As an Aquarius on the zodiac chart, I am drawn to the water. That is no surprise, and I have written about it before in many posts in this blog over the years. Since nothing too exciting is happening that I can report on (we’ve been semi-hibernating this winter), but wanting to keep my hand in writing, I have decided to use the theme of fish for this post.

As a child, I went fishing with my dad and great uncle Jim, usually on Lake Champlain. True confession: I never really liked fishing. Especially the part which involves impaling a squirming worm on a sharp hook, and then (if you actually catch a fish) taking that same nasty hook out of the poor creature’s mouth. I guess it’s no surprise then that I don’t really enjoyed eating most fin fish. I only really wanted to be out on the lake in a boat.

I don’t remember my first encounter with shellfish, I just remember always loving to eat them. Shrimp, crabs, lobsters, scallops, squid, octopus, (and the technically bivalves) oysters, clams and mussels, cooked in a myriad of delicious ways and preferably served near the water. Though I will take them anywhere that is not too far inland. Shrimp in Iowa? That seems wrong. (Sorry, midwesterners, you know I love you.)

That is why I was in seventh heaven when my partner in crime, Arlene, and I worked toward the Mid-Atlantic Maritime program of the 2004 Smithsonian Folklife Festival. As soon as this idea struck me, maybe two-three years before we actually achieved it, I “had” to start doing research — which included eating lots of the native seafood of the region, on the seafront, around sounds and bays, and along riverfronts. From Long Island to North Carolina, the possibilities are almost endless.

Outside of the region, I have sampled the bounty of the New England coast, and further south in South Carolina, Florida and the Gulf. And of course up and down the coast of California, and last year, an amazing trip to Vancouver Island, BC. Even further afield, I’ve had highly memorable experiences eating local seafood in Mexico, France and Tunisia.

Ummmm, my mouth is watering just thinking this bounty and reviewing my photos of these culinary (and often boat-riding) adventures. They conjure up summery vacations and warmer, sunnier days to come. Enjoy this photo tour around some seafood eating locations, and let’s hope for warmer days full of luscious seafood and other foodways adventures!

To round things out, my attempt at a crab collage, in my more pictorial phase of collaging.

If you are in the DC area and you brave the cold this week, you can visit the National Museum of Asian Art (in the underground Sackler portion) to see the exhibition, “Korean Treasures: Collected, Cherished, Shared” (until February 1). I visited the exhibition last Friday, when it wasn’t so cold. (Coincidentally, the Prime Minister of South Korean, Kim Min-soek, and his rather large entourage also visited that afternoon, but luckily I had been through the exhibition at my leisure before they showed up!)

The exhibition stretches over two floors and ten galleries, but the art work is well organized and seeing the whole thing didn’t seem overwhelming. I didn’t get nearly as worn out as a December visit to the Grandma Moses exhibition at the American Art Museum, but maybe because –pardon me, Grandma — that exhibition seemed like endless variations on a fairly narrow theme. I did learn a lot about Anna Mary Robertson Moses, her life and her art work, and I would not advise you against visiting. (It is also up for longer, so there is not as big a rush.) After all, the wonderful thing about Washington, DC is that there are so many world class free museums. If you don’t fancy something you set out to visit, or the whole museum for that matter, you only invested your time and can move on to another!

So, what kept me energized at the Korean exhibition? I guess I have always enjoyed interesting juxtapositions of art work, and the curators did a really interesting job of this. At the entrance, for instance, there is a whole wall dedicated to “moon jars” – including an actual ceramic moon jar, and then moon jars depicted in art work from various periods of time.

Then again, I do love a good “cabinet of curiosities” and the exhibition had a few examples of the Korean versions of this phenomenon. The entry to the museum features a preview of that concept, with a silhouette of shelving holding art pieces foreshadowing things to come. The next iteration is a painted screen depicting art work, books, decorative food, and other items that would have adorned a scholar’s space. (Scholars were actually revered back then.) Toward the end of the exhibition, the cabinet of curiosities idea is updated and reimagined on open shelves. You can explore an interactive of what is on the shelves here.

