An Unlikely Partner

memoir

by Greg Larson

 

          It all started with a parting comment on an email I received from my friend George:  “You and Gretta should go English dancing with Bridget and me.  It is great exercise and lots of fun.  We really enjoy it.”  It sounded interesting, but I didn’t reply, and I said nothing to Gretta. 

          Then one evening, while eating pizza with George and Bridget at their house, Bridget brought up the subject again.  “I think the two of you are well-suited for English Dancing.  Gretta, you have dancing skills from your figure skating, and Greg, your architectural mind will allow you to quickly understand and memorize the patterns of the dances.  You are both in good shape, so it should be fun and easy for you.”

Gretta’s face lit up, and she talked with all the excitement of opening a Christmas present.  “Oh, that really sounds like a lot of fun!” she exclaimed.  Once she had spoken, I knew my options were limited.  

I pictured Gretta watching her DVD copy of Pride and Prejudice, especially the parlor dance scenes in the old country estates, with the harpsichord and violins playing while the gussied-up women flit about, sharing bits of gossip.  She’s a sap for all of that English culture stuff, and can answer any English trivia question, no matter how difficult.  She even has all of the Kings and Queens memorized in order of their reigns.

Whenever she fixes her tea and nestles on the couch to watch those English movies, I run to my man cave and turn up the Led Zeppelin.  Otherwise, I would just get her all upset with my sarcastic comments about the movie.

I hadn’t responded at Gretta’s excitement about trying out the English dancing.  My mind raced with lots of concerns and questions while everyone looked at me, anticipating my unanimous vote to go dancing.  I smiled back, and kept eating my slice of pizza. 

The idea of old-style English dancing seemed rather frightful to me. Was this going to cost a lot of money?  Would we be required to take dance lessons?  I remembered a friend of Gretta’s told us that he had taken up ballroom dancing, and the lessons were expensive.  The instructors waltzed away with a bunch of his money.

Would I have to grow sideburns and wear ruffled shirts with tight collars?  I scratched my neck.  I pictured uncomfortable outfits . . . you know, really hot and stuffy.

George and Bridget assured us the dances were very casual affairs.  No one was required to wear fancy clothes, and there was a 30 minute training session before the dance for the newbies who needed some instruction.

“Okay, I’m game.  Let’s go for it.” I responded with gusto, but deep inside I thought I had committed to something that was beyond my ability.  We marked our calendars for the next English Dance, which was to be held on a Sunday at the senior center in downtown Lawrence, Kansas.  In the back of my mind, I had an uneasy feeling.

The date arrived and I wondered if there were any valid excuses to back out.  No, I hadn’t come down with a sore throat.  The Chiefs would attempt to play football that Sunday, but I really couldn’t argue that I would miss something significant.  I looked at the forecast, and there was a possibility of freezing rain.  The highway conditions might be dangerous.  That was my only hope to cancel.  Alas, the temperature stayed above freezing, and only a light rain greeted us as we drove to Lawrence.

The woman instructor wearing a hands-free microphone invited all the neophytes out onto the dance floor to give us some basic instruction.  She turned, looked at me, and blurted out, “Turn me on!”

This was a whole new experience, but I didn’t think that “turn me on” was an accurate historical English phrase.  Then I realized she was requesting her musician/sound technician husband to turn on her microphone.  She then proceeded to give us a primer on English dancing.  It was suggested we switch partners after every dance, to allow the less-experienced dancers to be guided by the experts.  We learned of “proper” and “improper” places on the dance floor, and of “casting” and “leading” with couple number one and couple number two.

I’ve not participated in a choreographed dance since grade school, but this seemed like a genteel method of square dancing.  It was a more dignified approach to weaving through the group on the dance floor as opposed to a knee-slapping ye-haw version, yet it was invigorating and definitely kept the heart rate at a high level.  By the time the song ended, each couple had worked their way through the entire group.

