Thistle€¦ · that can grow six feet long and as big around as your arm. We rarely saw the...

Thistle Volume 33, Number 4

July 2017 Magazine of the residents of the

Duncaster lifecare community,

Bloomfield, Connecticut

BIRDBRAINS AND SNAKESKINS Mary Osborn

Our house in Farmington sat on a one-acre lot that we shared with a variety of critters, ranging from woodchucks and skunks and possums to the usual array of rabbits, chipmunks, field mice and voles. We also had for many years a family of rat snakes, the big black ones that can grow six feet long and as big around as your arm. We rarely saw the snakes, who lived in a beat-up storage bin at the back of the lot, but skins were shed annually and carefully retrieved by my husband (more of snakeskins in a moment.) The snake family did a fine job keeping the small critter population under control and were greatly appreci-ated, until…. One summer I indulged in a flower bas-ket (lantana, I think) that hung from the edge of the kitchen porch. It was imme-diately discovered by a pair of purple finches, who proceeded to build their nest in the center. Two or three eggs soon appeared, followed in time by an endless chorus of ravenous peeps and cheeps. Then: one afternoon as I was glancing out the kitchen window, there appeared, slithering up the outside kitch-en wall, one of our middling-sized rat snakes. I yelled for my husband, who plucked the snake from the wall and car-ried it to the farthest back edge of the property, in hopes it would stay there. Next morning, however, no peeps or cheeps, no babies, no parents, just a clean and empty nest. Also, in subse-quent years, no hanging baskets. About the snakeskins, which catalyzed

the rat snakes’ final revenge. Many years later I was getting ready to sell the house and move to Duncaster. As we know all too well, the worst part of pre-paring a home for sale is cleaning out the garage and basement. The job was finally done, the dumpster gone, and the basement utterly bare. Or so I thought as the house went on the market. One afternoon after a visit from potential buyers, I received a phone call from the real estate agent, whose voice sounded quite strange, half strangled. He report-ed that the visitors had run out of the house very upset about having seen SNAKESKINS (shudder, shudder) in the basement. The agent searched, I searched, we both searched and could find nothing at all. Only about a month later did I finally spot them, carefully laid out in the farthest, darkest corner of the basement floor. Oh well, ophidiophobic city dwellers would probably never have felt really comfortable in semi-rural Farmington anyway.

IN THIS ISSUE

Birdbrains & Snakeskins-Mary Osborn . 1

Loggerhead Turtles-Al Anderson ......... 2

Helping Animals-Gretchen LaBau ........ 3

Meet Jeff-Louise Hine ........................ 4

Between Book Covers-Dean Daniels .... 5

Oracle of Delphi-David Clark .............. 6

The Big House (Part 1)-Jean Peelle ..... 7

Trekking in Tibet-Boyce Batey ............ 10

Trail Building-Ted Cowles ................... 11

Improving Quality-Michelle Allison ...... 12

The Arts-Larry Rothfield .................... 13

Traveler’s Dilemma-Paul Sessa ........... 14

New Residents ................................. 15

Thistle - July 2017 page 2

LOGGERHEAD TURTLES Al Anderson

Dateline: Tequesta, Fl - Wildlife officials in Florida say a man is accused of taking more than 100 loggerhead sea turtle eggs from a beach behind a home on Jupiter Is-land.

For someone to do such a thing in this day and age is rather unusual, especially since the loggerhead turtle is an endangered species, not to be disturbed.

I'm not too surprised, however, having ob-served such behavior many years ago when working as the Product Support Manager on a classified program in the Pratt and Whitney Aircraft Florida Research and Development Center (FRDC). Located twenty miles due west of Palm Beach, the facilities are on the edge of the Ever-glades, and remain active to this day out among the snakes and alligators.

For five years my wife and I and our three youngsters enjoyed a good life in a gated community, the Jupiter Inlet Colony - posi-tioned north of Palm Beach. Near neigh-bors included highly qualified Pratt engi-neers, and a well-known TV personality, the late Perry Como. At first it was not easy to cope with the “summer" heat and humidity, or the vio-lent afternoon thunderstorms, but soon the whole family learned to walk in the shade when possible and avoid prolonged exposure to the sun. We would swim, fish, go boating and have fun together. On a number of occasions we were able to watch big loggerhead turtles dig nests and lay eggs in the sand. Eggs amazingly similar to ping-pong balls. Reportedly, there are thousands of such nests along a twenty mile stretch on the east coast of Florida.

Turtles of all shapes, colors and sizes have evolved on earth over millions of years. One of the largest is the logger-head. At maturity they measure about three feet in diameter, and may weigh several hundred pounds or more. Although seen in the waters all along the Atlantic coast of North America, the most important region for nesting is in Florida, where the female loggerheads frequently return to the place of birth. Oblivious to the presence of human be-ings, the female crawls up the beach to a point above the waterline, digs a shal-low nest, lays as many as 100 eggs, co-vers them carefully with sand, and then returns to the ocean. No looking back. No parental care or cuddling. Finito. Two or three months later the shells begin to crack open and little turtles emerge. Each one is about the size of a silver half dollar.

When all of the remaining fluid in the egg shells has been consumed by the hatchlings, it appears as though they in-stinctively start moving. Some crawl in-land by mistake. Many are snapped up and eaten by hungry sea gulls or prowl-ing raccoons. Relatively few get as far as the ocean and swim to safety. On the ridiculous side, I've seen some of the little critters paddling around in swimming pools at beachfront motels. Unfortunately, too many of those that do escape into the ocean drown in later years when becoming entangled in nets cast by commercial fishermen, or trapped in floating islands of discarded plastics, or are poisoned by toxic chemi-cal wastes. From what I can determine, only one in a thousand of the loggerheads reaches full maturity.


