God Bless the Whole World, No Exceptions

worldFrom the moment of my birth, I have been inextricably linked to three nations – the United States, the land of my mother’s birth; Canada, where my father was born; and Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), where I was born. Even though I carry a U.S. passport and have now lived in the U.S. for more than 55 years, I’ve never forgotten my deep roots in and ties to Canada and Zimbabwe (and Zambia, where I also lived as a child). So there’s something in me that instinctively recoils when I hear the words, “America first.” It’s not the association of that phrase with the 1940s and anti-Semitism (disturbing as it is) that makes me recoil; rather, I dislike the idea because it seems to suggest that America is more important than other countries, that we should always be self-interested at the expense of other people in other places.

My own experience and understanding of Christian faith doesn’t fit well with the idea of “America first.” My missionary kid birth and upbringing conditioned me from the beginning to think about other countries besides the U.S. Even after returning to the States, my parents kept in touch with people in Zimbabwe and Zambia, and they were deeply interested in what happened in those countries. As former missionaries, they also maintained their connections with Brethren in Christ Missions in other countries, such as India, Japan, and Cuba.

Except for Canada, I didn’t travel outside the U. S. after we returned from Africa in 1961 until 30 years later in 1991. By then, I was an at-large member of the board of Mennonite Central Committee U.S. I served on the board for 19 years, including nine years as chair. While serving on the board of MCC, which works in approximately 50 countries, I had the opportunity to travel to Bolivia, Brazil, Cuba, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Mexico, Zimbabwe , Zambia, Jordan, Palestine, Egypt, and Indonesia. These visits always affirmed the fundamental value of individual people of all races and colors and creeds. I have wonderful memories of the people I met, and when I think of these countries, I often think of specific people, especially women, who worked hard and cared for their families just like I do, often under very difficult circumstances.

[Aside: I’ve written before about how my international travel taught me much: “Stories from Around the World, Part 1 and Part 2.” I’ve also written about “Books to Expand My World” highlighting books that remind me there is a world out there beyond the United States. Here’s Part 2 of the post about books.]

From a Christian point of view, caring more about one’s own country and its people seems to be at odds with the concept of being citizens of heaven and the kingdom of God, rather than earthly kingdoms. Jesus didn’t say, “God so loved the United States” (or Palestine, where he lived); he said “God so loved the world.” God created everyone in God’s image, not just Americans, and if we truly believe that, then we should care about the welfare of all people, not just those who live in the United States. John’s vision of a huge choir composed of people from every tribe, language, people, and nation (a multi-ethnic and multi-national kingdom of God) points to a much less ethnocentric and nationalistic view of the world than what is currently being promoted in many places.

All of this is not to say that I’m not patriotic and don’t appreciate the kind of life I enjoy in the United States. I confess to feeling a fairly high degree of patriotism during the Olympics, as just one example, and I can’t help breathing a little sigh of relief when I set foot on familiar American soil again after traveling internationally. I also don’t mean to suggest that there isn’t integrity in taking care of our own people; there is a bit of hypocrisy in railing against poverty, inequality, oppression, and discrimination in other places when we aren’t working hard enough on those issues here at home. Self-interest is a good thing (as Jesus himself suggested when he said, “Love your neighbor as yourself”), although not when it ends up always putting personal interests ahead of the needs of others, or hogging the lion’s share of resources when others are suffering.

As Christians, we are connected to a global fellowship, a worldwide church; we care about the welfare of everyone, regardless of where they live. But beyond that, as human beings,  we are all connected to people all over the world. The contemporary world is inextricably interconnected and interdependent, more so than at any time in history, given the relative ease of travel, increased technology, and the ubiquity of the Internet. What we do here affects people in other places, and what other people do affects us; this is especially true when it comes to the use of limited natural resources. Globalism seems to have become a dirty word, but that doesn’t make sense to me. The “America first” mentality seems to operate out of a zero-sum philosophy: we have to be first, which means that no one else can be first; we can’t contribute to the well-being of others in other places because that means we can’t take care of ourselves. Why does it have to be either-or; why can’t it be both-and?

