Grandmother Gunhild (Nano)

Grandma Gunhild, who I called Nano, was an influential person in my early years. White Nano welcomed me to her cozy floating home beside ours and spent innumerable hours teaching me first steps of most of the needlecrafts that I have enjoyed through my life. In recent years, I have been drawn to the colours she favoured in the fabrics of her dresses. Rich shades of orange and yellow muted by greens and some browns, those colours serve to brighten the dreary grey sky she found in her new Canadian home.

Chosen from the catalogue and purchased by the yard, she sewed almost everything she wore, including the ever-present aprons that encompassed her well- defined frame. With an all-business demeanour she held her shoulders square and her body upright, giving an impression of height. Whenever I slouched she showed me the way it could be corrected, by placing a broom handle across my back and hooked there by the bend of my elbows.

I remember her shoes. They were always black with sensible Cuban heels, and were carefully polished, worn with ugly thick beige stockings. I think they were knit of a cotton fibre mom called lyle. The only time I ever saw Nano wearing pants was when she joined us to walk the beach at low tide to dig clams. I still have a photo of her with heavy wool fishermen pants tucked into grandpa’s heavy black rubber boots, and carrying a fire bucket. The picture on the book cover is definitely not the ever-proper lady I adored.

She poured coffee beans from a tight-lidded can into a well-worn wooden coffee grinder, and with a few cranks of its handle, Nano’s whole kitchen was filled with that wonderful aroma that I’ve coveted since then. Coffee is my primary addiction.

She seemed to know just the right number of beans to grind so their grounds could be placed directly into the basket of the coffee pot without measuring or spilling. Then she settled the lid into place and positioned the pot on the hottest part of the stove, which I recognized as the smallest removable circle of the three used to access the firebox when wood was added. The coffee-making process begun, we could go on with the current lesson until the coffee pot came to the boil. Some days it was knitting, embroidery, or crocheting, but today’s lesson was sewing on her hand cranked sewing machine. I still have it.

As my lesson proceeded, we eventually heard plop … plop … plop … and then the more rapid plop … plop … followed by plop, plop, plop, plop which meant it was time for Nano to pull the pot to the back of the stove before it boiled over. Our lesson interrupted, now the coffee clatch began as she set out the cups and saucers, spoons, sugar bowl and can of Pacific evaporated milk. Into my cup she poured milk from the can to at least half, then, when the blurping sounds of the pot had stopped, she added coffee from the steaming pot. I was allowed to add my own sugar, stir and test the temperature from a spoon.

As I grew older, the percentage of coffee to milk became greater until during my first year at university I eliminated milk altogether. I had forsaken sugar as a calorie saving measure long before then.

Searching in Salt Lake

We are assembled at Victoria Airport, ten women, each with some understanding of genealogy but each of us with different experience levels. Most of us belong to the Victoria Genealogical Society. I have done this trip to Salt Lake City twice before. Others have made the odyssey more than once but I had not met them before today. Two of us are friends from a CFUW writing group with family history a frequent topic. Two of our party are very new to the experience, as you might one day be. As assumed, we will assist them.

The setting of the city is magnificent – the descent of our plane allows views of a broad flat plateau surrounded on all sides by mountains – the highest peaks dressed in winter white. No wonder Joseph Smith and his followers chose this valley. Our luggage comes down the chute promptly just as the hotel shuttle pulls up outside. The air here smells and feels like spring.

Check-in at the hotel is efficient and our rooms are comfortable. For a serious searcher The Plaza Hotel is the absolute best place to stay. Situated in the same block as the Family History Library, it is right across from Temple Square and only a block from two shopping centres. Jay’s Family Restaurant in the hotel is inexpensive; a senior’s discount is available but must be requested.

Our after-dinner agenda offers a presentation, “Introduction to Genealogical Collections.” The speaker is knowledgeable, his handout helpful, but he is uniformly vague, or perhaps just uninformed, about Canadian sources. Gratefully we retreat to bed.

