Laundry

 

 I have to admit that I really kind of like doing the laundry.  I mean, I'm not crazy about it, but there is something about doing the laundry that resonates with me, or maybe serves me, would be a better way of putting it.

    Before I go on, though, we need to have an agreement.  This isn't just about laundry.  In order to explain my relationship with laundry, I'll need to reveal some secrets about my inner workings that are a little sensitive and embarrassing. I need to know that you have an open mind and that you won't judge me too harshly, and that you will appreciate what I go through to produce that pile (actually those four piles, but we'll get to that later) of whiter whites and brighter brights.

    Do we have an agreement here?

    Another thing that you need to know is that I am far from being the primary laundry/house maintenance person in our family.  My wife, Heidi, can survey the disaster that our house has become by Saturday morning, and then list and prioritize what needs to be done in a nanosecond - because she was born with this instinct - and assign tasks to various family members who then struggle for the rest of the day to complete them.  Or, if she so chooses, she can do it all herself in an hour.  While talking on the phone.

    But this story is about someone who is wired a bit differently.

    The truth of the matter is that I have a touch, just a mild case, of Attention Deficit Disorder.  I know that probably sounds to you like someone saying that they have a "touch" or a "mild case" of pregnancy, but don't judge me until you hear me out. 

    This is what my ADD is like:  Let's say I'm watching the TV news and the weather report comes on.  Let's say that I really want to know if it's going to rain tomorrow because I need to know if my son can ride his bike to school.  So I'm watching the weather report with a purpose - my purpose is to find out if it's going to rain tomorrow right here in my hometown.  I start watching the weather segment and pretty soon I become distracted by the clownish bow tie that the weatherman is wearing and his breezy off-the-cuff remarks.  I start to wonder why they always put the goofy guy on the weather report - do they think that it's so boring that we have to be entertained by his antics?  Now he's doing the thing with the weather map.  Let me see if I understand this.  He is actually standing in front of a blank, green wall and looking at a monitor.  He's pointing to specific things but he can't see them unless he looks at the monitor.  How does he know where to point, at the same time that he's making incredibly corny comments and lame jokes?  Like for instance, he just pointed at San Francisco and there were some clouds over the sun and he said ... Damn - I just missed the part about San Rafael! Is he moving north, or south on the screen?  Did he already talk about Marin? Damn again - now I just missed the 5-day forecast!  Oh well, at least sports is next.

    So that's what I like about it.

    By the way, I just realized that I pulled a "Widget".  Widget was a college friend of mine who had an annoying habit of completing a sentence that he had started a half hour before.  He would suddenly start talking about something - often beginning with a pronoun so that you had no idea what he was referring to, until you racked your brain to think of which first half-sentence from earlier in the day matched up with the second half-sentence that he had just delivered. So when I say, "That's what I like about it, then of course, the word "it" refers to ... laundry!

    I like it because the laundry helps me to focus a bit.  You see, my house is a lot like a weather map.  There are these swirls throughout the house which represent the different projects that I have started, things that I should do, time-wasting opportunities, the refrigerator, the computer, and so on.  I start in one of the swirls - let's say working on this story - and pretty soon I realize that I need a cup of coffee.  I head to the kitchen and, pour a cup of coffee and put it in the microwave to warm it up.  While it's warming up, I have 25 seconds to kill, so I take a look in the newspaper.  The sports section pulls me into its swirl for a little while and the coffee sits cooling in the microwave.  Done with the paper, I put it in recycling.  That reminds me of clutter in the house - got to avoid the swirl of the garage.  How can I do that?  Head for the coffee.  I'll just pour myself a cup and put it in the microwave.  Oh my God, there's already a cup in there!  I know - I'll just warm up both cups and then I'll really get some writing done!

    Wait.  Let's try it again, but this time with laundry.  Okay, let's bring the laundry down to the laundry room and start of load of colored clothes.  All right.  Now, I've got that working so I can try to get some writing done.  A little writing, a little swirl surfing.  I hear that the wash is done, so I'll put it in the drying, or "put the wash in the dry" as Heidi would say.  Start a load of whites.  It's so efficient - the two machines working together now, even when I'm not - I've delegated some of my duties to the two of them!  I visit the weather map of my house, hear the beep of the dryer and come back.

    Now here's the important part.  Open the ironing board and get ready to start the four piles!  No ironing needed, the clothes come straight from the dryer semi wrinkle-free. The ironing board is just for piling purposes.  My daughter is the youngest, so her pile is on the left, then my son's pile, my wife's pile, and then my pile on the right. Take a piece of clothing out of the dryer, shake it a bit, fold it, and put it in its pile.  I'm getting something done! I have visual evidence of my progress! Just like a normal person!  This is so cool!