HELPING COMPANION ANIMALS Gretchen LaBau

Our Companions Animal Rescue was founded in 2002 by two women, Susan Linker and Marie Joyner, to address the problem of homeless, abused and need-lessly euthanized companion animals in Connecticut. Beginning in the basement of Susan’s home in Bloomfield, the or-ganization has now grown to consist of a Program Center in Manchester, where the offices and dog training classes are held, plus a Sanctuary in Ashford, located on 43 acres of donated land. After existing chicken factory farm buildings on this site were demolished, a rescue cottage for dogs and another for cats were built in 2011, as well as a welcome center and a garage for maintenance equipment and vehicles. In 2013, after a successful fund-raising campaign, two more dog cot-tages were built. This spring, after raising $1,000,000, construction began on three more cottages – two for dogs and a dou-ble one for cats. Future plans include ten more cottages, an education center, a dog park, walking trails and a nature pre-serve. In the cottages, the animals live in a cage-free home-like setting cared for by a dedicated staff and volunteers who are trained to help each animal prepare for a successful adoption. Careful records are kept for every animal to monitor their daily diet, exercise and play. The Sanctu-ary is the only one of its kind in New England. Visiting hours are on Saturday afternoons from 1 – 3. In Manchester, a number of adoptable pets are brought to the Program Center on Saturday morn-ings once a month for the public to meet. The adoption process may be initiated at these events or on-line at www.OurCompanions.org. In addition to adoptions Our Companions is involved in a number of programs to assist animals. A helpline is available for

questions by calling the organization’s main number, 860-242-9999. They of-fer reduced cost spay/neuter services and provide food and sterilization for feral cat colonies in the area. Our Com-panions also works with local and na-tional organizations to pass legislation for the protection of animals. I have been a volunteer at Our Com-panions for ten years and currently work in the office once a week in the Program Center. I have been a member of the Board and Advisory Board for most of these years and have found my involvement to be both rewarding and exciting. I adopted Norman, my beauti-ful gray cat, from Our Companions eight years ago when he was a kitten, and we have lived happily together ever since. There are presently about four hundred volunteers assisting Our Companions in a variety of ways, and there will be many more needed as the Sanctuary continues to grow. Fundraising is a continuous process and contributions are gratefully accepted to continue the work of Our Companions. Nearly all funds come from public donations. Our Companions News is a magazine published quarterly and current copies will be available, along with brochures, in the mailroom. It is filled with infor-mation and pictures of adoptable ani-mals, as well as the people involved in the organization. Please take one and read more about Our Companions and their life-saving work.


MEET JEFF Louise Hine

Bearing the impressive title “Director of Life Enrichment,” Jeff Fournier has spent 33 years at the helm of recreation activi-ties for Caleb Hitchcock residents. With his leadership staff, including Betsy Mitchell, Linda Barnard, Elonie Smith and a number of volunteers, he has provided education and recreation programs de-signed to meet the needs of people living in Caleb. The staff tries hard to incorpo-rate program ideas presented by the resi-dents at resident council meetings. Among these have been sightseeing trips via bus to view spring gardens, fall foli-age and historic places in surrounding towns. The favorite trip is the weekly lunch outing to local restaurants. At the request of residents, arrangements have been made for transportation to the main building for selected Great Courses and to bring movies and a special ballet series to Caleb’s Fireplace Room. Favorite indoor activities are arts and crafts, docu-mentary films, travelogues, sing-a-longs, discussion groups and group exercises. Several times a week residents are invit-ed to musical presentations and full-length movies. Jeff’s affiliation with Duncaster began at the main building in 1984; he soon trans-ferred to the newly constructed Caleb building where he has remained ever since. When we were talking about his job here, Jeff told me that he cannot be-lieve he gets paid to do anything so won-derful and fun, so “positive” and “involving” -- such “emotional therapy” for him. Residents always speak highly of Jeff, and one resident commented that “it is remarkable that he has maintained the same high level of enthusiasm for the 33 years that he has been here.” Along the way, Jeff acquired his golden

retriever, Caleb I, who was much beloved

by both residents and staff. When Caleb I passed on at age 11, more than $3,000 was collected for a memorial likeness that was carved out of granite in China and placed in the garden at Caleb. There is al-so an inscription that reads:

CALEB

APR. 22, 2003 JAN. 16, 2014 A Friend To All

Since then a second golden retriever, Caleb II, was acquired, but soon perished and was followed by Cabo who has be-come the current favorite. Jeff’s childhood was spent mostly in Wind-sor where he attended St. Gabriel’s Cath-olic Elementary School and Windsor High School. He attended Manchester Commu-nity College where he was an all-star soc-cer player. He then received a Bachelor’s Degree from SCSU in recreation and lei-sure, followed by a Master’s Degree in therapeutic recrea-tion from UConn. His first jobs were as an assistant recreation director at St. Mary Home in West Hart-ford and a recreation supervisor at Trinity Care Health Center (formerly Hillside Manor) in Hartford where he learned his supervisory skills. When we spoke of Jeff’s outside interests and activities, he mentioned golf, garden-ing, traveling and sports. Jeff is married, has one son, and lives in East Granby. He has a brother (Jim), a twin brother (John), another brother (Joe), and a sister (Ellen). His parents, Dot and Bob, are Prospect residents.


