The Jacket

A guardian of Notre Dame

Preface:  I think the most interesting travel stories are about the unexpected happenings and encounters - those unusual situations that make a trip more memorable.  The following is one such account that occurred in Paris during the summer of 2007. 

The Jacket
a travel memoir
by Greg Larson

     Back in the early 1980’s I found a jacket at Woolf Brothers in Kansas City at their Ward Parkway department store.  I couldn’t afford the dark teal-blue Christian Dior jacket but it was such a lightweight fabric, and it fit so well that I bought it. I never regretted the purchase.  It was almost like an old friend.  I was comfortable going anywhere with it.  Over the years it survived a lot of wear and tear, and I had washed it many times.  It had a big Christian Dior tag on the inside below the collar that said “New York – London – Paris” with smaller letters below that said “made in Taiwan”.

     As we planned our 2007 summer trip to France, my wife, Gretta, and I noticed that the Paris temperatures were 50 – 75 degrees Fahrenheit, so I decided the jacket would be perfect for the Paris segment of the trip, especially on the night we planned for our dinner cruise on the Seine River.

A cruise on the Seine River in the heart of Paris

     The dinner cruise was the highlight of our brief time in the beautiful city of Paris.  It was our last evening there before we departed on a train to southern France for our bike tour, so we cherished each moment of our time in a city that was so alive.  The glass-enclosed boat departed near the Eiffel Tower and cruised through the heart of Paris, passing the Louvre, the Musee D’Orsay, the Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Bibliothèque; then turning around for the return to the Eiffel Tower.  The Parisians looked so happy, especially during an evening along the Seine.  Lovers sitting on the quays and the banks waved to us as we glided past.  We raised our wine glasses as a toast, and they raised their bottles to us!  Children jumped up and down, pointing to us with one hand, holding on to their parents with the other hand.  The summer evening sun reflected in a golden hue on the Cathedral which towered above the river bank on the Île de la Cité, as lights began to come on throughout the city, sparkling and reflecting off the water.  Finally, the lights of the Eiffel Tower came into view.  The boat had just pulled into the dock when the strobe lights on the tower began sparkling and flashing like fireworks, announcing the beginning of the eleven o’clock hour.

La Tour Eiffel

Greg (with jacket on chair) and Gretta

     It wasn’t until the next morning on the train to southern France that I realized my teal blue jacket was missing.  I remembered carrying it in my hand as we departed the cruise, but then I probably left it on the subway or possibly at l’Hôtel Eugénie, where we had stayed.  I told Gretta that it might be at the hotel, and we could have them look in their lost-and-found items on our return to Paris, since we would be staying there again for two nights.  The jacket was getting old, I rationalized, and I did get my money’s worth from it.
     When we returned to l’Hôtel Eugénie, we checked into the same room we had occupied less than two weeks earlier.  As we left to go sight-seeing, Gretta stopped at the front desk to ask the clerk if the jacket was in the lost-and-found.  The desk clerk had a confident air as he spoke, although he was very polite.  He had dark hair and bushy eyebrows and looked like an authority figure to me.  I could picture him as a detective or a supervisor.  Gretta did an excellent job of speaking in French to him as she explained our problem.  He frowned and said, “Hmmm”, and then he got on the phone and the intercom and talked to the maids on duty.
     He asked the color again, and I said in my best French, “Bleu! Christian Dior!”
     His large eyebrows raised and he turned one eye to look at me as he purred, “Ah, Christian Dior!”  Then he got on the phone and talked to the maids again, and he asked Gretta if we were sure we left the jacket in the hotel.
     “Non” said Gretta.  We weren’t sure where it was misplaced, and we thanked him for his time.

Paris - a city to embrace

     The weather was cool and there was a mist in the air as we walked out onto the streets.  I didn’t want to wear my neon yellow cycling jacket around Paris.  That would be a bit too garish. Gretta suggested we go over to the department stores in the shopping district on the Rive Droite and see if we could find something.  The store she had remembered from her previous times in Paris was closed for remodeling, but we did see a lot of people going into another store, so we followed the crowds.  It appeared that summer sales were on, and the place was crawling with people sifting and pawing through the merchandise.  I hadn’t seen this many people in a downtown department store since I was a little kid at Christmas time.
     We went up to the men’s apparel department on the second floor and I selected some nice jackets to try on for fit and look. Then I glanced at myself in the mirror.
     “Look at us” I told Gretta, “Here we are - two people who dislike shopping - in downtown Paris getting caught up in the mobs at the summer sales!” I found a wonderful classic jacket with a zipper AND buttons.
     Gretta said, “You look very European in that jacket!”
     Her comment boosted my ego, so I looked in the mirror again.  Yeah, I thought, I look just like some Belgian cycling fan at the one-day spring classic races standing in the North Sea drizzle.  I’ll buy it!  Gretta discovered the jacket was 50% off the tag price, so it cost me only 25 euros or about $32.  If I’d found it at Dillard’s or Macy’s, it might have been $100 or more!
     I put it on just as we left the store and was glad to wear it in the mist.  I’d already found a new friend in the jacket.  Maybe we can go places together for another 25 years, I thought, and Gretta can come, too!  I popped open the umbrella, put my arm around her, and we walked onto the crowded sidewalks of Paris.

Greg with new jacket - looking so continental

Creative Legacy

Preface:  My maternal grandmother had creative and artistic talent that she used long after she retired from teaching.  This creative talent has now passed down through the Beck family for three generations and has become a legacy, with many of the descendants displaying a creative "streak."  Creative Legacy is a memoir dedicated to my Grandma and her creativity.

Creative Legacy
non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson

     There are many things that I remember about Grandma, but most of all I remember her smile.  She always greeted us with a smile and hug whenever we visited.  Her words of encouragement and optimism always soothed me.  Grandma (Ethel Lea Beck) was an inspiration to me as a teen-ager.  At an early age, I realized that I wanted to live like her when I became “old.”  There were so many things that fascinated me; her artwork was the most interesting activity of all.  She was always energized about something, whether it was sewing, fashion, cooking, gardening, travel, photography or even the subject of color.  No matter the topic, she became immersed in it, and the energy made her appear full of life.

Ethel Lea Beck - 1960

     In the 1920’s, she married John Elliot Beck, a World War I veteran, and quarterback of the football team at Kansas State Teachers College in Emporia, Kansas.  They both graduated with teaching degrees; Grandma’s expertise was in home economics and sewing, and Granddad’s expertise was in industrial arts and coaching.  In the 1950’s and 1960’s during their years of high school and junior high school teaching, Grandma and Granddad spent their summers traveling the U.S.  Their goal was to visit all of the contiguous 48 states by car, and they hoped to eventually visit Alaska and Hawaii via boat.  As a young teacher and coach at Cottonwood Falls, Kansas, in 1931, Granddad had witnessed the wreckage of the plane crash which killed Knute Rockne.  After seeing the carnage, he vowed never to fly in a plane.