I found myself drawn to several other art works that invited me to look closer, drawing me into a game of “I Spy” – I remember these books keeping my daughter amused for relatively long periods of time. I spent a while examining several large scale paintings, exploring tiny vignettes and hidden-in-plain-sight images. It was a lot of fun.

Of course, there also was the Irworobongdo or “Five Mountains with Sun and Moon” screen, which gained a lot of notice since it had used briefly as a background for a scene in “K-Pop Demon Hunters” (which I had to watch on Netflix the evening after I visited the exhibition, causing a severe ear worm all the next day.)

I’m sorry I didn’t visit and report on the exhibition earlier, because I am giving it a big thumbs-up for these reasons and plenty more. It was a great afternoon out. Check out some of my favorite highlights in these photos, and spend some time “spying with your little eye”!

It’s that time of year to pile on the calories with buttery and sugary treats!

Almond Crescents are one of three types of cookies that have graced our family holiday cookie tray for as long as I can remember. (The other two, which require decorating, have been reported on here. ) I never thought to ask my mother where she got the recipe from, unfortunately.

Shaping these into “just the right” shape and size is always the fun part, as there are various opinions on what is “right.” My mother typically rolled hers into small logs and more elongated crescent shapes, or sort of like eyebrows. I sort of half roll and half shape mine and flatten the bottoms more. Daughter M.E. says mine are too big and makes hers smaller. She is also the one who usually rolls the warm cookies in the powdered sugar. The rule is that any that break during the sugar rolling process can be eaten immediately. Though I maintain they taste better after soaking up some of the sugar and mellowing out a bit.

We usually double or at least one and a half the recipe to have more. We don’t let my husband too close to these because he eats too many all at once. I tend to hoard some of them to eat well into January. Though I have been known at least once to forget where I put my stash and find them again around Easter. (They were a bit stale but I still ate them, of course!)

These cookies are a take on other kinds of butter cookies or shortbread involving lots of butter and nuts and rolled in confectioners sugar, similar to Mexican Wedding Cookies, etc. You may have your own version. If not, try these, since they are delicious! Keep scrolling beyond the recipe to see a collage of us shaping and rolling over the years. This year we had help from our German friend Amelie. (Last year, our mutual friend Franca got her own cookie blog!) Have a wonderful, butter and sugary holiday everyone!

Almond Crescents

1 cup of butter

1/2 cup of confectioners sugar

2/3 cup ground almonds (sometimes I add more!)

2 1/4 cups flour

1/4 teaspoon salt (I only put this in if the butter is not salted)

Sifted confectioners sugar to roll cookies in

Cream butter and sugar, add almonds and mix well. Add flour and mix (best done with your hands as it is hard to do with even the strongest wooden spoon). Form dough into small balls and refrigerate. Form dough into small crescent shapes and bake at 325 F for 10-12 minutes or until golden brown on the bottom. Roll in confectioners sugar while still warm. Store in airtight tin.

The Octagon House, a historic survivor hidden in plain sight in downtown Washington, DC, has been in the back of my mind to visit “one of these days.” When I asked several people if they had ever been, it seems many had heard of it, but none had visited. My friend Claudia was game, so we set out for a guided tour last Saturday.

After a brisk and breezy ten minute walk down 18th Street from Farragut West Metro Station, I arrived and met up with Claudia, who had no trouble finding a parking space nearby. Surrounded by office buildings, the neighborhood has an air of desertion on the weekends. (Any nearby coffee houses and cafes are shut up tight, so if you are going on the 11 a.m. tour be sure to caffeinate at home or closer to the more lively area around the Farraguts!)

We joined several other intrepid visitors, including a multi-generation family who were interested in the ghosts reported to be lurking in various parts of the house. Another gentleman was more interested in the architecture. The tour did not disappoint on either score.

