The counter space reflects her busy life even as we emerge from this devastating pandemic. The two purses are used for specific purposes which I have never understood. I cringe when she ask me to bring her purse. I invariably choose the wrong one.
The two medical cards with our medications are placed where emergency personnel can find them. I have asked myself a few times if the paramedics will even take the time to look, much less read, them.
There’s the business card from the landscape company she is trying to reach because there are brown patches in the yard. I hate to tell her that the brown spots were probably the result of her using way too much Roundup. But I stay quiet.
The colorful luggage tags are for our upcoming trip to Alaska. No international travel for us this year. She has purchased two new sets of luggage to go along with the six suitcases in the garage. I only need one.
There is a picture of me with my beret sitting in the airport in Dublin. It’s her favorite photo of me. I don’t argue with her.
Reclining Buddha A reclining Buddha is an image that represents Buddha lying down and is a major iconographic theme in Buddhist art. It represents the historical Buddha during his last illness, about to enter the parinirvana. He is lying on his right side, his head resting on a cushion or relying on his right elbow, supporting his head with his hand.
The local market was a colorful visual experience as well as a treat for the nose. The borders of the Central Europe are vague and irrational but the smell can identify certain regions. From across the street the smell of boiled cabbage and stale beer whiffed through the air. This must be Vienna!
The Grand Teton National Forestwas a major reason we decided to take a road trip to the West. We were primed for its beauty. We lodged the night before near the Grand Teton’s. Upon waking the next morning the Teton’s were totally blacked out by heavy hoary clouds. But the storm passed in a few more hours.
“The Cambodian village of Kdep Tmar, deep in the northwest forests near the Thai border, lies within a minefield. Planted by numerous belligerent factions during Cambodia’s three decades of war, the mines are in the fields behind the houses, along the rutted track that is the only access to the village and in the forest where the villagers gather wood.
“Life is bad here,” says Pou Venh, father of three, a sad-faced man whose body is emaciated by malaria. “There is no land for growing rice, no food, mines everywhere. The school has no furniture.” He and his wife try to keep their children from wandering too far, but they don’t even know if the patch of ground around their small wooden shack is safe. Two months ago a pregnant woman was killed by a mine as she walked to the outdoor latrine 20 yds. behind her hut.”