Story Jar: Baktapura

A bell clangs, a hundred bells clang and the sound bounces over and around the chugging engines, beeping horns, chanting monks, bargaining shoppers and endless drums and flutes. In the far distance the dying day glows pink on mountain snow and over the valley a huge flock of white birds settles then explodes again into the air looking for a night roost.

Red and pink shawls warm shoulders of women buying, women selling, women walking with children tied to their backs, women filling water jugs and everywhere there is another sound, another movement and another temple toward which sounds are offered. This is Bhaktapur, Nepal, the city that holds its heritage.

We came here with Jeff, the last member of our India tour we hugged good-by. Rick and I had a room for our last night in Nepal but Jeff came only to walk about and have lunch before returning to Katmandu. Shortly he’ll leave for Tibet and we will head for home.

Inside the taxi was one century but outside time was braided: ancient history, middle ages and modern times. We found internet cafes and pottery smoldering in straw fired pits. Tarps on streets or temple steps were covered with rice drying in the sun while people talked on cell phones.

At noon a live goat led a parade to the main temple where it was sacrificed leaving a large puddle of blood on cobblestones – all of it captured on digital movie cameras. It is completely not Kansas.

Bhacktapur is the most impressive of the World Heritage sites we have seen during this trip. A large, complex entity, the city is a living museum with hundreds of temples and wells (there is little indoor water service) and more carvings than a person could count. The wooden doorways, windows, balconies and roof tops are carved with Ganish (the elephant god), elephants, goddesses unknown, Garuda (a mythical bird), feathers, fruits, diamonds and flowers.

The main square is carved and polished but Rick and I walked the back alleys peeking in a doorway where a woman cooked over an open fire while surrounded by as many people as the small floor would hold. Hens pecked at stray grains of rice between their fluttering chicks. A young girl jumped rope in a courtyard and an old man slept on a bit of burlap next to knitting women and sleeping babies.

Everywhere there is one more structure worthy of a photograph.

Once just a bit of a trading road to Tibet what is now Bhaktapur became a town under the efforts of King Ananda Malla 1080, more or less. For 200 years, from 1400 onward it was the most powerful city in the area. Most of the knock-your-yak-wool-socks-off architecture is from that period or from the 17th century. Apparently it would be even more dramatic but an earthquake in 1934 destroyed several temples. It’s hard to believe that any were lost since they are everywhere but at the peak there were 172 temples and monasteries here as well as 172 pilgrim shelters, now used as shaded meeting areas for old men during the day.

It seems as if there must be 172 stores selling CDs of monks chanting or of Nepali music because one hears this everywhere. Our guidebook says that this city, the architecture and pace, is what Katmandu was 30 years ago. As I write we are sitting on the roof of our hotel sipping tea, listening to all that is Bhaktapur while I type on the laptop by the light of a candle sheltered from the wind by a plastic water bottle. Gotta love recycling.

In the 1970s a German consortium decided to support Baktapur by building a sewage system and repaving the streets with cobblestone and brick and also began a continuing restoration of buildings and temples. Now one pays $10 to enter and the money is used to restore old buildings brick by brick and clay tile by clay tile. Only photos will do to explain this town wide party with momo steamers on every block.

Part 2

One never knows what one will find on any street but when on a street in a foreign city he chances of seeing something outlandishly different increases. Baktapura’s streets are as foreign as they come and they have provided us with shock, amusement and fascination.

A three-year old girl’s toy was the creepiest thing though I can only say that because we missed the goat sacrifice in the afternoon. She was running and laughing while waving about a hypodermic needle. (Let’s reassess the danger level of “runs with scissors”.) The needle was huge, the holding several ml of what looked like very dirty water (sewage??) and brandishing a 2 inch long needle. Rick and I cleared out of her way. Can you imagine being stabbed with an old hypodermic needle with unknown fluid inside?

Later another tiny girl ran between us with a burning stick. She was among a group of 3-10 year olds who were burning bits of trash in the corner of a temple.

In a safer part of our evening walk we went to Potter’s Square. We had been there in the afternoon when we saw pots being stacked on a straw bed, packed with more straw and layered with more pots and more straw. By evening the pots were covered in straw and buried in ash in preparation for a 3-day firing.

Another load of pots had been fired and another was in the process of firing with smoke leaking out all around it. This pit firing was being tended by a man who fed scraps of wood into each of the ports at the bottom. He would continue to do this all night.