     They drove their Plymouth everywhere in the summertime, taking us grandkids on outings to a creek or lake near Emporia to fish and have a picnic.  I remember Grandma filling the plaid “scotch” bag and thermos bottles with food and drink, while Granddad loaded the trunk with fishing poles, tackle boxes, blankets and folding chairs.  The ride out into the Flint Hills seemed long and hot during the day, since the Plymouth did not have air-conditioning.  Any accessory in a car was considered a luxury, or as in the case of the radio, a nuisance.

     Grandma’s painting ability was impressive.  She was not afraid to try any art style, technique, or medium.  Her repertoire ran the gamut from still-life to landscapes to abstract works using watercolors, acrylics, gouache (poster paint), oil, and encaustic (bee’s wax).  Her abstract talent increased greatly during the ‘60’s when she enrolled in evening painting classes at the college.  At one point, she belonged to an artist’s guild in Emporia, and they displayed and sold paintings from an empty store space downtown.  Even today, on the backside of some of her paintings, I can find a price marked “$20.00” for something that I consider priceless.  I don’t know whether or not she ever sold any of her artwork.  I do know it was hard for her to part with any of the completed works, and I remember many times when she brought new paintings to my mom, aunt, or uncle, agreeing to “loan” the paintings to them for awhile.  Photographs from travels or from magazines gave her inspiration for the landscape paintings.  She told me that it was impractical to create a painting outdoors at the site, and that color photographs gave her enough documentation to guide her as she developed the artwork.

     The following are some representative works she completed in the 1950’s and 1960’s:

Wintertime

(circa 1950’s)

Ethel Beck

17”x10 ¾”

Watercolor and Gouache

Wintertime (above)
     The hills near the Cottonwood and Neosho river valleys are full of scenes like the one above, with walnut, maple and oak groves mixed with sumac and assorted underbrush that hug the creeks and ravines.  The painting depicts a frosty, overcast day after a snowstorm; a timeless view of nature in the Flint Hills, evoking a quiet and peaceful mood.

Abstract #1

(circa 1960’s)

Ethel Beck

14 ¼” x21 ½”

Watercolor and Gouache

Abstract #2

(circa 1960’s)

Ethel Beck

14 ¼” x21 ½”

Watercolor and Gouache

Abstracts #1 and #2 (above)
     Texture, color and balance are keys to the success of these paintings, which are viewed as a pair.  I can only guess at the subject matter of the paintings due to the abstract nature of the compositions.  I believe that Grandma’s sewing and fashion design background influenced these paintings.  Abstract #1 hints of pattern pieces of cloth.  At the top of the painting there appears a cubist version of an adjustable mannequin neck on a torso.   Abstract #2 evokes images of stacked bolts of cloth, although the tubes or pipes seem out of place (bed frames and curtains?).  Unfortunately, Grandma is no longer living, but many times I’ve wished I could have a conversation with her to discuss what inspired her to create paintings like Abstracts #1 and #2, and to learn about the details.

Night Skyline

(circa 1950’s)

Ethel Beck

18” x 12”

Watercolor and Gouache

Night Skyline (above)
     This painting, which hung for years on the wall of my grandparents’ basement, has always intrigued me, since it includes architecture and the man-made environment of the city.  It is the epitome of a winter night in Kansas City.  Snatches of streets, bridges and buildings create a cubist rhythm and balance, and the old concrete viaduct railing ties the composition together.  Her inspiration might have come from a photograph in a magazine, such as National Geographic.  With a night skyline as the subject, she gave it a Kansas City flavor.  Just looking at the painting now gives me flashbacks of tense drives home from my office at Crown Center through the snowstorms.  I see the bright headlights coming down the main street and the red taillights retreating up the hill.  The wet pavement, the hint of snow, and the industrial appearance of the shadowy skyline combine to provide the cold wintry feeling.

     I always assumed the element left of center was a huge smokestack, but one evening a couple of decades after Grandma’s passing, the silhouette of the Liberty Memorial and the north wall jumped out at me.  Then I saw the steam cloud at the top and became convinced this was an added Kansas City feature she gave to the painting.  Nighttime light and reflections are difficult to achieve in paintings. Grandma came close to mastering the techniques in Night Skyline.

Temple Ruins

(circa 1965)

Ethel Beck

24” x 36”

Encaustic on acrylic paint on masonite

Temple Ruins (above)
     I was a sophomore during the 1966-67 school year at Garden City High School.  My art teacher at school announced that there would be a city-wide religious art competition, and he provided us with information on how to submit entries if we were interested.  I hadn't created any significant religious art, but I talked to Grandma and asked her if she had anything she would like to enter.  In the mid ‘60’s she had worked in an unusual medium called “encaustic” in which the final layer of color was a blend of crayons and bee’s wax heated by a small torch.  She had a completed work entitled Temple Ruins and decided she would enter it in the competition.  The painting is abstract, compartmentalized, and multi-colored, with hints of glowing figures in boxes or rooms, and references to towers, windows and architectural elements.  It has a somber, eerie feeling, as if man has compartmentalized himself, or even worse, God has left the figures to remain in a purgatory prison.  Other parts of the painting are colorful and bright, giving the painting a stained-glass simile.  I never asked Grandma how or why she developed the painting, and again, I am left to speculate, knowing the answers disappeared with her.  On one of our many family trips to Emporia, we packed the painting in the back of the station wagon and transported it back to Garden City in time to submit it for the art competition.

     Unfortunately, Grandma was unable to come and visit the display of entries and see the awards.  My granddad had taken a turn for the worse with lung cancer and Grandma wanted to stay with him in Emporia.  On the Sunday afternoon of the art show, my parents dropped me off at the exhibit space near downtown Garden City.  For some reason, I was the only person in the family to attend.  I browsed the entries, viewing a wide variety of quality in different media, and began to see “honorable mention” and other ribbon awards for pieces from different categories.  I started to panic because I could not find my grandmother’s painting.  It was large enough that I thought it would surely be found easily.  I walked throughout the exhibit a second time but could not find her painting.  Where was it?  Had it been lost?

