Happy Thanksgiving to all.

A friend recently reminded me of a story I posted on my cooking blog a few years back, that recounts my first Thanksgiving living in Europe as an ex-patrioted American.

I've reposted it here, as it's quite an amusing tale. It's Turkey Time! (click link for story)

(This has been reposted in remembrance of Veteran's Day)

In my wildest dreams, I never thought I'd end up the proud matriarch of a military family.

As a child, the closest I got to anyone in the armed services, was an arm's length from the television set while watching Gomer Pyle, McHales Navy, and F-Troop.

While I may have laughed at the antics of the military characters on TV, I knew that in real life, soldiers, sailors and marines weren't the baffoons that Hollywood made them out to be.

We were reminded of the serious nature of war, every night on the evening news, as the networks ran footage of the carnage in Vietnam. Sadly, rather than being awed and frightened by what I saw, the routine delivery of the reporting night-after-night-after-night was anesthetizing.

Living as we did, in predominately white, upper-middle class communities, the turmoil I witnessed on television seemed as remote and irrelevant to me as the history we studied in school.

 The young men I witnessed fighting and dying in our family room nightly, were little more than characters in a movie.

My brother, and the other boys of our generation, imagined their way into combat with G.I. Joe, and company, but I couldn't in any way relate or identify with the American soldier and his experience.


As unpopular as the Vietnam War was, it would never have occurred to me to denigrate American troops.

 I didn't fully understand the politics of the time, but I did try to make sense of what was going on around me, and I knew it was wrong, based upon the values my parents had instilled upon me, to vilify the people our government was sending into combat.

The war in Vietnam ended in 1975, two years before I graduated from high school. Mandatory conscription was discontinued two years before the end of the war.

I spent the next twenty-five years, blissfully ignorant of the perils of military service, as I raised my three daughters in the insulated environment of upper-middle class America.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, my husband was on an American airlines flight from LA to DC.  His flight landed without incident, but our lives were forever changed.

We moved to San Diego, home of the First Marine Corps Battalion when my girls were in their late teens.

I was obviously apprehensive when my daughters' dates appeared on our front porch in uniform. I had no idea what to expect, or how to entertain somebody trained to fight and kill another human being.  Combat did strange things to people, or so I'd been told.

The young men that sat at our dining table, or gathered around our pool were just that, young men far from home, appreciative of a home-cooked meal, and a chance to be a part of a family again, if only for a few hours.

Invitations to barbecues, led to invitations to holiday dinners. As they rotated back and forth to Iraq, I found myself worrying for their safety, and wondered how on earth their mother's slept at night.


For the first time in my life, the American soldier/marine/sailor/airman, was more than just a card board cut-out to me.

My son-in-laws are civilians now, with more than twenty-eight years of service between them. They are loving husbands, and daddies, sweet, kind and gentle.  I don't think about it often, but I never want to forget, that they are also real-life, flesh and bone heros who were willing to give their lives for their country.

I'm proud to call these Marines, my sons.

The idea being put forth today, by those intent upon convincing not only the rest of the world, but Americans themselves, that we are a nation of religious intolerance, is absurd.  Those that claim that we are religiously bigoted toward anyone that chooses to worship in a manner outside of what we claim to be the norm, need only look as far as the nearest Amish community, to be proven wrong.


While driving the interstate north from Pittsburgh one sultry August afternoon about three years ago, I saw something that took my breath away; children dressed in a uniform of black and blue, were at play in a field, not more than a few yards from the four lane freeway I traveled.  They were Amish children.


At sixty-five miles per hour, I wasn't able to see much through my rear view mirror, only a simple white clapboard school-house, in the middle of a gently sloping meadow.  Behind the school, sat two small rectangular sheds, which were obviously privies, and to the north of the buildings, a ball field.  The boys, in their wide brimmed black hats, manned the bases, while the little girls, in their bonnets and long skirts, bobbed along the sidelines.

Having recently moved to western Pennsylvania, from southern California, I was fairly overwhelmed, with the dizzying amounts of green along the highway.  After six weeks, I'd come to expect the grazing cattle and the occasional deer, but the Amish children at play were completely unanticipated.  I knew there were Amish in rural Lancaster county, much further to the east, but I had no idea they lived so close to what used to be, a major industrial center.