The most shocking revelation that came from English dancing was the custom of direct eye contact between dance partners while going through the motions.  It is a form of flirtatious staring, a carryover habit from the Victorian era when the eyes spoke volumes, since touching was frowned upon.  It was a bit unnerving, but I got used to it, and by the end of the dance I was getting pretty good at looking directly at my partner’s eyes.  Sometimes when I held the hand of another dance partner, it happened to be Gretta, and we would smile and laugh as we looked at each other.

It was paramount to follow the caller’s instructions during the dance, so I gave my absolute concentration and focus.  I don’t remember hearing much of the music, but every now and then a musical phrase gave me a cue to complete the turn or crossover.  I was feeling pretty good about my progress until we danced in groups of six, near the end of the evening.  There were so many different calls and maneuvers that I got lost.  In most dances, if I missed a turn or a lead, someone would point or motion where to go.  But this dance was different.  Maybe my brain was getting tired.  I felt like a lost child in a big store, but I didn’t give up.  Finally, my partner pulled us out of the dance.  Oh, the shame.  Everyone else said it wasn’t a big deal, but I wished I could have kept dancing.

Gretta and I went with our friends to another English dance on a dark winter evening at an old church on Troost Avenue in Kansas City.  I could almost picture arriving at the side door in a coach driven by a driver wearing a top hat and holding the reins to the horses.  The quaint fellowship hall had large arched windows and a big wooden floor to dance on, and it was the perfect place for an English dance.  People brought snacks and hors d’oeuvres to devour when there was a break in the dancing. 

Each time we go to a dance, we relax a bit more and try to enjoy the ambience and the music.  One day while sitting at home on the sofa, Gretta mentioned to me that the date of the next dance just happened to fall on the day before her birthday.  She leaned closer to make sure I was listening and said, “I would really like to go to that dance.”

I thought of the invigorating dances in a warm room on a cold winter’s eve with happy people all around.  “It sounds like a lovely idea!”

We’ll join in the reverie and have a dickens of a time.

Christmas Eve and the TV Santa



SANTA IN THE SNOW

Christmas Eve and the TV Santa

memoir

by Greg Larson

             Mom stuck her head in the rec-room during the afternoon of Christmas Eve in the early ‘60s and announced, “You boys need to shut off that TV and put on your coats. We’re going to take your baby sister to see her godmother who is in an old folk’s home.  This will be our Christmas present to her.  When we get back, your dad should be home from the office party, and your brother will be home from his friend’s house.”

My younger brother, Timmy, and I looked at each other in panic.  We had just settled in with the couch pillows on the tile floor and had cozied up to the black and white television set.  The Looney Tune cartoons were on, and it would soon be time for our favorite afternoon show with Santa on KAKE-TV, channel ten.

“But Mom,” I replied, “It’s Christmas Eve.  We’ll miss the most important show of the year.  Santa Claus and KAKE-man are going to load the sleigh and they’ll be taking off at the end of the show to fly around the world.” 

At the age of twelve, I was tired of pretending to believe in Santa.  He was nothing more than a big benevolent clown who enjoyed Coca-cola . . .but the Santa and KAKE-man show was tradition.  Besides, I didn’t want to see Timmy’s Christmas Eve get spoiled.  I couldn’t believe it.  This was like shutting off a World Series game to go to the grocery store.

Timmy whimpered but it did no good.  Mom was on a mission.  Nothing was going to stop her from parading us and our eight-month-old baby sister in front of her old friend.  She pulled our red parkas out of the closet and handed them to us in the living room while she tucked little Amy Jo into the baby carrier.

I looked at the white-flocked Douglas fir full of glass ornaments, and tried to visualize Christmas morning.  Dad always turned on the flood lights attached to the 8mm movie camera, and we had to wipe the sleep out of our eyes and squint to see what Santa brought us.  I pictured a fantasyland of electric trains and toy trucks.  This day came just once a year.  It had better be good.

