Archive for the ‘news’ Category


April 24, 2008

A person doing scuba diving is equipped with oxygen tanks which limit the amount of time one can safely stay alive underwater. That is a form of rationing; only a fool tries to go beyond the limits provided by the existing oxygen tanks.

In many parts of the world, but not where I live, people consume rations of food-stuffs. Some rations fall short of maintaining people’s health and well being. Meanwhile, where I live, the most exotic foods are readily available to people of average means. Variety of food is naturally rationed by seasonal availability, by the commonplace transport of foods from all over the world, and cost.

All of a sudden, news has arrived that Costco is limiting the amount of rice that can be purchased by individuals and small businesses. The reality that finally we may have to pay “actual” cost for food – the cost of transpost, storage, middlemen, producers – unleashes the first signs of panic in our carefully orchestrated  unreal reality, our waking dream life. No, I have not made my way to Costco to pick up several bags of Basmati, or brown rice to stockpile in our spare bedroom as a hedge toward scarcity.

I remember walking out with my Mother as a young child and waiting in line for the family ration of rice, which had to be taken in a pillow-case, and once brought home we spread out on the kitchen table to take out the chaff, gravel, and other components of the ration. Flour was rationed; as were sugar; coffee; beans and lentils. We live; we thrived; we played; we bemoaned the shortage of fresh fruit and vegs; we worked. Seasonal offerings were cause for joy and celebration. Living meant labour – daily doings which helped sustain us, offered us amusement and distractions from the rigours of living.

In comparison, my life has been one of almost unremitting ease and, yes, luxury. A suburban woman, I don’t perform one quarter of my mother’s labours. Yet I don’t view her life from the heights of condescension – she certainly didn’t lack in appreciation of the “refinements” of life; her tastes were not less sophisticated nor more pedestrian than my own – her ease, appetites, opportunities, ambitions  and labours were rationed in a balanced way.

I think it is high time to consider rationing my activities, appetites and expectations. Just enough, and no more, will most likely be a pleasing way to live.

“Mens sana in corpore sano…”

August 16, 2007

“A healthy mind in a healthy body…”   The saying is derived from Latin poet Juvenal’s ‘Satire X’.

“It is to be prayed that the mind be sound in a sound body.

Ask for a brave soul that lacks the fear of death, which places the length of life last among nature’s blessings

which is able to bear whatever kind of sufferings, does not know anger, lusts for nothing and believes the hardships and savage labours of Hercules better


the satisfactions, feasts and feather bed of an Eastern king.

I will reveal what you are able to give yourself;

For certain, the one footpath of a tranquil life lies through virtue.”

The concept of “a healthy mind in a healthy body” was a leitmotiv that ran like a strong thread through much of my parents’ philosophy of child rearing. It influenced  very strongly my own beliefs regarding parenting.

This morning’s newspaper had a big headline – $22M PLAN AIMS TO MAKE ONE MILLION HEALTHIER IN B.C. and the subheading states – Victoria, health groups want to ‘create a new social norm’.  “Right now in British Columbia, only about half the population is considered at a healthy body weight, 20 per cent are smokers, 40 per cent are physically inactive and most – 60 per cent – don’t eat the recommended daily serving of fruit and vegetables.” Darah Hansen, Vancouver Sun.

My parents are both deceased, but I wondered today, how they each may have reacted to this news. They were strong believers in the fact that healthy ways of living were to be learned in the bosom of the family, and that these were best established by modelling desirable behaviors.  Sport was something they each enjoyed; our family’s sport was tennis and we spent many years on the courts. It was not government initiative that had us all spend many pleasurable hours hitting and chasing the fuzzy white balls.

At the nearby high school, there are two brand new ashphalt courts.  I drive by these often and very rarely see people playing there. So there these courts sit, largely unused. No groups of teenagers hang about there, socializing as they wait to take turns for their chance to play.

Tennis is the sport that never failed to make me feel good. It didn’t require expensive equipment and clothing, nor the payment for the privilege of playing, nor the need to travel long distances in order to take part in. It is an easily accessible sport which is as much fun to watch as it is to play. And it is an activity which can be done to a fairly advanced age.

This is my tennis story:

I don’t remember far enough into the past as to what age I was when Anyu and Apu first took Ildiko and me to the tennis courts in Gyor, our home town. As far as my memory ranges, it seems that we spent most Sundays afternoons, until daylight faded, en famille at the courts from May until October.