I was thoroughly intrigued after that initial sighting, and began to look more closely at the farms that sat on the hillsides along the interstate.  A tell-tale sign that a farm belongs to the Amish, are the flaxen-maned draft horses that graze in pairs beyond the paddocks, and the absence of utility poles and lines to the overly plain, always white, farmhouses.


On one particularly blustery winter day, again traveling north on the interstate, we approached the area where the school-house stands.  Boxey, black buggies lined the rutted dirt road, perpendicular to the highway. The children, cloaked in black woolen capes which whirled and fluttered in the wind, hurried from classroom to carriage, anxious to be out of the cold.  In some cases, a parent stood waiting, or tending a harness, while the warm misty breath of the carriage horses billowed around them.  In an instant, the scene had vanished from view.

As I focused my eyes on the paved road ahead, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to live isolated from American culture, while living within the United States.  The Amish children in the school beside the freeway, literally watch the world pass by, day after day.


There are approximately 200,000 Old World Amish spread across twenty-two states.  They began immigrating here from Europe, early in the eighteenth century, to escape religious persecution.  They maintain life-style elements of a seventeenth century agrarian society, and they reject anything that might distract from their devotion to God and family.  They are simple, humble people that ask nothing from anyone outside of their immediate community, but to be left alone to live and worship together.


Though most speak English, their native language is a dialect of high German.  In deference to their religion, they are deferred from serving in the armed forces, they do not pay into or collect benefits from social security, and they are only required to send their children to school through the eighth grade.  The Amish pay all other taxes required of them.


Clearly, improvements in the infrastructure and urban sprawl, have made it increasingly difficult for the Amish to stay truly isolated, but they have adjusted, as have their English (all non-Amish) neighbors.  After all, its hard to harbor any ill-will against a community as simple and humble as the Amish, who have proven historically, through their actions, to live as they preach, in peace.


The descendants of political, economic and religious refugees, Americans have an appreciation for tolerance, and are thus, by our very nature, tolerant people.  But, we must be wary of those who would use the very qualities that make us great, as weapons against us.  Tolerance is not a synonym for ignorance or stupidity.

All of the above photos were taken in the counties of northwestern Pennsylvania in the summer of 2010.

There's an affecting scene in the movie, Father of the Bride, when Steve Martin's title character, George Banks, rebels against having to pay for more hot dog buns than he actually needs.  The weary Banks, has an all-out break-down in the aisle of his local grocery store, accusing hot dog and bun companies of colluding to drive-up the cost of the overall product. While he appears to be an absolute kook to all around him, the viewer knows the exasperated Banks is in truth, responding to circumstances at home, where his wife and daughter have commandeered his checkbook, and are planning what appears to be, the wedding of the century.

Once he's arrested and behind bars, the mother of the bride arrives to castigate her husband, and concedes that she will pay his bail, on the condition that he keep his mouth shut and checkbook open, while she finalizes plans for their daughter's wedding.  She further requires, that he do so with a smile upon his face. At a crossroads, George can either stand by his principals, remain jailed, and be characterized the family villain, or submit.

In an apparent effort to keep peace in his family, the beleaguered father of the bride, compromises his integrity, and agrees to the stipulations as set forth by his wife.  He forfeits his credit card, and returns home, where he becomes both the family's hero and it's stooge.


On August 28th, hundreds of thousands of people like George Banks, came together in Washington to draw strength from each other in their quest to restore honor and integrity to their own lives, and in turn, to the nation. They came in peace, they rallied in peace, and they dispersed in peace.  There was nothing subversive about their actions.  On the contrary, they gathered at the feet of their founding fathers, to affirm and celebrate the virtues upon which our nation was founded.


They stood, shoulder to shoulder in the blazing sun, finding wisdom in the words of Abraham Lincoln, and Dr. Martin Luther King, and they saw first hand what honor and courage look like, in the faces of living American heros, whose stories of bravery inspired them.  They were told, that there is often pain in standing for something you believe in, and that suffering and honor, often go hand in hand.