Mom loaded us into the baby-blue Plymouth and began the drive to the other side of the city.  Other than an occasional Christmas tree lot and some decorations in a few store windows, it seemed just like another gray winter day . . . really gray. 

Our little sister’s godmother was someone Mom had met and admired in Mother’s Club.  In fact, Mom had named Amy Jo after the elderly Amy.  I had no clue what all those women did at the club meetings, but Mom went to it every month.  On those evenings, Dad made his famous grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for us.  After we dined on the sandwiches, he made popcorn in the big skillet with a lid, and we all settled in to watch the cowboy shows on TV.

The gray streets of Wichita continued to slide past as Timmy and I sat in silence, looking out the car windows.  We didn’t care if some old woman was a righteous role model.  We wanted cartoons.  We wanted Santa Claus, the star of the show, and KAKE-man, his little puppet-sidekick.

It was getting dark outside as Mom pulled the car up to the curb and stopped in front of an old mansion that housed several elderly people.  Timmy and I begrudgingly followed Mom as she carried Amy Jo.  We trailed behind during the walk up to the house.  I could picture Casper the Friendly Ghost hiding in the bushes, or Vic Morrow from the show Combat setting up a command post inside the big house.  I braced myself for a boring eternity inside a place full of old people.

As we entered the mansion, a wave of heat came over us.  I began to sweat in my parka.  The place had a musty smell and was full of big furniture, dark carpets and thick varnished woodwork.  There were a few stained glass windows in the living room and hallways.  It seemed more like Halloween than Christmas Eve. 

Mom introduced us to the elderly Amy in a wide hallway with an old sofa and some side chairs.  We smiled while the gray-haired woman patted our heads with her bony hand encased in wrinkled skin and said, “You have such wonderful looking children.”  Then she sat down to converse in mom-talk and look at our little sister.

Timmy tugged at my coat sleeve and pointed to the corner of the hallway.  Just a few feet away stood a TV cabinet with rabbit ears on top.  We stared at the dark screen. 

He walked over to Mom and tapped her on the shoulder.  “Mom, can we watch TV?”

“Oh boys, not now,” she said as she turned and continued talking to her friend. 

He was persistent and tried again, “Mom, we want to watch KAKE-man.”

She caved in and sighed, “I suppose it’s okay if you keep the sound turned down.”

We hopped over to the set, clicked on the volume and turned the knob to channel ten.  The reception was snowy, so I grabbed the rabbit-ear antennae and moved them around.  Slowly, a fuzzy looking Santa came into view. He was loading the plywood sleigh with bags of packages.

“Ho, ho, ho, KAKE-man. Do you think we have enough toys for all the good little girls and boys this Christmas?  We’d better finish filling the sleigh so we won’t be late.  It takes a long time fly all the way from the North Pole to all the cities and towns around the world.  Ho, ho, ho!”

I had studied the North Pole in my grade school geography book.  It didn’t say anything about a Santa village with elves.  The omission of Santa in the book sealed his fate for me.  I knew it was a big fraud, but a lucrative one for sure, as long as we played the game along with our parents.

Even with the raspy sound coming from the speaker in the TV set, we sat mesmerized by the screen for the next few minutes.  Santa checked his list, and KAKE-man jumped around inside the sleigh.  The excitement was building.  This happened only once a year.

KAKE-man’s voice squeaked, “These packages are heavy, Santa, and it’s so-o c-c-cold up here.”  It was hard to tell the difference between the fake snow on the show and the fuzzy snow on the TV screen.

“It’s time to go boys,” said Mom as she shut off the TV and said her “good-byes” to the old friend.

Timmy and I were horrified, but we held our emotions in check while still inside the mansion.  Once outside, my little brother began to sniffle and smear tears on his cheeks.

I grabbed his shoulder, “Hey, maybe he’s up there in the clouds somewhere.  You never know, you might see him if you look close enough.”  I knew there wasn’t any sleigh up there, but I had to give him some hope.  Besides, he might mistake a blinking light on a small plane for Rudolph. 