The time-honored ending to every presidential speech is “God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.” I understand and respect that, knowing and appreciating that presidents speak as the chief representative and promoter of and advocate for one specific country. But sometimes I also can’t help wishing they would add, “And God bless the whole world, no exceptions.”

 

Reflections Upon Reflections

In October 2016, Dale and I spent a week in southeastern Utah. We had fallen in love with the area when we were in southwestern Utah four years ago and decided to go back to enjoy more of the stunning landscapes and endless varieties of red rock formations. One late afternoon in Arches National Park, we hiked the Park Avenue Trail, so named because it is like a New York City street bounded on both sides by tall skyscrapers (rock formations).

The hiking was slow because we stopped frequently to take pictures. Over the years of vacationing with a husband with a photography hobby, I’ve learned to entertain myself while he experiments with different camera settings and angles. Often my self-entertainment consists of taking a lot of my own pictures (or pictures of Dale taking pictures) on my little point-and-shoot camera.

As I wandered around waiting for Dale, I noticed that in the late afternoon sun, the towering rock formations were reflected in the pools of rain water that had collected in the depressions in the rock floor of the canyon. These reflections fascinated me, and as we continuing walking I made a point of checking out the different reflections in each new pool we approached. I took pictures, and soon Dale also caught on to the photographic opportunity these reflections presented.

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The pools of water created interesting effects. The reflections were upside-down, and they were usually incomplete because the pools weren’t large enough or positioned well enough to capture the entire rock. The same pool could reflect different rocks, depending on the angle from which you looked into it. Sometimes there were no rock reflections, just muddy pools. In fact, most of the other people on the trail seemed to completely miss the reflections, but just saw pools of muddy water that needed to be avoided. Most of the time, however, you just needed to change your angle, move to a different spot, to see a reflection and not just a muddy pool.

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A few days earlier, we drove up into the nearby La Sal Mountains and took a side trip off the main road to Oowah Lake. There we also saw reflections. The lake was small, surrounded by tall evergreen trees. But even though the lake not large, it was a lot bigger than those pools on the Park Avenue Trail; consequently, the reflections were much bigger, providing almost a complete mirror image of the surrounding trees reflected in the lake. The most interesting thing about these reflections, however, was that the color seemed more intense/richer than the original – or at least that’s the way it looked in the photographs.

Paying attention to all of these reflections got me thinking. As I usually do when my mind starts down one of these rabbit trails, I wonder about the meaning of words and I head to the dictionary. The verb “reflect” has three main meanings: 1) to think about, to consider; 2) to look like, as in looking or acting a lot like your parent; and 3) to be a mirror image, as in seeing your face reflected in a mirror. So I’m reflecting (thinking, considering) on a certain kind of image – a reflection.

Here’s some of what I wondered:

  1. What was I seeing in those reflections?
  2. What is real and what is just a (possibly poor) reflection of reality?
  3. How do reflections help us see the real thing in a different way?

Both at the lake and on the Park Avenue trail, I saw the real thing (the evergreen trees and the rock formations) and their reflections, so I could compare the real with the reflection, but that’s not always possible. Sometimes we have to rely entirely on the reflection, so it better be a good one. While the trees and the rocks were beautiful on their own, seeing their reflections in the water gave me a new perspective on their beauty, sort of literally doubling the pleasure.

And then I got more personal:

  1. What do I reflect? What do others see when they look at me, or read what I write, or listen to what I say?
  2. When I look in the mirror, what do I see – the real me, or just a poor reflection? Do I see what/who I want to see and not the real me? Or, when I’m being particularly self-critical, do I see someone much worse than who I really am?

As this new year begins – a year that I expect will be challenging in a variety of ways, given the political turmoil and the potential assault on certain values I hold dear – I hope the attitudes and attributes I reflect in my actions and words are something like the pools on the Park Avenue Trail that enhanced the surrounding beauty and provided new, different, and helpful perspectives. I wonder what other lessons I can learn from these reflections – both the thoughts and the images.

