The Adventure Continues

[In case you are a first-time Reader, you will want to read the previous post, of which this is a continuation.]

The next morning I got up and went out for breakfast. I was very stiff, and ducking under the low arch between my room and the toilet had not been fun, so I stopped at the first open place that looked like it was serving eggs and toast. My Policeman walked in and sat down a few tables away, and of course, tipped his hat. He looked a little bedraggled, as though he had been up all night. I had my eggs scrambled, and three cups of coffee. My Policeman had coffee. As I passed his table on the way out, I said in English, "I am going to the museum now, so you needn't rush."

He smiled and tipped his hat.

I was halfway through the museum and its wonders, including a magnificent 18^th-century crystal chandelier that had been brought up the mountain on the back of a donkey, when I remembered it was Monday. No museum in Greece is open on a Monday, so this was remarkable. Equally remarkable was the fact that I was the only person in the museum other than the guard who had given me a ticket in exchange for a look at my Deltion (a free museum pass given out at that time to scholars). Very odd.

My Policeman was on duty at the museum steps as I left. He tipped his hat.

I decided to go shopping and have lunch before my appearance at the Police Station at two o'clock that afternoon. I wandered through town, bought a tourist guide to the archaeological dig I planned to visit the next day, had an excellent horiatiki salad and a bottle of Demestika, inspected a stall selling fish and another selling vegetables. Wherever I wandered, eventually I spotted My Policeman, and he always tipped his hat. I was tempted to ask him if he was following me, but it was pretty clear by now that he was, indeed, My Policeman, and I would find him on a corner, across the street, or two tables away, ready to tip his hat when I spotted him. I speculated a bit on why I should be the object of My Policeman’s attentions. Almost certainly it had to do with my fall and the subsequent events, as the anger of the mayor and the sternness of the Colonel of Police definitely pointed to this. However, I was in a country governed by a totalitarian dictatorship, albeit one friendly to the U.S., and that alone was enough to make me just a little apprehensive. I had all the proper papers, including a document that permitted me to stay in Greece longer than three months, and these had been duly inspected by the Colonel early on in the proceedings. The permission slip listed me as a Professor of Archaeology; this was not a legitimate title, although I was indeed at the time professing archaeology in connection with my dissertation. Maybe this error had been discovered, and I was under surveillance because of it, an error purposely made by the charming middle-aged bureaucrat issuing the document when he couldn’t think of anything else important enough to call me. As he pointed out, everybody in Greece is a student of archaeology. I, working on a dissertation, was clearly superior to those dilettantes. Doubtless I would find out very soon what the score was.

The Colonel was already in his hat at his desk when I arrived, exactly at two o’clock. He greeted me with a solemn nod, and indicated the chair opposite the window wall. I sat down and looked around. There was now a row of chairs against the window wall, and seated in the second one from the desk was a skinny, droopy-mustached man in a rumpled brown suit, wrinkled shirt, and badly tied four-in-hand tie. In a chair further down the row sat a spotlessly clean middle-aged fellow, also mustached, dressed in the open-collared shirt, jeans, and sandaled feet of an animal-driver; he had, however, an air of authority about him, and he was obviously a cut above that occupation. The room was electric with expectancy, and I wondered who or what we were waiting for.

A policeman (not Mine) came in next, dragging along the man who had been running the animal I was thrown from, and who looked very frightened. He sat down in the chair at the end of the row, and stared at his feet, which were clad in dusty sandals and looked like they hadn’t been washed in several weeks. In fact, all of him looked like that. It was a marked contrast to the other driver, who now leaned over to say a few reassuring words to the newcomer. It didn’t seem to help much.

The Colonel was looking as official as possible with his hair sticking out stiffly from his hat, and said something about “the judge is a little late” to the man in the brown suit. “Still finishing lunch, I imagine,” Brown Suit replied. “You know how he likes to eat.” I tried not to show I understood this, as it seemed to me that my not knowing much Greek would be crucial to my part in whatever was proceeding. No one had spoken directly to me yet, and in fact I felt invisible, until Brown Suit said, “Is this the koritsi?" (A woman of any age can be referred to as a koritsi, which means “little girl.” I was 40, and used to it by now.) The Colonel nodded and looked pointedly at his watch. “He’ll be here,” said Brown Suit. “Don’t worry.”

Five minutes later, as we all sat in silence, the door flung open and a large fat man lumbered into the room. Everybody stood up, so I did, too, albeit stiffly. The Colonel and Brown Suit shook the newcomer’s hand, and he sat heavily in the first chair. Everybody looked at me. I looked back.

The Judge, for it was apparent that this was the newcomer, looked so much like Sidney Greenstreet in a Humphrey Bogart movie that I wanted to laugh. He wore a white suit with a marked gravy stain on one lapel, white shirt and tie, and to top it off, a white Panama hat. Brown Suit now took on a Peter Lorre-with-mustache aspect, and I waited for the rest of the movie to unfold.

I was asked to tell my story again. I did, in English, while the Colonel translated. The Judge asked a question or two about the number of animals I had seen. I answered truthfully that I thought I saw two in front of me, but I might have been mistaken, as the circumstances were rather hectic. The Judge looked even more like Sidney Greenstreet as he nodded at me and leaned back in his chair. I managed not to laugh, thank goodness, as this was a legal proceeding, and a man’s future was in the balance, as it happened.

