There are six of us. Born to John and Janice who have now passed on. My parents married in 1953 and chased my father’s career across New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York for nearly two decades. They finally settled in rural Pennsylvania—a place my father referred to as “the armpit of the universe.” I had recently turned sixteen and this was my eighth home.

I stayed in Pennsylvania long enough to earn a high school diploma and began my own wanderings. My brothers also scattered, some leaving the state altogether, and as my parents aged, we coordinated annual reunions, cumulating in two final gatherings, one in 2021 to bury my mother, and another in 2023 to put my father to rest.

Family visits have since become catch as catch can, sporadic and incomplete. And as my appetite for travel waned, I started nudging my brothers to come visit me and Bob in North Carolina.

John and his wife, Darla, have driven down to see us a couple of times, and earlier this year Jim and Kathryn said, “We’re really coming down this time.” They would drive down from Massachusetts, we would meet at the beach, and Joseph would fly in from California. Then we would all drive back to our humble abode.

So Bob and I got to work spiffing up our house. I fluffed and dusted while Bob, as per usual, did the heavy lifting, spending days painting the guest bathroom.

Bob and I were the first to arrive and quickly slipped into relaxation mode. He had booked a beach house with three beds for two nights.

Former pilot, Jim, had never been to the Wright Brothers National Memorial, so we went. The forecast for our one full day in Kitty Hawk had been for rain, but we lucked out and it stayed dry.

We began our tour in the visitor center learning about the Wright family and the history of aviation and gaping at a replica of Wilbur and Orville’s ground-breaking invention.

Bob and I had visited the Memorial two years ago with our friends Henry and Kelly.

Henry was Bob’s high school roommate at TASIS, The American School in Switzerland. Like brother Joe, Henry and Kelly live in San Francisco.

But, back to 2024. Here are Joe and Bob standing outside the visitor center with the flight path and a small airstrip in the background.

I was struck by the parallels between Wilbur and Orville Wright and my brothers, Joe and Jim. Both extremely intelligent, born four years apart, and avid bikers—the Wright brothers ran a bicycle shop before pursuing flight.

Two of my brothers, Bob and Jim, acquired pilots licenses early in life.

We climbed Kill Devil Hill for the exercise and to put ourselves in Wilbur and Orville’s shoes, imagining for a moment what it might have been like to launch ourselves into the air on faith alone.

I watched my brothers with pride, both so healthy and curious, thinking about Wilbur and Orville’s supportive older sister, Katherine, and made a promise to myself to follow in her footsteps.

To complete our foray into the Wright Brothers experience, we drove to the sculpture park on the other side of the monument.

At the visitors center, the hard copy urged us to stay on the trail lest we puncture our footwear with prickly pear cactus.

We drove four hours inland the next day and Spot got to meet the gang.

I picked up the mail and found a package of hand-harvested wild rice from Amy Armantrout which the five of us later ate atop steaming bowls of stir fry garnished with daikon steaks from our garden.

Joe’s birthday was coming up on December 4, so I baked a cherry pie and we sang to him.

Later, after Joe returned to California, Jim, Kathryn, and I visited the Raleigh Executive Airport. Jim seemed to know each model plane by sight and was savvy enough to look up them up online. “That’s a 1957 Piper Cub,” he’d say, or “That’s just like the plane I used to fly.”

That evening we hosted a small dinner party with some of our neighbors and the next morning Jim and Kathryn left before dawn to begin their twelve hour drive home.

Cards, letters, and phone calls are great ways of keeping in touch, but nothing can replace sharing time and space together. Now, when we talk on the phone and I tell Jim or Kathryn that I’m at my desk or in the garden, they have a mental image of me in that space in the same way Bob and I can picture their kitchen and yard after visiting in July.

What I know of Chicago came from movies and songs. Like High Fidelity with John and Joan Cusack, Jack Black, and Tim Robbins. Or Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago, a song that will now play in my head for this entire post. And I hear they like their pizza super doughy and cheesy.

So, when Bob proposed we spend a couple of nights in Chicago on our way home from Lake Mills last September, I said, “Why not?” I’m an open-minded sort of person, and since I hadn’t broadened my horizons in years, it was high time I checked out The Second City.

As per usual, Bob made all arrangements and accommodations. All I had to do was tag along, gaping at the sights, and I did that handily. Also, as per usual, he secured us a nice suite in The Hampton Inn, this one housed in the historic Majestic Building and located in Chicago’s Theater District, inside the Loop.

Our first morning in Chicago, I walked downs eighteen flights of stairs for coffee and muffins. Hotel stairwells are a great way to escape the air conditioning and uncramp my legs from travel-sitting. They feel like a cosy secret, an echoey haven for die-hard walkers. I rarely encounter another human in my stairwell meanderings.