Morning light is so bright and clear I can almost touch the snow-tipped mountains from my window. The day begins before seven with make-yourself-coffee. Strict Mormons do not drink coffee, nor do they drink alcohol, but we were able find places that serve both. The pot in my room splutters and spits out only a few drops at a time. My palate is addicted to this treasured brew; it is taking so long I will have my shower first. Then, clean, dry, and creamed again, I allow time to enjoy my favourite beverage.

We take breakfast downstairs at a table prepared for ten. Group members arrive, eat and leave, according to their personal schedules. Newcomers are always shocked to learn the library opens at eight o’clock. Singly or in pairs, we all arrive soon after. Within this famous repository of all things genealogical my personal search will begin once more. There is an orientation class and guided tour, but I won’t need to do it again.

During my first trip to Salt Lake City I had learned more about the religion that has created this tremendous facility that has benefitted family historians world-wide. I learned that in order to be accepted into the Temple believers complete a two year mission of volunteer work for the church. Those who are called to travel abroad proclaiming their beliefs to others and finding new members must have first earned sufficient funds to support themselves for those two years.

Each person hoping to be received as a Mormon is advised to have researched four generations of their family members on the family tree to share with others who may be related. This explains why the files kept at the library here, and available to smaller sites around the world, are so extensive and become more so each year. Workers here at the library and elsewhere within the Church of Latter Day Saints locations include volunteers, missionaries and paid experts which means there is always a well-informed person for us to ask.

People are often surprised to learn that church and civil registries have been assembled by the Mormons for almost every ethnicity. When these records were filmed a copy was given to both the church itself and the government of that country, many of which didn’t have these records accessible to the public country wide.

Each of these four floors of the library holds information specific to a particular part of the world: Europe, Scandinavia, Great Britain, Asia, United States and South America. The place is so extensive one can easily become disoriented and feel completely lost. Ten researchers, each with individualized search plans, probing these four floors, means we rarely encounter a familiar face all day. If we do, it is only for a hurried consultation, “How are you doing?” “Finding anything?” and then we’re away to the next reference.

Each area is equipped with whatever may be needed for our search: books, films, microfiche, maps, indexes and computer files. There are narrow alleys between floor-to-ceiling drawers of films and shelves of books, cubicles equipped with film readers having varying adjustments. Computers are all new, have large flat monitors and each computer pair shares a printer. Printer cards come from conveniently located machines that accept both coins and bills. There are also copiers of various types. Searchers are supplied with modern comfortable chairs on rolling legs that makes spending long hours in a seated position almost bearable. Scattered throughout are large library tables for quiet writing and reading. Improvements are noted each time I have visited: the search is addictive!

I am Becoming my Mother #2

Last week I wrote about my mothers’ experiences in gardening late in her life and of my own adventures in that same activity. My point was that I now acknowledge that there was at least one way she and I were similar, when I had always noted how dissimilar the two of us were.

This week I want to tell you about something else I have recognized when I look in the mirror. My basic bodily features have always resembled my father, whose Norwegian ancestry became remarkably evident the day, at the Oslo airport, my second cousin, Halvor Forberg, took hold of my big suitcase and set out across the tarmac with me following.

My brain messaged to me, “There goes Dad,” as clearly as any spoken comparison could have been. Husky body, broad shoulders, long back, meaty hips and heavy short legs moving with the same unmistakable gait! I have struggled with how to camouflage those legs my entire life.

But back to Mom, whose skin tanned easily, as mine does, who loved the sun too, but with added years I’m discovering those same facial wrinkles she had are appearing almost overnight. Something else I’ve discovered: long hairs on my chin telegraph to the world I am her daughter and that I have reached a certain age. I began by tweezing them, with little success.

When Mom’s chin whiskers – she called them that – appeared, she quietly made an appointment with an esthetician in downtown Nanaimo for electrolysis, and then enjoyed a bonus of visiting with our children on the way out of town before she returned to Campbell River two, hours away. Over several years of regular appointments most of the offending hairs were no longer evident. Guess what? I am following her lead on this.