The animal driver was asked to stand up and tell his story, which he did in a practically inaudible voice, still staring at his feet. He apologized to me (without looking up) for not getting me to a doctor right away. This part of the events was never in question, and the driver was culpable of gross negligence in this regard. It was clear that he was frightened nearly to incomprehension, and the clean animal driver stood up and gently questioned him further about the animals. This man was in charge of all the animal drivers, and was supposed to regulate them. I was still mystified about the constant return to the number of animals, which seemed a silly thing to dwell on, all things considered, until I heard Brown Suit ask him, “You did know you should only have two?” My driver nodded miserably. “And you admit you had three?” The Judge broke in. Again, a miserable nod. Brown Suit sighed. “I will represent you tomorrow,” he said. sadly, as though it would be a lost cause.

The policeman who had brought him in came forward and took the driver by the arm, leading him toward the door. The driver started off, shuffling his feet, but then stopped and turned back. “My children,” he said, tears streaking his dirty face. “What will happen to my children? ”

This was news to Mr. Clean. “You have children? But you are not married!”

“You know,” said the driver, “my children, my animals.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Clean, “I see. Don’t worry, I will see they are taken care of.”

The driver turned sadly away and went with the policeman, presumably to jail. Mr. Clean followed them out.

As I turned back from watching them depart, somewhat bewildered by the outcome of the proceedings, I noticed everyone was staring at me. I smiled weakly, and asked the Colonel, in English, what had happened. The Judge asked the Colonel what I had said. The Colonel sat up importantly, and told me that there had just been a hearing. He repeated this in Greek for the Judge. Did I know what a hearing was? The Colonel believed we had them in the U.S. He translated for the Judge. I agreed that we had them in America, but I was not sure what this one had been about, exactly.

“Ah,”said the Colonel, “the driver is only allowed two animals by law. He had three, so he broke the law. He will be tried in court, and this will be his lawyer.” He pointed to Brown Suit as he translated for the Judge. “Also, he did not help you when you were injured. That is also against the law.” He translated. The Judge nodded, and asked what I would be doing tomorrow, Tuesday. Would I be leaving the island?

I waited politely for the Colonel to translate, and said, No, I wasn’t leaving the island until the Fortuna subsided, and in any case, not before I had been to the ruins at Akrotiri. The Judge looked inquiringly at the Colonel, who translated. I was going to Akrotiri tomorrow, I said, and after that, I would go back to Athens when I could get a ship. The Judge listened to the translation and nodded. “How long will she stay at Akrotiri?”

I waited for the translation and said I would be there most of the day. How was I planning to get out to the site? I was planning on taking a taxi. The Judge nodded, and the Colonel seemed to like that idea.

“I will see that there is a taxi for you at your hotel in the morning,” he said, “and it would be good if you were at Akrotiri all day. I will have the taxi wait for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, mentally adding up the astronomical fare for that. “I can take the bus back. And I can get a taxi in town after I have my breakfast.”

The Colonel translated for the Judge. The Judge said he thought that would be all right, that the danger was minimal, anyway. That caught my attention, and I waited for the colonel to translate, but he did not. Everyone stood up, and I recognized that we were now in recess. I thanked the Colonel for his courtesy, and left the station. I was only partway down the steps when Brown Suit caught up with me.

“I hope your injuries are not too painful,” he said in Greek, as we walked along toward my hotel. Without thinking, I thanked him in Greek for asking, and explained that the doctor had said it was nothing. He laughed. “I know,” he said, patting me gently on the shoulder, “that doctor is my brother, and he worried that you did not understand what he meant–that you had no broken bones.”

“Ah,” I replied, “that did lose something in translation, but I understood.”

His eyes twinkling, Brown Suit said, “You are a good actress. You understood everything, and pretended not to. In there,” he added, pointing back the way we had come with his head. He smiled at my embarrassment at being caught. I said I thought it was prudent, and he agreed.

“I should tell you, though, why they want you out of town. The driver has a large family, and they are afraid one of them will try to get even with you, before they know the circumstances in full at the trial tomorrow.”

“Even for what?”

“They know he will have to go to jail, and it will be a blot on the family record, and they may not understand,” he answered. “They might think you accused him falsely. But he did confess, and that willingly, so I am not so worried.”

“It would not be very Greek,” I said. "Normally, a Greek would never attack a tourist."

“True,” he said, “but the Judge and the Colonel have decided to have you followed, all the same. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Ah,” I said, “I am glad to know that was why I saw My Policeman everywhere.”

He laughed. “Well,” he said, “he could have worse assignments. Anyhow, he will have a day off tomorrow, while you are at Akrotiri. And you should take the first taxi that you spot after breakfast, because that driver will be following you, too. By the time you take the bus home, the trial will be over, but you may still be followed.”

“What an adventure a simple trip to Thera turned out to be,” I said. “It will be something to tell my grandchildren, when I have some.”

“I hope you will remember it as a good adventure,” Brown Suit said, “in spite of the fall at the beginning.” He said goodbye at the door to my hotel. I thanked him for letting me know about the surveillance, and asked him to thank his brother, the Insurance Doctor, again for me. Then I turned and waved at My Policeman, whom I knew would be waiting to escort me to dinner that evening. He tipped his hat.

