnwm_Y3MpwLwD-DuKSw13imRreMCR41LdC0eosI3ifN7EFhv5isVvBL4bUhmOKxa5BFoIL_UdQ/s640/022+George+Hausser%252C+Ruth+%2526+Dick+Breiner.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Hausser in Army uniform with niece, Ruth, and her fiancee, Dick Breiner. George was 39 when he was drafted to serve in World War II. Dick was in training in the Army Air Corps. </td></tr>
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Ruth remembers that George worked at the Plain Dealer, first in the advertising department, later in public relations. He was involved in labor negotiations with the various unions dealing with the PD when he was drafted at age 39. He spent time in training at Harvard and was assigned to Washington.. It was in Washington that he met Lt. Sam Mullin, who owned a big company, Cleveland Pneumatic Tool, where George went to work after the war. George’s nieces remember him as a natty dresser given to wearing homburg hats. Women found him very attractive. Still, he never married. Some think it was because he was so concerned about providing for his mother and, later, his sister, Elsie. Leona says, “We were so close to them (George, Herb, Elsie). We passed that bakery every day of our lives on our way to grade school and high school, and we would often stop in there. And if we didn’t do it very often, my father would come home and say, ‘Ma [Anna Hausser] wants to know what’s wrong with those Hausser kids – hasn’t seen you for a while.’ So we would stop by there then. So they were as close to us as they could possibly be.” <br />
<br />
<b>Gus Hausser</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGbYslVVlC5_nJFpoUQXIPzpY-HJzotez_rrFx5ASLcw6ahIQQpbV7H2C9yu12jZ67su62SKE4ErXbHOsvYmxhlJatHQ2yPB-JziiyB_3GhfSNWy__-YJ-EUBzYuBYjYc2R6Sg/s1600/008+Gus+Hausser+and+Ruth+or+Leona.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1283" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGbYslVVlC5_nJFpoUQXIPzpY-HJzotez_rrFx5ASLcw6ahIQQpbV7H2C9yu12jZ67su62SKE4ErXbHOsvYmxhlJatHQ2yPB-JziiyB_3GhfSNWy__-YJ-EUBzYuBYjYc2R6Sg/s320/008+Gus+Hausser+and+Ruth+or+Leona.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gus and daughter, probably Leona. Around 1920.</td></tr>
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Gus loved to read as a boy. He would spend hours curled up with a book and the family dog. It was a love that he passed on to his children. After finishing the eighth grade, Gus enrolled at East High School and spent just a short time there before asking his father if he could come to work in the family bakery. <br />
<br />
He met Anna Frances “Nan” Lavelle at a dance on the west side. When he called Nan to ask her for a date, she hesitated because <b>he wasn’t such a good dancer.</b> “She was as Irish as can be on her side, and he was as German as can be on ours,” Leona recalls of her parents. “My father’s family said, Why couldn’t you find a nice German girl? But my father just laughed and didn’t give them any answer.”<br />
<br />
They were married in 1916. Gus liked to call his wife “Mike,” and she seemed to like the name too. Nan would not discuss her age, even with her children. To this day, her children are still uncertain of her age and how much older she was than her husband. It was five years. <br />
<br />
The Hausser children recall their father, Gus, as a gentle, creative man. “He was a sweetheart,” Curly says. “He was just a perfect person,” Jim says. He liked to draw. He liked to read. He was reserved but had a good sense of humor. <br />
<br />
He was better at dealing with the kids than his wife. “Whenever things would get bad at home and my mother couldn’t handle us anymore, she would say, go over and tell your father what you’re doing. So we had to go over to the shop and tell him, and his punishment always was you sat in one corner on a turned-over lard can, and the other one sat in the other corner and you just sat there. And then the salesman would come in and say, Who are these kids, and then my father would say, 'Imagine, two kids, same family, they can’t get along, and their mother doesn’t know what to do with them.' My mother had trouble dealing with us. They were total opposites really.”<br />
<br />
<b>A family of readers</b><br />
Ruth recalls that her father would read to her. “The first book I ever heard read to me (and Leona), sitting on my father’s lap in the big leather rocking chair, was ‘Heidi.’ I loved it. He would read one chapter at a time. Next was ‘Pinocchio.’ Later I liked to read biography. Amelia Earhart was one. And still later I liked detective stories. Philo Vance, I think, was one author. Sherlock Holmes, of course.”<br />
<br />
Gus and Nan made their home upstairs in the bakery building. They lived on the other side from Gus’s mother, aunt and young siblings. It was after they had their first two children, Leona, born in 1917, and Ruth, born in 1920, that they realized they needed a place of their own. <br />
<br />
The children heard a lot of German spoken by their grandmother and aunt. Gus’s Irish bride was worried that her children might grow up speaking German. When Leona, a toddler, ran her finger across a dirty window and said “Dreck,” German for dirt, that was the last straw.<br />
<br />
<b>They moved around the corner to a double house at 1250 E. 84th St.</b> Another family, the Wolfes, rented the upstairs. It was convenient for Gus, the baker, who just walked around the corner to the shop. Eventually, the family grew to five children, and the seven Haussers made do with two bedrooms. The front bedroom was for the parents. The small bedroom in the back with two single beds was for the four girls. There was first a crib and then a couch that Jim slept on. When Leona was a freshman in high school, they asked the tenants to leave and took over the upstairs as well.<br />
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQv2Bc5hIJ4hZdnnK_jI3fA1kNUzyrUtHyD6PFGvLPnLmd9BGE7HRpHK5Mxl1EMqhP_cRZoGlja5tMo1Fj6dOPgBGDEzCqNJ1WTQ8JRTHQIcDlfob27cDdW3_sLbrpysqFv1Et/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-03-02+at+8.14.30+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="814" height="401" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQv2Bc5hIJ4hZdnnK_jI3fA1kNUzyrUtHyD6PFGvLPnLmd9BGE7HRpHK5Mxl1EMqhP_cRZoGlja5tMo1Fj6dOPgBGDEzCqNJ1WTQ8JRTHQIcDlfob27cDdW3_sLbrpysqFv1Et/s640/Screen+Shot+2019-03-02+at+8.14.30+PM.png" width="640" /></a><br />
<b>Anna Frances “Nan” Lavelle</b><br />
<br />
As calm and reserved as Gus Hausser was, his wife, Nan, was the opposite. She came from a large, talkative Irish family. Her children recall that when she would get together with her brothers and sisters, they would get emotional and carry on at high volume and all at once. To some outsiders, their normal conversation sounded like quarreling.<br />
<br />
Anna Frances “Nan” Lavelle could trace her roots back to <b>Achill Island </b>in County Mayo in the west of Ireland. Her father, <b>John Patrick Lavelle</b>, had come to this country in 1875 when he was 17 years old, part of a wave of immigrants from that impoverished agricultural area. Many of them, like young John, found a kind of work that illiterate
men were qualified for -- they unloaded coal, iron ore, lumber and grain
from the Great Lakes ships that docked on the Cuyahoga River.<br />
<br />
Most of
the Irish laborers lived nearby in what was known as <b>the Angle</b>, and they
attended <b>St. Malachi’s Church</b>. The more well-to-do Irish, known as the
lace curtain crowd, looked down on the laborers, who were referred to as
shanty Irish or pig-in-the-parlor Irish. An especially insulting term
was “Achill Irish,” wrote William F. Hickey, in “Irish Americans and
Their Communities of Cleveland” (Cleveland State University, 1978). It
alluded to “the supposed traitorous conduct of the people who inhabited
that island” during the famine times. But Hickey does not explain what
that betrayal might have been.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAw1bFrsZtE1q4k9hYo5q48mM056SEo8zY8XDqeoLA77KSbR2XzIaliIGvF6_BNsqhmaoy-p19U7eflrN5AN251sb38SwIQ8er8N63YCATzYiDjfNuCDxfIQINo1SNcf5FypS/s1600/map+of+ireland+showing+Achill+Island.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="340" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAw1bFrsZtE1q4k9hYo5q48mM056SEo8zY8XDqeoLA77KSbR2XzIaliIGvF6_BNsqhmaoy-p19U7eflrN5AN251sb38SwIQ8er8N63YCATzYiDjfNuCDxfIQINo1SNcf5FypS/s400/map+of+ireland+showing+Achill+Island.png" width="367" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Achill lies off the northwest coast but is linked to the mainland by a bridge.</td></tr>
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<br />
The “Topographical Dictionary of Ireland” of 1837 gave the population of Achill as 5,277, which is about 1,000 more than what it is today in 2003. The island is about 16 miles long and 7 miles wide. In the 19th century it was principally owned by one man, Baronet Sir Richard O’Donnell. At that time there was no church on the island, being a poor community, but every Sunday a mass was performed in English and then in Irish at Dugarth. There were no proper schools. This explains why many Irish who immigrated were illiterate.<br />
<br />
The man who would be Nan's father, John Patrick Lavelle, the Achill immigrant, landed in
the same neighborhood in Cleveland as <b>Bridget Ellen Gallagher</b>. She was
born in Cleveland in 1862 to Martin Joseph Gallagher and Ellen (nee
Joyce) who also had emigrated from Achill two years before John. There was work available on the docks for Martin
Gallagher as well. Bridget, the
Gallaghers’ oldest daughter, became a serving girl. Her family was
living at 34 State St. (what was later called W. 29th St.) when <b>Bridget,
18, married John Patrick Lavelle, 22,</b> at St. Malachi’s Church on Nov.