Between the Book Covers Dean Daniels

New York Times readers are well ac-quainted with author and columnist Thomas L. Friedman's Op-Ed articles that usually appear on Wednesdays. Some have read one or more of his best-selling books such as The World Is Flat (2005) or Hot, Flat and Crowded (2008). The sub-title of his latest, Thank You for Being Late (2016), is “An Optimist's Guide to Thriving in the Age of Accelera-tions.” In the book, Friedman describes the changes that have occurred during the past decade and offers suggestions for making sense of a world during a pe-riod of rapid change. He begins by asking himself two ques-tions: (1) how do I think the world's “big gears and pulleys,” which he calls the “Machine,” work today and (2) how are peoples and cultures being impacted by the Machine and responding to it. In Part II of the book he writes about how the Machine is being driven by simulta-neous speed-ups of technology, globali-zation and climate change, all interacting together. Part III addresses how these forces are affecting the “workplace, poli-tics, ethical choices and communities.” And, finally, he draws his conclusions in what he describes as a “giant Op-Page column” about today's world. Friedman uses a geological term, Holo-cene, which describes the last eleven thousand years when the earth has been in a “stable and warm interglacial equi-librium.” But now we are reaching the tipping point where forces are accelerat-ing so drastically that our “Garden of Eden” may soon be out of kilter. So, how can our children and grandchildren cope with the fast changing environment? Talking about the best paying jobs of the future, Friedman writes about stempathy work. These are livelihoods that

“combine strong science and technology

skills with the ability to empathize with another human being.” Thank You for Being Late gives readers a lot to contemplate but I particularly en-joyed reading about the author's early life growing up in St. Louis Park, Minne-sota. In the mid-1950s, Jews left Minne-apolis for this middle-class, integrated community, seven miles west of the me-tropolis. Children, both Jewish and Gen-tile, attended public schools. It was in high school that young Tom had his one and only journalism course. His father, of modest means, died suddenly when Tom was entering college. Without funds to continue, a close friend of the family and his father's employer stepped in to pro-vide the resources for Friedman to con-tinue his education. After getting a mas-ter's degree from Oxford and working for a couple of years for UPI in London he joined the N.Y. Times as a reporter as-signed to Beirut. Now for almost forty years he has been covering the news in either the Middle East or Washington. I must be cautious in my praise for Books for Living (2016) because I don't want to turn you off! But anyway, Will Schwalbe's latest is a rewarding read even if it hasn't made many bestseller lists. Some of you may remember his earlier The End of Your Life Book Club (2012) about reading with his mother during her terminal illness. Well, Books for Living isn't just about death. It's about life and plenty of it! It opens with the following quotation from A Dance with Dragons by George R.R. Martin, “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies,” said Jojen, a char-acter. “The man who never reads lives only one.” Titles of books introduce the 26 chapters. Each also has a sub-title having to do with “life” such as remem-bering, connecting, losing, trusting, searching, hugging (yes, hugging) and slowing down. In addition to the chapter-


titled books, Schwalbe sprinkles other book titles within most chapters highlight-ing the sub-title offering. There are several recently published books featured including The Girl on the Train (2015), by Paula Hawkins, The Hunger Games Trilogy (2008), by Suzanne Collins, a child's book, Wonder (2012), by R.J. Pa-lacio and A Little Life (2015), by Hanya Yanagihara. And then you will find offer-ings by classic authors like Charles Dick-ens' David Copperfield, Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, George Orwell's 1984, John Gunther's Death Be Not Proud and Anne Lamont's Bird by Bird. There is even a chapter entitled A Journey Around My Room written by Xavier de Maistre in 1790. OK, that's enough statistics. There is the chapter “More, More, More” Said the Baby, by Vera B. Williams, about “staying satis-fied” and untangling one of life's thorniest issues, i.e., finding the line between more and enough. There's the Yutang book, The Importance of Living, and its emphasis on “slowing down” and enjoying life. It even suggests that we elders spend more time in bed! And what about “hugging?” The author says the world is now full of huggers perhaps because we live in such a technological age that people crave the human touch. To this point, Twila and I do not come from hugging families. But our children and grandchildren are all huggers. And one more. Schwalbe quotes Chang Ch'ao, a mid-seventeenth-century writer, with this thought about reading. “Reading books in one's youth is like looking at the moon through a crevice; reading books in middle age is like looking at the moon in one's courtyard; and reading books in old age is like seeing the moon on an open terrace. This is because the depth of bene-fits of reading varies in proportion to the depth of one's own experience.” How about that!

Now, how about some fiction, a Joseph Finder novel, that is? Guilty Minds (2016) is Finder's thirteenth and the third of a series featuring private eye Nick Hel-ler. The book opens with Heller being summoned to the Boston office of a mul-tinational law firm where he meets a Washington power broker who has a friend with a pressing problem. The bro-ker's friend happens to be the Chief Jus-tice of the Supreme Court and a slander sheet by the name of Slander Sheet is threatening to release a story within forty-eight hours involving the justice and a prostitute. So Heller and his forensic technician are soon in DC where Nick meets the chief justice who, of course, denies knowing anything about a beautiful 25-year-old with the name of Heidi L'Amour. Well, Nick soon learns that the woman's real name is Kayla Pitts and she is one fright-ened female. And she should be because there are some mean characters working for a very discrete organization which is after the justice. Nick is a big man, six feet, four inches tall and 225 pounds. He's one tough fel-low and needs all of his prowess to save the justice as well as others he meets along the way. Finder's hero reminds me of another giant of a man, Jack Reacher, star of Lee Child novels. Heller does travel with a change of clothes however and uses a credit card occasionally. If you enjoy “who-done-its” and like lots of action, look for Guilty Minds in our li-brary. You'll find the other reviewed books there too.

ORACLE OF DELPHI David T. Clark

This poem was inspired by a visit to the site of the storied temple at Delphi, Greece. Sitting among the preserved his-toric ruins of toppled stone columns and


gazing down the hills at the ancient drowned seacoast below, one can easily imagine beached Greek galleys erupting battle-ready soldiers toward the seer's temple above, all seeking prescient an-swers to their questions of near term sur-vival.

