Moving on...

“It must be time to move,” I said to Art last week after a visit to the Rochester Public Library. Browsing the new bookshelf, which is where I always start, all that caught my eye were novels I had just taken from my bookshelves and donated.

There was my entire collection of Indian writers whom I was passionate about for years after my first visit to India in 1994. Traveling for three weeks in Rajasthan left such a lasting impression that for at least a decade afterward all I wanted to read were novels set in India by Indian writers. I wanted to capture again the sensory experience of the smell of sandalwood and incense, the parade of colors of village women in brilliant saris and gold bangles walking barefoot on the dusty red earth , to hear the sounds of clipped English, and experience the total absence of familiar Western culture. Immersing myself in Indian fiction I found I could relive and picture those memorable weeks that stayed with me years later.

On the Rochester news page of the Herald last week, the librarian announced “the donation of a collection of Indian novels by Kristina Aaronson” and special display of these books on the front table in the library. I told this to my mother in North Carolina who wanted to know who in Rochester, Vermont would care to read Indian novels. There are some people in Rochester who have become so immersed in the art of meditation that they spend time in ashrams in India and are enamored of many things Indian. As the saying goes, “there is more than meets the eye” here in Rochester, a Vermont town of 1200 people.

Parting with my Indian book collection was not as difficult as it might have been some years ago. Knowing we are moving from our house in Vermont it was necessary to reexamine things I valued and kept in this house for 20 years. As I have sorted, cleared out, and thrown away I am struck by how my interests have gone in new directions as time has passed and I have explored new parts of the world. I no longer crave reading Indian novels. Not only did I part with most of my books but the “salwar kameez “ outfits I had made while in India, wore for fun, and hung onto for years, are finally in the give away bag for the thrift shop with no regrets. It was time.

I have cherished and supported the Rochester Public Library, open three days a week and housed in an old white New England church building with steeple, stained glass windows and all. It has served me well over the years. Now I am pleased that my India collection will live on there. at least for awhile. But I am ready for a new library to explore regularly. I am glad to be moving on.

Hung up on weather...

"Did you catch the few minutes of sun this morning?" a friend in the Rochester grocery store said to me this morning. "I'm not sure...was that the sun?" I asked her. Once at the checkout counter I noticed people trying to get through more quickly than usual. Rochester is a a small town where people take time to stop and chat, as if that is what they come to town to do. It is refreshing that the pace of life slows down. Conversations in town inevitably start with the weather. Today the few rays of sun over Rochester were struggling to defy the threatening rain clouds.

On my five mile drive home I saw a neighbor walking her dog along the road. I stopped, rolled down the car window to say hello. She greeted me with "how are you doing with this all this rain?" I was momentarily comforted knowing that I'm not the only person around here focussed on weather.

Lately I have become more preoccupied than usual with the weather because it has been one of the wettest, coldest springs in several decades. I seem to be continually checking with meteorologists Mark Breen and Steve Moleski, on Vermont Public Radio. Their voices have become as recognizable as family members. Sometimes they report more than I really want to know about weather facts, and yet I stop what I am doing to listen to the"Eye on the Sky" report as if my life depended on it. I know I will survive but am not sure my mood will.

Vermonters are preoccupied with weather no matter what time of year it is. In the winter the conversations are all about how many degrees below zero the thermometer went last night, or how many inches of snow fell yesterday, or what the road conditions are like for driving over the mountain. Rochester is in the White River Valley between two mountain ranges so heading east or west requires a drive on a winding mountain road to 2500 feet.

In the summer, which always seems to fly by faster than any other season, I have heard Vermonters complain that it's too hot when the thermometer gets above 75 degrees. Air conditioning is a rare commodity in small town Vermont. Only very few businesses have AC like the grocery store. If you go to the Rochester Hardware store on Main Street on a warm day or Sandy's Bakery & Cafe, all the doors and windows are open. I feel the urge in the summer to store up the heat and sunshine so that I can draw upon the memory of it when winter gets here.

Vermont is famous for spectacular fall foliage, but spring is the season that never seems to arrive when it is supposed to or when we need it. At least that is how it is this year. Leaves appear seemingly overnight and the grass suddenly shoots right up and transforms the landscape from one day to the next from white to gray to brilliant dazzling shades of green. Spring bursts on the scene as if to announce that we have all survived another long winter.

By the time I get home from town the sun has gone under. I reach for my well worn fleece and settle on the couch with a book and a blanket. I can always hope that tomorrow will be better.

Digging for ramps...

“We are going to look for ramps,” my friend Helga said to me one early spring day. “What’s that?” I replied, never having heard the word before. “You’ll see…” was all she would say.