23, 1880. <br />
<br />
The neighborhood was a thriving Irish community. A
look at census records from 1870 and 1880 shows large Irish families
living in close quarters of this West Side ward. John and Bridget Lavelle set up housekeeping
in the same neighborhood, on a street called Bentley Alley, which was
later taken to make way for the Shoreway. Eventually, they had 10
children. Their fourth was Anna Frances “Nan.” <br />
<br />
Although <b>the Lavelle name</b> looks French, it is very Irish. Lavelle is the anglicized form of the Irish Ó Maolfábhail. In some places it takes the form of Mulfaal, Mulvihil or Melville. Lavelle is the usual form: it often occurs in County Mayo, where Lawell is a variant of Lavelle.<br />
<br />
When Bridget Lavelle was pregnant with her 10th child, in 1901, <b>her husband died at age 42</b>. It must have been a difficult time for the family. The oldest daughter was 19, and Nan was 14. She never went past the sixth grade. Likely Nan did not marry for another 16 years because she was helping support the younger children.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9-kWeAhWe992xdu0DT_RAPsp7Y8En1ElAulVbDDqNGAmGjM0fnX72LVCutRfrgS_jwKBJx2sKqAqSKzrDdcDqbNrt5Hx4-HiMsOM4Azf0vp3Q1KhVYvXLToTDHktEmGa22Ra/s1600/4116+Whitman+Ave..jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9-kWeAhWe992xdu0DT_RAPsp7Y8En1ElAulVbDDqNGAmGjM0fnX72LVCutRfrgS_jwKBJx2sKqAqSKzrDdcDqbNrt5Hx4-HiMsOM4Azf0vp3Q1KhVYvXLToTDHktEmGa22Ra/s320/4116+Whitman+Ave..jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4116 Whitman Ave., near Bridge Avenue and W. 41st St. Lavelle home at the time of the 1910 census.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In 1910, when Nan was 24, the family was living at <b>4116 Whitman Ave.</b> on the West Side, just north of Bridge Avenue near the old Lourdes Academy. According to that year's census, Nan was working as a telephone operator, and her sisters were working as well -- one as a clerk at an auto company, one as a stenographer and another as a telephone operator. It could just be a mistake of the census taker, or it could be another example of Nan's sensitivity about her age and marital status, but the 1910 census shows her age as 21 when she was actually 24. Did she lie to the census taker?<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCC41RDFEQDUFcs0riSdskyLS86PAlwb7jUhLgiEPj_kiN9TGCmuV3OH4wik1MuFZqMaogYDgD4jo6hs0eZ52LAySRPMEKV1ZekZd0r7mY0hDHtr0z6Uw_0xEqb6spMHsPhRw5/s1600/005+seven+Lavelle+sisters.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="959" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCC41RDFEQDUFcs0riSdskyLS86PAlwb7jUhLgiEPj_kiN9TGCmuV3OH4wik1MuFZqMaogYDgD4jo6hs0eZ52LAySRPMEKV1ZekZd0r7mY0hDHtr0z6Uw_0xEqb6spMHsPhRw5/s640/005+seven+Lavelle+sisters.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
The seven Lavelle sisters. Their married names are in parentheses.
Anna Frances (Hausser) is at the bottom right. Standing, from left, are
Teresa (Bolger), Mary (who died in 1916), Gertrude (Barry), Ella or
Ellan (English). Seated are Kitty (Murphy), Florence, who did not marry,
and Nan. Not pictured are the brothers, Thomas, John and Martin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Nan was the only one of the Lavelle sisters whose spouse
wasn’t also Irish. Because Nan was living on the East Side and her
family were West Siders, most of the Hausser kids did not know the
Lavelles that well. Leona often spent summers with the West Side
relations, but her younger sister, Ruth, says that they saw the Lavelles
at Christmas and not much more often than that.<br />
<br />
<b>Ruth, however, did spend an extended period with Nan’s sister Kitty</b>. Ruth was about 15 months old when her mother gave birth to twins, Eileen and Kathleen (Curly). Nan asked Kitty and her husband, Ed Murphy, to take care of Ruth for a time because she had her hands full. Kitty and Ed had no children. Neither Leona nor Ruth is sure how long this arrangement continued, but it was probably more than a year. <b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Kitty wanted to adopt Ruth.</b> “Kitty thought my mother was very selfish because she already had three girls,” Leona says. And when Kitty brought Ruth back to her mother, there was a scene. Leona, who would have been about 6, says Ruth did not want to stay with the Haussers but wanted to go “home” with Kitty. “You ARE home,” Nan said to her daughter. And when Kitty protested, Nan said, “SHE’S MY DAUGHTER.” And that was that. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNTfoGmgjJQcTJB4kXfkHdTg_KU2BzHQ5vJVovgSSDUu1055W1Gk9CHfqhCjKKuHfwmSVteE9hh-nsp-odFI8MSyaaIFyt6yxCq1QKy2_ywBtUEThtB4y-4npOD_c6SAaZG2w/s1600/1283+W.+111th+St..jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNTfoGmgjJQcTJB4kXfkHdTg_KU2BzHQ5vJVovgSSDUu1055W1Gk9CHfqhCjKKuHfwmSVteE9hh-nsp-odFI8MSyaaIFyt6yxCq1QKy2_ywBtUEThtB4y-4npOD_c6SAaZG2w/s400/1283+W.+111th+St..jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lavelle family home in 1920, 1283 W. 111th St. They moved here after Nan was married.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Maybe this contributed to Ruth’s difficulties with her mother. “Ruth was a smart girl and she had questions, and my mother considered that ‘answering back,’ which the expression was in those days,” Leona says. “[Mother] was just a tough woman, that’s all. She was hard on us. She had rules, and if you didn’t observe them you got a wallop. We all agreed that she did her best. She sewed each of us a lot of our clothes. She made our uniforms, and they fit because she measured them, whereas the other kids at Notre Dame Academy had baggy uniforms.” She could borrow a dress or skirt, look it over and quickly duplicate it without using a pattern. “I think they all [the Lavelle girls] learned how to sew.”<br />
<br />
By the time the younger Hausser kids knew Nan’s mother, Bridget (Gallagher) Lavelle, she was very hard of hearing and kept to a chair. They do not remember much else about her. Nan took care of her at the end of her life, when she was completely bedridden. Bridget died in 1942. <br />
<br />
<b>Summers at the beach</b><br />
The family used to take a cottage occasionally at Stop 62, Lake Road, in Avon Lake, an allotment where many bakers owned cottages. “The drive from East 84th Street seemed to take forever,” Ruth says. “There was a bucket in the back seat beside the five kids for whichever one would throw up. I’ve often wondered since how our parents could stand the trip. It’s funny, but nobody got car sick on the way home. Just the trip out. We sang songs on the way home:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Now the sun is sinking<br />
In the golden west<br />
Birds and bees and children<br />
All have gone to rest.</blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_oObKM6DlPZs3C1yNg5zJWfu2RLDWP6CNiegRHBF5XW5HJkIJgDjThp02YjSpoLjabhQWBSRfNng71mPIjF7JIGx5MOzPH4BFa7T08jr7ep2TIbrI3XpzP4wzKUPFnyZ2Abn/s1600/015+driveway.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1085" data-original-width="1600" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_oObKM6DlPZs3C1yNg5zJWfu2RLDWP6CNiegRHBF5XW5HJkIJgDjThp02YjSpoLjabhQWBSRfNng71mPIjF7JIGx5MOzPH4BFa7T08jr7ep2TIbrI3XpzP4wzKUPFnyZ2Abn/s640/015+driveway.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the driveway of the house on E. 84th St. Jim Hausser is in front, twins Eileen and Kathleen are behind him and then Ruth, mother Nan, Leona, and, at right, their upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Wolfe. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><p> </p><p>“In 1929 <b>St. Thomas Aquinas </b>school was built and the dedication took place in November of that year,” Ruth writes. “The bishop was scheduled to come and bless the building at Thanksgiving. The day before, I was called to the principal’s office and told that I was to present him with a basket of flowers, was given a speech to memorize and was asked, ‘did I have a white dress to wear.’ My mother found one someplace. I worked on memorizing the short speech, and next day nervously went off to do my thing. In the priest house, waiting for the bishop to come down from the second floor, I began to panic. I went completely blank and forgot the whole thing. I’m sure I cried. Somebody produced a copy of the speech, and I read it as my hands shook mightily and the Bishop patted me on the head. To this day I can recite that little speech from memory. But not that day. I was nine years old.”<br />
<br />
The kids in the neighborhood seemed to like playing in the Haussers’ yard. Jim recalls that a neighbor boy with very strict parents, Jim Kacirk, came over to play one day in his meticulously kept outfit. “His parents wouldn’t let him walk across the grass except to cut it.” But the Hausser kids had him playing in the dirt in no time. Seventy years later, Jim has stayed in touch with his neighborhood friend, who still says that playing with the Haussers was his “salvation” from a strict home environment.<br />
<br />
Eileen remembers that some of the other kids in the neighborhood thought the Haussers were rich because their family had a business of their own. To her, that was a laugh. If they were rich, why would their mother take the trouble to bleach old flour sacks and make them into bloomers for the girls? Sometimes the bleach wouldn’t remove all of the ink. So Eileen’s retort to the “rich kid” remark was, “If you think I’m a rich kid, then I’m the only one who has General Mills on the back of her bloomers.”</p><p><b>Leona wanted to enter the convent </b>after finishing at Notre Dame
Academy, but took the advice of a priest to work for a year. She got a
job at Higbee’s Silver Grill Tea Room and worked there before entering
the convent at 18. She stayed in the Notre Dame order from 1936 until
1970, when the extremely rigid, uncharitable environment became more
than she could bear. She left to join the <b>sisters of the Holy Humility of Mary</b>, also known as the Blue Nuns. Leona taught high school and college English for many years. <br />
<br />
Eileen enjoyed roller-skating to the library on E. 79th St. and,
later, when they were bigger, to the library on E. 105th. She had a gift
for drawing and was the one who produced the best cake decorations of
the bunch. “I did enjoy that,” Eileen says. “She was a wonderful
artist,” Curly says. Eileen remembers walking to the art museum for a
drawing class and doing a study of a suit of armor. She downplays her
artistic skills. “I was a good copier.” But all of her siblings
disagree. She had real artistic talent, they say. </p><p><b> Eileen and Dick Hearn</b></p><p>Eileen was a sophomore in
high school, roller skating at Euclid Beach Park, when she met a
football player from Cathedral Latin named Dick Hearn. Eleven years
later they were married. Dick had served with the Marines who were protecting the Panama Canal during WWII.<br />
<br />
<br />
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/33461124608/in/dateposted/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="019 Ruth, Kathleen, and Eileen Hausser"><img alt="019 Ruth, Kathleen, and Eileen Hausser" height="431" src="https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7909/33461124608_b62fe9819b.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth, Kathleen (Curly), and Eileen Hausser</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Ruth, Eileen and Curly</b><br />