    But it gets even better - if you can believe that! You see there's even more to the system - it's sort of like an assembly line.  All I have to do is start another load.  The washed stuff moves to the dryer. ("Put the wash in the dry!")  The dry stuff moves to the ironing board, one piece at a time. And then, one pile at a time, the clothes are delivered to their respective closets.  I do not stack the four piles and take them all in one trip.  I'm not a lunatic!

    It's like Henry Ford's Model T assembly line.  It can't be stopped!  No matter how caught up I get in the swirls waiting to gobble me up, the factory keeps running. I'm getting something done and if I also happen to pay a few bills, write a sentence or two, or make a bed, that's like getting a bonus check at the factory!

    Maybe I can even figure out a way to pay more attention to that too - sorry, I pulled another Widget there.  Maybe I can even figure out a way to pay more attention to the weather report.  Let's see, I'll cut out the weather report from the paper and paste it to the wall behind the ironing board.  I just need some scissors.  They're here in the drawer.  It's a little messy - maybe I should straighten it out.  I'll need a cup of coffee for that.  I'll just microwave it for 25 seconds or so ...

!Aguas!

     

     We were having lunch at a birria restaurant in Guadalajara, where they serve the traditional Jalisco meat stew, along with fresh tortillas. The restaurant - more like a tent with a little kitchen on one side and tables enclosed by a cyclone fence, fronted a dusty, cracked sidewalk. Crowds of people strolled by on the way to the busy flea market across the street.  Occasionally, the young waitress would dip a container into a five gallon water bucket and toss water on the sidewalk to settle the dust and prevent it from blowing into the restaurant.

    "Aguas!", or "Water!" - that's shorthand for "Watch out, or you're going to get wet!"

     I soon learned that Aguas! was one of the most useful expressions for negotiating the sometimes hazardous daily life in Guadalajara. That's because it has been generalized to mean, "Watch out!" regardless of the hazard, water-based or other, that might be looming.  

     Before visiting Mexico, I was a little nervous about the seemingly rampant crime that we hear so much about in the US. We hear the horror stories about drug-related killings, disappearances, and kidnappings. During my visit, though, I never felt this danger. I did, however, have an overwhelming sense that, unlike the US -where there are rules and regulations, warning signs, railings, prohibitions, and safety equipment to protect the citizens - in Mexico, it was often up to the individual to watch out for himself.

     That's where it comes in handy to have a friend shouting, "Aguas!" as a warning.

     This is especially true while driving.  While the driver somehow stays in the lane despite lack of lane markings or negotiates an intersection when the traffic light is broken, the friend in the passenger seat calls out "Aguas! Aguas!" or "Dale! Dale!" to indicate whether to watch and wait or to Go, go, go right now! mixed in with the ever-so-useful "Tope! Tope!" for the ubiquitous, unmarked speed bumps.

     A pickup truck filled with  children standing in the bed bounces down the road coming perilously close the center line. "Aguas! Aguas!" Pedestrians with children in tow walk along the freeway, with no separation from traffic. "Aguas! Aguas!" A drunken man with an oily rag offers to clean our windshield at a stop sign. "Dale! Dale!" Our light is a blinking red while the cross traffic has no light at all and a full head of steam - "Aguas! Aguas! Dale! Dale!"

     Two questions occur to me, the visiting American. First, how do all of these people survive to adulthood? and secondly, "Why is no one honking?" Amid all of this chaos, inconvenience and danger, no one seems to be especially perturbed. Coming from a country where one might hear an angry horn blast for merging too slowly onto a freeway or a receive a nasty message on a windshield for partially blocking a driveway, it's striking to see the stoic attitude that the locals have when dealing with much more pressing concerns.

     I guess you learn to take care of yourself, to keep your eyes wide open, to be aware of your surroundings. But it helps to have a friend in the passenger seat, ready to deliver an Aguas! Aguas! when needed.

