Cinque (#5) True confessions: We took a Rick Steves Tour



Tourguide Nina in animated conversation
with ristorante owner Angelo - Florence, Italy  

I'm slightly embarrassed to tell people we took an organized tour in Italy. Until this trip I considered traveling with a tour group to be something for old people …or those who fear the unpredictable nature of travel…or clannish types who wish to avoid exposure to local riff-raff.  Growing up in Washington DC, with its throngs of summer visitors, we natives of our nation’s capital were distantly disdainful of the monument and museum-going crowds. And as a near 40-year resident of “paradise”, busloads of impervious and insensitive tourists are the ever present annoying-to-offensive norm.  So perhaps this explains my prejudice against the idea of joining a group of strangers to trek through a foreign land.  The best option, of course, is a local acquaintance or family member who offers to show you around and takes you off the beaten track to their favorite spaces and places, as we enjoyed when we visited Joel in Hungary in 2008; and when Kelly, Mom and I accompanied Uncle George to my grandfather’s native Ireland in 2004. This Italy trip was our first foreign travel occasioned not by work or a personal connection in country, and to a destination where we did not speak the language.

In my experience, while planning for trips can be fun, the extensive research and planning often becomes time consuming and stressful, and with all the other demands of life, to make this a real vacation, I wanted to skip some of that stress. As occasional vicarious viewers of Rick Steves’ (RS) travel show, we have always enjoyed his low key, “normal guy”, respectful approach to European travel.  Visiting his tour site, Peter and I liked that his tours are very active with lots of walking; small groups (24 to 28 people), focused on history, culture, art, people and food (vs. shopping). You have time on your own in each destination, you stay in small family owned hotels, and Rick Steves has a personal relationship with some of the towns and their residents. In fact, one of our tour destinations was Cinque Terra, five small cliff side towns that suffered major flood damage 8 months before our visit there. Rick Steves heavily promoted and contributed to the relief efforts in those towns and lowered the cost for our tour to encourage visitors to return and contribute to the fragile local - and national- economy


Post-tour, we give the RS “Heart of Italy” tour an enthusiastic thumbs up.  Our tour guide, Nina, was a well-informed, insightful, entertaining, hard-working woman in her late thirties, born in the US of Italian-American parents, now an expat living in Rome for the past 15 years and fluent in Italian.  Along the way, at the major museums and sites and in each town, we had extraordinary knowledgeable guides and storytellers – such that I was constantly scribbling notes and quotes in a series of small notebooks and returned to the US feeling as though I took a walking mini-course on Italian history, art and culture. I was extremely grateful to have the tour handle tickets, reservations and the inevitable bureaucratic headaches, so we skipped the long queues for major sites and spent precious time seeing and being there. 

Gabriel, guide in town of Lucca
"Ask me about history and I become serious.
Ask me about food and I become very, very serious" 

I was apprehensive about 2 things: (a) the tour group: would they be snobby, weird, politically reprehensible, overly intrusive and talkative, or simply be people we would wish to avoid and (b) the bus: the tour’s mode of transport from one city and town to another was via bus.  With a history of motion sickness, and a great fondness for trains, I was less than enthusiastic about this feature.  

Neither of these proved to be an issue. While we made no lifelong friends and the group was not diverse in age and ethnicity (most were well-educated white professionals or tradesmen our age or older; with the exception of one Japanese couple from California in their 30’s, a late 20-something daughter of another couple…and Peter), we found all to be pleasant and companionable, none to be offensive, and some to be, in fact, quite interesting.  And the bus was a large, comfortable, half-empty vehicle with big windows where folks could spread out and sleep, write, watch the scenery, socialize or not. At some point during each bus ride, Nina provided a short period of rolling commentary and background about the places we were passing and the town to which we were headed.  En route to our final stop in Rome, in addition to an enticing preview of Roman roots, Nina gave a talk on current events, politics and culture in Italy – with plenty of time for us to ask questions.  As you can imagine, I loved this part, and filled up many tiny pages. The bus was driven by Dino, a sweet young father of 2 children who spoke very little English, but when I told him “Siamo da Hawaii” (we are from …) he exclaimed “Hawaii is like a dream to us!” – and indeed, visiting our exotic shores must seem an impossibility to someone of his income and time in life.  I responded that “Italy is like a dream to us … and (with Nina interpreting) when my kids were little, I never thought we could come to Italy….but here we are…so perhaps one day your dream will also come true”  

The extensive walking and toting of one’s own luggage was as advertised. In fact each of us was only permitted to bring one suitcase of modest size, because one needs to be prepared to cart one’s bags from bus or train stations along narrow bumpy lanes to hotels, and sometimes to carry them upstairs in hotels with no elevators. Hotels were simple, some were charming, all were comfortable and in excellent central locations.  

