Tonspuren, Gedichte von Gisela Baudy, ist ein lyrischer Zirkel in zehn Stimmungsbildern des Sich-Suchens, Überwindens, Heimat-findens. Foto-Illustrationen von Chris Baudy und Gisela Baudy.
Tonspuren, bedenke: Der Weg ist das Ziel.
Lebensreise
Werden
der du warst
bevor die Flügel brachen.
Werden
der du bist
trotz Flügelbruch.
Das Leben bringt jedermann(frau) Abstürze und Flügelbrüche. Aber daran kann man arbeiten: „Der vorliegende Gedichtzyklus will allen Traumatisierten Mut machen”, schreibt die Autorin.
Aus Tonspuren spricht die persönliche Geschichte der Erzählerin mit zwei Identitäten (Reflektion= Spiegelbild und Original). Die Charaktere im Dialog heißen Clarissa und Alaine (alleine? ihr Alter-Ego).
Wieso der Titel Tonspuren?
Weil alle schrägen, dunklen, hellen Töne des Lebens auf jeweils eine Tonspur gesetzt werden, wie eine Symphonie der Seele. Manchmal aufrührend, manchmal träumerisch, in allen Gefühlslagen. Mit Tönen und Klängen gehen wir auf die lyrische Reise, wo sogar die Stille klingt.
„In uns allen leben Töne aus Worten und Bildern, die unsere Sehnsucht nach einem Zuhause zum Klingen bringen. Es sind stille Klänge aus Erde und Vogelflug.“
Haste Töne, los geht’s. Tonspuren führen uns auf eine lyrisch-literarische Reise mit erlebten Stationen. Jeder Mensch kennt die Knackpunkte und Neugeburten im Laufe des Lebens. Aber die Absicht der Autorin ist übergreifend. Nicht nur die persönliche Heimat wird durchwandert, sondern auch das Menschengedenken und Menschlichkeit gegen den Überdruss der Gleichgültigkeit, Bosheit und der Erderwärmung. Die Tonspuren suchen Auswege aus verschiedensten Krisen. (Wenn nur jeder aufwachen würde.)
ZUM BEISPIEL: Die Wende einer Beziehung
Brandstätte
Was hast du erwartet?
fragte er die Liebende
und kehrte den Rücken.
Flog zurück in ein Land
das er nie als seine Heimat
bezeichnet hatte.
Die Liebende blieb stumm zurück.
Jahre vergingen.
Die Brandstätte blieb.
Was sie erwartet hatte
war einfach:
dass er die Frage nie gestellt hätte.
Wer liebt
erwartet nichts.
Er liebt.
Eigentlich sind lyrische Betrachtungen nicht so sehr „mein Bier“. Poetische Prosa dagegen hat aber immer eine Anzugskraft auch mich gehabt. Von daher konnte ich Gisela Baudys Tonspuren und so manche Scherben wertschätzen. Der Autorin Wortwendungen sind tiefgründig und spitzfindig zur selben Zeit. An den kurzen Einsichten ist keine Silbe zu viel. Mit Oxymorons und Synästhesie bringt sie die Stille zum Klingen. Deshalb wollte ich mich dieser Besinnungsreise überlassen und auch einmal in mich hineinhorchen. Jeder hat in sich Dissonanzen, die entstehen wenn die Erwartungen von der Realität eingeholt werden.
In Stücke
Ich zerschneide
meine Tränen
in Stücke Papier
und werfe sie zum Abfall
meiner Träume.
Gisela Baudys Tonspuren Zyklus ist nicht zum schnell Leben oder schnell Lesen gedacht. Auch wenn man eine Betrachtung zum fünften Mal zu sich nimmt, entdeckt man wieder neue Facetten. Diese Lebensreise ist extrahiert von sehr persönlichen Erfahrungen und will jedem Mut machen, wieder Kind zu werden. Außerdem: um an sich selber zu arbeiten, braucht man nicht unbedingt einen Therapeuten.
V
Doktor
Sie müssen
sich nicht beeilen.
Wirklich nicht.
Ich sterbe
auch so.