Our tennis outings began with a brisk half hour walk through town, Anyu and Apu setting the pace up ahead, and Ildiko and I trying to keep up with them while at the same time bouncing tennis balls. She and I didn’t have tennis raquets of our own, and the balls we were allowed to play with were a couple of worn hairless brick-coloured ones.

When we arrived, slightly out of breath, at the cinder fields which were surrounded by metal mesh fencing enclosed by a perimeter of tall shivering poplars,  I always thought of the place as an huge outdoor room, open to the blue sky with a red floor and flickering dark and light green walls.

Once we entered the cinder ground, Apu would place his racquet by an available court and begin to freshen up the white chalk lines which divided the playing area. Anyu always busied herself with setting the net to the correct height, while Ildiko and I fooled around well behind the base-line, dribbling our ratty balls, competeing with each other to see who could make the highest number of consequent dribbles. Once the court was ready for occupation Anyu took up her spot facing away from the sun, and opposite her Apu faced into the sun.  Ildiko squatted outside the side-line near the net.  It was her job to retrieve balls caught up there.  My place as ball-girl was behind the base-line, near the fencing, and here I scrambled around to pick up balls missed by Anyu and to return them to her when she needed them.

We never got a chance to take the racquets and play until well after Anyu and Apu were ready for a breather – and they were tough and played for extended periods. Then, as they sat on side benches, Ildiko and I took up their racquets and attempted to play against each other. We held the racquets incorrectly, grasping them near the head because they were too heavy for us if we held them properly. We chased around on the loose cinder surface and tried not to slip and fall down.  To slip and fall down meant skinned legs with bits of red cinders embedded in the scrapes, entirely unpleasant.

When Anyu and Apu decided to resume playing, we returned to our appointed spots, and carried on our roles. As we began to understand the rules of the game and proper scoring, Ildiko helped call accuracy of serves, and I delighted in yelling when balls overshot the baseline. Sometimes Anyu couldn’t see the accuracy of a shot, as she was engrossed and concentrated on returning the balls to Apu, so when I called the shot inside the line and she had missed it she would shoot me an irritated glance. If Ildiko called fault on a serve, she risked annoying Apu. Sometimes, they got fed up with our presence on the court and dismissed us to go and play with our balls anywhere but near them.  Of course this meant that we had to stay well clear of other adults playing on nearby courts.

At times like this we practiced bouncing the balls under our lifted legs and held competitions as to who could dribble their ball the longest time. When we got bored of this we went back and sat on the sidelines watching various pairs or foursomes playing. We didn’t know where the word “Lov” came from, and only knew that it was a word we recognized as a scoring word.  We learned that “Falt” meant the ball fell outside correct bounds. This was a secret tennis language to me; these words were only used on the tennis courts.  Very odd!

We were always so eager to play for just a few minutes allowed us with the racquets on the court.  This was a privilege granted us for good behavior while there.  I constantly badgered Anyu about when I might be old enough to have my own tennis racquet. She indicated that when Ildiko was ten, she would have her own one, and since I was nearly two years younger I would have a little longer to wait for my own. This wait seemed awfully far away in the future, but it was definitely something to look forward to.  I could hardly wait! Ildiko was eagerly anticipating turning ten.

It was not until I was fourteen and Ildiko was sixteen that Anyu and Apu were able to afford to buy used tennis racquets, in Canada. For a few years they shared theirs with us and took turns playing against each of us in turn. We did drills in forehands, backhands, lobs, volleys and serves; they were patient and devoted teachers. The buying of a new can of tennis ballls was a big deal; we played with balls until they became freyed messes and bounced in a soggy manner. Whenever Apu could afford it, he bought a new can of Spaldings.  I loved opening it by inserting the little pull-off key into the tab around the crimped rim and peel back a strip of the metal to open the lid; the first hiss of the breaking vacuum seal never failed to thrill; the  pickle smell of brand new tennis balls was a welcome familiar and the untouched fresh nap of white fuzz bounded by the smooth rubber seams promised some good sets to come.

When Ildiko was in grade 11, Apu bought her a wooden Dunlop racquet with gut strings and a tensioning clamp. She was a very good player and was the girls singles player on our high school tennnis team.  Anyu handed me down her own good wood racquet when she bought her new one.  I liked Anyu’s racquet as the grip was comfortable, I was used to it and the balance and weight of it seemed perfect for me.  I played girls doubles and mixed doubles on the school team. Ildiko and I played against each other several times a week for practice, and walked a fair distance to the courts nearest our house, each time.  We both loved the sport. I never  really liked playing on asphalt, but there were only asphalt courts in Canada, however one didn’t as easily slip on them as on the Hungarian cinder courts.