Overall the tour,  which began in Florence, moved on to coastal Cinque Terra, traveled inland to historic towns of Lucca and Volterra, and ended in Rome, offered a good balance of city and small towns, scenic and historic, major sites and off the beaten path (or “Europe through the back door” as RS likes to say). 

Tour Improvements? Fewer multi-course dinners, more music and dance, and more trains!

This will sound strange, I’m sure, but we were provided with a few too many delicious multi-course meals; The traditional Italian meal is one of many courses (see blog entry Tre (#3), eaten late at night over many hours. I don’t know for sure, but doubt that average Italians eat like this every night, any more than most Chinese eat a 10-course dinner every night.  While some meals were on our own (mostly lunches), most dinners were organized, and by the end of the tour, Peter and I (and some others in our cardiovascular demographic) … could not quite stomach the volume of rich food and wine at dinner. It felt bad to waste good food, and we worried it might be an affront to the staff of the ristorante - who often included the owners, and, like American pollsters, seemed to be carefully monitoring our reactions. We always exclaimed it was delicioso, but (with a hand on the belly) e tutto (that’s enough).  Plus, one must always save room for the dolce (desert) J  

On this tour, there was no music or dance, either formal or impromptu (unless one counts singing Tanti Auguri (Happy Birthday) to fellow tour members, which I do not).  I would have liked to see some music or dance gathering, folk or formal, perhaps in lieu of a group dinner.  Peter and I even practiced a couple Hawaiian songs and baby hula just in case there was occasion for cultural exchange, which there was not--not too disappointed here!
If one was determined, of course, one could certainly get tickets to an opera, one of the nights in Florence or Rome – and one could always decline the dinners, but they were, after all, already paid for.  

It was a slight disappointment that this tour did not include Venice, however, I would not have cut anything else out – and staying 2 nights in each destination was a good feature.  

Hotel Pasquale owner
Felecita Pasini
in Monterosso al Mare

Surely, a big difference between traveling in a tour and on one's own can be the opportunities to meet local people and hear their views of their home and the world. It is hard to say if we would have had more genuine communication in a country where we knew only a few words of language and little of the customs. We had time before and after the tour and at least a half day off in each location to explore on our own, and during that time we made our share of errors in cultural etiquette (it took me almost till the end of the trip just to order caffe correctly) and enjoyed a few satisfying local encounters. But these “learning experiences” shall be the topic for a future blog post.  

While the tour included brief train rides into and between the lovely Cinque Terra towns, a longstanding yearning to travel by train caused me to engineer a 2-day post-Italy train journey for Peter and I from Rome over the Alps into Switzerland, flying out of Zurich.  So, for this leg, I happily took on the pre-planning fun and stress. It turned out to be an incomparably gorgeous whirlwind ride through extremes of climate and culture… and is the promised topic of yet another blog post somewhere down the line. 

   

Quattro (#4): Italian e-moments

Top three emotional moments in Italia:  

Florence. Our first day in Italy we visited the famous Uffizi Gallery of Florence. Walking into a roomful of paintings, I found myself face-to-face with Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. My eyes filled with tears as I realize this is no postcard, I am here standing before the original, for real, in person and oh, isn’t she the epitome of pure beauty, la pura bellezza?

Rome.  In Rome’s Vatican City, we entered the magnificent spiritual living church of St Peter’s Basilica, turned right into the first chapel and walked up to The Pieta. Even behind its protective wall of Plexiglas, Michelangelo Buonarroti’s famous marble sculpture is instantly accessible, universally resonant. I stood watching an oh-so-young Mary hold on her lap the lifeless, emaciated body of Jesus after his Crucifixion. The sheer simplicity, beauty and pathos of The Pieta brought me to tears that day and again as I write these words. As a mother, an art lover, a member of the human race, what is more momentous than a mother losing her child?  Unlike so many depictions of The Madonna and Christ, in this sculpture, Michelangelo portrays no glory, no angels, no hint of resurrection, only the intimate profound sadness of Mary holding her only son in her arms for the last time.