Bonus feature from Arches National Park, for this tenth day of Christmas:

One of the rock formations in Arches is called The Three Wise Men. You can see why:

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Another rock formation, visible along the afore-mentioned Park Avenue Trail, has no formal name, but we thought it looked like Joseph and Mary with baby Jesus on a donkey (or perhaps it’s an elephant). What do you think?

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Cuba Revisited

Count me among those who are applauding President Obama’s recent action to re-establish diplomatic relations with Cuba and further relax restrictions on travel, etc. More than 16 years ago, I visited Cuba as part of a delegation from the board of Mennonite Central Committee U.S. Our purpose was to learn about the reality of life in Cuba with a further goal of advocating for an end to the U.S. embargo. While the President’s recent action does not end the embargo, I believe it is a step in the right direction, based in part on what I observed all those years ago. I wrote a journal while I was in Cuba and when I returned, I did a presentation for the board in which I reflected on our experiences. As I read back over those reflections 16 years later, I am impressed with how what I heard and observed then is relevant in the current environment. Here are some slightly edited excerpts from my reflections on September 18, 1998.

On needing enemies

During our discussion with the head of the Cuban council of churches, he noted that “United States ideology needs an enemy” – and he went on from there to say that Cuba was a necessary enemy right now [1998]. Of course, needing an enemy isn’t peculiar to the U. S. We also heard that the Cuban government uses the embargo to oppress the people. In other words, the government can withhold food or other goods deliberately, but then blame it on the U.S. embargo. Having enemies seems to go both ways. Both the U.S. and Cuba seem to benefit from the perpetuation of enemy status.

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Political slogans were all over the place – on billboards, painted on walls, and even on a bus!

When we visited the U.S. Interests Section in Havana, an official said he has to “psychologically divorce himself from the Cuban people’s lives.” We assumed he meant that it would be difficult for him to do his job (maintain enemy relations, perhaps?) if he learned to know the Cubans as individual people or as friends. And yet, a Cuban government official claimed that Cuba is open to dialogue and negotiation with the U.S. The only condition, he said, is that there be no conditions, but that Cubans be able to speak as equals. Maybe this was propaganda, but maybe we ought to call their bluff. Maybe, like Abraham Lincoln is quoted as having once said, we could defeat the enemy by making them a friend. Maybe that’s what it would mean to overcome evil with good or heap coals of fire on their heads (see Romans 12:14-21).

The meaning of truth

On our last morning in Havana, we visited with two officials of the National Assembly of Popular Power. While we were there, we were served beverages placed on coasters with the words “Siempre Libres” on them – “always free.” As I thought about those words and what they mean in the Cuban context – a communist country the average American thinks is quite the opposite of free – I couldn’t help thinking of Jesus’ words, “You shall know the truth and the truth will set you free.” Obviously, Jesus’ words can’t be literally applied to Cuba, but they did create an interesting set of questions for me:

1. What does Cuba mean when they say they are “always free”?

2. What is the truth about Cuba?

3. What truth(s) did we learn while we were there?

4. Whose truth did we learn?

5. Is there ever only one truth about a given thing, or idea, or circumstance?

I’ve always known that each of us sees things through our own lenses, and those lenses are affected by our genes, race, geography, economic status, religious beliefs, political opinions, life experiences, etc. The “truth” of this phenomenon seemed to be dramatically illustrated through our experiences during one week in Cuba. We heard different versions of the same situation or event or circumstance. When we went to Washington after returning, we heard the official U.S. version of the truth given us by the National Security Council. I feel like I have not yet discovered the full truth about Cuba.

All of this reinforced the importance of listening and not drawing conclusions too quickly, because there may be another side, another reality, another truth. I became convinced that there isn’t just one truth about Cuba. It is important to be careful not to generalize about Cuba based on limited experience and observation, but at the same time to be willing to speak the truth as I felt it while I was there.

Finally, a few lingering images and impressions of Cuba

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    One of the vintage cars that provided some of our transportation. Left to right: Kay Bontrager-Singer, another MCC U.S. board member; the owner and driver of the car; yours truly

    Wonderful people so willing and eager to talk about their lives and share whatever was in their hearts – people whose Christian faith had sustained them through many years and difficult circumstances. [We visited the Brethren in Christ Church in Cuba, as well as a Mennonite house group that wasn’t officially registered with the government but at the time operated under the registration of the Brethren in Christ.]

