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IN THIS ISSUE

• Carolyn Harris begins a story about a visit to Cuba
• Carolyn and Jean Sterling write to us
• Betty Brightwell´s story is all about success
• Verda Cook reminds us of an old cowboy ballad
• Gerrit de Leeuw forwards the story of a leprechaun´s three wishes
• Rafiki remembers the old-time clothesline
• Anita Henderson, Bruce Galway, Carolyn Harris, and Nevil Horsfall suggest sites

From a continuing series entitled "Through a Glass Darkly: Americans See Themselves from Abroad", found at http://www.universaltable.org/images/Glass4x.pdf, comes this story written by Carolyn Harris:

A TALE OF TWO TOWNS

It was February, top tourist season in Veradera, Cuba, a small, hoping-to-be-larger, tourist town. Earlier that day, we´d hitched a ride to Veradera from where we´d moored My Carnie, a Pacific SeaCraft Dana 24.

In Cuba, a country where transportation in rural areas is little or none, you´d better be prepared to hitchhike - and be happy to ride third person on a motorcycle, or jump in the bed of a smoke-belching sugar cane truck. Dave and I had been invited to a new friend´s home for dinner. We had a few hours before trying to figure out how to catch the public bus to Cardenas, so we sprawled on the white sand by the fancy and not-so-fancy hotels. I flipped through the Verasub, the Jolly Roger Catamaran Cruise, and the Shopping Nightlife tourist brochures written in Spanish, English, French, German, and a couple more languages I couldn´t figure out, then watched local children and a few Europeans playing in the Cuban sea.

On days we weren´t anchored at Cayo Blanco, a small group of islands with Che Gueverra T-shirts flapping a welcome in the wind to the daily influx of sun worshippers seeking volleyball, snorkelling, and a bad rock band, we´d catch a ride into Veradera. We´d find a quiet outdoor cafe and sip Hatuey, a Cuban beer, serenaded by a guitarist mangling Mexican music or singing the praises of Che Gueverra, and watch the fancy bell-bedecked horses and carriages carrying photo- snapping tourists along the street.

The commercial bus station we´d spied on a previous trip to town was nearby. When we tried to buy a ticket to Cardenas, we were politely told, "Forget that idea; our buses only go to Havana or some other city. Try the bus around the corner." A concrete tunnel with Cubans inside blocked our way. A young Cuban watching down the street for the bus told us, "Get in line in the tunnel. We know when you came." We hadn´t thought to go around and go in the other end.

Knowing very little about cars, I asked Dave, "What´s that?" pointing to one parked across the street. Most of the cars looked like refugees from a junk yard, but this one was really strange. "It´s three different Ford years," he told me.

When the bus coughed down the street in a cloud of smoke, the stranger told us to find our place in the skinny tunnel. I clutched my bottle of Napa Valley wine to my chest like a baby while people squeezed aside and pointed to our place. Fortunately for us, there are no overweight people in Cuba. The other passengers had passes, but we could pay fifteen pesos. If we didn´t have pesos, we could pay five cents.

We passed through the outskirts of Cardenas, a crumbling commercial port town, found our stop and walked into the downtown area. We needed to replace a small bulb in the running lights we´d burned out crossing the Gulf Stream.

There were no cars on the street. Occasionally, a skinny, sad-looking horse plodded by pulling a slat-sided cart of old people who sat on the cart floor toe to toe as they banged along the cobblestones. Two young Cubans sprinted behind, keeping an eye on their friends or parents. I felt I´d been dropped into a black and white scene of Europe two hundred years ago. A young boy squeezed up to me begging money for candy, but before I could reply my "muy mal por dientes," an older woman stepped from her door, whacked him on the rear with a broom, and told him to get out of there.

The darkened stores appeared closed, but people wandered in and out, so we tried the first one. Most of the shelves were bare. One shelf held a few tins of canned meat I´d be reluctant to eat. The others held a hodgepodge of anything from three cans of peas to hardware supplies. It looked like the final days of a going-out-of- business sale in a store that didn´t know which business it was in to start with. We asked about a bulb and were directed up the street. This store was similar. Still no bulb.

While I tried to convince the owner of the next store how badly we needed running lights when we were out with the big boats again, he took us back out on the street. He talked to a cab driver. After rummaging through his glove box, the driver found a bulb and gave it to us, shaking his head when we offered money.

A young man in green shorts pushing a bicycle was going our way. He offered to show us the street we needed. When we came to his home, he invited us in. I thought it was the storage shed when he pushed the bike inside, but this was home. He moved a pile of wire so we could sit on upturned buckets. "I´ve spent many years building my home," he said as he brewed some wicked Cuban coffee. He poured an inch into two chipped glasses and handed them to us. "When I get more money I buy more cement."