We went to our hotel room for the night when I heard cymbals and drums and looked out the window. There was a dancing parade of the nine manifestations of Durga, living gods that are particularly revered and feared in Baktapura. During certain few occasions and particularly during the festival of Dasain (now), members of the cast of flower sellers are chosen to don the masks and parade through the street.

The masks are specially made and used for only one year. When on, the masks empower the wearer with the embodiment of the deity and so they are living gods. They dance throughout the city to of the major temples and then they disappear into the monastery where only they and initiates can go. I snapped one photo but then learned that someone might have taken my camera and smashed and then beaten me for the audacity of photographing a living god. Religious ideas are amazingly creative and varied.

Part 3

Through the COLD night there were periodic bells clanging but the bells began in earnest at 4:30 and were ferocious for a while being joined by blaring horns and the occasional fire cracker. Dressed in every layer we had we ventured out, creeping down the stairs intending to go to the square for a closer look but the night clerk slept under a thick blanket in the lobby and the doors were closed and bared. We were locked in but in isn’t really the right word.

The hotel rooms are closed but the restaurant is in the open courtyard and the stairs lead to the roof-top café so the building is more open (cold) air than enclosed but without leaping over the outer walls or waking the guy on the sofa we were locked in.

Jen Brown, a new friend from the India tour, leaves today for base camp at Everest. We’re chilled to the bone here and can’t imagine what she will face.

Thaipusam, Batu Caves, Malyasia

Thaipusam, 1986

It is hard to explain the sights, sounds and smells of a Hindu festival. There aren’t events in this country, especially in Wellsville, to compare them with. One particularly unusual festival is Thaipusm. Hindus practice the world’s oldest religion and share a body of cultural practices and beliefs with about a billion people. A million or so of them participate in Thaipusam Malaysia at the Batu Caves near Kuala Lumpur.

The basic idea is that petitioners who feel that the gods have granted their wishes climb the steps of the Batu Caves temple as an expression of thanks. Many climb up with a kavadi (a sort of small shrine), chariots and/or pails of milk, some of which are connected to the body of the devotee with wire hooks or spears.

Others pierce their tongues or cheeks with metal shafts of various sizes from small and delicate to large and imposing. I’ve a photo of a man walking along the path to the caves while Jay and I were standing on the sides watching. We didn’t actually notice him at first. Some other, more dramatic scene distracted us, and Jay waved his arms as this man bent forward to receive the blessing of the person next to us. That was when Jay hit his skewer.

I started to stammer an apology, pulling little Jay close to me, hoping that Jay hadn’t injured the man. After all, this rod, the diameter of a pencil and about 2 feet long, pierced through one cheek and out the other and Jay had smacked it. The man smiled at Jay. People often smiled at Jay in Malaysia. His little pink cheeks, blue eyes and blonde hair, all unusual among these dark toned people, fascinated them.

The man patted Jay on the head and smiled. He held out his alms jar and we put money in it. I held my camera and he nodded permission for a photo after which he bowed to us and walked onward.

While he was near, we could see that the skewer truly went through his skin. When he spoke we could see it in his mouth, disrupting the movement of his tongue. There was no pain, no blood, no stress. This was a man who was proud of what he was doing, who viewed his religion as a part of his life, a part of his body.

We found the man again as he left the temple. He had no marks on his face, just a bit of the sacred ash that the priest applied when he removed the skewer at the altar. The smell of camphor was all around him and he seemed at peace.
Nobody bled, not where fish hooks stretched their skin as they pulled against heavy chains, not where skewers pierced their mouths. There was no swelling, no redness, no pain, not even a dent in the skin when these devices were removed.

I worried about how Jay saw things. He was just six and this was a pretty intense experience so I scrunched down and asked him what he thought of the whole scene. He looked around thinking and watching for just a bit and spoke with wisdom.

“I think these people love their god so much that they are willing to do anything but he loves them so much that he won’t let it hurt.”

That’s how I’ve seen Thaipusam ever since.

Driving with Jay - Story Jar

Driving with Jay

Wellsville, 1998: An important element in teaching Jay to drive was teaching me not to scream. There were moments when fear and anxiety welled up inside and beat their little fists against my throat until I yelped or yelled or squeaked with apprehension – at various volumes. Jay complained that my screams made him nervous and that I really had to get a grip. Gee.

The thing was that I wanted the car to slow down before Jay started slowing down. Occasionally, pedestrians (including Larry, the crossing guard one day) did not get the right of way. One morning, Em’s Geo’s tail pipe/muffler made rapid contact with the front porch bending it up under the car as if it were merely aluminum foil.
We collected bits and splinters of the porch spindles and railing - Rick’s recent summer project - and put the damaged car into the garage then I insisted that Jay drive my car to school.

