Someone to watch over you

If lives were perfect, we would all have someone to ALWAYS watch over us. But life isn't perfect, and at times in our lives, we have to fend for ourselves. We have to be our own guardian.

Growing up, my ideal life would allow me to be both Jess and Violet, the sisters in the book series "The Boxcar Children". Jess was the older sister, and she kept everyone in order. Violet, the younger sister, was sensitive, shy, and loved dogs. I thought if my parents were smart, they would have named me "Jessolet". 

So, my parents didn't know. But they were pretty smart anyway. My parents always took care of us, and they always made sure a guardian was assigned to us as we traveled. When we moved to Argentina, I was 5. Our guardians were expatriates who happened to be old family friends, Mr & Mrs. G. The G's had lived in Pasadena before they moved to Argentina, and they knew my grandparents in Temple City. The G's had plans to return to Pasadena when Mr. G retired. He did just that when I was 8 years old. 

So my parents hunted for a new guardian for us kids. Hmmm... how about asking the school principal? Which is exactly what my Dad did. Before long, the principal, Mr. Hal, was our new guardian. Life sucked.

Why HIM? 

Turned out Mr. Hal was originally from Newport Beach. He had played basketball at UCLA (a strong point in my dad's eyes). And Mr. Hal knew my Temple City grandparents, too.Sometimes the world is just too small.

Sigh. 

Nothing could happen at school that my parents didn't learn too much about it. They would receive a phone call and a first hand report from Mr. H. 

Mr. H. made the call when my brother Illya had stink bombs in his book bag. My parents got the call before Illya could even show the little bombs off. Weeks later, did they know Illya had a pack of cigarettes in his blazer? Mr. H knew. He had them confiscated before brother could even remove the cellophane wrapper and open the pack - and my parents got the call. 

Then we moved. HURRAH!! Mr. Hal and his guardian/spy techniques were gone.

Our family eventually landed in India. There was no doubt in our parents eyes that we needed a guardian, someone to watch over us if something happened to the folks. It had to be someone who would make sure Illya and I would be returned to family in the USA if need be. Someone who would comfort us, protect us, calm us, guard us. Someone who would be our guardians out of love, not out of  some financial motive.

Dad hunted and hunted. Most of their friends had different nationalities, different morals, different ideas on how to raise kids. Then they met Mr. and Mrs. Rae. Mrs. Rae was a registered nurse - she could comfort and calm us and look after our needs. Mr. Rae was a somber, serious guy who worked at the Canadian Embassy. He would know the right procedures if we had to leave without our parents. 

Swell. Illya and I both liked the Raes. They would stay with us whenever our parents traveled. They were clueless about children/teenagers and completely trusted us. But Mr. Rae knew a lot about basketball. He was a licensed basketball official and could tell us great stories of international games he officiated. He even became our high school's basketball coach. 

He took our international school's team all over the world to play. The team got into countries we thought were totally off limits - to Nepal, western Laos, Thailand along the Cambodian border, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and the elusive area of Kashmir. One winter break, the team flew to Australia and played all through Indonesia and Malaysia. Mr. Rae was so cool!!! He was our hero!

And then the summer came when everyone was reassigned - my dad to another country, Mr. Rae to Taiwan. I thought I'd never see Mr. Rae again.

One evening, years later, my folks and I were watching the Summer Olympics on TV. We spotted Mr. Rae at the games. He was officiating an Olympic basketball game! 

My mom spoke up."You kids were never to know what Mr. Rae really did. He was a Canadian spy. He probably still is. Rae isn't his real name. All the trips your school's basketball team took? They were planned as cover for Mr. Rae to do some intelligence work. He probably is spying right now, while officiating the game. He's a spy."

Swell. A spy. Someone to watch over you. 

I am still surprised when I think of the Raes - or whatever their names are. My dad picked a real winner for guardians. Real spies.

Stunned again

Mercator projection

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mercator-projection.jpg)

I hate it when smart people mess with my reality. They steal my knowledge, my justified true belief.