What a surprise to fling open the door and find what used to be the outside wall of the Majestic! Apparently, the Hampton Inn stairwell was added onto the outside of the Majestic, probably years ago.

I felt like an archeologist as I stared at decades-old pigeon poop on brick and stone, and in that moment, my heart opened up to Chicago. I could see New York’s familiar grime and fancy architecture in this sealed-up space-time portal. I now knew something about Chicago that may not be so evident to others, and that knowing made me feel like an insider.

When I did my research for this post, I read that the Majestic was a Shubert Theatre, just like the eleven Shubert Theatres my grandpa ran in Manhattan and I wondered if he had ever been to this one in Chicago.

But enough insider stuff. It was time to get outside and act like tourists. There are plenty of parks, museums, and art in the Loop. Our first meander took us a few blocks from the hotel to Millennium Park, home to Chicago’s iconic Cloudgate which most people refer to as “The Bean.”

We had a lot of fun playing around near the 110 ton, stainless steel sculpture. It’s like a giant fun-house mirror.

Sixty-six feet long and thirty-three feet high, the Bean is made of polished stainless steel and was installed a mere twenty years ago.

Another interactive feature at Millennium Park, the Crown Fountain splash pad, involved water and two fifty-foot towers made of glass blocks projecting video of real Chicagoans.

We sat near the splash pad with gelato cones from Amorino, a busy, brick and mortar shop near the park.

As I was finishing my cone, two young men approached us and asked, “Are you happy?” Well, of course we were we said, and one of the men filmed us telling the other man all about it, and so we got ourselves on YouTube. (briefly at .08, then 5:54, and longer at the 6:26 mark)

Cities are such an odd mixture of work and play. Who keeps all of this clean? I kept asking myself. As a tourist, I focused on the bright, potted flowers and art installations, but all I had to do was look down to think about the maintenance. The street sweeping and lawn care, repairs and garbage removal. There are legions of workers making a city shine, but none know how to get rid of flattened gum. And actually, that gum sparked an affinity for Chicago, New York’s sister in grime.

We walked about eight miles on our one full day in Chicago, beginning at the southwest edge of Lake Michigan, past the many joggers and strollers.

Bob wore a blue Hempsmith tee under his button-down so that he could send Arlo a photo of his clothing line being worn in Chicago. And because Bob believes that tie-dye is always a solid fashion choice.

We couldn’t have asked for a brighter, more beautiful day, I thought, as we made our way into Grant Park.

The Clarence F. Buckingham Memorial Fountain is made of pink Georgia marble and was installed in 1927 by his sister, Kate. We had stumbled upon one of the largest fountains in the world and my respect for Chicago was growing by the minute.

The bronze, Art Deco sea horses represent the four states bordering Lake Michigan: Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan.

City parks are a refreshing distraction from the concrete jungle, a place where geese graze just like anywhere else on earth.

And Squirrels forage for whatever they can scratch up.

Back to the gum-crusted, crumb-dusted, but not poop-smeared streets. Kudos to Chicago’s pooch owners for doing a great job of cleaning up after their pets.

Birds tell us it’s okay to breathe the air. When we moved to coal-sooted Tianjin, China in 1998, I knew we were in trouble as soon as I realized there were hardly any birds.

You will know me as a tourist because I have a camera and it is pointed up.

Bob crosses a bridge alongside some mildly-disturbing art.

The Chicago River Riverwalk offers lots of places to sit and eat and there were plenty of people doing just that, but we kept on walking. When a fire boat drifted by, I thought about how cool it would be to see them suck water from the river and shoot it into the sky.

Muffins long ago digested, we stopped for some of that world-famous Chicago Pizza, a not so big one, and ate it all. It would have been wrong to come here and not eat their pizza, but I’m too old to change my allegiance to Brooklyn Pizza with its thin crust, black dough bubbles, and scant sauce and cheese.

Towards the end of the day, I was really hitting my stride, as at home as I could be.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was playing a couple of blocks from our hotel, so we decided to cap off a perfect day with a play. We were, after all, staying in Chicago’s theatre district.

It felt good to sit down after a day on our feet and we settled into our plush chairs for some first class entertainment.

Bob caught the sunrise on Monroe Street on our final morning in Chicago while I was upstairs doing yoga. I am grateful to him for my cultural adventure in the Second City.

Chicago’s Loop is a lot like New York’s Times Square without the food carts, honking cars, and pot fumes. Comfortably familiar with a few nice surprises. The next time I see Chicago’s theatre district in a movie, I can say, “I’ve been there!” I’ll think about the gum, and the birds, the fountain, the fire boats, and the secret facade hidden within a stairwell.

Bob’s Cousin Patty and her husband, Steve, came to see us on Maui in 2002 and in North Carolina last spring. It was our turn to go see them.