  • Ongoing wonderment regarding the truth about Cuba; e.g., would it be good for the embargo to end [my personal view in 1998 and still in 2014], or would it upset the balance of things and make life worse?
  • Old 40s and 50s vintage American cars still running, albeit often beat-up and spewing toxic fumes.
  • A variety of modes of transportation – old cars of course, plus bicycles (some with two or three people riding them), motorcycles, side cars, multiple versions of buses. I saw no accidents or traffic jams – there seemed to be general courtesy in the streets; even car horns, though common, were polite little beeps.
  • Revolutionary slogans all over the place, but no advertising billboards.
  • Mangos, guava juice, papaya – bringing back memories of an African childhood.

 

 

Home for Christmas

As a child in boarding school, I always looked forward to going home to the mission station over the longer Christmas break. We had fun with a variety of seasonal celebrations at school, but I wanted to be home for Christmas to be with my family and enjoy the traditional missionary get-togethers, gift exchanges and mission church celebrations.

After boarding school, the next time I was away from home in the months and weeks leading up to Christmas was in 1968 during my first year of graduate school at the University of Idaho in Moscow, Idaho. As a survivor of boarding school accustomed to being away from home for extended periods of time, I was completely unprepared for the severe attack of homesickness I experienced in those early weeks of grad school. Stuck in Idaho all alone with no one I knew, it seemed like December couldn’t come soon enough. I needed and I desperately wanted to go home. Quitting grad school would have been an option, I suppose, but I never seriously considered it because it would have been humiliating to admit defeat. After all, I had survived boarding school and I was just a child then. One way I coped was by buying my roundtrip plane ticket home as soon as I could scrape together enough money – probably sometime in October. Somehow knowing I had that ticket in my possession helped me persevere through the homesickness. The numerous letters I wrote and received from my mother and college friends scattered all over the place along with the busyness of adjusting to graduate school and teaching freshman English Composition also helped.

Then in the last days heading into the holiday break, winter hit the Pacific Northwest and snow was forecast for right around the time I was supposed to fly out of Spokane, Washington, about 80 miles north of Moscow. I was in a panic. After having saved that plane ticket all those weeks, desperately hanging onto the knowledge that I would be going home again, I could hardly bear the thought that my travel plans were in danger of being disrupted. The day of my flight was snowy. I worried that I wouldn’t even be able to get to Spokane and would miss my flight east. So I took an earlier bus, figuring that it would be better to be in Spokane than stuck in Moscow. I was operating on instinct and out of desperation, rather than with any rational plan in mind. The bus didn’t go to the airport, so I had to find transportation from the bus station to the airport. I think I took a cab, but I don’t remember for sure.

I arrived at the airport many hours ahead of my flight. As the afternoon and evening progressed, flights were delayed and then delayed some more. The Spokane airport in those days was pretty small, with nothing to do, plus I was all alone and an introvert besides. I paced the airport repeatedly, trying to fill the time. I don’t remember striking up conversations with anyone, except perhaps to ask whether there was any new information about when our flight would leave. The evening and night dragged on interminably, and my anxiety continued as I wondered if and when I would get home. Finally, sometime in the wee hours of the next morning, my plane finally took off, and I made it home (although I don’t remember how I let my parents know when I was arriving in Harrisburg).

At the end of the Christmas break, during which I spent much-needed time with family and friends, I made the return trip to Moscow. While I was gone, Moscow had severe cold weather, registering a record-breaking 50 degrees below zero on December 30. When I returned, my plane was not able to land in Spokane due to snow, and continued on to its final destination in Seattle. The airline put all the Spokane passengers on a bus across Washington back to Spokane, but I still had to find a way to Moscow. I hitched a ride with a carload of other students going back to school; I vaguely remember that some of them may have been going to Washington State University which is just across the border from Moscow. I didn’t know the students, but a kind of camaraderie had probably developed during our long bus ride, so I must have thought it was okay to trust them to get me to Moscow safely.

