MOM...PLEASE DO NOT SCREAM!!

Blog: Life...

~~CAPS LOCK KEY IN PLAIN SIGHT~~

.....seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes




Admittedly, never having been the shy-one among family, friends or strangers, I have often found myself smack in the middle of one controversy or another because of it.  And, oops!!  I think I did it again!

Let's see....demonstrative, highly emotional, too caring (Really?  Can anyone care too much?), obsessive (in a good way!) and, passionate.  All of the above would be the correct answer.  What if I substituted words for those above like....affectionate, moved, compassionate, preoccupied and, intensely loving?  These words do take some of the tempestuousness out of a fiery personality and lend a certain softness to the mix. 

Accepting constructive criticism through the analysis and judgement of others certainly is a positive step in the right direction.  When this evaluation comes from someone you respect and love dearly, you perk-up and listen.  At least, you should.  They only have good intentions at heart.

"Mom....please do not scream!!"  What?  As far as I knew, my 'Skype voice' this morning was sounding reasonable and low-keyed.  And then my youngest child, herself a loving Mother of a six-year-old and twins who are two, explained what she meant. 

"You have all-capped the intro to your blog again!!  It's as though you're screaming at us to open it up and read it rather than gently asking us to.  That's not what you're after, right?" 

She was absolutely right, screaming was never my intention at all.  My daughter makes a very good point.  And, the crazy bit is that this isn't the first time she's told me about this habit of mine.  Some habits are difficult to break!

So, I vow to curb my all-capitalization format as much as possible.  Unless, of course, I really do want to scream in order to emphasize a point I'm making or allow a character in one of my stories to vent or be  scared out of their minds!!!  I will be more of a Cathy Marie Buchanan type rather than Stephen King when it comes to superlatives and exaggeration.  I do see her point...

Thank you, Sweetheart, yet again.  I appreciate and fully understand your criticism.  All I have to do now is restrain my enthusiasm, steer clear of the 'Caps Lock' key and apologize to all of you for raising my voice far too often. 

ART, BALANCE AND MEDITATION.....REPOST FROM MARCH, 2014

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. VONNEGUT!!!!!  NOVEMBER 11, 1922. 

THE FOLLOWING IS A 'REPOST' OF MY ORIGINAL STORY DATED MARCH 20, 2014.
BECAUSE OF MY PROFOUND RESPECT FOR THE INTRICATE AND TALENTED MIND OF THIS INTERESTING MAN.....I HONOR HIM ONCE AGAIN....ON THIS, HIS DAY OF BIRTH. 

A series of essays.....




Kurt Vonnegut: The Celestial Teapot Magazine

.....through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes


Several days ago I posted a quote by the author and humorist Kurt Vonnegut on my Facebook Page that read, "I believe that reading and writing are the most nourishing forms of meditation anyone has so far found."  I posted it because I believe what it states to be true and insightful.

Many of us within the 'Facebook Family' have shared similar messages with FB friends.....even though their subject matter might be entirely different: fast cars, spiritual insights, beauty tips, hot travel spots, military homecomings and (inevitably) seemingly impossible cat poses, just to name a few. 

Welcome To My Library!

Certainly, as a writer, I am obsessively attracted to quotes by authors of no specific genre, location, time or gender....  I am proud to promote libraries, franchised bookstores, Indie bookstores and personal 'book nooks' located in private homes across the world!!  I posted a picture of my very own reading niche just a few days ago.  I do not understand homes without some form of library, whether it be filled with hard bound copies, paperback novels or a combination of the two.  In my estimation, ALL rooms within a given space are eligible and worthy of including bookshelves within their design.  (Yes, even, and perhaps, especially, the bathrooms...)

                                        Kurt Vonnegut's Office

E-books, although less tangible to many, are by no means less important.  Actually, Indie Published authors have designated the Internet as the most popular track for exposure and marketing of some of the very best writing talent to be found today!  With so much technology at our disposal, it would be unreasonable not to consider promoting and circulating your literary creations for others, including publishers, to see at the touch of a few keys!  Personally, I have been following several highly talented e-book authors within the last few months and have marked their overwhelming appeal among readers, along with their steady growth towards the mainstream of book publication.  The hard bound copies of their impressive work can now be found on display at your local Barnes & Noble with book launch, book signings and author forums neatly placed in their future 'schedule of events.' 

However, as the old saying goes....I digress.  Mr. Vonnegut's quote has not been pushed aside; rather, it has been reined back into my thoughts.  Best known as an author, Mr. Vonnegut was, also, a freethinker, a humanist and an atheist.  He once wrote, "I am a humanist, which means, in part, that I have tried to behave decently without expectations of rewards or punishments after I am dead."  I can only imagine that by getting lost in either the act of writing his own books (The Sirens of Titan, Cat's Cradle, Slaughterhouse-Five, to name a few) or, reading books written by others....Mr. Vonnegut was truly able to "...train the mind to be familiar with states that are beneficial: concentration, compassion, correct understanding, patience, humility and perseverance."  I would be safe in stating that 'most' authors today have meditated for years in order to achieve that feeling of being 'one with themselves' and able to provide their readers with the best they have to offer...

