Category Archives: Personal Stuff

Day 11- In Which We Visit a Franconian Farm

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When I was pondering which excursions to take before we left on our trip, the Franconian farm and village visit with tractor ride did not appeal. But we changed our minds after listening to the cruise director, Thomas, talk about it.

For one thing, I didn’t realize that doing a walking tour through every city and village would become tiring. I’m not talking about the exercise, though it has been a bit hard for this couch potato to get used to. It was the routine. Tom and I (maybe mostly me) thought a visit to a farm in the country and a tiny village would be a nice break. It was! The alternative was a walking tour of Bamburg, which was fine, but we wanted a change of pace. Tour director Thomas warned about the smell of pig manure on the farm, but this was no deterrent. Pigs, after all, smell, and farms tend to have pigs around here. Another consideration was the heat—it was predicted in the high 80s. Walking through a city in the heat did not seem like the most fun.

We traveled by bus for about an hour through lovely pastoral Bavaria, passing through several villages on the way. Our destination was the village of Wohnau, population 97. Apparently, the population has been growing because people who were raised here go off to school, perhaps getting jobs elsewhere, but when they start having children, some return because they have lovely memories of their own childhoods in this town.

Bavaria is the breadbasket of Germany, according one guide.

Wohnau is a Catholic town. Most towns and cities in Bavaria are a mix of Lutheran and Catholic, but not Wohnau. Apparently, Bavaria tends to be more religious than other German states. Wohnau has crucifixes everywhere.

We first stopped for what our guide, Kristina, called “a techno bio break,”—a bathroom stop—at the Smitte’n Hof—the farm we were to visit. Then we walked through the town, which took no time all, to the small cemetery. I love cemeteries, and this was a miniature beauty. The gravestones are fronted with miniature gardens, each with a tiny well for holy water and a lantern. The story is that Wohnau had no cemetery and the town’s residents were buried in a neighboring village. A man from Wohnau wanted to be buried in the village in which he had lived his entire life, so he started a project to build a cemetery in Wohnau, which got underway. Tragically, before the cemetery was finished, the man died, and was buried in the neighboring village. Some bold youths went under cover of that very night, dug him up, amid reburied him in Wohnau—I am not sure where, as, you will remember, the cemetary had not been finished.

At the entrance to the farm.

Kristina told us that in Germany, you rent the gravesites for 25 years, then you have to renew the lease. In the old days, if no one renewed the rent, the body would be exhumed and sent to the bone house for storage. They don’t have bone houses anymore, so I asked what happens to the bodies now? She said she had never thought about it and didn’t know. Hmmm.

The tiny, exquisite cemetery of Wohnau.
This was the prettiest memorial in the cemetery. Each of the stones is fronted with a tiny garden, like the houses’ front gardens in miniature.
Every grave has a holy water well and a lantern.

We turned back and walked to the center of town—a few paces from the cemetery at the edge of town. A tall, dead birch tree was stranding in a metal sheath there, its branches festooned with faded ribbons. The tree is decorated and erected in April for some sort of spring festival, but it is looking a bit sad now.

The deceased festival tree.

We visited the Catholic Church, which was tiny but exquisite, decorated in the Baroque style. The priest only comes once every three weeks or so to perform the Mass. The families take turns decorating and cleaning the church for this event.

The little church at Wohnau. The lady in front is our guide, Kristina. I love the twisty Baroque column, embellished with golden vines. The saint depicted is a patron saint of livestock. His name started with a “W,” but an Internet search failed to bring him up.

Back to the farm, where we were escorted to a cool stone cellar for sausage, bread, and soft cheese. Our host, Herr Schmitt, an elderly patriarch, talked at length in German, and sometimes Kristina translated, some times a pretty frauliein neighbor, who looked the very picture of a German girl. She spoke excellent English.

The first snack at the farm. Delicious. I just ate the second snack (cherries and brown sourdough bread) without photographing it.

Then it was time for the tractor ride! Herr Schmitt is the only “full time” farmer in the village. Others have to have a spouse working elsewhere as there is no employment in the village. Herr Schmitt has cannily parlayed his farm into a tourist attraction. He entertains tours with local snacks and wine tastings, tractor rides, etc. He also offers camping, has a store with farm-made products like noodles, makes and sells wine, of course, and no doubt has other enterprises. Very clever man.

We piled into a wooden wagon pulled by a tiny blue tractor. It set off into the woods nearby, emitting diesel fumes, but they weren’t too obnoxious. Our driver—who turned out to be from Connecticut—kept well behind the other diesel-belching tiny red tractor. The woods were quite dense, composed mostly of beech and oak trees, mostly slender, but growing closely

The tiny blue tractor takes us into the forest.

together. We went by the neighboring village where the residents of Wohnau were once buried, past wheat fields, and up into vineyards. The vineyards had a multitude of small structures for each family’s tools. (Different parts of the vineyard belonged to different families.) Some of these structures looked like tool sheds; others looked like miniature chalets, with tiny front porches, tiled roofs, and stovepipes. We glimpsed a minute domed chapel among the vines as well.

A little chapel in the vineyards. Sadly, we didn’t get a shot of the miniature chalet/tool shed.

Then we plunged into the forest again and so back to the farm. Kristina was talking about the farm dog, which she adored, but had died of old age. Apparently in Germany, you can’t have a farm dog unless you can prove the dog is acceptable to the people who come to the farm. I don’t know how they accomplish that.

We went down to the cellar again, blessing the cool temperature, where they served us small, delicious cherries, brown sourdough bread, and two local wines, one white, one red. I recall that the red varietal was called Domina. Both were made on the farm. They were quite good, though they probably wouldn’t be my main tipple. Herr Schmitt wanted to know how crocodile tasted. I was able, through Kristina, to inform him that we don’t eat crocodiles in America, but alligator tastes just like chicken.

Our host, Herr Schmitt.

As we departed Smitte’n Hof, we were each gifted with a round green bottle of 2016 Bacchus Franken, a white wine made on the farm. Given Herr Schmidt’s excellent commercial instincts, I was surprised we weren’t shown the farm store.

The wine from the farm. We were given two bottles, but we haven’t opened them yet.