     Near the end of the viewing, the head jurist had scheduled a lecture to comment on the show and to provide a critique of the Grand Award.  I walked over to the room set up with chairs, and peered up the main aisle.  At the front of the room was Temple Ruins on an easel with a great big Grand Award ribbon attached to the frame!  I was bursting with pride, but was too shy to tell anyone about my relationship to the First Place artwork and its creator.  The lecture was a bit dry, and it was hard for me to concentrate on it, due to my excitement.  I do remember the jurist explaining that part of the art itself is the experience the artist has during the creation and execution of the artwork.  This was the pinnacle of my Grandmother’s art career, and sadly she was not able to be there to accept the award and share her experience with those attending.

     My granddad died a month or two later.  A few years earlier, Grandma and Granddad had taken a cruise to Alaska, the 49th state which they had visited.  Then in the early ‘70’s one of my aunts traveled with Grandma to Hawaii by plane…completing Grandma’s visit to all 50 states.  On her return, she painted several simple watercolors of surf, coral, and flowers she had seen there.  Shortly after that, the quality and quantity of her artwork significantly diminished.

     Her paintings are now treasures that are spread amongst 10 cousins, located from Kentucky to New Mexico.  Grandma’s creativity is also a legacy that is passing to other generations.  My aunt Jean was the most artistic and creative of Grandma’s three children; Joan, Jean, and Kenneth.  Many relatives from all of their families have creative strengths in architecture, art, photography, graphic design and writing.  It’s good to know the Beck creativity will continue for generations to come.

     Here is a small sampling of examples of artwork created by some of Grandma’s descendants:

Artist:  Jean Rankin

Daughter of Ethel Beck

Artist:  Emunah Rankin

Great-granddaughter of Ethel Beck

Daughter of Ted Rankin

Artist:  Hannah Beck

Great-granddaughter of Ethel Beck

Daughter of Robert Beck

Artist:  Erica Larson

Great-granddaughter of Ethel Beck

Daughter of Greg Larson

A Heart Saved

Thanks again for all your thoughts and prayers.  I am truly blessed with so many friends and relatives!

A Heart Saved

Narrative non-fiction by
Greg Larson

Sometimes I think I’m pretty strong. Other times I think I’m good at using the brain. But when the doctors told me in December of 2009 that my heart had a rare aneurysm which had not burst but required open-heart surgery…I just stared at the floor, not knowing what to think. Should I feel thankful that my doctors discovered the unusual situation? Should I be upset that I had to cancel a planned ski trip? Would I survive? How would Gretta take the news?

In the days leading up to surgery, the background chatter in my dreams was noisier than usual. I heard a lot of voices discussing many things. I assumed that my soul’s disposition was the topic of their discussions. During the day, our dog, who is not the typical give-me-a-hug type of dog, knew something was up. He became chummy and tucked his nose next to my leg as we sat on the couch.

I’m thankful for the people who are strong and smart when it comes to health care. I felt like a wimp going to the slaughter, asking for anything to put me out quickly on the day of surgery. I didn’t want any part of it, and was glad I didn’t have to hear the whine of the saw and smell the burnt bone as they began the procedure of opening me up.

The best feeling of the hospital experience was waking up from surgery. I knew that I had survived. I was highly medicated and didn’t feel the pain, yet. The worst experience was the next 72 hours. It seemed like the hospital was a big tube, and I was being squeezed through bizarro-land. Best to just go with the flow.

After four and a half days in the hospital, I’m resting at home now. I feel like I’ve survived a rite of passage, mixed with drugs, pain, tubes, excellent nurses, mediocre food, and constant “vital sign” checks. I am smart enough to know that I need to take care of myself and follow the doctor’s and nurse’s instructions. No driving for 4 weeks. No lifting over 10 pounds until approved by the doctor, lung exercises, walking repetitions, etc.

The discharge nurse told me a story about a man who returned to the cardiac floor after he had gone home from heart surgery. The man had decided that since his limit for lifting was ten pounds, it would be just fine to build a deck with a five-pound hammer. While working on the deck, some of the surgical wires that held his sternum together began to poke through his chest. He cut the exposed wires and took them to the doctor, asking him if the wires had accidentally been left in his chest. Not very smart.

Outside, the 20 inches of snow accumulation from back-to-back blizzards has been melting for five days. And thanks to my good friend, Jim Fleming, for stopping by to remove an ice dam from the roof. Now there is a kind heart!

The Race of Truth

Preface
The bicycle is my adventure vehicle of choice.  I like to ride long distances for exercise and pleasure.  It was more out of curiosity than anything else in 1997 when I convinced our company's coordinator for men's cyclists to let me attempt the time trials in the Kansas City Corporate Challenge.  The time trial is more like a bicycle drag race than a long tour.  It was not my forte', but I wanted to see what I could do, just for the hell of it.  I remember what the wife of one of my cycling buddies once said, "If there are two men cycling together, you might as well call it a race."   So for a few weeks each springtime, I'd pretend I was a jock, turning into a rabid animal during training sessions and the time trial event.

The Race of Truth
Narrative non-fiction by Greg Larson

The official in the starting box continued the countdown, “three, two, one……go!” The starter pushed me forward, and the two persons recording the time simultaneously clicked their stop watches.  The 2.5 mile lap around the outside perimeter road at the Kansas Speedway lay before me.  The perimeter road is not the NASCAR race track, but a service road that encircles the race track and the grandstands.  My time trial in the 2007 Kansas City Corporate Challenge had begun.


The adrenaline surged through my body, and I exploded out across the starting line.  My legs and arms leveraged the bike and put every ounce of power into the wheels on the road.  I stomped on the pedals for about ten or eleven strokes, and then settled down into the saddle and grabbed the aero-bars in front of me so I could click through the gears while staying in an aerodynamic ‘tuck’ position.  My legs surged like a smooth electric motor as I increased my speed at a rapid rate.  I pushed on the pedals until the speedometer read 28 mph, then I quit accelerating and began to set a rhythm on the pedalstrokes.  From experience, I knew that if I didn’t try to calm down and conserve energy, I would “go anaerobic” and expend all my energy before I completed the first quarter mile.

The start is critical to the success of a time trial.

This was my 11th annual start in the Kansas City Corporate Challenge bicycle time trials.  I did not have the time or the energy to think about anything other than getting the Cervelo P2K bike around the 2.5 mile course.  With controlled breathing, I mentally detached myself from the physical pain, and started to ‘cheer’ for the bike, as if it were a race horse and I were the jockey.