He was curious why Americans didn´t come to Cuba and surprised we weren´t Germans because so many stay in the big hotels in Veradera. Understandably, northerners love to get out of the cold winters and spread out their white bodies on the whiter Veradera beaches. He also wondered what we were doing in Cardenas: "Tourists don´t come here." We explained we were "free tourists", the Cuban classification for tourists not on a tour. "All I want is your friendship," he told us as we departed - a phrase I heard often as I gradually got used to that strong sipping coffee.

To be continued.

CORRESPONDENCE

Carolyn Harris writes: We´re back in Mt. Shasta, California, for the summer. Pretty smoky and ugly around here. No fires close, but the wind brings the smoke. We live in tall timber over a small creek. I really love it here - even kind of like the resident bear that bangs on our trailer at night to let us know we didn´t leave him any garbage - but we keep our fingers crossed every year about fire. Just heard on the news tonight there´s a new one down by Yosemite.

I promised to send you something from Tucson about the Canadian RVers down there, but never got to it. Also meant to respond about a post you had on Cuba. We spent time there and the reason they don´t have pollution - there´s nothing to drive. Large four-lane highways the Russians left, but nobody there. We rented a Suzuki near Naranja Bay on the north and drove to Santiago on the south, and with the exception of the government sugar cane trucks, we had the road to ourselves. Little kids would come out and wave at us because we were such a curiosity. The smoke-belching sugar cane trucks are required to stop for passengers on their return trip. Young ladies in high heel shoes would be hoisted up into the back. A car passed us in Cardenas and I asked Dave what kind it was. He told me it was four different cars put together.

Earlier in the year we had dinner with a family in Cardenas. We were in contact with them for several years and sent them Tylenol and vitamins from Canada or New Zealand - until we got a letter from the Cuban government telling us, "Don´t bother our people."

Jean Sterling comments on recent items: Re Geoff Goodship´s mention of the annual Sturgis Rally in South Dakota of motorbike riders - In March we have "bike week" in Daytona Beach which is a HUGE (and noisy) happening. This probably wouldn´t be as convenient as Sturgis is for Geoff. In October we have a smaller (but growing) bike event. I have a feeling that a lot of the people who come in March tow their bikes, then ride them when they get here. According to our chamber of commerce, a number of our bike visitors are doctors, lawyers, and such. Judging by the beautiful (but noisy) Harleys they ride, this just may be so.

On Sheila Laidlaw´s letter about a recent spate of about 4000 spam a day: WOW! And I get annoyed with three or four! Several years ago I was deluged with hundreds per day (but never thousands), which was annoying enough to force me to change my e-mail address.

Re the editor´s reminder to remove extra e-mail addresses from forwards: And I am always grateful to you for doing this. It is so annoying to get stuff that has other people´s e-mail addresses all over the place - especially those chain forward-this-to-ten-people e- mails (a lot of which are hoaxes).

Betty Brightwell forwarded this story:

HE HAS A POINT

A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village. An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.

"Not very long," answered the Mexican.

"But then, why didn´t you stay out longer and catch more?" asked the American.

The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.

The American asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"

"I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, play the guitar, and sing a few songs.... I have a full life."

The American interrupted, "I have an MBA from Harvard, and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat."

"And after that?" asked the Mexican.

"With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. Instead of selling your fish to a middleman, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise."

"How long would that take?" asked the Mexican.

"Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years," replied the American.

"And after that?"

"Afterwards? Well, my friend, that´s when it gets really interesting," answered the American, laughing. "When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!"

"Millions? Really? And after that?" said the Mexican.

"After that you´ll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife, and spend your evenings doing what you like and enjoying your friends."

And the moral is: Know where you´re going in life ... you may already be there.

Verda Cook writes: Two weeks ago the Tale Spinner had an article submitted by Gerrit de Leeuw titledMatrimonial Advice from a Considerate Husband. Below you will find my response to this, an old cowboy song describing the attitudes of some men. We knew a man who fit this profile so I don´t think this song was based on a fantasy.

PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE FIRE

Chorus:
Put another log on the fire,
Cook me up some bacon and some beans,
Go out to the car and change the tires,
Wash my socks and sew my old blue jeans;
(C´mon baby, you can.)
Fill my pipe and then go fetch my slippers,
And boil me up another pot of tea.
Then put another log on the fire, babe,
And come and tell me why you´re leaving me.