          Little Amy Jo cried and Timmy pouted on the way home.  I looked out into the darkness and noticed that most of the businesses had closed early and turned out the lights.

I thought of the evening ahead.  It was a night for singing Christmas Carols at the piano and reading the scripture of the real Christmas story from the Bible.  I sensed that spending time together that evening was really important to Mom.  She seemed happiest when we were doing things as a family.   When it was time for bed, we set out a glass of milk and some of the decorated sugar cookies on a plate for Santa.

The TV screen was dark that evening.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL . . . AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

 

Fairsted: Frederick Law Olmsted's Home in Brookline

Fairsted: Frederick Law Olmsted's Home in Brookline

travel memoir, historical non-fiction essay and photos

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

               The October sunlight washed the maples in Brookline, Massachusetts, creating intense colors of orange and gold in the foliage as my wife, daughter and I walked along the sidewalks of the Boston suburb. Our weekend morning destination on the recent visit in Brookline was the National Historic Site of Fairsted.  It was the home and office of Frederick Law Olmsted, the famous landscape architect.  At the age of sixty-one in 1883, he moved his family there from New York. 

              Our walk to Fairsted began on Beacon Street, near my daughter’s apartment, where the transit lines come out from under the city of Boston, and the dense urban setting becomes a bit more relaxed, with spacious tree-lined avenues and bay-windowed buildings.  During the walk, the apartments gave way to large single-family residences with well-kept yards and flower beds.  It was hard to believe we were less than five miles from downtown Boston.  At an unassuming corner, we found the small National Park Service sign announcing the historic site.  The property was bordered with a pine fence, along with lush green bushes, maples, oaks and other trees.

               Olmsted was a self-educated man of many talents, a contemporary renaissance man.  He is best known as the father of landscape architecture and as the key designer for Central Park in New York City.  He was also a journalist and a writer, and he deeply loved America.  His passion was the outdoors, and he was compelled by a vision for the future of the country.  He truly believed that outdoor parks and green space soothed the soul and brought peace to hectic lives, and that these spaces needed to be available to all citizens.  In the mid-1800s, the European notion was that large gardens and parks were private tracts which were only available to wealthy landowners.  Large American cities were becoming congested, and Olmsted believed it was a critical time to begin incorporating parks and landscaped boulevards into city master plans on a regular basis.

               Brookline was on the edge of Boston when Olmsted decided to move there.  It was out on the edge of the city where subdivisions were beginning to carve roadways into the hillsides and former farm fields.  He was seeking a peaceful setting where he and his family could move from New York City.  His friend, the architect Henry Hobson Richardson, convinced him to find a home near Richardson’s Brookline residence.  Olmsted found a two-acre plot of land with an 1810 farmhouse and barn.  The property was owned by two elderly sisters.  It was their home for their entire lives and they did not want to sell.  In a short time, Olmsted struck a deal with them.  The basic agreement was for Olmsted to purchase the property for $13,200, as well as design and build a house at the rear of the site, allowing the sisters to live rent free for the remainder of their lives.

Entry drive and front door at Fairsted

               Our footsteps crunched on the gravel along the circular entry drive, and I touched the ends of a hanging bough of a massive hemlock.  The tree was centered on the circular island and shaded the entry to the house.  We met the park ranger who led us on the tour.  She explained when Olmsted redesigned the grounds of the property he created the new driveway and planted the hemlock when it was just six feet tall.

               Olmsted’s redesign of the grounds of Fairsted was similar to the process he employed on major parks.  He created distinct areas of interests, each for a purpose.  The “hollow” or wild dell was a sunken area carved out of the natural Roxbury puddingstone, creating a subdued retreat with an unkempt natural feeling, with vine-covered slopes and a grotto.

