Looking Back at the Tour De France

In July 2013, my daughter and I fulfilled one of our dreams: we followed the Tour de France through the final five stages of the race. She and my husband and sons arranged this as my 60th birthday present. Since I am currently absorbed in watching this year's tour on television,  I thought I would re-read some of my blog posts from 2013.  This made me so happy that I decided to share one of those posts with you here. 

We arrived in Geneva on a Saturday, travelled to Grenoble on the Sunday, rented our car, and spent the Monday (which was a rest day for the Tour de France) exploring Grenoble and its environs. The next day, Tuesday, we watched our very first stage of the Tour. At last. It was a very memorable day for us, and what follows is my description of the whole experience.

The first day that Jennifer and I drove out of Grenoble, to find Stage 16 of the Tour, we had no idea what we would discover. We were heading to the small town of Veynes, where there was to be a sprint point for that stage. Stage 16 was going to end with an HC climb in the alpine town of Gap (which means that the climb was so steep and challenging that it was “beyond category”–most difficult of all). We knew that finding places along the road leading into Gap would be well-nigh impossible, and our host in Grenoble suggested an intermediate town where we could ease into the whole tour experience. The drive to Veynes was not my introduction to French roads because we had done some exploring in Grenoble the previous day, but it was deeper into the steep Alps and little villages that dot the area. Jennifer’s navigation proved superb, and suddenly we looked up, saw a roundabout bedecked with the yellow pennants of the Tour and knew that we had found The Route for Stage 16.

Since the road wouldn’t be closed for another few hours, I boldly drove onto the actual route of the Tour. I cannot describe the delight on both our faces as we realized that at long last we were truly ON the road that the cyclists would be following only hours later. I mean, ON the road. We drove along through Veynes and passed through the sprint point, under the green sprint banner that we’ve seen so often on the TV coverage over the years. Now we were certain that our dream was coming true. After continuing on out of town, we turned around and headed back to a supermarket for refreshments and bathroom breaks. Success on both counts! Back into the car and then past the sprint point once again, to a roadside vantage point only about 50 yards from the banner. We figured that the only riders going really fast at that point would be those contesting the sprint, and that the others would be coming through a little less quickly.

I drove the car well off the road, facing the direction from which the riders would be appearing. We opened the hatchback, got out lunch, and generally relaxed in the sun. A few RVs (called ‘caravans’ in Europe) parked behind us and the owners set up their viewing stations. We watched everything like little kids at the fair! Just down the hill across the road, trains frequently passed at a level crossing, preceded by alarm bells. The sky was a limitless blue and all around us were the fields and meadows and peaks of the French Alps. It was thrilling, and we hadn’t even seen a bicycle yet! Jennifer took out her knitting and I settled in to decipher that day’s sporting news in French.

About one hour before the riders were estimated to arrive in Veynes, the advertising caravan passed through. This is as well-known as the actual stage races of the Tour. There were roughly 35 different official sponsors for the TDF this year, and each sponsor provides a car or truck or special vehicle that comprises the caravan of loot which covers that day’s stage about one to two hours before the race arrives. What a circus! As each vehicle drives past, folks throw advertising goodies into the crowd. We collected hats, little sausages, wrist bands, candy, cakes, laundry detergent, key chains, luggage tags, daily newspapers, magnets, inflatable pillows, Bic pens, rain ponchos, and cold drink sleeves. It was a consumerism deluge! Jennifer and I just laughed as the swag rained down upon us.  Once the caravan sped on down the road, we spent a few minutes cataloging the loot and shaking our heads. Then we settled down to wait for the Tour to arrive.

How can you tell when they are approaching? If we could have understood French, we could have listened to Race Radio, which was blaring from the loudspeakers. Alas, no language skills there. BUT we could hear the helicopters as they approached, filming for French TV, and we were ecstatic that a gendarme was positioned just about 15 yards away from us to wave a yellow pennant and blow his whistle to warn the riders of some ‘traffic furniture’ in the road just there. When we saw him step into position, we knew the Tour was imminent. Cameras ready. We could hear the cheering and see the advance cars streaming through. The real clue is the gendarmes on motorcycles with flashing blue lights. Riders always follow immediately. Here came the blue lights, and there! there is the lead rider! Our cameras worked perfectly, both video and still, and we saw our favorites flash by. We were about 2 feet away from the riders. Really. I could hardly snap photos for the excitement of it all! These were the men whose exploits we have watched on TV for years, and now we were watching them race by. They passed us in groups, several small ones and then the large main body of the race, known as the peloton. Following close behind the cyclists were the individual team cars, sporting spare bikes on roof racks and carrying mechanics and team managers, watching alertly for any signs of trouble from their team members.  Interspersed with the team cars were the ubiquitous motorcycles, carrying the official photographers in and out of the line of traffic. It’s all really quite a traffic jam both in front of and behind the actual cyclists. The last few vehicles are the medical vans, equipment vans, and the “Fin de Course” van, which alerts everyone that there are no riders further up the road.