<p>
The kids did not see much of their Dad, even though he was working just around the corner. He would rise every day before dawn to start making the baked goods and would not return home many days until 12 or 14 hours later. Later, all of the girls and Jim put in time working in the bakery or behind the counter. Elsie ran the store in her strict, regimented fashion. Curly worked there for eight years, from 1944, when Ruth got married, to 1952.<br />
<br />
<b>One day Curly had it out with Elsie </b>and walked out of the store. The next week, though, she and Elsie had a talk and made amends, and Elsie began treating her better. It must have been the pressure of running the business that made her so strict, Curly says. Because after the bakery <b>business was sold in 1957,</b> Elsie became a different person -- much more relaxed and easy to get along with. She became the gracious hostess at the house she and George shared on <b>Carver Road </b>in Cleveland Heights.<br />
<br />
<b>Curly and Andy</b></p><p>It was in the bakery that Curly noticed a young man who seemed to treat his wife with impressive kindness. Curly thought she would like to be treated like that. As it turned out, the young man was not married. <b>Andy Sabol</b>’s companion was his sister, not his wife, and Curly got to know this gentle man, who was a WWII combat veteran. She and Andy married in 1952. <br /></p><p></p><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt;">Andy Sabol had an interesting family history. He spoke only Slovak at home until it was time for him to go to school at St Andrew's Parish. He then attended Benedictine High School and worked with his older brother, Julius, who had founded Star Electric radio repair shop. Both of them enlisted in the Army in 1941. Andy was 18. He was a private first class, a radio operator in General Patton's 3rd Army, which landed in August 1944 at Avranches, France. Andy later "walked through Europe" and fought in the Battle of the Bulge.<br /><br />He won a Battlefield Commendation for "going behind enemy lines to string radio wire while under fire," but the remaining details of what he was awarded were lost in the fire at the National Personnel Records Center in 1973. He had great respect and admiration for Gen. Patton. <br /><br />After the war, Andy went to work at radio station WERE 1300 in Cleveland. <br /></span><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Andy and Curly continued the tradition of Haussers living above the bakery. For
the first five years they were married they lived in the apartment where
Curly’s father and siblings had grown up. Andy, a very handy man,
remodeled George’s old bedroom into a kitchen. <br /><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><br />"They were a perfect match," their daughter. Martha, recalled. "They cherished each other!" <br /></span></span></div><p>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Jim and Lois</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Jim recalls that the neighborhood around E. 84th Street was filled with relatives from the Gilles side of the family -- the Roeders, the Soeders and a second cousin, Larry Gilles. When he was older, Jim and cousin Larry went to a dance at a place next door to the old Cleveland Arena on Euclid Avenue and<b> met the Mathews sisters, Lois and Alice. Jim and Lois eventually married. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b> </b><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeos55eTUWBUp3oeqlcLVID-h2siJ0KGlAfg9DEOFCLQsR-iUMuduHzXNMmoSVQhnGkF2iz6e0lcO15fq1WSdKN96M1qBHfZucnu6SPMb3ApfshvnT8JIRzWvGeWCJcR4rtgq/s1600/1988-183+Summer+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Ruth+Hausser+Breiner+%2528grandma%2529%252C+Andy+Sabol.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1049" data-original-width="1600" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeos55eTUWBUp3oeqlcLVID-h2siJ0KGlAfg9DEOFCLQsR-iUMuduHzXNMmoSVQhnGkF2iz6e0lcO15fq1WSdKN96M1qBHfZucnu6SPMb3ApfshvnT8JIRzWvGeWCJcR4rtgq/s640/1988-183+Summer+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Ruth+Hausser+Breiner+%2528grandma%2529%252C+Andy+Sabol.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Andy Sabol, right, at the Hausser family reunion in 1988. At left, Ruth (Hausser) Breiner.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: arial;">
<br />
Despite the fact that all three other sisters vowed they would never work in the bakery again after high school, and all went to work elsewhere, all of them eventually returned to help. Ruth and her younger sisters, Curly and Eileen, worked in the bakery until they were married. Ruth and Dick Breiner, whom she met at the home of a Notre Dame classmate, were married in 1944 while he was in the Army Air Corps. Their first child, Richard, born in 1945, was the first child of the third generation of Haussers.<br />
<br />
Gus Hausser did get to see his first grandchild but did not live much longer. He contracted colon cancer and died in 1946. That left his sister, Elsie, in charge of the store. <br />
<br />
<b>The third baker</b><br />
Gus’s son, Jim, was just coming back from the war at this time. He had entered the Marines less than a year after graduating from St. Ignatius in 1942 and was an airplane mechanic in the Philippine Islands. He worked on the naval version of the B-25 bomber, called the PBJ. <b>Like his sisters, he did not want to work in the family bakery</b>. But Elsie, who was not skilled at dealing with people, was having trouble with the bakers and asked Jim to come back. His first day was a hot one. He remembers walking into the baking area and being hit with the sickly, sweet smell of yeast and rising dough. He thought to himself that he would never get used to this.<br />
<br />
He ended up running the bakery with Elsie for the next 11 years. They sold the business in 1957 to a man named Gordon, who did not manage to keep the operation running for very long. The Hausser family had been in the bakery business for 55 years. Jim worked another 30 years as a baker for Hough Bakery. He was the third and last of this line of Hausser bakers.<br />
</span><br />
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0baqvgD2ey-UnPrK9Joh-UM6dC2ugQ__g9D2fBEc9_T78C97NX6AdZCh8vN9zQ5iCbdBaso8JeHc2JqtZDFvzcRYWuo1z6HqzNCbVFkoxKSddBSnHNZuOFCih998APq6zTbhQ/s1600/1981-018+July+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Hausser+reunion+-+Hearn+clan.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1035" data-original-width="1520" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0baqvgD2ey-UnPrK9Joh-UM6dC2ugQ__g9D2fBEc9_T78C97NX6AdZCh8vN9zQ5iCbdBaso8JeHc2JqtZDFvzcRYWuo1z6HqzNCbVFkoxKSddBSnHNZuOFCih998APq6zTbhQ/s640/1981-018+July+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Hausser+reunion+-+Hearn+clan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eileen (Hausser) Hearn and husband, Dick, right rear, with their five children, spouses, and grandkids. Mentor, 1981.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>German-Irish tension</b><br />
Elsie Hausser never approved of what she considered the Lavelles’ extravagance in buying their house on W. 111th St. Her clear-headed business sense proved on target when the Lavelle household, then supported mainly or exclusively by Florence, suffered a Depression-era catastrophe. They lost the house. Nelson J. Callahan and William F. Hickey, writing in “Irish Americans and Their Communities of Cleveland” (Cleveland State University, 1978) wrote that the Germans considered the Irish “improvident wastrels.” Hickey says, “….all through the latter decades of the 19th century, the Irish of Cleveland were blamed for every major and minor ill that afflicted the city.” The anti-Irish Cleveland Leader reported that 90 percent of all violent crimes committed in Cleveland from 1850 to 1870 were committed by Irish.<br />
<br />
The vast majority of Cleveland’s Irish came from County Mayo, Callahan says. “Few counties were and are as poor as County Mayo.” Perhaps some of the Mayo people are our cousins. Among the common Achill names are Gallagher, Kilbane, Lavelle, O’Connor, O’Malley, Joyce, and Patton. Two Mayo men named Gallagher made their mark in Cleveland, but it is not known if they are relations of ours. In the 1850s, Anthony Aaron Gallagher, who spent his first years in Cleveland unloading iron ore, approached ship owners and, for a commission, took full responsibility for the hiring and firing of the Irish stevedores. Another, known only as Holy Water Gallagher, arrived in Cleveland from Mayo in 1847, and he established a funeral service, in which he prepared the corpse, hired the wailers and did the whole send-off. <br />
<br />
St. Patrick’s Church on Bridge Avenue was founded in 1853, and in 1865 St. Malachi’s Church was founded to serve the poorest Irish families, who were living in the area overlooking the docks, known as the Angle. The Angle was north of Detroit, east of W. 28th St. and down Washington Avenue to Whiskey Island.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmbvdlOmiGwXddYVAZRyzzHjtNVkQrBmX-4g9y6UUCk6bQPXWwrYKAZVdN2JNoSzja8ucxQYQzDUnib67r-7FLJ7u7dLFFo98X5krXJXTrz3wFZ-v4B8eQ9_rflWXUE1FwtjQn/s1600/1994-063+Summer+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Hausser+reunion+-+Aunt+Eileen%252C+Uncle+Jim%252C+Janet+Bolger%252C+Grandma+B%252C+Aunt+Leona%252C+Aunt+Curly.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="1136" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmbvdlOmiGwXddYVAZRyzzHjtNVkQrBmX-4g9y6UUCk6bQPXWwrYKAZVdN2JNoSzja8ucxQYQzDUnib67r-7FLJ7u7dLFFo98X5krXJXTrz3wFZ-v4B8eQ9_rflWXUE1FwtjQn/s640/1994-063+Summer+-+Cleveland%252C+OH+-+Hausser+reunion+-+Aunt+Eileen%252C+Uncle+Jim%252C+Janet+Bolger%252C+Grandma+B%252C+Aunt+Leona%252C+Aunt+Curly.jpg" width="504" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1994, The Hungry Five pluse one. Front, from left, Ruth, Leona, and Curly. Rear, Eileen, Jim, and cousin Janet Bolger.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157679275885358" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Achill Island"><img alt="Achill Island" height="375" src="https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7826/46622989494_030eb2f287.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martha (Sabol) Wright took this photo on Achill in 1988. Slideshow has photos of Jim and Christine Breiner's 2003 visit.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b></b><br />
<b>Ruth Breiner’s visit to Achill, September 1981 </b><br />