The winter of 1968-69 still holds the record for the snowiest in Moscow, with almost 110 inches of snow, more than 55 inches coming in January. (Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I was able to confirm what I had long suspected, in this handy chart of snowfall in Moscow, Idaho since 1892-93!) In my memory it snowed every single day in January – sometimes just a little, other times a lot. My apartment was a 20-30 minute walk from my office and classrooms on campus, and I had no car, so I trudged back and forth to school every day in the cold and snow. I don’t think classes were ever cancelled due to snow that winter, unlike these days (at least here in central Pennsylvania) when even the threat of bad weather prompts numerous cancellations.

I had been attending the Church of the Nazarene ever since I arrived in Moscow in September, but had not really connected with anyone during the first semester and before I went home for Christmas. That January, however, after I returned, one of the church families began inviting university students who attended the church to their farm home on weekends for sledding parties. There was no shortage of snow for sure! I joined the group and at those sledding parties finally began making friends. In fact, the daughter of the family hosting the parties who was also a student at the University of Idaho became one of my best friends in Moscow; we still exchange Christmas cards 45 years later even though I have never made it back to Moscow to visit. Whether it was because I made it home for Christmas and felt fortified by renewed connections with family and old friends, or because I began making new friends during those sledding parties, or some combination of the two, I was never homesick again, thoroughly enjoyed my final year and a half in Moscow, made more friends, and was sad to leave after I graduated in June 1970.

Alaska Reflections

The phrase “once in a lifetime” is sometimes thrown around carelessly, when the experience it is being used to describe is probably not really once-in-a-lifetime. However, I think I can fairly safely say that our recent trip to Alaska was indeed a once-in-a-lifetime experience. This was my first time in Alaska, and I’m pretty sure it will be the last. It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy going back, either to revisit some of the same places or, more likely, to see another part of this vast state, but with so many other places in the world I’d also like to see while we’re still able, I doubt whether we’ll ever go back to Alaska. During the short time we were there (11 days), we saw only a small part of the state, but that small part left me with some strong impressions.

IMG_0248The vastness of the land: Various guides tried to help us put the size of Alaska in perspective. One stat is that Alaska is bigger than California, Montana and Texas combined, or to bring it closer to home, Pennsylvania could fit into Alaska 14 times. (Here’s a handy little tool to compare your state to Alaska.)

If you look at a road map of Alaska, you’ll see that almost all the roads are concentrated in the southeast part of the state where most of the population is located. Once you get to Fairbanks, there aren’t many roads that go farther north. (On the other hand, Alaska has 102 seaplane bases – more than any other state!) Anchorage is the largest city at less than 300,000, which is 40 percent of the entire population of Alaska. As we cruised up the Inside Passage from Vancouver, British Columbia to Skagway, and then across the Gulf of Alaska to Seward, I couldn’t help wondering how the borders between Alaska (and therefore the U.S.) and Canada were established. What kind of negotiations or arm-twisting gave that entire southeastern coastline of Alaska to the U.S. instead of Canada? (If I had time and were in the right mood, I’m sure I could probably research the answer to that question!) The shape of Alaska, from that southeastern coastline to the Aleutian Islands which stretch farther west than our other outlier state of Hawaii, is proof that borders and boundaries are funny (as in peculiar), often arbitrary things.

The tourist view: Obviously, we saw Alaska as tourists, and therefore undoubtedly have a somewhat warped or unrealistic view of the whole state. But the tourist view is interesting in and of itself. In a small effort to justify indulging ourselves in this trip, Dale and I often noted that we were supporting Alaska’s tourism industry and helping to provide jobs. So we were surprised to learn that many tourism jobs don’t necessarily go to Alaskans but either to folks who head north from the lower 48 for the tourist season, such as college students and retirees, or to people the cruise lines bring in. The cruise ships themselves are staffed in large part by people from the Philippines and Indonesia who are separated from their families for large portions of the year.