So. That was our first glimpse of the 2013 Tour de France. Absolute satisfaction and delight for both of us. We lingered for a little while to be sure that the road back out of town was truly open to regular vehicular traffic, and then retraced our route to Grenoble. A stop at our neighborhood supermarket provided us with food for supper, and we dined on our host’s terrace overlooking sunset in the Alps. Both of us felt that such a successful debut boded well for the following five days!

Hope you've enjoyed this little trip down memory lane. I might post one or two more over the next couple of weeks while this year's Tour de France rides around the Pyrenees and the French Alps. My daughter and I want to do this all again in the very near future, too, and we're going to rent a caravan ourselves next time!

What's In YOUR Kitchen?

I updated my little 1926-sized kitchen this spring. The budget stretched to include a Pergo laminate floor, an improved countertop surface, a new sink, new buffet cabinets, new shelves, a ceiling fan, and a dishwasher (finally). Our contractor was a young man with his own business who is just super, and I contributed my own sweat equity by painting the whole kitchen all by myself (which convinced me that I don't need to paint rooms myself any longer). The results of this project transformed my little kitchen and I am delighted with all the improvements.

The contents of my kitchen spent a good six weeks hanging out in my dining room and part of my living room. Fortunately the spring weather allowed us to eat out on our screened porch, because not a square foot of the dining room table was unoccupied. What a lot of things I had accumulated in the ten years since we moved here! Before I moved everything back into the "new" kitchen, I ruthlessly pruned all my gadgets and leftover devices from previous years. I truly was heartless as I culled out all manner of kitchen detritus. (My sister and brother and I have been developing this skill in the past couple of years as we sift through our parents' possessions.) My husband cheerfully toted boxes of still-usable equipment to the Salvation Army. I'm still finding places for the remainder of my kitchen stuff, but by and large there's a place for everything, with everything pretty much in its place.

My grand rummage through all of this brought some nostalgic reflection as I remembered where certain pieces came from or who gave them to me. One piece of cast iron cookware has special significance that I'll share with you. I have three pieces of cast iron: two excellent frying pans and one circular flat griddle pan. The two frying pans came from my husband's Uncle Chuck and Aunt Eula Mae, many years ago when we were first married. The flat griddle is my favorite, though. It belonged to my Grandmother Harrison.

Grandma Harrison wasn't overly fond of cooking, having prepared meals for her big family most of her life. One of her famous sayings was "Eating wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so regular". Nevertheless, she had a deft touch with a few specialties. One such tasty tidbit was her flat cornbread, made from white cornmeal. She cooked this on her flat griddle, just mixing water and cornmeal, flattening it out by hand, and frying it up in "cooking grease".  I have no idea what fat she used, but by golly that cornbread was delicious: thin and crusty and hot. I've never had anything to match it. She always served it alongside her vegetable soup, another memorable dish. All her grandchildren loved to be at her house when Grandma was making that soup!

When Grandma moved to live with my Aunt Rachel, of course she had to distribute nearly all of her furniture and other material possessions. I latched onto that flat griddle pan as my memento. I have had it for over 35 years now, and won't ever part with it. I even use it occasionally, but I've never been able to duplicate Grandma's cornbread. (I blame it on the fact that I moved north long ago and things just don't taste the same up here!)

I thought often of Grandma while my kitchen was undergoing its transformation. Her kitchen was in the back of her 1860's three-story English basement house in Portsmouth. It was roughly the same size as my kitchen here. Her kitchen contained a big stove, which I think was gas-fired, a simple dinette set, a wonderful "Hoosier" type kitchen cabinet, a wringer washer, a sink with cabinet, a refrigerator, and a wood-burning stove. She kept that stove lit all the time, and kept a kettle of water on it. Whenever she needed a cup of coffee, the water was ready! I remember the fascination of watching her feed kindling and old paper into the stove.