The bus ride back used the super highway and didn’t take quite as long. It was a hot day, and felt so good to take a shower! The water in our shower pours from the ceiling without a trace of pressure regulator.

By the way, there was nary a pig to be seen—or smelled—on the farm. And it was just the break I was hoping for—confirmed by the others in our group who had opted for the Bamburg walking tour. We rejoined them and went into town to find rauchbier, a smoked beer that is the local speciality. We found it, along with a cheerful waiter who spoke perfect English. It is so far the only beer I have tasted in Germany that I really liked. It has a slight bacon-y nose that only enhanced the flavor, in my opinion. Then we trotted through the 89 degree heat back to the bus, and the River Duchess departed for Nuremberg. I did I get this hasty shot of a house right on the river. It looks like an enormous piece of Wedgewood porcelain.

Day 10: Fairytale Rothenburg

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Rothenburg is distinguished from our other visits by being located well-inland, on a nice high point that was easier to defend. It was also distinguished because it was never bombed during WWII, sparing the historic buildings—they have not been meticulously recreated, as we saw in so many places, but beautifully preserved.

We traveled to Rothenburg via bus. (The bus driver is always the same. He travels from location to location with the bus, and I bet he beats us every time.) We traveled along what is called the Romantic Highway through lush pastoral land. We saw fields of sugar beets, cow corn (hard feed corn that they use for ethanol), wheat, mustard, and many crops I couldn’t identify.

A wheat filed along the Romantic Highway. The clouds here are gorgeous.

We wound our way through tiny villages until we came at last to the ramparts of Rothenburg, which completely enclose the town, as they did in Medieval times and earlier.

The Medieval ramparts of Rothenburg. The ramparts have a roof and 6ou can walk all around the town under it. Tom and I didn’t do that part of the tour.

Rothenburg is extremely quaint and charming, with elaborate half-timbered houses, an old cathedral, many town wells, and narrow, cobbled streets. It is also a tourist attraction, and not just for foreign visitors. The language I heard spoken most frequently by the visitors walking by was German.

Town gate, looking toward the town from the site of the original castle.

Our guide, Harry, also added to my understanding of the stumblestones. He emphasized they are not only to commemorate the Jews, but anyone who was murdered by the Nazis, including Romany (Gypsies), the mentally retarded, people with disabilities, gays, and anyone else the Nazis deemed unworthy to live. Lesson taken. Odd that they are called stumblestones, as they are actually brass plaques that are far flatter and less likely to cause a stumble than the cobbles surrounding them.

There are storks nesting on the rooftops here—the first I have seen! Just like in the fairytales.

A real, live stork. Sadly, I only got this shot of his or her butt as he or she bent to feed the babies.

He took us by the Museum of Crime, which is evidently the largest museum anywhere dedicated to the subject of crime and punishment. It is also called the torture museum. Nuh-uh.

It is probably extremely expensive to live in Rothenburg. There are very strict laws regarding the appearance of the buildings. All the roofs are required to be covered with red clay “beaver tail” tiles. All the windows must have wooden frames. Skylights are verboten. However, I did notice glass tiles the same shape and size as the ceramic beavertail tiles on several buildings, obviously letting light through to the upper stories. So people, as always, find workarounds.

A gorgeous house in Rothenburg. You can see the beavertail tiles.

The first castle/fortification in Rothenberg was built around 1100 C.E. on a spur of rock that projects above the surrounding lush valley of the Tauber River. Little remains of the original structure but a small chapel. The former castle is now a pretty garden that command views of the Tauber River valley and orchards below. Mature trees provide much-appreciated shade, and there is a lavender garden, a small fountain, flowers, and stone benches where you can sit and admire the spectacular view. We saw a pair of storks flying overhead, but by the time I got my camera phone out, they had flown away.

A fountain in the garden that now reigns over the site of the original castle. Very peaceful, and the goldfish in the picture seemed suspended motionless in time.
One of the many spectacular views from the garden.

We actually had free time in Rothenburg to wander around guideless, shop, and sample the local cuisine. Tom and I stopped at a bakery for water, and I purchased a “snowball,” which is a large sphere of what appears to be curls of cookie dough held together by various things in different flavors. I selected a dark chocolate snowball—I guess the snow was dirty. It was absolutely delicious, with a crisp, light texture and not too sweet. We devoured it. We visited the castle-turned-garden next, then wandered back to the marktplatz in the town center. The Rathaus, or city hall, in the center has a tall clock tower. When the clock rings the hour, two windows open to either side and automated figures appear, drink beer from steins while the bells chime, then retire behind the windows again.

The clock tower. Everyone pauses on the hour to watch the automatons drink their beer.

We met up with our friends in the marktplatz and decided to try to find a restaurant for lunch that Harry the guide suggested. We did not find it, but we did happen upon a sandwich restaurant that served Mexican Jarritos, Cubano sandwiches, and other exotic fare of the New World. It was not what we were looking for, but we needed to stop for lunch and several men outside the establishment assured us the sandwiches were good. They were VERY good! We ate outside on the cobbles under umbrellas as children dashed in and out of the restaurant. It was a family establishment. The chef was from Puerto Rico, and his wife, a German, handled the front of the restaurant. I think the family lived in the same building, and their kids played on the sidewalk.

I broke away from the group to do some gift shopping and found things for four on my list. This was a godsend—there is usually no time to shop. Being a tourist Mecca, there were many unusual shops and interesting merchandise. And the famous Christmas store was in Rothenburg—as well as every other town we have visited. Linda caved in and bought a large bag full of Christmas cheer.

You just can’t get away from the famous Christmas store.

On the way back, the bus took the super highway instead of the Romantic Highway. In addition to the fields full of growing things, we also saw large fields of solar panels. Germany also uses wind power, but they shut down all their nuclear reactors after Fukushima—a move that with the Russian invasion of Ukraine and subsequent sanctions, proved to be a mistake.

Day 7: The Unbearable Cuteness of Wertheim

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This morning, we were moored at Wertheim, a village on the Main that had not been destroyed in WWII and still has its 16th Century buildings intact. The temperature was supposed to be in the high 80s, which sounded dreadful, but wasn’t too bad. For one thing, the town was right there, a few minutes’ walk from the river. For another, the excursion was shorter. For another, there was always shade somewhere, and there were an abundance of chairs for the footsore—something other towns were distinctly short of.