Nadine Within Her Elements

After posting this quote, a FB friend of mine and "artiste extraordinaire," Nadine Fourre, who lives and creates in the South of France, commented on my posting.  "Any Art form, isn't it?" she asked me.  Nadine's main area of artistic expression as a sculptor is the uncanny ability to establish an environment based upon Zen ideals utilizing natural elements which include, but are not limited to, sand, driftwood and dry-stacked stones of various shapes and sizes.  Her creations are highly personal, extremely beautiful and always thought provoking.

When I think about Nadine, I am constantly reminded of balance, nature and meditation.  Her work defies gravity while it draws the eye to its innate beauty!




By: Nadine Fourre

The Free Encyclopedia defines Zen as a school of Mahayana Buddhism meditation that originated in India and passed into China during the 6th century.   Zen developed fully in Japan by the 12th century and had a significant following in the West by the later 20th century.   Zen emphasizes the attainment of enlightenment through meditation, self-contemplation and intuition.  Contemplation of one's essential nature, to the exclusion of all else, is the way of achieving pure enlightenment.  Few understand nature as beautifully as Nadine...

Nadine At Work

Her poignant question affected me deeply.  I realized, being an author of words, Mr. Vonnegut's emphasis on reading and writing exclusively created shortcomings that were bound to draw the attention of friends who incorporated many forms of artistic expression into their lives.  I needed to take it several steps further by broadening "the most nourishing forms of meditation" to include all forms of art.  The great American novelist, John Updike, once said, "What art offers is space---a certain breathing room for the spirit."  

Writers, painters, sculptors, dancers, singers, musicians, architects, poets, photographers, actors......and, the list goes on and on.....all require that space, that breathing room that will allow their spirits to soar, their talent to exceed all expectations and, their creative minds the benefit of concentration...perseverance!!

Kurt Vonnegut

Thank you to all my friends who take their work d'art to the highest levels possible...and, beyond!  Michael, Cathy, Eric V. W., you know who you are!  The world is nothing less than blessed by your current achievements.  We patiently (?) wait to see what comes next....


NOTE:  To see more of Nadine's amazing work, this is one Website that exhibits her "Art of Balance":   gallery.knoxox.com/nadine-fourre   

THE HOUSE ON STATE STREET

THE HOUSE ON STATE STREET

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

PROLOGUE

Sparkling facets of pure light dance upon the face of the boy.  With his head propped-up by an exposed root, the mid-morning sun spreads it's summer glow and blankets the sleepy little town and creates laziness from immense power; lethargy from brute energy.  Chewing mildly on a blade of grass, he drifts in and out of a dream state spawned by the light play above him and the keen imagination of youth.  His thoughts travel between fishing the cool river that flows gently nearby and how to successfully avoid returning to work at Mr. Beal's grocery store up on Main Street.

Drifting shadows from the gently swaying oak leaves pepper the green meadow that spreads out from the river bank bathing the boy's small form with their mesmerizing dance.  The giant oaks fracture the river bank and surround the meadow.   With their large exposed root structures, like ancient giants breaking free from the warm soil, the boy is surrounded by the fantasy that only nature can supply.  Virtually flat, the gravel road meanders the natural layout of river and trees with generous curves drifting towards deep green woods to the east and the briskly growing little town located just west of the river.  Wildflowers sway in the breezes creating synchronizing dances of lavender, yellow and white keeping a languid tempo of lush softness and timeless motion. 

Following the distinct sound of the horse’s cadence, the boy suddenly opens his eyes and turns his head to face two chestnut mares emerging from the dense forest.  Standing to capture a better view, his youthful curiosity is peaked by the flatbed wagon being pulled by the powerful animals.  His intense blue eyes register the crew of eight men dangling their denim-clad legs over the flat edge of the wagon.  Axes, picks and shovels gleam in the sunlight and are piled high behind them while bulging cotton sacks tied off with twine rest alongside generous coils of thick, rough rope.  The mares are swiftly reined in and halt near a vast section of the meadow just off the north side of the road and the men gingerly step down crunching stones beneath their leather boots. 

The men spread out like a small colony of worker ants after relieving the flatbed of its load.  The boy modestly shields himself behind a young maple tree positioned between him and the unexpected activity across the meadowland.  He combs  golden blond hair away from is face with the spread fingers of his right hand and listens intently to hear the small talk from the men while attempting to filter out the sound of bird chatter and flowing river water that greatly impede his progress. 

Sharp wooden stakes emerge from one of the overstuffed bags and two of the men proceed to deftly pound them into the soft earth.  Twine is strung from one stake to another in a pre-determined pattern that reminds the boy of an elaborate adult game of cat's cradle.  The remaining men begin clearing the land by placing large rocks in piles and uprooting wild shrubs and smaller trees that initially inhabited the confines of the staked-out sections of the property.  Their teamwork is solid and anyone watching could only assume that these men have been working together as a whole for quite some time.

He twitches his freckled nose in rapt curiosity and begins to run along the riverbank until he makes his way to the small stone footbridge built several years before and connects the sparsely populated east side with the town on the opposite side of the shallow river to the west.  Before crossing, he looks back once more to make a mental note of the men working up the road now smaller in stature and almost ant- like to him.  This makes him smile.  He is almost certain that Mr. Beal, if not the unflappable Mrs. Beal, will be delighted to hear his sterling account of the activities he's recently witnessed and forgive him for his gross tardiness this morning.