Well, don´t I let you wash the car on Sunday?
And don´t I warn you when you´re getting fat?
And ain´t I gonna take you fishin´ someday?
Well, a man can´t love a woman more than that.
And ain´t I always nice to your kid sister?
Well, don´t I take her drivin´ every night?
So sit there at my feet, ´cause I like you when you´re sweet,
And you know that it´s not feminine to fight....

To hear Tompall Glaser sing this song, go to

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQOkDbbte4&feature=related

Gerrit de Leeuw sends the story of the

LEPRECHAUN´S WISHES

An American golfer playing a round in Ireland hooked his drive into the woods. Looking for his ball, he found a little leprechaun flat on his back, a big bump on his head, and the golfer´s ball beside him.

Horrified, the golfer got his water bottle from the cart and poured it over the little guy, reviving him.

"Arrgh! What happened?" the little leprechaun asked.

"I´m afraid I hit you with my golf ball," the golfer said.

"Oh, I see. Well, ye got me fair and square. Ye get three wishes, so whaddya want?"

"Thank God, you´re all right!" the golfer answered in relief. "I don´t want anything. I´m just glad you´re OK, and I apologize." And the golfer walked off.

"What a nice guy," the leprechaun said to himself. "I have to do something for him. I´ll give him the three things I would want... a great golf game, all the money he ever needs, and a fantastic sex life."

A year went by (as it does in stories like this) and the American golfer was back. On the same hole, he again hit a bad drive into the woods and the Leprechaun was there waiting for him.

"´Twas me that made ye hit the ball here," the little guy said. "I just want to ask ye, how´s yer golf game?"

"My game is fantastic!" the golfer answered. "I´m an internationally famous golfer now." He added, "By the way, it´s good to see you´re all right."

"Oh, I´m fine now, thankye. I did that fer yer golf game, you know. And tell me, how´s yer money situation?"

"Why, it´s just wonderful!" the golfer said. "When I need cash, I just reach in my pocket and pull out $100 bills I didn´t even know were there!"

"I did that fer ye also. And tell me, how´s yer sex life?"

The golfer blushed, turned his head away in embarrassment, and said shyly, "It´s OK."

"C´mon, c´mon now," urged the Leprechaun, "I´m wanting to know if I did a good job. How many times a week?"

Blushing even more, the golfer looked around, then whispered, "Once, sometimes twice a week."

"What??" responded the Leprechaun in shock. "That´s all? Only once or twice a week?"

"Well," said the golfer, "I figure that´s not bad for a Catholic priest in a small parish."

Rafiki forwards this reminiscent description of a practice that may soon be resurrected, the use of

THE CLOTHESLINE

Do the kids today even know what a clothesline is? For all of us who are older, this will bring back the memories. Some of these I remember and others are before my time:

The Basic Rules -

1. You have to wash the clothesline before hanging any clothes. Walk the length of each line with a damp cloth around the line.

2. You have to hang the clothes in a certain order and always hang whites with whites and hang them first.

3. You never hang a shirt by the shoulders, always by the tail. What would the neighbours think?

4. Wash day on a Monday ... never hang clothes on the weekend or Sunday, for heaven´s sake!

5. Hang the sheets and towels on the outside lines so you can hide your "unmentionables" in the middle.

6. It doesn´t matter if it is sub-zero weather ... clothes will "freeze dry."

7. Always gather the clothespins when taking down dry clothes. Pins left on the line are tacky.

8. If you are efficient, you will line the clothes up so that each item does not need two clothespins, but shares one of the clothespins with the next washed item.

9. Clothes off the line before dinner time, neatly folded in the clothes basket and ready to be ironed.

10. IRONED??? Well, that´s a whole other subject.

SUGGESTED WEBSITES

Anita Henderson sends the URL for an inspiring video of a woman who overcame a great handicap:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GNzBFnUAdo

Bruce Galway´s son, David, has updated his website with striking new pictures at

http://www.davidgalway.com/

Carolyn Harris has a blog on the Seattle PI on domestic violence. She will take guest posts from any of our readers who wish to comment on the issue. She writes: Two recent guest posts on spiritual abuse and domestic violence caused a lot of comment. I´m the last one who has anything to say about that topic, so I just kept my nose out of it. In fact, I didn´t understand many of the comments. I have another e- mail account which the Seattle PI suggested I set up so if I stirred somebody up, they wouldn´t jam my e-mail. I really got some strange letters from some evidently angry men.

http://blog.seattlepi.nwsource.com/lynscircle/

Nevil Horsfall suggests this site to show the results of using plastic bags:

http://www.poconorecord.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080506/MULTIMEDIA02/80505016

"My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far I´ve finished two bags of M&Ms and a chocolate cake. I feel better already." - Dave Barry