Steve and Patty lived in what used to be Patty’s parents house for much of their married life, but recently moved to smaller digs next door Their son, Tom, and his family have moved into the big house.

Patty and Steve’s deck comes with a brilliant view of Rock Lake. You can see their boat dock from up there, too.

I enjoyed meeting Patty and Bob’s cousin, Becky. She drove over from a nearby town to see us and hang out lakeside.

I couldn’t get over the sunsets. “This is spectacular!” I said. “They’re all great,” said Steve. I tried to imagine living in one place with such a view for forty years or so. Imagine!

The next day we put on our bathing suits. Gideon caught the football while jumping from the dock time after time, as tireless as a Labrador.

The weather was unseasonably warm. Patty couldn’t recall it ever being this nice this close to her birthday.

Aubrey was equally athletic with her leaping, twisting spins.

Bob delivered on his promise to get into the lake.

Something he had not done for at least thirty years. As children, he and his brothers would come to Lake Mills from Ghana in the summer to spend time with their cousins.

Old times, new times. Memories are made from repeating memories.

Cousin Kathy brought her little dog.

Steve, not-yet-retired, enjoying some downtime.

Tom kept us entertained with his quick jokes.

I was taken by Aubrey, such a bright light.

Sisters!

Kathy and I are nearly the same age.

Charlie stopped by after dinner to see his Uncle Bob. Patty and Steve’s third child lives on a Caribbean Island, so we did not see her.

On the way out of town, we stopped at the cemetery where Patty’s family are buried. Stay tuned for more on that story.

ARTE DE PLUMAS

Here we have baskets of plantain, mango, pineapple, carrots, chayote, peppers, sweet potatoes, and onions at Arte de Plumas, awaiting Daisy and Carol’s magic touch.

After an hour of birdwatching our first morning, Andre led us to the open-air dining pavilion for a breakfast of fruit, beans and rice, fried eggs, plantain, and toast. Refueled, we continued birding.

AFTER-RIDE LUNCH AT RANCHO JSM

Bob drove the four of us an hour north to Finca Tres Equis where Carrie and Lyle went for a birdwatching hike while Bob and I rode the Farm and Forest Trail (see Caballos de Costa Rica). Half an hour from home we stopped at the junction for lunch at Rancho JSM.

Andre had suggested we test drive JSM’s patacones, plantain coins, smashed and fried, with toppings such as refried beans, guacamole, and pico de gallo. They were immensely satisfying, a bit like pizza in their versatility, and very filling.

Bob asked me to pose next to a large, carved horse head that appeared to be taking a drink.

We asked Daisy to make us lunch when we weren’t out day tripping. On this day, she made us a delicious white bean stew with salad, a potato/chayote hash, tortillas, and pico de gallo. They were happy to accommodate our meat-free diet and—worried about our protein intake—made sure to supplement each meal with eggs.

BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

Lyle and Carrie’s birthdays fell a day apart while we were upcountry, so I asked Andre if they could do something special to help us celebrate. Over the next three days, he, Carol, and Daisy’s twinkled with the mystery of the surprise.

On Carrie’s birthday, our last day at the lodge, Daisy beckoned me into the kitchen and showed me what she and Carol had done. I gasped at the heart-shaped cake. They had frosted it in pink and white, topped it with raspberry jam ringed by grape halves and strawberries and, at its base, surrounded it with peach slices, and more grapes, and strawberries.

Carol, beaming, presented the cake and Carrie showed her delight which made all of us extremely happy. I always say, a birthday is not complete without a cake with lit candles. It just isn’t.

Naturally, we urged Carrie to make a wish and naturally, she complied.

FRUTA DE PAN

I was determined to have breadfruit if breadfruit could be had, and although it wasn’t technically breadfruit season, we had seen the occasional fruit hanging from those gorgeous trees, full and dripping with white sap.

So we all began scanning the produce stands for what Andre called Fruta de Pan, until finally, on our way out of town I saw one! Bob stopped the car and ran across the street to make the purchase, and I vowed to find a restaurant willing to cook it down in Cahuita.

Each day, I unwrapped my Fruita de Pan and squeezed it, and each day it grew a bit softer and a little sweeter. And each day, I worried a little more about who I was going to find to cook up my beloved breadfruit until Lyle helped me get the courage to speak with Giuseppe.

At first, Giuseppe said, “No,” explaining that they cooked Italian food and that was what they did. “Oh my god, it is so good,” I said, complimenting their home made pasta and the flavorful sauces. I asked him which part of Italy he and his wife were from, told him that my brother, Joseph, was named after Sicilian immigrants, and that my name, too, came from our Italian side.

Perhaps there was a restaurant in town that served breadfruit? I asked, because I had brought one down from Turrialba and would happily give it to any kitchen that might use it. “You have one here?” he said, and that’s when I knew he was about to make my dream come true.