There was an enormous castle on the hill above the town—second only to Heidelberg in size according to our guide, Elke. There were two guides, but I gravitated to Elke because she was wearing a pretty dirndl. Why not? I learned later that her “real” job is as a nurse, and she does guiding as a refreshing change.

The leaning tower of Wertheim. We resisted any urge to pose with it as though we were holding it up.

There was a strange leaning tower at the entrance to the town. It had once been part of the town ramparts, but stands by itself now. The lower half was built of stone with 7-foot-thick walls, and this is the leaning part. The top, a later addition, attempted to correct the leaning. it was once called “the hall of fear” because it was used as a jail. The interior was cramped because of the thick walls. It was completely dark, cold, and damp. They would lower prisoners into the tower on a rope, and that was that, I guess.

The old town is very quaint, with narrow, tall, half-timbered buildings. The bakery was built in the 1600s and is still a bakery. The baker is the 13th generation of bakers. He gave us a pretzel demonstration as part of the excursion . More on that later. It seemed many of the buildings still serve their original purposes, judging by the symbols on the fronts of the buildings. It’s a very pretty place, with flower boxes and cafes, and ancient buildings.

There are still remnants of the old town ramparts. This gate to the old town is now part of a hotel.

Elke gave us a brief history of the town, including the sending of Jews to concentration camps. One of the houses now memorializes the Jews, and is decorated with suns, stars, the Star of David, a cross, and the word shalom. In the cobbles in front of the house are some brass stumblestones with the names of the residents. Elke told us that in 1972, the town’s mayor tracked down as many of the surviving Jewish residents as he could and invited them back for a reconciliation ceremony and apology from what was done to them.

The memorial to Wertheim’s vanished Jewish population.
The “stumblestones” memorializing the Jews who lived in the house above.

The town’s church started as a Catholic Church, but was later converted to Lutheran. Because it was the only church in town, Catholic residents also attended, and they and the the Lutherans had separate entrances for a while until it became just Lutheran again, presumably because there weren’t enough Catholics left.

Outside a striking blue and white half-timbered house stands a fairly appalling— but large—bright blue plastic statue of a dwarf, intended to symbolize the optimism of Wertheim. Um, OK.

The optimistic, if ugly, dwarf statue in front of the beautiful blue and White House where glassmakers lived. Maybe they still do—there’s a glass blower’s shop a few yards away.
Two houses in Wertheim leaning toward each other like old friends.
My beloved.

One group went off to walk in the vineyards while the rest of us wandered around town. Then we met up by bus for a wine tasting and pretzel making demonstration. The wine tasting was more like four large glasses of different wines. I liked the sparkling wine and the Riesling the best.

The baker of 13 generations gave a pretzel demonstration. He had a lot of mildly naughty jokes—quite the fellow. If anyone asked a question he liked, they were gifted with many pretzels. I asked why they were dipped in lye before being salted and baked. He said he asked his father, who had asked his father, and no one knew. Then he said he discovered that 200 years ago, a pretzel accidentally fell into a cleaning bucket with lye water in it, and the baker used it anyway. It turned out crisp, brown, and different from the others and has been the custom ever since. I am not sure I believe this tale, but I got four enormous pretzels for asking. We headed back to the boat full of wine and pretzels and ate lunch as the boat took off again.

At the winery, which has a long and complicated German name that I didn’t record. On the left, in the white coat, our merry pretzel-maker. On the left in the pretty dirndl, our guide, Elke.
Me with my prize pretzels for asking about why food might be dipped in poison to make it delicious.

Back at the River Duchess, Captain Ronny gave a presentation on nautical matters, starting with how he became a captain. I found his story really different and fascinating. He was born on a cargo boat that his parents operated out of Rotterdam. At the age of five, he attended floating kindergartens that were set up for the children of such maritime families. But he had to attend boarding schools as an older child. At the age of 16 he returned home (his parents had a larger cargo boat by that time) and worked with his parents until he attended navigational school. After graduating, he worked on different cargo ships but basically had no social life until he married a Swedish woman and moved to Sweden to start a family.

He started a ship maintenance businessin Sweden, but apparently neither the business nor the marriage prospered, so he went back to cargo boats, first hauling fuels, then chemicals. One day he was docked somewhere and the cargo exploded while he was in the wheelhouse. He took this as a sign to do something different, and started working for Uniworld. It took him some time to learn how to maneuver the river boats because instead of the standard propellers and tiller, they have propellers and bow thrusters, which allow for the precise navigation that makes for a trip that doesn’t spill the guests’ drinks. It is a very smooth trip, I must say.

He also presented a lot of info about the River Duchess (where he has worked for seven years). I will skip over the tonnage and draft and so forth. From the appearance of the boat, we thought it was pretty new, but it was built in 2003. Turns out they spend the winter months refurbishing the boat, which accounts for its pristine appearance. Uniworld didn’t lay off any staff during the pandemic, accounting for very low turnover. Respect!

Susan’s birthday dinner. Lovely food and wine! The best company.
Alex (left, in the butler gear) and Todor, the dining room manager, served our private dinner.

This evening, we had a private dinner for Susan’s birthday, and I wish I could have eaten it all, but I couldn’t. There’s a Roaring Twenties party in the lounge tonight, and Susan and David dressed for it. Don’t they look wonderful?

Susan and David!

Day 6: Frankfort

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When we awoke today, we were in Frankfort, and traveling on the Main River ( pronounced “mine”). This morning at breakfast, we were observing some sort of waterfowl that lives in abundance by the side of the river. We couldn’t decide if they were ducks or geese. They seemed too big to be ducks, but their necks weren’t as long as the Canada geese we are accustomed to seeing, and they are on the small side for geese. After we returned, I compared some photos Tom took to an online cache of German waterfowl and solved the mystery. They are greylag geese, a species I have read about but never seen before. They seem largely unperturbed by humans.

Graylag goose, apparently conducting an invisible orchestra.

The majority of the passengers opted for a tour of Heidelberg Castle, which involved an hour-long bus ride. I am looking forward to hearing about their adventures, but Tom and I opted for a walking tour of Frankfort. All of us were elderly and in terrible shape except for Tom, who viewed the excursion as barely a short walk.

