Scout Moves

His name was Captain Thomas Lee, and he served in the colonial forces in Ireland in the 1500s. He was accused of treachery to Elizabeth I, and in this rather odd painting, he is attempting to show his loyalty by appearing as an Irish soldier on the top and a Roman hero on the bottom. There is an inscription in the tree referring to a Roman soldier who had remained true to Rome even among his enemies. This really is a sizable painting, and I find it a little odd that someone, especially an astute observer, would not notice the glowing legs beneath the armor. It was the first thing I saw when I entered the room at the Tate. Painted by Marcus Gheeraerts, 1594.

While meeting up with Dive and Mum was a big highlight of the London leg of our trip, we did do other things. We stayed at a Marriott in the Mayfair district. Mayfair is a snooty part of the city where the aristocracy used to hang out back in the day, as did Handel when he was working for the king or queen or whoever. It was a lovely place to stroll--oops, I mean amble. I have to say, though, the chocolates lefts behind by the maid service every evening were not nearly as good as those left behind at the Hilton in Paris, but any chocolate is welcome. Our room was actually an apartment with a small kitchen, so one of our first stops was a small grocery store for bread and butter and milk and cereal and coffee. It was nice to relax with breakfast and eat at our own pace. Because I am an early riser, and everyone else in the family sleeps late (and I mean LATE), I had a quiet breakfast every morning and knitted practically an entire sweater. The TV was often on very quietly--are you aware

We spent a full week in London, but I know you want to hear about meeting Dive and Mum. They have both already written about our visit and posted pictures, so I'll add a few pictures they don't have. Daughter no. 2 was good enough to operate the camera. Here we are on the steps of the Tate. Here are our shoes on the steps of the Tate. We really did have a lovely time together--meandering through Westminster Abbey, ambling down the way to the Tate, munching quiche, admiring Turner on display. This will come as no surprise to anyone, but Dive is a very astute art observer. I mumbled to Daughter No. 2 that all I was able to say was, "ooo, it's pretty." Or, "ooo, that man has no trousers." The statement was necessary to say because we were standing in front of a painting of a man in armor from mid-thigh up and nothing but his pasty white skin from there down. Dive hadn't noticed. He did suspect that people in waist-up portraits were really naked from the

We are now home, safe and sound, and we've had a full night's sleep. It seems like so long ago that I was in Paris, but that's what I'll start with in my brief travelogue about my trip. When I was a kid, my mother and I used to go to the Rotary Club travelogues on Sunday afternoons, and I slept through every single one of them. I hope my presentation doesn't have the same effect on you. OK, so...Paris. We stayed at the Paris Hilton. Seriously. It isn't much to speak of on the outside and is actually kind of ugly. It's greatest asset is that it's only a couple of blocks from the Eiffel Tower. We could see it from our hotel windows, and at night, when its lights flip out, it's mesmerizing. Fond memory: sitting outside the hotel lounge with a gin martini at midnight or so, looking at the Tower lit brightly against the night sky. On our first full day in France, we took a train to Dijon (about 1 hour, 45 minutes), and we met Daughter No. 1 there. She is

Yankee Doodle went to London just to ride the ponies. Stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni. That seems such an odd song, doesn't it? Even with James Cagney singing it while twirling his cane and high-stepping across the stage. The song wasn't originally patriotic. It was actually sung to mock the ragtag mob of pre-revolutionary colonial soldiers who fought with the British in the French and Indian War. "Doodle" was a term for idiots, and "macaroni" was a term for a dandy young man of fashion. When the poor slobs stuck feathers in their hats, they thought were really something, but the British thought they were really something to be ridiculed. It wasn't until the Revolution that colonials turned it around to be something they could sing with honor, something they could use to thumb their nose up at the Red Coats. A raspberry, so to speak. I won't be singing this song while visiting London. Or Paris. We'll leave Wednesday morning and

In just three days, we leave for Paris and London. Yippee! In the meantime, have some ice cream in honor of this special day.

The other day, when I told the story of the abandoned chicken, the one left behind by a family of Guatemalan immigrants, I wished I could do more than speculate on how my community might behave toward the growing Hispanic population, legal AND illegal. This morning's local newspaper offered some insight that I found encouraging. The Guatemalan man with no driver's license who is being tried for vehicular homicide was pictured on the front page. But the story wasn't about how he is a shiftless burden to society or how his ethnic group should be purged from our otherwise pristine town (if you lived here, you'd know how laughable that concept is). The story is about how our local court system provides interpreters to all Spanish-speaking residents who find themselves before a judge, and the service is free to them. While the cost is passed on to the rest of us, it is minimal. The story also pointed out that local immigrants do not commit more crimes than our original citiz

What possesses a man to tie 105 helium balloons to a lawn chair and fly? The guy from Oregon, Kent Couch, explains our desire to chase adventure as well as anyone: "When you're a little kid and you're holding a helium balloon, it has to cross your mind. When you're laying in the grass on a summer day, and you see the clouds, you wish you could jump on them. This is as close as you can come to jumping on them. It's just like that." I tip my hat to the man who flew 193 miles powered by balloons, following his Little Kid desire to jump on clouds, and reminding us how amazing people can be. I should focus on the innate sense of adventure that rests in all of us, waiting to be released, but at the moment I am focused on the folding lawn chair. I am reminded of the Precision Lawn Chair Marching troops that have been marching in holiday parades for a few decades now. This is a picture of a unit in a Chicago suburb. When these guys march, they bark out cadences--"