But what kinds of kitchen 'gadgets' did my grandmother use to prepare those meals? I never saw an electric mixer of any kind, and I am pretty certain that her kitchen equipment only included basic hand tools, a few pots and pans, plain but sturdy dishes and cutlery, and not much more. Nothing fancy. Yet her meals were so good and so memorable!

I look around at my kitchen and marvel at how many gadgets I have to help me with food preparation. A microwave, a toaster oven, a food processor, a stand mixer, a hand mixer, a slow cooker, a coffee maker, an amazing number of dishes and glassware, two sets of cutlery, bake ware for anything you could possibly want to bake, baking sheets, baking pans, casserole dishes, pots and pans, and a myriad of assorted helpful hand tools that fill up their own separate drawer! Yesterday I even added another new gadget: a spiralizer that can slice vegetables into ribbons for faux 'noodles'.

We all have these kinds of kitchen gadgets, and many of you will have much more. It is so easy to get swept away in Bed, Bath, and Beyond!  I am now trying to keep only those things I actually use, and have been successful so far. I hope to persevere. But regardless of my collection of helpful kitchen devices and equipment, I don't think I'll ever duplicate my grandmother's cooking.

Liver

Occasionally I indulge in a culinary treat that not everyone appreciates: liver. Last night, my husband wasn't home for dinner and I took the opportunity to fix myself a lovely batch of sauteed beef liver and onions. Oh my, that was good!

My husband and two of my children did not exactly rise up and call me blessed when I would suggest liver as a meal option. I confess I was surprised at first, because I grew up in a liver-loving family. (Can there be such an entity, you ask?) Yes, years of my life passed before I realized that most people do not like liver. My mother, however, cooked liver quite frequently, probably two or three times a month. All five of us, parents and children, looked forward to it and cheerfully ate it. We didn't smother it in ketchup (which is my husband's way of enduring the dish), but simply piled lots of carmelized onions on top. We were known to choose liver and onions when we were at restaurants that served it. I still rejoice when I see liver and onions listed on a menu!

This taste for liver also means that I gravitate toward pates at buffets or parties, and cheerfully consume fried chicken livers when the opportunity arises. When my colleagues Cheryl and Marilyn and I found ourselves in a restaurant in Madrid that served foie gras, I had to try it. Yummers! You won't be surprised to learn that I also love German liver sausage, as well as liver dumpling soup.

Apparently I inhabit a liver-loving universe!

Imagine my delight when I discovered that four of my friends in Chicago also enjoyed liver. I could hardly believe my good fortune. One of our memorable dinners together was a 'liver fest', featuring delicious calves liver, carmelized onions, and astonishingly tasty fresh green beans drizzled with olive oil, all consumed on the backyard deck of Les and Dan in Rogers Park. Such a pleasant feast.

When I prepared the food for our annual Christmas Carol Party in Chicago, I always included a batch of homemade liver pate. I confess that I knew there would be plenty left over for me! My friend Alice always headed straight for this dish, too.

Last year, when my sister, niece, and I found ourselves eating at the Carnegie Deli in New York City, I ordered the chopped liver meal. Wow! Enough for me and my friends from Chicago, too! And it was very good.

My favorite liver story, however, involves celebrating my youngest son's fifth birthday. He and I share a fondness for liver, and would occasionally have 'liver lunches' together before he started school, so that his siblings wouldn't have to endure the sight and smell of the meal. These lunches will always be a highlight memory for me. When he turned 5, our family travelled to Virginia to celebrate both his fifth birthday and my father's 70th birthday, which were three days apart. We decided to eat at the Morrison's Cafeteria in the nearby mall so that everyone could have lots of choices. Guess what one of the specials was that night? Liver and onions! Guess how many of us chose that entree? My father, my mother, my sister, my brother, and I, plus the birthday boy! We cleaned out the entire supply of liver and onions for the moment. It was a stunning meal! I can't imagine another five-year-old boy choosing liver and onions for his birthday treat, can you? Amazing. We all still smile at that one.

And, of course, if you add a little bacon to the mix, you can't go wrong.

Rest assured, however, I will never serve a liver-related dish to anyone who finds it repulsive, nor invite you to a liver-themed dinner. My guests are safe.

I will, nonetheless, continue to enjoy my solo feasts here and my gastronomic celebrations in Chicago with my son or my friends!

