Lünenburger Heide

When I was sixteen, I desperately wanted to work on my Uncle Dan’s wheat farm in Montana. My brothers had done it and I wanted a piece of the action. But my aunt and uncle wouldn’t hire me.

My mom suggested I ask their friend, who frequently worked in Germany, to find a German family that I could help out for the summer: a nanny of sorts. I’d studied German for three years in school with the formidable Frau Disbrow.

I paid my own airfare and lived with the Bauer family in a tiny village, Nierswalde, part of a slightly larger town, Goch, near Nijmegen, Netherlands. As an experienced mother, I now recognize that I was more of a burden than help: my German parents basically added a moody teenager to their family of three active boys.

For me, it is still the trip of a lifetime. Being immersed in German, I became Frau Disbrow's star student that following fall of my senior year. (I had been afraid of her up to this point, and I'm pretty sure she didn't like me.)

My German parents took me on trips to see a Roman amphitheater and the nearby castle at Kleve.

We also drove on the Autobahn to the Lünenburger Heide (Heath), stopping at the medieval city of Celle (established by 985 C.E.). In the Heide we visited some farmer friends. They invited us to their cherry orchard, where we spent several hours picking  from ladders, then sat around a huge bowl of cherries and ate as evening fell.

I have never eaten my fill of cherries since. We sat and talked until dark, a magical day during a wondrous summer.


Jim and I are on a Rick Steves “Best of Germany” 13-day tour. We flew into Hamburg on Saturday. Monday morning, I discovered that we would be travelling through the Lünenburger Heide. In fact, our prima tour guide, Caroline, had arranged for us to visit a working dairy farm, Hemme Milch. As we drove through the countryside I reveled in my return to the Germany of my youth. Northern Germany is not usually a tourist destination for Americans, but it won my heart long ago.

Tonight we’re sleeping in the medieval town of Bacharach on the Rhine River after touring the Cologne Cathedral. Cologne was the farthest south I got in 1973 and the cathedral was the most magnificent building I had ever seen (and I grew up just 25 miles from Manhattan). I was a little apprehensive that it had grown too large in my imagination, but the vaulted ceiling still hung impossibly high above me, a marvel of stone in air.

A Casket

August 31 was an odd anniversary: the day UMass Medical Center called Jim to say they were finished with David’s body and we could have it back. Jim and I were on a Boston On Foot walking tour of Beacon Hill in Boston. Jim took the call while we were outside the Statehouse.

In an immediate panic, I thought we had to answer them right away, make plans to immediately take possession of the body. Jim was calmer and convinced me that we could wait to respond until we did have plans in place.

Now, I realize there was no rush. The medical center must have a refrigerated morgue for such cases. I was badly thrown off: just as I'd gotten used to the idea that they might keep David’s body for two years, they were finished. I had struggled with his body being in some strange and unknown place, then suddenly had to deal with burial arrangements, 19 days after they took him away.

It all worked out. The burial was Saturday, September 12.

The morning of the burial, there was a heavy ground fog in the cemetery. As we stood near the open grave, a small flock of wild turkeys sauntered by. Some colleagues of Jim’s were there: I was touched. The Jones’ brought a small basket of purple flowers to decorate the grave.

Peter and Xiomara came from the Bronx. Victoria was exactly a month old and I felt joy through my tears as I held her. Andrew had played a similar role at my mother’s funeral, two years before. I remember my bereaved father holding his newest great-grandchild.

I have never wanted an elaborate casket. Funerals are for the living, and many people find comfort in choosing a beautiful hardwood casket with a satin interior for the body to rest in. I prefer a plain pine box. So I chose the most inexpensive casket available at the funeral home. At the cemetery, I suddenly had second thoughts. I was embarrassed at having scrimped on the casket. I was relieved that it was covered by the large American flag. (David had been in the army, so he had a military honor guard.) However, after the prayer, two soldiers stepped to the casket, removed the flag, and reverently folded it. They marched over and presented me with it.

Looking back, I’m sure no one was judging me and my frugality. I was among friends and family, who wanted to share this sad moment with us. They didn’t care what the casket looked like. They cared about us and mourned with us early on that foggy morning.

In the Dust

Yesterday I tripped and fell on the dusty Fullerton Loop Trail in California, walking with my sister, Maggie, back to her house. I felt myself stumble and instantly started to run, hoping to overcome gravity. Just as Maggie said, “Good catch!”, I realized that gravity had won. I braced myself with my hands, hoping to protect my face, but no, thud went my heavy skull, just like a toddler, contacting the ground with my chin.

I immediately assessed the damage: nothing badly hurt but my vanity. Maggie came running up and I quickly said, “I’m okay.” Then I rolled onto my back in the sandy dust, my hand resting on my chest, feeling my racing heart.

There was only a drop or two of blood, where my metal glasses cut into the bridge of my nose. Minor abrasions, now blooming with colorful bruises. About a minute after I fell, I asked Maggie to take my phone and stop Runkeeper, the fitness app that uses GPS to track my mileage and speed. Until my tumble, I was averaging a 16 minute, 34 second mile on our 4-mile walk. I didn’t want to lower my average while lying in the dirt.

The mind/body connection is fascinating. Today, each time I relive my fall, even for a moment, I feel an acute shock at the level of my tailbone. I don’t know if chakras exist, but I know that when I think about a disaster, real or imagined, pain to myself or a young child, I instantly feel it. When I see a child teeter, it’s as if I am falling. There are regions in my body that react to even a transient thought of disaster.