This is a picture of a chicken that was left behind when a family of Guatemalans fled from a house they were renting in Small Town. The family left in a hurry, being unable to pay rent, and along with their chicken, they left behind a mountain of trash scattered throughout the rooms of the house which the landlord had to clean up--with a bulldozer and a face mask, plus bottles of bleach and a tankard full of disinfectant. Of all the things a family could leave behind--a swing set, a sand box, old curtains, an ugly light fixture--these people choose to leave their chicken, one that had supplied them with eggs. This afternoon, I was driving down the street when I spotted my friend J standing in a yard across the street from where she teaches drum lessons and looking puzzled. I stopped the car and got out to say "hello," and I found J tossing bits of white bread at this chicken. The thing had been abandoned to the street, and my friend had taken upon herself to find it a home. S

I haven't knitted in months, not since the baby hats that were supposed to go to Mali but never did. They're still in a bag in my guest room. But the other day while I was visiting my friend at her yarn shop, I picked up a skein of recycled silk and found I could not put it back down. I bought two skeins and went straight home to make a shawl similar to one modeled in the yarn shop. This took two whole skeins and was knitted on size 13 circular needles. I cast on 37 (a random choice) and knitted until the yarn ran out, although I set aside enough for fringe. Typically, I don't wear shawls, but I just might wear this one. The silk used to weave this yarn comes from discarded saris from India. A company called Mango Moon operates the Sustainable Living Project, employing over 200 women in Bali, Nepal, and Bolivia and providing them with spinning wheels and materials they need to be self-supportive. A few women in Nepal were recycling saris on their own, but now that they hav

You Are Strawberry Ice Cream A bit shy and sensitive, you are sweet to the core. You often find yourself on the outside looking in. Insightful and pensive, you really understand how the world works. You are most compatible with chocolate chip ice cream. What Flavor Ice Cream Are You? Hmmm. I thought I would be coffee or mint chocolate chip at least.

After thinking about all the weird combinations of food that people put together, I got to thinking about what people do to ice cream, with all of their odd ideas. It used to be you had three choices--vanilla, chocolate, strawberry. Now, if you can put it in an ice cream maker, you can use it to make ice cream. Ice cream shops have been making unusual flavors for quite awhile--"unusual" defined as the basics with a few new additions, like pecans or chocolate chips or mint. When I was in college, rum raisin was a big deal because our college didn't allow alcohol of any kind. I used to walk down to Rush Street in Chicago and order rum raisin in a cone just because it was different, and I felt like I was breaking the rules. But now, even rum raisin is as dull as vanilla when compared to the options. Ben & Jerry's has a new flavor--Black and Tan--which combines ice cream with cream stout. Gifford's in Maine makes Grape Nuts ice cream, and in Hawaii, a flavor deriv

There are certain foods that go together, like chips and salsa or peanut butter and jelly or meatloaf and mashed potatoes or chicken and rice. Just about every culture has their own version of chicken and rice. One of the best I have had was made by Flora, a school teacher who escaped from Cuba with her brother, Ramon, and ended up living in Yonkers. She served a great chicken and rice dish one night, and we sat in her kitchen watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. I'll never forget it. But there are some foods that just don't go together no matter how hard you try, and forcing them only goes against nature. Daughter No. 2 has discovered macaroni and cheese pizza. They sell it at Cici's Pizza, and they should be ashamed. Cheesy pasta piled on top of pizza crust is such a bad mix of just about everything--ingredients, textures, colors. I grimace and shiver just at the idea. I grimaced and shivered when No. 2 came home from the South Pacific and said that just about

Daughter No. 2 has returned from her trip to the South Pacific. She still isn't home because now she is in Florida with her youth group. During her brief touch-down at home, she deposited some great pictures from her stay in Fiji, in New Zealand, and in Sydney. Brief photo tour: Her view from the Warwick Hotel in Fiji. No. 2 in the middle--with two students from a Fijian high school. Funny, we were told to send school supplies, so everyone loaded up on Dora the Explorer type things, thinking they would be spending time with little kids. They cleared out the elementary age gifts before handing over their donations when they realized they would be spending time with kids their own age. Oops. The entire People to People delegation on top of Mount Manganui in New Zealand. The story goes there was a beautiful woman mountain and a smaller slave mountain, not so beautiful. The slave mountain mooned over the beautiful mountain and sent night fairies to send his message of love. Upon rejec

Small Town is 200 years old, and just yesterday, it celebrated its bicentennial with the unveiling of a huge multi-part mural in the town square, a brief speech by the mayor, and a street concert by my summer band. The town closed down the main intersection and positioned three firetrucks as our backdrop. We played our bit to a pretty nice crowd, and there weren't even any deep-fry stands or carnie rides. We played a mix of crowd pleasers, like a few patriotic classics, Over the Rainbow, Festive Overture, and Mule Train. Mule Train may seem odd, but given the history of Small Town, it fits, kind of. In 1807, two guys bought 2,175 acres in the "western frontier" and plotted out a town they hoped would become the county seat, once the county had been established. By 1818, the place had three taverns and two houses, houses I assume that belonged tothe land buyers. It wasn't until the Ohio Erie Canal was built and in full operation that Small Town really got kicking. Trad