The mercator map is one that we are all familiar with. Every school I ever went to had it displayed somewhere, if only in textbooks. I knew it as a globe, flattened.  You don't have to spin a mercator projection to see where another continent or country is. In one eyefull, you see the globe.

Of course, growing up in Argentina, our geography classes taught us something a bit different. It looked like this:

 

 © 1979 Stuart McArthur

http://odtmaps.com/detail.asp_Q_product_id_E_McA-23x35

 A McArthur's corrective map is nothing more than a reversed map. And, considering we were living in Argentina, it only made sense that OUR country was on the top half of the page... 

But today, along come James Gall and Arno Peters. 

They say a flat map needs to be projected with this in mind:

The projection is conventionally defined as:

where λ is the longitude from the central meridian in degrees, φ is the latitude, and R is the radius of the globe used as the model of the earth for projection. For longitude given in radians, remove the π/180° factors.

In other words, it needs to look like this:

Gall-Peters Projection

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Gall-peters2.jpg

from NASA)

 

It looks like the world has a long face...

Hmmm, maybe it does. 

The Gall-Peters projection is noted for being 'correct' in depicting the continents in correct proportions. You noticed (didn't you?) that Greenland now is correctly shown - since it is not larger than Africa, it can NOT be shown larger than Africa (look again at the Mercator projection).

Ok, Gall-Peters win. And I am sad. Guess my face is long...

 

The McArthur Map is available world-wide from ODT, Inc. (1-800-736-1293; www.ODTmaps.com Fax: 413-549-3503; E-mail: odtstore@odt.org). Also available in Australia from McArthur Maps, 208 Queens Parade, North Fitzroy, 3068, Australia; Phone: 0011-613-9482-1055; Email:  stuartmcarthur@hotmail.com

Check out their website/store site. I dare you not to want to buy something! 

Fine art of letter writing, Part 2

While my brother Iilya was busy writing friends about our latest (er, ongoing) revolution, I was practicing the best manners any granddaughter could have - I was writing a 'thank you' note to my grandparents. I had met these grandparents just once, and I was scared to death of them.  I didn't know if I had much in common with them, so I told them about our dog, Frieda or Frita or whatever the spelling of the day allowed.

(enlarge the letter, if necessary)

Betsy McCall paper dolls, a pretty teacher, and a pistol of a dog were important to me... After all, I was in first grade and I had priorities. Armies, navies, tanks and submachine guns didn't bother me at all. A polite salutation, a proper thank you, a bit of local gossip, and a personal ending were much more important.


More lessons on the 'fine art of letter writing' will follow.

Fine art of letter writing, Part 1.

Letter writing is a fine art.

It is almost a non-existent art in the 21st century. 
Feel free to click on this letter to capture the full meaning of it.

This is a letter I found that my brother, Iilya, wrote. 
We were living in Argentina - it was our first year there, but hardly our first revolution.
Iilya wrote this to our childhood friends living in East Whittier, California. 
They never came to visit us. 
I always wondered why.

Is that what you really meant to say?

When we moved to Argentina, my mother was only beginning her adventures in life. She was in her mid 30s, but she found that 're-inventing' oneself has no age limit. People can re-invent themselves anytime they chose.

Mom's life had been fairly simple up to the move to Argentina. She married straight out of high school, had her first son soon after graduation from college, and moved to California before her youngest (me) was born. She had driven across old Route 66 multiple times, from Chicago to the Pacific Ocean and seen lots of the United States. She had moved from her own family and neighborhood to live near the family she had married into.


And when my parents were 34 years old, they decided to move overseas. First stop, Argentina.

Lifestyles in Argentina were incredibly different than those she had known in Ohio or California. Mom, Elise, decided the best way to know the country was to 'become' the country. To 'become' the country, one had to fit in, to live as the locals did.

One of the first things Elise found out was that wives need their husbands' permission to drive the family car. The permission slip was not only signed by the husband, but notarized by the local authority and it was carried in the auto at all times.

Elise didn't care for this at all. Permission to drive their car? No way. She would ride the bicycle or take the train, thank you. My one speed blue Schwinn served her fine for trips to the market, and the train was better than any car for the rare trips into Buenos Aires.