Hearing the National Anthem

I spent my junior year of college in Scotland, at the University of Saint Andrews. (Yes, Prince William, Duchess Katherine, and I are fellow alums.) In those years, we didn't have the luxury of the internet, cell phones, Skype, Facebook, and so forth. I made exactly two phone calls back to my parents during the entire year. It was quite an involved process, requiring me to book a time for the call with the overseas operator and then to wait patiently in the call box (phone booth) at the appointed time until the call was put through. I always felt rather like I was Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic.

Suffice it to say that when we were overseas in Europe, we were far away and quite cut off from home.

In those days, the United States was not any better loved abroad than today. We were still trying to disengage from Vietnam, and the Cold War was still in full force. The Watergate scandal dominated news from home. I remember well that we never walked around wearing any clothing that sported USA or the Stars and Stripes or anything that identified us with the US. With our new friends in Scotland, we were comfortable talking about our differences, but it just seemed prudent when out in large public places not to draw attention to ourselves.

It was a time of terrorism, too, but this came from the IRA, not IS. For example, at Christmas, the day after my sister and I had visited the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, the IRA detonated a bomb in that exact area. Too close for comfort.

I felt indeed like a stranger in a strange land. But the year passed wonderfully, and I enjoyed submerging myself in Scottish and English culture and later in the adventures of travel on the Continent. Home, nevertheless, remained very far away.

One time, though, I received a surprise that made me stand up straight and brought unexpected tears to my eyes. I can't, unfortunately, remember the exact place or reason for this after so many years. I do remember what I felt. I was in London, I think, somewhere that a public ceremony was occurring. It must have been a joint British-American moment, featuring a military band, because suddenly I heard the opening notes of "The Star-Spangled Banner".

I have played that song dozens and dozens of times in marching band, I learned all the verses in my 7th grade history class, and I have never reacted so viscerally as at that moment. I stopped in my tracks, and stood still. If I had been wearing a hat, I would have removed it! Every note resonated around me. As the anthem drew to a close (the "Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave" part), tears welled up in my eyes. My goodness, I was proud of my country and proud to hear our anthem and not ashamed to show it.

In the intervening years, I've sung the national anthem repeatedly at Cubs games in Chicago without succumbing to a weepy patriotism. Generally I can be trusted not to over-react to "The Star-Spangled Banner"! Yet I had one memorable experience even there. One Fourth of July I was at Wrigley and before the game four Medal of Honor winners from World War II were honored. After they were introduced and we cheered for them, they stood at attention at home plate while we sang the national anthem. As I looked at these heroes and sang that song, once again I felt the tears well up. Because of their sacrifices and the sacrifices of their comrades, I was free to stand and sing our anthem without fear.

I know that we sing the anthem at so many sporting events, and I hear it butchered so frequently (but that's another topic!!), and I observe folks starting to whoop and cheer before the final words are sung. Yet there is a power in that music when heard in a foreign land after many months away, or when in the presence of those who have risked their lives for what that music represents. It's never routine for me.

Happy Fourth of July!

Outliving A Student

Last week brought sad, sad news from Chicago. One of my former students, only 28, died unexpectedly in her sleep. Word swept quickly through Facebook, and I sat stunned as I read the posts.

It is not right that teachers (especially those my age) should outlive their students.

Of course, I know this happens all the time and has certainly been painfully true during wartime. Imagine what high school teachers felt when they watched the young men march off to World War II. And of course, tragic accidents often take the youngest from us.

But I didn't imagine that Laura would leave us so soon, even though she had fought a valiant fight against juvenile diabetes for a long, long time. The disease won.

Laura and her two sisters were all students of mine at Mother Guerin High School. All three brought their own individual, creative contributions to my classes and I looked forward to the 'arrival' of the next one in line. Only a few complete families hold special places in my heart from all those years at Guerin, and Laura's family was one of them. I am so grateful that Laura and her sisters came into my life. I am richer for their presence.

It's an interesting phenomenon that I think of my students as "my girls" to this day. They taught me so much, and I cherish the years I spent at Guerin, good times and bad. They might be surprised that I never, ever forget them.

Laura leaves a truly loving legacy to her family and friends. I know they ache with sadness and heartbreak, and I mourn with them. We are all so fortunate to have known and loved her.

My Brief Career as a Dog Whisperer

My daughter recently visited us here in South Bend, bringing with her the newest member of the family: Killian, a Scotty-Yorkshire mix. He is such a little cutie, and a bundle of energy. They drove 13 hours to get here, so Killian was a speed demon as he dashed around our backyard. He had lots of new sensations and smells and sights to keep him busy. It was fun to see him explore and enjoy our house.