Mama Antonia

     Luis and I work together at our restaurant - he's a line cook and I bake bread.  He arrives about an hour after I start work and passes through the pasty department on his way to the line. Usually he's upbeat, generously sharing wise-cracks in English and Spanish as he passes by - one of his favorites is to excuse himself in badly-accented Gringo English as he squeezes by with a grin on his face, because he knows that the bakers prefer that he go around the other way.
    "Atras, atras. Con permisso. Graasias." Do I sound that bad when I try to speak Spanish?, I wonder.
    One day he arrived at work looking a little more pensive than usual - sleepy, with a serious expression.  "I had a strange dream last night," he said.
    It isn't unusual for Luis to share dreams with us, but this time it felt a little different, he seemed troubled.
     "I dreamed about my Mama Antonia - my grandmother - in Mexico.  She's 96 years old and not in good health.  In my dream, she was talking to me.  She was kind of angry and was scolding me. In the dream, she found out that I was visiting her small town but hadn't come to see her. 'You've been here for three days already, but you haven't come to visit me! Why not?'"
     A few weeks went by and Luis watched a video that his family had recorded while visiting with Mama Antonia.  Luis is the oldest of 12 children and one of three who have moved to the US.  He has been here since he was nineteen and has since learned English, married an American woman, started a family, and earned his American citizenship.  Luis was amused by the video because his grandmother asked about him but couldn't remember "What's his name" - his brother Memo who also lives in the US. He was saddened, though, to see how much she had aged - how small and wrinkled she looked.  He wondered if he would ever see her again.
     Luis hadn't been to Mexico for four years. Taking his whole family would be too expensive.  His wife, Lisa, had heard about the dream and seen his reaction to the video.  "You've got to go," she said.
     Luis knew about my love of traveling, my curiosity about his family, my efforts to learn Spanish.  He asked me if I wanted to go with him.
    I thought he was joking at first - then I wondered if it would be okay with his wife and children if I went and they didn't or if his grandmother was seriously ill and it would be awkward for me to be there. He assured me that he wasn't joking, his grandmother's health was relatively good, and then Lisa said that she was happy for Luis to have company.  So I jumped at the chance to see "the real Mexico" and spend time with his family.
    It turned out to be a trip to remember.
    On our third day in Mexico, we made the three-hour drive to Santa Maria to visit Mama Antonia (her husband had been called Papa Antonio). She was thrilled to see Luis and didn't scold him for being away for so long, although she did comment that he was larger - "healthier" - than he was the last time she saw him. Luis and his brother spent a long time patiently talking with her, sitting with her, trimming the lemon tree whose branches made a huge racket on the tin roof when the wind blew, and fetched medicine from the local pharmacy for her sore stomach. Late in the day, when it was time to leave, they said their farewells. She asked us all to return - even me - and when Luis asked about her stomach, she said that she had forgotten all about the stomach ache.
     When Luis had first told me about the dream, I laughed, thinking it was a funny story. Then, sometime during the trip, a thought came to me.  "Luis, did you take that dream seriously?  Do you think that Mama Antonia was asking you to come visit her?"
     "What do you think?" he asked.  "We're here, aren't we?"

Making a Living

     We were driving across Jalisco and I asked my friend Luis, who had grown up in nearby Guadalajara, a question.
     "This may be a stupid question, but I'm wondering - are there still people in Mexico who dress in the traditional white clothing, with a serape and a sombrero?"
     "Yes," he answered, "But not like they always show, with a lazy guy sleeping under a cactus."
     There was an edge, a defensiveness to his usually easygoing manner.  "You see how hard these people work - look at them here, trying to sell things on the street."
      And that's what we saw.  All along the road you would pass little stands where tacos were being made or fruit sold.  At a railroad crossing, a woman with a baby bundled to her chest would offer to sell you flowers as you stopped.  At one stop light in the city, a full array of products and services were offered, from window washing to bottled water and cell phone plans.
     Nowhere was this drive to eek out a living in whatever way available more evident, though, than when we were back at the home of Luis's parents in Guadalajara.
    All day and into the night you would hear a distinctive horn, a recorded jingle, or a tune from a passing car, truck, or bicycle. The residents had them memorized and knew without looking outside if it was the propane delivery truck, the ice cream man, taco vendors, or the guy who collects empty bottles. Some of the purveyors looked like organized, official businesses - the propane people would stop their truck, remove a ladder and scamper to the roof to change a tank, or wheel it through the front door and exchange the new one for the old one. Others were much more informal - the recycling man had three homemade metal cylindrical holders on the back of his motorcycle, each designed to hold one five-gallon plastic bucket, containing exactly 20 beer bottles. Once, there was a knock on the door and two young men asked if they could trim the tree in front of the house. They had just completed work on a tree next door, neatly shaping the branches into a cube and then loading the trimmings into the front basket of a three-wheeled cargo bicycle. Luis's sisters politely declined, saying that their dad would be disappointed if he couldn't do the work himself. The tree trimmers laughed and agreed that it would be best to let dad handle the job.
    That was typical of the interactions that I observed time and time again between those offering unofficial services and their potential customers. Never was there a sense of overbearing high-pressure salesmanship nor a rude rebuke from the customer. Even the persistent squeegie men at red lights could usually be dissuaded with a shaking of the head and a waggling of the fingers.
     What was unsaid, but obvious, was that these people were hustling, in the best sense of the word, were working hard to make a living in whatever way they could.
     No one sleeping under a cactus here.

The Herd Runs Wild

     "Da-le, da-le, da-le rebaño!" Jesús taught me this Chivas cheer before the game between the Chivas Goats and the visitors from Leon. "Go, go, go herd!"

