[A special treat for you all! A new voice to share, from my daughter M.E. Francis. This post details an event that happened while she and her partner Dan were traveling in Taiwan this past February. Its a bit longer than my standard post, but it’s a great read. Enjoy!]

Okay, so it was definitely blood, not berry juice, or paint, or anything else that was so bright red.

My partner and I were traveling in Taiwan, and this was our first full day out of its capital, Taipei. We had landed for the day in a town called Beipu, and planned to spend our day hiking a well-known trail that had twenty-some odd temples along it, all peppered throughout the mountainside. When the dog started following us, we said to each other, wow, what whimsy! A stray-ish dog, choosing us as his temporary traveling companions! He did have an old ratty red collar on, so clearly he was someone’s dog. He seemed friendly enough. He was clearly a lab mix, somewhat smaller than a standard retriever, maybe a rendezvous between a Formosan Mountain Dog and a black lab. Whatever the mix, he had those real sweet puppy eyes, all watery and dark.

As he walked alongside us, however, we kept seeing these red marks on the ground. That’s when it dawned on us – this dog was bleeding: steadily, and not just a little. His paw pads were marking the ground step after step, with fresh blood dotting them like he had just stepped on an inkpad. Yet, he kept following. Sometimes we’d all stop at a temple, although to our disappointment they were all shuttered. After we made it to a third temple, and paused to take a photo, blood began literally spurting from the dog’s paw. Like, at the level of a special effect in a movie – as if someone squeezed the bulb and the picture-quality blood came right out!

As we walked, we also realized that some marks on the ground we were seeing were old bloody paw prints on the path. So, this dog had been walking around, bleeding, for much longer than when we first saw him. The mental arithmetic began. When did the blood loss timer start for this dog? How much blood can a dog lose and still remain upright? Are we going to watch this dog die in front of our eyes?

Okay. Breathe. We’d gone maybe three miles at this point, a steady climb. We’d made it to the top of the mountain, and some semblance of civilization. There was a car park and we saw other visitors (who have driven to the top – cheaters). But no, it was just a stopover, there was no actual infrastructure or anyone of authority. What’s the nearest actual place? Topping the ridge, we peered over to see that it was another temple down 1000 stairs carved into a rock face. Easy. At this point, we were almost sure that this dog was going to keel over. He was still going reasonably strong, but he was limping a bit now, and we couldn’t help wondering if we were helping him or hurrying along his demise.

The thoughts turned over in my mind. Why did he pick us? Did we really look like the hapless tourists that we felt like? What happens when you ignore something that seems bad or wrong and assume someone else will deal with it? It’s usually hard to say, because you leave and hope someone does deal with it, telling yourself that everything worked out great, or at least probably did a better job than you would have. Was there a point in this journey where we could admit defeat and pass it onto another, more capable couple?

1000 steps and anxious ruminations later, we finally made it to the piece de resistance temple. It was gorgeous – sticking out of the side of the mountain, full of that casual elegance that temples in Taiwan have. They were intricate, open to the elements and always had a public bathroom. When we arrived, my partner found the first human with some authority. “Emergency, someone is injured!” he proclaimed. It took time and some Google Translate to get the message across. We were provided with some gauze and medical tape, and suddenly we were playing veterinarian.

The dog was pretty happy that we, his designated humans, had stopped going up or down a mountain, so he finally lay down. I was frantically looking up the information for a local animal rescue service and managed to get a hold of someone named Sean, whose accent was British. Hearing our American accents, he asked and we confirmed that yes, we were located in Taiwan. We may be hapless but at least we’re calling from the right country.

British/Taiwanese Sean told me he was located in Taipei and offered to come get the dog himself. It was going to be about a two-hour drive and my partner and I couldn’t stay with the dog this whole time; we needed to return soon to catch the last bus back to our homestay or risk being stranded. Using an advanced translation technology in the form of Sean’s Chinese-speaking wife, coordination occurred that would allow for the dog to be detained with a makeshift twine leash until Sean could arrive. One of the attendants began performing afternoon services, so the whole scene took on a mystical weight as chanting and bell-ringing went on in the background. The moment of quiet reflection was cut short by our realization that it was now or never to do the reverse hike to catch our bus back to the homestay. During our return journey, we were undisturbed by the dog’s drying trail of blood because we knew, in our hearts, that he was probably right now being saved.