They were reminded by two hundred and forty men and women of the cloth, linked arm in arm, that there is a higher power to whom they may turn for help and strength, and were encouraged to boldly do so, in the face of adversity and ridicule, just as those patriots who have gone before them did.


The George Banks of the world, are those that go out of their way to be tolerant and understanding of others, only to find their own rights trampled in return.  They are those generous souls that give not only of their excess, but from their need.  They are people of faith, that believe they have an equal right to justice.  They are not asking for anything that hasn't already been guaranteed them by our existing Charters of Freedom, but they are tired of double standards.


The great silent majority is at a crossroads.  It can sit back passively and collectively, and be bullied into submission by fear mongering politicians and the ruling elite, losing its liberty, honor and integrity as it does so, or it can stand up to those trying to intimidate and oppress.


For years, I too have resisted speaking my mind, hiding behind the mantle of civility, anxious to be liked.  I realize now however, that it has really been cowardice that has fueled my failure to stand up for what I believe and know to be true and right.


What I remember most, from the Restoring Honor Rally in Washington, are the faces of those around me.  As we walked through the throngs of people from across the country, I had a sudden and powerful sense of belonging to something bigger than myself or my immediate family.  I was empowered with an energy that I believe our forefathers felt and tried to express when they penned those immortal words, "WE THE PEOPLE . . . "




Before leaving the capitol, Rick and I made a trip to the rotunda at the National Archives, to view the Declaration of Independence, the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights.  The docent spoke of the measures being taken to preserve the Charters of Freedom, explaining that the ravages of time, sunlight and handling have taken their toll, fading the names of the signers to the point that most have simply ceased to exist.  The same can be said of the text in the body of the two smaller documents.

Its up to us, the George Banks of society, to make sure that the documents' intent, remains intact.

I went to the woods, because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.   Henry David Thoreau

At the check-out stand, I picked up a copy of the, Mother Earth News, The Original Guide To Living Wisely. The little logo in the upper right corner promising that, Every Issue Is A Green Issue, caused me to bristle a bit, but the cover photo of a colorful array of home-canned pantry items intrigued me, as did the headline, Save Big on Groceries.

Considering the amount of gas I'd used driving around western Pennsylvania, looking for produce and supplies, I found it hard to believe that I'd be saving anything on my home-cured and processed pickled vegetables this season.  But, I was curious as to what my future savings might be, so with some apprehension, I purchased the magazine along with the basket, and headed home.

Nine quarts and four pints of pickles later, I sat down to see what Mother Earth was all about, and was pleasantly surprised to find myself enjoying the publication, despite the green logo that some left-of-center editor felt compelled to include on every page.  Mind you, I don't have anything against protecting the environment but, I'm leery of all activist-social-agendas, and I'm sick to death of having the politics of green, crammed down my throat by media executives and liberal minded politicians.  I get it already!  Leave my lightbulbs alone, and go bother somebody else.

Most of the articles in the issue at hand, were geared toward the small acreage organic farmer or gardener. A few were a bit "crunchy" for my taste, but I found the information in the rest, of interest to anyone prescribing to a more wholesome, self-sustaining, country-lifestyle. Of particular interest to me, was an editorial of sorts, entitled, Outwardly Simple, Inwardly Rich, in which the author advocates that, "by consciously adopting a simple lifestyle, we give ourselves the opportunity to be satisfied and happy, whether we strike it rich or not."

Opponents say the law will lead to racial profiling and trample on the rights of the hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants in Arizona.
The Associated Press (July 23, 2010)

When the girls were in their teens, we took each, individually on a mini-vacation, to the city of their choice. At the time, we had oodles of frequent-flyer miles, and travel perks, accumulated from years of business travel. The idea originated, when our eldest daughter, the Sentimentalist, chose as her high school graduation gift, a trip back to Brussels, Belgium.

Upon our return home, Rick and I decided to close the door on Europe for a while, and focus our time, attention and travel dollars on cities of cultural significance within the United States.