I ran to fetch my baby fruta and before long, we were eating fried breadfruit, sweet and doughy, just the way I love it! I ate until I couldn’t handle another piece, then took the rest back to our room for another day.

POTTY BREAK AT THE COFFE PLACE

Halfway through an early-morning bird tour with our guide Manuel, we circled back through Cahuita and stopped for coffee. I ordered a fruit drink and, thinking it prudent to make a pit stop, saw some wonderful cat graffiti on the rest room wall.

On another day, Bob drove us south to Puerto Viejo (home of many retired expats) and discovered DaLime Beach Club Restaurant & Bar, tucked among the trees, well off the main road.

We put in our food order and sat on the deck, sipping tropical drinks and listening to the calls of the Great Green Macaw.

Every tree a work of art, I thought, bathing in the many patterns and colors surrounding the restaurant.

The food was delightful, too. Fresh and beautifully presented. Bob and I ordered the tacos and mine came with guacamole, grilled vegetables, and pickled radish with sides of pico de gallo and a red pepper sauce.

Lyle and Carrie went looking for the Great Green Macaw while Bob settled our tab. While I waited for Bob, I stared out into the trees and was surprised to see one of those big, green birds fly across an open area!

Our culinary adventure was very fulfilling in every sense of the word and we returned home determined to eat as fresh and light as we did in Costa Rica.

So far, we’ve done pretty well, but I now realize how highly processed our favorite vegetarian meat analogs are and will be phasing those out in favor of lentils, beans, and tofu.

Tonight, for example, I have made a bean stew which I am serving with Amy Armantrout’s hand-harvested wild rice and collard greens from our garden. We’ll spike it up with artisanal vinegar and orange jalapeno peppers that I pickled last fall. Bon Appétit and Pura Vida!

FINCA TRES EQUIS

On our second day in Turrialba, Bob drove the four of us to Finca Tres Equis an hour north of Arte de Plumas, where we met Alfonso, the man I’d been corresponding with, and our tour guide, Nicole. Carrie and Lyle started off on their two-footed hike as we prepared to mount our new four-footed friends.

I dwarfed Tadea, a pony-sized horse of indigenous stock.

Bob rode Mosqueada (fly-bit), a flea-bitten grey mare who refused to leave the barn until the grooms allowed her recently-weaned daughter, Lluvia (rain), to accompany us on the tour.

Once we got started, all went well. We rode with our guide, Nicole, a local lodge owner, and his young daughter, another enthusiastic equestrian.

Photo op at the top of the hill. How many shades of green can you see?

BRIGITTE RANCH

On our second day in Cahuita, Brigette met us at her ranch just a mile up the road from our hotel.

Our guide, Raul, took us a short ways down the road to Playa Grande, me on Fino and Bob on Fino’s aunt Fury.

As a child, Brigitte loved the fictional stallion, Fury, so when her filly was born black, she named her Fury. And, like all grey horses, Fury has grown into her grey coat and is no longer black.

Fino was a fine mount, calm enough for relaxing, yet frisky enough to be interesting.

As seen through Fury’s ears, Bob watches our guide, Raul, ride up Playa Grande on Fino’s mother, Sol.

Bob has owned this lightweight jungle guide shirt since 1997, when we lived in Belize, and has had his bright attitude towards life since the ’50s.

I had nearly cancelled the ride because of the storm, but Brigitte assured me that today would be beautiful and it was perfect.

Raul suggested we pose for a photo with the Cahuita shoreline behind us. I believe that is the tower beside our hotel growing out of my elbow.

Our faces are older, but we are still as capable of sassy banter as we were on our wedding day.

“Un beso,” said Raul as he backed away with Bob’s phone. “Un beso!” Bob wasn’t hearing him, so I said, “He wants us to kiss.” And so we did.

When we had nearly reached the swollen river entering the sea to the north, Raul turned with urgency and led us inland away from an approaching herd of cattle.

You don’t expect horses to spook around cattle, given the number of cowboy movies we’ve all seen, but horses find the idea of an animal that kind of looks like them but moves and sounds different quite unnerving. It takes some time for them to accept the weirdness of their bovine brethren.

I think most of us humans are equally freaked out by monsters that kinda-sorta resemble humans. If you’ve seen Sexy Beast, you’ll remember the unsettling bunny man from Gal’s nightmares. Imagine seeing a herd of these guys limping up the beach!

We sat a safe distance away and watched the herd with Fino doing his best to be brave.

Back at the ranch, refreshed and a little weary from our two-hour ride, we reluctantly said goodbye to our sweet horses.

We checked into the Cahuita Inn Hotel in the wake of the brutal storm, a place owned and operated by real Italians featuring handmade pasta and oven-crisp pizza. Stay tuned for my post on the culinary element of our eleven days in Costa Rica.