There is one technique she used, as do many of my friends, I will not be copying. Pencilling an eyebrow line to replace faded, sparse vestiges of the hair that frames a person’s eyes is popular among older women. But I have noticed many women of similar age and older who highlight their brows with a thick brow pencil, have made a very bad job of it because of a shaky hand or bad light or failing eyesight. One day I came to the realization that unless I drew eyebrows every day one of my better features, blue eyes, would retreat to oblivion. At least Mom, the painter, had a steady hand, so could do it well. Until the stroke that is.

Hazel Forberg

I decided there was another way and sought a specialist who in two 90 minute sessions, two weeks apart, has given me a permanently coloured brow line that looks normal and requires no further daily fussing. I only need to keep my skin clean, apply day cream regularly and present a uniform face to the world with, or without, further makeup! It is so easy, and with no fuss.

I am Becoming my Mother #1

I walked in my garden tonight and what I saw and heard and smelled there pleased me. The rhododendrons are in various stages of bloom, each their own spectacular shade, the azaleas quietly spreading lower and wide but with more arresting aromas. Seabirds waken us every morning but these songbirds of the evening are busily making nests in the cedar hedge and chattering about the babies they expect to feed soon.

We have worked hard to create and maintain this property to mature status.The result I observed tonight makes all the stiff muscles and sore hands worthwhile. My walk in the garden reminds me of my mother who did the same thing every evening after her chores were done and before she settled down with a crossword puzzle or a game of scrabble with a friend.

I have never thought I had much in common with my mother. Now I have found just a whispering suspicion that it may not have been entirely true. I knew her as a consummate sportswoman: rowing, fishing, hiking, curling, softball and hunting. Only later came the gardening.

That was never me. From my earliest years I wanted to spend time indoors with crafts, games, puzzles and books. Even when we were going someplace on our boat – the only means we had of travel – I would position myself to enjoy a book.  On one occasion while Mom rowed I tried to read while holding a fishing line in one hand. The question she asked was “What will you do when the fish bites?”

Mom sought opportunities to be outdoors, occupied in some physical activity whenever possible. The places we lived until I was nine years old severely limited Mom’s outdoor activities. After we moved, and when she was old enough, my younger sister was similarly inclined and keen to accompany Mom doing many activities like picking berries for jam or collecting salal to sell for cash.

I was well aware that my father had hoped to have a son. So it was that when my sister displayed her love of so many outdoor and sporting activities he nicknamed her, “Judy Boy.” By then I had become a “bookworm,” in their minds. It did hurt just a bit but in the words of my own daughter, “It is what it is.” 

Hazel Fearing with background of Jackson Bay family farm in 1936

Hazel Fearing with background of Jackson Bay family farm in 1936

I realize now that Mom was essentially a “farm girl” who happened to fall in love with and marry a hand logger. For the first 10 years of Mom’s married life their home sat on a float entirely surrounded by water. Then when the floathouse was towed to Rock Bay and the house pulled up on reclaimed land there was still no soil for gardening. For five years they lived in the original house but it was set on what was essentially a gravel surface, and surrounded by stirred up dust of moving trucks and other vehicles. Neither location gave Mom any opportunity to grow anything: flowers or vegetables or fruit, as her own mother had done when the family lived in Alberta, Vancouver or Jackson Bay.

From the time they moved from Rock Bay into the house on Hilchey Road Mom made tilling the ground around the new place her passion. Dad was away working a lot, Judy in high school and I was at university, so Mom had plenty of free time. She improved the soil and created a fenced English Country Garden haven for butterflies, bees, and birds. That is, until Dad insisted they move to another lot where he could once again see the ocean.

She made the move, as expected, but we knew it was unwillingly. At the new property she refused to have anything to do with the garden, which left Dad to fertilize and water the few plants already established there. His gardening focus was growing boysenberries and that involved watering each night.

About the same time Mom’s rheumatoid arthritis kicked in. It is a dreadful disease and I and I am thankful to have only ‘regular’ arthritis that Advil can keep at bay. Long after she was gone I am realizing we do have some things in common. Mom was always artistic with her garden plantings and creative craft creations. It was only when Dad insisted they move and she started receiving her own Canada Pension to use to buy oil paints and brushes with that she took up painting. Whenever Mom and Dad were on their forays into the wilds in their camper Mom took photographs of beautiful natural landscapes of forests, lakes, mountains and glaciers. So now she used her own photographs to create oil paintings that we all treasure.