Meanwhile, we learned that…

Sean arrived almost five hours later due to traffic, and the dog was gone. In what we could only assume was a desperate attempt to find us, his people, or the fact he’s not used to being on a leash, he’d chewed through the twine, and there was no sign of him. Apparently, however, according to the temple attendants, as Sean learned, the dog was a regular at the temple (news to us: we assumed this was a random dog with a desperate cry for help, so I felt a little betrayed that no one had told us that he was not only an old friend, but a daily visitor). So, the plan/hope was Sean would come back tomorrow and pick him up when he inevitably returned. Sean even walked the now-dark trail to try to see if he could find the dog himself, finding instead the blood trail. Everyone became CSI: Taiwan: K9 Edition, analyzing blood spatter patterns to track the dog to his origin point. No luck tonight.

The next day, we all hoped for the best – that the dog returned to the temple, ready to be rescued. Sean stayed in contact with us, our lifeline to the drama. We were texted with the message that the dog had returned and was corralled by the attendants with a real leash this time. We were biking to our next idyllic mountain destination and it happened that our route took us close to the temple again. Sean arrived soon after we did, and we got a few last moments with the dog.

As we sat and hung out with the dog, we got a lot of interested visitors. Unsolicited photos were taken. Stories were recounted. Yes, it was just like that part in The Nutcracker where the Nutcracker prince tells everyone how brave Clara was to kill the mouse king, and everyone claps and dances (although we didn’t get any dances). A smartly-dressed elderly man ambled up to us. Taking him for another adoring fan, I asked if he lived nearby. It turned out, this was the guy who runs the whole place. “Thank you for your love” said the head of the temple. We’d been blessed.

Sean asked us what we wanted to name the dog. We named him Arthur, as my partner had just become an uncle to a new human nephew named Arthur. Naming things is funny: we already felt like we were responsible for this dog’s life and giving him a family member’s name seemed to crystalize the feeling. Throughout our trip, we got updates that the dog was doing well and was going into surgery to help his paw. He’s still not adopted, but if you know someone in Taiwan that wants a really sweet lab mix, you can apply to adopt him here and see the shelter’s other animals here, on their Facebook page.

From our first sighting of Arthur we immediately rationalized why doing nothing might be better. Why it wasn’t our job to figure this out, or see it through. Throughout those 24 hours, we weren’t sure we were the ‘right’ people. But Arthur chose us. And in the end, that was enough.

I was thinking a few days ago about a number of interesting traditional phrases I have heard (and even used!) over the years. The first thing that came to mind were the many ways of describing someone who is just a bit crazy, out of the norm, or “off.” I then progressed to thinking about my mother’s many habitual sayings, many of which were not at all polite. (But fun to think about and report on now!)

I recall a former neighbor who lived across the street from our vacation cabin in Pennsylvania stopping over to look for her missing cat. We started chatting, and she described an elderly, reclusive gentleman who lived down the road as “one plate short of a place setting.” That stuck in my head because I had never heard that particular phrase before. I knew such sayings as “not the brightest tool in the shed” or “not the brightest bulb in the chandelier” but her phrase was less about someone who may be considered stupid, but who was specifically lacking in some important element of normality.

I did a search for the phrase and was taught a few more colorful sayings in the same vein: a few sandwiches short of a picnic; a couple of cards short of a deck; a few bricks short of a load; only has one oar in the water; and my favorite, “a few fries short of a Happy Meal.” Take your pick: food-related, game-related, maritime-related or building arts-related! I am sure there are hundreds more of these.