Armed with small shovels, carrying plastic bags, and wearing work gloves, we set off up the hill and into the woods behind her house in South Royalton. We hiked a mile or so till we reached a plateau. Suddenly Helga headed over to an area of bright green leaves growing on the ground in clumps and covering the floor of the woods. “Here they are!” she said triumphantly as if she were greeting old friends. She told me that she has been coming to this same spot on the property every spring for the past twelve years.

Taking a small shovel, she dug carefully around a clump of leaves working the roots out of the ground. Freeing them gently, she held up a bunch of leaves with small white bulbs at the root looking much like scallions or smaller version of leeks. That’s because ramps are related to this species, only they are a wild variety. Officially they are known as Allium tricoccum or wild leeks. I watched Helga bend down to dig up more and followed her lead till I got the gist of loosening the roots before pulling out the plant so that the bulb remains intact. Ramps give off a strong garlicky onion odor even while pulling them out of the ground. Bring them in the house and the odor gets can be quite powerful.

Digging up the ramps is the easy part. The work comes in cleaning them as they come out of the ground, like most root vegetables, heavily caked with dirt. It takes much rinsing and soaking and eventually removing the natural film around the bulb to get them clean enough to cook with. Once cleaned, you can chop them up to use in a variety of dishes. Helga chopped some up, put them in a frying pan with olive oil and seasonings, sautéed them, and served them with parmesan cheese over freshly made plain pasta. Delicious… because of their pungent flavor.

Learning to dig for ramps opened up a new world to me - a world of foods found in the wild. I am now aware that this is second nature to my European and Russian neighbors. Helga and Heidja, who both grew up in Germany, told me that this is what they did as children during the Depression and World War II when food was scarce. My Russian neighbors are avid mushroom pickers and seem to know just where to go to pick them and which ones are safe to eat. The ritual of going into the woods at certain times of spring and summer seems to be part of welcoming each new season.

I came home after my first ramp digging experience to discover that there were acres of ramps growing in the woods all over the mountain where I live. For years, each spring I had walked right by this new bright colored green growth in the woods and never had any idea what it was. Now, I am practicing incorporating digging for ramps into my ritual for the coming of spring to Vermont. I have been on the Internet to find ideas for recipes to use them in. There is something deeply gratifying about the freedom of going into the woods to bring home a plant that is delicious to eat. Deep down it feels like I have been in touch with some long dormant instinct I was meant to use while on this earth.

Today my kitchen smells of ramps because the ones I picked fresh today are drying on the counter. We’ll be enjoying Ramp Quiche for dinner tonight.

Mother's Day

Yesterday in her daily email to me, Mom related a story I had not heard before. She wrote: I was thinking about long ago on a Mother’s Day how Mary Blythe and I wanted to get something for our Mother...We had no money and hunted all over the house, under chair cushions and in drawers looking for pennies until we had some money. Mary Blythe said she had a wonderful idea of what to give Mother and was so excited. “Mother will just love this,” Mary Blythe said. She bought a big pink crepe paper rose to fasten on the round part of the telephone. You talked into this huge rose. Oh, how wonderful! What a perfect present. But the rose did not stay on the telephone for very long. Mary Blythe and I just couldn’t understand why the big paper rose was lost so soon and why Mother wasn’t hunting for it.

My mother is the most gracious person I know when it comes to receiving gifts. Perhaps she learned this because of, or in spite of, experiences with her own mother. Having a close relationship with her and being a mother myself, I don’t need a special day of the year to celebrate motherhood. I suspect my Mother feels the same way. However, I have to admit that I liked thinking about what I might send Mom for Mother’s Day this year. Knowing she wasn’t expecting a gift and would be happy with just a phone call, made me determined to surprise her with something that would please her. I had just been for a visit and replenished her wardrobe. I know I can no longer send her a favorite book because her eyes are not good. So I opted for a DVD movie for entertainment. She loved it and thanked me over and over again

I must admit I felt excited when the UPS driver came up the driveway Friday afternoon and delivered a large box with my name on it. Something I had not ordered. A surprise gift for Mother’s Day, for me? It felt like Christmas. I loved opening the card and reading the kind words my son wrote to me. The elegantly packed gift basket of teas and biscuits and a variety of specialty items to go with afternoon tea are just right to satisfy the Anglophile in me. My family knows that and especially my son.