Serpentine crests 'round fingers of blue, Hills hiding mists of morning dew.

An aged sea bottom now splendid vale Stretching toward peaks, yet destined to fail.

Ancient armour clashes in minds so attuned.

And thoughts of old prophecies so finally hewn. The Oracle awaits yet another query,

A muddled answer, for questioner to parry.

Heroes and heroines of days gone by Struggle against odds, for secrets to pry,

Who will win in battles? Who will be victorious? And what Gods and nations will remain ever

glorious?

The heroes and fortunes are now long past; The priests and priestesses on vocal fast.

But stone and sculpture attest to the fidelity Of ancient Greeks to the seer at Delphi.

THE BIG HOUSE - Part 1 Jean Peelle

It was a Saturday night dinner with thir-teen at the table in mid-August 2015. I counted the places set as I laid out the napkins and wondered if there was time to put flowers in a bowl for a centerpiece. Since 1931, our first summer in that house, I could say that this dinner could be included in this, our 84th year of Sat–

urday night dinners in the Big House din-ing room with Barlow family members, and always weekend guests seated at our table. On that August night I sat at the table as a guest even though in my mind and my heart it was still my house, my summer home as it had been since I was nine years old. But this summer, this August, I’d been invited to spend the weekend with my nephew’s family whose time for their summer occupancy in the Big House was August. I was flattered to be invited and to have the chance to visit with a niece from California and with all the chil-dren, grandchildren and great grandchil-dren. All of them with blood lines stem-ming from their progenitor, my sister, Es-ther. In these 84 summers there have been changes, changes in the house’s interior design and on its exterior, the addition of a small house on the east side, and changes in ownership of the Big House. But there were some things that resisted change like the pair of bloodhounds hanging in a frame over the dining room fireplace. With trusting patience they still watched over us. We have come a long way since the day my father first cast his eyes upon this shingle-style summer cottage perched on a granite hill overlooking Long Island Sound. “This is glacial rock formed in the Ice Age,” he said, always ready to pour another nugget of knowledgeable fact in-to our brains, whoever of us were with him that day. There were cocktails on the porch before dinner that evening and my sister Es-ther’s grand and great-grandchildren jumped and darted about on the lawn be-yond us. Had they invented a game or concocted a dare to leap from the top of the King-of-the-Mountain rock, we half-wondered, giving most of our attention to our drinks and to each other. I watched


them as they chased over the hilly lawn that rolled past the garden and down the rocky path where the great hill-hump of a rock commandeered the ground around it and rose to tower majestically above the grass and weed spread at its base. It was the shouts and calls from these children as they darted and tumbled across the grass just as their parents and their grandparents had romped on that lawn, generations ago, long before this August night. It was the children’s joyful calls and cries, the background for our cocktail hour, that stayed with me as I sat down at the dinner table and it led me to lift my glass and make a toast to my fa-ther. I said that it was wonderful, even thrill-ing, to watch and hear the children to-night. My father would have been proud and pleased if he could have seen them here, for I’m sure that his purchase of the Big House was driven in part by his chil-dren’s desires and their choices of that time; preferences which brought new di-mensions to the pattern of our family life. Perhaps he recognized the sea change that had taken place as my siblings out-grew their late teens and raced into their roaring twenties and with this purchase I think there must have been disappoint-ment and regret, knowing he must change course. His treasured plan for our family summers was to spend them on Europe’s continent and it was facing its predator …an American summer to be spent at the seashore. His plans for our summer European tours were designed on the scale of an expedi-tion that included everybody, all of us children, our mother, of course, and on one trip it included my sister’s college roommate and on another our beloved “Auntie” joined us. I must explain my father’s emotional con-

nection with these countries across the

Atlantic Ocean, for I look on it as a lifelong love affair in which he indulged himself as often as he could, starting from his original visit to that continent when, as an under-graduate at the University of Pennsylvania, he spent a summer hiking across its terrain with two fellow classmates. He was overwhelmed with all he saw, its art, its architecture, its customs, its scen-ery (Switzerland captured him at first sight and never let him go). He was not a quiet man. In fact, I never heard him whisper. He must express his tastes and his decisions loud and clear for all of us to hear, so we children grew to know exactly on which side he stood whether it be the political issues of the day or his opinion of the corporation from which he’d buy a car. These choices that he made were duly noted by us, like rules of law to be respected, but that was about all the energy or interest we’d spend on them. We accepted these as forgivable yet indeli-ble traits in his persona and his champion-ing of Europe was one of them; to be ac-cepted, but not toyed with. Whether he had a plan of attack in his cam-paign to win us over to join him in his “Europe obsession,” I don’t know, but I think his enthusiasm and his anticipation of the trips got in his way, overpowering prac-tical concerns like schedules and ages and the headcount of the passenger list. I’ll call it enthusiasm, bordering on ecstasy… a powerful behavioral trait that could sweep away any obstacles in its path: travelers’ pesky schedules or their ages of compre-hension. And from this mix of plans and desires came three summers for us chil-dren: summer vacations across Europe, full-time. How many weeks of the summer did these trips require, I can’t say but though I was the youngest (three, five, and seven years old) on the last of these excursions, I could list the countries we visited: England,