Ruth and her daughter Mary spent more than a week driving around the west of Ireland. Ruth wrote in her journal: “I was so glad not to miss Achill. It was a detour off the main road but it was worth the whole trip. Biggest island in Ireland, about 10 miles wide. We took the ‘famous Atlantic road’ (never heard of it) and it boggled eyes and mind. Gorgeous. Stood at the top looking out over the Atlantic with the wind blowing. Turn around and there are rounded mountains left and right, green hills and you see way off in the distance green expanse, houses, lakes, etc. You need a camera going around in a full circle to get it all in. Anything after this is anti-climactic, I think. Westport [an hour from Achill] is the prettiest city we’ve been in so far. You drive down a steep hill and it’s sort of nestled down at the bottom there, a river running though the middle so there are two bridges over.”<br />
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<b>More from the Irish side</b><br />
The Lavelles had some interesting personalities in the family. Nan Lavelle’s brother Tommy was a Cleveland firefighter for 44 years, and one of her sisters, Ella, married another Cleveland fireman, Patsy English. Their son, Jack, graduated from West High and was given a full scholarship to John Carroll University. He was editor of the Carroll News. After graduation in the late 1930s, <b>Jack English </b>went to New York City and became involved with the <b>Catholic Worker</b> newspaper. He was working for the legendary <b>Dorothy Day</b>, the founder and leader of the Catholic Worker Movement. He joined the Air Corps, became a bombardier, was shot down in the Ploesti Oil Raid over Rumania, and was taken prisoner. He was beaten badly by his German captors. After the war he ended up as a Trappist monk at the same abbey in Kentucky as <b>Thomas Merton</b>. Ruth thought this was very ironic, since Jack was a chatterbox by nature and the Trappists take a vow of silence. “I remember that my mother and her sisters all flew down [to Kentucky] for his ordination. It was there that my mother met Dorothy Day, who also had come. Jack later was at the abbey in Georgia.” He died of a heart attack in 1972.<br />
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Teresa Lavelle married Al Bolger, and their daughter, Janet, continued a family tradition of religious dedication and became a nun. Nan’s aunt Nitty (Anna Loretta Gallagher) and her husband, Patrick, had a son, Joseph, who became a Jesuit and was an assistant pastor at Gesu parish.<br />
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<b>A final word from Ruth</b><br />
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“I want to say one thing. I’ve been reading ‘The Holy Longing,’ by Ronald Rolheiser only because we’re doing it in the study club that Jean Williams got me into many years ago. I’m not sure if I really like this book. It’s tough to read, but this I love: ‘One of the great anthropological imperatives, innate in human nature, is that we eventually must make peace with the family. No matter how bad your mother and father may have been, some day you have to stand by their graveside and recognize what they gave you, forgive what they did to you and receive the spirit that is in your life because of them.’ Not that I have anything to forgive my parents for. I know they loved us.”<br />
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<b>Note to the Third Generation from Jim Breiner (2003)</b><br />
<br />
If this is complicated, it is because families are complicated. If you go back on your own family tree for five generations, you have two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, 16 great-great grandparents and 32 great-great-great grandparents. If each of them has four or five siblings and their spouses and kids, you can see how it gets complicated very quickly.<br />
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This little narrative is just the beginning of the story. Take some time to talk with your parents about their lives, which are filled with great drama, humor and tragedy. Capture their words on tape and in writing, and collect the pictures before you forget who is in them. These memories are not with us forever. If Elsie had not taken the time to write down her recollections, we would have missed out completely on a fascinating chapter in the history of Germany, the United States and our family.<br />
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<b>Sources (from 2003)</b><br />
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Interview with Leona Hausser, 2002. Letters of and interviews with Ruth Hausser Breiner, 2002-03. Interviews with Jim, Eileen and Curly Hausser, 2003.<br />
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U.S. Census records, available in the National Archives and online through Ancestry.com, have tremendous amounts of data about each individual in a family, including age, occupation, marital status, literacy, native language, country of origin, year of immigration, home ownership and so forth. These records also show who was living in the neighborhood, another rich source of research.<br />
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Mary Breiner took photographs of the Lavelle homes in Cleveland.<br />
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The Library of Congress has a 65-volume set of "Germans to America: Lists of Passengers Arriving at U.S. Ports," Ira R. Glazier and P. William Filby, eds. This has records of the Gilles family’s immigration (nothing on the Haussers).<br />
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Elsie Hausser’s typewritten narrative of 1981 has a great deal of detail about the Gilleses and Haussers that would otherwise be lost to us. <br />
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Some of the Gilles research comes from a Gilles database created by David L. Gilles, 4043 Circle Haven Road, Anaheim, Calif., 92807 714.637.8497 nagx@aol.com Some of this information was assembled for David by Sally Bridget Catherine Arn, Sarngwtw@aol.com who lives on the East Side of town. Her grandfather was Christ Gilles.<br />
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Kevin Barry, son of Gertrude Lavelle Barry, also did extensive research on the Gallaghers and Lavelles. kev_flo@qwestonline.com<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-90299386767386113212019-03-02T03:59:00.001-05:002021-07-31T08:27:17.465-04:00An immigrant's dream: from Germany to Brooklyn to Cleveland<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><i>This is the story of my
great-grandfather, Mathew Breiner, and grandfather, Ferdinand Breiner. Most of it comes from public records in Germany and the U.S.: census, city directories, births, deaths, baptisms, and some oral history. I originally wrote it in 2002 and have added some updated information. Corrections, suggestions, clarifications, documents, and photos are all welcome. -- Jim Breiner, 2 March 2019.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">When Mathew Breiner died of
pneumonia in Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn in 1918, he was 66 years old and
most of his family was gone. His wife, Magdalena, had succumbed to stomach cancer
six years earlier, and six of their eight children were dead as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The only family still living in
Brooklyn was Mathew’s son, also named Mathew. The other remaining son,
Ferdinand, was estranged from his father. Several years earlier he had left
Brooklyn for Cleveland, married and started his own meat business.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>An immigrant's dream </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The old man had been a drinker.
Supposedly he had been successful in business, owned some property, and had
seven meat-cutters working for him at one point, but he lost much of it because
of his drinking. So one wonders what was going through Mathew’s mind as he lay
on his deathbed. He had lived half his life in a village in Germany and half in
the bubbling immigrant stew of Brooklyn, N.Y. Did he have any regrets about
picking up his young family and moving them across the Atlantic Ocean? Did he
have idyllic dreams of the village he had left behind? Did he hope to see the
son he had alienated, Ferdinand, one last time?</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjDA9qh8kJ0PeKpOPX1LWFgLXB4SYWHcjuJgELL1Cxb4R4bbX5fp2moADIpEEC96ry-AGA-tJwaOTtHfm5FDtJqpdMeGj03ULUwU3dB3erCbFwere0C350bQByZnx3VAGu1q_/s1600/Breiner+butcher+shop%252C+Brooklyn.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1133" data-original-width="1600" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjDA9qh8kJ0PeKpOPX1LWFgLXB4SYWHcjuJgELL1Cxb4R4bbX5fp2moADIpEEC96ry-AGA-tJwaOTtHfm5FDtJqpdMeGj03ULUwU3dB3erCbFwere0C350bQByZnx3VAGu1q_/s640/Breiner+butcher+shop%252C+Brooklyn.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breiner Brothers Meat store, Brooklyn, N.Y., about 1904. Mathew Breiner, the father, is standing at the rear. Then from left are sons Matt, Frederick, and Peter. Our grandfather, Ferdinand, was about 8 at the time and is not pictured.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Here at the end of his life, on his
death certificate, his occupation is listed, strangely, as “blacksmith”. Did
his son Mathew suggest that to the authorities? Or is that how he described
himself to the attending care givers? Maybe he still described himself that
way, a bit ironically, since that’s what he was when he left Germany 33 years
earlier. On official documents there, his trade was listed as – “hufschmied”, a
farrier or blacksmith. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>The roots </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He was born in Bundenthal in
southwest Germany in 1851. As was the custom among Catholics, his name was rendered
in Latin form, Mathaeus, on his baptismal certificate; the common German form of the name is Mathias. We will refer to him hereafter
as Mathew, the name he went by in the U.S. His grandfather, Balthasar, was a
plowman. His father, Peter, was a linen weaver. His mother, Christiane (nee
Sarther), was just 23 when she was widowed. (She later married a man named Franz J. Brug; the Breiner and Brug families much later had close connections in Cleveland, according to my cousin Anna Breiner </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Caulfield, </span>who is a professional genealogist and lives in Florida.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Why they might have left</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The village of Bundenthal is in a
hilly, forested region known as the Pfalz and lies just a mile or two from the
French province of Alsatia. <a href="https://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.com/2018/03/fond-memories-from-2001-visit-to.html" target="_blank">My brother Tim and I visited there in 2001</a>. Today it is very rural, but the village is really a
bedroom community for the nearby cities of Pirmasens and Karlsruhe. In the 19<sup>th</sup>
century, the residents were farmers, weavers, carpenters and laborers. The
village was part of the German state known as the Bavarian Palatinate, which
was rocked by a popular revolt against the monarchy and the land-owning
aristocrats in 1848. It was the same popular revolt that swept through France
and much of the rest of Europe. Prussian troops were called to put down the