Volterra. In the hillside Tuscan town of Volterra, Peter and I walked into our hotel room to find a bottle of champagne with two glasses. My first thought was, “Wow, nice hotel”. Then we read the accompanying note:  “Dear Mom and Dad, Hope you’re having an amazing trip. Love Joel and Kelly”.  Oh my God, waterworks again. Yes, it is true that we used the occasion of our can-you-believe-it  30^th wedding anniversary as an excuse to take a trip to undeniably romantic Italia, but still yet, it is ironic that the most meaningful moment of this journey came in the form of a thoughtful gesture of love and support from our progeny thousands of miles away. ‘Twas indeed the icing on the tiramisu. And, like the other two times I found myself moved to tears in the presence of greatness, these children are incomparable works of art…yet we can hardly claim to be the artist. 

Malaekahana vignettes

The ocean casts its net again and again

white foamy fingers of lace

trace shadows on the sand

an EKG line stretching far down the long early morning beach

heartbeat of the sea

#

Found myself in conversation with Dad today near the spot where we once returned a handful of his ashes to the sea. He liked this brilliant sunny day; was happy we had returned to these campgrounds where our grown children once ran around in diapers. He was proud of how my sisters and I are caring for Mom. He is at peace. While I know these words were the product of suggestible imagination, I heard his voice, felt his spirit close at hand, and warm salty tears joined the ripples of cool water washing over my feet on the walk back down the beach.

#

 
I love washing dishes while camping

standing at a communal sink

in the sun-splashed shade of the double trunk ironwood

as blue sky and white clouds fly overhead

moving through a slow rhythmic ritual

of washing, rinsing, stacking

and carrying the white bin of clean wet dishes

to dry on a worn wooden picnic table

in the morning sun

ready for the next collective feast

or another lazy snack-filled summer day.

#

 A hen and 3 fluffy chicks drink at an accidental pond behind the campsite sink.  As I wash dishes, a chick, inexperienced in the art of scavenging, pecks at my toes.  Mama hen squawks and scolds “Chickie-girl! No go peck the giant’s toes - you crazy or what?!”

Tre (#3)

“If you ask me about history, I become serious. If you ask me about food, I become very, very serious”   -Gabriele, tour guide in the Tuscan town of Lucca.

Ingredients for this seafood soup, including a whole octopus, are placed in a ceramic amphora and baked in an oven. A specialty of Ristorante Belvedere on the beach, this dish was served and consumed in the Cinque Terra town of Monterosso al Mare. Monterosso is still rebuilding after severe floods rampaged through the town in October of 2011, with the water rising waist high in this restuarant. If the soup is any indication they're back, baby!

The Swiss Air flight lifts off and we leave la terra d’ Europa far below, heading back over the next 24 hours to our home planet in Hawaii nei. We have a few tangible mementos on board with us: In my lap is the International Herald Tribune, global English language edition of the NY Times with news of Sarkozy’s ouster by free election and Putin’s reinstatement by fiat and fraud. Our small fat suitcases resting in the belly of the plane carry Italian hill town alabaster, a small bottle of limoncello from coastal orchards, bookmarks of the statuesque David, and postcards of stellar moments in art and architecture. My carry-on is crammed full of Swiss chocolates purchased at the extraordinarily orderly Zurich airport, the stolen remnants of our hotel breakfast buffet - strong Swiss cheeses, a solo croissant, a whole grain roll, and a couple pieces of fruit - and a camera with 1,246 photos.

These are all trinkets, symbols, attempts to hold onto the almost indescribable depth and breadth of the past 13 days as travelers.  This remarkable, transformative, dream-come-true time will be slowly spooling out for many months as we sort, rummage and plumb this journey for memories and meaning.  For now, I hardly know what to say, what to make of it all. A question posed by Francesca, our insightful guide at the Roman Coliseum is still roaming round my head: “Why did you come here? You learned about this in school, read about it, and can see it all on the internet. What need brought you thousands of miles to experience this first hand?

Peter says his answer to Francesca’s question is simple: My wife wanted to go. “I would never have gone if not for you, baby…and now Italy is a part of me”. Yes, now Italy is a part of us. Of course, we have had only an assaggio, a taste of Italy, but it feels like a meal of many courses, like the traditional Italian meal. 