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Ketchikan

There is sort of a fake aspect to the downtown areas of towns along the southeastern coast like Ketchikan, Juneau and Skagway. Many of the shops in the areas of these towns catering to cruise ships almost seem like movie sets that become ghost towns when the tourist season ends and the workers the cruise lines ship in to run all the T-shirt and jewelry stories leave town. We couldn’t help wondering why some of the young people we saw aimlessly hanging out in the town square in Anchorage can’t get jobs in the tourism industry. I’m sure it’s complicated, but it’s a question we asked ourselves. We were glad when the tours we took supported local businesses that employ individuals born and raised in Alaska as guides. Then we felt like we were getting a more authentic experience, even though it was still definitely catering to tourists.

IMG_1464Environmental observations: I am so unqualified to get into the debate about climate change and global warming, but it was something I thought about as we saw glaciers and heard our guides talk about how they have receded in recent years. For example, the Columbia Glacier in Prince William Sound has retreated about ten miles since 1982. What will happen to the environment as this glacier and others continue to recede?

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The mission of the National Park Service as displayed at Zion National Park in Utah

As Dale and I have traveled in the U. S., visiting national parks like Zion and Bryce in Utah, Yellowstone in Wyoming, the Grand Canyon in Arizona, the Everglades in Florida, the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, and now Denali in Alaska (not to mention various national forests and monuments in these and other states), we have been grateful every time for the foresight of U. S. presidents and legislators of the past to set aside and protect these wonderful lands for the future. In Alaska, we heard several times about how certain things like fishing and logging have been restricted or prohibited since areas were designated national forests. Sometimes the comments sounded like laments (perhaps even criticism of the federal government – imagine that!), but Dale and I are always  happy that the land has been protected from development and destruction and preserved for the amazing variety of wildlife that inhabits the land and for future generations to enjoy. We believe this is an example of the federal government at its best.

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Misty Fiords National Monument, Tsongass National Forest (near Ketchikan)

Alaska is billed as the “last frontier” and it truly is in so many ways. We flew by seaplane over the Tsongass National Forest and the Misty Fiords National Monument outside of Ketchikan, and over Cook Inlet and Prince William Sound and the glaciers near Anchorage. Those flights, along with our bus ride into the “tundra wilderness” in Denali, exposed us to real wilderness in a way we haven’t experienced it before. We hope it stays that way for many generations to come!

Bed and Breakfast Adventures

When Dale and I travel, we like to stay in bed and breakfast inns as much as possible. We like the personal touch, the people we meet (both hosts and guests), the delicious breakfasts which usually mean we don’t need to buy lunch, and the local information, tips and recommendations we get about the places we’re visiting. We usually find the listings online, read reviews when they are available, and make our choice based on location, price, and amenities.

We have often remarked at how lucky we’ve been with our choices, given that all we have to go on is the online description and whatever reviews we can find. With the possible exception of the time I had a steak for breakfast that was so tough I couldn’t cut it with a knife no matter how hard I tried, we’ve always had excellent food and service in lovely homes with great hosts. Of course, there was also the time we had reservations to spend an anniversary night at the aptly- (and as it turned out, unfortunately-) named Creekside Inn in Lancaster County. There had already been a lot of rain during the day, and while we were out at a dinner theater after having checked in and dropped off our luggage, it rained buckets again. Upon our return to the inn, we discovered that the creek had overflowed its banks into the house and no one was allowed in. Since we weren’t that far away, we drove home to sleep and went back the next day to retrieve our luggage. That adventure was in no way the fault of the inn, however – unless you blame those who built the house in 1781 for putting it so close to the creek!

Our streak of good choices ended with our recent vacation in Oregon. Four of the five B & Bs we stayed in we would recommend to others; the fifth one not so much. It wasn’t awful, just a bit creepy with a hostess who probably should have retired several years ago. However, it was the only one I could find in the area along the Oregon coast where we wanted to spend the night.