revolt in Mathew’s home region. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlyI-0TEZVUbQw6BcUoJrmzXPHa1Dx2XPra1Mt_QiBmPqX8Gdluc2v2i6SyQpX1iKJhmwMC-I9PUW1hpPylBfX_Jq8MUz-nzQ5jBqSGJPf0jZ6ee1Rz43-WoWuE2XN8E8ZCZN/s1600/2001-097+Winter+-+Bundenthal%252C+Germany.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1087" data-original-width="1600" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlyI-0TEZVUbQw6BcUoJrmzXPHa1Dx2XPra1Mt_QiBmPqX8Gdluc2v2i6SyQpX1iKJhmwMC-I9PUW1hpPylBfX_Jq8MUz-nzQ5jBqSGJPf0jZ6ee1Rz43-WoWuE2XN8E8ZCZN/s320/2001-097+Winter+-+Bundenthal%252C+Germany.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A gravestone in Bundenthal tells a sad story from World War II. Elisabeth Breiner (don't know if there is a family connection) lost her husband and son, both named Karl, in the battle of Stalingrad in 1943. Both were listed as "missing". </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As Mathew was coming of age, war,
economic strife and social unrest were part of life in the region and
throughout Germany. Farm laborers sought to throw off the shackles of the
feudal system, still in force, which gave landowners virtually complete
authority – judicial, economic and civil – over the people who worked their
land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Laborers in the urban factories
sought better pay and working conditions. Along with the liberal middle class
bourgeoisie, workers were pushing the loose grouping of 39 German states toward
liberal democracy and a unified German-speaking nation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Protestant Prussia vs. the Catholic south </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Protestant northern German
states, led by Prussia, vied with the southern Catholic German states, led by
Austria, for control. Prussia eventually prevailed and led the rest of the
German states into war with France in 1870. <b>Mathew was 19 at the time of that
war. </b>His world changed significantly the next year. The German states had
defeated France, and the victory gave momentum toward unification under a
Prussian Kaiser who presided over a national assembly. Catholics in the south,
where Mathew lived, were considered unruly and untrustworthy. Bismarck, named
chancellor by Kaiser William I, placed severe controls on Catholics in his
Kulturkampf, or culture struggle. The Jesuits were kicked out of Prussia. In
all the German states, priests were forbidden to use their pulpits for
political purposes. Priests and nuns were barred from teaching in the schools. </span></div>
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157704020472182" title="Bundenthal, Munich, Stuttgart 2001"><img alt="Bundenthal, Munich, Stuttgart 2001" height="640" src="https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7820/46454386515_99f32dd576_z.jpg" width="427" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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<i>A slideshow of Tim and Jim Breiner's visit to Bundenthal in 2001. Here, Sts. Peter and Paul Church</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> By 1876, the year that <b>Mathew
Breiner, 24, and Magdalena Deis, 20, were married in Sts. Peter and Paul Church
in Bundenthal </b>(pictured above,<b> </b>in 2001), 1,400 parishes in Germany lacked priests. By the time Bismarck
relented on many of these laws 10 years later, Mathew and Magdalena had already
left for America. (<a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1WFBWVElx1L6KwaYMhTJ_PV2AtqsnPB7iXUJ6E-5FrIQ" target="_blank">Tim and Jim Breiner went to Bundenthal in 2001 and described their visit here</a>.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It is not clear that religion was a
factor in their leaving. But it was for some. Many also left for America to
avoid serving in the Prussian army. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">However, most of the people who left during
the 1880s – <b>Mathew and Magdalena emigrated with their two oldest boys in 1885</b>
– sought greater economic opportunity. Germany had undergone a population
explosion, especially in the rural areas. There wasn’t enough land to farm and
there weren’t enough jobs in the cities to keep everyone employed. The decade
of 1881-1890 was the period of greatest German immigration to America – 1.4
million came in that wave. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Bundenthal lies close to the Rhine
River. For those leaving southwest Germany, the Rhine was a great highway, and
they rode steamboats north in the first stage of emigration. The boats took
them to the seaport of Rotterdam in the Netherlands. From there, steamships of
the day made the Atlantic crossing in a matter of weeks. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2p7YXyjfSsljYbNfVzj0x-1y2KK99HQux14eIOp3K8QlcL91rokVY447pWAxjpuPqT_lblj-Rm2DihGAsQlLdomZFfYL6XpVs5NILDJfWId0eoYvaB7E8wMlkSs2m2Bmzisq/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-03-02+at+8.47.10+AM.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="718" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2p7YXyjfSsljYbNfVzj0x-1y2KK99HQux14eIOp3K8QlcL91rokVY447pWAxjpuPqT_lblj-Rm2DihGAsQlLdomZFfYL6XpVs5NILDJfWId0eoYvaB7E8wMlkSs2m2Bmzisq/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-03-02+at+8.47.10+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The SS Noordland was built in 1883, 400 feet long</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The family members' names show up on the manifest of the <b>SS Nordland</b> in 1885, Rotterdam to New York.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The year they made the voyage Mathew
was 34 and Magdalena was 30. Taking this step in their lives must have been a
difficult decision. The couple had two boys, Peter, 8, named after his
grandfather, and Frederick, 5. What did they take with them and what did they
leave behind? It is possible that they had relatives or friends in Brooklyn,
N.Y., already. Did anyone meet them at the dock? </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKSwaQKgvlWDqPnApNRseQ_DrE1ylRBrH23aeIvkJ3Y5kufBKSqyYmOvkKrbhG2cpHUO70Q03H61y9E070WyuHz835Ub7D_CKIGjLjliJm2YuAbvyq2NObI3L8D6ylIX4HUSl/s1600/1887+Breiner+home%252C+80+Graham+Ave.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1038" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKSwaQKgvlWDqPnApNRseQ_DrE1ylRBrH23aeIvkJ3Y5kufBKSqyYmOvkKrbhG2cpHUO70Q03H61y9E070WyuHz835Ub7D_CKIGjLjliJm2YuAbvyq2NObI3L8D6ylIX4HUSl/s320/1887+Breiner+home%252C+80+Graham+Ave.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">80 Graham Ave. in 2001</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The very first record of the family
in Brooklyn is an entry in the 1887 city directory (like a phone book before
there were phones) two years after they arrived. It lists Mathew Breiner,
occupation peddler, living at <b>80 Graham Ave.</b> Mathew and Magdalena and their
children – a third child, Mathew, was born this year (he is Uncle Matt, my
grandfather’s brother) -- were living in the heart of a bustling immigrant
district. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There were several Roman Catholic churches nearby whose parishioners
were primarily German. But the neighborhood mixed in a rich stew of Italians,
Irish and Jews as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The building,
perhaps their first home in America, is still standing. It is a four-story brick
structure on a busy corner with a storefront on the first floor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Today the area, known as East
Williamsburg, teems with commercial activity. In 2001, when I visited, the
streets were filled with people shopping at the neighborhood retailers that
lined Graham Avenue, which is also known as the Avenue of Puerto Rico. More
than a century later it was still a good place for newcomers, mostly Hispanic,
to get started.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In 1892 the city directory shows
Mathew a few blocks away on Montrose Avenue. His occupation is listed as
“cigars.” Perhaps he was still a peddler. Perhaps he had a store. Perhaps he
was working in one of the many cigar-making workshops set up by German
immigrants that made New York at that time the world capital of cigar-making. </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialQSzXI94Toc21321bckrsJc6lOV3dcJoa6TvWbOOIWt-FMHjprQtw-04ufLoirk2Ida_L5cdBlnPqX0IIHnCg4GV8ON3fJWQzqmU9CRwr62DPQkHHkRiTkADu-t7OgEMvjYD/s1600/1-09+Most+Holy+Trinity.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1038" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialQSzXI94Toc21321bckrsJc6lOV3dcJoa6TvWbOOIWt-FMHjprQtw-04ufLoirk2Ida_L5cdBlnPqX0IIHnCg4GV8ON3fJWQzqmU9CRwr62DPQkHHkRiTkADu-t7OgEMvjYD/s320/1-09+Most+Holy+Trinity.JPG" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most Holy Trinity Church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Their home on Montrose is gone, but
the address is a half-block away from Most Holy Trinity Church and school, both
of which served primarily German parishioners. The Breiner family must have
attended church there; when their son Ferdinand (this is our grandfather) was
born in 1895, he was baptized in the church that still stands on the site.
Probably their boys went to school next door. School attendance records don’t
go back that far.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />When I visited in 2001, the church
went by the Spanish name Santisima Trinidad, since the parishioners were mainly
Hispanic. In 2019 it is <a href="https://mostholytrinity-brooklyn.org/">called
Most Holy Trinity-St. Mary</a>, and it has masses in English, Spanish, and
Polish. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mathew had evidently found his
niche as a merchant. In America, everyone was in business. The densely
populated neighborhoods offered great opportunities for anyone selling anything
that people needed or wanted. Brooklyn had about 800,000 residents at that
time. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMuVep5VRHrmpfkVwnAsjtberjKYVNC4ZvBBi0HF22bdI_yudkrY2TW8MLJuqSTtbV8gwhsLqwZ215fEr_xFci7g15Bireo4GQpUTNdhYQKSrHf7ZAOKcDnhvamas9IrFiaSLV/s1600/1-08+Most+Holy+Trinity.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMuVep5VRHrmpfkVwnAsjtberjKYVNC4ZvBBi0HF22bdI_yudkrY2TW8MLJuqSTtbV8gwhsLqwZ215fEr_xFci7g15Bireo4GQpUTNdhYQKSrHf7ZAOKcDnhvamas9IrFiaSLV/s320/1-08+Most+Holy+Trinity.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our grandfather likely attended Most Holy Trinity School</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By 1897, 12 years after their
arrival in Brooklyn, Mathew Breiner is listed as a grocer in the city
directory. The address at that time was in the neighborhood known as Bushwick
and was within walking distance of the earlier residences and Most Holy Trinity
Church. The trade of storekeeper would be in line with the trade all four of
his sons eventually adopted – butcher. (When I walked that neighborhood in
2001, its residents were generally immigrants and poor; by 2019, Bushwick had
gentrified and was filled with young yuppies.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Coincidentally, in the same year,
another Breiner appears in the Brooklyn city directory listed as a grocer.