France. Italy, Germany, and Switzerland. And I could tell you whether they served ginger ale with ice or, appallingly, had never heard of it. I can also tell you that we had a crash course in museums and cathedrals, wher-ever they rose across Europe’s historic map. Lining up in visitor lines to inspect each one of them, we dutifully paraded through those ancient and cavernous stone edifices, yet somehow their ancient art was not entirely lost on us. Some-thing stuck and perhaps just that small dent on our young and adolescent psy-ches did get slipped into our memory chambers; to be foraged later in a trivia contest or in that European history class when the leaden paragraphs of our histo-ry books cried out for distraction. We’d been there! We’d seen it all, the church, the battlefield, we could exclaim, always with the hope that our impressive travel experience might raise our grade level with our teacher, though it did nothing to advance our standings with our class-mates. But my father’s obsession with Europe was like the elation of an explorer who’s found new treasure. Having discovered it on his college hiking trip, he must show it to everyone in his path, and the obvious and as yet untraveled “victims” were us, his children. What strikes me most about his change of perspective from Europe to the Connecti-cut shoreline was his fair-minded ac-ceptance of the fact that in his children’s opinion, a summer at the seashore clearly outweighed the travel points gained by visits to the Louvre and Westminster Ab-bey. In other words, our father got the message: a new chapter in our family-life chronicle had begun and New England was its subtitle. I remember standing on the deck of the ocean liner with our mother and my sis-ters, Esther and Libby, as the ship

steamed through the outer reaches of New York City’s harbor. It was the final day of that summer’s “trip abroad” and my sisters were not hesitant in exclaiming their de-light that in an hour’s time the ship would be nudged to a pier in New York City and in another hour we would be home and the cathedrals and museums would stay where we had left them. Our mother reprimand-ed the two “outspoken ingrates” and, in case they had forgotten, she pointed out the privileges they had enjoyed with their good fortune to claim such a bountiful fa-ther. He had shown them Europe’s historic sites and its culture and more, he’d lav-ished them with gifts and in a moment of daring, he had booked them on a short hop in an airplane. But our mother’s “scolding” had no effect on the two “ingrates.” And had I been of an age where I could be counted among my sib-lings’ post-adolescent nearly-adult tastes in things less intellectual and more jazz-aged, I feel sure that I might have joined in their dissent. Our third and final family invasion of Eu-rope was in the summer of 1929 and as I look back on it I see it as a period of ad-justment or a catching of our breaths. What to do, where to go? A summer in Europe was not on the agenda for it was becoming clear that the majority of the clan was of one mind on the question of where we’d spend the next summer. I, at nine years of age, had not yet achieved family voter status. Or perhaps it was a time of limbo while Re-ality had to pause to catch up with History because for a space of several weeks noth-ing moved on the question of Summer Plans, that is until our father grew impa-tient with this slump of inertia that had seized his family and declared his solution. Fixing his gaze on two of my older sisters, he announced his challenge: “Why don’t you girls get in a car and drive up the coast and find us a place with a beach?” There was probably a stunned silence that


TREKKING IN TIBET Boyce Batey

As Siddhartha Gautama the Buddha said, "When you go where few have gone, you see what few have seen and learn what few have learned." I understood this wis-dom and truth in October, 1998 while trekking in Tibet. The Institute of Noetic Sciences, founded by the Apollo 14 astro-naut Edgar Mitchell, arranged the trip to Tibet for 11 Americans. While walking from our plane that landed in Lhasa, I stopped to photograph tall mountains sur-rounding the airport. Two Chinese soldiers with arms waving came running toward me. I was frightened. I'd violated a proto-col and thought they'd take my camera, but they gestured angrily that taking pho-tos was forbidden. While in Lhasa, we toured the massive exterior and ornate interior of the Potala Palace, the former palace of the Dalai La-ma, spiritual and political head of Tibet. We visited Tibetan Buddhist stupas, tem-ples, monasteries and nunneries, went in and on top of the nearby Jokhang Temple

followed this announcement, but with permission like that handed to them and with our mother in apparent acceptance of the plot, there was no hesitation to grab this opportunity in its first seconds of life..… fast before caution about girls traveling unescorted in the wilds of New England got dropped onto the dinner ta-ble. How many minutes did it take for those girls to race to their bedrooms, stuff clothes in a bag and then, quick! Call their best friend whose years of friend-ship had earned her status in our family that almost equaled a birthright. She must pack her bag too because she must accompany them on this parental gift-trip north of New Jersey where they were to find a “summer house” to rent for the coming season. Part 2 will appear in the next issue.

where yak butter candles were burning and around which there were huge prayer wheels which revolved as we walked by. At the Barkhor Street market, I bought five strands of Tibetan prayer flags and a white conch horn with a silver wing that had once been used in a monastery to summon monks to meditation and prayer.

When we left Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, our support team carried our luggage, tents and bedding in a truck and cooked our meals in holes they dug in the ground. We crossed a river in a hand- hewn barge, saw yaks and yak hair tents in which Tibetan families lived. We slept in tents which we pitched in fields where yaks grazed during the daytime.

We learned that before the 1950 Chinese revolution there were over 6,000 Tibetan Buddhist monasteries in Tibet; we visited six of the 13 remaining monasteries. I went alone to the Samye monastery where about 20 Tibetan Buddhist monks with shaved heads and wearing dark red robes came out into the courtyard. They were in a playful mood, took my leather cowboy hat and tossed it around from one to another. We laughed and talked for about 15 minutes before they went back into the monastery. We climbed sacred Chimpu Mountain to a Tibetan Buddhist nunnery and a monastery near where various monks were meditating in caves. We visited another Tibetan Buddhist nun-nery at Terdron, climbed a mountain above it to the residence of the head nun and climbed still further to a sacred cave with a healing water spring. One evening we climbed part way up a nearby mountain to the Drigung Monas-tery where monks were releasing the spir-its from the bodies of three deceased Ti-betans. They did this by chanting, sing-ing, playing horns and drums, twirling prayer wheels and ringing tingshas (small Tibetan prayer chimes made of seven dif-ferent metals). They concluded by tapping the top of the heads of the deceased to