Since those early years, I have played on grass and clay courts as well.  Each type of court surface has its peculiarities, advantages, drawbacks and difficulties.  But it is the crumbly, red cinder court of my Hungarian home town which was the first playing field where my love and pleasure of tennis was planted. I may never again play tennis on a cinder court  but every sight of that particular red – stone, gravel or clay of a matte surface quality – prods memories of family tennis outings more than fifty years ago.

“It has nothing to do with me…”

June 13, 2007

The anticipated bombing had not happened, though we waited, fearful. Our only information came from the capital in daily radio announcements. Russian tanks had moved in on Budapest and the citzenry there were engaged in an unequal battle for control; the brief freedom, illusory, had not been bolstered by outsider Western powers. Once the balance of power shifted back to the communists and the Russians, it was only a matter of few days for the armies to complete the mopping up of pockets of resistance in the smaller towns and cities. Our town would fall the day after the capital was recaptured, so Apu (Father) explained to us girls.  We were to be well prepared for the restrictions imposed on our movements by martial law, and Apu detailed what form those restrictions would take.

So we listened to the radio as though to an augur which  would predict our immediate fate. On a dark November evening we gathered around the radio and listened to a report that Budapest had been recaptured by the Russian Army. Apu’s face darkened, he clamped his large hands together as if they were two halves of a vise. Anyu (Mother) sat, tense, rigid in the large green armchair; her knitting fingers, nervous and stiff, made staccatto movements. Ildiko, curled around Anyu’s side, leaned her sad face against Anyu’s sleeve and stroked her upper arm. I went to the window overlooking Stalin Utca and gazed at the delicate sprinkling of snow falling slowly in the halo of the streetlamp.

Apu fiddled with the radio settings to find the local station. An announcement, terse, repeated several times, stated that a rally would take place at 8 pm at the town hall.  Here decisions would be made as to how best respond, united, to the anticipated arrival of Russian troops the following morning.  All concerned citizens were to attend this important meeting.

Apu stood up and ordered, “We must all get ready and go!  Get your coats, boots, watchcaps and gloves on.  It will be a long, cold meeting.” Anyu placed her knitting down on her lap.  “Why do you have to go so early?  The rally doesn’t start until 8 o’clock.” she said. “Well, there are a lot of hot-headed people here who will agitate the crowd to violent resistance, which is useless and will get a lot of people killed.  Then the repercussions will be increased brutal treatment of town people. I need to talk with the more rational folks to prevent such thoughtless reactions on our part.” insisted Apu.

Ildiko and I scooted out to the foyer and began to put on our winter gear.  Apu came and put on his shapka, overcoat and gloves. We stood around warming up and waited for Anyu to arrive.  She did not come, and we waited for a longish time. Apu opened the door to the salon and called out, “Rozsa, we are dressed and ready.  Hurry up! The girls are getting hot in their outdoor clothes.” No reply, silence. “Rozsa, let’s get going, we are waiting! What are you up to?” he asked.

Anyu slowly walked into the foyer to join us. She made no motions to get her winter coat on, and just stood wringing her hands. “I am not coming!” she announced, emphatic, “you take the girls and go.” Apu’s face turned an angry dark red under the edge of his shapka. “Whatever decision is made tonight by the crowd will influence what happens to all of us tomorrow. There has to be a balance of reasonable opinion there, to ensure a safe outcome for our town” Apu calmly reasoned. “It has nothing to do with me, and I am not coming!” retorted Anyu in a panicky voice.  “You girls, don’t let your Father make any speeches to the crowd.  If he does that tonight, the Russians will hang him as a traitor!” She walked back into the salon, slamming the door behind her. Ildiko looked confused, I know I was confused and Apu appeared frustrated.  We left the apartment, silent, trudged down the four flights of stairs and went out into the crisp, lightly dusting snow of the evening.