It was 80 degrees or so, but Tom tells me he barely broke a sweat. Annoying, of course, but I am glad he’s in such good shape. I left my hiking sticks behind and I was glad I did. I had no problem with the terrain, and they are such a nuisance. When I use them, if I want to take a photo, I have to put the sticks aside, find my phone, take the picture (assuming whatever it wasI wanted to photograph is still there by that time), replace the phone, pick up the sticks, and hope I haven’t tangled the earphone cord that attaches to the receiver we wear so we can hear the guide. But I was extremely glad I used them yesterday in hilly Rudesheim!

Our guide, whose name sounded like Shannon, so I will call her Shannon, took us along the river front for a while, explaining the history. Then we visited the old town. Apparently, all the ancient half-timbered buildings were flattened during WWII, with the exception of a single house. The others were lovingly restored and look exactly the same, but presumably with better plumbing.

The sole remaining original half-timbered house in Frankfurt’s old town.Shannon told us a rather confusing story about its role in WWII, involving tanks in this building, tunnels underneath the street, and rich people escaping from the other houses on the square, but I found the story somewhat dubious.

Shannon took us to a place that served the local specialty—frankfurter sausages, of course, with potatoes and green sauce. I liked the green sauce, which uses local herbs that differ depending on where you are. The frankfurter tasted exactly like a hot dog to me, despite Shannon’s protestations that they were much more flavorful and juicier. Not impressed.

I love the way they fit the slate tiles together. It looks like dragon skin.
The square where we ate frankfurters.

We ate on a square that included the Streuwelpeter (Slovenly Peter) Museum and store. Streuwelpeter was an illustrated book written during the 19th Century to instruct and entertain children. Shannon says they still teach this and it tells children how to behave properly. I have read it, and it includes:

• A story about a little boy who sucked his thumbs until the great, long-legged scissor-man came and cut them off.

• A story about a boy who ate too many sweets, went out in the rain and melted.

• A story about a little girl who played with matches and burned herself up, making her two kittens weep.

• A story about a little boy who was always looking up at the sky and fell into the water and drowned.

You get the idea. Shannon seemed to feel these were instructive and positive guidelines for the children of today.

However, she was most solicitous of her ancient followers and allowed us time to sit and rest, for which I was grateful. Tom, of course, did not take advantage of these rest breaks.

After a few more visits to quaint things our guide liked, she bade us farewell and several of us visited a nearby toilet. Half a Euro to pee.

Then Tom and I took off to find an ATM and a SIM card. It turned out that the phone store didn’t take credit cards, unlike every other store in Europe, so it was a good thing we found the ATM first. Tom is happy with his new, strong connectivity. My goal was to visit the Steiff store I spotted back at the square where we sampled the frankfurters. I wanted to buy a tiny mouse I saw at the famous Christmas store in Rudesheim. I had faint hope that it would be less expensive, and sure enough, it was the exact same price. But I bought it for our new little granddaughter Mirabel. Because.

Shannon was upset because the construction spoiled the beauty of the old square. We still enjoyed it.

Then we went back to the boat, had lovely broiled salmon for lunch, and we are sitting in the lounge watching the boat go through a lock. It’s a lengthy process, and I have never seen it before. We have gone through locks on this trip, but I am usually sound asleep.

Tonight, we are celebrating Susan’s birthday with a private dinner in the Captain’s dining room. (He doesn’t actually eat there, of course.) I hope it will be a very special occasion!

Day 5: The Rhône River Valley and Rudesheim

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There are two castles in this photo. Can you find them?

This morning, we woke to the picturesque Rhine Valley, dotted with ancient castles that look like movie sets or etchings from some other century. It was cold on the sun deck, but we didn’t want to miss the beauty of this area.

A castle on the Rhine. It looks well-restored and lived in.

The sandy shores and flatter lands of yesterday have given way to rocks and steep cliffs. In many places, vineyards cling to the cliff sides at an angle that defies belief. The vineyards are all worked by hand and I do not know how they do it. Vineyard work is hard enough on level ground. We were told that the Rhîne reflects light onto the vines,which increases their sweetness. The wine is the famous Riesling produced here. Beer is less favored than wine in this region. We passed by tiny town after tiny town, most with half-timbered buildings, a castle or two, and churches ringing the hour—we could hear the bells clearly from the boat.

Alex, our butler, performed a sabering ceremony. He took a pretty but dull saber and uncorked it by swiftly hitting the rim of the bottle with it. The cork had been tied to his wrist so that it didn’t fly into the river. Then we all had champagne and watched the castles go by. Many were ruined, but some have been at least partially restored. Apparently, there was a Bavarian king whose hobby was collecting and restoring medieval castles. Nice hobby if you can afford it.

Our destination today was Rudesheim, a small town that had been half destroyed by accident during WWII. They rebuilt the ruined church from the rubble, replicating the original exactly. In the US, it would have been bulldozed and a modern church would have been built in its stead. Rudesheim has some cute, narrow, cobbled streets, wine gardens, a famous Christmas shop, and a lot of tourist traps. We took a cable car (or suspended gondola) up to the Niederwald Monument above the town. Tom elected to walk, but he wasn’t waiting for us this time. It took him another ten minutes or so after we arrived. The monument has amazing views of the river valley and the vineyards that march up the hills in back of town. The monument itself is a typical piece of nationalistic art celebrating the unification of Germany after the Franco-Prussian War.

Niederwald Monument.
The view from the Niederwald Monument. The island or sandbanks in the river are bird sanctuaries.
Cute half-timbered building in Rudesheim.

In the river below, we could see long sand banks with trees growing on them. These are now bird sanctuaries. They are a fair distance from the boat, but I could see a lot of birds from our stateroom. The swans were big enough that I could identify them.

I can’t get rid of this photo so you get to enjoy it twice.

As Tom began walking back from the monument, the rest of us took the cable car down. It was a quiet, peaceful experience, passing over the vineyards. We went into the famous Christmas store, but as we already have more Christmas decorations than we actually put up and the prices were astronomical, I opted to go back to the boat. On the way, I found an inexpensive, warm wrap to supplement my wardrobe, which was entirely inadequate for the chilly mornings around here. Now watch it never get cold again on this trip!