The Hollow

                We followed the ranger down the rough stone steps into the Hollow, brushing against the leaves of the rhododendrons, the cotoneaster boughs and yew shrubs.  She told us that Olmsted’s planting strategy was to use various shades of green with only a limited use of color from flowers.

               Charles Sargent, an arborist and friend of Olmsted’s, lived just across the street from Fairsted. Olmsted collaborated with Sargent, the director of Harvard’s arboretum. Together they designed the layout for the 265-acre Arnold Arboretum, and convinced Harvard and the City of Boston to incorporate it into the Boston park system, making it the world’s first public arboretum.

As Olmsted revised the landscape at Fairsted, Sargent provided him with a living gift: a cucumber magnolia tree, with yellow blossoms in the spring which bear red/pinkish fruit that look similar to cucumbers.  Olmsted planted it on the east edge of the property, near the rock garden path.

               The park ranger made a point of showing us the cucumber magnolia tree, the largest magnolia I’d ever seen.  She held a bud from the end of a branch and showed it to me.  I inspected the tiny symmetrical bud which had a fine sculpted quality.  The tree had survived 130 years of New England weather, and it stands today on the edge of the grounds like a stately king in fine clothing.

               Olmsted continued to improve the property at Fairsted.  He relocated the barn and removed a dying orchard, thus creating a large, open expanse of ground on the south side of the house.  He kept a lone elm, which became the focal point of the pastoral setting.

South Lawn at Fairsted

               The park ranger led us to the south lawn, and explained the elm became diseased and had to be cut down in 2011.  Experts hope to create a cultivar from remnant cuttings and plant a new elm in its place sometime in the future.

               With multiple commissions for Boston park projects, along with project collaboration with H.H. Richardson, Olmsted’s design practice thrived.  He expanded his business, and included his surviving sons, Frederick, Jr., and John, as part owners, and he hired well-educated apprentices.  He built additions to the house, and created a room called the conservatory, which became his favorite place to rest and contemplate as he turned more of the business responsibilities to his sons.

The Conservatory and view of the south lawn

               Once inside the house, I was drawn to the conservatory room. It seemed as if a peaceful spell had been cast upon me.  I stepped onto the brick floor and touched the stone aggregate coatings on the walls. The view through the large windows conveyed the south lawn and the various shades of green trees at the edge of the property.  The room seemed a part of the landscape, but it was also a part of the house.  I understood why Olmsted enjoyed his time there.  The ranger shared that Olmsted attempted to grow vines on the interior walls.

               The landscape projects continued to pour into the firm, and it prompted Olmsted and his sons to create additions to the rambling Fairsted structure.  Frederick Law Olmsted retired from the firm in 1895, and died in 1903.  His sons continued to manage a thriving practice, adding functional spaces to the office, including drafting rooms, photo filing, drawing storage, and blueprint developing equipment.

Drafting room

               The open drafting room, with ribbed-wood panels and open trusses was inviting.  I walked up to a large drafting table set on sawhorses, and touched the edge of the  table top, full of thumbtack holes from decades of pinning down large drawings.  I pictured the draftsmen with visors and aprons, tracing long curved roadways onto huge drawings of future parks.  I could almost smell their pipe smoke and envisioned it wafting up into the rafters.

               Olmsted’s landscape design practice created a legacy of thousands of projects throughout 44 states, the District of Columbia, and Canada.  The most notable projects were Central Park (New York City), U.S. Capitol Grounds redesign (Washington, D.C.), Columbian Exposition fairgrounds (1893 Chicago World’s Fair), Stanford University Campus (Palo Alto, California), Biltmore Estate (Asheville, North Carolina), and the string of parks in Boston called the Emerald Necklace.  Olmsted was also instrumental in convincing the federal government to create a national park system.

