For the second time this year, I am away from Arizona on my own, this time in Wichita, KS. I went to NYC in April to spend a few days with my brother Andrew and his family and in July, will fly to Oakland, CA to see Sam, then to Portland, OR to see Katie.

Three women I’m close to have lost their husband/partners in the past year and a half. I didn’t plan these trips to remind myself I can operate independently, but now that I’m living them, I’m conscious that it’s good practice for me in case I, too, outlive my partner. I don’t delude myself that by doing so, I am inoculating myself against shock and grief, but it doesn’t hurt to remind myself that I have resources within myself and am capable of managing my life on my own.

Not surprisingly at my age, death is more on my mind, too. I have been learning about the philosophy of Stoicism, in which one main tenet is to accept what you can’t control. Dying is, of course, ultimately the least controllable of human experiences. More of Stoicism in a blog to come. I started that post months ago, and daunted myself with the attempt to elucidate all the ins and outs of the philosophy. It began to feel like a research project. I see now that it need not pretend to be comprehensive. That’s beyond me at my fledgling level. A more reasonable goal is to be comprehensible. I think I can do that without footnotes and a bibliography, and I hope to post it in the next month or so. We’ll see…

remembering how to travel

For us, and likely you as well, travel was not an option during the worst of the pandemic. When we did make a trip, I used to have a routine that worked moderately well. Everything I needed had a place. Not that I never forgot anything — I regularly did. It was usually something critical, like a power connector or hose for my C-PAP machine, and sometimes the machine itself. But I generally had a toothbrush, shampoo, Q-Tips, nail clippers, etc., and if I was missing something, it was readily available at a nearby store.

This time, just for a change, I focused almost entirely on remembering several dermatological medications recently prescribed for an outbreak of geriatric acne. [I tried to soothe myself by considering it a chance to feel young again, but 14 is not the age I would choose if I could regress. The shame of it came back instantly. Maybe instead of a second childhood, I was treated to a second adolescence?] Anyhoo, parenthetical aside, I felt totally prepared for the trip until I realized upon arriving that I did not have the toiletry bag that included the toothbrush, shampoo, Q-Tips, nail clippers, etc.

Another packing omission was my sturdy walking sandals. As I was packing, I wore a rather uncomfortable pair of flip-flops and planned to change to the sandals at the last minute. I seem to have caught my ride to the airport just before that last minute occurred, so found myself walking through the large terminal in less than optimal footwear. Ah well, I thought, part of my early religious indoctrination taught me that suffering is redemptive. This will earn me an extra gold star in my heavenly crown.

I picked up my rental car, a new Ford Escape. I’m naturally a bit slow at figuring out unfamiliar controls, but I managed to get the seat and mirrors adjusted and change the angle of the tiny steering wheel, the minimum tweaks needed for responsible driving. I backed out and found my way out of the parking garage and on to the route suggested by GPS. Huge raindrops were plopping down, so I tried to turn on the wipers, but could only make them work one wipe at a time, so I had to do it repeatedly, which kept me from paying as much attention as I should have when driving in an unfamiliar place.

But I made it. I arrived at the Little House on the Alley, the Airbnb I had booked, and parked in the designated space. When I put the car in Park, I was a bit unnerved to have a lighted message pop up on the screen: “Check for passengers in the back seat.” Taking a moment to remind myself that I had just put my suitcase in the back of the SUV and saw no one else in the car, I managed not to turn around and check, but it gave me a touch of the fantods.

[I learned that word in an acrostic puzzle, and find myself using it now. I’ll also probably find myself having to explain it whenever I do. Coined in the early 1800’s, I have seen various interpretations of it, but I read it recently in Huckleberry Finn, where it’s used to mean an attack of uneasiness, a little like “the willies.” That’s what I meant when I used it above.]

How could I have forgotten that the photos of prospective lodgings are shot with magic camera lenses that make everything look twice the size it really is? For the price, however, it was adequate — not uncomfortable as long as I only used it for sleeping and showering. There was no sink in the bathroom, but the kitchen sink was conveniently right outside the bathroom door, so it sufficed. No comfortable chairs, but lounging was not on my agenda anyway.

I was in Wichita to visit two family connections: Ilse Rasmussen, the 94-year-old wife of my mother’s cousin Jim (who died a couple of years ago), and my first cousin Janice, who lives in nearby Hesston. I looked forward to seeing and catching up with both, little realizing that I would also be treated to an impressive array of colorful objets d’art as well. I left feeling like I had visited both friends, cousins, and a museum of fine handiwork.

wichita – las adelitas

Before I get to family visits, I want to tell you about a charming coffee place I found in Wichita the first morning I was there. Finding a friendly coffee shop is a huge comfort in an unfamiliar place, and this one filled the bill. All the folks behind the counter at Las Adelitas Cafe spoke English very well, but they were happy to have conversations in Spanish, too.