Thus ends this Greek Adventure. I have had others, of course, during my visits to that country, and I expect I will share some of those with you. One thing I left out of the first installment: How I Knew I Wasn't Dead After the Fall. My head came up from the ground and out of my mouth came two sentences.  In Greek. The first was, "pou eine o yiatros?" (where is the doctor?) and the second was "pou eine ta yialia mou?" (where are my glasses?).  I was still clutching my string bag of belongings. The glasses were found at the side of the road, thankfully unbroken, and restored to me. I had to find the Tourist Police to get to a doctor, as related in the previous post..

An Adventure on Thera

Sometimes, when travelling in a strange country, one has occasion to meet and interact with the local constabulary, and sometimes with interesting results. My encounter took place in Greece in 1973, when that country was under the dictatorship of Colonel George Papadopoulos, and on the island of Thera. When a tourist boat landed, it was the custom for everybody to rush off and claim a donkey or mule to take them up the long switchback cobblestone trail up the cliff to the town of Santorini, and hurry around town looking for lodging. 

I hired a mule, one of three animals owned by the driver (two tourist-bearing animals, a horse and a donkey in front of me were apparently his), settled my string bag of possessions in my lap, and off we went, the first in line. I was two thirds of the way up when the driver slapped the mule to make him go faster. Instead, the mule slipped; I made a circular trajectory over the animal's head, and landed hard, first on my hip, then shoulder, and finally, head. After determining that I was not dead and retrieving my string bag and my glasses (still intact, by some miracle, though I was uncertain about my body), I had to climb back on the mule and continue to the top. I haggled with the driver for a reduced rate—after all, I had been thrown, I hadn't fallen off—and paid him. Then I tried to think of how to get medical attention for the fall; I wanted to be sure nothing was broken or concussed.

Greece has a branch of constabulary known as the Tourist Police, whose job it is to look after tourists in trouble, answer questions, give directions, and other benign activities. I saw a sign pointing to the tourist police station, fortunately only a couple of blocks away, and hobbled over.

Once there, I explained my plight, and one of the policemen took me, on foot, mind you, to one of the two hospitals in town. Unfortunately, it was the insurance hospital, admittance to which I was not entitled. A doctor there took over from the policeman, and escorted me to the free hospital, luckily quite nearby. By this time the shock of the fall had worn off and the pain of it started to set in. The insurance doctor was very sympathetic, and worried, too, because the free hospital was apparently not open for business yet—the door was locked, it being about 8:30 AM on a Sunday. So he left me on the steps and went back to his own hospital to telephone for someone to come and let me in.

Eventually, a nurse came to the door, took one look at me, and escorted me into a waiting room. Soon a tall teddy bear of a doctor inspected my injuries, decided I wasn’t concussed, and gave me a shot for the pain. He told me to come back that evening at 7 PM to have an x-ray of my hip; he had no film at the moment, but he was expecting some by that time.

By now, it was 9:30 AM, and I still had no place to stay. I had to go on foot from rooming house to rooming house, back toward the center of town. There was nothing. The Fortuna wind was up, and no ships could leave the harbor. Therefore, all those already ON the island, and who had booked all the rooms, were not going anywhere. The two thousand newly arrived tourists were really scrambling to find places. I began to worry that I would be sleeping on the street with my string bag for a pillow.

I spied a barber/beauty shop at the top of a long flight of stairs. It had a porch on which a wall-eyed man was sitting in a rocking chair, looking down at me; it also had a sign that offered rooms. I looked inquiringly at the man, but he offered no comment, so I toiled up the steps, wondering how long the pain killer would hold up. I found out halfway up. One second, I was feeling OK, the next, I was really hurting. But I struggled all the way to the top. As I mounted the last step, the man said, "No room." That did it. I started to cry.

No Greek man can stand to see a woman cry, I think. Immediately, he was all concern. I told him the whole story, from three animals to fall to top step. He listened carefully, and sympathetically, and took me into the barber shop, where he sat me down in a chair in the back of the room. An old lady came in, and he introduced me and told her my story, whereupon she ran off and returned with a cup of coffee. The two of them decided that they would ask a current resident to leave so I could have a bed. I tried to protest, but they had decided. It was only a question of which one would have to go.

Soon a customer came in, looked me over curiously, and inquired of the barber what I was doing there. The barber introduced me and explained. The customer asked me a couple of questions, then grabbed the phone and began shouting into it. I speak a little Greek, and I could tell he was repeating my story, and he was angry about the way I had been treated; the mule driver should have seen to it that I had medical attention, and then the Tourist Police should not have just abandoned me at the wrong hospital. And I should have been helped to find a room, under the circumstances. He was the mayor, the barber explained, and he was determined to do right by me. And he had the authority to do it. I was to wait at the barber shop until an escort came for me.At this point the old woman returned and guided me into the beauty parlor part of the establishment, as one of the regulars had come in and objected to a woman in the barber shop. I sat and drank my coffee, and wondered what would happen next. I was really in pain by this time; moving any part of my body hurt, and I wished I had thought to pack aspirin in my string bag.