 On Stalin Utca were groups of people walking in the direction of the town hall. There were no cars on the street (few people in our town owned private vehicles), just bundled-up people  of all ages headed to the same destination.  Ildiko, older than me by a couple of years walked, sedately, on Apu’s right. I skipped beside him on his left, because of the cold, and he grasped me by the nape of the neck, but did not scold me. All the way to town hall, Ildiko begged and pleaded with him to not speak in public. “What will happen to us all if the Russians hang you, Apu?”she questioned him.  Apu reassured her that he had ways of avoiding such an eventuality. Along our walk he explained that it was an individual’s duty to share a considered opinion with others, so that the best possible group decision could be made.  He also told us that he cared not only for us, his family, but also for many other people and if he could convince powerful persons in the town to make the right decision in regards to how best respond to the anticipated arrival of Russian troops, we would all be spared the horror of reprisals.

I skipped along beside Apu, listening to Ildiko’s anxious questions and entreaties and his reasonable and reassuring replies to her.  He said he would not lose us in the crowd, and that if he spoke to them he would be truthful, calm and speak from the heart.  I believed and trusted Apu, thus felt no apprehension in being with him this evening. I sensed and heard Ildiko’s worry and decided that I would hold her hand and not let go, while we were waiting around listening to the many discussions that would take place.

We arrived at the town hall to find a massive crowd gathered and buzzing in the open square in front. Apu led us through the mass of people to the front of the building and guided us up the wide staircase to the front door. Spotlights lit up the square and blanched the many faces to be seen there; they looked like an assembly of ghostly heads gazing, very still, toward the parapet above the town hall’s main doors. Makeshift Hungarian flags, without the communist insignia, hung limp at the parapet’s corners. Snow dusted down, a finely speckled curtain.

Apu guided us upstairs and left us with a group of women and children, none of whom we recognized, and asked that we remain with them during the speechmaking that was to follow. He joined a group of older men, most of whom he seemed to know, on the parapet.  There was a microphone and spotlights directed at the podium where the speakers were to orate from to the crowd below. Suddenly, a man walked up to the microphone and announced the singing of the national anthem “Isten Elti A Magyart”, then began to sing in a wonderful tenor voice.  The crowd followed in song. At the end an eerie silence descended on the square, all movement seemed to cease and it felt like the whole mass was holding their breath all at the same time.

The acting mayor greeted the crowd with the news from a village nearby to the East of us.  The Russian tanks had arrived there and had encamped outside the village.  The Russian troops had travelled with their families in tow and had demanded that the village provide milk for the soldiers’ children.  There was not enough milk in the village and the demand had been made for milk to be brought from our town to give to the Russians.  Would our town accede to this order, or would the citizens resist?

Several younger speakers exhorted the crowd to organize armed resistance to the Russian arrival to take control of our town. Under no circumstance should we provide any aid to our opressors; in fact we should battle to repel them. More reasonable orators argued against armed resistance as being futile; we did not have the resources with which to engage in a pitched battle.  The discussion carried on for a long time, and a clear direction to take seemed elusive. Apu came back to check on Ildiko and me, to make sure we were not too cold. Ildiko hung onto his arm and begged, “Please , Apu, don’t talk to the crowd,  I am so afraid for you if you speak out!” She began to cry, and I hugged her and wiped the tears from her cheeks with my woolen glove. Apu put his arms around us and said quietly “I will talk, but listen carefully to what I will say to the people here. No Russians will hang me for what I am about to tell the crowd. Sometimes one must speak!” He left us and walked to the podium.

“How many of you brought your children to this rally tonight?  I brought my two – they are back there listening to all that we are saying here. I would be very angry if my children needed milk, were hungry, and were prevented from having what they needed. This anger would cause me to do everything in my power to force a resolution for my children’s needs, and even push me toward greater violence in reprisal actions against the group of people who increased my children’s discomfort. The Russian soldiers are men like us, their feelings toward their families is exactly the same as our own. The  families who accompany these soldiers are not doing this voluntarily, the children in their encampment are innocents, hungry like our own children. Send the milk, then maybe the soldiers will be more lenient and kindly toward our own families, once the power has shifted.  We would be foolish to resist such armed might, and would be fools to anger the individuals comprising it.” He walked away from the microphone and stood back with the group who had already spoken.

I was clutching Ildiko’s hand.  She was agitated, weeping and shivering. “I know Apu will be punished for this!”she sobbed, ” I should have done something to prevent him from speaking.  Anyu will be so disappointed with me for not looking out for him.” I threw my arms around her, hugged her and stood there with her until Apu came to lead us homeward.  In my heart I knew Apu was right, I just could not find the words to convince Ildiko of this.