I am often irritated — even infuriated — by the “background” music in eating places, but I loved it here. The music was Mexican, but NOT mariachi, thank goodness. (Mariachi is fun in short bursts at a celebration, but not at breakfast!) The Spanish lyrics were mostly incomprehensible to me without seeing them in print (this is often true for me with English lyrics, too), but the sound and rhythm of the language enchants me. And the volume was reasonable, by which I mean that conversations could easily be had without raising voices.

Las Adelitas has been open since March of 2023, as I found out in this article. It mentions that “las adelitas” was the name given to women soldiers in the Mexican Revolution (1910-1920). Oscar Pineda, an owner, said in the article: “Adelitas were soldiers in the revolution, but (we adopted the name) because these days, we are all fighting for the same thing,” Oscar said. “To have an everyday life, everyday income, everyday food.”

You may not have considered Wichita as a destination before, but the ambiance, breakfast burritos, coffee (and the amusing “no smoking” sign) at Las Adelitas might make it worth a trip! The woman in the photo above is Jen, who was working that day with Vanessa and Blaine.

WICHITA – ILSE RASMUSSEN

Jim Rasmussen was my mother Dorothy’s first and second cousin, which means he was my second and third cousin. I assure you that our family is not as inbred as this makes it sound. Long story short, Jim’s grandfather and Dorothy’s grandmother were siblings, AND Jim’s mother and Dorothy’s mother were sisters. Never mind, it’s not really important to this story.

Jim had the great luck to meet Ilse Lau when he was in the Army in Germany in 1954. That’s another story for another post. It’s a good one. Ilse was born in Germany in 1930, and lived there until she married Jim in January of 1955. She wrote a detailed and deeply moving memoir of the war years, illustrated with a few of her drawings and watercolors. Here are two paragraphs from the first page of the memoir to give you a taste of her perspective and writing style:

When I was small, there was a lot of conflict in Germany. I was born in 1930 when there were hundreds of thousands of people unemployed and hungry and frustrated. They found themselves out of work, out of money to support themselves and their families, with rampant inflation, and without hope for the future. So, most Germans then wanted and needed to change their condition, and they were desperate to do so. And it was Hitler who promised them better things and who profited from their unrest and desperation. In that context, he came to power. In one of his speeches he said, “Give me ten years’ time and you will not recognize Germany anymore!” Those words turned out to be true in the end, but quite another way than he had meant them. . .

Being brought up by my mother, Elfriede, who was my sole supporter, I was just a toddler when, one day, I was tagging along while my Aunt Anne was buying meat at the butcher’s. Suddenly, a band marched by, music blaring. “Oh!” I shouted with excitement. “They’re playing the song my Mutti (Mom) hates so much!” “Who is this child’s mother?” the butcher barked, and shot meaningful glances at the party official who was standing in the crowd, as they were standing wherever people had come together. But my aunt had already taken me outside and was slapping me silly. And so no one followed up to find out who it was who had taught her child to hate the National Anthem of the newly ushered-in Third Reich. But I had come very close to sending my mother, who was only 27 at the time, to a concentration camp. Only we didn’t know it then. That was my introduction to the new regime when I was but three years old.

The memoir continues through the war and the very lean years afterward. Ilse’s memory is very clear, and her writing precise. Everyday situations (which thankfully are not everyday for most of us) are told in detail. Even as a child, she was a master observer, and since she speaks and writes English better than many Americans, it’s a compelling read. If I try to describe it further, I’ll never get done with this post, but I want to mention Ilse’s mother, who was an artist — and much more. Clearly, Ilse is an artist, too, both by nature and nurture. During and after World War II, they often used their artistic creations as currency, trading their output for food and services. One unusual skill that Ilse picked up was Scherenschnitte — silhouettes. I saw some of hers around the house and was fascinated with the detail. When I remarked on it, Ilse modestly said, “I had tiny scissors.” Yes, and clever fingers as well.

Ilse made all these stepping stones. They have concrete bases with pieces of glass cut by hand and formed into mosaics. They were impressive to see a few at a time. I love seeing them all together!

Hesston – janice

My cousin Janice lives in Hesston, a 40 minute drive to the north (and slightly west, if you want to be particular). Janice was one of the oldest of our generation of cousins (30 or so) on the Schechter side of the family. At this point, we are “of an age,” but growing up, I rather idolized her and her sister Patty. For many years, the Schechter family (seven siblings, their spouses, and children) gathered each summer for a reunion. I have fond memories of one reunion when teenaged Janice and Patty brushed and braided my sisters’ and my long blond hair.