I know Mother’s Day has become another one of those “Hallmark holidays” that fills the shops with greeting cards, your email inbox with advertisements for sending flowers, and boosts restaurant sales. I remind myself that this is the American way, part of our culture. The librarian in me had to research Mother’s Day on the Internet to learn that it’s been an American holiday since Woodrow Wilson’s presidency almost 100 years ago. Anna Jarvis wanted to honor her mother after her death and proposed the holiday in very specific terms. It was to be the second Sunday in May but to be called Mother’s Day. She was specific about the location of the apostrophe; it was to be singular possessive, for each family to honor their mother, not a plural possessive commemorating all mothers in the world. Reading further I learned that only ten years after Mother’s Day was established it became so commercialized that Anna Jarvis herself became a major opponent of her own holiday and fought the abuse of the holiday for the rest of her life. She critisized the practice of purchasing greeting cards, which she saw as a sign of being too lazy to write a personal letter.

I am glad to have marked another Mother’s Day in my life. This year I learned about the story of two little girls searching for pennies to buy my grandmother a gift. My son’s card is tucked away to reread and savor. Most of all I hope that next year I will have the same dilemma of what to get my Mom for Mother’s Day that will please her.

Facebook

I have a new appreciation for Facebook after a slow and reluctant start with it. When everyone was jumping on board with enthusiasm for the new social media, I hung back with my arguments and rationale. Why do I need this? I email friends I want to stay in touch with. It's too personal to put private information "out there" on the web. I don't want to spend my life connected to a computer or other technology device. What happened to living in the moment and experiencing what is going on in real life? Older people aren't spending time on Facebook.

I remember setting up my Facebook page and posting it several years ago. About a week later I panicked and took it down when I thought about the reasons I just mentioned. Then I noticed that friends and family of all ages were beginning to ask me, "Are you on Facebook?" When I got the question from someone my age or older I took notice. Not every one was holding out as staunchly as I was. So, I succumbed concluding that Facebook is all around me. Could it be that harmful? The truth is that I have this fear of being "out of date" and worse, talking about how "we used to do things". That's for people getting old. Not me. I was going to keep up with the modern world so I had better become part of the social media. This time I set up a Facebook page and have kept it.

The realization of the value of Facebook has come to me only recently. While planning our trip to Argentina this winter I began to think about going back to the neighborhood in the Buenos Aires suburb of Acasuso where I grew up. I wondered what had happened to the Harris Smith's, the Anglo Argentine family that lived across the street from us for seven years. Like my family, they had three children of similar ages, and we were in and out each others houses every day for seven years. I lost touch after my family moved when I was 12. Could I find any of them again and how? It took some finagling to find two cousins of the Harris Smith children (one is my Mother's goddaughter), who happen to live in Virginia and who gave me Teeny Harris Smith's married name. She popped right up on Facebook and I sent a message to her in Buenos Aires. She answered right away as if all those years in between had dissolved. We emailed, learned more about each other, and one of the highlights of my visit to Argentina was getting to spend time with her after 54 years. Now I check her Facebook page from time to time looking for photo updates of her large family. I don't think we will lose each other again.

Yesterday, while checking email a strange name popped up with a message from my Facebook page from Paraguay. Patricia Vega Rodriguez wrote...This is Patricia Vega. How are you and Arthur? He lived at home in Asuncion with us around 1973, I think. We always remember him and you. He loved my Mom so much and was a brother for all of us. We still keep a Christmas card with a picture of you, Art, and Hayden (1 or 2 years old).....I am lucky to find you here! We send a big hug from the Vega family from Paraguay.

The Vega's were Bolivians living in Asuncion who opened up their home to Art, when he first went to South America as a young, single teacher. He lived with them for two years while learning Spanish and was treated as a son. For years afterwards when we would talk of our early years in Paraguay Art would wistfully say "I wonder what ever happened to the Vega family?" In the past 24 hours we have had a complete update, photos, and emails from Patricia Vega, the youngest daughter and Teresa, the oldest. Wonderful, warm notes, lots of exclamation marks and the kindness and love just comes through as if we were still young and living in Asuncion. All because Patricia somehow found me on Facebook.

Today Art said wishfully "I wonder if I could find my Samoan family on Facebook". Maybe I will set him up with a Facebook page. Suddenly it seems that anything is possible. I can't wait to get my next unexpected message on Facebook.

Clearing out...

"It's time to do some clearing out," my mother says to me when I go and visit. She lives in a small, tidy assisted living apartment. I look around to find the clutter but I don't see it.

"What do you want to throw out?" I ask her, trying to be helpful and remembering that this is a ritual we go through every time I visit. She starts opening drawers and questioning "What am I hanging on to this for?" or "I don't need that anymore". Only very rarely will she say, "Perhaps I should keep that awhile longer."

When we open the closet in he bedroom she finds a half dozen things she has not worn in the past few years and asks me to get a bag for throwaway clothes. Later I find her going through a stack of catalogs under the coffee table and putting them in the trash knowing more will come within days...which they do. When we are finished she is pleased and I'm surprised that we have unearthed things to get rid of from her seemingly orderly surroundings. I notice that she feels infinitely better as if letting go of these things has given her a new outlook on life. She looks around her apartment with pleasure.