He's a good lad and a hard worker when not distracted by youthful pleasures.  What the boy does not know yet, and will not be able to comprehend for some years to come, is how the events he's noted this warm, July day will affect his future in such a profound and meaningful way......

THE CHURCH ON THE HILL

 A series of short stories......



TOURMAKEADY CHURCH AT LOUGH MASK
COUNTY MAYO, IRELAND

.....through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes


We were as giddy as small children spending the day at Magic Kingdom as we sat at the drop-leaf table for our breakfast of Jameson marmalade on toast and delicious, hot pressed coffee!  Our road trip today included the town of Cong located just north of Lough Corrib.  It was Thursday morning and our stay in Ireland was in its final days....so, we should have been sad, right?  

That day we just allowed the white Nissan rental car to take the lead.  It was an unstructured travel day in the sense that, even though Cong was on our radar, anything else was possible.  Dan and I like this kind of travel day because you never know what you'll find or where you'll end up....

The Quiet Man Bridge

Earlier in the week, we'd discovered the stone bridge featured in the movie The Quiet Man and it existed just to the west of Oughterard and in sight right off of the N59.  We must have gone by it that week at least fifty times.  We imagined the spot John Wayne sat at on the bridge with the rippling river and lush mountains in the background.  I think we came close to his exact position after watching the movie (purchased in Cong) once we returned home to the States.

Cong Abbey

The route to Cong, a small town located practically on the Galway and Mayo County Line, took us around deep mountain lakes, across babbling brooks and wide rivers and through dark, dense forests.  We parked the car right next to the ancient ruins of Cong Abbey and spent the next two hours exploring everywhere.  I enjoy taking pictures of ruins and Cong Abbey did not disappoint.  As I set up a shot, I always imagine the structure in its prime with people going about their business hundreds of years before.  It helps to give me an interesting perspective and a true understanding of the relative importance of things.

Across from the Abbey was The Quiet Man gift shop.....apropos considering most of the 'town scenes' were shot there.  Yes, in case you were wondering, we acquired a few items from the shop to take home!
My greatest discovery was a good-sized used bookshop which was absolutely amazing, as well as dangerous.  I never wonder why our return luggage is red-tagged for exceeding the weight limit!!


After a light lunch accompanied by hot tea, just around the corner from the bookshop, we drove over the boarder into County Mayo.

 
Following the signs to Lough Mask, we discovered the 'scenic drive' around the beautiful lake along the L1612 which took us through several small towns dotting the route until we swung left eventually picking-up the R300 and continuing the loop around the lake.  Feeling mellow and slightly lethargic basking in the repetition of mainly flat roads outlined by stone cottages and occasional glimpses of blue water.....Dan suddenly hit the brakes and merged onto the grassy shoulder of the road before coming to a complete stop. 

The Church of Ireland

 
Our unexpected surprise of the day stood to our left...high on a hill that overlooked Lough Mask to the east with the Partry Mountains lording over it to the west.  We were staring at the most interesting church ruin we'd ever seen....as though its parishioners seventy years before stood-up after Sunday service, filed by the clergyman to shake hands and offer their best wishes and then never to return to this magnificent stone structure again.  The weather...the harsh lake winds, heavy snows and relentless rain that flushed down from the surrounding mountains, as well as Father Time, had become its steady companions and most destructive enemies!

Church On The Hill

If you had the stamina and time to set-up a still camera taking intermittent shots from alongside the road for the past seventy or so years it would be the best way to capture and describe the complete scene that stood before us at that moment.  With sheep grazing and chickens strutting in the valley below its foundation and a fence surrounding them...the large, metal gate was wide open, inviting entry.  "Shall we go in?" Dan asked.  With an enthusiastic affirmative nod from me, we parked next to the moss covered stone wall on the south side of the church.  With the exception of the sheep and chickens, we were in total solitude.  Our shoes crunched along the stone path leading up to the back entry and, I don't think either of us uttered a single word as we gazed in amazement.

Original Wall Tiles

Before us stood a once beautiful and imposing structure that had, seemingly, been left solely to the elements with jagged shards of watery-looking glass still protruding from large arched-top window frames and slate roof tiles piled-up all along the earthen floor.   All of its outer walls still stood proud and tall including the round turret positioned at the main entrance on the south-west side.  At least five percent of these walls remained clad in their original tiles.  The dais of the altar, albeit covered in debris now, sparkled as the afternoon sun streamed through the windows above and reflected off of the broken glass below.

Tournasala Mountain In Distance

Looking out of one of the altar windows that faced west, I attempted to outline the grazing sheep down in the valley with the window as my frame and, as I found out later, Tournasala Mountain surrounded by mist in the distance.  I moved as quickly as possible to get my shot because we had disturbed hundreds of dormant black spiders that had been happily nesting in the piles of debris and they were swiftly making their way towards my sandal-clad feet.

View of the Nave

Because this church had been abandoned, the traditional grave sites that originally ran the length of the nave on either side displayed the scars of bodies having been exhumed and, we assumed, buried in other areas.  This act, however, left an ill feeling in my gut as though grave robbers had intruded just yesterday and taken much more than personal possessions or jewelry.  The writer in me judged it as a punitive act of violence....with the intention of punishing the worshipers who had abruptly forsaken this space so long ago.