An evening walk in my mature garden on the edge of the ocean I have always loved has unexpectedly become a memorial to my mother. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be made to leave this place, for any reason.

Sometimes a simple thought hits so strong it must be written.

The Walking Wood Game

One, two, three steps, jump, another jump, ten steps along the cedar log, jump over the rock to a big cedar chunk, along a fir peeler, now what? Myrtle Forberg was stymied; there were no more pieces of driftwood within jumping distance large enough to bear her weight without rolling on to the beach. Maybe try the smaller pieces along the high water line. They were all tangled up with kelp and seaweed driven in by a late winter storm. It seemed like cheating but what else could she do? Three steps in the loose stuff and she was again walking on solid wood, this time a big log that would make a good boomstick. She would have to tell her father about it.

Driftwood along a beach in Sidney

Walking this morning along the beach in Sidney reminded me of my childhood walks on the logs

Myrtle’s favourite outdoor game had many of the same characteristics as playing solitaire, a favourite household game. Most importantly the player needed to be honest. After that you needed to be persistent, ready to try again the next day. Like shuffling cards the tidal action reorganised the driftwood on the beach twice daily so each day offered a new game. During the larger fifteen-foot tides during these winter months it could be a completely new game every day. When strong wind tossed and drove the driftwood around, new pieces from some other beach always turned up.

The trick of this game was to see how far along the beach you could go by walking only on wood before you had to resort to stepping on rocks or gravel. Next, some smaller pieces challenged her until she was eventually balancing sure-footedly along a big spruce that had not yet been de-limbed. It must have come down limbs, roots, and all when her uncle had felled one of the larger, more desirable trees right into the water.

Myrtle could hear the roaring of the donkey as her dad and his father and brother hauled a big one to the saltchuk. The A-frame shuddered and strained as the heavy cable lines winding on the donkey drum pulled the log to the ocean. She had come to a place where salal and other undergrowth came right down to the big log she was standing on. The brush blocked her way; it was time to go back to the floathouse anyway and see if mom  had finished the wash.

 

Letter to My Son – November 11, 2015

My Dear Son,

Every year since you were born I am gripped with the same thoughts and feelings on Remembrance Day. I did not bear you, teach you about life in the best way I could, and guide you in how to live it, to have your life snuffed out on some distant shore at the hand of someone I am expected to call “enemy.” Or worse yet, for you to be the victim of what is euphemistically termed “friendly fire.”

I have been a most fortunate woman.

My father was never called to the military. He had three women depending on him for support and the war department accepted that. In a time when only sons were eligible to go, his father was considered too old, but his unmarried brother, my dear Uncle Ingolf went.

Ingolf lived beside us – the only person close to me who went to war. He returned from World War #II with his body whole but with little to say about his time in the trenches. We suspected the experience had taken its emotional toll on this quiet, gentle man.

The only other person I knew who served was my mother’s brother Bill. He was stationed on Yorke Island only a few miles from where we lived on the BC Coast. Japanese submarines were in the area but he says he didn’t see them and neither did we. Bill met his future wife during that war. She had lost her husband to it, leaving her young son fatherless. That son, Ron, became my cousin but also a very good friend, as we grew up together.

Your father has also been fortunate. He has lived in a time of relative peace, free to pursue his chosen career without interruption. His father did not experience military service either, but two of his brothers did. When Henry signed up he said he was twenty years old – we know he was only sixteen. Preliminary research into that side of your family shows that Charles Henry Siebert enlisted at Crystal City, Manitoba on December 28th 1915. And so did an older brother, also underage. I have the Canadian war documents.

They were in the Canadian Infantry, Central Ontario Regiment, both crack shots, well respected in war times for that ability. Henry returned, a veteran damaged by the noxious gasses used by attacking armies.  Your dad remembers his Uncle Henry when they lived in Port Alberni; we have a large butcher knife in our kitchen that was his. It seems a strange keepsake.