So, every couple days, Elise would pull my bike out of the shed, load up the basket with her 'bolsas' (net shopping bags), peg her pant legs with clothes pins, and pedal towards the local market place. Our town did not have a supermarket - I doubt any place in Argentina had 'Vons' or 'Luckys' supermarkets. Instead, we had marketplaces. Each store carried its one family of products. The carnecia carried meat. The panaderia had the breads. Fiamberia had the drug store type items, and the lecheria had milk products and eggs. The stores were all grouped at one 5-point corner in town, called Cinco Esquinas (Five Corners, duh).

Elise, now called Elsa by the locals, would make her market appearance every few days. Shopping was precise - you only bought what you needed for that day and the next. Elise never bought a dozen eggs (how excessive!), but maybe bought 4 eggs to bake a cake. She never bought a gallon of milk, but a litre or less. Bread wasn't sold in sliced packages but in whole hard crusted loaves.

Elise/Elsa would proudly use her pigeon spanish to greet the store owners. She quickly became the darling of many of them - an Argentine Yankee. Una yankee Argentina! She'd practice small talk with each shop owner before pulling out her shopping list and requesting 'un medio kilo de carne picada' or 'medio kilo de harina, por favor.'

Some products, like poultry and especially eggs, were seasonal. Not seasonal such as in weather, but as in chickens desire to lay eggs. So, before buying eggs, you were expected to ask if there were any eggs to buy.

For three years, mom asked in perfect spanish "Tienes huevos?"

And then one day, our Argentine neighbor Mirta overheard Elsa asking if the vendor had eggs. "Elsa, que dices?" Mom turned to Mirta - "I am hopeful I can get three eggs for a cake I am baking!"

Mirta slowly pulled Elsa aside. "Never ever ask a man 'tienes huevos'. Ask 'hay huevos', ok? HAY HUEVOS? As in, 'are there eggs'? Never ever say 'tienes huevos'. It means something else to a man."

Elsa looked at the vendor. He was blushing. For three years he had listened to her ask him if he had balls.

OH. Oh dear. Oh my. OH.

It can be hard re-inventing oneself. Sometimes it is easier to just fade into the crowd...

Scenes recaptured

 Along the California coast, circa 2005.

People often ask me if this is a photo of me. No... my only participation in this photo was as the photographer.  I don't know who the young lady is, and I am flattered that someone/anyone would suggest it was me. If we are going to fantasize this is me, can we have Daniel Craig sitting on the beach, too? I want the "Bond, James Bond" Craig. I want him to be through mourning the death of Vesper, too. He and E can be sitting together, discussing fast cars or how to set up a sting.

Pictures always tell a story. My favorite stories are the ones I can imagine, the ones that aren't obvious but can be implied. Those are the stories behind the eyes, displayed in posture or hidden in shadows.

I remember the story behind this photo.

Iilya wouldn't smile because his teeth were covered with metal - BRACES. I was smiling because I only had to wear a retainer and I could pop it out before any photos were taken. His braces/my retainer were a great point of 'discussion' between us. I think I did a lot of "nya nya nyas" at Iilya.

I have been scanning old family slides. It is one job I can do 'one handed'. I am really enjoying this task, looking for stories behind the photos. E is  probably weary of my interrupting his work and readings: "Look at this one.... ". E's one patient guy. And he even likes Daniel Craig.

Rollin' with the 'R"s

Ferrocarril Nacional General San Martín - oooh, how I loved to say those words, trilling my 'R"s for whole breaths.
Ferrocarril Nacional General Bartolomé Mitre. Give me a phrase with "R"s in it and I could twill like a bird. I was 6 years old. I spoke Spanish as well as the Argentine children did. I was so cool!

Ferrocarril Nacional General San Martín was the train line that ran from Buenos Aires through our town. In this era, the train system was nationalized, and the trains were a model of super efficiency. The only times the train stopped were during a revolution or a train wreck.

This was train wreck - about 3 blocks from our house.