Within half an hour, my police escort arrived. The mayor barked instructions at him, and told me I was to follow him to the regular police station, not back to the Tourist Police. It was a slow and painful walk of four blocks. The policeman (whom I came to know as "My Policeman") opened the door to the police

station and motioned me inside. It was a simple room, with lots of windows on one side with a bench underneath, a large desk in front of a wall with a door, and a couple of plain wooden chairs against the blank wall opposite the windows. The obligatory portrait of George Papadopoulos hung behind the desk. My Policeman pointed to one of the chairs, and I sat down, gingerly and slowly.

My Policeman knocked on the door, and a few seconds later it opened and a tall, handsome, hatless man strode into our presence. He sat down at the desk, and rummaged in one of the drawers, removing a peaked officer's cap; this he jammed on his head, causing his Beatle-length, luxurious hair to poke out all around. It did not seem the appropriate time to giggle, so I suppressed my immediate reaction to this man, who now regarded me sternly.

"I am the colonel of police," he said in flawless English, "tell me your name and what happened."

             I repeated my story once more, in English this time, explaining about the three animals and my fall, and the Tourist Police, the hospital, the barbershop, mayor and all. I did withhold my haggling over the price, as it added nothing to the story. The colonel asked if I knew the name of the driver, and I said I didn't, but he was the first in line when I raced off the ship. The colonel nodded, and asked how long I planned to stay on Thera. I told him several days, as the Fortuna would prevent the ships from leaving, and I wanted to see the dig at ancient Thera and the museum in Santorini. He already seemed to know I had no lodging, because he asked if I could stay at the hospital. I said I didn't think so, as this had been discussed between the doctor and the nurse, who determined I wasn't injured badly enough. He picked up the telephone and called the hospital to verify this for himself. As I expected, the answer was no. 

            The colonel glowered at me, and asked for my identification papers, including my passport and my visa, if any. He looked these over, handed them back, and told me to wait there while he sent My Policeman to find me a room and incidentally investigate my story. Then he removed the peaked cap, put it back into the drawer, stood up and marched from the room. My Policeman tipped his hat and left me alone in my chair.

An hour later he was back, nodded to me, and knocked on the door. He said a few things I couldn't hear to the door opening, and soon the colonel was with us. He performed his hat routine, and looked enquiringly at My Policeman, then at me, and asked, in Greek, "Did you find the driver? Did you find her a room?" My Policeman handed him a piece of paper, and told him that I had been truthful in my story, that the driver, Damigos, had indeed been running three animals. "Then there will need to be a trial," the colonel said, still in Greek. My Policeman nodded. The colonel looked as grim as possible with his hair standing out over his ears like a fringe. "And we will have to have a hearing. Tomorrow." He made some notes on a pad on the

desk and turned his attention to me.

            Now at this point, I decided that, although my Greek was pretty good for most purposes, perhaps it would be a Good Thing to seem as though I was unable to speak or understand more than a few courteous greetings; I had not spoken Greek to anyone, not even My Policeman, since I had explained my plight to the mayor, so I thought I could carry this off. "He," the colonel said, pointing to My Policeman, "has found you a place to stay." He consulted the paper My Policeman had given him. "There is a room out in the country, which you can have to yourself. And, there is a bed in a place in town, but you will share the room with

three Danish girls who have agreed to let you stay with them. I strongly urge you to take the room by yourself. And I urge you to leave the island as soon as possible."

"But sir," I said, ignoring this last remark, "that would be most difficult. I am to get an x-ray tonight at the hospital, and I might need some help with the pain in the middle of the night. Also I will need to be near taxis to get to the excavation. I think it would be better to stay with the Danish girls."

The colonel sighed heavily and with a look at My Policeman that clearly said "Women! Tourists!" nodded at him and told him to escort me to the rooming house with the Danish girls. Then he said to me, "And you, please be here at 2 o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

With that, the colonel removed his hat, put it into the drawer, and without so much as another glance at me, went through the door behind the desk.

My Policeman led me through the streets of Santorini to the rooming house. I was shown the room by the landlord, and gratefully put my sakkoula of belongings on the bed indicated. The Danish girls were not in evidence, but I assumed I would see them at some point to thank them. I followed the landlord's instructions on how to get to the toilet, and then set off to explore Santorini. I discovered that I was very hungry, so I found a restaurant that looked pleasant, went in, and sat down. I ordered a horiatiki salad, my favorite lunch in Greece (a simple dish of tomatoes, cucumber, Greek olives and feta cheese, smothered in olive oil) bread, and a small bottle of Demestika white wine. I figured any buzz from the wine would wear off well before I got to the hospital; I would even have time for a short nap and dinner.

On my way back to my room, I noticed My Policeman sitting in a kafeneion across the street, and smiled. He tipped his hat. I thought nothing of this, as Santorini is a relatively tiny town, and one is bound to run into the same people from time to time.