Frederick Breiner, 28, was 18 years younger than Mathew, but he emigrated from
the same village in Germany three years after Mathew. They were second cousins and lived in the same area of Brooklyn.
Did they know each other? Probably, says Anna Breiner Caulfield. Were they in business together, since they
both appear as grocers in 1897 for the first time? It’s interesting to
speculate. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Census data </b></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjvM2D6MLOD5wOPKzsgVeTfE88DwzpKQ9o3rBDO55LzhajDnZJz3Lth0CRYEgM90nMrbCMD39A_ww7RpreIaYWveNM6uuph1Et5ynhKQXwZC2BG2oOxf2mbr9Xshb1F9_9DHO/s1600/1-19+44+Starr%252C+1900+census+home.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsjvM2D6MLOD5wOPKzsgVeTfE88DwzpKQ9o3rBDO55LzhajDnZJz3Lth0CRYEgM90nMrbCMD39A_ww7RpreIaYWveNM6uuph1Et5ynhKQXwZC2BG2oOxf2mbr9Xshb1F9_9DHO/s320/1-19+44+Starr%252C+1900+census+home.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">44 Starr St., family home in 1900</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> The census taker who stopped by the
home of Mathew and Magdalena on June 12, 1900, provides an interesting snapshot
of the family 15 years after their arrival in this country. The family had
grown to six. Still living at home were sons Peter, 23, a butcher, and
Frederick, 20, also a butcher. The census taker listed “butcher (boy)” as the
occupation for 13-year-old Mathew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ferdinand, the fourth son (our grandfather), was 5.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Magdalena’s occupation was listed
as “home.” The elder Mathew’s occupation was listed as “book agent.”<br />
Considerable research in historical census documents has yielded nothing
definitive on the meaning of this occupation. For many years, I thought it meant that
Mathew sold books. But now, in 2019, taking into account his later work in real estate, I think that may mean he was a real estate agent, booking people into apartments.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">According to that 1900 census, Mathew supposedly was able to
speak English, but his wife could not. All members of the
family could read and write, according to the census. Magdalena reported to the
census taker that she had given birth to eight children, only four of whom were
still living. This poignant detail about her life may explain the special
feeling that developed between her and her youngest surviving child, Ferdinand.
(It’s not known if the four children who didn’t survive were born in Germany or
in New York.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The apartment they were renting was
in a three-story brick building, 44 Starr St., that had 12 windows on the front
and 23 people living inside. All were of German parentage. The building was in
a block of similar structures and is still standing 100 years later with a
fresh façade of siding. A stone cornice has been removed from the top, but
otherwise it looks much as it must have then. Their landlady, a German-speaking
widow of 64 named Deiss (Magdalena’s maiden name was Deis) lived at that
address along with her two grown sons.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Families and businesses on the move</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Interestingly enough the city
directory for that year shows the Breiners living at another address as well
(350 Melrose St.). It was an accepted part of life in New York to move every
few years, especially in the areas packed with apartment buildings. On April 30
every year, most leases expired. With rents rising, the population growing and
people on the move, tenants used the annual lease expiration as an opportunity
to find a better deal, and landlords, for their part, took the opportunity to
kick out their worst tenants. <b>May 1 was known as Moving Day or Flitting Day</b> in
New York, and articles and cartoons from the period depict the chaos in the
streets that prevailed on that day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A family may have had a few pieces
of furniture, some clothing and cooking utensils, but a move would not have
been as complicated as it is today. A houseful of strong sons would have made
it easier.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There is a wonderful picture taken
a few years later that shows the men of that household together (at the top of this blog entry.) They are all
behind a meat counter with some huge animal parts laid out in front of them. A
couple have knives in their hands. The elder Mathew is standing in the back, clearly
presiding over the scene. The picture shows the business known as<b>
Breiner Brothers Meat, </b>which appears in the 1903 and 1904 city directories. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
business was on the corner of Central and Linden, first on one side of the
street, the next year on the other (businesses moved frequently as well). Peter
Breiner was in his mid-20s at that time, Frederick was in his early 20s and
Mathew was 16 or 17. Only young Ferdinand, probably 8 or 9 years at the time of
the picture, is not present. The elder Mathew may have been the owner or an
investor in the business. Maybe he owned the buildings. In any case, it is a
telling detail that in this picture, he is the only one not wearing a butcher’s
apron or holding a knife. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />The original buildings housing
these shops are gone. A city health department building and public housing
project occupy the two street corners. But photos of the original buildings
exist in the photographic archives of the tax collection arm of the city of New
York. These photos, taken in 1939-40, show two three-story buildings, one brick
and one wood frame, with storefronts on the first floor, one of them a café and
one a paint store.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Peter dies </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The business known as Breiner
Brothers Meat doesn’t appear in the city directory after 1904. The directories
are not always complete. But maybe the name disappeared because <b>Peter, the
oldest brother, died </b>the following year. Peter, who was 28 and single, was
attended for five days by Dr. William Runge before he died of pneumonia on June
2, 1905. He was buried nearby in Holy Trinity Cemetery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><br /></b>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Frederick marries</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Five weeks after this sad event for
the family was a joyous one. Frederick Breiner, 25, the next oldest son,
married Frances Miltner, 22, the Brooklyn-born daughter of German immigrants
Anton Miltner and Bertha Radtke. The ceremony was held in the lovely baroque
St. Barbara’s Roman Catholic Church, just a few blocks down Central Avenue from
the brothers’ meat market. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It is possible that brothers Mathew
and Frederick continued in the meat business together. They both continued to
live in the same neighborhood over the next several years. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><br /></b>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Matt Marries</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By 1909, however, the younger
Mathew (the man we knew as Uncle Matt) had moved about five miles from his
parents to the neighborhood south of Prospect Park, where he was to eventually
raise his family. He also seems to have parted ways with Frederick in the meat
business. That year, Mathew, 22, married Mary Braband, 23, daughter of German
immigrants John and Mary Braband at St. Leonard’s Church in Brooklyn. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>The 1910 census </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ferdinand (our grandfather) was now
the only son still living with his parents. On April 12, 1910, the census taker
stopped by the apartment of Ferdinand and his parents on 152 George St. and
recorded a snapshot of their lives. It was four days before Ferdinand’s 15<sup>th</sup>
birthday. The census taker asked if the boy had attended school at any time
since the previous September and was told yes. A 14- or 15-year-old making
normal progress in school would have been in about the eighth or ninth grade.
(Ferdinand much later told his family that he had finished only the sixth grade,
so maybe he had made slow progress; or maybe he was lying to the census taker
to avoid being reported to school authorities.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b><br />Ferdinand’s occupation was listed
as apprentice butcher</b>. Likely he was working for his brother Frederick, who had
his own meat business and lived much closer than his brother Mathew.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The elder Mathew, 58, reported in
the census that he was a self-employed real estate broker. In the family’s oral
history, Mathew was described as an owner of property, but the census shows
they were renting on George Street. Magdalena, 54, had been in this country 25
years by this time but still reported that she was unable to speak English.
Ferdinand would have had to speak German with her at home. The Breiners were among 31 people,
mostly Germans with a mix of Italians, renting space in this building. The
ethnic makeup of the building reflected other streets in the neighborhood.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Mother dies, Ferdinand flees to Cleveland</b> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ferdinand’s life was rocked by two
events soon after. His mother, Magdalena, died Jan. 17, 1912, of gastric
carcinoma (stomach cancer). She was buried in Holy Trinity Cemetery, where son
Peter was buried seven years before. Ferdinand and his father were now living
alone in a one-story brick building at 93 Starr St. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ3K4NK-VKshWhampNJ8bG87J3Bv0L35hbkfWa27gBEBh8kVPcH5AMOjphaxXm5rHEB68YBHhyphenhyphensraC9Kc_xhWV90St4Skmm9EswLrQK3CUE4okAWNa0C64g_p3sfPucCEeS03q/s1600/1-22+93+Starr%252C+Magdalena+death+home+1912.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ3K4NK-VKshWhampNJ8bG87J3Bv0L35hbkfWa27gBEBh8kVPcH5AMOjphaxXm5rHEB68YBHhyphenhyphensraC9Kc_xhWV90St4Skmm9EswLrQK3CUE4okAWNa0C64g_p3sfPucCEeS03q/s400/1-22+93+Starr%252C+Magdalena+death+home+1912.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">93 Starr, the building on the left, was the home in 1912 of Ferdinand and his parents.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The building is small but
must have seemed smaller. Ferdinand, now 16, didn’t get along with his father.