The preparation and start had gone well.  Over the years of competition, I had learned many fundamentals and tricks in time trialing.  I knew that I would have to give attention to every possible detail if I were ever to have a chance at a top three finish.  I also told my cohorts that the only possible way I could attain a top three finish would be if “the planets all aligned and none of the ‘animals’ showed up.”  I did some crazy things over the years in order to get any possible advantage.  The first year at the speedway course, I drove to the speedway in the dark of the early morning and then rode around the course on a practice bike with a headlight, starting before the volunteers showed up, just so I could understand the size and condition of the course.  My wife, Gretta, also helped during my warm-up by waving me to the starting line.  Her wave was the signal that my start time was near.  I walked past the other competitors in line, saying, “excuse me” as I worked my way up to the start.  This year I had a feeling of invincibility, wearing my Italian, Mondo Bici racing outfit proudly as I walked towards the line.  The competitors parted like the Red Sea.

Walking to the start - 2007

I was now deep into the time trial or what cyclists term the “race of truth.”  With no place to hide, it's not recommended for the meek or mild.  The rider and his bike are pitted against the terrain, the weather and the clock.  There are no other factors involved.  Individual times are sorted from fastest to slowest, listing each rider’s elapsed time on the course.  Riders do not race “wheel to wheel.”  At most time trials, the riders are released from the starting box at one minute intervals.  It is pain management at its most basic level.  A cyclist has to believe in his ability and have an aggressive attitude.  Some of the best advice I’d ever heard regarding time trial racing came from British cyclist and world champion time trialist, Chris Boardman.  Chris was coaching cyclists for time trials in the Tour de France.  This is my best recollection of his televised interview quote:

“When I coach individuals training for time trials, I tell them to constantly ask themselves during the event: ‘Do I have enough energy to finish the course?’  If the answer is ‘Yes’, then the rider will not win because he has held something back.  If the answer is ‘No’, then the rider will not win because he has already expended too much energy.  If the answer is ‘Maybe’, then the rider just might have a chance of winning, but he must to keep saying ‘Maybe’ all the way to the finish line.”

The toughest competitor in my age category had started just behind me, so I had additional incentive to keep the speed as high as possible without burning out.  At the start, I turned around and told him, “Good luck, but just don’t pass me on the course!”  I knew he would want to get set in the starting box as soon as possible, so that he might have a legitimate chance of catching me to break my morale.  At the very least, he would be able to watch me and determine if he was losing or gaining ground during his pursuit.  If he reduced the distance between us, he would have a better elapsed time.  Days after the time trial, I looked at the photos, and I could see that he was very anxious to get started as he stood in the que.  He already had his front wheel across the back line of the starting box even before the starter had released me!

A competitor is inching into my starting box!

Wind noise is always a constant.  Depending on the wind direction, the noise can become unceasing and gale-like.  About a third of the way around the course I began to hear the rubber tire sound on the pavement, barely perceptible above the wind noise.  Was it my competitor catching up so quickly?  I looked out of the corner of my eye while continuing to concentrate on pedaling.  It was a speedway maintenance truck with flashing lights, slowly driving by as I continued to focus on maintaining my speed.  Whew! I don’t know what I would have done if my competitor had caught me so soon.

Through the years of competition, my age bracket had as few as 40 entries and as many as 110.  I had continually ‘chipped away’ at my finishing position of 15th in my first time trial.  I had numerous finishes as low as 7th, 6th, and 4th place, but I’d never medaled in one of the top three finish spots.  One year I recruited a cyclist for my age category on our team, and he medaled, preventing me from obtaining a medal for the first time.  The medal was the proverbial carrot that I’d never attained, but I did benefit from the early spring training.  It was an incentive for me to get into shape for the cycling season each year.

I had worked on every aspect of time trialing: pre-race cardio-workouts, heart monitors, pain management, the best gear position at the start, and the technical aspects of the bike.  I finally purchased a bike designed specifically for time trials, and as a surprise, Gretta had purchased an exotic bike race uniform from a small racing club in Italy (she spent eight months writing letters in Italian, and she finally wired the money just in time for the uniform to arrive for my 10th season).

I kept my composure on the back stretch of the course and began to focus on "the dip".  It is a hill in reverse, about two-thirds of the way around the course.  The bottom of the dip is near the tunnel entrance where the NASCAR teams access the inner field and garages at the speedway.  After sharing previous experiences on this course, our team mates all agreed the strategy was to gain as much speed as possible before the dip in order to launch the rider and the bike to the highest possible speed at the bottom, which, in turn, would allow the rider to keep maximum momentum to the finish line.

I accelerated at the top of the dip, and shifted through a couple of additional gears before engaging the smallest sprocket on the rear wheel, which has only twelve teeth.  Very quickly, I realized that no matter how fast I pedaled, I couldn’t push my highest gear.  DAMN!  I could have pushed the pedals a few more strokes if I’d had an eleven-tooth sprocket.  It would have shaved off a few more precious seconds on my finish time.  The speedometer logged 42 mph at the bottom of the dip, and I kept spinning the pedals and downshifting as I went up the incline on the other side.

My strategy was to keep at least a 20 mph speed at the top of the hill, and then slowly increase the speed as the course leveled out, planning to cross the finish line around 25 mph.

The FINISH banner -

Always a welcome sight!

I started looking for the FINISH banner on the horizon, carefully making sure I stayed in my aerodynamic tuck.  At this point in the race, my legs began to cramp and I tasted the blood in the air expelled from my lungs.  I was fighting off dizziness and had only a tunnel-vision view of the finish line.  I could faintly hear some cheering as I got within a few hundred yards of the finish.  My body wanted to rebel and shut down, but my instincts told me, “Just get across the finish line as soon as possible, and then think about the pain afterwards.”  If I skipped one or two pedal strokes, I could easily drop two or three places in the final standings.  My legs were burning, but somehow they kept accelerating the bike to the line.

2007 – Greg near the finish line…… “just maybe”

My mind was detached from the body. I watched myself and the bike complete the last few yards.  Total focus was on expending every last bit of energy that remained just before crossing the finish line.  Once the line was crossed, my body shutdown...and I coasted, coasted, coasted...not knowing where I would end up.  I turned back into the parking lot, then stopped and grabbed a fence to stabilize myself through a dizzy spell.  A volunteer ran up to me and asked, “Should I call medical?”

I quickly responded, “No, I’m okay. I’m just catching my breath.  Really, I’ll be okay.”

The organizers had every detail covered, including the ambulance parked near the finish line.  Fortunately, I recovered quickly and the medical officials were never summoned.

The timers turned in their cards for the officials to calculate the average of the two times, creating the official finish time.  For some reason, the person with the laptop spreadsheets for calculating and sorting the finishers was not present.  We were told the results would be online in two or three days.  There would be no medal ceremony after each age bracket, as in all previous years.  I was downhearted because I thought I had a good chance to finish in the top three, but I left the event with a happy heart, knowing that I had left every ounce of energy out on the course.

Two days later my wife and I began our overseas trip on a dream vacation; a bicycle tour of southern France.  Finally, in the small town of Brive-la-Gaillarde, we searched out an internet café and I looked up the results.