I woke to the sound of howler monkeys on our first morning in Cahuita, so I left our cozy room with my Sony a6100 over my shoulder in pursuit.

The rain-washed air was deliciously fresh and I saw a promising day reflected in the hotel pool. Maybe the storm was truly over.

I followed the simian hoots to a copse of vine-ridden trees split by the tourist road connecting Cahuita with the beach resorts to the north and listened to the group of howlers on on my left answering the group on my right. It was monkey stereo.

I stood there for some in the street beside a scrape-scarred sleeping policeman (speed bump), enchanted, mouth agape and camera strap dangling, which is the absolute most touristy thing anyone can do, the equivalent of staring at the little bit of sky above Manhattan’s skyscrapers instead of watching your feet. I was dying to share this moment, but the workers trundling by in their service trucks only smiled indulgently as I gestured giddily towards the trees.

Finally, a van with a pair of newly-arrived tourists gingerly navigated the scarred yellow hump and one of them poked their head from the van window with a curious twinkle in their eye. “There are howlers!” I cried.

But, back to our room. I loved its wide open floor plan and glass-walled view of the sea.

Each room had this great little machine—Italians understand good coffee—so we were able to brew our first cup before the restaurant opened for breakfast at 7:00 AM.

We also loved this hot or cold water dispenser. No wondering if we should be drinking from the tap, or buying bottled water, or wandering around in search of an ice machine.

At first this piece of art looked like leaves, but then it reveal itself as a zebra. How fitting, we thought, and vowed to tell Spot about this when we got back home.

There were hammocks outside and it was rumored that sloths lived in the overstory. The storm had left puddles.

And the sea was bucking crazily from the intense runoff.

We stayed in the last room on the right, room number 5, and Lyle and Carrie stayed in number 4 next door.

Sunrise lit up Playa Grande, a beach we would ride up on horseback the following day. Stay tuned for my post on horseback riding in Costa Rica.

Later that first day, we all went to the pretty beach at Punta Uva a forty-minute drive south of Cahuita.

As per usual, I was thrilled to get my legs soaked by salt water.

I did a double-take when I saw this sign, then texted our friend, Steph, and found out that yes, she had worked at this very place after moving from Texas to Costa Rica in 2013.

A couple of days later, we spent an hour or so at Playa Grande.

By now the sea had calmed down.

And we were able to take a little dip.

We parked our stuff on a cement table that we soon learned belonged to a fetch-happy pit bull.

Fetch doggie was very pleased to have humans throw twigs, but was not very good at letting us pick up the retrieved stick—it was just too tempting to snatch it back and play tug of war.

While we were hanging out on Playa Grande we saw Raul, the guide from Brigitte’s, cantering down the beach on Fino, the horse I’d ridden the previous day.

More to come: stories about horseback riding, critters, food, and birds.

Carrie and I enjoyed two hikes up the road above the lodge and it was fun to look down upon Arte de Plumas nestled like a solitary gem in the lush forest.

Our bedrooms were airy and bright—that’s them on the right. There was a huge wooden floored, lounging room upstairs—that’s the black part of the lodge—featuring screened louvered windows above a wall of glass with a sliding door that led onto the roof. I spent a fair amount of time up there absorbing the natural light and air, answering emails and going through photos while the Oropendolas chortled outside.

We parked down below the lodge. I’m not gonna lie, it took all my strength to move my bags up towards our rooms. No matter what I pretend to be, I am not at all a youngster anymore.

As predictable as sunrise, the fog filled the valleys every afternoon. You could see it coming from afar, like a cottony beast. It reminded me of the fog rolling over the lip of San Francisco’s Candlestick Park one evening while Bob and I were perched on the other side of the stadium.

Carrie never went anywhere without her binoculars. What a good birder!

On this particular walk, we noticed a Great Kiskadee toting a wad of moss.

We followed bird’s gaze to a nearby nest. Up north, nest making is a seasonal activity, but it appears that nest building and maintenance never ceases here in the tropics.

Bob is the perfect model for the Hempsmith tie dye line, adding one more shade of green to an already dazzling spectrum of color.

Like the birds, the groundskeepers never stop putting in new plants. I watched in fascination as one of the men sunk a shovel into the earth to reveal soil as rich as coffee grounds. When I watched him grasp the handles of his wheelbarrow, I felt a longing for the garden chores awaiting me back home.

I’m not the best tourist, truth be told. We all need a purpose, and being waited on is not mine. I must have inherited this from my mother’s mother, Doris Dunton. My grandmother worked into her mid-eighties, suffered a stroke while in the service of a disabled woman, and spent the last three months of her life being cared for by family. Dependency was difficult for grandma, but my mother was thrilled for the opportunity to show her mother that she was loved, not for what she did, but for who she was.