Das sitzt. Die Grenzen der ärztlichen Kunst und Motivation. Vielleicht braucht man einen anderen Doktor als den mit dem Stethoskop. Einer, der auch ohne Hörgerät die Tonsplitter wieder richtet. Die Seele repariert.
Aber ganz so schwarz muss man nicht sehen. Man kann sich wieder finden:
Gewissheit Erde
Dem Flüchtigen
Konturen geben
im Wort.
Dem Wort
die Gewissheit
der Erde geben.
Den Alltag vertagen.
Hell werden.
Werden.
So ist vielleicht das Ankommen bei sich selber, sobald dem Kindlein Flügel wachsen, sobald es verloren gegangen ist. In diesem Sinne sind wir alle auf bestimmte Tonspuren geeicht. Die Hoffnung liegt im Licht.
Die Ton- und Wortmalereien haben einen Sinn: die innere Heimat in sich zu finden. Aber nicht nur für den Einzelfall (ego), sondern als Nachhaltigkeit (Sustainability) für uns alle.
Der erste Schritt
Der erste Schritt
die Sonne
in sich einzulassen
ist auf alten Wunden
und Sehnsüchten
nicht zu bestehen.
Wunderschön. In einer kleinen Rezension kann man mit dem kunstfertigen Wortspiel (vielleicht ist es kein Spiel) nicht konkurrieren. Jeder muss es selber erlesen. Was mir am besten gefallen hat, waren die Schattierungen des schwarzen Humors. Und das folgende Mantra in der Einleitung:
„In diesem Sinne sind wir alle Kinder der Erde. Es ist das Kind in uns, das dem Nachbarn die Hand reicht und die Erde für alle bewohnbar macht. Wir müssen es nur suchen wollen.“
Und dazu eine Lesung im Hamburger Raum: Am 21. März 2017 las Gisela Baudy (2. Reihe, 1. von links) ihre Gedichte bei einer bei einer Gemeinschaftslesung in Hamburg-Heimfeld (Kulturverein“Alles wird schön”, Friedrich-Naumannstraße 17, 21075 Hamburg) bei der Suedlese-Aktion der Künstlervereinigung Südkultur. Die Lesung ist der Auftakt der Literaturtage, die vom 20. März bis zum 14. April 2017 in ganz Hamburg-Harburg stattfinden.
Buch Bestellungen:
Gisela Baudy, Tonspuren – Lyrisches Tagebuch, Verlag Stimme fürs Leben e.U., Wien 2016, 188 Seiten mit zahlreichen Fotos von Chris und Gisela Baudy. ISBN 978-3-903032-08-8. Verkaufspreis 19,90 Euro.
Bestellungen bei Stimme fürs Leben.
ODER bei Amazon oder die kostenlose Hotline der Buchhandlung Osiander 0800-9201-300.
Music by Waco Brothers, live at Monty Hall, Harm’s Way.
Yes, I am submitting my docu-shorts as a new category to the movie academy in Hollywood. If I don’t win, then Molly would for sure. Molly, aka Susie, does the Rubics cube in under ten seconds. What a Speedy Gonzalez. Whatever–Happy Oscars to you!
Music by Josh Armistead, Full-time Casual album, Peace with my Brothers.
Music by classy firetruck.
Music by catch-me-if-you can police. Video by Susmita Makin.
Renate Mousseux gathered with her friends Bruno, Barbara, and Brigitte at the Fountain Hills Gallery after a body language presentation. Like many, they had been looking forward to Renatle’s Mosaic of Life with suspense.
“Renatle, Mosaic of Life” is now out on Amazon. The cover looks sassy and the story is full of suspense. I am so excited! Renatle’s mosaic of life adventures came beautifully together in her memoir. It is out on Amazon as paperback, plus a digital version on Kindle. Here is a review from the Fountain Hills newspaper.
YOU ARE INVITED: Friday, January 27, 2017, 7 p.m. Renate will be reading excerpts from her book at my house. Please RSVP to my e-mail.
One fine day, I chatted Renate up after the German luncheon about doing a story about her for Amerika Woche. Right there my own life changed. For this interview, Renate and I met in an Indian restaurant. She gave me the full scoop about her body language expertise—and some playacting examples. We had a fabulous time.