This makes me think of the Bessie K. Russell Branch Library in Huntsville, Alabama. Years ago, when I was Head of Extension Services for the Huntsville Madison County Public Library, I was responsible for the operation of the branch libraries. BKR, as we called it, was a thorn in my side. Mrs. Easley, a large black southern woman in her 60's with no library training had become head of the BKR branch before my time, and clung to her position with great authority. Then I came along, a white northern woman in my early 40's with an MLS degree and little administrative experience. I was her new boss from Headquarters.

BKR was not doing well because circulation figures were down. It only took a few visits to see that the collection had not been "weeded" in years. Instinct told me, I had to tread carefully knowing how insecure Mrs. Easely was when I made suggestions for any kind of changes. I began by looking for some positives I could praise Mrs. Easley for. I decided to work up to my goal to weed half the books on the overcrowded shelves. Once I had established the

groundwork, I spent an entire spring at BKR weeding the collection which was supposed to be part of Mrs. Easley's job description. A good administrator always delegates and yet I knew if I left it to her it would never happen.

One day, while I was midway through weeding the Fiction collection, I overheard a patron in the next aisle comment to another, " Look at all the new books in the library." The answer was, "Yeah, isn't it great?" Bingo! I knew we hadn't added any new books but taken out the old ones so that you could finally find to the newer ones. It was like the answer to "how to update your library collection without spending any money." It did not take long for circulation to start increasing. Mrs. Easley was thrilled and suddenly treated me with new respect despite my being young, white, and from the North. This became not only a personal victory for race relations, but my "cleaning out" story that I have told over and over again.

One of the liberating things about growing older is that I have lost my desire for acquiring things. I have little interest in shopping and there is nothing I need. I don't require things to remind me of experiences or trips because I keep the memories in my head and eliminate the clutter. I have always found it easy to part with things which is not surprising considering I was raised watching my mother easily acquire and get rid of things especially as we moved frequently.

I remember my Mother coming to my college graduation in Iowa from Bogota, Colombia where my parents were living. After the ceremony and celebrations, it was time to pack up and leave. I had an old trunk that I was fast filling to the top. When my mother saw what I was keeping she immediately started started finding things she thought I shouldn't keep. By the time she was finished with me I had a huge pile of giveaway stuff. Several of my friends in the dorm couldn't believe all that I was leaving behind and talked about it years later. They were secretly relieved their mothers were not doing the same. The truth was that I never missed a thing that I left behind once I went on with my life.

When I do buy something new I am compelled to throw out or give away something I no longer need. Clearing out closets and straightening up drawers, getting rid of things in the basement, and only keeping what I need around me makes me feel good. My priorities have changed and I have learned that one can live with less. Some of my friends of my age are doing the same. My college roommate who hung on to everything for years is spending her retirement having garage sales and selling on E-Bay. We have teased each other throughout our long friendship about my being the "thrower outer" and she the "keeper". She told me this week, " After spending the last few summers at the cabin (on a lake in Minnesota) I discovered how little I need to get along with."

Next time I visit Mother she will ask me again to help her clear out another closet, her bookcases, or her desk files. Being the expert "weeder" that I am, I will gladly oblige.

Visiting my Mom...

“I like to just sit and look at you…” my Mother tells me when I visit her in Chapel Hill. It’s as if she needs to memorize my presence as I do hers - to save me for all those days when we aren’t together and until the next visit.

Last week I took a flight to Raleigh Durham, rented a car, and in twenty minutes was at Carolina Meadows and the Fairways, the assisted living facility where my mother lives. I know my way as if I lived there because I’ve been so many times. As I drove through the entrance I was reveling in the flowering trees with new leaves, brilliant pink azaleas, and the blue and yellow pansies bordering the neatly mowed green lawns. All seemed so lush and manicured - a refreshing change from Vermont where spring is very late this year.

On the way, I passed my parents villa on the corner lot at 318 where they moved in 1993. The garage door was open with a view of stacked storage boxes and overflowing shelves of stuff and two strange cars parked in the driveway. I noticed rosebushes and flowers planted in newly dug flowerbeds in the yard and a decorative flag hanging over the garage. Mom and Dad were the first to live in this spacious house where the garage was used to park the car and the door was never left open because that was unsightly. Neither of my parents particularly liked gardening preferring to spend their time on more intellectual pursuits - Mom writing novels and Dad preparing foreign affairs lectures.

I parked my rental car in the new Fairways parking lot that was not finished when I was there in January, and hurried up to apartment 212 where I found Mom sitting in her tidy one bedroom apartment waiting for me. This is how our visits always start now that she is alone and so much has changed. She looks up when I walk in and I feel relieved to know she will cheer up while I am there. I silently make a wish and hope that I can take some of her sadness away.