“I did it!” I shouted, “I did it!  I finished in second place for the silver medal!”

I was ecstatic. The teen-agers sitting at their PC’s, playing video games with other challengers across the globe, turned and looked at me with questioning stares.  I didn’t care.  It was time for me to celebrate and it made our bike tour in France all the more enjoyable.

The tough competitor who had started behind me had won the gold medal.  He never passed me during the time trial, but he gained a few precious seconds on me as we went around the course, so he finished with the best elapsed time.

Weeks later, back at work in Kansas City, I called my team coordinator to see if he had received the medals.  He said I could come to his cubicle to pick up my silver medal anytime.  I hurried to his building and met him at his office; he nonchalantly and unceremoniously handed me a plastic bag with the medal inside.

I pulled it out of the bag and felt the surface as I looked at it.  It was a really BIG silver medal, and I felt some engraving on the back side of it.  Had they engraved our names on the back?  That would be so sweet, I thought.  I turned over the medal, only to see the name of the sponsor…EARP DISTRIBUTION.  Well, it was my medal, and I had earned it over eleven long, hard years.  No one could take it from me now.

I’ll cherish it forever, along with all the memories of the years I participated in the race of truth.

The Silver Medal - 2007

A Christmas Melody

by Greg Larson

 My granddaughter, Melody, is at an age when she is most impressionable.  Believe me.  She continues to talk about our trip last spring to the zoo where she saw the elephants pooping.  She is also at the age when Christmas memories, with their sights and sounds, will remain with her for a lifetime.

Last Christmas, she ran into our house and headed straight for the living room.  Her jaw dropped, and then a big smile broke out as she slowly looked up to the top of the Christmas tree.

“Would you like to see the tree up close?” I asked.

She ran to my arms and I lifted her up next to the tree.  Her eyes glowed as she took a deep breath and smiled.  This was a new vantage point for her.  Now in the stratosphere, she floated around the tree like an angel.  I showed her my favorite ornaments while she reached out to touch a bell or a sparkling orb.

Melody and Granddad Larson

The Christmas visit to our house was an adventure for Melody.  Her outstretched arms and tiny fingers reached for figurines and decorations, always probing and touching with fascination.  She never tired of playing with the snow globes or asking me to rewind the music boxes.

“Granddad, can I have a cookie?” she would ask. “Can I have two cookies?”

I handed her the sugar cookies and watched them crumble in her hands and mouth as she ate them quickly.
With more energy to burn, she ran around in circles and her outstretched arms appeared before me.

“Granddad, can I see the Christmas tree?”

I picked her up every time she asked, and we looked at the ornaments together.  I saw them through her eyes, viewing the sparkling tree as if I were two years old.  Her fascination with the tree remained the entire visit, which seemed much too short.  As quickly as the house had been filled with grandkid’s energy, it returned to its normal state, with the dog once again curling in his favorite spot to sleep in the sun at the front door.

Gretta and I finally boxed up the ornaments and packed the tinsel for next year, and I hauled the tree to the recycle center at the park.

On Melody’s next visit in the spring, she burst into the house and ran on tip-toes to the living room where she abruptly stopped.  She peered around the room, then with a serious voice and sad eyes she turned to me and asked, “Granddad, where’s the Christmas tree?”

Ten-Six and Lesser Elevations

Gretta on Weminuche Trail, SW Colorado (2003)

Ten-Six and Lesser Elevations

writing and photos by Greg Larson

“Look at those peaks and rocks!” I shared with Gretta as I pointed to a peak in the San Juan mountains in southwest Colorado.  We had just finished lunch on the continental divide at an elevation of 11,500 feet, during a break on a hike from our base camp near Weminuche Pass in a designated wilderness area.

“Wow, this is why I like the back country,” I said as I scanned the vistas in all directions.

“Come here,” said Gretta while she took me by the hand, “I want to show you something.”

We walked over to a clump of grass on the alpine meadow, and she pointed downward, “See those little flowers? They are so tiny, but every petal is perfect!”

I had to get down on my hands and knees to see the little blue flowers with five petals.  Each blossom was smaller than a pencil eraser.

Alpine flowers

My view of the world expanded a bit more that day.  No longer did I look  just for things big and massive. I started to see the tiniest details in the mountain environment.  I guess that’s how I’d describe why Gretta and I enjoy backpacking and hiking.  Sure, it takes a lot of time and energy to plan and execute a camping trip, and mother-nature doesn’t always cooperate, as we found out in Rocky Mountain National Park in July of 2009.  But every bit of effort is worth it when something unexpected is discovered.  From the smallest flower to the grandest vista, it is the treasure of memories and images that makes the hardships worthwhile.

Three of our campsites in Colorado have been at an elevation of 10,600 feet; in an alpine zone that is near the timberline transition point.  We’ve hiked and camped at lesser elevations, too, always finding unique and picturesque country not seen by motorists or casual passers-by.

Camping in the wilderness clears the mind of all the social clutter.  Necessities are put into a different perspective.  Does one really need all of the paraphernalia and accoutrements taken for granted in our everyday life?  We carry the barest essentials, and only when the items don't add too much weight to the pack.

The following photos are some of my favorite images; good examples of why we don't mind putting up with temperature extremes, mosquitoes and flies, strenuous climbs and dehydrated food.

Englemann spruce in SW Colorado (2003)

One afternoon, a rain shower pattered on our poncho hoods while Gretta and I sat on a boulder, looking out at the endless forest of Englemann spruce trees before us.  The peace and quiet stretched minute upon minute, mile upon mile.  Without warning, the sunlight pierced the clouds.  It was as if the giant spotlight of God shone on the spruce trees in front of us.  On instinct, I quickly pulled out my camera, ran a few feet to frame the picture and snapped the photo above.  Within twenty seconds, the sunlight was gone.

Weminuche Creek in SW Colorado (2003)

It was a crisp morning in the dry, thin air as I walked to the creek to fill our water bottles. The gurgling and rushing water, along with the birds awakening with song, made the hidden oasis seem full of life.  The little waterfall caught my eye; the natural landscape far superior to anything designed by man.  A tree trunk had fallen years ago, creating the weir on the creek, with one half of the trunk becoming a flower box for the summertime greenery.  It was an invigorating moment, yet peaceful.

Mills Canyon, New Mexico (2003)

Mills Canyon is in a remote area along the Canadian River in northeast New Mexico.  Just prior to camping there in 2003, I learned that wildlife officials used the canyon as a location to release the "problem" bears that had been trapped in the towns and ranches nearby.  The beauty of the place was worth the risk, and we never did see any bears, good or bad.