If you will permit me to try out the metaphor:  Florence was the antipasto (appetizer, pupu), the most delicious part, because all was new and fresh, consumed when we were most hungry having just arrived salivating at the scene. Ahhh, the tender Venus; Oooh, the delicious David. The insalata (salad) of piazza’s (plazas) and fountains, the Greek and Roman statues, the medieval and Renaissance churches.  The cliff-hugging seaside towns of Cinque Terra was the primo with their seafood pasta and hard-working people, the rainy terraced orchards of grapes, olives and limoni.  The Tuscan hillside towns of Lucca and Volterra was the hearty secondo, with their mercantile and mysterious pre-Roman history, their tragic losses and occupations, their new life as arenas for local artisans. Rome was a deep dark rich dolce, a giant layered tiramisu with caffe and a digestivo: The Vatican, St Peter’s Basilica, Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon at night under a full moon, the Roman empire’s enormous excesses in life and death. I’ve always enjoyed desert and Rome was surprisingly in some ways my favorite. 

Due (#2): When life gives you limoni and lemonade

Limoni grown in the Cinque Terra town
of Monterosso al Mare, Italy 
 

“Good fortune”.  So predicts the I Ching to remind us that good fortune is always there waiting for us to recognize its presence.  It is easier to notice, however, when luck arrives on the heels of near disaster.   

This is the theme of a single stellar day, the day before we were to fly off to Italy splitting the scene of our insanely responsible lives. This was a trip in the dream stage for many a year - a bookmark of David has adorned my desk for at least 10; and in the planning stage for at least two years, tearfully deferred last year due to job and family health issues.  And here we were on the brink of the much anticipated vacation with fingers and toes crossed that both mothers stay healthy and we get through the long last minute to-do list. 

The day began with a long distance call from a social worker reporting on a home visit with my 91-year old mother. In short order, she tells me my mom can no longer live safely in her independent living apartment.  Except for a recent 6-week stay in “Assisted Living” following a fall, my mom has lived in this apartment in her beloved Quaker retirement community for the past 11 years.  The conversation ends with this person revising her assessment when she hears the full story of the supports we have so carefully put in place to do what can be done to protect Mom’s safety, independence and wellbeing.  Shaken body and soul, I stuff this exchange into compartment #5 and return to the gazillion-and-one things on the list.

Mid-day, a disturbing call came in from Bank of America about “your mortgage” and “debt collection”.  After an array of communication, first to ascertain it is not a scam, and then to figure out why the hell they’ve sic’d debt collectors on us, it turns out that after 25 years of faithfully making monthly payments on our Aiea townhouse, the mortgage is paid off, and in fact BOA owes us money!

That same evening, a routine airline online check-in uncovered breaking news: the airline departing Honolulu is delayed 5 hours, which would get us into LA just in time to miss the 11 hour direct flight to Zurich on Swiss air, which of course efficiently departs on time.  Multiple late night calls and hours on hold listening to United’s loud and static-laden theme song lead us from yelling “agent”…”agent”… into the automated system, to a series of polite but disempowered young men in India, and eventually to their better-paid female  European-sounding peers in “International” who work their magic and get us new reservations on the last 2 seats on Hawaiian Air the next morning and into LAX with 3 hours to spare pre-Swiss Air departure.

Only at midnight, as we lay in bed, wide-awake and amazed, did the day’s pattern appear: disaster and rescue; lemons and lemonade; bad luck and good fortune. Two sides of the same coin? Ready to roll!   

Assaggio of Italy - uno (1)

Over 2,000 digital photos and many small notebooks full of scribbles returned with us from a dream-come-true trip to Italy and Switzerland in April and May. Upon returning home, we hit the ground running back into our everyday reality; and I soon realized it might well be the next century before I pull together a complete account of this marvelous journey. Hence, here is entry one (uno) of Assaggio of Italy, a post-blog taste of our journey one bite at a time (assaggio means taste...in addition to being the name of many italian restaurants in America). If you want to see or read more, encourage me by posting a comment. It may hasten the writing process... a bit. Florence, known as Firenze, was our first destination, and this historic and highly walkable city captured my heart. A favorite photo is this one of Ponte Vecchio over the Arno River. Built in 1345, it is the only surviving medieval bridge in Florence. Others from this era were destroyed in World War II Allied bombardments.

Mom at 90

Written for Elizabeth Segal’s 90th birthday celebration in Portland Oregon, August 13,2011.