Mom is appreciative of anything I do for her and has come to depend on me ever since Dad became ill and and passed away last year. This is a role reversal of earlier years when I looked to her for help and support. She now knows that she can count on me to be there for her although it took me awhile to get used to this shift in our mother daughter relationship. Now I love to helping her. I find myself observing her closely and learning how to grow old gracefully. I want to always remember these last years.

At 91, Mom is never critical and the perfect listener. Although she is frail, hard of hearing with failing eyesight, she wants to know what is happening in the world, and in all of our lives. Perhaps this is why she gets frequent phone calls from children and grandchildren who want to tell her things. She draws the line at complaining and becomes impatient with residents who are critical of whatever is going on at the Fairways. She prefers to keep a positive outlook and despite the fact that she is alone, she often says she feels fortunate to be so well cared for where she is.

My mother is a real lady. Her grandmother Virginia, for whom she was named, made a lasting impression on her growing up and taught her to always "do and say the kindest thing in the kindest way". Whether or not she is aware of it, she lives by those words each day and is loved by everyone who takes care of her. She always follows rules, and spends much of her time doing the right things in caring for herself. Few people would imagine how adventuresome she was as a young woman when she left her home in Iowa to go to South America by herself, marry my father, and have three babies in different foreign countries.

I am always surprised when she asks me to help her get rid of things and especially the “katchy bachy” (a made up word we learned in Argentina). When I look around I see everything neatly put away and very little junk. I remember the stories she would tell us as children about the messy house she grew up in. My grandmother was a free spirit who never felt the need to put away anything so that there were stacks of books everywhere on the floor and clothes were thrown into paper sacks when they took trips. My mother said she vowed when she grew up not to live that way and of course, she hasn’t. She married my father who never had patience for anything out of place. Now that she no longer has to please him she still keeps things neat as a pin and cleared out. She was always my role model for being able to throw things away easily. I am sad when she wants me to clear out more books out of the bookcases. Knowing her love of literature and good books, she has lived surrounded by her favorites but now, of course, her eyes no longer allow her to read any of them. She listens to books on tape instead.

Each time I visit, we have fun sprucing up her wardrobe. My mother is probably the best dressed resident at the Fairways taking care to wear something that pleases her every day. She still puts on a hint of make up and even a necklace to go with each outfit. No sweatpants or polyester for this 91-year-old lady! I have learned that putting on a favorite outfit everyday does help morale. I like to shop for her as we both take pleasure in soft, pleasing colors. She likes to wear yellows, spring green, soft turquoise and celestial blues. My sense of color comes from her and often we will appear in the same colors without having consulted each other beforehand. When I was growing up I loved shopping together and it became something we did even after I was grown up. Now I go to stores and pick out what I know she’ll like and bring it back for her to try on at home. I always leave her with some new clothes that she will enjoy putting on each morning.

The days went by so quickly this past week and the dread of having to leave stayed with me all the way to Vermont. I called her when I got home to tell her I had arrived safely and she thanked me again for coming. “I’m wearing the flowered jacket you bought me the other day at Belks. It cheers me up,” she told me. Now we are back to emailing daily and I call her every afternoon and keep the memorized picture of her on the sofa in her apartment in my head. I hold my breath and hope she will be there waiting for me the next time I come.

Afternoon Tea

"Welcome to the annual Brit Com Tea..." greeted us as we arrived to take our places in the special dining room at the Simon Pearce Restaurant in Quechee, Vermont. A tall, well spoken, young man in a dark suit was introducing himself as the Program Director at Vermont Public Television. I glanced around to see mostly older people because, after all, who else is free to have tea on a Wednesday at 3 p.m.? There were even one or two older men in sport coats and ties which is a rare sight in casual Vermont. Obviously we were in the company of some who know that afternoon tea is a special occasion. The round tables were set with a starched white cloths and as I reached for my linen napkin, I admired the handmade pottery from the Simon Pearce shop which I've secretly coveted. All was ready for a full afternoon tea, courtesy of Vermont Public Television.

While listening to opening remarks, a waitress served hot brewed tea from a pot. I missed serving myself out of my own little tea pot and yet could see that my cup was refreshed frequently with piping hot tea that the waitress carried around. At least there was no limp tea bag in a cup of luke warm water which is what you get when you order tea in America. A waiter followed with a tray of dainty sandwiches including white crustless ones with cucumber and lettuce and small buns with chicken salad, egg salad, and salmon. Yes, this afternoon tea was going to be authentic but what made it different was the task we were given. A large screen and projector were set up in the middle of the room. As members of the Brit Com Club, we would be previewing new British comedy series' that VPT is considering for their Saturday program lineup.