emerge through the crown chakra. After-ward, we descended the mountain to sleep in our tents. The following morning, we climbed the mountain again, past the monastery, to-ward the top to witness a sky burial. Two Tibetan Buddhist monks in dark red robes passed us, carrying on their backs the bodies of the deceased wrapped in cloth. They had broken the hip joints of the de-ceased so they could fold their legs up over the bodies and have a smaller load to carry. Another four monks carried a deceased on a litter because his body was so obese. At the top of the mountain, the monks placed the bodies on a large round stone platform near which families of the deceased stood. A slight breeze fluttered Tibetan prayer flags hung across a deep gorge as the sweet smelling smoke of burning evergreen tree branches wafted through the air. Six Tibetan Buddhist monks in their dark red robes sat nearby, chanting, twirling prayer wheels and ring-ing tingshas. Then two monks with knives about two and a half feet long came out from a small shed and disemboweled, scalped and cut the flesh from the arms and legs of the deceased. When they finished and withdrew, 48 vultures - not the large ugly kind in the United States - but small gray vultures that had been waiting nearby flocked in to consume the flesh. If a vul-ture couldn't swallow a piece of flesh that was too long, a monk tapped the vulture on the head with his knife, took the piece of flesh to a wooden chopping block, cut it into smaller pieces, and threw them back onto the platform. Within 15 minutes, the vultures consumed all the flesh, flew off the platform and waited nearby. The monks then came up onto the platform and with hooks, dragged the skeletons to a stone ledge where they scattered barley flour so that, as they used large stone mallets to crush the skeletons and skulls into small pieces, the pieces wouldn't fly

off onto the ground. As they finished, the vultures flew onto the platform again, consumed the bone fragments, and flew away. As I stood at the edge of the plat-form watching and photographing this sky burial, I wasn't disgusted because the context in which this occurred was sacred and this was a traditional Tibetan way of returning the bodies to Nature.

TRAIL BUILDING Ted Cowles

Trail walking usually provides something interesting. Will I observe an unexpected animal today? Will I have a photo oppor-tunity? Mother Nature full of surprises. I grew up during the 1930s and early 1940s enjoying the summer freedoms of living in rural North Canton, CT. As enter-prising youths my younger brother and I lived for those three storied months of summer where our thoughts were far re-moved from West Hartford schooling. Our family "country" summer home con-sisted of 40 acres of woods, fields, and an old apple orchard. My younger brother and I were free to roam and explore the woods, enjoying the companionship yet sometimes harassing one another. During those years there was a neighboring dairy farmer who pastured his cows in these woods and fields. And when the cattle es-caped and threatened mother's wartime Victory garden all hell broke loose--- sheer excitement! Summer fun seemed endless! We built trails, widened cow paths, flung cow patties, built dams in our brook, climbed pine trees, built pine-bough forts, and skinny-dipped in our man-made pond. When school ended in June, freedom be-gan with a two week visit to the Weeka-paug, Rhode Island shore. My father's older brother owned a summer cottage on Quonochontaug Pond. There were no trails on the property! Thus I was moti-


vated to convince my younger brother and cousin to construct a trail. At the very end was a large, solitary boulder where the three of us could climb aboard and eat lunch. Every succeeding summer until col-lege bound, we fought back the trail's per-vasive "bread and butter" brambles. With "trails" now in my blood, it was only natural for me to join the Appalachian Mountain Club which I did in 1986. And there I was welcomed to the Connecticut Trails Committee, a group of twenty to thirty volunteers who are responsible for maintaining fifty miles of the Appalachian Trail (AT) in Connecticut. Completed in 1937 the AT became the first dedicated lin-eal trail extending from Georgia to Maine over 2200 miles in length and regulated by the National Park Service. Among this group of volunteers was a long time trail maintainer, who soon became my good friend and mentor. His wife was confined to a wheelchair so he became motivated to design a wheelchair accessi-ble section on the AT. With my past inter-est and experience in trail building I quick-ly volunteered to support his vision. Over the next two years we received National Park Service approval, contracted for and supervised the design and construction of the first wheelchair accessible and sustain-able section on the AT. First, some local history: From the 1840s to the 1860s rail traffic crisscrossed north-western Connecticut and at least four horse harness-racing courses were built and became extremely popular in the late 1800s. One of these racetracks was locat-ed in Falls Village, situated about seven miles south of the town of Canaan just off the Albany Turnpike. This flat one-and- a-half mile oval track now long abandoned ran for about 1000 feet alongside the east-ern bank of the Housatonic River. This sec-tion was already now a part of the AT so it appeared to make an attractive location for placing a handicap trail on the oval.

For a number of months National Park Service representatives worked to gain approval, get funding, design a new ac-cess by changing grade levels and other necessary metrics to obtain wheelchair access to the oval. A landscape firm was contracted, and my friend and I provided the guidance and oversight during a two year construction period. The trail was finished in June 2000 and the Club proud-ly held a ribbon-cutting ceremony, presid-ed over by the then governor.

Closer to home, I and others developed trails for the Canton Land Conservation Trust. We worked on trails in the Mary Conklin Sanctuary, Uplands, Goedecke, and Fred Swan properties as well as trails on Sweetheart Mountain and the Wilson Smith Tree Farm. Now as a Duncaster resident of less than two years, I still have both some physical ability and inspiration for more trail build-ing. Where can I put my skills to work at Duncaster? I have some thoughts. IMPROVING QUALITY AT DUNCASTER

Michelle Allison Quality Improvement Director

At Caleb Hitchcock, we have identified several areas for improvement, centered on Resident satisfaction, Center for Medi-care & Medicaid Services (CMS) compli-ance requirements, and Industry bench-marks. We now have committees working on var-ied Quality Assurance Performance Im-provement Projects (QAPI), such as cus-tomer satisfaction, advance directives, and participation in life-enrichment activi-ties. It is the aim of the different committees to provide, implement, and maintain high quality standards to enrich the lives we serve. Committees will gather data from different sources to identify the root cause of problems, and develop effective and efficient long term solutions.