By the time he was 10 years old, my brother Iilya was a master train rider. His favorite past time was catching a ride out to the pampas and then sneaking home late. My brother went to great lengths to keep my parents from knowing of his adventures - and I (his little sister) was sworn to great secrecy. Usually Iliya's trips went according to plan, but not always.

This photo is of Iilya and me (in my Heide skirt) with a friend. The train station was at the end of our street. The tracks divided our town - the uber rich lived on the correct side of the tracks. We didn't. 

Iilya's allowance did not allow for the purchase of many train tickets, so he had to find creative ways to earn money. And since my folks couldn't know he was earning money to spend on train riding, most of his 'jobs' were done in total secrecy. His best earnings usually occurred when he would dress as a blind armless child and sell pencils. Iilya made a pitiful helpless child.

Iilya's train riding career was blossoming. He decided to map out a long adventure - out to the town of Corcoran. To me it was light years away - to Iilya, it would be a full day adventure. He planned it for some unknown Sunday, one where my parents would sleep in late, nursing hangovers and avoiding not only church, but us kids, too. Iilya made concessions for me. I could play with his electric train-set and stuff my troll dolls in the cattle cars as much as I liked - I just had to cover for him on the appointed day.

The drive was on for Iilya to earn lots of money. He emptied both our bookbags, hunting for all the pencils we had. On this Saturday morning, he rode into Buenos Aires to beg at the subway entrance. The subway entrances were weather protected and usually a common place for money-earning children.

Iilya wore one of my dad's flannel shirts WITH  the left sleeve rolled up. His left arm was tucked inside, hidden from site. Iilya had on dark glasses, a frayed hat (also from my dad's collection), and a cup full of pencils. He was quite a site, sitting on the subway steps ignoring the passing adults who filled his cup with pesos. I knew he was quite a site because I saw him. You see, this was the day my mom dragged me into BA to do some shopping. She took me on the Ferrocarril Nacional General San Martín to downtown Buenos Aires where we caught the subway to Avenida Florida. Mom was the hunt for some new guantes - gloves- for that evening's party. Mom and I walked into the subway entrance, passing a young blind armless child. My brother - her Iilya.

YIKES...

Mom calmly walked over to the child, her son. She put several pesos in his cup, removed one pencil, and turned to me. "Remind me top put this in your bookbag when we get home," she said as she pocketed the instrument in her purse. And off we progressed to Avenida Florida, on the search for her new gloves.

Iilya was home when Mom and I got back that afternoon. Iilya only whispered that he was "rich". The trip to Corcoran would be tomorrow, while the folks slept off their party. And I could play with his train set, stuffing my trolls into the cattle cars.

Next morning when I awoke, Iilya was gone. I played 'trolls in trains' until I grew bored. I made a peanut butter sandwich. I pulled out the dictionary and looked for every word with multiple 'r's to practice saying outloud. I ate Dulce de leche right out of the jar. I made a pot of mate and sucked it through the metal straw. I was bored. And my parents slept.

Iilya was anything but bored. He was long on his way to Corcoran. Until his journey was ruined. About 2 p.m., our home phone rang. It was the Corcoran police...

Iilya didn't ride the train home from Corcoran. In fact, I don't really think he sat down for a week or two. My mom gave me the pencil she picked up from that little blind armless child in the subway station. And life went on.

Iilya took up Little League baseball.

He was a pretty good pitcher and no longer had time to ride trains.

WHEW. 

I soon earned my first fountain pen and no longer required pencils in my bookbag.

Sewing

The holidays are upon us. Most of our neighbors have their Christmas lights up and have decorated trees you can see through their front windows. Some yards have inflatable Santas and elves that magically inflate at dusk. Some houses have strands of white lights climbing the heights of palm trees and saguaros. Every evening, one can see chimneys blowing smoke from warm fireplaces inside houses...

But if you live south of the equator, Christmas is anything but a winter wonderland. Growing up in Argentina, Christmas day was often one of the hottest, most humid days of the year. No child wore flannel pajamas, no fire crackled in the fireplace, and mommy never made hot chocolate for everyone. Instead we wore our swimsuits stained with suntan lotion and drank chilly lemonade that in glasses covered with sweat. It was HOT. Santa was often seen in bermuda shorts with sun glasses.