Speaking of ceaseless activity, Andre kept the bird feeders stocked with bananas and other delights. When he wasn’t leading bird tours, Andre shopped for the lodge, or did the bookkeeping. “You’re running this place!” I said, and he smiled saying, “They do all the work,” gesturing towards Daisy and Carol. So, I thought, well, if they are the engine, then you are the soul of Arte de Plumas. You can see his photography skills and  deep love of birds on his instagram account @andrey_featherlife.

All we had to do was stand on the deck and wait for the birds to come.

Or sit and relax until Andre said, “Bird.”

Silver hair has become quite fashionable. Good thing, ’cause that’s what we’ve got. I found a friend in Carrie, she was good company, a great conversationalist, insightful and kind.

Bob enjoyed practicing his Spanish with Carol. They made each other laugh.

One afternoon, Bob climbed the hill above the lodge.

This is the lodge from above. Looks like a pretty good roof.

We turned in our laundry the day before leaving for the coast. How interesting to see everything neatly drying on hangers.

Andre and the unnamed parrot with our now-folded laundry.

Bob took this picture of the powder puff plant, Calliandra haematocephala, which, sadly, is not suited to our North Carolina climate.

Everything is terraced up here on the mountain, including the graves, or more accurately, mausoleums. I took this picture on our way out of town.

And with that, our high country adventure was over. Down the winding, wet roads we drove, Bob at the wheel, headed towards Cahuita for the beachside phase of our Costa Rican experience.

After a leaving the house at 5:00 AM, catching two flights, renting a car in which Bob drove a grueling three hours over impossibly narrow, steep roads, we arrived at Arte de Plumas in Turrialba, Costa Rica and were greeted by this special touch, an artfully-folded toilet paper welcome.

Bob, by the way, has earned a new nickname: Bob nerves-of-steel Armantrout to go with his other well-earned nickname: Tripadvisor Bob. Not only did he plan every aspect of the trip, from flights to lodging, to meals, for all four of us—Lyle, Carrie, and we Trouts—he printed our boarding passes, shuttled us from counter to gate, and chauffeured.

BIRDWATCHING WITH ANDRE

We came here to see birds, so that is the first thing we did after a refreshing night’s sleep. Guide Andre kept us busy with our camera, binoculars, and bird lists. Turned out, we didn’t have to hike far because of several strategically-placed feeding stations that make many birds call Arte de Plumas their home. Andre said that they once identified 110 different species in one day.

Poro Trees (Erythrina Costaricensis) sparked orange color upon the landscape on this beautiful, blue-sky day.
We took a break from birdwatching to enjoy a healthy breakfast. Daisy and her helper, Carol, sure know how to make good use of fresh, local produce.

MONTEZUMA OROPENDOLAS

The air burbles with the call of the Montezuma Oropendolas who nest in trees surrounding the lodge. The males court the females by hanging upside down, then swinging back upright. Their nests look like damp socks with a rock in the bottom. We learned that the birds enter their nests from the top and that they are always working on their pendulous homes, which explains why we saw so many birds flying around with dried grass in their beaks.

We’d seen a few of these fascinating birds when we visited Tikal in Guatemala in 1998 and thought them rare and exotic. After our first day here, we see them fly by and think, “Oh, that’s just another Oropendola.”

WALKAHOLICS

After breakfast, Carrie, Beth, and I went for a little hike. Since we are in the mountains, our calves got a good workout.
This is the stream where we hope to find a Sunbittern. Stay tuned.

Our original destination was Daisy’s beach, down the hill about half a mile. Yes, the same Daisy who made our breakfast and last night’s dinner. Because of our language barrier, we have not asked who had the creative idea of filling tires with concrete to make tables and chairs. We found her working in her yard. Siempre trabajando.

But we didn’t stop there. We walked further and saw a beautiful old woman with white, white hair, wearing purple and working in her yard. I wasn’t bold enough to take a photo of her, but did snap one of her home. Carrie, Beth, and I agree that the locals have a wonderful sense of ownership and pride.

BRAHMAN BEEVES

I like birds, but I love quadrupeds. Look at that beautiful cow with her pink ears. How about that handsome guy with the dark hump?

EPIPHYTES

We passed a tree that held an entire ecosystem in its boughs.
A Miniature Pinscher followed us down the road until it reached its owner’s property line. My Nana had two or three Miniature Pinschers when I was a little girl, and although they made me nervous with their yappy, snappy teeth, I thought they were handsome dogs.

I cannot believe we squeezed all of this before lunch on our first day in Turrialba. Can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. Pura Vida.