The first thing that I noted was the familiar face of the tour guide, Claire Morgan, who fairly recently joined the staff of my old office, the Smithsonian Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage. I had no idea she did tours of the Octagon on the weekends, but was glad of it as she was an excellent guide. (Contact her if you want to donate any funds to the Smithsonian Folklife Festival or other parts of the work of the office!)

The second thing we all learned right off the bat was that the Octagon House is not quite octagonal, or at least symmetrically octagonal. If you count all sides (including the front portion as three) it sort of has eight sides, and has a symmetry, and certainly has a unique shape which was necessary due to the particular piece of land that the original builders had to deal with.

We also learned that the house used to have an amazing view of the Potomac River from its upper floors, which seemed highly unlikely now, but in the early 1800s was possible. One can imagine how the house and the surrounding area looked in the early 1800s, and in fact you can visualize this thanks to one of several paintings which “recreate” the house’s setting and how the rooms might have looked during their glory days (circa. 1800-1855). It was the winter town home of the Tayloe family, who had a massive plantation in the Tidewater. (Poor Mrs. Tayloe had fifteen children, we learned.)

Since the Tayloe’s left the house empty for much of the year, and considering its proximity to their domicile, it became a logical sanctuary for Dolley and James Madison when the British very rudely burned down the White House during the War of 1812. The second floor office became known as the Treaty Room when Monroe signed the Treaty of Ghent ending the war in 1814.

Along with a visit to the first and second floors, the tour includes a peek into the downstairs kitchen and housekeeper’s bedroom. (I admit to getting sort of creepy feeling in the small and cramped housekeeper’s bedroom, though no ghosts seemed directly associated with that space.) The Tayloes brought some of their enslaved workers with them in the summers, and they just slept wherever they worked, on palettes on the floor, in the outbuildings, or in the kitchen. The housekeeper had an actual bed, though it was one of those ones with the ropes holding up the straw mattress that had to be super uncomfortable.

One of the most interesting parts of the tour was learning about the material of the fireplaces facades, and the columns at the front of the house. These were fashioned from Coade Stone, an artificial composite stone which was all the rage back in the day. This stone could be put into molds and made into many shapes and forms. Manufactured in Lambeth, England, the Coade Stone company was run by Eleanor Coade, surely one of the most successful early business women of her day, which is an interesting story in and of itself.

The second floor also houses exhibitions of contemporary architecture, since the Octagon is on the grounds of, and now owned and maintained by, the Architects Foundation. If you visit, give yourself some extra time to view these exhibitions after the tour.

Here are some snaps of our visit, illustrating some of the highlights above. In short, the Octagon is worth a visit if you live here in the DC area, or are planning a visit from further afield, and want to play tourist on a Friday or Saturday.

A walk in nature is just the ticket right now, with the fall colors peaking and crisp air beckoning. i took a solo walk around Cowan’s Gap Lake, near our vacation cabin, on Sunday while my more ambitious companions climbed up the mountain to the overlook. I’m not ready for that yet post back surgery.

The lake path is a flat 1.5 mile loop which skirts this small but very photogenic lake in Fulton County, PA. We’ve been walking around this lake for 35 years (or more). It is the lake of our daughter’s childhood, as Lake Champlain (quite a lot larger but no less nostalgic) was mine.

This time, I sought to photograph several memorial benches that dot the lake. This is a fairly recent phenomenon, and one that is truly appreciated as I get older and need to rest along the way. There used to be just a few, very rustic, places to sit (mostly fashioned from large, felled trees, it seemed). Not sure when the park started accepting benches in people’s honor, but I thank them for doing so, and for the families that donated them.

As I read the inscriptions, I was taken with the range of ages of those memorized, as well as the different sentiments and styles. I didn’t know any of these people, and though I was compelled to try to find their obituaries online, I thought better of it. Just noting that they enjoyed the park and the lake as much as I have over the years made them my friends and compatriots.

I’m thinking of where around the lake I would want a bench, if I decide that is something that I’d like to be remembered by some day. Meanwhile, join me in commemorating lives spent enjoying the out of doors, as we approach All Saint’s Day/Day of the Dead.