            After my nap, I wandered around for a while, checking out the town, buying some aspirin, locating the museum, and scoping out someplace reasonable for dinner.In Greece at that time, you could go look at everything the restaurant had to offer, arranged for your inspection in the back, by the kitchen. That was so the unfamiliar names of dishes on the menu would not cause a problem for foreigners: One could merely point to the dish one wanted, and that was that. I don't remember what exactly I chose that evening, but it could have been an eggplant dish, a stuffed tomato, or perhaps pastitzio, a noodle dish reminiscent of macaroni and cheese, but made with ground meat. I picked a nice, clean, brightly lit establishment, and chose my meal from the array of dishes displayed. My Policeman wandered in and took a seat near the window, tipping his hat when he saw me.

When the time came to go back to the hospital, about a mile away, I considered taking a taxi, but I had noticed that walking apparently helped ease my banged-up muscles, and as I was not in a particular hurry, I made my way there on foot. Every once in a while I would see My Policeman, on the opposite side of the street or on a corner I needed to turn. Each time we made eye contact, he would tip his hat. In the hospital, the Teddy Bear doctor led me into the room where his X-Ray machine stood. It was a most interesting contraption, unlike any machine of its kind I had ever seen, on a frame of one-by-four lumber bolted together. The doctor patted it fondly, and explained that he had made it himself from parts he had scrounged here and there. But, he assured me, it worked very well. Then he arranged me against the machine in order to x-ray my hip, the portion of my anatomy that had hit the ground first. He did not have a

lead apron, but he didn't think that would be a worry as I wasn't pregnant. He took a couple of pictures, and while he was doing that, mentioned that he had to have the film smuggled to him by some accommodating U.S. Navy corpsmen, who delivered it on their twice-weekly helicopter run to Thera. I felt guilty about having the precious film used for my benefit--I envisioned some poor Greek child with a broken limb unable to get an x-ray because of me. The doctor said that was not a problem, as in a real emergency, he could get a friend at the other hospital to steal some film. This kind of attitude is known as "systima hellinico"--perhaps best translated as "the Greek Way."

Another man arrived on the scene, another doctor, as it happened, from the insurance hospital down the street. He had been pressed into service to explain to me in English what the x-rays showed. Teddy Bear Doctor went to his darkroom to develop the film, and Insurance Doctor stayed with me and said in a most sympathetic tone that my injury was most likely "nothing," in spite of the magnificent bruise that had been revealed during the x-ray process. Teddy Bear Doctor returned with the results, and the two of them conferred over the picture, agreeing that nothing was broken. The Insurance Doctor repeated, in English, "It is nothing," several times to be sure I understood. I wasn't sure I agreed entirely with his diagnosis, but I understood that he was trying to tell me nothing was broken. Rather than embarrass him by repeating in Greek what I thought he meant, I nodded and thanked him. He left, and I asked Teddy Bear Doctor how much I owed him. He was most unhappy to take any money from me, as I looked (by design) like a poor student travelling on a shoestring, but I finally wormed out of him that he paid for the film out of his own pocket, so I was not to worry. In one of the strangest bargaining encounters I have ever had, I finally got him to agree to take the cost of replacing the film, which turned out to be a whopping $6, which he asked for in U.S. dollars., if I could manage that.  Professing to have no other American money, I insisted he take the $20 bill I had tucked away for emergencies. He thanked me warmly, though he was clearlyembarrassed about the enormity of the transaction. I thought I had gotten a bargain.

As I walked down the hospital steps, I noticed My Policeman lurking over a newspaper box on the corner. When I passed him, he tipped his hat. I went on back to my room, where I finally met the Danish girls and was able to thank them for their kindness. I went to bed and soon fell asleep in spite of my aches and pains.

To be continued. Sorry there aren't any pictures; after the fall, I was afraid to use my camera until it got checked out at a camera store in Athens. 

Sometimes You Just Gotta Have Fun!

My last boss owned a rubber stamp business--still does, actually. She is Shirley Rainman of Make An Impression. It was grand fun working for her when she had a retail store--if you have to work retail, a rubber stamp store is a great place to do it.

One of the things we did for the store was make samples; can you imagine having to make art all day? What a chore--NOT! Well, now that Shirley has no store front, she has to make her own samples. So she gets to have all the fun (not to mention all the work). Shirley also designs a lot of her stamps herself; she has a very popular line called Punch-Ins, which she demonstrates and sells at rubber stamp shows and conventions all over the country, and sells wholesale to stores. This year, Shirley wanted to do something new, and came up with a really cute line of pantins she is calling Jumpables.

Teddy Bear Jester Jumpable

We meet for coffee once a month, Shirley and her former employees, and last month she brought sketches and some examples of her Jumpables to show us. What fun! We talked about what characters she could add to the teddy bear jester she had been selling for years, and the little girl and sock monkey. This month she showed up with bear, girl and sock monkey, AND a frog and a little boy.

Sock Monkey Jumpable

My personal favorite is, as anyone who knows me will immediately guess, is the sock monkey.



Shirley is busy designing accessories to go with her Jumpables. The little girl has a pocket with a note to put in it, and there are wings to make angels out of any of them. Shirley made a little girl angel to show us this month at coffee. We played with the Jumpables and had a great time thinking up accessories for them.

Girl Jumpable

The Jumpables will come in a pack with the stamp to make them and the complete instructions for jointing them to make them jump. These illustrations are all taken from Shirley's instruction sheet, with her permission; of course they are all copyrighted by Make an Impression.