Turret

Heading outside via the front entrance, we stopped to gaze up into the tall, stone turret, mostly intact, that served as the main steeple and still proudly displayed the inevitable cross that inhabited its spire and pointed up to the heavens.  Outside we glanced over to the right-side of the church and saw the low, long stone wall that ran from the road up and over the hill towards the lake.  Many trees and low-lying scrub plants had devoured the area beyond the fence-line making it impossible to see the lake from our position. 

Grave of  Bishop Thomas Plunkett

We still had no true idea of the age of the church so, walking outside into the small Churchyard out front was pure joy as we found the grave site of a Thomas Plunkett that stated his death to be on October 19, 1866!  The only rational observation was that the church was built prior to this date thus making it much older than we ever imagined. 
 

Reluctantly, we walked back to the car saying good-bye to our 'mystery church' and, as we slowly made our way back to the main road, I stopped to take a picture of the only signage (other than Mr. Plunkett's grave site) that we ever found.

That evening, after connecting to the Internet during dinner at The Boat House Inn, we were able to discover some of the history behind our 'Church On The Hill, ' as well as a little bit about the area itself, courtesy of the National Library of Ireland.  Much to our surprise, its Born On Date was 1857....much older than we ever imagined!  Its official title is Church at Tourmakeady (Church of Ireland) in Ballyovie Parish, County Mayo.

In ancient times, Tourmakeady was covered in large oak forests and represented the area between the Partry Mountains and Lough Mask. Thomas Plunkett, eldest son of The Lord Chancellor of Ireland, came here in 1807 and gradually bought up the small local landlords and evicted many of the tenants (nice guy!).  Eventually he became Bishop of Tuam and, being Protestant, elected to convert Tourmakeady in an attempt to turn the people away from the Catholic Church.  Utilizing his power and despicable means to evict tenants who failed to conform, he was eventually exposed to the public by the local parish priest, Father Pat Lavelle.  It is indeed the remains of Bishop Plunkett, who died in 1866, that now rests in the Church of Ireland Churchyard in Tourmakeady!!

Lough Mask

We could not find any information to help us understand why it appeared that all of this could have transpired only.....a short time beforehand!  Talking about this over a delicious meal of fish and chips and a pint of Guinness, we decided to take a thoroughly romantic take on our adventures that day, highly suggestive of an idealized view of reality, and proclaim that we had been mesmerized by the varied shades of green comprising the Mayo countryside.  We had been hypnotized by the magical power of this special place called Ireland, along with her people, history and our love for them all.  And, for a short period of time that afternoon, we knew what it meant to be charmed by the mountain mist and live among the faeries in a land where time and place no longer mattered and the present blended seamlessly with the past....

The Mist of  Tournasala Mountain



ONE DAY IN IRELAND

A series of shorts......

THE DOLMENS OF IRELAND.....   POULNABRONE DOLMEN

Some legends say the ancient dolmens and other stone structures found scattered throughout Ireland are portals to the realm of faerie......FAIRY FORTS!




.....through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes


Throughout my vast and elongated journey of reading and digesting the written word, I have accumulated a few books under my belt, so to speak.  Robert Ruark was the first modern day author to have opened-up my eyes, heart and soul to the mystical world of our beautiful earth.

The Serengeti Plain, a vast ecosystem in east-central Africa, was my base-station as I went on a safari guided by the best....the Englishman, Brian Dermott, who introduced me to the great lion, masterful hyena and powerful elephant.  My love for and desire to see Kenya and meet her people grew substantially with each paragraph that was read.  The book is entitled, Uhuru, written in the late 1950's and published in 1962.

Mr. Dermott's shooting device of choice was a long range hunting rifle by which he made his living.  Of course, today it would be the high-powered lens attached to a sophisticated camera.  Fortunately, times have changed! 

Interesting new words were introduced into my vocabulary such as nugu (ape), jambo (hello) and Bwana (Master).

My absolute joy for the written word began around this time....at least, I knew then that writing was both my career and my passion.  I realized that to be able to understand people and places of the world, I needed to add travel into this intoxicating mix.

I have yet to make that trip to Kenya in Africa and fulfill the dream of a 'starry-eyed' fifteen-year-old girl embarking upon a journey of a lifetime.....  So much has transpired since closing the pages of that life-changing novel and I do understand how it symbolized the freedom and joy that awaited me in the future.  Thank you, Mr. Ruark, from the depths of my heart!!

Eventually, writing and travel led me to many islands....and places semi-surrounded by the sea....with the sights, sounds and smells of its salty salve always healing the weary spirit like ointment on a wound.  Given the beauty, mystery and magical powers of Ireland that I read about in my youth, this incredible jewel, gently placed into the sea, resembles an exquisite piece of fine jewelry fit for a Fairy Queen (even a petite princess)!  

After all, doesn't the appearance of a rainbow, or the possible existence of the Banchee, Pookas and Changelings evoke mystery and intrigue?  Not to mention the most famous Irish legend of them all...the Leprechaun!  Who hasn't devoted at least one afternoon of their childhood enraptured by the movie 'Darby O'Gill and the Little People' and believed if they searched hard and long enough, a Leprechaun might just be inhabiting an underground world right in their own backyard?