The problem for all of these incidents was that Jay had a tough time remembering which foot ruled the brake and which the gas. Trying to be logical about this, sometimes he would avoid both pedals while he thought about it. Unfortunately, time couldn’t stop while he mentally chewed his choices.

Jay didn’t explain this until after a white-knuckled whoosh down Madison Hill. The car picked up speed coasting downhill and, noticing other cars stopped at the traffic light, I suggested slowing down. Jay intently looked forward and the car intently sped. I gently called his name, admirably controlling myself but he remained frozen.

I considered three options (screaming, grabbing his arm and being patient) –okay four options (invading his space to smack the brakes) as the nanoseconds whipped with wind around the car. Then Jay touched the brake, sighed and really thumped it. After we stopped Jay said that he appreciated my squeezing the begeebers out of the armrest instead of screaming while he was thinking about the pedals.

Of course he knew we were speeding downward but figured that getting the gas would make things worse so he wanted to be sure before he chose. After that day he remembered where the brake was.

He had less trouble with the manual transmission in the truck though that wasn’t always smooth. One time Rick picked Jay up at the school. Jay revved the engine, popped the clutch practically doing a wheelie and nearly mated with Elsie Swartz’s much-loved, red Thunderbird. Rick claims to have remained calm and advised Jay to back up and give himself a bit more room.

Jay had a lot of experience with the truck when he was tiny. He’d sit on Rick’s lap and “steer” the truck when taking garbage to the dump. Later, he and Emilie “drove” on back roads when I wasn’t around. Part of the deal was, “Don’t tell Mom.”

Of course we all have stories about learning to drive. My favorite is that while demonstrating figure 8s during my motorcycle road test, some demon force goosed the throttle and sent me bouncing over the curb, through a shrub and up two steps before I stopped. I thought a bit of levity was in order but my brother couldn’t have been more embarrassed when I asked the examiner if I could have one more try.

Story Jar: Metro One, Budapest

Metro One, Budapest

Hungary, 2007: Subways are great. I say that with all sincerity right now because we stayed out too late and missed the last train to our hotel so had to hike a considerable number of blocks across the city.

Budapest is actually two cities (Buda and Pest) divided by the Danube River, a body of water without a hint of blue. It’s easy to get around Budapest on the Metro lines, the trolleys or the buses. We used the Metro for several days and took it for granted until tonight.

We boarded on the red line and meant to transfer to Metro 1 but when we started up the stairs a woman at the top shouted a string of Magyar (Hungarian) to which we responded with blank stares. She then said, “Finished.” That we understood. Didn’t like it but understood so we exited the station and pulled out the worn map that Em and Josh’s had given to us. We had to hike a distance equivalent to 7 stations on Metro 1. We walked down the wide center avenue on a clear, spring evening talking about the yellow line, Metro 1. It’s a gem.

It’s a series of Little-Engine-that-Could trains with sweet, small yellow cars that arrive every 2 or 3 minutes all day long with seating for 16 and, the poster says, standing room for 50 more. (I would challenge that because we were on a full car once and I counted 24 standing passengers with virtually no room between elbows and bags. There is no way another 26 passengers could have gotten on without some sitting on others’ shoulders.)


Hungary had the first underground system in Europe and while I don’t know that Metro 1 is part of that first construction, it certainly has the hand-crafted look of an earlier time. Metro 1 has oak doors, steel pillars with art deco tops and two-toned ceramic walls. We particularly liked that the Metro 1 cars play a happy little tune when entering stations, as if they are pleased once more to make it out of the dark tunnel.

When we arrived in Budapest we purchased a one week pass. We each carried a tiny, colorful ticket entitling us to ride any of the trains, trolleys or buses in either Buda or Pest. The tickets don’t open gates or pass under scanners. It almost seems as if a person could get around without a ticket but at any time while on the system, someone with a transit system armband might ask to see the ticket and if it isn’t produced, they collect a large fine right there. If a person has neither ticket nor money, the transit officials may confiscate anything that the person does have and hold it ransom until the fine is paid. There’s no messing around.

The system is the same in Prague where we were asked for our tickets several times. Generally tickets were checked on the bus. Not only did we always have our tickets but every person around us during those checks also produced one so we never witnessed a problem in Prague but in Budapest we saw three people pay fines. To say they looked glum would understate their appearance.