Having done this last year, we were familiar with the process as we jotted down our opinions after each entertaining clip. None of this is difficult when you're being fueled with fresh, hot tea, and more sandwiches. Then came the ultimate course of raisin scones, clotted cream, and orange marmalade, along with fresh baked cookies and light meringues as only Simon Pearce, a first class gourmet restaurant, came make them. This is a clever way for Vermont Public Television to thank viewers for donations but also to solicit input on television programs which we are eager to share.

Many people have an interest in buying and collecting rare books, antiques, china, old cars and many other things. While I don't collect "things", my passion has become collecting authentic afternoon tea experiences in venues all over the world. Whenever I'm enjoying afternoon tea in a new place, I think about the many settings I have been in for this kind of an occasion. Perhaps I love afternoon tea because it takes me back to my childhood growing up in Argentina where we children always had "teatime" which included bread and butter and snacks when we came home from school. My Iowa born mother adopted afternoon tea in South America as if she'd grown up with it. I can see her sitting in the living room with a fancy tray on the coffee table, a china tea pot, cup and saucer along with a cookie enjoying the ritual of brewed tea. At 91 she still enjoys doing just that in her small assisted living apartment although she has had to succumb to using tea bags. My ninth birthday tea party was at the Confiteria Paris in downtown Buenos Aires, an elegant venue with mirrored walls and gold ornamentation. Waiters in black coats served three tiered plates of sandwiches and sweets, as my girlfriends and I giggled excitedly in our party dresses and Mary Jane patent leather shoes. My love for afternoon tea only grew when I was an exchange student in London and my English "Mum" would serve tea in front of the coal fire in her small living room. She always had delicate fine china cups and sweets as well as salty snacks. That was when I learned all about "cream teas" with scones piled high with clotted cream and jam. My favorite way to entertain friends and neighbors at home, even though it isn't a very American custom, is to set an elegant table with my Mother's bone English china, make a batch of scones, and brew fresh tea in one of my many china teapots.

While at the Brit Com tea, I remembered afternoon tea at the Alvear Palace Hotel in Buenos Aires just last month. The Alvear Palace is the oldest hotel in Buenos Aires built in the 1930's where afternoon tea is served from 4:30 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. Waiters in red coats and white gloves serve tea in silver pots with individual tiny holders that fit on the handle of the pot. There is a choice of at least 20 different teas including some unusual Argentine herbal ones. The setting is a high glass ceiling room like a winter garden with potted plants and hanging ferns, and tile floor reminiscent of a Victorian gazebo. Round tables with white table cloths and fine Villeroy and Boch pale green china set the atmosphere. The only thing that was missing was the clotted cream! Scones came simply with marmalade and butter. But then afternoon tea is not only about the food as the venue plays an important part. The Alvear Palace tea experience was almost as special as the Burj Al Arab teas we enjoyed in Dubai, but for half the price, and without the glitzy champagne which is not necessarily part of the traditional British experience.

I am already looking forward to next year's Brit Com tea at the Simon Pearce restaurant and am getting hungry just thinking about it. There are few places where I live now for this kind of experience and so I shall savor memories of the past and look forward to adding new afternoon tea experiences when I go traveling again. In the meatime, I will get out my English china teapot and cup and saucer this afternoon and brew myself a real cup of tea!

Walking...

Being home in Vermont, I return to the routine of daily walks around the mountain without thinking about it. It's part of the groove I fit into when I am here. Now that I don't have to rush off to a job, I start the day with a walk before breakfast. I take the oversized golf umbrella and put on rubber boots as I tramp along the muddy roads in the early spring curious to see what is out there. Early summer mornings when I can head out the door in shorts and walking shoes are the best. By fall, I'm ready to grab a fleece and pick up the pace as the cool mornings energize me. Then by winter I don't think anything of bundling up in long underwear, parka, scarf, hat, gloves and snow boots to set out on a frigid morning. It's just part of starting each day.

Would I have become an avid walker if we hadn't bought a house on a quiet dirt road in the Green Mountains of Vermont 20 years ago? I haven't examined that idea before, but maybe not. Sparrow Hawk Road has been home for twenty years, although more than half that time I've lived other places. Perhaps the habit became ingrained during the summers here.

I remember going from Rochester to Manila, Philippines, where we were to live for two years. Within a few days we had moved into a large house provided by the international school. Once our few things were unpacked I couldn't wait to explore the neighborhood and take my usual walk for exercise and because I wanted to see what was around me. I made it to the corner only to find myself turning back to the house dripping in sweat. Discovering that I had no tolerance for the tropical Asian heat and humidity, I was suddenly horrified that I would not be able to take a regular walk. How would I survive? I came up with an alternative when I found the elegant Mandarin Oriental Hotel a block away with a large swimming pool that was empty on week day afternoons. If I could not walk for exercise I'd have to become a swimmer, which I did.