Several weeks later, Renate approached me about writing her life story. I had no idea what all was to come in Renatle’s Mosaic interviews. I was in for some genuine enrichment.
We started taping Renate’s story. Once a month I drove to her house on top of a Fountain Hills peak and listened to her true tales. War times in Germany. Concealed at birth. Prankster childhood. Love gone awry. Down and out in Los Angeles. More than once, my jaw dropped. Renate laid it all out. Barred none.
I won’t give away more than what is on the back cover: Renate was the love child between a French jazz trumpeter and a German patrician business woman. Renate’s questionable existence was concealed from the family for months. Aunt Liesel finally discovered the baby and brought her home.
As a toddler, in 1944, Renatle survived the infamous Tigerstorm carpet-bombing attack on her hometown Freiburg (Germany). The whole town lay in shambles. In that night 3,000 people died. Renate’s uncle and other good Samaritans brought aunt, grandmother, and baby Renate to a Luftschutzbunker—with nothing else but a blanket wrapped around their nightgowns.
Yes, but her mother and father, Trudel and Emile, were buried alive in rubble of the dental lab where they worked. By a miracle, both were rescued days later and put into a hospital for a year. They never fully recovered . . . and then, mother . . .
Tears welled up in her eyes. She asked me to stop the recorder.
More pauses were to come. Why did Renate go to America? She was expecting and wanted to give her baby a home—but not a brute, bisexual, drug-addicted father. Renate escaped, but barely. Finally, things seemed to fall into place in Arizona, with her teaching immersion classes for French and German. It all seemed good, or was it? Her new husband had charm and pedigree.
“I never dwell on the past, even though I sometimes cry”, Renate said. She is one of the most cheerful and people-oriented persons I know. And like any serious Girl Scout she is looking to do at least one good deed a day. She always carries a gift for unforeseen occasions in her purse.
Now it’s two years later and the book is done. “Renatle” turned out well. And so did her book.
Since we started writing, Renate has made many appearances at TV stations commenting on presidential candidates’ body language or the expression of witnesses in high profile murder cases. She started her flourishing BodyLanguage4Success business after her retirement as an Arizona foreign language professor for almost 30 years. More information at BodyLanguage4success
All this fame could have spoiled Renate, but quite to the contrary she is a charming, helpful, and very open person. A gem. And I learned a great deal from her. Each interview and every editing meet was a lesson for me. Here we are at the Fountain Hills Gallery presenting Renatle’s Mosaic.
A story about food poisoning seems tacky. I kept this draft on file for two years. After much indigestion with our elections, this seems to be the perfect timing.
What a dreadful topic! Did you ever have food poisoning? Probably, yes. My physique makes me prone to attract biohazards. But I will spare you most of the messy details except for these.
My first food poisoning that I can remember happened on a Monday, layout day at the weekly paper print shop. I was in my twenties. Unfortunately, the lunch salad at the Italian bistro must have been laced with pathogens. I had to use the train to get to the print shop across town, somehow made it just in time. I thought I would explode at ten-minute intervals for the next two hours. But somehow I got the paper done, and the toilet (t)issues too.
All my trips to India have been memorable and enriched with cultural experiences. But the first trip put me into the emergency room. Fortunately, disaster hit towards the end of the journey. And fortunately I kept the stuff inside on the flight by using utmost restraint, although with a barf bag in hand. I ended up fighting this remarkable bout of food poisoning on American soil with an IV for rehydration two days later. It also passed. I never knew what organism had hit me. My family made a diagnosis: Delhi belly.
I had two memorable encounters with some tough bugs at American eateries. One happened at a popular Mexican theme restaurant. Maybe the critter hid in the chalupa? The other disaster struck at a soup and sandwich shop. Was something in the tomato soup or was I contaminated by bathroom use? The spotty potty should have been a warning.
Either way, both these incidences, sent me to urgent care after the second day. And so did the bottom layer of a prewashed salad box. OK, here is something that I learned. Wash it, wash it, wash it, even when it says, “ready to serve”. One time I went to a vegetarian party given by a newly minted vegan. Doubtlessly, the veggies were scrupulously clean. However, the mix of cooked beans, fresh sprouts, and cabbagy things set off some gas works of a monumental nature. Cramps, cramps, cramps—I was afraid of involuntary releases. And yet I kept my smiley face and conversation. The longest party in my memory.