Ever since you were of age it seemed as though I was living on borrowed time. Each year on November 11th I have wondered when it would be my turn to contribute a child to the peacekeeping effort. Each year I have agonized as the news media tell stories of a reduction in military spending. Yes, the National Budget has been balanced but at what cost?

At what cost in the lives of young women and men who volunteer for a military career and then are forced to serve using inadequate, outdated equipment, wearing shabby uniforms and are moved about in decrepit ships, falling helicopters or borrowed aircraft space? In this plentiful land their families are left at home to live on minimum wages in substandard base housing. But the generals in Ottawa are well paid and there are more of them than in the regular fighting forces.

My problem is that I don’t believe war is the answer to anything. But I also don’t believe that being a draft dodger, as many of our imported citizens were, or a conscientious objector, as some still are, is the solution either.

You are more than half the age of your father. You have had all that time to learn and plan your life, now you can use that information to continue on along your chosen path. Many young men have not had that option.  I was reminded when Yasser Arafat died that young Palestinians of your age had never known any other leader of their people. Such limitations and strife they suffer.

During your life you have had the opportunity for education, not forced upon you or easily obtained, but it was always an option. In years past most young men have not had such a choice.  Many brilliant young men had their career, their education, their entire life interrupted and shattered by the intervention of war. Most young Canadian men your age have not suffered that shock.

Compare any physical complaint you can think of, to that of a returning soldier with part of his body missing, or so badly damaged it may never recover. With the challenges of rehabilitation before him, he may not even be grateful to be alive. A lost leg or two, a mangled hand or damaged lungs, shell shot face, reoccurring dreams that leave him screaming until he wakes. These are my thoughts every November 11th. I think of the young men, and women too, whose lives have been altered or wasted entirely by the ravages of ‘man’s inhumanity to man.’

Our extended family has been very lucky, and we continue to be most fortunate to have escaped the horrors we hear about. Let us try to understand better other people who are not like us, who live in other places and by different standards. Perhaps in some small way each of us can find opportunities to contribute to peace. Then mothers like me may not be called upon to give over their sons to war.

Go safely,

Mom

James Dines 2015 Forecast Newsletter

I subscribe to a monthly newsletter that gave me the idea for this post. It is a way for a householder to understand the “fiscal cliff,” and government debt, more clearly.

Step 1:
Consider these real numbers as reported for a recent year of the US government:
– US Tax revenue: $2,170,000,000,000
– Federal budget:   $3,820,000,000,000
– New debt:            $1,650,000,000,000
– National debt:      14,271,000,000,000
– Recent budget cuts: $38,500,000,000

Step 2:
Now remove 8 zeros and think of it as a household budget:
– Annual family income:                   $21,700
– Money the family spent:                $38,200
– New debt on the credit card (s):    $16,500
– Outstanding credit card balance:$142,710
– Total budget cuts so far:                    $385
Now it begins to make more sense. This household is in serious financial trouble.

Most people we know can’t comprehend numbers that large so they don’t truly understand how bad the finances of our countries are. The Dines Letter family example reduces the numbers to a magnitude where it is possible to grasp the problem.

Were folks to be paid 100% of their salaries in cash bills, then go to the tax table to pay income tax, then to the CPP table to pay CPP, then the EI table to pay EI premiums, then each of the other deductions (all in cash money) there would be a tax revolt. Governments know this.

I remember someone suggesting this same technique be used to teach children about finances. They suggest you bring home your whole paycheque, (what remains after deductions) in cash bills. Then lay it out in separate piles for the rent or mortgage, food, car payments and other essential expenses, so that the children understand the concept of financial obligations.

Their new iPhone must come after the rent is paid, the food is purchased, the dentist is paid for braces, allowances for clothing are set aside, house maintenance costs are met, etc. When children physically see that there is a very limited (or non-existent) pile of dollars remaining, they will begin to understand that money for elective purchases isn’t easy to find.