Anyhow, on to my own mother’s repertoire of salty sayings. Many of these are scatological, and I remember constantly asking her not to repeat them in front of my impressionable toddler! When she was mad at someone she would exclaim, “They can go sh** in a hat!” Or if she thought someone was being uppity, she would say, “[She/he] thinks [her/his] sh** don’t stink!” Excrement, of course, figures strongly in any number of interesting phrases, though I don’t recall my mom using any others regularly. Some of my favorites are: “don’t sh** where you eat”; “no sh**, Sherlock!”; “does a bear (or sometimes the Pope for some reason) sh** in the woods?” and many others. Such a versatile part of the English language! Though I have no doubt in other languages there are just as many similar phrases utilizing the appropriate equivalent.

One more mysterious phrase… When my mother wanted to express that my sister or I were asking for something which we were obviously not getting, she would always say, “You know what the donkey wanted.” We took that to mean some mythical donkey asked for something he didn’t get, and perhaps even got some sort of punishment for asking. I think I asked her once what that meant, exactly, but I can’t remember a satisfactory explanation. It was just implicit. And perhaps lost to history, or ancient literature. The closest I could come to an answer is one of Aesop’s fables featuring a donkey, “The Donkey and the Lapdog” in which a donkey is smacked on the head for trying to emulate a lapdog in order to get away with less toil and hardship. The moral is, apparently, “It is better to be happy with what you have than to take something you are not fit to receive.” Close enough I guess!

I’d love to hear some of your favorite salty phrases and creative criticisms! Feel free to leave them in the comments.

Excursions with fellow folklorists on their “turf” are always the most fun, in my worldview. So, as soon as a long weekend in Brooklyn with my hubby was in the works (to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary and for him to attend a music event I had no interest in) I got in touch with Kay, who has lived there for many years and knows the borough well. We arranged for her to pick me up and take me touring.

We were staying in downtown Brooklyn, and we both had only a couple of hours, so Kay concentrated on the funky and historic Red Hook neighborhood, although on the way there and back Kay narrated the wonders of several other areas we passed through. This included bustling Atlantic Avenue, historically home to Brooklyn’s Middle Eastern community, where we got caught in Saturday morning traffic.

First stop on the tour was Valentino Pier, for a view of Lady Liberty, the Manhattan skyline, the remnants of maritime commerce, and a huge cruise ship or two. We walked past Steve’s Lime Pie shop, where you can buy key lime pie on a stick dipped in chocolate. (Not what you would expect in Brooklyn, but it’s full of surprises!)

We did not indulge in key lime pie, because Kay had another delicious snack destination in mind. (Plus, I must confess that I don’t even like key lime pie!) Along the way, there were a couple of irresistible photo ops that Kay pulled the car aside for, including Ye Nautical Garage which has made it into the roster of Roadside America attractions.

Our last and tastiest stop before heading back to my humble Holiday Inn, was Mazzola’s Bakery, established in 1928. Located in Carroll Gardens, walking into this tiny, cash-only shop crammed with Italian baked goods puts your nose, eyes and taste buds on overdrive. We picked some savory treats (though not the iconic lard bread), and sweet ones to take home. Kay introduced me to a regional soft drink, Manhattan Special Coffee Soda. (Regional soft drinks are dear to many folklorists and deserve their own blog sometime!) We sat outside on one of the small tables near the street and munched happily.

All in all, I had a lovely time on the all too brief but action-packed tour, and Kay was a great guide. Here are some snaps of the experience!

When I began my first position at the Smithsonian in spring 1987, the work area at our old L’Enfant Plaza location was “open concept before it was cool” – just a big space with lots of desks jammed into it, populated by an assortment of seasonal Festival workers, fellows and maybe some interns. One of this motley (or should I say pre-Motley?) group was a research fellow named Olivia Cadaval.

I remember thinking she was kind of aloof, quiet but with an intense stare that sometimes made me think she didn’t like me very much. Which only goes to show you, first impressions are not always true! Yes, she was focused, but as I found out over the 30+ years we subsequently worked with one another, one of the kindest, funniest and most compassionate people I could ever hope to know.

Olivia passed away last week, and I began to think back to some of our encounters and adventures, and things I learned from her over the years. I looked through photos, but mostly came up with snaps of events at her home, or at the Festival, where Olivia was never taking center stage, which was fitting. She worked a lot in the margins, behind the scenes, making sure everything was ready, everyone was comfortable and had what they needed, and setting stages for everything from lively parties to difficult conversations.