Tom’s route up from the town to the monument through the vineyards.

For Once, You’re Right. I DO Want to Cancel Your Culture.

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The Republicans are whingeing and whining about “cancel culture,” which they seem to regard as a fiendish new invention of the Left. Somehow, it just isn’t fair that those lousy libruls are expressing their disgust with what the Republican Party has become by speaking their minds and taking positive action against people, businesses, and institutions they regard as antithetical to a free democracy.

Couple of points here. First of all, “cancel culture” is probably older than written history. There are other names for it:  boycott, voting with my wallet, voting with my feet, shunning—people have been doing it forever. The only thing new about cancel culture is the name.

Shunning has always played a major role in how people control their societies. The threat of shunning is sufficient to keep people in some societies in line. Boycott utilizes economic power to send a message. Importantly, these social tools are not the tools of the powerful leaders in a culture—they are the tools of the everyday person. 

We have the power of voting—once every few years, and the impact of that individual vote is sometimes difficult to experience, especially when your candidate loses. But shunning and boycotting—you, Mr. or Ms. Everyperson, can decide to do it, execute it yourself, and feel satisfied that you have DONE SOMETHING to express your opinions, values, or ethics. It’s a level of satisfaction that cannot be provided by voting—as important as voting is.

And you would be following an ancient and honorable tradition in doing so. No one can force you to spend time with people who hold values that oppose your own. No one can force you to spend money with a business that supports things with which you disagree. These are YOUR powers, to use as you see fit.

Which is why Republicans are screaming about cancel culture. They are watching in horror as their nasty, bigoted, win-at-all-costs, misogynistic, homophobic, paranoid, entitled white culture swirls slowly down the drain.

They KNOW you want to cancel them, and they are terrified. 

I do not spend money with any business that donates to Republicans—especially to the last incumbent of the White House. I do not spend time with people who do not share my values. I do not spend money in or visit states that allow open-carry, criminalize abortion, pass voter suppression laws, or acted like giant babies during the pandemic. I try to spread the word about people or businesses that are violating the norms of our democracy.

Because, yes, Republicans, I DO want to cancel your culture. I want to obliterate it and you from the face of the earth. I want to bury your barren, mean, selfish “ideas” so deep that no one will ever utter the phrase “trickle-down economics” again.

I want the Confederate flag (which was not the Confederate flag, but the battle flag of the Confederate Army of the Potomac, and thus a sham in and of itself) to become a symbol of such profound shame that when people fly it in front of their houses or off the backs of those stupid oversized pickup trucks, citizens run to destroy it in outrage.

I want every monument to the Confederacy to be torn down and repurposed to help black communities. 

I want anti-abortion proponents to be forced to work (under strict supervision) with pregnant women who have medical counter-indications for pregnancy, or whose fetus has been diagnosed as non-viable, or who is single and is trying to feed four kids on the salary of a fast-food worker because her husband deserted her.

I want states that have passed anti-abortion laws to pass equally draconian laws that control men’s bodies—there never was an abortion that didn’t start in a man’s balls, after all. Mandatory reversible vasectomies for all males at puberty. Death sentence for any man impregnating a women against her will. Death sentence for rape. All rape, even when a married man rapes his wife.

I want the other members of the Supreme Court to rise up in disgust and eject the religious nut and the drunk rapist.

Yes, I want to cancel your culture. Every last bit of it. You are damn right I do.

It’s Been a While, Hasn’t It?

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I admit it—I have not been a consistent blogger. My last post went online Feb. 23. In my defense, it was Feb 23 of this year.

In fact, my last posting was right before the pandemic started—or at least right before we realized there was a pandemic going on, because it had reached our shores already.

It has been a very eventful time, but I had trouble coming up with a blog topic. I was consumed with politics (still am) but I wanted to keep my blog politics-free. I’m not, as I have heard other authors say, worried about offending conservative people, who might then never buy my books. Everything I stand for offends conservative people, so they won’t be reading my stuff anyway. I just wanted one place where I did NOT write about politics.

I could have blogged about the quarantine and its many adjustments to a new reality, but all of you went through that too—you’ve been there, done that. I’m sure I have little to add other than my frustration with the people who refuse to practice social distancing and wearing masks—and the politicians who encourage them not to. My only consolation has been the realization that many of them will get sick.

I could have blogged about writing my new novel, but I was hard-pressed to imagine why you would care until I had something to announce—and maybe not even then.

I could have blogged about having the third book of my trilogy go unpublished for two years after I finished it, but I already blogged about that. My publisher decided to publish only non-fiction going forward, which leaves a fantasy writer more or less up the creek without a paddle, especially with a third book in a trilogy. I will be publishing it on Kindle—but I need a cover first.

I could have blogged about my sister’s death, shortly after the beginning of the pandemic—of a heart attack. That certainly provided me with a great deal of blog-able fodder. I just didn’t want to write about it.

I could have blogged about getting a new dog after the death of my beloved Gigi. Poppy is a cutie with a lot of personality. But I didn’t want to.

I could have blogged about the horrific fires consuming California. We nearly had to evacuate, but today it looks like we won’t.

I could have blogged about inheriting my sister’s jewelry—hundreds of pieces of jewelry—and setting up an Etsy store to sell it because I couldn’t wear that much jewelry in several lifetimes. Building the Etsy store was actually one of the most enjoyable things I have done during the pandemic. In case you’re looking for jewelry. I have everything from Victorian antiques to Native American to hand-crafted silver to high-end costume jewelry and everything in between. Come on down: https://www.etsy.com/shop/SilverboughJewelry?ref=search_shop_redirect

I did finish the first draft of my current novel. It is entitled, “The Spell Book of Thorfinn Bare-Butt,” and it is set in Iceland’s Viking Settlement Age, 9th Century CE. The kernel of the story came to me while I was touring a lava cave in the Hauksdalur region of Iceland. The guide told us that archeologists had found signs of habitation in the cave that dated back to the settlement age. He explained that after the eruption, the rock would have stayed warm for a very long time, making it an ideal human habitation. (I can tell you by the time we visited, it was FREEZING.)