Boy Jumpable

Frog Jumpable

The Jumpables will be available soon on the Make An Impression web site, http://makeanimpression.net/ where you can also see the Punch-Ins.

And Shirley and her husband, Link, will be appearing at several rubber stamp shows this year. Look for them at the following places:

March 3-4 Mesa AZ

March 10-11 Carson, CA

March 24-25  Portland, OR

April 14  Sacramento, CA

May 19-20 Puyallup, WA

You won't be disappointed!


Until next time, Nan

It Was About This Time Of Year

My mother called from California and asked me what I wanted for my birthday (in June). It was 1970--seems like forever ago, now--and I had just finished a major qualifying paper for my PhD on Space and Perspective in Art. So I said, "I want to go to Europe and see all the art I've been writing about in the flesh--pictures are OK, but I want to see if my ideas and conclusions were right." I expected my mother to say, "That's nice, dear. But what do you want for your birthday?" Instead, she said, "Fine. Where do you want to go?" In for a dime, in for a dollar, I thought, and told her. "Greece," I said, "Athens; and Florence, Italy, and Amsterdam and London." "All right. When do your classes end?" I told her. Next thing I knew, she had had Cook's Tours plan our trip--to Greece, Italy, The Netherlands and England. I have always regretted not throwing in Paris and Berlin; but she threw in Copenhagen, a place she wanted to go. Fair enough. The only problem with the trip was that Cook's, who should have known better, considering it was supposed to be a study trip to see musea, had us traveling on weekends and having our first full day in a city on Mondays; back then every museum in the world was closed on Mondays, and in Amsterdam they were closed on Thursday afternoon, too. But it was a fabulous trip, and took six weeks. I was happier than a pig at high tide or a clam in clover. Even with museums closed on Mondays; churches were not, and there were lots of those to see, too.

We started in Athens. Mother took a cruise from there to the Greek Islands, but I stayed behind to explore the ruins of the Akropolis and the Agora and the National Museum. One of my professors had arranged for me to meet a friend of his who was kind enough to show me Piraeus and other places in Attica, and to celebrate my birthday, drove me to Corinth to see the ruins there.

This is what I missed by not going on the cruise: Mother in Lindos, riding a donkey. And obviously having the time of her life.

I, on the other hand, was having the time of MY life back in Athens. Chris, my professor's friend, was a wonderful host, and took good care of me. He was also fluent in English, and knew quite a lot of Greek history, too.  I wrote a poem about my birthday trip.

Autobiographical Note

We drove to Corinth on my birthday,

passing Salamis; you explained

about the Persians and the Old Greeks

and how they fought a battle there.

You chatted on, not guessing

my silence was not just attentiveness.

I knew the names, had heard the tales

before; these and other stories

of heroes, splendid and victorious, not all historical.

You and I are friendly strangers;

I do not expect you to know

that wherever I have travelled

I have been coming here.

I am one with rocky places near the sea:

my spirit, like a stubborn poppy, clings here

nourished by what exists in the memory of these stones.

I cannot promise you will understand

or share with me these visions;

still, from our separate ways

of looking, while we look together

you perhaps will recognize

that wherever I have been

I have been here.

It was published in a journal called Swift River. Whenever I give a poetry reading to a new audience, I include it as my first poem. It really tells a lot about me. I have written many poems about Greece and the Greeks, ancient and modern, and often put them into chapbooks, which gives me a chance to practice my book making skills.

Here's another one of my favorites:

Being among the Lacedaimonians

I asked about the Spartan boy

who let the fox gnaw him apart

beneath his scarlet cloak

while he stood silent.

Was that right and good to do?

I wondered, and they said

even with his guts spilled out

and half chewed, even like that

he represented all they thought noble and fine.

But they couldn't explain why it wouldn't be better,

even for a Lacedaimonian,

to kill the fox.

And another:

Oedipus at Kolonos

Not only by a pointed instrument

does self-inflicted blindness empty eyes;

but by the flatness, dullness of the life

that presses forward on a tiresome road,

unbending and unsearching, neither left nor right

appealing to the senses. Not to find

what lies on every hand to be discovered,

tasted, savored honey-sweet or bitter,

must be in fact more terrible than dark,

more dreadful than to journey on by sound

and follow patterns made by sticks that tap

before, and conjure images of smooth round stones.

That's it for now.-- Nan

And Now For Something Completely Different

I confess it--I have always been a political junkie. Even as a child, I was interested in politicians and their campaigns. When I was seven, I became a Democrat. It happened like this: My grandmother--Bam Bam--was a local chairperson for Wendell Willkie during the 1940 campaign (remember, Willkie ran against Franklin D. Roosevelt; you don't remember? I do...sigh). It was Halloween, and I was parading around the playground at Whittier School in Berkeley, dressed in a charming black cat costume complete with long tail. I was carrying a small jack o'lantern, balancing it on my head between my black kitty ears, and pinned to my suit was a huge Willie campaign button. One of my schoolmates took umbrage to my politics, and grabbed my pumpkin and smashed it to bits. That's when I became a Democrat.