The three of us walked home in the gently falling snow.  Ildiko was weeping, Apu was silent and had his arm about her shoulders.  I skipped along, feeling very safe and convinced of Apu’s wisdom.  The outcome of the rally was to collect milk in our town and take it to the Russian encampment for their children.  There was to be no armed resistance to the takeover.  Sometime tomorrow morning the tanks would rumble and grind into town and hunker down, menacing, on our snowy streets and boulevards.

Flood warning…

June 5, 2007

The rivers are rising! Last week’s hot weather seems to have resulted in a fast melt of the high ground snow pack. Cows from dairy farms in the eastern valley are being evacuated in large numbers, and are being moved to higher ground. Lucky and her husband and children are sand-bagging their house on the dike, their immediate neighbours are removing and plugging toilets and moving belongings to higher levels in their houses. 40 or so families who live in the flood plain in our community are on evacuation alert.

Rumpole and I drove down to the river, quite some distance from our place.  It is running high and very fast. it has been raining here for the past few days- that kind of intense spring rain accompanied by thunder and lightning. The rain looks as if it is here to stay for a couple more days, and the vegetation does need it.

What if the flood does come and is the expected high?  Will the many blueberry farms, all on low land  surrounded by diking, be inundated? If the worst happens how much damage will be done to the vigorous fields of bushes which provide a living to these farmers?

We have friends who have a farm a fifteen minute walk downhill from our house.  They have a herd of fallow deer, with a number of young this time of year.  How will they manage?

Now the wait is on, with it the hope for respite and reprieve for all of our neighbours threatened by this flooding.

Sun headlines, Section A…

April 4, 2007

Top B.C. Anglican won’t heed same sex rebuke

New law aims to force drunks off the road

Woman pregnant after twin’s ovary transplanted

see Transplant A2

Fertility drugs may cut breast cancer risk

Brothers plead guilty in tainted-water case

Universities planning to rank programs

Parties force vote on missile plan

Oscar Wilde letters, photos to be sold

Extra flu vaccine could go to U.S.

Broadcaster quits over “ghetto” remark

U.S. astronauts to vote from space station

Charting what’s “hip”, what’s not in English

Sun readers suffer from news burnout

Mystery marriage left “bride” baffled

Americans showed how to hold a civilized debate

Sun readers prove to be news savvy

see Story A12

An example of making a list poem, by copying down each headline in the A section of the local newspaper as encountered in sequence.  I also like lists and particularly enjoy finding abandoned lists at the grocery store – like the individuality of the handwritten characteristics of these, of the underlinings, crossings out, the emphases… fun stuff?  🙂

Worthwhile to watch on PBS – TV

February 7, 2007

February is Black History Month.

Worth watching is “Forgotten Genius”, part of the science series, “Nova”, a dramatization of the life of black research chemist Percy L. Julian.

There is a wonderful article in the February 6, 2007 edition of The New York Times – “Reclaiming a Black Research Scientist’s Forgotten Legacy”, by Felicia R. Lee.

For any of us who have benefitted from use of cortisone for treatment of rheumatoid arthritis, or other conditions (including Psoriasis), some knowledge of individuals engaged in the development of such drugs is useful in celebrating the gifts our predecessors have bestowed on us to ease our lives.

As a past and current user of cortisone medication, I salute the memory of this remarkable individual, Mr. Percy L. Julian.

Attending a Lecture…. and its aftereffect.

February 4, 2007

Last night, friend M and I drove 40km to attend a lecture at the U, entitled “Gardens as Elements of an Urbanizing World”.  The lecturer is a world-renowned  “expert on the development of landscape architecture through the ninteenth and twentieth centuries.  He was co-founder of his university’s interdisciplinary doctoral program “Practice and Theory of Creative Research in the Arts”.

I have long been looking at and considering land use in suburbia, and have noted with pleasure the increased recognition of the need for urban and suburban allottments which enable people to grow at least some of their food, if they do not already have a piece of owned earth on which to do so. What surprised me in this lecture was an almost total lack of emphasis on gardens in urban settings which could augment food supplies for people living there; I would rather have seen developments in this area, than on the history of the evolution of pleasure gardens of well-to-do landowners and leisure places of large communities.

While having breakfast, browsed on line articles from “The New York Times”, still somehow preoccupied by last night’s lecture, and came across the article:

“Smokestacks in a white wilderness divide Iceland” by Sarah Lyall, February 4, 2007. The New York Times.