Yes, it has taken a few years.....but, I believe I have actually found him!  My Leprechaun's name is John.  John is a farmer who lives on the west coast of Ireland, County Cork, but near the mountains and the sea.  At least, so he claims.....

Well, you decide for yourself if John holds Leprechaun status and let me know what you think.  All we know is that something magical happened that day in Ireland, high-up in the Caha Mountains, in a place of mist and legend....  
 


Author repost of One Day In Ireland.  
Originally posted: August 8, 2009

 

I know I must have sounded like a proverbial “broken record” to Family and Friends during this time period, however, I wanted to experience the joy of being a Grandparent in the worst possible way.  I believe I controlled my “Grandparent Desire” as much as I could while around my two married daughters, mainly because of the intricacies of conceiving that both had been experiencing.  My heart and profound love poured out to them each and every day.

       During September of 2006, very dear friends of ours joined us on a week-long visit to the west coast of Ireland where we shared a beautiful rental home located in Adrigole, County Cork.  Seated at the French doors of the kitchen eating area each morning, we sipped our pressed morning brew and devoured, what seemed like, and most likely were, pounds of Irish soda bread slathered in butter and Irish whiskey preserves.  This marvelous taste sensation was only equal to our view of the sun-kissed Bantry Bay that was a mere palm tree and ten grazing cows away from us.  But that’s another story and another time……

My story today involves our view from the other side of this comfortable property, just beyond the stacked stone pillars and ornate Iron Gate that separated us from the road into Glengarriff and the misty undulating outline of the ancient Caha Mountain range to the north.  What a spectacular sight they were each day as brilliant rainbows and steel gray clouds adorned their peaks with halos of color like giant ornate headpieces drenched in smoke and tears.  Within that ancient atmosphere of cool, moss covered stone and hidden vortexes is where this tale begins during the morning of our third day on this mystical and beautiful island.

Heading north in our rental car along R574, we knew we were entering a fairy tale land as the mist rose revealing the magnificent depths of the insanely lush, green valleys dotted with tiny, distant houses of unfathomable means of entry as we rose higher and higher toward Healy Pass.  “How on earth do the people get down there?” I asked my husband, Dan, not seeing any roads snaking their way along the valley wall below.  Having spent a lot of time traveling through the Great Smoky Mountains of Western North Carolina, I was more accustomed to seeing the houses literally sprouting from the sides of the mountain with complete communities clustered together deep in the valley rather than individual homes interspersed here and there.  I thought I might be lonely living down there in one of those houses.  But, would that even be possible if I was surrounded by such unbelievable beauty?

We did not pass nor did we see another car heading up to Healy Pass from the other side and by now we were feeling very possessive of the scenery as we stopped to take pictures.  The four of us did not hear the crunch of tires navigating over the loose stone parking area.  We did not see the other vehicle at all until the blue jean stuffed leather boots approached us bringing with them a compact gentleman who seemingly appeared out of nowhere!  With a twinkle in his eyes, I kid you not, he introduced himself as John, a local sheep farmer and began speaking to us as though the five of us had known one another all of our lives.  I sincerely believe he could have been Dan’s sprightly Irish Grandfather reincarnated in order to watch over us on our journey.  Looking more like he was in his late sixties, John kidded with my friend Christine and me and said that he was still, at fifty-two, looking for a wife and wanted to know if we were available.  Turning his craggy, weather-worn face towards me while placing his arm securely around my shoulder, he became quite serious and began to ask me questions.  Was I happy?  Did I have children and, if so, how many and boys or girls?  Were my two daughters married?  And, the most poignant question of all…….did I have any grandchildren yet?  Wait a minute.  Was I actually tearing-up as his calm blue eyes rimmed by bushy, salt and pepper eyebrows, looked deeply into my soul?  Yes.  I told him that God had yet to bless us with grandchildren but that we were waiting, hoping and praying for them.

The next series of events will stay with all four of us forever simply because there is no rational explanation for them at all.  Squeezing my shoulder, John said that 2007 would be a very good year and not to worry about grandbabies, they would come.  As a matter of fact, I would have two, both born the following year.  He kissed me on the cheek and slowly began walking back to his beat-up little car parked within inches of our back bumper.  As the back of his deep blue and perforated by age wool sweater penetrated my vision, I remained speechless until he waved one last time and headed down into the valley below.  He was as mysterious in taking his leave as he was in his arrival only moments before.  Not a single one of us spoke for almost a minute….quite a while considering what had just transpired.  Beyond the most obvious question of what was that all about?, the four of us calmly got back into the car only to pursue some rational explanations later…..after we could think more clearly.  Did we believe in Leprechauns?  Maybe we had no choice.

Miss Brenna Elizabeth was born to our eldest daughter, Alexandria, on May 17, 2007.  Miss Lydia Kaprice was born on November 23, 2007, to Corinne, our youngest daughter.  Whenever I see a rainbow now, I think about John and hope he is as happy as we are.      

MY UKRAINIAN CONNECTION

A series of short stories.....





The Moshak Family With One-Year-Old Me Sitting Between Grandma And Papa

.......through my eyes!


By: Jacqueline E. Hughes


"Papa Antone and Grandma Alexandria, allow me to explain my life today because of both of you..."