Interestingly, I cannot recall any bouts with the infamous Montezuma’s revenge, even though I have traveled to Mexico frequently. The Mexican bugs have so far agreed with me.
My longest lasting food poisoning, contracted in Mumbai in 2004, must have dragged out for about a year. Initially, the affliction started with severe stomach and intestinal eruptions. I was lucky since my place of stay had a functioning Western toilet.
To this day, I vividly imagine that slightly tattered papaya that I bought from the grimy sidewalk. Ask natives, they will easily admit that Mumbai streets are filthy, especially during the monsoon, when sewers spill into the street and mingle with the drinking water. Let’s say, it was the papaya and that I didn’t wash it well enough.
Or had the microbe jumped from my toddler’s mustardy diapers? After the acute infections had subsided, the problem lingered on. I lost weight, felt weak and listless. It was a parasite called giardia, which hopped around the family for about a year. That brought on excessive trips to the doctor, disgusting medication (metronidazole), and regular testing—until all family members took the medication simultaneously.
My husband survived the food poisoning. No such luck for me.
All done with that, here comes the best. I would call it the Jaipur double-trouble. Yeah, I can still precisely picture the”last supper” from a reputable-looking restaurant. My husband and I, we both enjoyed it. Exactly after two hours—I had ingested a fast-acting little critter—my fever-vomit tango started. My Indian husband seemed to be taking the food bug (lingering resistance) just fine until four more hours later.
Let’s chill, I pleaded. What? he said, waste the whole sightseeing trip in a four-star hotel? No way, Jose! That’s the kind of people we are. So up goes my six-month-old in an L.L. Bean carrier, and we take the town of Jaipur. Wait, let me puke a little before I take the picture of the Red Fort. Tonight we’ll puke in tandem. And tomorrow we’ll try not to fall through the hole between the two footprints of the bumpy train while doing the other business.
Yeah, what a trip that was! And why am I telling you all this? When I have traveled to distant places, adventures have made my trips memorable. Food poisoning has sharpened my perception so much that some images are indelibly burnished on my mind. Food poisoning has made me more aware—and Jaipur quite unforgettable.
However, don’t be foolish and get a food poisoning on purpose just for the sight-seeing experience. I have been there. It’s not so enjoyable. I did not carelessly challenge my fate, but stuff happens, you know.
Tasting local foods is still what makes foreign travels ultimately exciting. Be judicious about eating, but savor your delicacies without regret after you accept the risk of natural reactions.
How to Avoid Food Poisoning
Wash hands conscientiously
Use bottled water for brushing your teeth
Wash all fruits and vegetables thoroughly with clean water
On the road, eat only fruits that can be peeled (orange, banana etc)
Look for freshly deep fried foods
Packaged cookies, crackers, snacks are OK
Bakery items are a good selection
Canned foods are a safe option
Avoid salads, leafy greens, or cut fruits
Avoid stews with meat or fish in gravy
Avoid meats in general, because proper refrigeration may be lacking
Andreas Kauer giving a tour of his woodworking shop to my friend Maria.
Sound soothes, sound heals—sounds good to me. Music always chases away my bad thoughts. It gets me into the swing of writing. Mellow music, especially guitars, brings out the best of my ideas.
We all know about Tibetan singing bowls, right? My daughter bought one in Sedona. But sound chairs and sound beds were new to me. I had never done any music therapy. What is it all about, I asked Andreas the Eibenklangzauberer from my home town Ascholding. He calls himself the “Yew Sound Wizard” for deep reasons. “Just try it,” he said.
Relaxing Sounds
I sat for 20 minutes on the sound chair made from curly maple. I let the continuous harmonics that Andreas played on the strings of the backrest wash all over me. It was so relaxing, sitting down, letting go—beautiful, easy, flying like a baby to be born.
I am not a candidate for yoga or meditation, too high strung. Yet these harmonics induced their magic on me. I eloped from my daily confines and my inner dictator. Yeah, now I am in love with these musical chairs for healing.