      As we approached the stadium dressed in our striped Chivas jerseys we saw riot police organized at the entrance dressed with helmets, batons, bullet-proof vests and shields. There were even a few mounted policemen - it seemed like overkill, considering the  good-natured, well-behaved crowd. 

     We were frisked as we entered the stadium and then made our way to the seats in the top deck. The stadium was modern, comfortable and spotless - the owners were so health-conscious that everyone who sold food wore masks. Beer was sold right up to our exit after the game, but no one appeared to be under the influence. 

      Things might have been different on the lower deck, though, where the Chivas "barra" or fan group was singing, chanting, waving flags and pounding drums non-stop. They must have been pleased, though, that their team upset Leon, although the 1-0 match was a bit uneventful. 

      At the end of the match we were routed to the far end of the stadium in an effort to keep the Chivas fans separated from the rival fans - there had been problems in the past. 

     When we reached the end of the stadium, we found out why the police were there - this is where the rowdy Chivas barra exited the stadium. Everything was peaceful until a young couple wearing Leon jerseys wandered near the Chivas supporters. Taunts were hurled at them and someone tried to snatch a baseball cap. The police sprang into action and the peaceful crowd suddenly felt a little menacing. As I looked around, trying to see what was going on, my friends guided me away from the action, remembering the time that they had taken off their own Chivas jerseys so the women who were with them could put them on to cover up their visiting jerseys when the crowd had become belligerent. 

      Today seemed relatively tame, though, and I didn't leave Mexico feeling that attending a soccer game was risky. 

     At least that was true until I returned home and heard about the game the following week. 

     Chivas played their cross-town rival in the Tapatio classic at aging Jalisco stadium. Perhaps the security screening wasn't as thorough there and members of the Chivas barra were able to bring forbidden flares into the stadium. When dozens of them were set off, the security police intervened. The crowd of supporters attacked the outnumbered police, knocking them to the floor between rows of bleachers. Video shows young men dressed in striped Chivas jerseys repeatedly kicking and stomping on the defenseless police. Eight policemen were injured - two of them seriously - along with dozens of fans. 

     Since that game, 17 people have been arrested, Jalisco stadium has been closed indefinitely, and the Chivas barras has been banned from attending any further games. 

     Looking back on it, the game I attended was probably the last of it's kind - when fans could listen to chants and songs without imagining how a cheerful crowd could suddenly turn into an angry herd. 

Street Concert in Munich

The last weekend of Oktoberfest is crazy and a steady stream of beer-fueled attendees makes its way downtown to the pedestrian Marienplatz area afterwards. There was a classical quintet set up in front of a department store and after listening to them for several songs I made my way down the street to where this group was playing.
The local trio, called White, consisted of a guitar-player/singer, a stand-up base player and a drummer playing one of those wooden boxes that you sit on, called a cajon.
They were absolutely incredible, and had a crowd of about 75 dancing, clapping and singing along for an hour. Even though they were German, all of the announcing and singing was done in English and the - even though they were young and mostly German, seemed to know all of the words, even to the older tunes. The lead singer referred to us as "Publico" and often insisted that we join in. At one point the drummer passed out sparklers for us to light for the playing of
"Here Comes the Sun".
Behind them, inside the department store, the cleaning crew was enjoying the music as well. One guy kept driving in circles with a floor-cleaning vehicle and waving his arms over his head. A man and a woman appeared with mops, dancing as they buffed the floor. At the end if the song, we - Publico, that is - and they band advanced to the window and everyone applauded each other.
Someone in the crowd gathered everyone's spent sparklers and lay them neatly on the sidewalk. A group of police advanced during a final song, seeming to enjoy it as much as the rest of us. The front man acknowledged their presence, understanding that it was time to end the concert. Coins were dropped in the open guitar case, a few CD's were sold and everyone left with a smile.

Visiting the Ancestral Home in Germany

Yesterday, I visited the home and inn in Allendorf bei Frankenau Germany that was once owned by my great great grandfather Johann Daniel Krähling. His son, my great grandfather Conrad Krähling, emigrated to the United States in 1865, at the age of 19.
The timing of his emigration was fortunate as the American Civil War had just ended, and Germany was about to go to war with France. Luckily Conrad did not have to be involved in either of these conflicts.
Conrad arrived in Baltimore in September of 1865 and then worked for two years at a bakery in Washington DC in order to repay his uncle for his travel expenses. This must have been a tumultuous time in Washington, as it was only five months after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Amazingly, my father - who is still living, spent time with Conrad (his grandfather) who was a contemporary of both the brothers Grimm (who lived in the same part of Germany) and Lincoln.
In the family photo, you can see Conrad Krahling surrounded by his family at their home in Iowa. In the front row on the right (with the stylish striped knickers) is my grandfather, William August Krahling.