Greetings Ultimate Throwback Thursday!  Ever since initially choosing to post my Blog on Thursday, I've always felt the desire to tie it in with a proper 'Throwback.'  Prompted by current events, what little I know about my Ukrainian heritage is flashing before me like brightly colorful neon signs: Aunts and Uncles; Old World vs. Modern Lifestyle; Papa and Grandma Moshak; English Language vs. Russian Language competing for top honor......

Each set of words burst forth from memories that pound inside my head and chest and hiss above me through the air as though they were the illuminating fireworks above Sochi; the heart wrenching death shots resounding in Kiev's Independence Square.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 
I am a little girl once again. Papa leads us out to his lush and aromatic backyard garden where we crunch and chew on many of the green beans we pick and place the rest in a basket for dinner. Next stop...round, firm tomatoes the color of my Mother's lipstick and picked from the vines by Papa at just the right moment. Lastly, small to medium size cucumbers are picked by the dozens and gently placed in a galvanized bucket to be washed later. These beauties will be crunched and enjoyed at many future family meals. But, only after Papa fills his pickle crocks down in the cool, dark cellar with water, vinegar, salt, onion, garlic, dill, our cucumbers and a variety of seeds and allows them to ferment in this brine until only he knows when they are ready to eat. He just knows these things. He's been repeating this process for ages!

                                            

My 'Shirley Temple' Days

We run back into the large brick house to see Grandma (always) standing at the kitchen stove stirring soup for supper....with the idea of stretching the large quantities of food as far as possible due to the many stomachs she needs to fill.  If she wasn't feeding her own eleven (with two more having died at birth) children, plus, each meal, she always made certain there was enough for neighbors who were bedridden or simply in need of good, hot food.  Returning home, she allowed sufficient time to roll out and fill each pierogi, Russian dumpling, with cheesy potatoes, sauerkraut or prunes for the evening meal.  She would show me how it was done and then we'd stir sour cream mixed with cottage cheese until smooth for the cream sauce to be served over the dumplings.  The pierogi were a royal pain in the bottom to make.  They were, however, quite a tasty and inexpensive dish.  I can still see her round, overworked hands move like lightening as they crimped each one, dusted it with flour and lined it up along the long kitchen table until collectively they resembled a small, chubby army standing at attention!  I feel she could make them blindfolded. After all, she had been perfecting this procedure for a very long time.

You see, my Ukrainian Grandparents were passengers on two separate vessels that traveled several months apart but, were on the very same mission: Escape The Bolshevik Revolution, also known as, Red October 1917.  Along with many of their relatives, they entered the United States via Ellis Island and Grandma's given name, Olga, was officially changed to Alexandria because, evidently, too many woman with the name of Olga were coming through Ellis Island on that particular day!  Soon, she would settle this score.

Many of these broken Ukrainian  families settled in the larger cities to the north including Philadelphia, Detroit and Chicago, where many of my relatives relocated and eventually found employment.  The Windy City afforded them a comfortable environment to establish 'new roots,' send their children to school and live a relatively comfortable life among the large pockets of Russian refugees that poured into Chicago every day. 

I remember my uncles, as well as my own Father teasing Papa during relaxed moments on a Sunday evening after everyone mellowed under the satisfaction of good food and pleasant company. Papa never forgot why he had to forsake his Motherland and these memories would enhance the sorrow he harbored deep inside...especially after imbibing several vodka shots cloaked under the guise of a heavy, white coffee mug. "Pa, why did you leave the Ukraine so many years ago?" they would ask him. His predictable reply was, "Those damn Bolsheviks!!" 





Pierogies With Sour Cream and
Cottage Cheese Sauce

My Grandparents met and lived in Mishawaka ~ South Bend, Indiana, and were a small branch of the original Chicago contingent. Papa Antone, or Tony, hand-built their red brick, two-story home located on Cedar Street and they raised their family there. This included a few of their oldest grandchildren. I proudly proclaim that my beautiful Mother, Olga (score settled), was a part of the growing establishment of 'women working outside of the home!" And, Grandma, having raised her children, for the most part, in poverty, through the Great Depression and World War II....was proud to see her American daughter(s) making a difference. 

For several summers, my older brother and I called the house on Cedar Street our home. We often attended St. Michael's Greek Orthodox Church services on Sundays walking the few blocks to this imposing, European-influenced structure. Later in the day, Papa would take us on wheelbarrow rides around the neighborhood as he checked-in on friends and their families. Sunday evenings, following the grand family meal, Grandma would release her long, flowing hair from the tight braid that she would have wound in a thick circle at the back of her head and worn throughout the busy week. I recall how long and glossy it was...as if it had never been cut before! She would sit in front of her mirror and brush it at least one hundred strokes while I sat on her bed watching, intently. 





My Beautiful Mother.....Olga

Many of my aunts and uncles still lived at home and attended high school or one of the local colleges in the area which included Indiana University South Bend and Notre Dame. Not too shabby! My Uncle Bill became a high school math teacher and Uncle John, the youngest son, taught Russian Language and Russian History courses in Skokie, Illinois, right outside of Chicago. During his teaching career, he managed to take several trips to Moscow and Kiev in Russia and bring his acquired knowledge back home to his students. There would always be someone running in or out of the house with Grandma yelling at them in Russian to close the door behind them. Russian was always the preferred language of my Grandparents. However, the youthful, American spirits who dominated the household with so much energy and freedom to spare, favored English. My aunts and uncles, especially the younger siblings, cherished the dominance of American culture and often negated the influences of their Ukrainian heritage stating, "We were born in America with new ideas and the 'Old Country' is just that, old." They lived in fear of the scrutiny of their piers believing that the 'old ways' would diminish or even deplete their birthright of American abundance.