It was about this time, according to the family oral history, that Ferdinand
left Brooklyn forever. He was working at his brother’s meat market and they had
a big quarrel. Ferdinand rode his bicycle home, parked it and then took a train
to Cleveland. Ferdinand later told his children that he arrived in Cleveland
with 15 cents in his pocket. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZ5Bu8Z5vT0N8tSmYXdo_wRA5TnMfcus90CA1rZayf7JUzAoYDl32JkaivKIZpnNLX3M10FiJhFpUsmTwZJnrFlFnFDMSd1O2FRe71gMh30NttMiXyIqze8WoJHGod8vQVHwE/s1600/St.+Michael%2527s+on+Scranton+Road%252C+Cleveland+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZ5Bu8Z5vT0N8tSmYXdo_wRA5TnMfcus90CA1rZayf7JUzAoYDl32JkaivKIZpnNLX3M10FiJhFpUsmTwZJnrFlFnFDMSd1O2FRe71gMh30NttMiXyIqze8WoJHGod8vQVHwE/s320/St.+Michael%2527s+on+Scranton+Road%252C+Cleveland+%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Michael's Church, Scranton Rd., Cleveland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ferdinand lived near St. Michael’s
Church on Scranton Road in Cleveland. The story goes that one day he met
Magdalena Frowerk, daughter of German immigrants, on a streetcorner opposite
the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She also lived in the
neighborhood and was his landlady’s niece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was rather taken with this up-and-comer from New York City. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ferdinand
got a job driving a horse and wagon to make deliveries for the Higbee Company
department store. But he knew the meat business, and eventually he got a loan
of $500 from Magdalena’s parents to open his own store. (Another
version of the story says Magdalena’s aunt, of the Brug family from Bundenthal mentioned earlier, loaned him the money.) He and a
partner, Artie Strawhacker, who also put in $500, opened a store, but after six
months, Ferdinand bought out his partner. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ferdinand and Magdalena were
married in St. Michael’s church Sept. 12, 1916. Ferdinand was 21, Magdalena 20.
Today, the church has been refurbished and is a jewel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is still a church for immigrants, but
today St. Michael’s is known as San Miguel and many of the masses are in
Spanish.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoQVxYgTtjaWpFS28WVOor3KwITU3lQ7D8TiiEYOLphvFP2AO0ZhJKc464OvuTnJe-0cqwOmHAEIFEqCeHEnHOl5GFjWzxJgkOCB-Zm1qvXI1pdOvuiy_DyDUGyww1NiNgd1y/s1600/St.+Michael%2527s+on+Scranton+Road%252C+Cleveland+%25284%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1596" data-original-width="1082" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoQVxYgTtjaWpFS28WVOor3KwITU3lQ7D8TiiEYOLphvFP2AO0ZhJKc464OvuTnJe-0cqwOmHAEIFEqCeHEnHOl5GFjWzxJgkOCB-Zm1qvXI1pdOvuiy_DyDUGyww1NiNgd1y/s320/St.+Michael%2527s+on+Scranton+Road%252C+Cleveland+%25284%2529.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Michael's, interior</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">One wonders if anyone from Brooklyn
came to this Cleveland wedding. The only family Ferdinand had left were his
brother, Matt, and his father. Matt had his own business to run and young
children at home. It would have been difficult to travel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Ferdinand’s brother Frederick had
died in 1913 at age 34 </b>after spending 16 days in St. Peter’s Hospital, Brooklyn,
battling pulmonary phthisis (the contemporary description for tuberculosis of
the lungs). Frederick was buried in Lutheran Cemetery (now known as All Faiths Cemetery). He and his wife, who
were living with her widowed mother at the time, had at least two children,
Frances, 7, and Frederick, 6. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">(This Frederick Breiner was the grandfather of Anna
Breiner Caulfield, whom some of our siblings have met. So Anna's and our grandfathers (Frederick Breiner and Ferdinand Breiner) were first cousins; their fathers were brothers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9iwO9wd9boeVpd-cMsYRYEbkmXMVfoU0FyY-TlPc3TlXa24XdT8o9dPowpgEEFpMm-0HbMnmTJiNgq4b4tov_d6IVbC9PFxkCJlVBxPYQwycEYyKNYzf0kphYoFATBuZpWSQ/s1600/004+Fred+Breiner%252C+Cleveland%252C+1917.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="1600" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9iwO9wd9boeVpd-cMsYRYEbkmXMVfoU0FyY-TlPc3TlXa24XdT8o9dPowpgEEFpMm-0HbMnmTJiNgq4b4tov_d6IVbC9PFxkCJlVBxPYQwycEYyKNYzf0kphYoFATBuZpWSQ/s400/004+Fred+Breiner%252C+Cleveland%252C+1917.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferdinand (Fred) Breiner in his meat market in Cleveland, 1917. He was 22. His first store was at 7825 Linwood Ave. and later he relocated a few doors away to 1596 Addison Road. The store was near old League Park, and Cleveland Indians players lived in the neighborhood and patronized the store.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Ferdinand, who was known as
“Fernie” in his family, eventually took to using the name Fred, his older
brother’s name. Ferdinand (Fred) and Magdalena had four
children eventually – Richard, born in 1919, Patricia, 1922, Elaine, 1926, and
Robert, 1931. Elaine died of injuries suffered in a fall when she was 18 months
old. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He supported his family with the meat business until he sold out and retired in the early 1950s.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Matt Breiner's delivery truck</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Back in Brooklyn, Uncle Matt
Breiner had left the old neighborhood and followed the more prosperous
immigrants to the newer middle class neighborhoods of rowhouses, some of which
had yards and trees lining the streets. He was living south of Prospect Park
and he eventually set up his meat business on Kings Highway, even further south
toward Coney Island and Brighton Beach. A photograph from that era shows a
delivery truck advertising “Sanitary Market, M. Breiner, 1118 Kings Highway,
Tel. Midwood 10140.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In 1920, he and Mary and their five
children were living at <b>129 Cortelyou Road</b>, a rowhouse that was relatively new
at the time. The census lists their children as Mathew, 10, John, 7, Mary, 4,
Gerard, 2, and Madeleine, 6 months. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">In 1942, Matt and his family were still
living in that rowhouse when Sam Marcus, who was assigned by the Navy to the
Brooklyn Navy Yard, paid a visit. Sam was dating Patricia Breiner, daughter of
Ferdinand and Magdalena, and went to visit the Brooklyn branch of the family at
her suggestion. Sam showed up unannounced. Matt was sitting on the front steps.
“Are you Matt Breiner,” Sam said. “Who wants to know?” was the gruff reply. Sam
recalls that he and Matt chatted while Matt occupied himself with a flyswatter
killing cockroaches in the house. (The house is still there. By coincidence, about
80 years later, our son, Patrick, and his wife, Jamie Agnello, were renting an
apartment on that same street, about a half-mile away.)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In this 1924 photo, taken on the steps of 129 Cortelyou Road, in Brooklyn, our grandfather, Ferdinand (Fred) is at bottom right with his daughter Patricia, then age 2. Uncle Matt, his brother, is at the top, on the right, and his wife, Mary is at the top left. Our father, Dick Breiner, is second from the left in the front row, and his cousin Madeleine, whom he was very fond of, is next to him. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After retiring from the meat
business, Matt took an interest in horse racing and owned some horses, which he
occasionally brought to Thistledown Race Track in Cleveland. He would take the
opportunity to visit his younger brother. He attended the 50<sup>th</sup>
anniversary celebration of Fred and Magdalena in Cleveland in 1966. Matt was living in
Sparta, N.J. when he died in 1972. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Cleveland and Brooklyn branches
of the family did not have much contact and lost track of each
other. Robert, Ferdinand’s son, believes that one of Matt’s sons rose to a high
executive level at Texaco in New York. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThuObikSJmrxzgBitZe_pUSgSin2pgJpiOcnv-7KPCCRdvJyCiLz59mtIKTTXLHdS-28q8SL8E-kpEyoecXZsiqeV3EgNO6wYzkzxEU0ru1xQBY7aob3J22ZW6WztPYD4KAiw/s1600/Frowerks+and+Breiners%252C+50th+anniversary%252C+1966%252C+2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThuObikSJmrxzgBitZe_pUSgSin2pgJpiOcnv-7KPCCRdvJyCiLz59mtIKTTXLHdS-28q8SL8E-kpEyoecXZsiqeV3EgNO6wYzkzxEU0ru1xQBY7aob3J22ZW6WztPYD4KAiw/s400/Frowerks+and+Breiners%252C+50th+anniversary%252C+1966%252C+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary in 1966. From left, unidentified woman, Fred (Fritz) Frowerk, who was our grandmother's brother; our grandfather, Fred (Ferdinand) Breiner; his wife, Magdalena (Lena, Helen) Breiner, nee Frowerk; Uncle Bill Frowerk, Grandma's brother; unidentified woman, perhaps, Mary, Bill's wife; Uncle Matt Breiner, Grandpa's brother; and an unidentified man. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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</span></div> <br /><b><br /></b><b>The Frowerks and Powalskis</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This is the story of the immigrant parents of our grandmother, Magdalena (Lena, Helen) Breiner—Fredrick Frohwerk (later shortened to Frowerk) and Anna Powalski.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">You have to marvel at the risks that immigrants took in the 19th century when they sailed to America. They would bet their life savings on a future in a foreign country where they did not speak the language and knew almost no one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">One of those was Fredrick Frowerk, age 25, who described himself on the ship’s manifest as a fisherman, from the village of <b>Stubendorf</b>, a German-speaking enclave of Upper Silesia, well inside the border of what is now Poland (today the village is called <b>Izbicko</b>).</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="335" src="https://www.google.com/maps/embed?pb=!1m18!1m12!1m3!1d10372088.256293403!2d9.183093944165265!3d50.60392707647228!2m3!1f0!2f0!3f0!3m2!1i1024!2i768!4f13.1!3m3!1m2!1s0x4711018ce7160357%3A0x6cc2c949bd607b5b!2s47-180+Izbicko%2C+Poland!5e0!3m2!1sen!2ses!4v1552237639335" style="border: 0;" width="450"></iframe>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
It was 1892 when Fredrick boarded the steamship Karlsruhe in Bremerhaven, Germany, bound for Baltimore. It was common for able-bodied young men to migrate alone with a plan of meeting friends or family in America, finding work, and sending money home, much as immigrants from Mexico do today. There were plenty of jobs for uneducated, unskilled workers.<br />
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We don’t know how Fredrick got from Baltimore to his ultimate destination, Cleveland, Ohio, or who might have helped and housed him when he arrived there. He was barely above 5 feet tall, but that did not prevent him from finding work on the docks in Cleveland, where immigrants unloaded boats laden with coal, iron ore, grain, lumber, and other bulk cargo.<br />
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He never did learn English and didn’t need to. He lived in the German-speaking neighbohood centered on St. Michael’s Church on Scranton Road on the near West Side. Here he met Anna Powalski, whose family, despite their Polish-sounding name, came from a town near Munich, Germany. She was 25 when she immigrated to the U.S. in 1891, a year earlier than Fredrick, and may have had family in the neighborhood.<br />