Our school system in Argentina operated on the 3 month summer vacation, just as schools in the USA did. But our summer vacation was mid December until mid March. Sunlight was abundant - often darkness didn't settle in until after 9 PM. At night my dad would light 'mosquito' coils in each room, hoping those little buzzers wouldn't 'bzzzzz' in our ears while we tossed and turned and sweated.

Many of my school chums would return to the US for the summer vacation. Usually I would see my best friend on the last day of school in December - and then re-unite with her in March. She'd have spent the 'summer' in snow in New York or Michigan or Pennsylvania... She'd have new knitted scarves and gloves with a matching stocking cap. I'd have a sunburn and chlorine green hair...

My mother would find activities to keep us kids busy. Besides the daily 'homework' our school would have us do (3 sheets of work per day - math, grammar, social studies), mom would signed us up for swimming class, for diving class, for horseback riding, for baseball and soccer - and 'sewing' lessons for me.

Sewing. Hmmmmm. I never saw a sewing machine at the lesson. This was hand sewing/ stitching/ embroidery class. Class was every Monday, Wednesday, Friday afternoon from 1 until 2. Eight of us girls met at Mrs. Caroline Wessex's house, 4 blocks from my home.

Mrs. Wessex was of British royalty, of the House of Wessex. She and her invalid husband shared a huge tudor house with rose gardens in our Argentina neighborhood. Her husband never met us - he was bed ridden and hidden in some remote room. Mrs. Wessex taught her 'sewing' class in her enormous dark dining room - a room enclosed by giant buffet cabinets and huge straight-back chairs and a 20 foot long dining table. We all sat around this table, me on a dictionary on the straight-back chair so that I could reach the table top.

I rode my bike to her house, always arriving on time but certainly not in the appropriate British manner of a Lady. I was Mrs. Wessex's youngest student. All the other girls had attended her summer sewing class for years. These girls were older, more dignified, and already 'young ladies'. I was a tomboy, blowing in to her house wearing pedal pushers (with a matching patched top all sewn by own mother), untied tennis shoes on my feet, my hair a mess, and my sweat obviously not a 'glow' of a young lady.

When Mrs. Wessex agreed to 'have me' in her class, she told my mother that I was 'on trial' for three weeks. If 'I came around', I could continue in her class. You see, in her class, you not only learned how to embrodier and cross-stitch, but you also learned how to drink tea with your pinky in the air, how to discuss polite events, and how to sit VERY erect with your tummy tucked in. You learned how to be a LADY, just like Mrs. Caroline Wessex.  You never slumped, even when stitching. You sat erect, erect, erect! If Mr. Wessex called for his wife to attend to him for even one minute, we were NOT to relax, not to slump, not to rest our hands on the table top. We were to continue our project with our needles flying in the air and our conversations prim and proper (if we were allowed to speak at all).

Each of Mrs. Wessex's girls started at the very beginning - with an Annie Oakley embroidery piece. At the time, the Annie Oakley cowgirl was the best part of class for me. Annie's image was printed on a piece of muslim - her with her cowgirl hat falling off her head, her gun waving in the air as she pointed to her next target, her profile excited with life. Each student had to practice the 'outline' stitch (outlining with stitches Ms. Oakley) and then practice the 'satin' stitch, filling in Ms. Oakley's hair in blonde thread, blouse in blue thread and gun in brown thread. The gun was the hardest to do, so it was saved for last. When a student 'finished' Ms. Oakley, Mrs. Wessex graded the work. How well you did determined the project you were to move on to. BUT, before you could proceed to the next project, you had to UNDO all your stitching from Ms. Oakley! You had to carefully unthread everything, leaving no holes or tears or knots!!! Ms. Oakley was then washed and packed away for the next beginner student.

After my trial three weeks, I still had not complete Annie Oakley. I spent each class day sewing and then 'unsewing', all in trying to match the 'advanced' students' stitch work. Their stitches all laid flat and perfect, without twists in the thread or knots on the wrong side. I tried and tried and tried, but three days a week for three weeks, I failed.