Cholla Cactus blooms in Mills Canyon, New Mexico (2003)

Rock Cliff in Mills Canyon, New Mexico (2003)

I sat and waited during the sunrise for the correct light, and noticed that the rocks, which were at least a hundred feet above the canyon floor, had been eroded by fast flowing water at some point in eons past.  Scenes like the one above are as beautiful and moving as any found in the National Parks.

Sunrise at Mosca Pass, Colorado (2003)

 Mosca Pass was one of the first mountain passes used by explorers and trappers, such as Kit Carson and John Fremont, as a relatively easy path to get from eastern Colorado to the San Luis Valley.  The photo above is from a lookout point near the pass; the view is southeast.  The photo below is looking west along the trail below Mosca Pass.  The trail ends at the base of the Great Sand Dunes National Monument.

 Gretta on Mosca Trail, with Great Sand Dunes and San Luis Valley beyond (2009)

Gretta among giant aspen trees near Mosca Trail (2009)

We discovered a side path from the Mosca Trail and meandered through the trees to a remote, lush green valley surrounded by an aspen forest.  The aspen trees were the largest I'd ever seen, with some of trunks nearly two feet in diameter.

Abandoned miner's cabin in hidden valley near Mosca Trail

I wondered how many pairs of eyes viewed this remote valley each year.  We hiked in the hidden valley on two days in the warmth of summer and never saw a soul.

Unidentified fisherman at Bear Lake (2009)

Bear Lake is in the San Isabel National Forest and is located near Cuchara, Colorado, in the Sangre de Cristo mountains in the southern part of the state.  Luck was with me when I photographed the fly fisherman; the picture captured the line as it whipped and arched during the cast.

Gretta and Greg on a mission near Bear Lake (2009)

We backpacked into the Englemann spruce forest above Bear Lake to set up our base camp.  We wanted to stay away from the bears that roamed the RV campgrounds at night looking for some easy food or trash to eat.

Gretta resting at timberline above Bear Lake (2009)

The air was thin at this resting spot just above the timberline on the mountains above Bear Lake.  We took advantage of the view during a break on an afternoon hike/climb at an elevation of approximately 11,500 ft.  The shadow on the mountain gave a hint that big clouds were coming for the afternoon storms.  We turned back towards camp, knowing we would return the next morning and attempt our climb to the ridge at the 12,500 ft. elevation.

Gretta hiking at 12,000 ft. elevation above the clouds (2009)

On the morning climb from our base camp near Bear Lake, we passed through the fog in the forest, and found ourselves above the clouds on a steep alpine meadow full of flowers.  I expected Julie Andrews to appear any moment wearing her dress with apron, singing "The hills are alive.."

A surreal spot on a beautiful planet (2009)

(Near Sangre de Cristo ridge looking east to the Spanish Peaks)

Cell phone coverage was quite good from the ridge near the spot shown above.  We were able to see a large part of the state of Colorado, looking east and west from the main ridge of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range.  The beauty of terrain and clouds, along with the thin air, left us breathless.  We felt as though we were in a different world for a few brief hours.  In early afternoon, we retreated to base camp just before the storms unleashed with thunder, lightning and rain that drove us into our tent for two hours.

Columbine in SW Colorado (2003)

The columbine is an elegant flower in a wild environment with a short growing season. The flowers in the high, alpine elevations have only a brief twelve weeks each year to flourish and bloom.  Time is relative and it makes me realize that we have a few cosmic moments on terra firma to grow and experience all that surrounds us.

Takin' Care of Bidness

by Greg Larson

It was a dreary, rainy and dark Tuesday evening in early October when I parked my car next to the 12th street viaduct in the West Bottoms of Kansas City.  A freight train rumbled down the tracks in the switch yard as I walked through the non-descript entrance of the brick and timber warehouse.  Only a small sign by the door which stated “KC Auction Co” gave a hint of what was happening inside.

Fortunately, a friend of mine notified me of the auction advertisement.  He knew of my architectural interest in Kansas City and the Plaza, and he had discovered an ad while perusing the Sunday classifieds in the Kansas City Star:

     Fine Art and Antique Auction
     60+ Architectural Books from the closed JC Nichols Plaza
            office...
     50+ Paintings or artwork…
     60+ Lamps/Chandeliers…
     Antiques: Clocks, 1820’s Boston Banjo…

I walked into the large vestibule on the main floor of the building, and found myself in the middle of a festive atmosphere with a crowd surrounding a food vendor.  People of all shapes, sizes and attire stood in line to purchase greasy sandwiches and brats.  Some read the auction catalog and discussed the auction listings while the vendor flipped the steaming meat on the portable grille.

Walking past the food, I wandered into the main floor of the auction.  It was a scene from “Antiques Roadshow,” with lamps, rugs, antique chairs, tables, artwork and glassware scattered around the space. People milled and chatted; they pointed and poked at the merchandise.  I tried to stay focused on my mission to find research material regarding Edward Buehler Delk, a well-known architect in Kansas City during the early 20th century.  I knew of Delk’s involvement in the master plan for the Plaza, the first planned suburban shopping district in the U.S. which was designed to cater to the automobile.  Some of the buildings on the Plaza were designed by Delk and built for J.C. Nichols in the 1920’s, so I thought there might be a publication at auction related to his work.

After viewing the books on the auction table, I knew they were rich in historical significance and of archival quality.  Of local importance were the myriad details and designs shown in the different volumes.  They provided the inspiration for architects who designed the Plaza and other residential and commercial projects for J.C. Nichols in the Kansas City region.  Some of the books captured the essence of the design styles used in his developments:

     1921 – English Homes, 6 volume set
     1914 – California Gardens
     1914 – Architectural Terra Cotta Standard Construction
     1925 – Italian Brickwork
     1921 – Country Residences in Europe and America
     1924 – Spanish Farm Houses and Minor Public Buildings

My heart began to pound when I discovered what I considered to be the “crown jewel” of research material on Edward Buehler Delk.  During his career, he commissioned a New York printing firm to publish an architectural catalog of his extensive works for use as a marketing tool and as a gift to his clients.  Two copies were in the auction!  The only other copies I had seen were at the Western Historical Manuscript Collection at the University of Missouri – Kansas City, and in the library at the Philbrook Museum in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Inscribed in one of the copies up for auction was a personal note from Delk to Nichols stating his gratitude that many of the projects shown in the catalog were made possible by Nichols.  The tight fountain-pen script included Delk’s signature.  At a later date, Nichols passed the copy on to another architect with a note on the front of the catalog, including his signed initials, “JCN”.