1940 Campaign Button

Not that I blamed Willkie--he was a nice enough man, and a good candidate, if a bit too liberal for the GOP establishment--he would probably have made a decent President. But Roosevelt was re-elected to an unprecedented third term, with 85% of the electoral votes, and Willkie served as a sort of unofficial ambassador to the world. He tried again in 1944, but the Republican establishment rejected him as their candidate; he died in 1944 of a heart attack.

I guess I wasn't that loyal a Democrat, because when I was thirteen I entered a contest sponsored by a children's magazine on "why X (your choice) would make a good President. I wrote a short essay on the sterling qualities of Harold Stassen. I found this in Wikipedia:  "Harold Stassen is perhaps the most famous and distinguished perennial presidential candidate in U.S. history, along with Ralph Nader. A one-time Governor of Minnesota and former President of the University of Pennsylvania, he ran for the Republican nomination for President twelve times between 1944 and 2000. While Stassen was considered a serious candidate in 1944, 1948 and 1952, his persistent attempts were increasingly met with derision and then amusement as the decades progressed. He also ran in 10 other races for lower offices." I must have been eavesdropping on adult conversations, reading about him in Life Magazine or The Saturday Evening Post, something like that, because I cannot imagine that I formed any opinion about Mr. Stassen out of thin air. Maybe it was because he was serving in the Navy, like my father.Anyhow, I entered this contest and promptly forgot about it. Imagine my surprise when an envelope showed up in the mailbox addressed to me and containing a $5 Postal Savings Stamp and the information that I had won the contest. To this day I have no idea what I said about Mr. Stassen, but it must have been persuasive.

Harold Stassen ca. 1948

Not that influential, though, because Mr. Stassen lost the Republican nomination to Thomas E. Dewey in 1948 and several times thereafter.

The next time I got seriously interested in the Presidential campaign was when Truman ran in 1948. I admired Mr. Truman a lot, and was rooting for him all the way. He was running against the aforementioned Thomas E. Dewey, and was supposed to lose handily. Election night, I was stationed at the radio in my bedroom at Aunt Quail's house, listening to the returns. Upstairs, Bam Bam and Aunt Nina (who lived next door) were playing Canasta. It was my job to race up the stairs and holler "Bam Bam" (Truman ahead) or "Aunt Nina" (Dewey ahead) according to the results.

I actually met Mr Dewey, when I was in college in New York. I was surprised to find him short and with shifty eyes. At that time, Mr. Dewey had more official protection than the President of the United States. He needed it because he had been a feisty and effective District Attorney in New York City, and many criminals were Out to Get Him. At the time I met him, he was Governor of New York State. And I attributed those shifty eyes to the fact that he needed to be watchful at all times, to avoid being gotten by all those who were Out to Get Him.

When I was 18, I went to a Young Democrats conference. There I met such fascinating folks as Warren G. Magnusson, Senator from Washington, and Hubert H. Humphrey, Senator from Minnesota. Humphrey was the keynote speaker, and you could have heard a pin drop the entire time he was speaking--over an hour. This to a hall full of teenagers. Afterwards, I bet him a nickel he would be President someday. Unfortunately, I had to pay up, which I did, when one of his aides (a fellow I was in college with years before) came to the UW on a visit and I gave him the task of conveying the nickel..

I was Editor of my college newspaper when Eisenhower ran against Stevenson. I was for Stevenson, of course, and tried to promote him as much as possible--though I had to balance the political material equally for both parties. My grandfather--Susan's husband--summed up his opinion of the two candidates thusly, though he never said how he voted: "I worry that Stevenson will take too much time deliberating over decisions...on the other hand, I served under Eisenhower."

When I finally became old enough to vote (you had to be 21 back then), it was my pleasure to vote for John F. Kennedy. I though he was really brave when he took the blame for the Bay of Pigs, and I watched him on the black and white TV as her demanded the Russians keep their missiles out of Cuba. It was indeed a Black Day when he was shot.

I admired Lyndon Johnson's domestic policies, and rejoiced when the Civil Rights legislation passed into law, but I did not care for the Viet Nam War and its unsavory consequences. What is it about politicians that they think Unnecessary War is a Good Thing? 

I was in graduate school most of the time Nixon was President, and actually missed Watergate altogether, being busy with books and classes and papers to write and all. I did catch up eventually. I did pay attention to the resignation of Spiro Agnew and the appointment of Gerald Ford, but only marginally. I was in Greece when Nixon resigned, and got up at two in the morning to hear him do it.

I was in Cambridge, England, in 1976. I voted for Jimmy Carter by absentee ballot. My Washington Voter's Pamphlet that accompanied the ballot was the most interesting I had even seen. The Owl Party, started for fun by Red Kelley, a local jazz musician, had filed a candidate for many state offices. This was a tongue-in-cheek party, conceived with great humor and insight by a bunch of madcap folks who made what might have been a ho-hum election quite amusing. The Land Commissioner, for instance, promised "to fearlessly commission the land;" and vowed to make the Japanese take a bottle of Noweco Wine (justly condemned by ell who tasted it) with every log they bought from the state. For Secretary of State, a lady named Fast Lucy Griswold  had filed with the claim that she was the only candidate for Secretary who actually knew how to take shorthand. Needless to say, our British friends who would go on to elect Margaret Thatcher Prime Minister, were slightly taken aback and even dumbfounded to find the Voter's Pamphlet we shared with them was actually an Official Document. Here is a link to an article about the Owl Party:

http://www.sos.wa.gov/legacyproject/timeline_event.aspx?e=62

I won't say anything about the Reagan Years, lest I need more protection than Dewey. Bush 41 was less bad than I feared, Willie Horton and the Politics of Destruction notwithstanding.The Clinton years were kind of fascinating, in their way--what with the Scandal and the Impeachment, and The Contract on America and all...it was a good lesson in Civics, after all--and a good lesson in why we need to teach Civics in our schools.