On the night of the long walk, this night of the missed train, we witnessed such a fine on the red line. We walked into the station at nearly 11 p.m. when 3 officials asked for our tickets. Rick pulled them out of his pocket and we were nodded onward. A train had just come into the station, disgorging an assortment of passengers – a band with trombone, guitar and sax, a man with a suitcase and a number of couples. These people were also stopped by the transit officials and the man with the suitcase had no ticket so one officer scribbled out a citation. The man handed over several bills, took his receipt and wheeled his suitcase out of the station unhappy to have taken such an expensive ride.

We had time to watch all of this because we had an enormous ten-minute wait before our large, modern train arrived with screeching brakes. That train took us to the station where the woman told us that the service was finished for the night.

We spent the next 20 minutes walking and missing the wonderful, yellow Metro 1 trains.

Story Jar: The City of Brotherly Furniture

The City of Brotherly Furniture
The Story Jar

Philadelphia, 2002: Jay spent Sunday with his friend, Cora. After lunch they went to a thrift store for a few things to dress up their apartments. Jay wanted a ceiling fixture and a carpet. Cora wanted a comfy chair.

At the first store Jay found a ceiling fixture - functional but ordinary, nothing of a sparkle to it - but he considered getting it for $25 if he couldn’t find anything else.

After a bit of shopping in other stores, they headed back to the first one to get that fixture but they spotted a ceiling fixture discarded on the curb. Not totally brimming with character but lacking a price tag, it was perfect for Jay. They tossed it in the truck and Cora told him that he was a lucky guy.

The next thrift store had carpets. Persian style carpets. Just what Jay wanted. The one he liked best was about four by six feet and carried a whopping price of $200. While that’s cheap for a carpet, it’s way out of Jay’s budget so he told the guy that he would think about it. He didn’t have to think for very long.

Cora said that, luckily, they turned down a narrow street, so narrow that they generally avoid using it, and on this day the street was carpeted. Sticking out of a box was the end of a carpet. It was dirty but plenty large – 9 x 12. Into the back of the truck it went with the light fixture and room enough for steam carpet cleaner.

By then Cora had to get to the train station to head back to work in Rhode Island for the week. Jay drove her there but it was a busy day so Cora was bumped off that train. She had to wait for the morning train which was a mild disappointment that she would feel better about if Jay could just find a chair for her.

Jay took his no-problem attitude and cruised Philly. They drove down a couple of blocks and found, abandoned on the street and waiting for Cora, a fine, almost new, leather recliner. They stood for several minutes to see if someone might come back for it but no doors opened, no trucks stopped, no people showed up at all so the chair went with the rug and carpet cleaner.

They felt successful and headed home but the streets of Philly held one more treasure. It was a sticky, empty beer keg – the kind that means a $40 deposit when returned.

All this success built an appetite so they went to Jay’s house to make dinner. Cora went to Jay’s garden to clip some fresh basil leaves but she accidentally cut leaves from a pepper plant. Ah well, everyone's luck eventually changes.

2007 Christmas Issue: Christmas Gingerbread Houses

Gingerbread Houses

Christmas at our house means gingerbread house time. We made some simple ones when
the children were little. You know the kind - graham crackers and frosting - but that’s not what we do now. Before everyone comes home, I bake a house.

Rick starts by choosing a house pattern and making cardboard pattern pieces for the walls and roof. Generally I have to double the recipes for gingerbread to make the house but it goes quickly now because I have a method.


I put parchment paper on a baking pan, roll the dough out, cut around the pattern and remove the extra dough. Since I don’t pick anything up, I no longer stretch the rectangles into some frustrating parallelogram or wonky trapezoid.


When they are cool, I glue the pieces together. The first time I glued a house it was without appreciation for the searing temperature of melted sugar. I thought I had to hurry and while hurrying I dripped melted sugar on my hand. It took about two weeks to heal.

Now I wear neoprene gloves and move slowly and carefully. With all the pieces arranged on the kitchen counter and an aluminum foil-covered board at the ready I melt sugar in a large frying pan. Sugar melts into sticky syrup. I dip two sides of a wall into the goo and then place the wall on the board. I know that there’s enough time to move slowly and deliberately.

I worry a little about putting roof on. I have to use a spoon to drip glue on the top of the wall and then place the roof parts. The small pieces of the chimney go on easily and they add style. Often I put a few trees or shrubs or a snowman in the “yard” or pour the sugar/syrup into a “walkway” in front of the door. The sugar glue hardens and the house waits for candy.

At our house all the food we share has to be vegan and that, just a couple of years ago, limited our choices of candies for decoration but now one can get just about anything in a vegan formula so we get pretty darn colorful.