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We don’t know the story of how they met or when they married, but the 1900 census shows the couple living at 93 Rhodes Ave., less than a mile from St. Michael’s Church. By now they had two children, "Maggie”, as she was listed on the document, age 4, who was our paternal grandmother, and baby Joseph.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRwxiVjeAgVMZSZKCNz8-mB8lv2EYmnU8cJCYnlShgojoMFOoY7CsMG-qXEZlX99xz82oHWFLuR-Y_4njF_A8ftUIseu3OpIStEd_mzxHYoV9eMzJX-csyIX-hqUwtrt-7wUg/s1600/Frowerk+house+rowley+ave+boarded+up.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="645" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRwxiVjeAgVMZSZKCNz8-mB8lv2EYmnU8cJCYnlShgojoMFOoY7CsMG-qXEZlX99xz82oHWFLuR-Y_4njF_A8ftUIseu3OpIStEd_mzxHYoV9eMzJX-csyIX-hqUwtrt-7wUg/s400/Frowerk+house+rowley+ave+boarded+up.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Frowerk home on Rowley Ave. in the Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland, 2013. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
</span>By 1910, the Frowerks and their five children were living in this home at <b>1908 Rowley Ave</b>., just a few blocks from St. Michael’s church. Succeeding generations of the family lived here for most of the next 90 years. Grandma's sister, Annie Rooney, her husband, Howard, and their daughter, Dolores, all lived there. (Howard's occupation is listed as "plumber" in the 1955 City Directory.) The house was in bad shape and evidently abandoned when I went by it with brother Mike in 2003. In 2017 the property was repossessed by the bank. By 2019 the house had been demolished and the lot had been cleared. The site is just a few blocks from the house used to shoot the popular movie "The Christmas Story," shown every year on the Turner network. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The oldest Frowerk, Magdalena, our grandmother, attended the Catholic school where nearly all the instruction was in German. English was studied only one day a week. She never finished elementary school, according to Robert Breiner, our Dad’s brother.<br /><br />
Magdalena went to work in a shirt factory nearby, operating a sewing machine. She became a very skilled seamstress. Her father, the dock worker, believed that the children should support the parents, and he retired when he was still in his 40s, according to Robert (our Uncle Bob). Only the youngest boy, Fred, who later became a Jesuit brother, finished high school.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157690261420813" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="The Frowerks"><img alt="The Frowerks" height="390" src="https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7801/47273041682_765fcaf660.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Frowerks, parents of Grandma Breiner. A slideshow.</td></tr>
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Magdalena loved music and wanted to learn piano. Her mother had a sister who lived nearby and offered to get one for her. But Fred, her father, "nixed the whole deal," Uncle Bob recalled. "This had a lot to do with the fact that my mom bought a piano almost as soon as she was able in order that her children could learn.'' That included our father, Dick Breiner, who became a pianist.<br />
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Uncle Bob remembers being taken to visit his grandparents at the home on Rowley when he was a boy. Neither grandparent could speak more than a few words of English, he said. They didn’t need to; the neighborhood was so completely German.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/25562528@N08/albums/72157707469002244" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Magdalena Frowerk"><img alt="Magdalena Frowerk" height="500" src="https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7899/32394756607_58f63ec4c0.jpg" width="333" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magdalena Frowerk, a slideshow.</td></tr>
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<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>
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Joe Frowerk, Magdalena's brother, worked in the meat business for A&P. At one time, when our grandfather, Fred Breiner, wanted to expand his own meat business--he had one store on the East Side--he set up Joe, his brother-in-law, in a second store. But after about a year and a half, they had a falling out. Fred didn't like the way Joe was running the store. The two of them didn't speak for years. As Bob Breiner tells it, if his father was driving over to visit the Frowerks on Rowley Ave. and saw Joe's car in the driveway, he would turn around and go home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was Joe Frowerk and his wife, Gertrude, who for a time owned a restaurant, the Have-a-Seat Dining Room, in the Willoughby area. "She was a great cook," Ruth Breiner recalled. But they sold the business after a short time; it turned out to be more work than they expected. There was a duck pond out back that Jim Breiner wandered into when he was a toddler. Joe and Gertrude "moved down to Florida twice", according to Bob Breiner. When they visited Cleveland, they brought back oranges and grapefruit for the extended family. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Joe Frowerk is notably absent from the 1969 photo of the 50th wedding anniversary of his sister Magdalena and Fred Breiner. Was he living in Florida and unable to travel? Was the old feud still active? However, Bill Frowerk was there with his wife, Mary. For many years, Bill ran a Shell service station at 3237 Scranton Road, just a few blocks from the Rowley Ave. home (Source: 1955 Cleveland City Directory). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Also absent from that 1969 anniversary photo was the Frowerks' second daughter, Annie, mentioned earlier, and her husband, Howard. My sister Nancy tells me that Annie became something of a recluse later in life; she would not leave the house because she was extremely obese and embarrassed by her appearance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Annie and Howard were still living in that home on Rowley Ave. in 1969. They had a daughter, Dolores, and she and Ruth Breiner became reacquainted when both were working downtown at the Cleveland Public Library. Dolores's daughter, Kathy, and Elaine Breiner, our sister, went to Germany in the early 1980s to visit members of the Powalski family, who were still living near Munich. I can't wait for her to send us the story and photos of that trip. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The older Frowerks, who had immigrated here from the Old World, lived long enough to see seven great-grandchildren born in the U.S.; Anna died in 1953. Fred was still living in the Rowley home when he died a year later.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36328170.post-6543394976675776262019-02-24T13:06:00.003-05:002019-02-24T13:06:46.712-05:00New York 2002: The places that kids take you<i>I wrote this column when I was publisher of the Baltimore Business Journal. A collection of columns from 1981 to 1999 is <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1ID4ARoo3CaYMe3W-_18W1_5Wel9Ai-lK" target="_blank">available at this link</a>. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<br /><i></i>NEW YORK, Sep 9, 2002 -- Fat Cat Billiards and Jazz is one of those Greenwich Village clubs where the decor resembles the basement of a fraternity house. The furniture is beat up and the johns are grungy. <br />
<br />Which means that it's a great place to hear music. Admission is $25, the only alcohol is beer at $5 a pop and on any given night, you might hear something of surpassing beauty.<br />
<br />The newspaper listing said that Fat Cat's headliner was the Ali Jackson quartet, and posters touted someone named "E. Dankworth (a.k.a. Skain)."<br />
<br />My son the jazz fan had heard through the grapevine that <b>E. Dankworth was really trumpeter Wynton Marsalis</b>, so he persuaded me and his two sisters to go with him. We got there early for the 10 p.m. show.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://wyntonmarsalis.org/images/made/images/news/blogs/_resized/wynton_fredrogers_612_380_90.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="612" height="247" src="https://wyntonmarsalis.org/images/made/images/news/blogs/_resized/wynton_fredrogers_612_380_90.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wynton Marsalis with Mr. Rogers, 1986 (<a href="http://wyntonmarsalis.org/">wyntonmarsalis.org</a>)</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a><br />The house holds only about 80 people. The crowd was mostly young. Ali Jackson strolled in first and spent a good quarter-hour adjusting the tension on his drums. Pianist Aaron Goldberg arrived next. Then a man in a dark blue suit politely shouldered his way to the front "Excuse me, little brother," he said to my son as he sidled between the tightly packed chairs. It was Wynton.<br />
<br />He and Goldberg talked quietly for a long time, and not one fan bothered them. Eventually bassist Bob Hurst made his way to the front and had to lift his instrument over the crowd to reach an open space by the piano.<br />
<br />Wynton was warming up quietly on his trumpet. He played a couple of riffs that seemed to catch on with the drummer and the bassist. Pretty soon they were playing a 12-bar blues, and they were off and running.<br />
<br />
<b>Magical moments</b><br />The space was so small that no mikes were needed. You could hear all the subtleties as the musicians traded ideas back and forth.<br />
<br />They played something uptempo called "Uncle Bob." Then "Darn That Dream," in which Wynton made his trumpet weep. And then "Caravan." It was one of those great jazz experiences that cannot be repeated: Four great musicians were creating in the moment.<br />
<br />They could not have been doing it for the money. Just do the math. Eighty people, 25 bucks a head, about $2,000 from the door. Maybe half of which goes to the house. Each musician gets maybe $250. But nowhere else would they have the opportunity to play with each other in front of an audience, which helps inspire them to perform. It's all about keeping their chops in working order.<br />
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<b>Kids take you places</b><br />
<br />This is the world that our son aspires to as a music student in New York. And this column, which seems to be about jazz, is really about him. If it weren't for him, I would not have had the opportunity to rediscover a love of jazz, which I had learned from my father. I would not have been at Fat Cat and would not have heard the incredible beauty of Wynton's improvisations.<br />
<br />Our son had the good fortune to have a music teacher at Towson High who inspired a love of the art form in his students. That experience put him on the road that led to studying music in New York.<br />As a parent, you think that you are going to guide your child through life, but really it's the other way around. Your kids take you places you never would have gone. They open you up to experiences that you otherwise would have missed.<br />
<br />This one is our third and last child. So we have an empty nest. This is supposed to be what every parent wishes for. I don't feel that way at all. I'm going to miss that boy.<br />
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<i>Note: <a href="http://www.fatcatmusic.org/" target="_blank">Fat Cat is still there</a> in the Village, and by all indications from their website, it is a much nicer place to hang out than it was in 2002. </i><br />
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