“On its back the sound chair has 32 steel strings but only two different notes”, Andreas explained. He built one of his two sound chairs himself. His favorite therapy instrument is made of yew wood.
Rare Woods: Yew
“The yew wood is the most important wood for me”, Andreas said. “It is among the oldest trees and has the calmest radiance.” As this rare wood is strictly prohibited from commercial use in Germany, he had the rawlings brought over from Ireland.
“I have furnished my therapy room entirely with sculptures and therapeutic instruments made from yew wood”, Andreas said. The yew artifacts create an inspirational atmosphere. Mind you, every part of the tree except for the berries is highly poisonous. But the energy is very positive.
And the poison is good in just the right dosage. Extracts from the yew’s needles—the tree resembles a scraggly stunted spruce—contain the chemical taxol. Known for its healing properties since ancient times, the yew is now being formally investigated as a cancer cure. Yew trees are rare and grow very slowly. They had become almost extinct in Europe in the Middle Ages because they were the best material for longbows.
Bottomed Out
“When I had reached the bottoms, living out of my car like a migrant, the yew trees talked to me,” the healer said. Several years ago, the formerly successful businessman had crashed from overwork and burnout. During his recovery he studied up on the energies of different woods. The yew tree spoke to him, like it did to the ancient druids. He sensed the energy transpiring from an eternal source.
Andreas’ clients have had amazing experiences on the sound chair. One man with a pinched nerve tossed away his cane after the session. Not every transformation is this drastic, but everybody feels better after the sound massage.
“It is my dream to build a sound bed from yew wood for cancer patients,” Andreas said with his calm and soothing voice. “I strongly believe the spirit of the yew can attune the cellular level. There is another hope for cancer patients.”
When Andreas makes his wood sculptures, he removes the decayed matter and sets the innate beauty free. He sands the wood ultra-fine and polishes the orbs and other pieces scrupulously with natural oils. He wants the therapy tools to be comforting to the touch. And here are some of Andreas’ fabulous sculptures:
An Fräulein Anna Waldmann, Schmiedmeisterstochter
In Schönegg, Post Dietramszell, Oberbayern
Am 2. April 1917
Liebe Base! Die besten Grüße aus dem Lazarett sendet Dein lb. Vetter Seb. Disl . Zt. Festungslazarett II, Reliktenheim I, Saal I, Warschau
Viel Grüße auch an Eltern und Pumperer Zilly
To Miss Anna Waldmann, Master-Smith’s Daughter At Schönegg, Postmaster Dietramszell, Upper Bavaria
April 2, 1917
Dear Cousin! Fondest regards from the sickbay sends you your dear Cousin Seb. Disl. At this time from the Fortress Sickbay II, Infirmary 1, Room 1, Warsaw Many regards also to your parents and Zilly Pumperer
This is a postcard from World War I. One day I rediscovered my grandmother’s correspondence. MIND YOU: The man lies in a “Lazarett”, no telling what his wounds. I don’t think the generals would have excused him for the flu. And there he sends “best greetings.” Never mind, he was still alive. That was the important message in all postcards from the war.
Mighty Old Postcards
Growing up, I used to think, “Wow, these cards are really ancient!” I kept them together like they were, in an old tin can for tea, ever since I crossed over to the American continent. Now these postcards from the war are even more ancient. The older I get, however, the more these relics seem like yesterday. 100 years is not a long time. 100 years ago from 2016, I would have been in the middle of a World War like both of my grandmothers.
Anyway, my grandmother Anna seemed to have had galore of boyfriends, judging by the stack of postcards she received from soldiers. The pictures from the front lines were newsworthy and showed captured cannons, bombarded churches and all kind of technology of war. The backside contained brief pencil greetings, no complaints whatsoever. Everything always seemed to be good with the troops.
Mail from the Frontlines
My grandmother wrote many letters to the front lines and encouraged the “homeboys” who she grew up with. Her two brothers were drafted as well. Oma kept the postcards from the field in a neat stack, which are my treasure now. Writing to soldiers in Word War I was like sending care packages to Iraq and Afghanistan. I always wonder, did these young men come home to tell their stories? Did they perish in the trenches? St. Mihiel was near the Siegfried Line.