Christmas Eve is decorating time. We get some drinks, turn on the holiday music and put the house on the dining room table surrounding it with bowls of candies. I make lots of frosting for the decorations and we get the kitchen scissors, knives and our fingers very gooey in the process.


Often each of us claims a section of the house and gets to work, a process that means the house looks different from each angle. We cover it with enough candy-tile to make Anton Gaudi jealous and us happy.

As soon as it’s finished it is okay to start eating it but usually the sampling of materials has already made us sick on sugar by then. Our gingerbread house is the best 50,000 calorie project of the year.



Basic Gingerbread House Dough
From recipes.vegansource.com
4 cups all-purpose flour
1 Teaspoon baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 or 3 tsps ground ginger (use a really good quality spice)
1 or 2 tsp ground cinnamon (Vietnamese is my favorite)
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 cup molasses
2 Tbs soymilk, or as needed

In a large bowl stir together flour, baking soda, salt, ginger and cinnamon. (This is the step where our kitchen floor gets messy.)
In a saucepan, combine the shortening, brown sugar, and molasses over low heat.
Stir occasionally until the shortening is melted and the sugar is dissolved,
but still slightly grainy. Remove from the heat and let the mixture cool to lukewarm.
Gradually add the molasses mixture to the dry ingredients, mixing until well blended.
Add enough soymilk to make a firm dough.

Gather the dough into a ball, and cover with plastic wrap.
Let the dough rest for at least 20 minutes. (When tightly sealed, the dough will keep for up to 1 week in the refrigerator. Bring to room temperature before rolling.)
Preheat oven to 325 F. Position rack in the center of the oven.
Use ungreased baking sheets or use parchment paper.
With a lightly floured rolling pin, roll out the dough 1/4" thick, and cut out desired shapes.
Bake until the edges are slightly brown, about 15 minutes.
Makes enough for 1 small gingerbread house (8" x 8").

Gingerbread House Glue*
Pour a layer of sugar about 1" thick in a heavy frying pan.
Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon
until it melts. This makes a quick-hardening, edible glue.
*Caution, this is VERY hot, do not taste or touch!!

Frosting Glue
This frosting works well if made with egg whites but it's okay with water
1/3 cup water (or 3 egg whites)
1/2 t cream of tartar
about a pound of confectioner's sugar
Whip till smooth if you can stand the noise of your mixer.

People tell me that these can be sprayed with a clear finish and saved for years but we nibble on the peanut brittle and chocolate until the house seems less than glorious and then we get serious and eat the gingerbread.

The Lizard At My Feet - Story Jar

The Lizard at My Feet

Folks around here probably share a standard image for hospitals or doctor’s offices. When Em and Jay had ear infections or nasty, runny noses with hacking coughs, we walked into the old Martin Street School where we found comfort and care with Dr. Tartaglia.

When Em and Jay were young, we took a short trip to Zimbabwe. Our pre-trip medical shots caused us to wince but not as much as the assurance there was no need to worry during the trip because we were assured that they could fix most anything when we got back!

I hadn’t really worried until I heard that but they were true to their promise. When we came back, Jay did need a bit of fixing and fix him they did.

Malaysia was different. We’d be there for well over a year. Medical needs had to be considered and we wished for a crystal ball with a medical degree.

We knew, from our contacts at the University of Buffalo, that there was an American, for-profit hospital in Kuala Lumpur but we also knew that the quality and availability might be different. We needed to take certain precautions.
We started with hepatitis shots. Em had a reaction to the second one in that series but the reaction didn’t start for a few weeks and we were in Malaysia when fever and sickness turned Em into a sweaty, slightly green, little girl. We found a charming Sari-clad, Indian doctor at that hospital in Kuala Lumpur (KL).

I can’t remember the doctor’s name but we saw her a few times and she worked through blood tests and x-rays to find an enlarged liver and zero in on the cause. While I’ve forgotten her name, I do remember one visit rather well. Emilie was waiting to be seen, sitting on the edge of a cot in what pretty much looked, smelled and felt like a regular hospital. I noticed movement on the floor and glanced down to see, slithering between my feet, a black, spotted lizard, his tapered tail casually gliding over the toe of my right shoe.

It moved on, unperturbed by my presence and found its way behind a cabinet where he probably reduced the bug population, doing its part to keep the hospital clean. It was a measure of my adjustment to the not-Wellsville life that I was able to stand still, draw Rick’s attention to this splay-toed visitor, and then patiently wait for “our” doctor, a person in whom my faith continued.