Leaving steamy Manila to live in Vermont for five years was a welcome change because I could go back to my habit of country walks. By the time I left Vermont again to live during the week in New Hampshire, walking was as necessary as breathing. Then, it was off to Dubai for two years. Views of the gorgeous Arabian sea and white sand beaches beckoned but of course, not for the fair skinned like me. I had once been a swimmer and lap swimming was what I'd do again for two years except for occasional walks on the beach during the month or two of cooler weather in the Middle Eastern winter.

Having just returned from a month in Buenos Aires I think about the miles of walking I did every day. It was easy because the walking habit is ingrained in me. Each day I'd plan where we would go, take the city map, and set out with the idea that if it was too far to walk we'd get a taxi. We never did opt for the taxi. Granted, the Buenos Aires traffic and especially the exhaust from buses that rush down the avenues make walking a different experience from my country roads. But walking provided a close up view of everyday life and led to discovering the restaurant El Callao, that we returned to at least three times and the small leather shop with the reasonable prices tucked away on a block of Calle Arenales. Walking Buenos Aires gave me an appreciation of what a well planned city it is. Walking the city blocks I would pass people on the street and delight in understanding their conversations. On foot, I felt more connected to the daily life of Argentines and the bonus was all that exercise.

The truth is that I miss walking in Buenos Aires where you can combine an errand, shopping, a visit to a museum, a meal at a restaurant, or take in movie without ever getting in the car. Instead, I am back to walking the hills and country road I live on as I have been doing for many years. The piles of snow are almost gone and as I look for signs of spring -a few robins , a deer in the meadow, and moose tracks on the muddy road. A member of the fox family is back in the neighborhood and I'm on the lookout for the wild turkeys who mate this time of year. The marsh marigolds that only appear in the early spring are coming up down in the spot where they've been for the past twenty years and probably longer. There is something reassuring about walking in the spring in Vermont. I like to think that this is where I learned to appreciate the art of walking while noticing all that is around me.

Thoughts on aging...

"So glad you got to see Annie," was what my Argentine friend Teeny (nickname for Christina) wrote in an email from Buenos Aires this week. Meeting Teeny after 54 years is one of those threads of my childhood that I never imagined I'd be connecting many years later. As fate would have it, I met Teeny, (now a mother of four grown children and grandmother of 10) living three blocks from where I was renting an apartment last month in Recoleta in Buenos Aires. It seemed that we were neighbors again although not across the street as we had been when we were little girls, exactly the same age, growing up on Calle Balcarce in suburban Acassuso. There were more coincidences to come. Her favorite and only living Aunt Anne, lives an hour from me in Hanover, New Hampshire. Not to mention Teeny's first cousin, Archer Mayor, is a Vermonter and happens to be a popular mystery writer of at least 21 published books.

Listening to Teeny talk about her family, the good and very tragic things that have transpired over 50 years, she said, "Annie was the mother I should have had." I was curious to meet Aunt Anne, who is her mother Erica's younger sister. I called her last week when I was home in Vermont and we set a date for a visit last Thursday.

Anne Mayor is a 90 year-old widow who looks ten years younger. She lives at Kendal, a life care retirement community in Hanover, N.H. where she moved with her husband when he retired many years ago. She speaks in a strong low, gutteral voice. "Hola, bienvenida," she greeted me in perfect Spanish, as she was born and grew up in Argentina. She married Mr. Mayor, an American businessman and widower with four young children, in 1947 and became an American. She told me when her husband worked for Boeing they lived in a big house in the center of Paris for ten years where she raised four step children and had a son and daughter of her own. She sounds like an Argentine when she speaks in Spanish but also an American when she switches to English. If I didn't know her background story I might even take her for a New Englander. Her clear blue eyes (no eye glasses) peer at you intently and her demeanor is not typical of an old lady. Neither frail or sweet are adjectives I could use to describe her. Strong, worldly, and keenly intelligent are better descriptors.

We sat in the living room of her spacious apartment, with windows overlooking the bare spring New Hampshire landscape, surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves full of books including all her son's novels. On the wall behind the sofa were portraits, silhouettes, and art by family members. Her apartment is neat and orderly and she exudes a presence that is in control of everything around her. Nothing is out of place and her well coordinated, comfortable slacks and sweater attest to the fact that neatness is important in her life. I couldn't help but conclude that she probably knows where everything is in her apartment.