When daughter number two, the Fashion Diva, graduated two years later, she requested a trip to New York City, so off we went for a long weekend. After a stroll down Fifth Avenue, a photo op at Tiffany's, and a stop at the Empire State Building, we made our way to Battery Park, where we caught a ferry across New York Harbor to Ellis Island, the sight of the famous, turn-of-the-century, national immigration center.


On approach, we were struck by the imposing nature of the structure on the tiny island. We took a walking tour of the beautifully restored main building, and Great Hall, which is awe inspiring in its breadth and scale; but, as impressive as the architecture is, the true stars of Ellis Island are the stories of those that walked the great tiled corridors toward freedom.

I was humbled by the tales of the desperate souls who'd left everything they'd ever known behind - family, language, culture - for the chance to begin life anew, on an unspoiled foreign soil, perceived to be rich in freedom of opportunity. My heart ached for those who'd arrived, only to be told they were unwelcome because of illness, infirmity, or criminal history but, I understood. The government has a responsibility to protect it's own from villainy and disease.



We took turns having our photos taken on the walk along the seawall, with the awe-inspiring silhouette of Manhattan in the background. From the island, the city looked like a painted backdrop on a Hollywood movie lot - too perfect to be real. In looking back at the photos of our trip, I am struck by the ingenuous mood of the subjects - ourselves.


The photos were taken on August 17, 2001. In less than four weeks, New York's famous skyline would be obliterated by terrorists bent on destroying that which is American.



On the fourth of September, less than three weeks after returning from New York, we took our youngest daughter, the Informer, to Washington D. C. to celebrate her sixteenth birthday. We toured the Mall, starting with the great war memorials. I never fail to shudder at the names of the thousands engraved on the Wall, or to be teary eyed as I walk among the ghostly faces of the fallen, at the Korean War Memorial.

We walked past the buildings of the Smithsonian, and up to the Captial building before heading over to the Pentagon, and a very late lunch at the shopping center across the street.



Unfortunately, between the New York and Washington trips, I suffered a riding accident and hyperextended my knee. As a consequence, I had no choice but to limp around D. C. in a hot and heavy, black, foam, brace, that extended from my ankle to thigh, completely immobilizing my knee.

"Primary is the need to say what you mean in the fewest words possible and mean what you say. That is how one gets a child to respect and obey legitimate authority." John Rosemond, Living With Children

I feel so vindicated! At last, after almost thirty years, I've found someone that thinks the way I do on the subject of child rearing, and has the authority to back it up. John Rosemond, is a child psychologist that believes in "intuitive parenting." He's authored fourteen parenting and family issues books, and his weekly column, Living With Children, is published in more than two hundred newspapers.

Of course, being the square peg that I am, means that my hero is himself considered something of a renegade within the field of psychology, a science he admittedly has little use for, or faith in.

So what does Mr. Rosemond advocate? A Christian, Mr. Rosemond professes what he refers to as, the "simple, clear, common sense of God's plan for child rearing." According to Rosemond, the fundamentals of child rearing, were known intuitively, by parents who raised children before, "The Big Wet Blanket of Psychobabble, was thrown over parenting common sense some forty years ago."

"Where children are concerned, new ideas are not true, and true ideas are not new." Rosemond

I've been following Mr. Rosemond's column weekly, in our local paper, for the past two years, and his philosophy and instruction to exasperated parents seeking advice, has not disappointed me yet. Basic to his thinking, is the belief that parents of the 1960's, abandoned the fundamental understandings that guided the raising of children. These fundamental understandings, passed from generation to generation, were rejected in favor of contemporary, secular parenting models with disastrous results.

I don't mean to sound like a cultural cynic, but based upon my experience as a mother, school administrator, and citizen of the world, I heartily agree with Mr. Rosemond's assessment. In light of the current state of national cultural, economic and environmental affairs, I think its fair to say, that it would appear as though our society may have zigged, when it should have zagged. Something has gone horribly wrong, and as responsible human beings, we need to stop looking elsewhere for blame, and start focusing on the core - the American family.

As I navigated the road to adulthood with our girls, I saw warning signs along the way, indicating that our friends and some family members were taking a different route with their children. Early on, there was the couple that imposed their infant daughter on previously adults-only gatherings, expecting the assembled to be sensitive to the fact that a child was present, which meant the volume on the stereo needed to be lowered, and salty language and behavior restrained.