I immediately decided that I would bid for one of the catalogs, and quickly needed to develop a strategy.  I was a bit unsure how to proceed, since I’d never participated in an auction.  The unsigned copy would be auctioned prior to the signed copy.  I assumed the signed copy was of higher value due to its historical significance.  With a self-imposed limit of $200 on the maximum amount to spend, I decided to bid on the unsigned copy.  If the bidding was within my limit, then I would be assured of one of the volumes to use for my research and safekeeping.

I registered at the counter where they handed me a bid catalog and a numbered bid card to raise when placing a bid on an item.  During the few minutes prior to the bidding, I found a seat and began to “people watch” to try to rid myself of nervous energy.  The man wearing a polyester suit (which was two sizes too small) and a bowler hat won my vote for the most unusual character in the crowd.  The attire varied from sport coats to denim jackets, and from designer shoes to hiking boots.

A woman brushed against the two catalogs of interest to me, and then she plopped her big purse on top of them as she looked at the other books.  Oh my, I thought, I’d like to go up and ask her to be careful with “my” books.  I also wondered how much brat juice had dripped on the items while the public munched their food as they pored over the tables.

The seats began to fill, including the three large antique wooden benches on a platform at the rear of the seating area.  The auctioneer walked up to the podium, tested the microphone and checked with his assistants, including the women receiving the telephone and online bids, to make sure they were ready.  The tension mounted while he made a few brief announcements.  He looked toward the people sitting on the benches at the rear of the crowd and commented, “Are those benches comfortable?”  The people sitting there nodded, and he continued, “Just a reminder, those benches will be auctioned later, so we’ll have to ask you to find different seats at that time!”

The auctioneer began the bidding process with speed and precision.  The lot numbers and the bids rolled off his tongue while he pointed to the individuals who raised their cards.  Every once in a while I heard a “ding” from the laptop receiving the online bids, whereupon a woman would yell out the bid.  With three hours of bidding ahead, the auctioneer’s goal was to move through the items as efficiently as possible, while the assistants brought each item to the front podium.

It was almost time for Lots 54 and 55, the two Delk catalogs to be auctioned.  My pulse quickened and I reminded myself of the bid limit I had imposed.

“Lot 54! 80! Bidding 80? Bidding 80?…80! Bidding 90?...90! Bidding 100?” barked the auctioneer as he began to point to the bidders.

I raised my bid card.

“100!” the auctioneer yelled as his eyes focused in my direction and he pointed to me.  Then he pointed to the other bidders, and with continued urgency, he shouted, “Bidding 110? 110?”

It appeared there were three of us competing for the catalog.  I hoped the price wouldn’t run up too high.  With little time to think, I raised my card two more times during the process.

“150!” he yelled as he pointed to me with my card raised for the final time.  Then he pointed to the other bidders, “Bidding 160? 160? …160?  Sold to number twenty-eight for $150!”

Interior title page of Edward Buehler Delk's self published catalog

(scanned from Greg Larson's copy)

Immediately, an assistant brought the catalog and carefully handed it to me.  My strategy had worked!  I then listened to the bidding on the signed copy, even though I had no budget to purchase it.  The auctioneer worked the price to $110, and the bidding slowed, but he did get the bidders to finally run the purchase price up to $140.  I was miffed.  If I’d known that the signed copy would have sold at that low price, I would have bid on it instead.

I continued to watch the auction as the artwork began to sell.  The most expensive piece of artwork was a signed Salvador Dali print (10” x 13”) which sold for $550.

Chandeliers, door hardware, vases and urns…the auctioneer droned on.  Before half the lots were auctioned, I got up and paid for my catalog at the cashier.  I slid the purchase into my leather pouch and held it close as I ran through the rain to the car.  Although I was elated to have the catalog of the extensive list of Edward Buehler Delk projects, it saddened me to think that the architectural material that had provided the inspiration for many Plaza and Kansas City projects had just been parceled and scattered, no longer remaining as a group of books used for research material.  I wondered how many people had used them.  What were their names?  How many times had Delk used the books for research?  I could only imagine.  I started the car, turned on the windshield wipers and drove off into the darkness.

Hockey Pals

This is a 450 word fictional hors d'oeuvre, if you will.  It's a slapshot attempt to paint a picture of a bygone era in sports, and a treat for the "sports fan" inside each of us.

Hockey Pals
Short Fictional Story by Greg Larson

I’ve just kidnapped my buddy.  He doesn’t know what I’m doing yet, but I’ve decided it is necessary to extract him from his hockey fixation.  I’m driving him to my secluded cabin in Maine, and I hope to give him some privacy and time to rest.  It’s now dark outside and he’s comfortably resting beneath a blanket in the backseat of the car.  He’s been much too close to professional hockey . . .and it’s time for him to have a change in perspective.

The drive through the woods has given me time to reflect on our relationship.  I’ve had many long talks with him about the sport, reminiscing late into the night.  He has been a mentor to me, and has known many of the great players like Gordie Howe, Bobby Hull, Phil Esposito, and others with first names such as Guy and Jacques.  He has been on a first name basis with many of hockey’s greatest men and has been hugged by most of them.  But his fixation with the game is not good for his health.  He’s even talked about seeing apparitions of some of the hall of fame players, and says he’s had conversations with them.  The stories he could tell!  He’s seen it all.

We both wish that the ‘good ole days’ could return to hockey, when players were recruited from the blue collar ranks, from coal mines and steel mills, from tough neighborhoods and bleak rural areas.  We long for the pure joy of the sport; to see the sweat on the players and the toothless smiles on their scarred faces when their team scored the winning goal.

We remember some of the old arenas like the Montreal Forum, the Checkerdome in St. Louis, and the old Boston Garden.  I can smell the stale beer on the concourses and see the cigar smoke haze hanging below the rafters.  My blood gets to pumping when I remember the shots through the crease for a winning score, and I could feel the vibration of those old arenas when the fans erupted.  Those nights were magic!

The new arenas are too slick, too sterile, and too expensive.  It’s difficult to have a spontaneous night out with the boys anymore.

My buddy has been through too much.  He’s attended too many hockey celebrations, and he's been filled to the brim with booze, out all night, tattooed, worn out and banged up.  I can’t imagine what he’s spent on travel and lodging.  He needs a change of scenery.

Yeah, my buddy needs to give it a rest.  I'm talking about my buddy Stan, that is . . .the Stanley Cup.  He barely fits in the back seat of my Crown Vic.

2002 Reuters file photo

Postscript:  In researching the internet for this fictional story, I discovered that the Stanley Cup has a rigorous schedule between hockey seasons, due to the fact that each member of the championship team is allowed to have possession of the cup for a few days.  The cup is taken to parties, bars, and even to priests, for fun, photo-ops, and blessings.  In one photo, a player's daughter had filled the cup with milk and Froot Loops cereal!