On June 24, I had spinal fusion surgery involving four vertebrae in my lumbar (lower back) area, which now have some very nasty looking titanium screws and rods supporting them. I did not go into this lightly, as it is a serious surgery with a pretty long recovery period. I knew I would be out of it for much of the summer, which was sort of a bummer. While my friends all seemed to be headed to Maine for coastal views and lobster rolls, or some other fun summer vacation spots, I was stuck in my recliner with ice on my back, feeling less than lively.

I am doing as well as anyone can expect, apparently: getting out for walks, driving myself locally, and to doing simple tasks in the garden that don’t involve “BLT” (bending, lifting and twisting). I even took the Metro by myself, downtown, to meet friends for a DC Restaurant Week lunch last week. And I should not have to wear my torture-chamber looking brace after another three weeks.

I’m still, off and on, checking on several Facebook post-fusion groups that I joined in order to get pointers and advice, and to find kindred souls going through this process. (Say what you will about Facebook, if you are looking for groups of people with a common bond, you can find them there.) I tried to avoid the posts that reported less than good results (some people have had multiple fusions, did not get any satisfaction from having the surgery, are still dealing with terrible pain, and etc.) and focus on reading, and even replying, to those posts that reported some good news about positive results, and which gave really helpful advice.

The posts get pretty repetitive though, as many people are seeking advice of what to bring to the hospital, what to expect after surgery, and what to have on hand when you get home. Facebook is a sort of immediate medium; it doesn’t matter how many times someone asks the same question, no one seems to search through old messages to find the answers.

The advice was pretty consistent, overall. So, I thought I would consolidate the answers to some FAQs here in this blog, from my own personal view. I hope you, dear reader, never have to endure spinal fusion. But maybe this will help someone in the future. This advice is based on my own experience and things that my new “best fusion friends” suggested. (many I might not have done, but they sounded like good ideas). The groups I most often consulted and became a member of were Spinal Fusion Surgery Group, Life After Back Surgery Support Group and Spinal Fusion Surgery – Success and Active Again.

Here’s my take on things:

Get Your Equipment in a Row Before Your Surgery Date! Believe me, you won’t want to be searching for stuff after your surgery. And your friends and family will be too busy feeding you, driving you places, and also carrying out their own daily tasks to also spend hours searching for these things on your behalf.

A friend of mine had lumbar spinal fusion a couple months ahead of mine, so she was an invaluable source of reliable information (thanks, Pam!). She recommended renting a recliner with lift assist for a month, as it was the only thing she could sleep comfortably in. I became obsessed with the Search for a Recliner, and finally took the advice of some of my fellow Facebook “fusion warriors” and bought a reasonably priced one from Wayfair. Is it as good as a medical supply store one I could have rented for a month (for roughly the same price)? No, of course not, but will some “customizing” – strategically placed extra pillows mostly – it has served me well. (NOTE: Many people said not to rely on the lift assist to get you in/out as you need to build up your leg muscles. But it can be really helpful when you’re tired, and you don’t have to use it if you don’t feel the need.

A wide variety of medical equipment is also helpful. I put out a call to my neighborhood listserve to see if anyone was willing to loan/give away the following: bed railing; over the toilet raised seat with grab bars; shower seat; grabbers (to pick things up off the floor); and walker. I got everything except the bed railing (which I eventually got for $10 on Facebook Marketplace) and a few extra things, and made some new friends in the bargain! Our spare room looked like a medical equipment warehouse (see photo in the heading of this post) Medical equipment can be expensive, so this worked for me. There are also places that loan out equipment for free in many places, some run by organizations like the Lion’s Club.

Ice, ice baby! When you hurt, and if your doctor says not to use heat as it will be bad for your surgical incision, ice is your friend. One of my other buddies recently had a shoulder replacement surgery. She swore by the recirculating ice water machine they sent her home with. Not having any indication that I would get one from my hospital, I searched one out on Facebook Marketplace and got it for $50. WAY cheaper than new and it has been worth every penny. Of course, ice packs are far cheaper and work too (and are portable), but this stays cold longer. Mine is cold for hours. The trick is to freeze bigger things, like water bottles, so the cold lasts longer than if you used straight up ice cubes to fill it up.

