Choo-Choo McCracken

My great-uncle, Dale McCracken was an engineer for the C B & Q Railroad. The train engine he piloted is on display in downtown Ottumwa, Iowa.

If you close your eyes and really strain your brain, you can consider it a monument to my family!

Random thoughts

Richard and I were watching PBS the other night. It was about the movies of Warner Brothers Studios. It wasn’t a great show, but it kept my interest until way past my bedtime.

There was a quote from a movie that was something to the line of, “yadda, yadda, yadda (expletive deleted) fag.” I have to assume that the deleted phrase was the “F” word, or as I have heard the younger generation refer to it as the “F bomb”. “Fag” was obviously a reference to a gay man.

I’ve only heard one explanation of why gay men are called fags, or faggots, but it is not a universally accepted reason. A somewhat old-fashioned term, ‘faggot’ is used to define a bundle of sticks used to start a fire. Something like kindling. Apparently during the Spanish Inquisition, there was this theory that burning a witch at the stake was only effective if a male homosexual was used as fuel for the fire. Hence gay men became known as faggots. Ain’t history fun!

In truth, is doesn’t matter the origin of “fag”. There is no question but what it is on the line of the “N” word. (Sorry, I’m a gay man, I can type “faggot”, I can’t type the “N” word. I’m not black.)

So, liberal, left wing PBS doesn’t find “fag” offensive. I do. Would they have deleted the “N” word? I don’t’ know. But I’m guessing they might have had some serious conversations.

I’ve been asked why I am thinking about emigrating to Nederland. In 1811, all sodomy laws were repealed in Nederland (Napoleonic law). Admittedly, they were reinstated and repealed a few times until 1845 whenthe repeals became final. (The United States finally repealed all sodomy laws in 2002) In 1971 gay men and lesbian were given full rights in Nederland (yes, even to equal rights in marriage. Note: the Dutch government doesn’t give “marriage” to anyone, that is left to the churches. Nederlander have civil unions for legal reasons, marriage is a religious thing.) Still waiting for that in the US.

Oddly enough, Nederland requires that you speak Dutch before they will allow you to immigrate. Richard took up the the language today.

Twee grote wodka met ijs, alstublief!

Where are those sons of summer now?

Yesterday was the autumnal equinox. Today I scraped ice of the windshield of my pick-up. Sunday’s Oregonian had an article on preparing your garden for winter.

Time out.

My garden isn’t 100% ready to plant, and they want me to prepare it for winter? Am I the only one who sees the absurdity of this situation?

This could be tomorrow.

Juanita McCracken Cornelison

I’ve spent many hours trying to come up with a sensitive tribute to my mother that would give everyone an insight into the essence that was Juanita McCracken Cornelison. So far I have been miserably unsuccessful.

All I have been able to create is an over-sized document that is a delightful tribute to random hyperbole, ennui-infested thought, poor grammar, cliché metaphors and just-plain-old-shoddy writing.

Bad writing! Bad writing!

I’d send myself to bed without dessert, but I know me. I’d just get up in the middle of the night, while my conscience was sound asleep, and sneak a piece of cake.

But a picture is worth a thousand words.

Happy 94th Birthday, Mom

I miss you!

Juanita McCracken Cornelison #2

The quintessential toddler picture.

Juanita McCracken Cornelison #3

I love this series of Mom. I don't know for sure when they were taken, but I picture her in high school at one of those photo machines at the local drug store.

Juanita McCracken Cornelison #4

One of my favorites pictures of Mom. I think it really catches her spirit.

Juanita McCracken Cornelison #5

Mom in her backyard in Gleneden Beach

Bernard Soule Cornelison

And yes, continuing with the tragedies of my grandparents, Granddad died on September 15th, 1946.

No, I never met him, but thanks for asking.

Bernard, pictured above with his wife, Hannah Leah Taylor Cornelison (the only biological grandparent I ever met) was 65 years old when he left this world. There are many more people to remember Bernard than there are for Fannie. Leah and Bernard had four children who live to adulthood and 14 grandchildren.

From there the numbers get mindboggling.

Fannie Alice Newell

On September 14, 1921, eighty-seven short years ago, Fannie Alice Newell McCracken, my grandmother, died.

I know little about Fannie. And no, I never met her, but thanks for asking.

She was born on November 13, 1876, probably in Cincinnati Twp, Harrison County, Iowa, the eldest child of Nathaniel and Sarah Emily McNeal Newell. At about the age of 18, she moved with her parents and younger siblings to the state of Washington. They first lived near Deer Park, before they moved to Scotts Valley, just outside TumTum. In 1900, Fannie was living with Earl and Mary Ellen Schoonover and their family in Spokane, Washington as a boarder. She was employed as a telephone operator.

Earl Schoonover’s nephew, Ira Beam McCracken and Fannie Alice Newell were married on November 6, 1905 in Spokane.

They set up home in the area of TumTum. Their first three children were born in Scotts Valley and are buried in Scotts Valley Cemetery, along with Fannie’s parents. Their fourth child was born while Ira worked on the construction of Long Lake Dam. Juanita, my mother and Fannie and Ira’s only child to live for more than 48 hours was born in a tent in the work camp of Long Lake in 1914.

A few years later, the McCracken family moved, first to St. Helens, Oregon for a few month and then to Vancouver, Washington. In Vancouver, Fannie gave birth to her fifth child.

Fannie was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had a radical mastectomy and underwent experimental radiation therapy. She died four days before her only surviving child's seventh birthday.

I know it is odd, writing about someone I never met. And yet, if I don't remember Fannie, who will?

Four sovereign nations. One great holiday!

Netherlands Germany
Denmark
Sweden

Photos from Bremen

Not to be outdone by the Dutch, Bremen has its own windmill.Yes, I can embarrass Richard in many countries on one vacation.
The main square in Bremen.
They are really into sculptures in Bremen.