Having seen many photos and artworks picturing Iceland, which is a place of peculiar beauty, and perhaps is a natural Variation of the Garden, in all its possible meanings, I was very much moved by the contents of this article – a stuggle between the need to conserve an environment and the necessity of increasing trade by a particular nation of people.

Glamour couples……a new fad or a tradition?

January 25, 2007

I am going to be somewhat long-winded in telling this.  Please bear with me?

“Rumpole” and I, spend mornings before he goes to work drinking coffee and reading the local rags. We are not “morning people”, although in a half-assed “Stepford Wife” fashioned way I tend to fake it and try to be a bit more chipper in order to buck up “Rumpole” who has a hard time waking up, needs his coffee  to arrive in his sleepy grasp fresh and strong.  He usually is very curious about current affairs, the economy and politics and often discusses items that pique his interest and we have great conversations that often make me think, when we are apart, about various things he has pointed out. He rarely reads feel- good stories,  articles about fashions and trends, odd bits and pieces, nor book reviews. While he reads about the weather in the papers, I look out the window.  We check things in the papers  based on our individual tendencies and often react quite differently when we discuss what has come to each of our attentions. Sometimes we are in complete agreement. Other times we debate, with varying degrees of fervour, depending largely on how we’ re feeling at the time and how we each are mulling about our upcoming activities.

This morning, I noticed a photo of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie in “The Sun”. The newspapers referred to them as “Brangelina”.  Brad Pitt reminds me of a younger version “Rumpole”(when we were courting I thought R  was”Hot”.  This is a pleasant memory, but I digress).  I  never looked as good as Angelina Jolie does in this picture  (in earlier times Rumpole acted like he considered me a hottie).  I  thought a bit about this while sipping coffee and started snorting and chuckling. “Rumpole”, interrupted at his reading, asked me what I was finding to giggle about.  He had been engrossed in and alarmed by an article on new tax measures. I pointed to the Brangelina photo and said that they were sure an attractive couple. ” So, what’s your point?”, he asked rather irritably.  I told him that right then we looked like a fine pair , definitely not like a glamour couple, him with his glossy bald head and ratty bathrobe and me with my wild grey hair sticking up all over the place and my Snoopy slippers.  He looked blank for a moment and then started laughing.

“You are so silly”, “Rumpole” managed to get out between chortles. I laughed and asked him to think of neighbours who might be considered a glamour couple, even if we would not. “Consider Sherry and Harold (younger neighbours two houses over from ours). Harold is sure easy on my eyes, besides which he is to be admired as a highly skilled tradesman, hard worker and much respected, good natured and  honourable and Sherry and their kids love him. Meanwhile you, “Rumpole”, like Sherry,have said that you thought her extremely attractive, witty, very capable  and caring. You said she had ‘pluck  and character’ “.  He scratched his head, while considering this, and finally concluded that yes, Sherry and Harold were the glamour couple on our street. Laughing, I suggested that from now on we refer to them as “Sharold”, in code, to save time. We had a good laugh over this.  For a little while he stopped his fretting over news about taxes and his mood improved.  He went off and got dressed in his suit. Today he had to be sharp in court.

As “Rumpole” and I, “Stepford Wife,” said our goodbyes at the door this morning, I noticed he had a bit of spring in his step. He smoothed my messy hair and patted me on the bum.

I just had to write this down so I can remember this situation in the future, and it may cause me delight. And true to my silly nature, I’m wondering what Venus and Mars, that glamour couple in old times, would have had their two names condensed to, to  arrive at a version of “Brangelina”. Did whatever code neighbouring Olympians decided to shorten their names to enable Venus and Mars  to share laughter momentarily and Mars to have a spring in his step as he left the grove to go about his business? 

The next time I am walking the dog, if Sherry is out in her yard puttering about, I’ll casually mention to her that from here on in, to save time in greetings whenever we all meet , I’ll call out to them – ” Hi Sharold!”  She and Harold might get a kick out of this! 

Mrs. Mufleh = Soccer = Hope

January 21, 2007

Too often, we hear and read primarily bad news.  Our fears are kindled. This make us percieve our lot like a cup that is less than half full, its contents rapidly dwindling.

But, if you read about Mrs Mufleh, her soccer team – the Fugees, in this terrific article, for certain you will find your capacity for HOPE to be revitalized.

Google – The New York Times, January 21, 2007, article – “Refugees find Hostility and Hope on Soccer Field”