Wisconsin Yard Art Inspires Kansans

Elizabeth and Eugene in Kansas

Wisconsin Yard Art Inspires Kansans
by Greg Larson

I’m convinced that Wisconsin is king when it comes to yard art. There’s lots of it, and the folks in the cheese state take pride in their lawns and the accoutrements therein.  Gretta and I admired the yard art while touring the state three times by bicycle.  Contrary to what you may think, we did slow down to “smell the roses” and look around while traveling through the towns and cities.

Touring the Cheese State

The most prevalent theme was the Dutch boy and girl, with colorful variations throughout the state.  We identified the Dutch couple statuaries as "Elizabeth and Eugene," our middle names.  Calling them by our middle names is a whole story in itself, which I won't go into now.

Here are some of my favorite photos of yard art. etc., with anecdotes listed below each one:

Proud Couple

While I was taking the picture above, a woman came out of the house and exclaimed, "So, you like my sweet couple!"  She was obviously happy that someone appreciated her handiwork.  She informed us that she had just recently repainted them, and she added, "And it's no easy task!"

Two couples in one photo!

We were drawn to the yard with the windmill, the Dutch couple and a plethora of yard art at this location in Rhinelander.  But I thought the property owner had missed a marketing opportunity.  I kept looking for a custard stand or a miniature golf course.  A beer and brat garden would have been perfect, too!  Maybe the zoning wasn't right or they just preferred to display their yard art.

Miniature golf, anyone?

Making a Point!

Not too far across the Wisconsin state line is Strawberry Point, Iowa.  We found an ice cream stand a couple of blocks from this town's ground-zero, bought a treat and then walked up to admire the iconic image.  Wow, this strawberry could be considered  "high art!"  Anyone familiar with Claus Oldenberg?  But I won't get into a protracted discussion here on "what is art?"  I wonder if any Wisconsin city has a giant cheese curd mounted prominently on top of a tower?

Does this tell us anything about Packer fans?

Just before I took the picture above, we spent an afternoon with a few hundred cyclists at the Steven's Point Brewery.  The Brewery offered free samples at a beer garden on their lawn, and we sampled just about everything before making the return trip to our hotel.  On the way back to the hotel, the gates came down on a train crossing which was next to this yard and house.  We had plenty of time to admire the yard art, but viewing it was somewhat surreal, due to the effects of the beer, the train whistle and the crossing bells!  Maybe the owner's fascination with the yard art is also a defense mechanism for living so close to a railroad track.

Where have all the dwarves gone?

At one of the towns along the Wisconsin River, we slowed down and stopped at the front yard shown above.  I was certain this was the house that displayed Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in the front yard the last time we toured Wisconsin.  I didn't see Snow White anywhere, but I decided to take pictures of two Dutch couples, anyway....the pair shown in the front yard, and the pair in the side yard shown below.

Virtual Disneyland

Lo and behold!  What came into my viewfinder as I prepared to take a picture of the second Dutch couple?  Snow White and the Seven Dwarves!  Relegated to the backyard, no less!  The shame!  The following is only pure speculation, but as we pedaled on, Gretta and I concluded that the husband and wife (we gave them fictitious names of Karl and Mildred) were on the verge of needing marriage counseling.  Karl's co-workers at the paper mill down the road were giving him a hard time whenever he met them at the local bar after their work shift.  While drinking the Old Milwaukee on tap, they'd say, "Karl!  You've got to do something with Snow White and the little guys!  They don't fit your image."  The assemblage of Snow White and the dwarves was an embarrassment to Karl, even though he had agreed to the yard-art with his wife........after all, it was her idea.

We speculated that Karl talked Mildred into allowing him to move the major display to the back yard, but at a high price.  The negotiated deal probably included some diamond jewelry for Mildred and also included a lot of Karl's sweat, which was required to relocate the entourage of figurines.  The rental cost for the fork-lift to pick up and move Snow White was no small item, either.  But the snickers from Karl's buddies at the local bar and grille have subsided, and we're sure that he now lives in peace at work and home.  What a great country!

The Mother Mary of all yard art

Grotto Gardens was a shady afternoon respite on a long 88 mile day on the tandem.  Located in Rudolph, Wisconsin, it covers most of the grounds at the Shrine of Peace and  Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine and Museum.  It was established by Father Philip Wagner, fulfuilling a promise he made to the Virgin Mary after a 1912 pilgrimage to the Lady of Lourdes shrine in France.  Father Wagner was cured of debilitating exhaustion he was suffering while studying for the priesthood in Europe.

While taking the rest break, I filled my water bottles and sucked down some Vanilla Bean Gu Gel.  Then I slowly walked through the gardens and crossed a small footbridge.  As the statuary scene above came into view, I imagined a children's choir of a thousand voices filling the air.  It was a sight to behold, ranking above all other yard statuary seen on the trip.  A feeling of peace washed over me, along with the boost of caffeine from the Gu Gel.  I was ready to ride again.  At least I had overcome my temporary exhaustion.

Cheese Curd Stonehenge - Potential Yard Art?

Gretta and I developed an appreciation for fresh cheese curds while in Wisconsin.  Once you've had fresh cheese curds (yes, the ones that squeak when you chew them) you will never want to eat any curds that are not fresh.  I became fascinated with their shape and came up with the ingenious idea that they looked like part of Stonehenge.  One idea led to another, and I concluded that large fiberglass replicas of cheese curds in Wisconsin could rival the pink flamingos or the Dutch couples in yard art status.  Depending on the size of yard, each homeowner could display all or just a portion of Stonehenge.  An entire miniature golf course would fit into some of the larger replicas, whereas a few simple fiberglass "stones" would make a nice backdrop for a flower garden!  The picture above is a stonehenge model I created from real cheese curds. If you know of any venture-capitalists interested in funding fiberglass fabrication of cheese curds, let me know!

Cozy garden for Kansas pair

So that brings us to the Dutch couple shown above, Elizabeth and Eugene in Kansas.  Some friends had inherited the concrete sweethearts, and after seeing how excited Gretta was when she saw them, they decided the Dutch couple needed a new home.  Imagine our surprise when one day the figurines appeared on our front porch.   We've recently given them a new coat of paint and they are displayed prominently in our flower garden. 

Eugene and Elizabeth in the Kansas kitchen

We also have "Elizabeth and Eugene" salt and pepper shakers, complete with an accessory windmill in our kitchen in Kansas which remind us of Wisconsin yard art and of Holland, Michigan......whence they came.  But that is yet another story for another day.