The post Arte de Plumas – Turrialba, Costa Rica first appeared on Plastic Farm Animals.]]> https://troutsfarm.com/2024/02/16/arte-de-plumas/feed/ 6 9106 https://troutsfarm.com/2023/07/29/kentucky-horse-park/ https://troutsfarm.com/2023/07/29/kentucky-horse-park/#comments Sat, 29 Jul 2023 21:33:27 +0000 https://troutsfarm.com/?p=8870 Horse heaven for an equine addict.

The first leg of our May road trip from North Carolina to Colorado took us to Lexington, Kentucky for a short visit with our nephew, Brandon, his wife, Joanna, and their four children.

We shared a meal and hung out in their yard, chatting while the kids played until close to bed time, and then we spent the night in a nearby hotel. Even though we were in horse country and I’d been oohing and aahing at the sleek thoroughbreds grazing on pristine meadows of  Kentucky bluegrass, I had no notions of eating into our road schedule by stopping anywhere horsey.

That next morning as I wiped sleep from my eyes and reached for my phone, Bob was already browsing the Kentucky Horse Park website. Then I noticed our sister-in-law, Darla, had sent a text the previous evening which said simply, “Go to the horse museum.” They were teaming up on me, making sure I didn’t miss out on an experience I would regret missing.

And so we found ourselves with an hour and a half to experience Disneyland for horse lovers.

Before I even reached the ticket booth, my face had broken into a cat-ate-the-canary grin.

We started our tour of the park inside The International Museum of the Horse, an Equine Smithsonian, brimming with horse art, lore, and accoutrements.

This model of a horse being lifted onto a ship was so lifelike, I stood underneath it and stared. Meanwhile, Bob galloped on ahead and was several rooms away by the time I stopped gawking.

I also got stopped in my tracks by a rearing horse and its human, both devoid of flesh, because it so stunningly illustrated the size difference between the two species.

If you’ve read Geraldine Brooks’ novel, Horse, you will understand why I had to pose with the portrait of Lexington. I’d read Horse in March and was captivated by its interwoven story lines, so I was thrilled when the museum clerk told me both the photo and the bones were here.

Horse fictionalizes the true story of a famous race horse whose bones went on to live at the Smithsonian. The story jumps back in time to Lexington’s birth and career with focus on his trainer and the many obstacles that young man faced as a slave, his relationship with the artist who captured the horse in oils, and forward in time to the woman who put Lexington’s bones together for the museum.

Back outside, we encountered a large globe welded from horseshoes.

As globetrotters and equestrians, we were naturally drawn to the horseshoe globe. Plus, I felt compelled to share a photo with my horse buddy and art welder, Sharyl.

We spent some time in the breeds barn before walking over to the Mounted Police Barn.

I am pretty sure it was the mounted police of New York City that sparked my horse addiction. It took my breath away to see horse and rider weaving their way through traffic or trotting across a public park. And when an officer rode up and asked me, a tiny grade-schooler, if I would like to pet their horse or perhaps sit up on it, I was forever smitten.

This is Henry, an eight-year-old Spotted Draft Cross (probably Belgium and American Paint) who came to the park at two months of age.

Many of the horses were catching a little lay down on clean bedding after breakfast and a bath, and before working their exhibition shows. Bob and I would be gone by the time the shows started, but it made us happy to peer into the stalls at these beautiful, well-cared for animals.

This is Junior, a 1700 pound American Cream Draft, a breed I had never heard of or seen before. Like many of the others, he was catching a nap. Junior is nine years old, was previously employed at the Breeds Barn, and is learning to be a police horse.

Officer Sedlaczek was bathing Billy, an twenty-two year old Gypsy Vanner who also came over from the Breeds Barn. She was happy to answer our questions and pose for a photo, and I probably told her the story about my young self falling in love with a Bronx police horse.

On the way back to our car, I paused to admire a bronze Morgan horse. The Morgan is one of my favorite breeds because of their superior intelligence and ability to emphasize with we humble humans.

I recall one memorable bareback ride on a sturdy little Morgan gelding when I was in my twenties. We were traveling at a good clip over a construction road on the prairie east of Denver, when I felt him consciously level up his back as we cantered around a bend. I thought I’d imagined it, but he repeated this maneuver with each subsequent curve, proving that he was making a conscious effort to keep me from sliding off.

I probably shared this story and others as they bubbled up during our long drive to Columbia, Missouri—all prompted by our visit to the Kentucky Horse Park. Bob was, of course, happily engaged as one might expect from a supportive and loving spouse. I also let Darla know how much I appreciated her prompting. They knew before I did, that it would have been wrong for us to come to horse country without dipping our toes into this vast pool of equine lore.

The post Kentucky Horse Park – May 17, 2023 first appeared on Plastic Farm Animals.]]>

I saw your childhood home last month and have been dying to tell you. Not the home you lived in when I was young—the one you lived in when you were young.