The truth is I found her somewhat intimidating as I prattled on about my relationship to her niece, Teeny and my delight in finding her again after many years. She listened politely and filled in some gaps about the family. But speaking of Teeny she smiled with a warmth I hadn't seen before and told me "Teeny is like one of my kids!" As I talked about my own family, and briefly about my well-travelled life nothing I said surprised her in the least. Everywhere I mentioned that I had lived or traveled to, she had been or knew about.

I had brought some family photos that Teeny had given me last week of her large "brood" of children and grandchildren. She peered with interest at them and when I asked if she knew who all Teeny's 10 grandchildren are who live in Buenos Aires she did not hesitate to reply, "Of course, I do". I had expected her to say she hadn't been back to Argentina for 10 years but in fact, she told me she was back for a visit two years ago and goes frequently to visit old friends. Then she took me into the kitchen to show me and name the people in the photos on her refrigerator door. I couldn't help but notice how the photos were arranged in neat rows unlike most refrigerator "bulletin boards" where people tend to put up things willy nilly. She named all her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren without hesitation or thought.

As I drove home to Vermont after our visit, I was composing an email in my head to Teeny as if my mission was accomplished. I also found myself looking for the likenesses of the Teeny I knew as a child and saw recently, with this very imposing aunt of hers. There are similarities particularly in their strong personalities and the large families they both raised. I think of women like Teeny and Ann Mayor as true matriarchal figures. Yet I missed Teeny's genuine warm demeanor.

Perhaps if I visit Teeny's aunt again I will be more relaxed and less overwhelmed. To me she personifies the well known saying , "you are only as old as you allow yourself to be. As I age, I notice how others are doing it before me. In this continuing quest of growing old gracefully, I will remember Teeny's, Aunt Anne.

Transitions...

Coming home to Vermont from a month in Buenos Aires has its ups and downs. Suddenly I can't drink the coffee that seemed fine before I left, and the wine that was perfectly adequate (because it fit the budget) doesn't come close to the Argentine Malbec I enjoyed all month. I am not eating bread because it is unedible unless you live near a bakery and can buy it fresh. (There is no bakery within a 35 mile radius of home.) I haven't seen the sun but one day in the last five. The old aches and pains are creeping up on me probably because I am missing the warmth and humidity of Argentina, not to mention the long and invigorating city walks. I don't hear Spanish anymore and there is no corner kiosk to buy a morning newspaper.

I could go on but I should get to the "ups. I came home inspired to write by starting a new blog to put down ideas and play with words while I decide what to do with the written and stored memories of a month in Argentina. My laptop is set up on the card table in the downstairs bedroom and I look out to the bare trees still waiting to bud which are outlined against the snow covered Green Mountains. I watch the clouds moving across the mountain tops and patches of blue sky that come and go and welcome the light that pours into the windows of my Vermont house. No need to ever draw the shades here. Nature is all around me wherever I am indoors. I am struck by how I no longer have to crane my neck out the French windows of my B.A. apartment to look up past the tall buildings across the street just to catch a glimpse of blue sky.

I have seen very few cars go by this morning on Sparrow Hawk Road although I still hear the sounds of the buses and taxis rumbling down Vicente Lopez below our third floor apartment in Buenos Aires in my head. It is quiet on this midmorning cold spring day in Vermont. When I stepped out for my early morning walk I breathed in the mountain air and was relieved I wasn't inhaling the exhaust fumes that I tried to ignore in the city.

The house smells delicious from baking a double batch of homemade granola which includes more ingredients than usual, as I got carried away shopping in the Coop. My creative cooking juices just keep flowing as I whipped together a large pot of curried lentil soup to last a few days. Being in my own kitchen is as familiar as breathing. No more three course meals in the middle of the afternoon in a different restaurant every day , or midmorning coffee breaks with two media lunas (croissants), or the daily tasting of a new flavor at an Italian ice cream store in the city. My waistline definitely took a beating!

"It's good to go away but always nice to come home.". I repeat this cliche as it has become a mantra while I adjust from one place to another. Buenos Aires and Rochester, Vermont are two opposite environments and yet I am strangely at home in both. Part of me will always be feel at ease in a Latin American culture like Argentina because I grew up there but my other half has learned to love the peace, solitude, silence, and beauty of Vermont.

I just upgraded to drinking a better brand of coffee and discovered that Malbec wine, though a bit pricier, is available right here. I am not eating bread because I need to lose a few pounds anyway. Spring will eventually come to Vermont because it always has in the past and I can get out and hike the muddy roads which are only a temporary inconvenience. I can invite a neighbor who is from Spain to come over for tea and chat in Spanish and I can correspond with my Argentine friends that I recently reconnected with. Most of all, I can start thinking about where I will go next year for a change.