Just the right post-surgery pillow is quite controversial. If you don’t have an adjustable bed like the “cozy” one you had in the hospital, you may find it hard to simulate that motion by elevating your head and feet into comfortable positions with pillows. I got a wedge pillow (or actually, my sister ordered it for me, full disclosure) which was not comfortable to sleep on at all. But it is good for reading and watching television. I finally took the advice of others on the Facebook group and got a pregnancy pillow. Okay, sounds weird but just works for lots of people, because it surrounds you with something soft but supportive if you sleep on your side, and move from side to side like I always do. And comes around so you can put it between your legs for better body alignment. It beats trying to wrangle six or eight individual pillows. And besides, it sort of feels like a big hug.

What to Expect After Surgery

And now, a few things that those facing spinal fusion might want to know, post-surgery.

Though it varies widely from surgeon to surgeon and hospital to hospital, according to Facebook posts, you will be in the hospital if all goes well and there are no complications, for at least one to four nights. My stay was two nights, in on Tuesday, out on Thursday.

As soon as you wake up from anesthesia and are making some sort of sense, they get you up to walk. I was dreading this, but it wasn’t so bad. You are still pretty drugged up, so pain is bearable. The in-house PT people have you walk in the hallway, and if you can tolerate it, even have you try to do what I call the PT Stairs, a small four-step simulated staircase with rails. Usually doing the stairs is a sign that it will be okay for you to go home, if you can’t do the stairs they might keep you another day. So, if you want to get out, do the stairs even if they scare you a bit. Nurses will get you up at every opportunity, even in the middle of the night, to walk around the hallways. Yes, rocking your gorgeous hospital gown, and wheeling all the attachments (IV and incision drain) along with you. (Bring some pajama bottoms for less possible embarrassment!)

Occupational therapy will show you how to do simple things like pull up your pants and brush your teeth without bending. Because you aren’t supposed to bend or you might mess up your fusion, and the last thing you want to do is that.

When you do get home, walk as much as possible. Just with your walker around the house at first. I was cleared to do a whole staircase (in order, in my case, to go upstairs and take a much-needed shower!) after five days. I was still pretty out of it; and had a “spotter” for the first couple of weeks. But it feels great when you can finally do the stairs by yourself, or do anything for yourself for that matter.

Embrace help. I read on these Facebook posts how people just home from surgery are cleaning their houses, taking care of their pets, and cooking meals. Because they live alone and/or no one else in their household can do these things right or are willing to do them. I have no idea how they do that. If I hadn’t had my husband and daughter, and after a week my sister, and a whole host of friends, I would have taken myself to a rehab facility for a couple of weeks.

And, more embarrassing topics. The lumbar region is down towards, well, you know. Going to the bathroom can be a trial after lumbar fusion. Between surgery, pain meds that stop you up, and maybe not eating a really balanced diet, things can get uncomfortable and lots of OTC remedies, beyond the simple stool softeners, may be necessary. I ended up with a UTI and had to get my husband to take me to an urgent care to get it diagnosed about a week after surgery, and a few days after the “dam had broken” (if you get my gist). Just to say, after spinal fusion, $&!^ happens… be prepared.

There is a lot more advice I could give from my own experience, but those are some of the basics. Glad to answer any other questions anyone might have if you post them in the comments. Do check out those and other Facebook groups, and be sure to try reading the previous posts before asking the same old questions! And, yes, I am not saying that people don’t have some really bad experiences with spinal fusion. But, for all the really negative and heartbreaking posts, there are encouraging and helpful ones. It may be an arcane and torturous procedure, I know there are new technologies and ideas out there to address the problems that led us to this point, but for those of us who took the plunge, there is no going back, so to speak, and so we can only forge ahead and do our best to support one another!

And that’s my “view from the messy recliner”!

[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.]