Even at the young age of three or four, I could feel the sadness that engulfed my hard-working Grandparents whose only desire was having the best for all of their children. Eventually, life and circumstances wore both of them down. I can't help but think about the first-hand knowledge and fascinating stories about their Homeland that my aunts and uncles missed-out on while growing-up. Most of them verbalized their genuine regrets later on in life....much too late. 

I have my regrets, too! To have been older and better able to take advantage of learning the Russian language by my own Grandparents certainly tops the list. By the time I was picking those green beans in the garden, my Grandparents had learned to be ashamed of their native Russian language and only used it to communicate with relatives and friends of their own generation. When I would ask Papa about the several Russian Language text books he'd brought over with him on the boat, he would walk away from me while muttering, "Too hard to learn; too hard to teach." Unfortunately, my Mother, one of the older siblings, had never been taught, either.

Papa always worked with his hands, either in the garden or in his basement woodworking shop. His work was intricate and beautiful and many, if not all, of the pieces of furniture upstairs were handmade by him. I can still see and smell the aromatic curls of wood sifting down onto the work table as he hand-planed each piece of wood into the proper shape. I know that by sharing this time with him, I developed my appreciation for shape, style and texture and, to this day, associate the beauty of design with my Papa's dry, slightly gnarled, wise, old hands. 

My dear Grandparents learned from their own children how everything changes, shifts and evolves. It is inevitable. The passing of time promotes all change just as education serves to define it. What had served my Grandparents well while growing-up in the Ukraine was certainly the stepping stone leading up to their need for a safer, better life found in America. Even though they fought hard to keep the memories from the old country alive, they knew that the next generation would grow up in a different land with new ideas and values. However, it would always be the hardworking ethics and values of my Ukrainian born Grandparents that would be the super glue binding one proud generation with another.

I am a part of the generation defined today as 'Baby Boomers.' We are a bona fide product of the time recently marked by the end of WWII when prosperity and too much free time blessed our own parents. But, that was okay! I am here and I don't plan on moving on anytime soon. In the meantime, I have years upon years of outrageously interesting memories filed neatly away which I fully intend to tap into from time to time in order to do what I do best.....write!



Alexandria and Corinne

Now that my stacks of memories are ample enough to fill volumes, it is easier to reflect back on time itself and remember my Grandma's smile and warm touch that let me know I could do no wrong in her eyes; My Mother's translucent, freckle sprinkled skin and sun kissed, strawberry blond hair that predetermined a lifestyle filled with floppy hats and plenty of natural shade; My own preoccupation with a negative body image and rounded, Slavic nose. Sorry Grandma....still hyper critical of myself after all this time. Two daughters, my own Alexandria and Corinne, so named with Alexandria reminding me of my Mother in stature and unmasked kindness and Corinne always reflecting strength and her Father's chiseled looks and Irish appeal.

The next frontier: My three adorable Granddaughters! They represent the generation of 'what can be, will be,' and personally envelope me within a bright and colorful cloak of five generations of caring, loving, and strong women.

Sadly, I may never step foot on Ukrainian soil in my lifetime. However, the principles of respect, the power of caring for and about others, as well as the strength gathered within a loving nature, will always run through my veins. I take extreme pride in my Ukrainian heritage and will always attribute many of my strengths to Grandparents who, no matter what, knew how to Love......

 




With Love.......Your Granddaughter, Jacqueline.

NOTE: My heart and prayers go out to the people of the Ukraine today, tomorrow and always!  May you find the Leadership, Peace and Happiness you deserve.  Many of my relatives live in the Ukraine today and I think of you often.....




Copyright © 2014 by Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved

PHOTOS © Jacqueline E. Hughes












THE LOGIC OF BILL NYE

 A series of short stories......

Every Person Has A Story

Through My Eyes.....

 

By:  Jacqueline E. Hughes


"Everyone you meet knows something you don't." This is a quote from Bill Nye I happened to run across this week. In other words.....every person has a story. That's how I interpret it, anyway. And, I am all about a good story!

This is precisely why I receive such profound enjoyment from meeting, speaking with and discovering as much as I can about the people we meet on our various trips. And, this is exactly why being a 'good listener' pays off every time. If you don't know how to listen, how do you expect to learn? This applies to so many aspects of life.

Occasionally, it's a meeting by happenstance, when the stars align and someone just needs to be listened to....for sanity's sake. I was filing through antique French post cards at an outdoor market along the Rue du Maroquin on a visit to Strasbourg, France, when a lady accidentally bumped into me. Not wanting to seem rude in another country, I apologized to her saying, "Je m'excuse, s'il vous plait," to which she replied in broken Frenglish, "No, pardon me.....ahh....Je suis tres, um, clumsy!" She appeared quite disoriented and was happy to learn that we both shared American citizenship! We spent the next half an hour settling down on a nearby bench as I listened to how uncomfortable she was not being able to speak French and that her husband didn't seem to mind just taking off and leaving her to her own devices. She was so grateful to have a listening ear. They were only day-tripping in Strasbourg but, appreciated my invite to dine together for supper. They would be heading to their hotel in Comar as soon as she found her husband. Now calmed and settled with a 'taste of home' to cling to, we parted company. I will never forget how warm her hug was nor how sweet her smile as she spotted 'the husband' and thanked me for the much needed respite.