There was the neighbor girl that sat in her turreted bedroom window, while her mother explained to the rest of us over coffee, that her daughter was an unusually beautiful and gifted child, that deserved to be spoiled, the visiting children that complained miserably, and publicly, about the food put before them because it didn't look or taste exactly like what Mommy served at home (needless to say, they weren't expected to eat what they didn't like), and the thoroughly non-athletic children whose parents insisted they get equal time on the playing field/court.

When our eldest was eight and the youngest three, we went on car-trip with a couple who's two-year-old refused to sit quietly unless his mother sat beside him in the back seat. When the going got tough and Mommy exhausted her bag of tricks, we were all enlisted to sing along with the Raffi, the global troubadour. The kid cried louder.

It makes sense to assume, that these over-indulged children, became demanding, self-indulgent adults. Those children that matured, in spite of their parents, to become responsible adults, have no parenting role model to look toward while rearing their own offspring. These poor parents are working blind.

I attribute my two daughters' failed marriages, to bad parenting. The man-children they married, had absolutely no idea how to put someone other than themselves first, and when the going got tough, they left (or threw a tantrum). Its no wonder, they both ran home to Mommy the first chance they got (and still reside there).


We are now on our second generation of adults, raised without proper parenting. No wonder we're in the trouble we're in. Those parenting our country out of Washington D.C. have absolutely no idea how to raise one child, let alone a nation.

When I joined Rick in Belgium, for a short vacation at the end of one of his business trips to Brussells in 1994, I had no idea I'd be living there within the next six months. Rick had been traveling internationally for several years, while I kept the home fires burning, caring for our daughters and working as a school administrator. Though I didn't recognize it at the time, a transfer overseas was inevitable

I never envied Rick his time on the road. I was happy to lead a more sedate life. Still, when that first offer to visit Europe was extended, I didn't hesitate to go.

I'm baffled at America's reluctance to step on toes, when it comes to protecting her borders and jobs. Americans living abroad certainly aren't afforded the same courtesy. Having experienced living in another country, I have to wonder when I hear people claim, that by enforcing our laws, we're turning the United States into a police state. Surely, they jest?

I have a vivid memory of the moment that Rick told me that he'd accepted a job position in Europe. It was a Friday evening and we were in our bathroom getting ready for a night out. I was standing at my vanity applying mascara, when Rick casually dropped the bomb. He'd be leaving for Belgium on Sunday. I can still see the look of astonishment on my own face.

Forty-eight hours later, he was on a plane to Belgium, set to begin a month long french language immersion course. I was left home, to deal with the fallout. We'd long discussed the pros and cons of a foreign job assignment, and had decided that if the opportunity presented itself, we'd most likely take it. However, the first time opportunity knocked, it appeared in the form of a move to India. We promptly slammed the door. A move to Belgium, capital of the European Union and NATO headquarters, sounded tame enough.

The move itself, didn't happen overnight. Rick had business issues to deal with, which included securing a work visa from the Belgian government. The entire move hinged on that visa. With the application process underway, Rick tackled the next hurdle, the language barrier. He was the new plant manager of a fiberglass facility in French- speaking southern Belgium, and was expected to conduct business in the language of the country. High school French would only take him so far. Thus, he was enrolled in what we laughingly referred to as "language boot-camp."

The human resources department at the company Rick worked for, helped us with passports, insurance, house-hunting, school placement, airline tickets, the shipment of our household goods and the sale of our stateside home. There was an outrageous amount of paperwork associated with all of it, so I had my hands full.

Needless to say, I wasn't expected to involve myself in the business-related concerns associated with Rick's new job. However, it was impossible not to wonder why it was taking so long to obtain the work visa. Apparently, the Belgian government was less than thrilled that an American was being placed in a job position of authority, on Belgian soil. It meant, one less job for a Belgian.


Eventually, the visa was granted. Rick cautioned the kids and I, that we needed to be on best behavior while living abroad, as we were representatives not only of our country, but of the corporation he worked for. One slip-up and we would give our host government the excuse it sought to send us packing.