Mrs. Wessex kept me in her class, but demoted me to pre-beginner. This is how my first project ended:

A tea towel.

I continued in Mrs. Wessex's summer sewing class for 4 years. I think my mom just wanted me out of the house for that hour, three times a week. I never graduated to advanced work. One of my chums made her mom a huge christmas table cloth, the edges embroidered in red and green. It was beautiful. It had matching napkins.

I made more tea towels. I think I became one of Mrs. Wessex's favorite students, however. She even let me rest my hands on the table when I grew tired of sewing.

When alligators and crocodiles invaded our house

My brother once scared the bejeebers out of me, and it wasn't even Halloween. But his trick was very smooth, very Halloween like. (I looked up bejeebers - it is a word.)

Picture of my sweet brother

- he's the older brother of a sweet little sister (me).

This sweet brother has an imagination that would make your toes curl. In fact, when he was 4 or 5 years old, holding on to a grocery cart while my mom shopped for fresh carrots and tomatoes, this sweet brother had a vision that a man was biting his toes.

"Man, Man, don't bite my toes!" he yelled as loud as his 4 or 5 year old lungs would let him. "Man, Man, stop biting my toes!" My mom dropped the vegetables and shooed the sweet brother out to the parking lot, where she quieted him down.

They walked to the car to go home, grocery shopping forgotten (maybe forbidden by the store manager). As mom opened the car door to let this sweet little boy in the back seat, all seemed well. Until mom SLAMMED the car door on Pixie! Or was it Dixie??? Pixie & Dixie were other imaginary friends of my sweet brother's. I don't know if they ever met the toe biting man.

I think Mom killed Pixie - or Dixie. Only my sweet brother saw it happen, and he was so anguished over it that he could never talk about it. And since no one ever saw Pixie or Dixie, we have no idea which one is missing. The biting toe man might know, but he isn't talking to us.

Long after the toe-biting man moved on to other victims and after P/Dixie was buried in our backyard, my dad was transferred overseas. We moved first to Argentina - land of incredible beauty, lots of beef and wine, winter storms with wind and lightning and rain, and lots of military juntas. Military juntas are 'government by committee'(I looked it up). Military juntas don't last long - sometimes just a few days. And then a new junta takes over, and then in a few days another one... you get the picture. (the toe-biting man would have had fun just going after the junta's toes!).

So, our family moves into our new HUGE house. Our furniture is held up in 'aduana' - in customs. The crate of furniture has not been approved to come into the country yet. Just as it is about to, a new junta takes over and starts the procedure all over again. We are living on borrowed furniture, including a velveteen settee that no one is allowed to sit on.

It looked kind of like this.

It was the only piece of furniture in our living room. But no one, especially an unsupervised child, was allowed to sit on it.

One dark winter evening, my parents get their first invitation out with friends. They are invited up the street to a couple's house for a game of bridge and a drink of scotch. That's all, simple bridge and scotch. How could mom and dad say no? It would just be for a few hours and the children will be fine at home. Just for a few hours. Right???

Wrong. A military revolution starts. BAM, just like that, the planes start flying over, explosions are heard a few blocks away near the markets, and the drill starts. My sweet brother and I know to close the shutters and to turn the porch lights off. And BAM, a thunderstorm starts. Rain, wind, lightning, thunder. Lots of rain. So much so that we can see rain coming down the walls of living room. The house is leaking from upstairs!

Oh my, says sweet brother (with the imagination). Oh my. Brenda, sweet sister, sit up here on the settee so you don't get wet. It's ok, put your feet up on it! You know if you don't, you could be electrocuted. If you have your feet in water and touch any part of this house, you will fry!

BAM, the power goes out. Whether by the junta or by the storm, I do not know.

Oh my, says my sweet brother. I better go find mom and dad! Sweet sister, sit with your feet up, stay in the settee. OK?

Oh my, says my sweet brother. I will be quick! I don't want any of the alligators or crocodiles to eat you. Keep your feet up! I can feel them swimming in the water that has started to fill the living room floor. Don't move, ok? Don't go outside either - you can bet the military are waiting outside to kidnap you and hold you for ransom! Dad probably doesn't have money to pay a ransom -so don't move - don't move until I come back, sweet sister.