               When we left Fairsted, I felt as if I had stepped out of a time machine from the late nineteenth century, and had returned to the present. We walked across Brookline, back to Beacon Street to a park with a garden and a bench near my daughter’s apartment.  This pastoral setting was a prime example of Frederick Law Olmsted’s vision . . . a vision of peaceful parks within the dense cities of America, with spaces for all of us to enjoy.

References:     

Martin, Justin. Genius of Place – The Life of Frederick Law Olmsted. Philadelphia, PA: Da Capo Press – A member of the Perseus Book Group, 2011.

Brochures:

Fairsted. National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior

Frederick Law Olmsted. National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior

Six Miles to Burlingame

memoir
by Greg Larson
Preface (July 2, 2026)

I wrote this blog at a time when Gretta and I were at the peak of our fitness and in good health. Thank you for letting me share it as a tribute to her on the ten-year anniversary of her death from cancer.

            It was one of those memorable spring mornings in Eastern Kansas when I filled my lungs with cool moist air and thought how great it was to be alive. The meadowlark perched on a fencepost and announced the sunrise.  The sun's first rays painted the clouds lavender and pink, and the dew sparkled on the prairie grass. 
 

            Gretta and I pedaled our tandem bicycle to the east, leaving Council Grove behind us.  The Flint Hills stretched to the horizon, like a rumpled green blanket that faded into the early morning haze.  We were riding with a group of two hundred cyclists along a seventy-five mile route of paved roads and highways.  Topeka was our final destination to complete a three-day tour.
 

            We pedaled all morning through a collage of rural scenes: cattle drinking from mirror-surfaced ponds, horses standing beside weathered barns and wild flowers blossoming near the barbed-wire fences.
 

            I guided the bike around a long curve to the north on U.S. Highway 56 and estimated it was about six miles to Burlingame.  The town would be a good spot to stop for lunch.  The clouds thickened during a long and slow ascent to the north.  We crested a hill near Elkhorn Knob and viewed the valley before us. What we saw was both breathtaking and disconcerting.  Burlingame lay in the valley, about four miles ahead, but further northwest, storm clouds were brewing with veils of rain and fingers of lightning.
 

            The valley and the storm made a panoramic, colorful vista, but an urgent question needed to be answered.  Would we . . . could we get to Burlingame before the storm?  I estimated the rain and lightning would hit the town in about ten minutes.  We’d have to muster a bundle of energy and average a speed of twenty-five miles an hour to have the slightest chance of beating the storm.
 

            The bicycle began to coast down the hill.  Sitting on the front seat, I turned my head to the side to talk to Gretta.
 

            “Storm’s comin’.”

            “Yeah, I see it.”

            “Think we can beat it?”

            “We can try.” 

 “We’ll have to pedal like crazy.  We’re talkin’ time trial speed.”

 “Let’s go for it.”
 

            The bike gained momentum as we raced down into the valley . . . twenty-five, thirty . . . over thirty-five miles an hour.  I put my hands down in the drops of the handlebars, and focused on the road ahead.  The road noise and the wind made it impossible to talk anymore, but Gretta knew that once we began pedaling, we would not stop until we made it into Burlingame.
 

            At the bottom of the hill, we stroked a steady pedal motion, seeking a gear and expense of energy that would be consistent all the way to town.  The two of us and the bike became a leg-pounding locomotive. Every so often, I’d glance at the speedometer to make sure we kept our speed above twenty-five miles an hour.  Out of the corner of my eyes I could see the wheat fields begin to stir with the approaching storm.  We rocketed across creek bridges, past thickets and groves of cottonwoods and Osage orange trees.

           
             Rumbles of thunder rolled across the prairie.  One thousand-one, one thousand-two . . . I began counting the time between lightning and thunder.  A ten second delay meant the bolts were less than two miles away.  I could smell the rain in the air. Time was running out.  We kept pushing the pedals, maintaining the speed.
 

            Some of the other riders stopped along the side of the road to put on their bright-colored rain jackets.  Many riders continued, but at a much slower pace than our tandem.  I felt like a Ferrari passing slower cars on the back stretch at Le Mans, pulling the bike wide to pass the riders in a blur.
 