Shortly after we'd settled our household, I received an early morning visit from the local police. They appeared at my door, and asked to see my passport. The policemen spoke English and were pleasant, but serious, as they questioned me to determine if I was indeed the person that I claimed to be. They appeared to check my answers to the paperwork they had in hand, which included copies of our passport photos. Satisfied, they thanked me and were on their way.

Puzzled and unnerved by the visit, I called a neighbor that I considered the authority on all things related to being an American expatriate. She laughed and said she understood my wariness. As a resident alien, I should expect the authorities to come knocking at least twice a year.

At the end of our first year in Belgium, we were required to present ourselves in front of a local magistrate to request a visa renewal. On our way, Rick and I went over the protocol for the meeting, with the girls. There would be no messing around - no joking, laughing, or fighting. In fact, it would be best if nobody spoke at all unless spoken to. Got it? They got it.


The five of us were individually questioned by the grim looking bureaucrat that sat behind the ornate wooden counter, in the very dark, musty building. Nobody giggled, smiled or fidgeted while waiting their turn. It was as though we collectively held our breath. Upon leaving, we were once again reminded that from an economic/cultural standpoint, we were guests in the country and could be asked to leave at any time. I felt like a bug on a sidewalk.

Fortunately, we managed to complete our corporate tour of duty without drawing any negative attention.

About four years later, I had an experience that evoked memories of the solemnity surrounding our visit to the foreign magistrate's office, and the seriousness with which we regarded our alien resident status.


We'd built, and were living on a small horse farm outside of Palm Beach, Florida. During the winter months, we rented stalls to a family from Texas that flew back and forth for the horse show season.

The Texans employed a Mexican groom, that they housed in an apartment on our property. I was assured that he was a legal resident. Every week he collected his pay in cash from the horse trainer (another employee of the Texans), sealed it in an envelope, and mailed it to his wife in Mexico. He told me that he was saving to build a house in his home village, and simply came here to work. He considered himself very lucky to have steady employment with a private individual, as opposed to a business.

For a month at Christmas, the groom left to visit his family in Mexico. Our boarders hired a young Englishwoman to care for their horses. She had quite the personality, and loved to talk. Over the course of the next few weeks, I learned that she'd come to the States on a short-term tourist visa, and upon arrival, was instructed by friends to make contact with a man in Miami who would take care of her immigration and employment status. She did so.

For an unspecified sum of money, he provided her with documentation, an official student visa, and enrolled her in the American School of Equestrian Studies, which oddly enough, was located in his one room office in the back of a strip mall. He also helped her secure employment. Needless to say, she never attended any classes.


I was flabbergasted by her admission, and repeated what I was told to some of my friends and neighbors. Most just shrugged and chuckled at the ingenuity behind the scheme. A few had even hired barn employees through similar service providers. I wasn't impressed or amused, and went to sleep each night wondering if we'd be raided by the US Immigration and Naturalization Services.

The Mexican groom was supposed to return on a given date, but we were told he was having some trouble getting back into the country (another clue that he probably wasn't here legally). The night before her temporary employment was to end, my barn mate told me that she didn't like Florida, and would be heading west, where she'd join some friends and hopefully fall off the radar. The next day, the permanent employee returned from Mexico, the gal from England left, and life on our farm went on as usual.

For some time, I wondered if I should 'do something' with the information I had regarding the man in Miami that sold false documents to people living illegally in the country. Of course, what exactly did I know? Not much, when it came right down to it. I felt like a bad American.

When the pace of the show season picked up, the groom in our barn was assisted by a charming young bloke from Ireland. He too was living in the States on an expired tourist visa. He was sweet and missed his mum back in Cork. I felt bad and made him pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. A week later, he too was gone.

A few years later, a friend of mine married a Welshman who was living in California on a work visa. The marriage caused some to speculate that the guy was using our friend to get his green card. Of course, between the experience I'd had in Florida, and what I saw living around me in southern California, the first thought that went through my head at the suggestion was, why bother going to so much trouble?

When it comes to living in the United States illegally, nobody, including the government really seems to give a hoot!