Erich Maria Remarque was born the same year (1898) as my grandmother. He went to war too, was wounded and wrote a book about his experiences: All Quiet on the Western Front. It wasn’t usually quiet for very long. The grenades hit with awful blasts. My grandfather never talked much about the war action. He served in the cavalry on the western front. After he returned unscathed, he had a cross made out of grenade shrapnel that he collected in the field. A token of thanks to the maker of us all.
I don’t have any postcards from World War II. But I heard from a German lady I just recently interviewed that she, at the time an art student, was also expected to send letters of encouragement to soldiers in the field.
Let’s hope we will never need any more postcards like these.
Geschrieben den 29. 5. 18
Will Dir kurz mitteilen, dass ich in Frankreich bin, geht mir bis jetzt ganz gut, und bin gesund, was ich von Dir sehe. Auf baldiges Wiedersehen, grüßt Dich Josef Lämmler
Josef Lämmler, Feld Rekruten Kompy. 4a
2. bayr. Inf. Division
Written on May 29, 1918
I just want to briefly let you know that I am in France. Until now I am doing rather well, and I am healthy, which also seems to be the case with you. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. Many greetings, Josef Lämmler
Josef Lämmler, Field Recruiting Company 4a
2. Bavarian Infantry Division
12. Juni 1918
Werthe Nanni! Komme heute endlich dazu, Dir zu schreiben. Bin noch gesund und guter Dinge und mit meinem allgemeinen Leben zufrieden. Seid ihr wohl schon fest an der Landarbeit. Wo ist dein Bruder Kaspar? Hoffe immer auf Glück und freu mich auf ein frohes Wiedersehen. Freundlichen Gruß sendet Franzi
June 12, 1918
Dearest Nanni! Finally I managed today to write to you. I am still healthy and in good spirits and content with the general circumstances of my life. I assume that you are already working hard in the farm fields. Where is your brother Kaspar? I am always hoping for luck and am looking forward to a happy reunion. Sending fond regards, Franzi
Congratulations, Edda, now it’s out! Texas Kaktuswein, a collection of Texas ranch stories was released on Amazon this April. Kaktuswein provides an enjoyable glimpse into the Buchners’ first-hand-living experience. Much of their Bat Cave Ranch experience follows the German pioneer tracks.
Texas Kaktuswein—written in the German language—was five years in the making and covers 30 years of ranch life. When the Buchner “greenhorns” (Edda, Helmut, daughter Virginia) arrived in Texas, they started supplemental farming. Through learning by doing, Edda soon collected story material: circus acts with chickens, adventures in the vegetable garden, meeting the snakes, raccoons, and vultures.
The Buchners sought the simple life away from consumer society. They built up the “rock pile” (a half-built stone house with no electricity, no running water, but a windmill & water tank) with their own hands’ labor. Along the way, they taught themselves with library books, advice from the hardware store, or the proven experience from their farming neighbors.
Bat Cave Ranch was always a little paradise for me. There I could recover from college deadline pressures. The Buchners have left the pasture under the majestic live oak trees grow naturally. “The animals were here before us, so we can get along”, Edda likes to say. Get along for the most part. Snakes, or ringtails, or pesky squirrels are evacuated to the wild when the chicken when they are causing too much damage.
One fine day, about five years ago, as I was lying in a hammock and Edda was feeding me mustang grapes, we made a plan. These stories must be published! We eagerly sorted, remixed, and laid out the course. I was still sorting after I got home. My whole living room was plastered with chicken, snake, vulture, and even grasshopper stories.
Five years, why so long? I learned the Word formatting and Create Space magic soon enough. But then came the changes, rearrangements, and turnarounds. All right. Too many tough choices. What pictures are the best? There was no end to it. Now I know much easier ways right from the start.
But the result was all worth it. And come to think of it, I never got tired of the stories. Nothing was made up. In my mind, I often strolled across the deer pastures under the mighty oaks.
And I laughed out loud: Who else grabs a big snake by the tame end and hurls it around until they are both dizzy? Or who sticks a half-drowned baby opossum under her sweater to warm it back to life, skin-on-skin? Or who catches fruit flies for an injured humming bird or road kill for a vulture? Answer to all three: my friend Edda. She is very compassionate.