            With a clap of thunder, our adrenaline flowed faster.  Sporadic raindrops, the size of silver dollars began hitting the pavement as we flew past the city limits.  The bike vibrated along the brick-paved street with elm branches waving overhead.
 

            The limestone buildings of downtown came into view, and we turned onto the main street.  Like a port in a storm, the large windows and lace curtains on the storefront at the Santa Fe Trail Café wooed us to a stop, and we parked the bike across the street between two buildings.
 

            Flash, crackle, BOOM . . . the thunder and lightning unleashed torrents of rain.  We ran across the street and rushed into the café.
 

            As soon as we shut the door, our glasses fogged over.  The only sound that came out of us was heavy breathing.  I peered over the top of my glasses and saw a short grandmotherly woman with rosy cheeks walking towards us.  Her greeting made us feel at home.  “Hi! You folks just made it in the nick of time.  Sit wherever you like.  We’ve got burgers, sandwiches, and homemade pie.”   
       

The spring day was still young, and we had lived life to the fullest.

 

 

The Ultimate Tchotchke

 

The Ultimate Tchotchke

travel memoir

by Greg Larson

 

     You have them.  I have them.  We all have them.  Some have gathered dust.  Some are handled reverently and command a place of prominence in our homes.  Some are expensive, and some are cheap. They’re the trinkets we bring back from our travels near and far.  They trigger fond memories and funny stories of unusual happenings in strange lands.

     Gretta and I don’t spend much time shopping on our trips, but we do like to bring back something to remind us of our travels.  She enjoys finding playing cards that have pictures of the country or area we’ve visited.  She also looks for silver spoons that have a country’s emblem on the handle, or she’ll search for a good refrigerator magnet.  I look for one special thing to bring home . . . something that embodies the essence of our experience in a different place.

     Logic doesn’t always factor into the decision on what to purchase.  In 2007, I noticed a pair of stainless steel coffee cups in the window of a shop in the Latin Quarter in Paris.  I envisioned them full of steaming French coffee and whipped cream.  The cups were made in Brazil.  Go figure.  But I have fond memories of surprising Gretta by sneaking out of the hotel, speaking broken French to the shopkeeper, and seeing Gretta’s big smile when I came back and showed her the treasure.

Brazilian coffee cups from Paris, France

     Knick-knacks were not on our mind as we began an epic bike trip across Italy in 2005.  Every day was its own adventure as we moved from one village to another.  Our starting point was the town of Fano, on the east coast of Italy.  The weekend was in full swing when we arrived, and thousands of people had flocked to the beach.  We discovered they were celebrating the Festival of the Adriatic Sea.  The town had a party atmosphere and was full of vacationers. We ate a seafood dinner in an open air restaurant next to the beach, and were told the festival parade was about to begin, and it was going to come right past us.



Festival parade comes by the restaurant

     Women wearing giant hats with replicas of lobsters and clams danced down the street, followed by a brass band, pirate ship floats, and fire-breathers in Renaissance costumes.  The parade looped around the main boardwalk no less than four times.  As it came near the restaurant, we got up from the dinner table to go watch the revelers and participants, who became more inebriated with each pass. One of the unanswered mysteries was the parading woman in a costume decorated with a vacuum formed aircraft carrier.  It seemed like we were in a very strange dream.

Strange costume



     People on the floats threw candy at our feet, and I picked up the pieces that were close to me.  Nearby, a woman with her three-year-old granddaughter watched while children scooped up the treats.  The little girl was crying because she wasn’t quick enough grab any of the pieces, so I bent down and offered my candy to her.  Immediately, big smiles came to the faces of the girl and her grandmother.  I had just performed my first act of diplomacy with a smile, and without speaking a word of Italian.