I had a vision of a young magician setting out to make a reputation for himself. He occupies the cave because it is both comfy and free, and attempts to summon a spirit to help him become more powerful. Unfortunately, our hero, Odd, is under a curse. This caused some—but not all—of his spells to go awry. Instead of a powerful spirit, Odd conjures up a 21st Century female kickboxer named Hekla. Now both Odd and Hekla have real problems, and the story goes on from there.

I hope to have a final draft in another few months. After that, I will try to find an agent because I am tired of publishers slithering out from under me. I’m hoping a good agent can find me a solid publisher with reasonable terms that specializes in fantasy or fantasy and science fiction. That will give me some confidence that they aren’t suddenly going to switch to the many tell-all books on the way from the Trump administration. Please wish me well!

Healing Laura’s Brain

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Illustration by Laura Wigod


I know everybody and her cat’s uncle is asking you for money these days. I know that because they are asking me for money, too. And now here I come, asking for money–but it’s not for me.

Nearly thirty years ago, my husband and I ran a boutique public relations agency in Silicon Valley specializing in–what else?–high tech. We were a little different from other agencies. For one thing, we were intent on creating a corporate culture where people were encouraged to be creative and to grow. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t, but we at least made the effort. And after we’d been in business a few years, we moved out of our partner’s garage and into legit office space.

That was when we hired Laura Wigod as office manager. Laura had long, thick, honey-blond hair and huge green eyes. She was incredibly smart, well-read, and creative. She used to put on the most elaborate birthday parties at work. I remember one that involved putting colored tissue paper and strips of black construction paper over the conference room windows to make it look like stained-glass windows. I think the theme was “Camelot.” Another time, we had a Middle Eastern belly dancer give us all lessons. Laura worked hard at her job, but it was clear she wanted and needed more from a job. Eventually, she became an art director and started doing work for our clients.

We had a kids’ room set up in the office so that if a child was mildly sick or if there was an inconvenient school holiday, the parent could bring their kid in for the day to watch TV, play video games, read, play with toys, etc. Our son Sean and Laura’s son David became best friends playing with each other in our office. They later drifted apart–but Laura and I have stayed in touch ever since. My life would be the poorer without her creativity, her interest in literature and art, her restless, bright mind.

And now Laura needs help. Her creative, intelligent, busy brain has betrayed her. Last weekend, Laura had a stroke that literally destroyed part of her brain. The doctors say she will recover as the rest of her brain compensates for the damage. But she won’t be able to work for months, she cant understand what most other people are saying to her, and she can’t read.

I have started a GoFundMe account to raise money to help Laura through this time that should be reserved for healing, and not for money anxieties. Even $5 would make a difference. I hope, despite all the demands on your pocketbook, that you will find some small amount to give to help Laura get back on her feet and back to work. The link to the GoFundMe account is https://www.gofundme.com/f/healing-laura039s-brain?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_campaign=p_cf+share-flow-1

Illustration by Laura Wigod

Let Me Tell You About Gigi (written three years ago in preparation for this day)

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Inca cuddled up with Gigi today, knowing her friend wasn’t feeling well.

I had a bit of a scare recently. My dog Gigi developed a fever, lost her appetite and began to act lethargic. She’s 12 years old, so I wasted no time taking her to her vet. Dr. Good, who rolls around in a mobile clinic, did a thorough exam, took blood and urine and an X-ray—and found nothing wrong other than the obvious presence of an infection. So Gigi went on antibiotics.

I’m happy to say Gigi recovered. But while she was sick, I began to dread the possibility of losing this amazing creature with whom I share my life and my home. I thought I would write an obituary about her now. Because when she dies—because she will die—I won’t be in any shape to write. At this stage, who knows how long she’s got? She’s a big dog, and the big ones don’t tend to live as long.

So I decided to write about Gigi now, while she’s still with me and I can discuss her unique characteristics without breaking down in floods of tears.

On the surface, Gigi is just a very doggy dog. She’s half Labrador and half German Shepherd, with maybe a dash of Doberman. She’s black-and-tan and shorthaired, with floppy ears. As much as I love her, I do not share my bed with her because she’s 75 pounds of elbows and she farts and groans all night.

I wasn’t looking for a dog when Gigi came to my attention. I had lost my dog, Ringo, a year previously and was still in mourning. My daughter Kerry saw an ad on Craig’s List that said, “Sweetest dog in the world needs a home.” I looked at the picture. This dog was much larger than I wanted. She was black-and-tan, which is not a color scheme I admire. And she lived about 65 miles away.

I called her owner. Apparently, they rescued her when she was about six months old, and loved her dearly. But the landlord of the house they had just moved into said the dog had to go. I asked question after question, because living with Ringo taught me the right questions to ask. (Loved that dog, but he was a hot mess when we first got him.) The answers seemed good, so my husband and I drove 65 miles to meet the dog.

The dog’s name was Gertie, a name I knew I couldn’t live with. She greeted us with kisses and a wildly wagging tail that slapped against our legs like a baseball bat. I observed her with a baby and with cats—completely calm. I did everything I could to elicit a dominant or aggressive response—grab her collar, squeeze her paws, roll her over, and so forth—all of which she responded to with kisses and wags.

I decided I wanted her, but we had five houseguests with a sixth on the way and I felt it was unfair to plop an adopted animal down in the midst of all this chaos, so I said I’d come get her when the house had cleared out. Her owner agreed, but later told me that the landlord had threatened to evict them if the dog wasn’t gone by a certain date. On that day, I drove back to collect her.

Gigi in her salad days. She almost always walked around with a stuffy toy in her mouth. I selected stuffies on the basis of how much they amused me.

In the interim, we had a lively family discussion about what to call the dog, as Gertie just wasn’t going to cut it. I thought we should pick a name that was similar to Gertie so she would adapt to it quickly. I suggested Gigi. My daughter said it sounded like a stripper. After a two-hour discussion, Gigi it was, though still over my daughter’s objections.

When I picked her up, her owner burst into tears and rushed us out the door, handing me a ceramic jar for dog treats. It was clearly a painful parting. I put Gigi in the back of my car and headed home. Gigi rested her chin on my shoulder for the entire trip home, which I thought was a good sign.