Thanks to Olivia and her belief in my knowledge/expertise/potential usefulness to various projects, I got to travel many places and meet many people I never would have otherwise. From the U.S. Virgin Islands, to all along the Mexican Border, I gladly came along for some of the best rides of my work life. And thanks to her friendship, which led to invites to communal meals and the best holiday party of the season (the annual 3 Kings, featuring “green soup” that I craved all year before and afterwards), I had lively conversations with old friends and an eclectic group of new acquaintances in her home in Mount Pleasant, a setting that was warm, eccentrically decorated, and perfectly reflective her her personality and many interests.

Olivia expected things of you, as a friend and as a colleague. Not things she didn’t think you could deliver, but things that sometimes challenged you and threw you out of your comfort zone. For instance, one of my favorite stories is the time in 2005 that we flew to San Diego to travel to the US/Mexico border in Calexico-Mexicali as part of a grant project to introduce the Borderlands educational materials to teachers and students on both sides.

After gathering up a group of the participating artists who were part of the project, we proceeded to the car rental agency to pick up the 18-passenger van to drive 120 miles to Calexico. It occurred to me that I had no idea who was supposed to drive this behemoth. When I asked Olivia, she said, “You are, of course.” (Needless to say, this had not been discussed at any point earlier in the planning or execution of the trip. )

And so, over the narrow mountain roads, and then around and around the streets of Calexico, I ferried our rolling ship, under the guidance of our capable Captain Olivia. I followed her on many more adventures over the years, sharing the major ups and downs of life and work, being supervised in the best of ways, and always rising to whatever she expected of me as well as I was able. She inspired the best in us. She made us realize we were more capable than we might think, most times by being the best example.

All of us who knew and loved Olivia will sorely miss her, but we will be sharing our experiences and our favorite funny and poignant stories about her for the rest of our days, keeping her memory alive.

[I couldn’t find a lot of photos of Olivia in my electronic files, but as I have more time to go through other sources, I may add more. But we really don’t need a lot of photos to evoke our memories.]

Your mother always told you not to play with your food. But what fun is that? As I contemplate the chore of transplanting this season’s way-too-successful seedling growing endeavor – over a hundred hardy little tomatoes and peppers outgrowing their initial seed cells – I pause to take a look at having fun with vegetables.

Growing vegetables is fun, for one thing. It is amazing to see baby plants emerge from tiny seeds, and become sturdy little plants and eventually plants that can reach taller than my husband (who is more or less 6’3″). Last year (after watching a lot of YouTube videos) he even constructed a method of lowering the plants via a sort of pulley to get at the ripe tomatoes on the tallest plants, which sounds crazy but actually works.

Cooking vegetables can be fun, too. I try to cook with a lot of vegetables, and I’m always looking for inspiration and new recipes. During the pandemic, a group of friends and I got together via Zoom to cook every once in awhile. Since we are (still) in far-flung places, we have continued the practice. Vegetables are often featured in the recipes, though we have been known to deviate – our latest effort was scones. (Woman cannot live by vegetables alone!)

Lastly, you can get artistically creative with vegetables. When we were in Thailand some years back, we took a cooking course which started with making roses out of tomato skins, and something out of carrots which I can’t recall now, but maybe leaves like this. Playing with your vegtables is elevated into a high art there. Though I do recall my Mom teaching us how to make “radish roses” which is the sort of low art form in comparison.

Here are some of the vegetable pix I came up with when I did a search in my Google photos. They cover some of the above, plus a couple more fun vegetable moments. Eat your vegetables, but don’t forget to have fun with them, too!

This winter has been even more dark and cold than usual. I think that’s why many of the houses in our neighborhood still had their winter holiday lights shining every evening well into February.

When darkness, physical or mental, creeps into our collective lives along with the cold, it is somewhat helpful to think of all things that brighten our interiors and exteriors.