But as you know, life gets in the way and I am only now finding time to write this letter. I meant to sit down and write after we got back from New York, but there was an impromptu road trip to Colorado, and then Dad’s funeral which I know you attended in spirit.

Anyhow, thanks to a day-trip to Greenpoint with our cousin, I have a much better sense of what your life might have been like fifty years before I was born.

Long before you were my Nana, you were a rising star on the vaudeville scene, and before that you were a little Polish girl who came to America to join her family in Brooklyn. Just saying those words makes me puff up with pride. My Nana, the beautiful ingenue!

When I was a child, I assumed that you had always been a grown up. It never occurred to me to try picturing you as a little girl. But after walking through your old neighborhood—in your footsteps—I began to envision you as a young girl with her whole, magical life ahead.

I know, I know. I can hear you laughing. I always could make you laugh. I know your life was just as much struggle as glamor.

Anyway, to go on with my story, Bob and I met my brother, Joe, and our cousin at the East River Ferry on East 34th Street.

Our cousin has long been interested in the Polish side of the family, and has been to your childhood home in Brooklyn’s Greenpoint neighborhood several times. He would serve as our guide.

The ferry deposited us onto the pier on the Brooklyn side of the river. To our left, we could see the pilings from the old pier you would have used to walk into Greenpoint after arriving at Ellis Island from Poland.

You’d probably be appalled at the construction going on in your old stomping grounds. Greenpoint is now the third most expensive Brooklyn neighborhood! And I can see why, with all the lovely shade trees and cute little shops.

It was a short walk from the pier to the house you and your family lived in more than 100 years ago at 156 India Street.

It was a chilly morning and I was glad I’d packed a hat and gloves, but the trees were all leafed out and despite an occasional sprinkle, we didn’t get too wet.

We learned about how your aunt brought you to the States to join your parents and older siblings.

Bob found this 1940 photo of 156 India Street. You would have been long gone by then. Didn’t you leave home when you were fifteen to work for an Irish family? And then, unhappy with the way they treated you, get your start in the theatre?

James and Kathryn met us on India Street—they had driven their car to New York—and James got out and walked over to Green Street with us.

One of the houses on this block was where your aunt’s family lived.

After our little walking tour, we went over to Karczma, arriving before they opened for lunch, and so a few of us made some important phone calls. These days you can call anyone from anywhere and so, if you have a demanding job like, say, pastor of a church, you are always in demand.

When Father/Brother Joe heard the noon bells from nearby St. Anthony’s church, he took a moment to pray with James and Kathryn.

Once inside, we ordered lunch and some of us celebrated with a beer.

The food was delicious! Fried pierogi, potato pancakes with mushroom sauce, white borscht in bread bowls, mashed potatoes, grilled salmon with dill sauce, fried buckwheat kasha, and green salad with freshly chopped peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers.

We had stopped at a bakery and bought a long, poppyseed bread roll which we shared outside the restaurant after we ate. It was very good, Nana, but I like yours better.

A few of us walked the one and a half miles from the restaurant to Calvary Cemetery in Queens across Newtown Creek. Our guide pointed out the locations of some of the factories that your brothers and cousins would have worked at. Lucky for you, you made it onto a chorus line at one of the nearby Vaudeville houses and didn’t have to work in a factory.

Calvary Cemetery is the largest cemetery I’ve ever been to. Three hundred and sixty-five acres! Jamie and Kathryn met us at the main entrance.

We dove in, searching for the first grave which happened to be your daughter’s, the little girl who would have been my father’s older sister.

I am so sorry you lost little Rita when she was only five months old. No wonder you told me, “Cookie, Cookie, don’t have kids. They’ll break your heart.” Then, come to find out, your little sister Sophie also lost a baby, little Virginia, twelve years later and had her buried with Rita, something our cousin learned when he took over care of the grave.

I can only imagine your pain. And I think I understand why you did not tell me anything of these two deaths. Too hard to put into words that a young girl could understand.

Naturally, we took pictures, but mostly we stood quietly, trying to come to terms with the losses you and your sister suffered and shared.

Finally, we came to your parent’s grave, where another one of your aunts—the mother of the Wallace (Wolosz) orphans that you and Grandpa helped raise—is buried.

And then we dispersed. Bob had already taken a subway back to our hotel near Times Square, making himself look as little like a tourist as possible. James and Kathryn began their long drive home, and Joe and I took the ferry back across the river where he got into his car.

I chose to walk the thirty minutes uptown. It felt good to be a pedestrian among so many others, many of them caught up in their private thoughts like I was. Rather than feeling small and alone, I felt connected to the sidewalk sea of humanity, big and safe, and part of the great protoplasmic flow. I am a New Yorker at heart. It’s in my blood. I know you will understand.

Love, Cookie