     Candy and trinkets kept raining down from the floats.  Gretta lurched for the unopened plastic bags of inflatable beach toys being thrown to the crowd.  In a flash, she grabbed two inflatable pillows.  “These should be good for something!” she exclaimed.

   The next morning we dipped our bike wheels in the Adriatic Sea and began our 450 mile trip westward to cross the Apennine Mountains, with our goal of making it to the Tyrrhenian Sea in eleven days.  After several days of riding past farm fields, vineyards and forests, we pedaled across the Madonna della Cima mountain pass and roared down the highway towards the ancient town of Gubbio, built on the mountainside. Arriving in town, we pedaled up the quaint cobblestone streets and into the town square.

     Gubbio is the quintessential Italian village.  We fell in love with the stone buildings and streets, the carved wooden doorways and the potted plants.  We learned it is a town with an ancient festival celebrating the patron saint, St. Ubaldo, and two other saints, St. Giorgio and St. Antonio.  Every year, three tall wooden boxes topped with figures representing the saints are carried by teams through the streets, and then raced to the top of the mountain to the Church of St. Ubaldo.   Gubbio is also known for the Taverna del Lupo (Tavern of the Wolf), where St. Francis of Asissi visited in the thirteenth century.  Apparently, a wolf was terrorizing the village, and St. Francis was asked to come to coax the wolf out of the village.  He spent time with the wolf and prayed for it, then he asked the tavern to set out food and water each day.  He assured the townspeople if they followed his instructions, the wolf would no longer be a problem.

Taverna del Lupo



     In the late afternoon, Gretta and I walked the narrow streets and discovered some ceramic shops displaying large and colorful plates and vases.  Several pieces with a pattern of grapes, oranges and sunflowers caught my eye.  They were large, and the quality was good.

Ceramic shop in Gubbio



     “Gretta, look at these.”  I showed her the group of pieces with the sunflowers.  “One of these big platters would make a great souvenir."

     Gretta had a concerned look on her face.  “How would we ever get it home in one piece?  I do like the colors.  Maybe we could have it shipped home.”

     I pointed to a square plate that was fourteen inches in width, and asked one of the workers in the shop how much it would cost to have it shipped.  She told us that the shipping cost would be more than the cost of the plate.

     We thanked her for the information and told her we would look around the store.  My mind began to race with thoughts about our bike tour and how nice it would be to have some type of trophy to remind us of the accomplishment.  The British Open golf tournament has a silver claret jug as a prize.  The winner of the Tour de France gets a fancy French bowl.  Some of the competitors get Lalique vases. Although our bike tour was not a competition, certainly an Italian ceramic plate would be something to always remind us of crossing Italy on a bike.

     “Let’s get the plate,” I said to Gretta, “We’ll find a way to get it back home, even if I have to carry it in my lap.”   The shop worker covered the plate with bubble wrap and craft paper.  Once back at our hotel, I packed the plate deep into my suitcase.  It would be safe riding in the van each day.

Vineyards and fields in Italy

     We continued our tour through the countryside and the villages each day, passing vineyards, grassland, and fields of sunflowers, and heard bells toll from villages nearby.  When we dipped our front wheels in the Tyrrhenian Sea, we had emotions of accomplishment, but sadness that our tour was at its end.

   On the train ride back to Rome, Gretta smiled and said, “I think I have a solution for getting our ceramic plate home safely.  Do you remember those inflatable pillows I picked up in Fano?  We can put the plate in a shopping bag and put a pillow on either side of it.  You can take it as one of your carry-on pieces of luggage on our flight home.”

     I thought it was a great idea, and that’s exactly what we did.  Once our flight was in the air, I put the shopping bag on the floor between my legs.  I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt of pedaling the bike across Italy.

     Today, the plate is hanging on the wall of our kitchen, near the entry into the living room.  The colorful tchotchke is a constant reminder of our first bike trip to Italy, and our accomplishment of touring coast to coast.

The Ultimate Tchotchke