I will be quick! Don't let the alligators get you at all. They will probably start by chomping your leg off, so keep your feet up on the settee! I will be quick, sweet sister....

And out the door he goes. Out into the darkest night, leaving me behind in the darkest house. A house that is flooding, filling higher by the minute. A house teaming with alligators and crocodiles on the inside, surrounded by the military with submachine guns on the outside. A house with no electricity - and even if it did have electric, I would be electrocuted just putting my feet on the floor. A house with one nice piece of BORROWED furniture - forbidden furniture - and here I am sitting on it, with my feet on it.

I sat in an upright fetal position for 10 minutes. For 15 minutes. For 20 minutes. For 30 minutes. Did the soldiers get my brother? Did he have to fight alligators and crocodiles all the way to the neighbors? Did he get struck by lightning? Was he being held for ransom that dad certainly couldn't pay?

Oh, sweet brother...

If anything happened to sweet brother, I would just die.
I just know it!

Sweet brother got to the neighbors. They still had electricity. They still had scotch. They still had bridge to play. They still had home-made chocolate cake. So they had more scotch. And they played more bridge.

And suddenly they remembered to ask my sweet brother where his sweet sister was.
I was rescued just before my bladder exploded.

Here's my sweet brother. He thinks he is saving victims from the Loch Ness monster.

Don't ask me about the Lock Ness story. I wasn't there. Only my sweet brother was...

The last on Heidi

My brother looking down a street in Buenos Aires.

My mother used to sew most all my clothes. After reminiscing yesterday about Heidi, I thought of a "Heidi dress" she created for me. Or at least that is what I called the dress. It was actually a skirt with a bib and straps that crossed in the back. I loved LOVED LOVED that dress.

I actually could believe I was Heidi when I wore it!

Argentina was a wonderful place to be 'Heidi'. We were far away from family, from all we knew to be familiar to us. And, like Heidi, the strange life became our new life. We loved Argentina and cried for days when we were transferred. I pulled the dramatic teenage angst on my parents, how moving would ruin my life and they would be to blame and they should feel guilty...

The beauty of Argentina is still in my heart and will never be stolen from me.

Reading a book out loud

When I was child, my dad's work moved us to Argentina.

We rented a 'company' house - one that was passed from one employee to another over the years. It was an English tudor style house and when we moved in it was very bland.

But bushes were planted and roses were tended to - and the house blossomed.

For most of the first year we lived there, our furniture was in shipment somewhere between Los Angeles and Buenos Aires. Neighbors lent us furniture, including a purple velveteen loveseat. For several months, the purple velveteen loveseat was the only piece of furniture in our living room. I can still picture it - very ornate, very soft, and very purple. And not at all useful for a family with children. My mother supervised every time we sat upon it. No shoes were allowed near it, no snotty noses, no toys.

When winter arrived, my mother started reading the book Heidi to us. I was fascinated by Heidi, how she was uprooted and sent to live in an environment so different. I hung on every word as my mother read to us, one chapter at a time. Mom would sit in the purple velveteen loveseat; my brother and I would sit on the wooden floor near the fireplace. Page after page was turned, chapter after chapter was read. I retreated into the book and into Heidi's friendship with Peter and life with her grandfather. I ached for her and suffered her same sadness. I, too, needed to find something I was a part of, something I could hold on to for the rest of my life (well, when you are 5 years old, stability for the rest of your life is expected!).

Months and years went along. I learned to read my own books, mostly Nancy Drews or the Boxcar children books. And my favorite, The Secret Garden. I so badly wanted my mother to read Mary Lenox's sad story out loud to me. I think I craved hearing my mother's voice read it as a reassurance that my mother wouldn't die as Mary's mother had - that I wouldn't become an orphan, too.

All these memories came flooding back to me as I now read the book "After You" by Julie Buxbaum. A child is left motherless, and a family friend draws the young girl out of her shell by reading her The Secret Garden.

I am escaping alone, all over again.