THE ARTS Larry Rothfield

Ballet comes to Duncaster - One day in the Fall of 2016 several ballet aficionados were bemoaning the absence of dance within the robust program of cultural events at Duncaster. After passing through the obligatory bemoaning stage they came up with the idea of presenting recorded performances of outstanding ballets as part of a Classic Ballet series of evening performances. The Spring series of eight performances ran from Jan. 19 to May 4; the Fall season will begin in Sep-tember. As you might guess, the organiz-ers had more fun than anyone, discussing (arguing about?) which pieces would make the cut for the Spring and upcoming Fall seasons, and then watching multiple performances of the same ballet to find the best possible one to present. Ballet Heaven for the true fan. The Spring programs included a mix of 19th century classics (Swan Lake, Giselle, Sleeping Beauty), 20th century story bal-lets by Kenneth MacMillan (Romeo and Juliet), Frederic Ashton (La Fille Mal Gar-dée), George Balanchine (Prodigal Son) and Antony Tudor (The Leaves are Fad-ing), and non-story pure-dance ballets (Balanchine’s Diamonds and Ashton’s Monotones). It was a special privilege to see performances by some of the greatest dancers of the 20th century, Margot Fon-teyn and Rudolf Nureyev in Romeo and Juliet, Natalia Makarova in Swan Lake, Mi-khail Baryshnikov in Prodigal Son, and Susan Farrell and Peter Martins in Dia-monds. Most of the presentations were blockbusters. The DVDs came from the collections of the organizers-- Ron and Nancy Compton, Mary Osborn, and Naomi and Larry Roth-field-- or were downloaded from YouTube or acquired specifically for the program. The poor quality of most versions filmed prior to the 1970s and the surprisingly

meager selection of desirable commercial recordings in later years made it a chal-lenge to find high quality performances suitable for presentation on the large screen. Recordings of modern dance performances have been even harder to find although the search continues. The organizers had no idea how much interest there would be in such a pro-gram, guessing that 15 fans might turn out and that 25 would be a highly suc-cessful outcome. They therefore booked the event into the small rear section of the meeting room to avoid the embar-rassment of a too-small audience rattling around in a too-large space. This was a mistake. More than 50 people showed up for the first presentation, so that more chairs had be moved at the last moment into the already crowded space. There-fore, subsequent performances were pre-sented in the larger front half of the hall, where audiences ranged from 35-48 de-spite the after-dinner starting time that makes attendance difficult for residents with early bedtimes. So, it is clear there is a significant core group of dance sup-porters at Duncaster. Most encouraging-ly, several attendees told me this series was their first exposure to ballet and that they were now hooked. Who said the likes and dislikes of senior citizens are fixed in stone! The Connecticut Ballet - The Duncaster meeting room is not a good venue for live dance presentations. The stage is too small, the carpeted floor of the main floor is not ideal for dance movements and the seating makes it difficult for most viewers to see the dancers’ legs and feet. So it’s not surprising that we rarely have the chance to see profession-al dance performances. Happily, howev-er, I can report that the Connecticut Bal-let company gave a concert here on April 23 that was really first-rate. I knew nothing about this professional dance company and was very pleasantly sur-prised by the breadth and interest of the


program and by the talents and verve of the young dancers, most of whom seemed to be in their twenties. The preparation was impeccable, the quality of the dancers very impressive, their enthusiasm totally infectious. I think the rest of the audience agreed. The program included the second act of the classical Les Sylphides, a “white” bal-let set to Chopin music. Les Sylphides used to be a mainstay of the repertoire of Amer-ican Ballet Theater and is still performed by ABT and many other companies around the world. I have a tender spot for this ballet because my first exposure to classi-cal dance was Les Sylphides, seen in Paris in 1954 when I was in the Army stationed in Europe. I can be a tough judge of pieces I know well and I thought this was a solid performance. The company obviously has a broad range of interests, other pieces on the program included a contemporary dance piece to Aaron Copeland music, and a series of very peppy theater dances by Bob Fosse. Connecticut Ballet is headquartered in Stamford and also operates from Hartford. The company and its attached school are directed by its founder Brett Raphael and just completed its 35th anniversary. I look forward to seeing them again. Summer Pleasures - I have previously written about some of the important sum-mer music and dance events in the Hart-ford area—Tanglewood, Jacobs Pillow, the summer program of the Hartford Sympho-ny, as well as the smaller Music Mountain, Norfolk and South Mountain festivals for chamber music lovers. I also wrote about the lesser-known but fascinating American Opera Idol competi-tion where outstanding young singers from around the country compete for prizes in a competition modeled after the popular American Idol popular music TV competi-tion. The singing is always superb.

American Opera Idol is great fun and a don’t-miss event for opera fans. You can see it at The Pond House in Hartford’s Elizabeth Park (picnic style dinner boxes and wine available) on July 20. It is al-ways sold out, so apply early for tickets on-line if you are interested.