More often, however, a mutual chord is struck and a conversation ensues sparked by the passion for and knowledge of a shared idea. It could be as simple as enjoying the same piece of music; as intriguing as climbing a mountain together; or, as amazing as discussing the virtues of a particular pairing of wine to compliment the chef's seasonal entree for that evening's dining pleasure. The distinct beauty of all this is that everyone is a winner! Each participant will leave richer for having added at least one small kernel of knowledge to their life experience. The fun part is being able to use this 'kernel' in a discussion with someone else in the future.

How many smiles can you derive from perfect strangers while walking down a crowded sidewalk? Hopefully, we've all played this game at one time or another. If you haven't, it's so worth your time....trust me on this one! Happiness can be more contagious than yawning battles at your next weekly staff meeting. And, much, much more fun! Just choose a target (fellow pedestrian) who looks like he or she needs a boost. Quickly make eye contact. Begin small and then spread that smile on your face and take it from ear to ear if need be. Soon you'll be adding up your successes and, even if they fail to return your smile immediately, they'll be thinking about it all day and, maybe, just maybe be taking it home with them that night.

Our week-long stay in Oughterard, Connemara, Ireland, last September had us feeling as though we were local constituents, living near, eating and drinking with, as well as absorbing the distinct soul of this quaint Irish town...her people. Dining at the Boat Inn each night following the day's splendid adventures, created an atmosphere of belonging that only an extended stay anywhere can do. Veronica was so much more than our waitress for the duration. She became a friend, confidant and story teller extraordinaire! And, if truth be told, I think she was a bit 'sweet' on my husband, Dan...he enjoyed it immensely.

Veronica showed us the most convenient table to receive the best wi-fi connection.....which served us beautifully when we'd Skype the kids back home. Fortunately for us, as she would linger around our table after serving another round of Guinness or placing the most delicious fresh lamb stew, fish and chips or clam chowder before us, she would serve up the 'craic' (enjoyable conversation filled with gossip or news) for dessert with whipped cream and a cherry on top!! The writer in me appreciated every moment that transpired each evening as we savored great food and interestingly colorful tales revolving around the history of the area and the people who helped to form it.  Pure Heaven!!

I will add another dimension to Mr. Nye's quote from above and say how 'every picture tells a story!' From chiseled figures in rock walls to painted Egyptian symbols adorning mighty tombs to Renaissance Masterpieces admired from the gallery floor......to the awesome and colorful 'expression of ideas' brought home by your Kindergartner that are now framed and displayed on the family room wall! There is an impressive story that corresponds to each and every one of them.

Photographs taken while traveling serve to bring our stories back home with us, to explore, savor and share forever. They will become just as important to us later on as booking the perfect Bed & Breakfast establishment might be in the beginning.

I personally enjoy taking pictures of senior citizens and collect these magnificent images that represent years upon years of living, learning and loving. Each person's story is neatly tucked away behind dreamy eyes, weathered faces or a shock of white hair and layered within their souls like the walls of the Grand Canyon denoting dimension and time. I want (need) to learn what they know and I don't.

Occasionally, our stories can even overlap each other in time... Returning home from our latest visit to Provençal in the south of France, we invited friends over to see our photographs and enjoy several delicious French dishes I had made to honor our visit, as well as the wife, Florence, who was born in the Le Luberon area of Provence. This beautiful region was immortalized by the author, Peter Mayle. Enjoying a glass of Rhone Valley wine and a dessert of cream filled meringue, we scanned through our pictures. Suddenly, Florence, instructed us to go back to a particular image I had taken from the famous 'unfinished' bridge that spans out over the Rhone River (Pont d'Avignon) and resides just beyond the Palace of Popes (Palais des Papes). During the 14th century this palace in Avignon served as the papal residence and seat of Western Christianity. Ironically, good friends of hers live just beyond the green space across the river from the bridge and she could almost see their home in my photograph. Who knew, right?

Lastly......and certainly not least, let's discuss the most popular story-infused game of all time: People watching! Following the belief that everyone you meet knows something you don't, insert imagination into this mix and the game explodes into another dimension. There's no right or wrong, no win or lose to this sport and, it can be applied to so many scenarios with the results only limited or expanded by your own imagination. The next time you are in a crowded environment (airport terminal or shopping mall), find a bench, sit down and observe the people around you. Now, put your own twist on their personal story and enjoy!

Okay...let's get out of my head for now. I will admit that, sometimes, it can get a bit 'messy' up there. 

Try to remember this during the next trip you take to places far and wide.....that our earth's natural beauty will always be a highlight of your adventure and worth capturing both digitally and mentally. However, the beauty of paintings, sculpture, ancient structures and cultural customs carried down through the ages are served to us via the blood, sweat, imagination, talent and stories handed down through the generations of people who lived, breathed and died to make them happen.

If possible....I promise to learn one thing that I never knew before from each person that I meet throughout my lifetime and always be a positive link within the Circle of Life.