There are far too many families paying the mortgage with a line of credit and some paying only the minimum balance on their credit cards. Because of the debt at all levels of government PLUS that of an average family, this country is in deep trouble.

Mr. Dines has another way to look at the Debt Ceiling. He writes:
Let’s say, you come home from work and find there has been a sewer backup in your neighbourhood – – – and your home has sewage all the way up to your ceilings.
On a serious financial topic, with his usual twisted sense of humour, Mr. Dines asks:
“What do you think you should do? Raise the ceilings or remove the poop?”

The Garden Continues to Call

Part II
It’s a sunny warm autumn day, one of those bright September days. Although I’m tired from fertilizing and weeding the privet hedge, and trimming some of the hebes yesterday, I remember clearly the first September 30th we spent here twenty-four years ago.
Compared to what we observe now – I have photographs – the shrubs appeared as tiny mounds in freshly tilled soil. There was a big space between each of the Alberta spruce trees that have survived mite infestation; presently they are so close together to have created an impenetrable hedge between driveway and lawn. The grass then was freshly laid rolls of sod.
We have a thorough and willing garden team now to do the heavy chores. One man employed a few hours each week used to accomplish what we needed to have done. Everything has grown so much even trimming the hedge is a big chore. Over the years we have continued to make changes. When an entire bank of hardy rose bushes became overgrown and difficult for anyone to get in to remove the grass and thistles, we pulled out the whole mass. Then we replanted with an array of purple and white heathers interspersed with yellow cedar. Now other than pulling a few of the invasive morning glory weeds and other weeds that travel, annual trimming care can be done efficiently with wide saws by our garden team.

2014 Phone Pix 072 These days I’m less willing to dig weeds, my husband too has trouble getting down on his knees to plant or pull. The lawn, vegetable garden and berry patch is still his responsibility. Regular massage therapy helps me, but for one who enjoys writing so much, even a left handed mouse is not the complete answer.
Fortunately when we built the house we chose to finish the full basement while work continued on the rest of the house. Once we had the occupancy permit we installed kitchen appliances in a one-bedroom suite down there. It was the first place we positioned furniture from a former rental unit. It became our cool retreat away from the continued pounding and painting ongoing above and outside.
The basement rooms continue to be a much cooler place to sleep on the hottest of summer days. Twenty-four years ago we agreed on a serious plan to remain living here through our mutually declining years and on into old age. Those days are approaching now, when we both notice aches and pains that were not with us before. Over the years the basement suite has been used by variety of single women – students and women separated from their significant others. It’s left empty now, having been refreshed, sound insulated and ready for the time we decide that having live in-home and yard help would be beneficial.
I continue to be determined to deadhead every flowering plant annually, as I’ve always done. If I need to find a willing young worker to “fine-tune” those rhodos to do it, so be it! We will remain living here, and our enjoyment of a well-tended garden is one of our primary pleasures. If the cost of living here includes having more paid help we’ll figure out a way. It is still a better solution than down-sizing or choosing a retirement residence where we could be separated. Besides, we need room for the grandchildren to visit.
I will have lunch with friends today, followed by a short massage and then a visit to my chiropractor. On any sunny day life is good.

Fully Breasted

This true story has troubled me for years, and finally I will write about it. I unearthed the notes a few days ago – thankful to have written them when it happened.

My first conference of International University Women, renamed Graduate Women International, was held in Gratz, Austria in 1998. When the conference ended I met, Verna, a cousin, at the airport, and together we took an extended bus tour of Austria. We visited all the best spots Austria has to offer, taking many photographs and enjoying ethnic meals as available. Food and photography were two interests we shared, so our trip went well.

Until, the tour bus provided a scheduled hour – long stop in a large park outside of Saltzburg. Our driver indicated we might want to explore pathways of the wooded acreage, and, if we chose, have a snack in the coffee shop beside the art gallery. I assume it was time for his break.