Photos from Helsingor, Denmark and Helsingborg, Sweden

Helsingor Castle, home of Hamlet.Street in Helsingor.
And a short ferry ride away is Helsingborg, Sweden.

City Hall.
On a hill overlooking Helsingborg.

Photos from Copenhagen

Nyhavn - The old port Same part of town, a different view

Photos from Hamburg

A remnant of St. Nikolai church. The glass pyramid is the entrance to the crypt. Rauthaus (City Hall) from the St. Nikolai tower.
Richard said this was important, so I took a picture of it.

Photos from Amsterdam

Across the canal from the Carré Theatre, the National Theatre of Netherlands. The Raamgracht (just another beautiful canal), with the "trailor park homes" of Nederland, the houseboats.
An unknown street in Amsterdam. But I do know it is near the Nieuw Markt,

Photos from Madurodam

It's like you're in a helicopter going over Amsterdam!Fun for kids of all ages!

Oregon 66, Utah State 24.

The Ducks win again. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember the decades when Duck football was a doormat in the Pac 10 (and yes, they were a doormat in the Pac 8, too. I am old enough to remember.) There were so many years when I was just thankful Oregon didn’t go winless. But now the Ducks are something of a football power.

Dad and I used to go to games in Eugene occasionally. At most, we probably saw ten games together, and half of them were when I lived in Eugene. The last game we saw together was Oregon vs Utah State. I want to say the score was 49-10, but you get the picture. The Ducks won big. Today reminded me of that game.

Dad wasn’t a big Oregon fan. He would go to the Duck games to spend time with me. Thanks, Dad. I miss you.

Photos from Zaanse Schans

Zaanse Schans is a historic recreation of a traditional Dutch village located about 20 minutes north of Amsterdam. Think of it as Colonial Williamsburg with a windmill or two.Yes, Richard did come with me on vacation.
The town of Zaandam across the Zaan River from Zaanse Schans.

Photos from Scheveningen

The beach at Scheveningen on the North Sea (Noord Zee).Some fancy shmancy hotel facing the beach.
Party!

Photos from Den Haag

het BinnenhofAnother view of het Binnenhof
Old Den Haag
New Den Haag

Een wodka met ijs, alstublieft

"Nee… nee… twee wodka met ijs…nee, twee grote wodka met ijs.”

“Mijn herr, is zeven uur!”

“I know, I’m heading to Schiphol.”

“Sorry, dude. Twee grote wodka met ijs, coming up.”

Schiphol is a large airport. It makes Portland International seem a tad provincial by comparison. When they say to arrive two and a half hours before your flight’s departure time, they are serious. Richard and I, being experienced in Schiphol departures knew they were serious. We awoke at 6AM to ensure we would be there by 8AM, a full 150 minutes before our scheduled departure.

The first half-hour was spent drinking Café Rood. (It’s much like instant coffee, but it has writing in an exotic combination of languages that makes it seem just a little bit better.) We mixed it with hot tap water. Hmmm…good. But it was a source of caffeine, a serious requirement if we’re to find the door to the hallway. After rousing to some semblance of consciousness, we showered, gathered our stuff and headed out the door, down the two perilous flights of Dutch stairways and on to the Rembrandtplein.

It was time to say ‘adieu’ to my new best friends, the men and dog of Nacht Wacht. I’m pretty sure Rutger got a tear in his eye as we hugged good-bye.

A quick tram to Centraal Station and before you know it, we’re on the train heading to Schiphol. We get there at 7:45 for a 10:30 plane. Richard and I are talking about coffee and breakfast. Finally waking up. But no, first we had to face the hordes at check-in station 15. 7,436 people are trying to use the same four self-service check-in kiosks. Bedlam ensues.

Forty minutes later we’re standing in line to check-in our luggage. The line is moving fast until the woman with two-carts-of-luggage and her hockey-stick-wielding escort get to the counter. Progress grinds to a halt while the baggage agent and the lady-with-more-suitcases-and-bags-than-anyone-should-ever-be-allowed-to-leave-the-house-with and her hockey-stick-wielding escort discuss some of the intricacies of travel.

We finally get to the front of the line. The baggage agent is very kind. She informed us our flight was already boarding and told us to scurry on down to our gate. She lied through her teeth.

But, we scurried on down to gate E7. Please note: On a good day, Richard and my “scurry” speed strongly resembles other people’s “shuffle” speed. Being desperately short on caffeine, it more resembled a “snail” speed. We arrive and the gatekeeper checked our boarding pass and our passport one more time and asks us to kindly wait. Sigh.

When the next interrogator comes available, he comes and gets Richard and I and takes us back to his podium. The Dutch are too kind of a people to be good at harsh questioning, so we have a brief chit-chat and he sends us on our way to the security check-point.

The people at the security check-point are not Dutch. Rough and tumble type dudes and babes. The scruffy young man at the metal detector tells me he is going to check my pockets. I was never sure why, but he did. A cigarette, a cold shower and fifteen minutes later, I’m fit to board. I gave him my number, but I’m realistic. He’ll never call.

So, we stumble down a hallway and enter a room with about a dozen chairs and all 320 of our travel mates. It’s very warm and cozy. And there. Just behind the bullet-proof glass, across the minefield and on the other side of the electrified fence with concertina wire on the top. A coffee shop. We can see the people enjoying their last cup of good, rich European coffee. They’re taunting us. They know we’ve had nothing but Café Rood. I hate them.

But then we get on board. I’m happy to be going home to the pets, but I am sad to leave Amsterdam. It is a very comfortable city. And Netherlands. Woof.

Oh, I got to see Greenland on the way home. It really is cool.