All in the Buchner family are nature-oriented and grandsons Tristan and Markus fully enjoy their childhood in the country. They don’t know how lucky they are.
Finally, the Buchners really do make cactus wine from prickly pear fruits, as the title Texas Kaktuswein says. If you want to find out how, buy the book and brew your own.
Harry Rusk was introduced into the Country Music Hall of Fame by Bob Everhart at LeMars in 2015.
Harry Rusk is a widely known country music artist and Nashville performer from Alberta, Canada. He is a Native American from the Slavey tribe, born at Fort Nelson, British Columbia. In his autobiography “Beyond the Bend of the River,” Harry wrote down his painfully honest and sometimes heartbreaking life story of discrimination and survival. He is one of the very few people remaining who grew up in the traditional trapping lifestyle of the Pacific Northwest.
In his youth Harry suffered from tuberculosis and was hospitalized at total bedrest for four years. Both his parents and brother perished from TB. Through all the early tribulations, the country singer who got inspired by old-time star Hank Snow, cherished any small kindness given to him as a great treasure. He was not fond of the heartless Catholic missionaries, who almost refused to give his mother a Christian burial. Then, in 1975, Harry found Jesus. Since then he uses his musical talent for his ministry. But I haven’t gotten that far in his book yet. I have enjoyed one page after another of insights into a much varied life of self-determination.
First, in preschool or kindergarten (oh, so late!), you open an aggressive 529 college savings account. Then you go to school for 12 to 14 more years. In your junior year you start looking for a college by hearsay and websites. Or the colleges will send you heavyweight, ultra-glossy, four-color brochures (see right). So many schools are courting your attention and your parents’ money. It’s sweet to feel so popular!
That’s how you get to college
Next you start attending college presentations every week at school or in town. In your senior summer you go on college tours, like a Department of Education inspector, to compare services and curricula. Do they have Nobel laureates? Do they offer scholarships for out-of-state students? How’s the campus lifestyle? How does this college rank in engineering? By August you have memorized the stats from the online US News and World Report. That’s how you get to college
Then you retake SATs, ACTs, and special tests until your points are maxed. In between you practice essay writing and take SAT-Math coaching. Eventually, you get on College Board or other academic launch pads to view your future. One thing is for sure, each application costs about $100. (Colleges charge before you get one class.) That is how you get to college
By September you whip a spreadsheet together to control the mind-boggling deadlines and requirements for 15 open applications nationwide. Did we include the SATs, ACTs, ECCs, APs, Parchment transcripts, high school rank, essays, portfolios, recommendations, FAFSA, IDOC, resume, service hours, and certifications? Bummer, they wanted the math scores by February 1. Forget about it now. You work each deadline until midnight—the midnight in your state. Applying to the East Coast gives you a few more hours when you live in Arizona. That’s how you get to college
Then you don’t just sit around and wait for March 1. You pick up more service hours, push a charity project to fruition, study for AP classes, and cruise the social circuit. You want to make the most of your time with your old friends before you make the new. It will be a while (uncertain) until you see them again. That’s how you get to college
Now the results are in. You made it into two-thirds of schools on your list. The ball is in your court again. Perhaps you revisit one or two of your favorites. Too expensive. Too far away. Program not exactly as desired. Ah, but there is a reasonable scholarship and the curriculum looks good too. Daddy, pay the deposit now. Pay two or three, if I can’t decide by May 1st. That’s how you get to college
Your life has changed. Fine-tune your grades, send in your final transcripts and AP results, go to graduation, have a huge party with aunties from afar. If possible, do a trip around the world as well and have a delightful piano recital to top off your accomplishments. Delve into excitement, suspense, and nervous giggles. Many last time rituals to follow. And then start shopping for your dorm. Target, if you will, is mother’s best guess. That’s how you get to college
Then drive like a (sun) devil through the uncertain night into desolate towns and find comfort in El Fidel Fettucine Alfredo that you didn’t expect in such a hitching post that time of night. The antique hotel has Hippie pictures on the wall. Who would have guessed. A nice surprise. Then keep on driving for another long stretch along sunflower-fenced territorial highways to your mountain college. Keep a steady speed to make the move-in date on time, because next day will all be purple and orange, and they kept blue just for you. They shut down the town for buffalo stampedes. Take a police escort to your room, if you will. That’s how you get to college
Well, you forgot a bunch of things at home, and some necessities come as a surprise. Chit chat, your dorm neighbors fill you in quickly, and off we go to Target again. In the meantime engineering orientation starts, the convocation gathers up its freshmen, and the welcome wagon throws out chicken wings and concerts to the newbies. Wait a minute, what about the bursar, the class schedule, and some two dozen passwords for online services and practice units? You come away from the bookstore with another hole in your pocket.