All was going well and Killian and our daughter were just about ready to get some rest when some nearby firecrackers erupted. Killian was not happy. By the time the short pops finished, the poor little fellow was trembling. I have never felt a dog vibrate in terror, but Killian did. He was so frightened. My daughter scooped him up and wrapped her arms around him, but he couldn't settle down. We wrapped him in a blanket but that didn't work either. Eventually they went upstairs to their bedroom and settled down. At some point, though, the after-game fireworks from the South Bend Cubs began and there were some distant rumblings to deal with, too.

Morning dawned and a very calm and happy pup came bounding down the stairs. The day went very well, and no firecrackers appeared. The next day, Killian also was quite happy and wasn't assaulted by unexpected explosions. But in the late afternoon, after I had run an errand and while my daughter and husband were playing golf, I was the only human around to amuse and care for the dog. Things were going so well, and then some firecrackers popped in the alley across the street.

Killian began to tremble. I felt so bad for him. I took him in my arms and petted him and tried to soothe him. Nothing was working. I tried to think about what soothed my grandchildren when they were infants, and remembered one technique. I began to make little "shooshing" noises, just little whispery sounds. That seemed fruitless for a few moments and then, suddenly, I felt a pause, a gap in Killian's trembling. Soon there were more pauses. I kept whispering and holding and petting him, and in just a few more minutes, he was calm. I couldn't believe it. I am not a notable dog 'caregiver', although I love dogs, so this was a wonderful surprise. By the time my daughter returned, Killian was calm and happy again. Success.

I had one more opportunity to be a dog whisperer before they left. The next day, as they were preparing to get on the road again, something upset Killian again. It might have been a truck backfiring or something. At any rate, he began to tremble while my daughter was packing things up on the bed. I just reached my arms around him and cuddled him and began to shoosh him again. Bingo! In a very few minutes, he settled down and the trembling ceased. Wow.

My career has finished, at least for this visit. But I am so pleased that I was able to calm down the wee doggie. And my daughter has learned yet another strategy to help him out in times of stress. I'm looking forward to his next visit!

It's My Name

Many different things have occupied my thoughts over the past month, and I have not been inclined to post anything here on this blog.

Another of my mother's brothers died, leaving only one of the five remaining.

I spent time with my own siblings in Virginia, sorting through more of our parents' possessions and reliving all our years together.

Mother's Day this year was also our father's birthday, and the three of us were able to be together for a meal remembering our parents.

My sister and I took our first ocean-going cruise, sailing from Norfolk to the Bahamas and back.

The event which most affected me, though, was the sudden, unexpected death of my dear friend Dan. Reflecting on our long years of friendship has kept me in a place not conducive to blog posts. Dealing with his death has been difficult.

But celebrating my grandchildren's birthday yesterday has brought me the final few steps toward looking forward not backward, toward joy and not sorrow.

And so, I recommence my blog ponderings!

I grew up in southeastern Virginia, and my family's background is in North Carolina. Names in the South are beautiful and sometimes even mellifluous. At least where I come from, they frequently are double. (That is, relatives use one's first AND middle names all the time, not just in anger!)

This means that I never had a nickname. Never. Neither did my sister or brother. Nor did any of my cousins. In fact, when I am with my family members, I am still called Barbara Anne. None of the neighbors or friends with whom I grew up called me anything other than Barbara. None. No school nicknames, no goofy college labels. I have always been Barbara.

This all changed when I moved to Chicago with my husband and daughter. Almost from the very beginning, once I was introduced as Barbara, folks began shortening it to "Barb". I didn't understand. I always identified myself as Barbara. Never "Barb". In fact, I absolutely cannot stand "Barb". Absolutely. Things got worse when I began teaching at Guerin. There happened to be four other Barbaras teaching or on staff there at the time. And apparently everyone was going to be called "Barb", regardless.  No matter how often I referred to myself as Barbara, I was always tagged as "Barb Bess".

I ask you, doesn't "Barb Bess" just sound awful? I do not like it.

Most (but not all) of my closest friends have never, ever called me "Barb". Most casual friends do. I still don't understand the automatic shortening/nicknaming process out here in the Midwest. However, now I am not shy about correcting new acquaintances if they begin to use the detested "Barb".

I suppose it's too much to hope that this disagreeable Midwestern custom will disappear, but I just want to let everyone know I like my name the way it is. And I would dearly love not to be referred to as "Barb" ever again.

I am Barbara and I love my name.

Thanks! End of complaints!