When time came to return to the bus we all settled in our seats once more. There was one seat unfilled; a woman was missing. We waited, and waited, for her to return. Thinking she was lost, some people went down different paths looking for her. Others sat stiffly in their seat, offering solutions to the driver. Finally, he called his company office. The police arrived. Because of the delay, they offered an unplanned tour-sponsored lunch. I had already enjoyed coffee and a delicious croissant there, so I wandered into the adjoining art gallery instead.

This is where my story gets spooky.

When I came back into the restaurant I borrowed paper from a lady on our tour, and using her husband’s pen, I wrote the notes that I found this week. Sitting in the restaurant, in the midst of the fiasco at Schloss Ambras, here is what I wrote:

“I’ve been in withdrawal for two days, having the greatest urge (need) to write, but without time or the opportunity to do so. Two nights ago, I had a dream that I can still remember clearly. Now I sit in the castle restaurant, waiting for lunch, while an adjacent room is filled with original paintings, signed Brigit Koss ‘98. This is unreal!

The dream began with a husband and his wife being presented to us, and others in a large group. The wife was entirely naked, on the top at least and with only one breast. I don’t remember about her lower body except that she was beautifully slender with tanned skin. I could only assume that her cancer surgery had healed beautifully. Her husband appeared comfortable allowing this mixed audience to see her body naked.

Later the dream continued, but as a different scene. We were a group of women in a sewing class, being shown how to make support bras for women who had had a mastectomy, and were going to be wearing prosthesis. The detail that I remember most vividly was a demonstration of how to make them, and of myself thinking that I didn’t need to pay attention right then, because I didn’t have a problem, so far. At the same time I remember being confident that, given my background in sewing, I would be better able to learn how to sew one properly, if I ever needed to.

The most noticeable part was that the bra was made of two kinds of cotton broadcloth, the natural breast supported by a plain beige shape, the prosthesis side by print on one part and the same plain beige sewed to it. Each breast shape of the bra was long and narrow and might have been a suitable fit for an African native woman with pendulous breasts, as we have all seen on television, or in photos. The bra pattern was reminiscent of origami with the seams located where a fold of paper might be.

Today I’ve been looking at original paintings of breasts, all shapes and sizes and with some singles, all signed Birgit Koss ’98.”

Frozen Raspberry Cheescake

August 007

It is important to have a light dessert that can be brought out at short notice and served on a day when dinner preparation time is at a minimum or guests have not been expected. I adapted this recipe from one that featured a ‘brand name’ frozen raspberry juice, although these days the best I could find was a frozen juice labelled as ‘berry.’The gelatin keeps the dessert firm when it is thawed and addition of fresh raspberries exaggerates the natural flavours.

Ingredients:

24 chocolate wafers, crushed or 1 ½ cups (325 ml) graham wafer crumbs

100 ml             butter, melted

1 pkg               unflavored gelatin

1 can (150 ml) undiluted raspberry juice (comes frozen)

1 tsp. (5 ml)    lemon juice

1                      egg, separated

250 ml             whipping cream

250 g               cream cheese, softened

150 ml             fine berry sugar

Method:

1. Place wafer crumbs in bowl, blend in melted butter. Spread on the bottom and up sides of 10 inch (25 cm) spring form pan. Pat firmly into place, place in freezer as you prepare cheesecake filling.

2. Assemble remaining ingredients before beginning.

3. Mix part of sugar with gelatin in a small glass bowl or measure. Add half of raspberry juice concentrate. Beat in egg yolk. Heat in microwave until gelatin is fully dissolved. Add remainder of raspberry juice. Place in refrigerator or freezer to cool, stirring occasionally until partly thickened.

4. Beat egg white until stiff. Beat whipping cream until thickened. Set both aside.

5. In a very large bowl beat cream cheese, gradually adding remainder of sugar until smooth.

6. Beat in cooled gelatin juice mixture and lemon juice.

7. Fold whipped cream into cheese mixture, then fold in beaten egg white. If available, fold in a few fresh or thawed raspberries.

8. Pour into crust and spread to edges. Freeze until firm – at least 4 hours – or overnight. Keeps well for several weeks if covered with plastic wrap.

Serves 8-10.

Variation: Spoon unfrozen mixture into purchased chocolate cups, then freeze.