Janice and her husband, Gary, were both elementary school teachers, Gary eventually a principal as well. After retiring, they moved from Winfield, a town south of Wichita, to the Showalter Villa retirement community in Hesston. From my short tour of Hesston (a long tour would not be possible without leaving town and wandering the county), it appeared that the retirement community was the majority of the population there, but since there is one elementary, one middle and one high school, I’m sure that kids from the surrounding farms help make up the student body. (Just doesn’t sound right to say “student bodies.”)

Janice’s husband, Gary, died about a year ago. He was a very funny and deeply thoughtful human being that will appear in my upcoming post about Stoicism. Janice is, like Ilse, wonderfully creative and has produced (and continues to produce) an enormous number of scrapbooks, quilts, tole paintings, and many other crafty, cool items. She was close to my mother, her Aunt Dorothy, and this was something they shared.

Janice and I enjoyed a nice breakfast at Water’s Edge, one of the eating spots in town. I noticed this huge sign on a wall that was painted on a sideways door. Turns out Janice’s daughter-in-law Brittni lettered the quote from Pavarotti. I like the way that man thinks. I’d like to stop planning my days around meals, but haven’t yet been able to pull it off! Not sure I want to.

I learned a new word in Hesston: swather. It’s a piece of farm machinery used in those parts to cut and form crops into “windrows” for drying. Swathers are produced in Hesston, and are so important to the town that the high school sports teams are known as the Hesston Swathers. It sounded like kind of a tame moniker to me until I visualized the athletes clearing the opposing teams on the football fields, basketball courts and baseball diamonds like the machine would! I snagged this swather T-shirt at The Nest, an impressive gift shop in town.

If you are hankering to see how a swather works, here you go. It’s 10 minutes long, but 30 seconds is quite sufficient.

Janice and I spent a few hours at her house talking old family stuff and where our lives have gone since we last saw each other. And I got to see many of her handmade creations. The quilt in the second row left is quite small, maybe 9″ x 12″. It’s hanging on the wall in the photo to its right. Such tiny little pieces! I’m forgetting what process she used to make the one on the top left… hmm… Janice, you’ll have to remind me.

Unfortunately, there was a falling-out among the extended Schechter family, and we have not gathered as a group for over 30 years. Sad, but when there were 40-60+ of us, there was little time for individuals to talk at length. Now there’s time. Janice is one cousin among several that I do not want to lose touch with. The “tie that binds” is still there between us, and I plan to see her again before too long.

One more artist in the family

I’m determined to get this post out today, but a quick word about Jim Rasmussen. He is no longer with us, but Ilse’s house and yard are as full of his creative output as they are of Ilse’s. Both of them had extraordinary creative energy that they seem to have actively channeled every day. Jim worked mostly in wood, but also made coil pots and carved stone. Boredom was clearly never an issue for them, either during their working years or in retirement.

I spoke with Jim on the phone once a week or so in the last couple of years of his life. He had done deep research into the genealogy of our families, and I liked to ask him about people I remembered from my childhood visits to his and my mother’s hometown, Jetmore, KS. Ilse often answered the phone when I called, but we only spoke briefly. After Jim died, I found myself calling and talking to Ilse instead. I had met her on a couple of occasions in “the 1900’s,” as I’m alarmed to hear them referred to these days. But when Richard, Katie, Sam and I took my parents on a “pilgrimage” to Kansas in 2003, we stopped to see many relatives along the way, including Jim and Ilse. That is when I realized I wanted to know them better. I’m so glad for the opportunity to do that, and especially glad that Ilse is still around to visit. She’s a delight to spend time with, and I hope to see her again soon.

So, what now?

We came up to Flagstaff the last week of May, so I was only here for two weeks before leaving for Wichita. Going back and forth between two houses requires a few days for reentry each time, to acclimate (literally, at this time of year) and figure out who I am in each city. My Phoenix self is busier and more other-oriented; here in Flagstaff, I can relax and set a few goals with no real deadlines. So, let me think. How am I going to structure my days and what are some satisfying tasks I can accomplish?

Well, there’s playing piano or viola, doing jigsaw puzzles, hanging family pictures up (finally), refinishing the old wooden bench that was here when we bought the place, studying Spanish, reading or listening to books, staying in touch with friends and family, finding ways to make edible meals easily, keeping up with email, working in the yard — and so much more. But one thing at a time, one thing I choose.

It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do. There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing to do. Wasting time is merely an occupation then, and a most exhausting one.

Jerome K. Jerome, humorist and playwright (1859-1927)