It turns out I needn’t have worried about the abundance of guests or about the name. Gigi walked into the house and acted as though she had lived with us her entire life. She also responded to her new name instantly. As a matter of fact, as the houseguests began to go back to their own lives, Gigi seemed to miss the party atmosphere of an overcrowded house. She still loves a good party.

Then we began to get to know her. First of all, Gigi is an extremely obedient dog— except when she isn’t. For example, if she needs to go outside to go to the bathroom or check out the gophers, she will go outside. If she doesn’t, she will wag her tail and refuse to move. I have learned to trust her on things like this and will only insist if there is some compelling reason. She has a stentorian bark that wakes the eldest grandchild from her nap, so I put Gigi out when Jessamyn is napping so if the doorbell rings or there is a package delivery, she won’t sound the alarm. Gigi goes reluctantly, but she goes if I really insist.

She can make friends with just about any other animal. I have seen her buddy up to:
At least two coyotes
A bunny (kisses were exchanged)
A feral cat
A cat that was so terrified of her that it refused to come into the house until Gigi performed her ambassadorial work
Innumerable other cats and dogs and humans

The feral cat is my rescue kitty, Inca. When I first acquired Inca from a rescue organization, they told me she was one of a litter of feral kittens. They were considered too old to domesticate, but they seemed to be adapting to humans, so the rescue decided to place them with families. Inca was okay with me as long as I kept her confined to a bathroom, but she was horrified by Gigi. When I let her out of the bathroom, Inca disappeared for two weeks, flitting about in our peripheral vision like a bat.

One day, I saw Inca and called to her. To my astonishment, she strolled over and climbed into my lap. After a bit, Gigi came into the room and lay down. Inca trotted down the length of the couch, mewing at Gigi. I had no idea what would happen, as I hadn’t had either of them for very long, but Gigi came over as though Inca had been calling her and proceeded to kiss her. Inca adores Gigi. It’s pretty funny to watch her try to give this enormous dog a bath with her tiny pink tongue.

I give Gigi a lot of credit for the rapidity to which Inca adjusted to domestic life and became an affectionate pet. She never used to let me pet her tummy, which I longed to do (best part of a cat). One day, I gave Gigi an extensive belly rub. Inca watched intently nearby as Gigi groaned with happiness. When I finished with Gigi, I turned to pet the cat. Inca flopped down and presented her own belly for a rub, and she has enjoyed it ever since.

Inca and Gigi have seldom been parted, but there was one weekend when I had to use a pet-sitting service. Gigi went to the sitter’s home, but the service had a large enclosed cat area for feline borders, so they were separated for about four days. When I went to pick them up, Inca was there, but the sitter had not returned Gigi. I told them to have the sitter bring Gigi directly to my house as soon as possible, and left with Inca.

When we got home, Inca shot out of her carrier and began searching the house. She went from room to room, mewing loudly, but of course, Gigi was nowhere to be found. When the sitter showed up with the dog about two hours later, Gigi made for her water dish immediately because it was a sizzling day. She put on the brakes when she saw her kitty friend, and the two of them checked each other out carefully, kissed, and then Gigi got her drink.

You might be wondering about the coyotes I mentioned earlier. I am familiar with the coyote trick of sending a fertile female to lure a male dog to its doom (the original femme fatale). That wasn’t what was happening here. The first time, I noticed Gigi making play bows along the fence enclosing our yard. Something was moving around vigorously in the tall grass and weeds on the other side of the fence. When I got closer, I saw it was a small, young coyote. The two animals were playing, each on one side of the fence, play-bowing and running, then bowing again. They seemed to be having a lot of fun.

In the second instance, my son-in-law Mike came home and saw Gigi in the back yard with what he thought was a fox, just hanging out together. He videoed it, calling Gigi in, so we were able to see it was a young female coyote that had found a way under the fence. Apparently, Gigi and the coyote had been chilling together in the back yard for quite a while. We don’t really want her socializing with coyotes, so we fixed the fence.

There is an exception to Gigi’s long list of friends. My daughter’s dog, Hendrix, is a Japanese Chin. He’s one of those fluffy, goggle-eyed little dogs. He annoyed Gigi at first acquaintance by biting her ankles. Gigi responded by squashing Hendrix flat with one big paw, but unfortunately, this triggered Hendrix’s bad back, requiring expensive meds. Although he has lived with Gigi now for four years, Hendrix has not improved his behavior and sometimes still bites her ankles. Gigi has learned to ignore/not squash him, but she cannot overlook it when he steals her chew toys.

Gigi loves to carry toys around in her mouth, usually a stuffed animal, but sometimes a chew toy. Hendrix isn’t allowed bones or chews because of major, life-threatening allergies, and he steals her toys out of jealousy. One night, Kerry took a bone away from Hendrix and returned it to Gigi. Gigi took it with her customary gentleness, but never stopped staring at Hendrix. Finally, she turned her back, walked away a few paces, turned around, and THREW the bone at Hendrix with a snort worthy of a teenaged girl.

Gigi has been wonderful with the grandkids, gentle and protective. She permitted all kinds of indignities, though we tried to spare her and teach the children to be gentle with animals—which they are. When Tom and I aren’t at home, Gigi sleeps in Lilah’s room, squeezing completely under the bed. She’s so big I’m not sure how she gets out again. Both the grandkids learned early to dodge Gigi’s lethal tail. It smarts when her tail connects with human flesh.

The kids loved Gigi. Gigi loved the kids.

While I don’t doubt that if anyone threatened us, Gigi would rip his throat out, I trust her 100% with children, guests and pets. She is one of the most utterly trustworthy personalities I have ever encountered. It’s not like having a dog around so much as having an odd-looking grandmother. A grandmother who might attack burglars.

Whenever I have had to treat Gigi for an ailment, she is the soul of cooperation. She will do anything the vet asks, patiently enduring indignities such as rectal thermometers and intrusive examinations. Once both her ears became infected. I had a bottle of liquid that I had to flood both ears with twice a day—something most dogs would strenuously resist. When Gigi saw me coming with the bottle, she would lie down on one side and present an ear. When I was done treating that ear, she would roll over and present the other one. She’s that way with every medical treatment—including acupuncture, which helps with her arthritis when it get bad—apparently understanding that we are trying to help her even if she doesn’t understand what we are doing. (Although I wouldn’t take any bets on her lack of comprehension.)