It was an inauspicious beginning, that’s for sure, though not an uncommon story in America of the 1920’s: a baby loses her mother just past her first birthday, loses her mama before a clear memory can form – of a face, a voice, arms, breasts, her smell and taste, the sound of her voice, the colors and textures she wore; before the baby has words to express her love…or loss. An enlarging body of research confirms what humans have long known; what happens in the womb and those first precious 3 years of life is hugely often irrevocably formative. We know what happens when things go wrong during those tender times… the children become adults more likely to use substances and mis-use each other, to have sick hearts, backs, stomachs and souls, even with none of the usual risk factors. We know less about how to help it turn out right, but early bonding and attachment are the big parent- baby buzzwords. So what then of our little Libba who lost this primary link with her mother so terribly young – at age 14 months? Her father, the Reverend Stoney, refused to go along with plans proposed by his wife’s family to place the children with different relatives. In addition to baby Elizabeth, there was George, age 5, Martha age 7 (also known as Boney ‘cause she was), and Katherine age 12 (known by all as Kack). “Remember”, Daddy exhorted them, “I kept you kids together”. There was a fifth sibling named Julia. Born physically and mentally disabled, we know very little about her. In a happy story Aunt Boney wrote about the last Christmas before Mother died, Julia is described sitting in her mom’s lap while an infant Elizabeth crawls towards a beautiful big Christmas tree decorated with dancing candle lights. Unable to care for this child at home after Mother’s death, Rev. Stoney traveled with Julia by train to an institution, a place she would live until her death at about age 11. When my mother was a 2-year old, their father, suffering from Tuberculosis and the loss of his young wife, sent the 4 remaining Stoney siblings to board in rural East Bend, North Carolina, under the care of a woman my mother knew as “Grandma Apperson”. George and Kack refused to call her grandma and reported few fond memories of the time. My mom loved the freedom and food in the country, writing “my first memories were of running barefoot in the grass and dirt, climbing a chinaberry tree with my friend the boy next door, eating wormy peaches, and hiding under the grape vine in my secret place where I made a little house design of sticks and stones and other things I could collect around me there.” She recalls “warm milk straight from the cow and thick biscuits to eat with apple butter”.

When Daddy took the children home to Winston-Salem, Elizabeth, called Libba by her family, was now age 5. Here she had to get used to being quiet in the house, playing in a closed yard, and a succession of hired caretakers, who were kind and helpful, but never lasted long under her father’s critical standards. He built her a sandbox for outside play, taught her to clean house and to read. He took special pride in the fact that his youngest daughter entered school already able read, and was angry to find the teachers disapproved of such early parental tutoring. From my mom’s perspective, this homeschooling was hardly the sort of attention she craved: “He was not very patient and got angry with me when I didn’t do well”, she wrote, “So I began getting sleepy at lesson time and taking a nap to escape”.

Libba recalls her first year at school as an unhappy one. Her clothes were often in poor condition, hand-me-downs held together with pins, esp. the ill-fitting underwear. Other kids made fun of her and she felt ashamed, awkward and ugly. It took me a long time for to understand why mom obsessively gave us girls new underpants at Christmas and AT other random times. I would shake my head or chuckle as yet another package of undies bought on sale would arrive in Hawaii special delivery from Washington, DC. Yup, now I get it; she wanted to give us something she had so sorely missed.

In the second grade, Libba was in a school performance. She recalls vividly how the teacher paid special attention to her, dressing her up in a colorful crepe paper costume, transforming this skinny little girl into a pretty, elegant, perfect butterfly, as she danced to the song “Glow Little Glow Worm, Glimmer, Glimmer”. Was it in this magical moment that a lifelong love of costume and theatre was born?

So, just how did this early childhood affect the type of person she became and the sort of mother she was, my sisters and I have wondered endlessly, indeed at times ad nauseum. Such reflection, however, is the burden and privilege of the next generation. Lib just had to play the cards she was dealt. As Aunt Kack once said to me at age 88, after a rare reflection upon the difficulties of being the eldest girl in a motherless family: “I told myself I would raise these kids and then I would go out and live my life, and I did”