A TRAVELER’S DILEMMA Paul Sessa, as told to Dean Daniels

It was 1977. A few of my Trinity College friends and I were conducting one-week alumni tours to European cities. This par-ticular incident found me in Paris getting ready to return to the States. The tour was booked at a new boutique hotel on the Left Bank. On departure day I was up with my bag packed and placed outside the room's door for early morning pickup. And then it happened. As I was getting dressed, the back seam in my woolen knit pants split halfway down the back side! What was I to do? My other trousers were in the bag which had long departed. Well, I tucked in my shirt, put on a sweat-er and topped it off with my raincoat for my trip to the dining room for breakfast. While waiting to board from the Charles de Gaulle Airport, I decided to ”hit the head.” So there I was, standing at the urinal with my slit pants covered by my raincoat. And as I began to wrap-up the operation, the trouser's zipper broke. Wow! Now I'm open in the back.... and in the front! A most embarrassing situation to say the least. So what did I do? I pro-ceeded to the plane and wore the tightly closed raincoat all the way home.


NEW RESIDENTS Sylvia Berger and Edward Tumarkin, G401, x2049. Sylvia and Eddie were born in New York City and lived there until three months ago. They chose Duncaster because Sylvia's sister (Elaine Wintgen) already lived here. Eddie had a difficult and troublesome youth. He describes his real life as be-ginning with his marriage to Sylvia in 1985. He worked for Merrill Lynch, re-cording deposits and withdrawals of valuable, original documents. Later, document security became a computer function. He is an avid New York Giants football fan. Sylvia worked as a bookkeeper, most recently for the Audio Engineering Soci-ety. Among her responsibilities was helping organize their two annual meeting. They have no children, and have en-joyed traveling to Europe a few times, cruises, and attending many theater performances in New York, especially in the good old days when tickets were affordable. Earli-er in their mar-riage they played "kitchen bridge" with friends. They both look forward to oppor-tunities to meet their neighbors and other resi-dents, and would like to explore a be-ginners bridge course..…Jim Yaeger

Marie Walsh, T400, x2205 “Why Duncaster?” That was the first ques-tion I asked Marie Walsh who moved into her Talcott apartment in January.

Here are the reasons she cited. First, she wanted to be near her children who are West Hartford residents. Second, Marie is still active in the family insurance busi-ness, Walsh Brothers & Sisters Insurance, located on Park Road in West Hartford, and wanted to be relatively close to her work. And third, after looking at several other options, Marie fell in love with Duncaster when she saw the campus, the Commons, Caleb Hitch-cock and, last but not least, the Aquatic & Fitness Center.

Marie's late husband, Bob, started an in-surance business with his brother in the 1950's. In 1970 a travel agency was add-ed, and Marie joined the firm, Walsh Brothers & Sisters Insurance & Travel, to manage it. Two years ago, the travel por-tion of the business was discontinued, and dropped from the company's name. Two of her children, Jim Walsh and Lisa How-ard, are an integral part of the present or-ganization.

Marie has two other children, Rob Walsh and Nancy Walsh Kelly, both active in the West Hartford scene. In addition to the four children, she has 17 grandchildren and two great granddaughters. Most live close by, handy for visiting their grand-mother.

While Bob and Marie were in the travel business they enjoyed visiting countries throughout the world. During their so-journs they were catered to by the nation-al travel bureaus within the various coun-tries. As she says, “not a bad way to trav-el.” The hospitality of two countries, Egypt and Ireland, particularly stand out in Marie's memory.

A year ago, she had open heart surgery to repair a misbehaving valve. That's why Duncaster's rehab and fitness facilities are very much appreciated. You'll find Marie in the gym most days, and she also en-


joys the pool and hot tub for relaxation as well as water aerobics. Her hobbies in-clude reading, solving puzzles and attend-ing the theater.

And, she enjoys the new friends she has made during the past few months. Dun-caster is now her home!...Dean Daniels

Thistle is the bimonthly magazine of

the Duncaster Residents Association.

Contributions are welcome. Some

editing may be necessary and decisions

of the Editorial Board are final. Editorial

office: DRA Office, 40 Loeffler Road,

Bloomfield, CT 06002 or

[email protected].

Editorial Board: Al DeVito (Editor),

Jim Yaeger, Dean Daniels, Louise Hine,

Helen Lehmann, Mary Osborn, Jean

Peelle, Larry Rothfield.

An online color version of the Thistle can

be accessed at duncasteremail.com.

Gretchen Skelley G305, x2148. Gretch-en, known as Gret, is Hartford born and bred. She has lived here her whole life, except for her student years at Connecti-cut College (then still a women’s college), from which she graduated with a major in English. She then taught English, but her abiding interest is in poetry and litera-ture. She is indeed a poet and has pub-lished one volume of poetry, A Wheel within a Wheel, which will soon be in the Duncaster library collection. She is also a long-time member of the Saturday Morning Club, whose members prepare and deliver papers on agreed-upon top-ics. (Incidentally, the Saturday Morning Club actually meets on Fridays.) In addi-tion, she joins the substantial Duncaster contingent with membership in the Town and County club. Major interests include not only reading and writing and classical music but also yoga, which she has taught. She enjoys knitting and was delighted to learn about the Outreach Knitters group at Duncas-ter. She plans to take part. She had, however, recently given up knitting because her red tabby cat, Griffin, had become fasci-nated with the flashing, shiny, sil-ver knitting needles, which he found the ideal toy (or prey.) I suggested she try bamboo needles, much duller and less in-teresting, perhaps. Though she has no immediate plans for travel, Gretchen has roamed extensively

in Western Europe, Russia and Peru; Ma-chu Picchu remains perhaps the most viv-id of her memories. Her immediate family consists of three daughters, Susan, Katherine and Joan, and four grandkids, two boys and two girls, including one pair of non-identical twins who, Gretchen says, are as differ-ent from each other as two sibs can be. Of note in view of the significant number of residents’ children and grandchildren who have entered medicine, one grand-daughter is completing her residency at the University of Arizona medical school with plans to practice in a rural area in Maine...Mary Osborn

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