P1600047 The first warning sign was when the street where the B & B was located abruptly ended and instead the parking lot of a landscaping/nursery business had spilled over into where the street should have gone through. We could see what we thought was probably the B & B on the other side, but how to get there? We found our way around the block and parked by the house. Initially, when we walked into the yard and up to the front porch, we were attracted by all the pretty flowering bushes and perennial plants, but then we were put off by the motley array of flower pots, a park bench with a towel-covered cushion, and empty and dirty cat food dishes all cluttering the porch. We also noticed that the porch boards were sagging a bit, and a black cat peered at us from around the corner (not that we’re superstitious or anything – in fact we love cats!). In general, the house looked to be in a state of disrepair and needed a lot of handiwork to restore it to its former glory.

When we rang the door bell no one answered. So we called the number listed on a sign on the door that said “Reservations only. Call 541-xxx-xxxx.” A woman with a thick accent answered the phone, and when I said we had a reservation for the night, she said she’d be right there. An older Japanese woman soon came to the door, and proceeded to ask me if I had talked to her on the phone or if I had perhaps talked to her manager. I couldn’t remember. She was acting as though she wasn’t expecting us, so I asked in a bit of a panic, “Do you have a reservation for us?” “Oh yes,” she said. She showed us to our room, suggested a couple of restaurant possibilities in the town for dinner that night, and told us about breakfast plans for the next morning.

We went out to the car to get our things to take up to the room. A young boy, probably around 10 or 12 years old, was walking by carrying a skateboard up the hill. He asked us, “Are you staying at that bed and breakfast?” We wondered why he asked: did the house have a reputation of being haunted, or was he just curious or trying to be friendly? We should have asked him those questions ourselves, but I think by that time we were afraid of what he might say!

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Inside, the house was cluttered with stuff of all kinds, ranging from genuine antiques to lots of “kitsch” like an “Elvis is in the house” do-not-disturb sign; Japanese dolls displayed here and there in their original boxes; an eclectic array of paintings on the walls, including Asian and European art, a clown painting and basic landscape scenes; and an equally eclectic assortment of furniture styles, with an emphasis on Victorian.P1600032

We were the only guests that night, so every time we were within earshot, the hostess suddenly appeared and started talking to us, almost like she was starved for company. At breakfast (which was quite ample and a bit heavy), we learned a lot about her without having to ask any questions ourselves – she just talked. She told us she is 83 years old. While she is still quite energetic, she also seemed trapped. Her first husband was an American serviceman in Japan, but they divorced and she remarried; her second husband died some years ago. She has a house in California as well as another house besides the bed and breakfast in the same town in Oregon. She said she wants to sell the house in California but would have to pay $1 million in capital gains taxes and doesn’t want to do that. Dale and I couldn’t help thinking that the house must be worth millions if the capital gains are $1 million! She also freely admitted to us that she is an alcoholic, shopaholic (there was ample evidence of that all around the house!), and a gambling addict, regularly going to Las Vegas to indulge her habit. It sounded like her addictions had contributed to the demise of her first marriage. All these revelations seemed a little like “too much information” to share with guests and contributed to our sense that she was trapped by her addictions.

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This photo was on the wall in our room. Robert Plant, lead singer of Led Zeppelin, apparently stayed here in 1998, probably when the B & B was in better shape!!

We couldn’t wait to get out of there and on our way, knowing we would never return even if we happened to pass through the area again and we wouldn’t recommend the place to anyone. Apparently, though, others do return regularly. She kept talking about and showing us photos of guests who came back year after year, and we saw evidence of this in her guestbook.

In the end, everything turned out fine. The room was quite adequate for one night, the breakfast saw us through the day and Dale really liked the blueberry french toast casserole, it was an interesting experience, and we’re glad we gave her someone to talk to for a little while. But having been a bit freaked out from the beginning by how difficult it was to find the place, the sagging front porch, the suggestion that she wasn’t expecting us, a general impression that the house and the whole town had seen better days, we never felt entirely comfortable. Some people we know, including our friends who used to be missionaries in Japan, would have loved talking with the hostess, but as introverts and not always being able to understand her accent, we found the conversations difficult and a bit off-putting. However, the experience won’t stop us from continuing to choose B & Bs whenever we can!