And I try, as much as possible, to forget that we had a 43rd President. the 41st was more than enough of that family for me. The damage 43 did will not be amended soon, more's the pity.

I was thrilled when Obama became President, because I hoped (in vain, as it turned out) that racism was finally going away in America. When anyone wondered how I could vote for a black man, I would tell them I was voting for the white half. Or the Irish candidate--where did that apostrophe go? It has been rather frustrating watching him trying to govern when the opposition will hardly acknowledge his existence, let alone his authority. One hopes that the upcoming election will change all that--in his favor, I hasten to add. He has done a good job against incredible odds, getting little credit for his accomplishments..

This political year I have been amused and horrified at the politics going on. Actually it isn't very funny when one party has candidates that range from super-conservative ex-senator to disgraced former Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives to Vulture Capitalist businessman, and ex-Pizza businessman and mid-west congresswoman selling books. Not to mention an 11th-century Libertarian. And the other party is busy shooting itself in the foot, as far as I can tell, being just as vocal in their disparaging of their current Presidential office holder as their opponents are. We do live in interesting times.

Until Next time--Nan

This Is What I Strive For

My friend Ami is super organized. She lives in a two-bedroom condo, and has turned the smaller bedroom and closet into her studio. I am constantly amazed by her ability to absorb new supplies and class materials (she takes a lot of online classes, and keeps notebooks for each one).

This Is Ami

For my contribution to Julie Fei-Fan Balzer's blog ( http://balzerdesigns.typepad.com ) during Organization Week, and my own blog here, I emphasized the concept of "Like with Like." Ami organizes her stash this way, too. But she is much better at Putting Things Back than I am. Her studio is not very big, but it has a nice picture window and a good-sized closet. She keeps her work space under the window; it rests on top of a wood cabinet (obviously hand-made) that her husband got in a sale of unwanted items at work. It had a couple of drawers missing, but Ami's son Matt is a cabinet-maker, and could whip up drawers to fill the gaps; Ami decided to use the space to hold some of her binders instead. She has a big board to work on, propped up to make it high enough, and this holds the stuff she uses most and whatever project she is currently working on. Next to that, she has a flat file bought at a garage sale years ago that holds lots of different supplies.

Ami's Cabinet and Flat File

On the opposite side of the room are book shelves, where Ami keeps her collection of binders, CDs, and boxes to hold papers, stencils, and other things.

Binders Holding Class Materials and Other Notes

Small Things Kept in Specialty Boxes on Bookcase

Project Boxes Hold Supplies

The closet wall has a row of Iris Carts that hold everything from rubber stamps to stamp pads to brads, and on top of these are more binders for acrylic stamps.

Ami's Iris Cart Wall

Acrylic Stamps in Binders and Ribbon Storage on Left

Notice how everything is carefully labeled. Sometimes the labels fall off or come loose, though. Ami says she doesn't worry about that, at she can always stick them back, and if they were more permanent, they would be difficult to change.

Rubber Stamps in the Iris Cart, Like Images Together

Small Things in Containers in Iris Cart Drawers. Everything is Visible.

In the closet are more Iris Carts, a big wooden cupboard with shelves, and lots of hanging storage for papers and fabrics. Magazines line the closet shelf.

Iris Carts in the Closet Hold Paints and Bottled Supplies

Hanging Pockets of Goodies in Back of Closet

Magazines on the Closet Shelf

In the Big Cupboard in the Closet

On the closet door and the back of the door to the room Ami has hanging vinyl pockets that hold decorative scissors, tape, brayers, and other odd-shaped supplies.

Decorative Scissors Hang on Closet Door

Oddly Shaped Stuff and Tape on Studio Door

Of course, none of this would work if Ami were not scrupulous about returning things to their proper place when she has finished using them She knows exactly where everything is, all the time, and if she forgets, she can always read the label.

The fourth wall holds Ami's computer and computer-related tools like her printer. She does a lot of digital art and attends many online classes and webinars, and so this area is where she spends a lot of time.

But back to the window wall, with that wonderful cabinet. Here are some shots of the cabinet's contents:

Little Things in Recycled Mustard Containers From Take-Out

Cabinet with Distress Ink Drawer Open

Inside the Paint Drawer

And a look inside the flat file shows again how organized Ami is!

Pens, Sumi-e and Japanese Paints in Flat File Drawers

Did I mention that Ami's wooden cabinet is a treasure? I am thinking how cool it would be to build one for myself one day. How hard could it be? If only I had a place to put it!

Thank you so much, Ami, for letting me share your wonderfully organized space with others through my blog, and for taking pictures of the cabinet for me. I am so looking forward to all the super art you will be making there!

Nan and Ami

Until Next time, Nan