Last Friday, my husband and I took in an inspiring light show at the National Cathedral. The whole open interior of the cathedral was illuminated with shapes and colors that changed every ten or so minutes, with calming music in the background. Butterflies danced on the columns, leaves on the ceiling. The rose window was bathed in purples and greens. Somehow even individual creases of stone in each arch were highlighted. It was a magical 45-ish minute cycle, with people of all ages oohing and aahing, walking around or lying on the floor gazing up.

This made me think about light, in general, which had touched me personally in the past few years. So, as one can do, I did a search through my photos with the term “light” and thought I would share some of what I found. Some are actual lights and some reference light. Join me on a brief photo tour of some of my favorite finds, and if you are inspired, do a search for light in your own photo files. It might warm you up as well as light your way toward spring, and hope.

Fracturing one’s hand is a whole new learning experience. I won’t recount the stupid way this happened, except to warn everyone to beware of those low concrete parking lot delineation thingees. If one does a search about the hazards of these (more officially called Parking Barriers) you’ll see the results are mostly articles from legal firms…’nough said!?

All things considered, things could have been worse. It was a closed fracture, so just a matter of knitting itself back together instead of getting it set and/or surgery with pins and whatever. It is my non dominant hand so I can still write, and sign things (including those many medical forms they give you in the ER). Also apparently medical science has advanced to allow healing hands to wear removable braces instead of fixed casts after the initial immobilization period of a couple of weeks. (This is a huge!)

But still, there are many restrictions and work arounds. It’s largely hunt and peck typing with only one hand, so its taking me three or four times longer to write this post. But I did want to share some of what I’ve learned, in case it will help anyone else who finds themselves in this situation!

1. Say yes to help of various kinds and get creative as to what might be most helpful. It makes people feel good to be helpful (up to a point at least). Though it also makes you feel good to try to do things by yourself as possible, assistance is very useful. For instance, my sister wanted to help from afar, so I asked her to wield her Amazon Prime membership to order me one of those plastic things you slip over a cast to take a shower. No more fumbling with plastic bags and rubber bands!! I also realized the nail polish on my good hand had to go, but I needed assistance to make that happen. (Thanks, Andrea!)

2. Put your elbow and upper arm to work. It’s amazing how useful the crook of your arm and that area below your shoulder, if that has a name, can be. Also your neck, and even your teeth (though try to avoid tooth chipping!). Still, applying deodorant and putting toothpaste on your toothbrush can be a huge challenge.

3. Always put on your coat starting with the bad hand. It’s almost impossible to do otherwise. Also, hope you have a coat somewhere in the recesses of your closet with big, manageable buttons, not a zipper. Zippers are a two handed operation. As is tying shoes, opening cans, and a bunch of other stuff you don’t even think of until you can’t do them with one hand.

4. Don’t hibernate, unless you really feel like having an excuse to do so. When friends who feel sorry for ask if they can come pick you up and go for coffee or lunch, or an opportunity to go out to a show or the movies arises with minimal energy expended on your part, take it! Otherwise you may start to feel deprived, forgotten, depressed. But, just get cozy in your pjs and fuzzy bathrobe when you feel like it. You are injured, after all, and deserve to binge Virgin River on Netflix!

Those are my major takeaways, and I really hope none of you needs to use them any time soon. Appreciate your hands, if you have two good ones, and be careful out there!

As we prepare to decorate another annual fresh (dead) Christmas tree this year, I thought it would be fun to look back on previous year’s trees. Yes, here it is the 19th of December, and unlike those people who have put their’s up the day after Thanksgiving, we have yet to procure one, much less put it up.

Back when my sister and I were small children, our parents didn’t put up the Christmas tree until Christmas Eve after we were already “nestled in our beds.” We got up the next morning and – a miracle! – there was a brightly lighted tree with presents under it, in our front room’s window seat. I think we were told that Santa had put it up as well as bringing the presents. Busy guy!

When our own daughter was young, she was in full awareness of where Christmas trees really came from, thank goodness. (Much to her chagrin, probably, since we often got our a tree from a “cut your own” lot and made her slog though the cold and snow to find “just the right one.”) The installation of the tree was a full day’s work, since it not only included the tree itself, but a large plywood platform that supported The Trains. These were, in the heyday, parallel sets of tracks with two working sets of Lionel trains, carry-overs from my husband Steve’s childhood.