Showing that same Stoney spirit and smarts, Lib attended college at the U of NC, where she completed her undergraduate degree in theatre, and was awarded a Rockefeller Scholarship, working as a graduate assistant in the costume department, towards her Masters in costume design. Then the Big Apple beckoned. Although she had never before been outside of the state of North Carolina, Lib moved to NYC, determined to try her hand at the world of theatre and the arts. At first, she experienced culture shock in a town where even store clerks exhorted a polite soft-spoken Southern girl to “speak up!” During her “New York Fling” as she called it, she met fascinating folks, including a roommate who remains her friend to this day; earned a living as an Arthur Murray dance instructor; and had a tragic romance, which is a story for another time. The need to get away from that last entanglement was what propelled her back to North Carolina and the University to complete her Masters degree. It was there, serving refreshments at a trade union educational institute, that she met the facilitator, a short, funny, cute, Jewish, trade union organizer – the epitome of everything the old South abhorred at the time. As a result of that chance meeting, and the 63 years that followed, dearly beloved, we are all gathered here today.
My mother and father shared in common the experience of being orphaned at an early age, yet they developed distinctly divergent coping mechanisms. To vastly oversimplify, the Lib Stoney strategy was fierce independence, escape into the fascinating world of ideas and art, and a ready pair of rose colored glasses; Ben Segal’s was building community wherever he found himself, and trying extra hard not to get his hopes up. My Dad helped ground my Mom to this earth, and my mom helped my dad believe the best was indeed possible.

We tell a story that illustrates the differing Stoney-Segal coping strategies, to which we are all in some manner heir: In June 1982, as most of you know, my father died suddenly, earth shatteringly, at the age of 66. My mom, sisters and I were all gathered in Washington DC along with friends and relatives, including some of you, for the memorial. Aunt Eva, one of my dad’s 3 sisters, calls long distance and is talking to my mom as she sits in an upstairs bedroom of the Yuma Street house where she and my dad raised their family. Eva asks how she is doing, and my mom is going on about how wonderful it is to have all the girls at home. Finally, Aunt Eva can contain herself no longer, warning, “But Lib, when they leave you’re going to feel terrible – oh, you’ll feel just terrible when they leave!”

So from challenging beginnings, Elizabeth Stoney Segal grew into the remarkable woman we know today: a person of unquenchable optimism, energy and enthusiasm, an insatiable curiosity and intellect, endless admiration for and fascination with people, an enduring commitment to peace and social justice, an active imagination that delights in theatre and the arts, a stubborn streak a mile wide, a preference for serendipity over planning, someone always somewhat surprised by good fortune, good relationships and good food who wonders aloud if perhaps it’s ALL “too much” (and hence underserved), a woman who so habitually turns lemons into lemonade that she often refuses to acknowledge there were ever any small sour yellow fruits in her kitchen to begin with.

It is my belief that our greatest strengths sometimes manifest as our greatest weaknesses. In my mom’s case, the eternal positive spin can at times get, well, infuriating. Here’s what I mean: So, like hypothetically if I am walking down the street with mom -- and the amazing thing is she still wants to and can walk down the street – so, I’m walking with Grandma Lib and she happens to step on a big pile of dog doo-doo. I would say, “Oh, shit, mom you just stepped in dog doo-doo, how terrible, how unlucky, how did this happen, what did we do wrong, come, sit down, let’s clean it up”… She, on the other hand, would look down pensively unperturbed and muse, “Hmmm, will you look at the marvelous design that made on my new white shoes. Remarkable! That dog is some kind of canine artiste. Let’s find that dog and go to its next opening; better yet, get out my checkbook and cell phone, let’s raise some funds to support his work. Hey, I thought I saw an unusual dog heading thataway; Come on, hop in the car, I’m driving…” Maaaaaaam!
So, in conclusion, dear family and friends, like this last parable, I can’t be certain everything I’ve told today is true. Family history and legend sit interlaced side by side, possessing fluid boundaries, grey areas where truth is elusive and perhaps unnecessary. This was a lesson learned, or perhaps just recalled, during an epic 2004 trip to Ireland with Mom, Uncle George and Kelly. We were visiting the Aran Islands, birthplace of my mother’s father, and also the site where her grandfather, Dr. James Johnson Stoney, met his premature and mysterious death. As we walked up a stony pathway (no pun intended) towards the ancient fort of Dun Angus, we encountered an old man sitting on the side of the trail with his hat out. When he learned the name of our ancestor, his eyes widened and licking his lips in anticipation, he inquired “Ahhhh, have yeh heard the stories?”

I thank ye kindly for gathering here today to honor my mom and listen to these tales, real or imagined. It is in the listening, telling and re-telling of such stories at different times in our lives that we discover who we really are and how on God’s great green earth we came to be that way.

Written by Doris Segal Matsunaga and read at Elizabeth Segal’s 90th birthday celebration in Portland Oregon, August 13, 2011.