We live in a beach town. It’s also a dog town, and many people bring their dogs to play at the beach. I took Gigi frequently when we first moved here, but after a couple of years she started coming back limping and sore. Age, alas, is catching up with her, and her once-black muzzle and face are now frosty. She has arthritis and some old joint injuries that cause her problems. Unfortunately, she just doesn’t understand moderation. If I take her to the beach, she runs around and greets and plays with every other dog present, and most of the humans, too. We have had to curtail her beach visits, which is sad, because she used to have a blast.

It’s hard to express this without sounding kind of woo-woo, but this animal is enormously spiritual—more than most humans I know. She’s kind, gentle, intuitive and loving. I respect her as much as I would respect another human because she is her own creature. She knows who she is. She has a presence. Don’t get me wrong—she’s still a dog. She begs at the table. Sometimes she pees in the wrong place (but only if desperate). She barks at nothing and she barks at everything. But looking in her eyes, I see a kindred being who communicates clearly without words, who respects and loves me.

And when she goes (may it be many moons from today), I will be as grief-stricken as I would be for any family member. That’s why I’m telling you now, while I can, that I have in my keeping a great and beautiful soul. It’s a beautiful soul that farts and groans all night, that’s all.
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Gigi died today (November 26, 2019) at the age of approximately 15. So I had three excellent years with her after I wrote this piece. She was going downhill fast, and I wanted to say goodbye before her life became a complete misery to her. She died at home with her family around her.

Blogging, Publishing, Disappointments, Runes, Dried Cod Slathered in Butter

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Okay. I admit I am not the world’s most dedicated blogger. I haven’t posted since the end of my Iceland trip, sometime in July—and I was cheating, because after we left Iceland, we went to Copenhagen, then Stockholm, and had a wonderful time. Except for the heat. It was 85 to 95 degrees Fahrenheit the whole time we were there, and of course, Scandinavia doesn’t know from air conditioning. My husband, who walks six to eight miles EVERY FUCKING DAY wanted to walk everywhere. I vividly recall standing in a jeweler’s shop looking for gifts and raining sweat on the display so hard I didn’t even contemplate looking for better prices because I was so embarrassed.

The only place I recall being air conditioned was the Vasa Museum in Stockholm. It is a museum that was built around an entire 17th century ship called the Vasa that sailed for 1500 yards on her maiden voyage, then keeled over and sank. It turns out she was top-heavy and there wasn’t sufficient ballast. A great pity for the king of Sweden, who had commissioned the ship and assured she was as gaudy and painted and stuffed full of guns as a wild west whorehouse. A greater pity for the thirty people who drowned when the Vasa sank. But a benison for the rest of us, because the ship was raised nearly intact and restored so that we can marvel at her and the astounding objects and decorations that she flaunted so briefly. And the entire building was positively freezing. I loved it.

But back to blogging. Why do I blog? I blog because I hope it will help sell my novels, although I don’t talk about my novels that much. I guess I am hoping that you’ll adore my prose style and want MORE! MORE! MORE!

But I have a problem, and I suppose I’d better discuss it. I have two novels of a trilogy in paperback, ebook, audiobook, etc.: “The Obsidian Mirror” and “Fire in the Ocean.” I also have a children’s book that was self-published, but let’s leave that aside for now. Last January, I sent my publisher, Diversion Books, the draft of the third, final, and (in my opinion anyway) best book of the trilogy, “Lords of the Night.”

My publisher basically said, “Oh, did we forget to tell you? We’re focusing on non-fiction now.” Long story short, they are still making the first two books available, but nothing further, and they won’t be bringing out “Lords of the Night.”

I believe that’s called “trilogus interruptus.”

Fast forward to last week, and I attended the World Fantasy Conference In Los Angeles. I wish I could say that a publisher stepped forward and rescued my entire trilogy, all the while warbling promises of AWESOME book promotion, but that didn’t happen. I did talk to an editor at Daw, and editor at Tor, and an agent that handles fantasy, and they all said the same thing, more or less: you are so screwed.

It seems that publishers don’t like picking up series in the middle, even if they can (my publisher will give me back my publishing rights). The advice was to take “Lords of the Night” to Kindle—maybe all three books—and do my own promotion. The agent suggested that a smaller publisher might pick up the trilogy; it would be worth trying. And then I can write my next book—unrelated to the trilogy—and find an agent and a new publisher.

Interestingly, I met at least three other writers who said the same thing had happened to them. Being a novelist is so glamorous.

But I did come back newly energized. I plan to pitch a few publishers and see what happens. And I have started on a new book. It will be set in settlement-era Iceland, as the Vikings began to turn into farmers and build a new society. 


But there will be magic, and it will be Icelandic magic, which is different from other magical systems I am familiar with. As a consequence I am studying the Elder Futhark, which is the set of Icelandic runes used in fortune-telling in the Icelandic tradition. In this tradition, the runes themselves are magical, not just another alphabet. Each does have its own sound, which means the runes can be formed into words—but each also has its own meaning, both symbolic and literal.

For example, berkana:

As you might suspect, the sound associated with it is “B.” It means “birch.” Its more mystical meaning is “purification, fertility and birth.” This can be interpreted a number of ways, depending on where it falls in the casting, whether or not it is reversed, and its relationship to the other runes in the casting. It’s almost as complicated to learn as tarot, except that a standard tarot deck has 55 cards, while the Elder Futhark has only 24 runes. Which I guess makes it about half as complicated as tarot.

I am the rankest of amateurs and I don’t actually believe in magic, but I have been a bit awed by the runes and how accurate they tend to be. I’m looking forward to the role they will play in my new book.

For now, I will leave you with this random observation. In old Iceland, food was always an issue, and many times life depended on finding something dead washed up on the beach. One standby food was dried fish. Here’s what dried cod looks like (this one has a tag on it from the supermarket):

I suppose this could be rehydrated and cooked in a stew, though I haven’t gotten that far in my culinary research yet. But the preferred way of eating it was to break off a piece, cover it with salted butter and eat it. Icelanders still enjoy this as a snack, kind of like we eat potato chips.

I admit I did not know this when we were in Iceland, or I would have tried it. Next time.