Over the years, a whole village grew up to compliment the trains. Shops, churches, a small forest, a covered bridge, a skating pond, eventually a sub-village of Gingerbread People, etc. etc. were added over the years. Somewhere along the way, the thrill of the whole working train production lost its thrill, but the village continued to grow and was installed under the tree. Now, it has moved from under the tree to its own whole table space.

Looking through photos from the past ten years or so, our Christmas tree looks remarkably similar. Colored lights, and a mish-mash of decorations gathered over the years, some dating back to my and my husband’s childhoods. (Maybe next year I will break these down into eras and explain some of them, but not now.) The top is not an angel, or a lighted Santa Claus like our childhood tree top, but a funky looking, insanely grinning face reminiscent of The Nightmare Before Christmas (one of our favorite holiday shows).

One last quirky family Christmas tree tradition to share before photos…For years, my mom would come to us for Christmas, and then we would drive together after Christmas to my sister’s (at first in Connecticut, then South Carolina) for the Christmas after Christmas. My husband’s family always celebrated on January 6, Orthodox or “Old” Christmas, so it was all about my family until then.

When she could no longer travel easily, we started driving to South Carolina, her retirement destination, to do the holiday there. By then my sister had moved there too. Which means, no point in putting up a tree until we returned. Long story short, we started realizing that 1) getting a (once real) tree at that point was next to impossible, and 2) other people around our area were actually “kicking their own trees to the curb” starting December 26! You see where I am going with this? Yes, recycling is a wonderful thing.

Here’s hoping everyone reading this enjoys their winter holidays. Take a break, breathe, reminisce and relax. Eat lots of cookies and other things you will regret later. Play games and watch corny holiday movies. And let’s hope we all find some peace in 2025. Here are a few Christmas tree moments in photos! Feel free to share some of your own holiday decor memories in the comments.

Combining a history and nature lesson with a kayak trip, on a beautiful fall day, with one of my best buddies…what could be better? This was the case a couple of weeks ago, when my friend and kayaking companion, Arlene, and I set off for Mallows Bay, Maryland, the home of the – ooh spooky! – Ghost Fleet.

What is the Ghost Fleet, you ask? Well, as our kayak and history guide from the excellent Atlantic Kayak Company explained to the group of about 12 intrepid kayakers, it started out as a bunch of wooden and iron ships built for the U.S. Navy during World War I. Due to the fact that the Navy needed a lot of ships fast (the goal was to build 1,000 of these in short order) the ships were assembled kind of slap-dash, and not always by the most experienced ship builders.

So, from the very beginning, they had their problems. And, not too many of them actually got to see service during the war. After the war, most of them were towed to languish sadly in Norfolk, VA, slowly decaying to the point of uselessness. Their fate was to be scrapped for any usable metal, and then removeded to a shallow bay on the Maryland side of the Potomac to be burned.

The problem, or really the good thing for us today, is that the heavy ship bottoms sunk in the mucky bottom of Mallows Bay, so what remained below the water line just kind of slouched there, slowly returning to, or being made into homes for, nature. (The remaining metal was also gleaned by locals hard hit by the Great Depression, so they helped feed many a human family during that dark period.)

Today the “bones” of the ships, in various stages of on-going decomposition, have bushes, trees, and grasses growing in their centers, and are home to all manner of wildlife. Birds, beavers, bees – and lots of other things that don’t start with the letter “b.”

A guided tour of some of the most interesting ships makes for an eerily lovely paddle. Especially during low tide (yes, the Potomac is tidal!) one can marvel at the size of the ships by noting their outlines, look for evidence of the teaming life, and learn interesting factoids.

This is a highly recommended trip for those in the DC area who like being out on the water, speculating on the way nature takes over what people abandon, and imagining the lost majesty of these vessels…now ghosts of their former selves, and totally appropriate for Halloween season! Enjoy some snaps of the experience, though somehow my photos taken from kayaks are less than stellar. But, you’ll get the idea…