That’s how you get to college. And then you study and repeat the last couple of sentences three more times until you’re done with it and move on to the next level. What can I say, this is only the beginning. Go get them Buffs!
Teatime in India has its special ceremonies. Spiced tea, “chai,” is boiled, not brewed. Every family infuses its favorite aromas and has a protocol for making it.
My favorite cup of chai with milk cake
Chai has sometimes brought me back from the dead. No matter how tired I was from jetlag, this hot cup of brew revitalized me every time.
Chai time on the Indian continent is a time for bonding and celebration. Three Cups of Tea is the title of a book by Greg Mortenson about building schools in rural Afghanistan. Tea, in the predominantly illiterate society, had contractual power.
In the British movie comedy, East Is East, with Om Puri as strict Pakistani patriarch, tea plays an important role during marriage negotiations and fish & chip store breaks. The head of the family likes to show moderation by asking for “half a cup.”
My favorite spices in the chai
An Indian joke goes that if the lady of the house offers you “another cup of tea”, it is time to leave the party. However, hospitality usually overrules the ticking of the clock. So you might as well accept.
If somebody in India offers to make tea for you, their special kind, they want to spend time with you. Their cup of tea shows that they love you very much. So just sit back and enjoy.
For the longest time, I did not make chai. Why not? Simple. I wanted people to shower affection on me by making me a cup of love. But I also feared I’d make mistakes. Now since I learnt how, let me share some love with you.
Chai’s aromatic spices: cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, anis, peppercorn, star anise—and perhaps a mystery pinch of something else. Let’s make two mugs of chai. Here is how we proceed:
Measure 2 cups of water and set it to boil in saucepan. (It helps if the saucepan has beakers for pouring. Use a pan that is at least twice the quantity of tea.)
Add 2 crushed cardamom seeds, 1 inch cinnamon, one slice ginger, 1 clove, 5 anise seeds, maybe a pinch of black pepper—as the water heats up.
Add 2 tsp Taj Mahal tea leaves and 2 tsp sugar. Let this come to a boil.
Finally, add ¾ cup of milk and bring the chai twice to a boil again. WATCH IT! The milk might make the chai spill out. Lift the saucepan from the heating element before this happens, or lightly blow the foam down.
First the spices
then the tea leaves
then the milk
Now the tea is ready to pour into cups. Use a sieve to keep out the sediment. It is best to use a sauce pan with a beaker to avoid a mess.
Serve the tea with cookies, burfi, or chickpea snacks. Ready for a (re)treat? Take a chai time break! It is invigorating. Enjoy your tea time!
Werden
Weil alle schrägen, dunklen, hellen Töne des Lebens auf jeweils eine Tonspur gesetzt werden, wie eine Symphonie der Seele. Manchmal aufrührend, manchmal träumerisch, in allen Gefühlslagen. Mit Tönen und Klängen gehen wir auf die lyrische Reise, wo sogar die Stille klingt.
Was hast du erwartet?
Dem Flüchtigen
Am 21. März 2017 las Gisela Baudy (2. Reihe, 1. von links) ihre Gedichte bei einer bei einer Gemeinschaftslesung in Hamburg-Heimfeld (Kulturverein“Alles wird schön”, Friedrich-Naumannstraße 17, 21075 Hamburg) bei der Suedlese-Aktion der Künstlervereinigung Südkultur. Die Lesung ist der Auftakt der Literaturtage, die vom 20. März bis zum 14. April 2017 in ganz Hamburg-Harburg stattfinden.
