POSTING #104

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A Sin-Free Lifestyle in Malaysia

On February 13th, the BBC carried a story that began, "Malaysia has stepped up a campaign to stop Muslims celebrating Valentine's Day---labelling it a 'trap' that could encourage immoral behavior."

The story quoted the Deputy Prime Minister as saying that the February 14th celebration of romantic love was "not suitable' for Malaysian Muslims---who make up about 60% of the nation's population, with people of Chinese and Indian origin making up most of the rest.

It went on to say that several states in Malaysia were going to carry out checks on hotels to stop young couples from having premarital sex.

On February 15th, the day after Valentine's, Yahoo News reported that nearly 100 Muslims had been arrested for 'khalwat' which was defined as having close proximity with someone of the opposite sex other than one's spouse. Some of those arrested were teenagers who had rented hotel rooms for two hours for about US $15.

Those charged were told that they faced up to two years in jail and a fine.

The officials said their goal was to promote a sin-free lifestyle for Malaysian Muslims.

The Malaysian Government's attack on the Valentine's Day tradition reminded me of efforts the Government used to make, and perhaps still does, to confront another sin---not romantic love, but GAMBLING.

In February 1992 I was conducting a two-week management training course for senior officials of the Malaysian employment service. The course was held in the resort community of Genting Highlands, an hour's drive from Kuala Lumpur. Mary (not her real name), a Canadian trainer, assisted with the training, and Pat came along to provide support and to enjoy the beauty of the lush resort.

After dinner on our first evening in Genting Highlands, Pat and I were sipping coffee at a pool-side table. The air was soft and warm, and an almost-full moon looked down on us.

A perfect night---especially when we thought of the February cold and snow back in Canada.

And then. looking high and to our right, we saw what seemed to be a shimmering white palace floating in the air. Looking more closely we could see that it was a large building on top of a huge, dark mountain.

We asked the Muslim server about the building.

"It's a casino", she replied with a disapproving air.

I learned that although gambling is, of course, forbidden by Islam, the national government and clerical leaders had made a deal that permitted a developer to create a casino---so long as the developer ensured that Muslims were never allowed to enter. Apart from the 60% of Malaysians who are Muslim, the Chinese and Indian communities have many successful business people who love to gamble. In addition to local, non-Muslim patrons, the casino was designed to cater as well to tourist gamblers from Japan and other Asian nations.

I was intrigued by the casino and by how it managed to screen out Muslims. At the end of training one day, my assistant and I and three members of the course---a Muslim, who had a car and kindly offered to take us to the casino even though he couldn't go in, and two Chinese officials--- drove up to the casino, while Pat rode up in a scenic-tour cable car.

The old Korean-made sedan was too underpowered to be climbing mountains and as we laboured up the switchback road I kept wondering if we were going to have to get out and push. But we made it to the top.

And met a shaken Pat.

She had been the only woman in the cable car, crowded in with 10 or so men of Asian extraction, all of them shorter than her 5 feet 8 inches. She doesn't like heights at the best of times and instead of enjoying the view, as the advertising literature recommended, she focused on a spot on the roof of the car and waited for the torture to end.

Once Pat had recovered, we walked toward the casino.

Seen close up, the casino was pretty horrendous----not a glorious palace but rather a complex of tawdry and tired box-like buildings.

Our Muslim colleague stayed with his car and the rest of us entered the casino. Our passports were examined---the first step in screening out Muslims---and we were allowed to proceed. People who had Malaysian passports (mainly Chinese and Indian) were required to leave a deposit large enough to pay the travel costs back to their homes. The casino had learned that its patrons couldn't be trusted to hold back enough money for the trip home.

We were told that if we 'hit the jackpot' we would be required to spend the night at the casino hotel so we wouldn't be robbed by bandits on the way down the mountain. Apparently there was someone in the casino leaking information on big winners to the bandits!

As we entered the gaming area, burly Malaysians did the final Muslim screening (profiling?). They studied our faces to make sure we didn't look like Muslims---that is, that we didn't look like 60% of the population.

We changed some money for the slot machines and had a good time, joking as money kept disappearing into the machines, with only an occasional small win---which was promptly 're-invested'.

The other patrons weren't laughing. They were tense and agitated.

Let's face it, whether gambling is a sin or not, gambling is not fun and gamblers are not fun people!

Once we had lost all our slot machine money, we wandered over to the sections for 'serious' gambling--- a variety of card and dice games and, of course, roulette wheels. After a while we grew bored and left.

We all squeezed into the car, including Pat (she was NOT going back down in the cable car!). The car's brakes survived the steep trip down the mountain, although they squealed and smoked a bit.

In the remaining evenings at Genting Highlands, we would look up at the casino and marvel at how something that looked so hauntingly beautiful could be so banal and boring.

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After the course ended, we spent a few days in Kuala Lumpur so I could finish off my work with officials at the head office of the employment service. During lunch one day, I laughingly told one of the officials---a researcher of Indian origin with a good post-graduate degree from an American university---about our casino experience.

Thinking that I was serious about the lost money, he expressed regret and said that if he had known we were going to the casino he would have introduced me to a local 'gambling advisor'---read, 'fortune telle'r--- he knew. He said that most Chinese and Indian men in Malaysia went to such advisors before gambling. The advisors would analyze astrological data, the position of the stars etc. and then provide precise instructions on how to improve the odds of winning.

He told me that one of his friends had been told to climb over the fence at the local zoo and get a pheasant's egg and a feather from a nightingale. He was then to put the egg in the right pocket of his jacket and the feather in the left, and to make sure he entered the casino by the right-hand door at exactly 4 PM on a specified date.

As he finished this story, I'm afraid I laughed and blurted out, "And they take this seriously?'

The official bristled. "It works, not every time to be sure, but people who go to the fortune tellers win more often than those who don't. My friend, for example, won a great deal of money."

I thought of that advanced US degree and how even educated people can be superstitious---and then remembered that I will do anything to avoid walking under a ladder.

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A final story about Malaysia, one that I think can be considered as part of this Posting's theme of trying to live a sin-free life in Malaysia.

While I was meeting with officials at the employment ministry in Kuala Lumpur, Pat, along with my assistant, Mary, and one other Canadian woman decided that they would like to visit an outdoor market noted for its gold jewellery. They were told by the hotel that it would be unwise to go by themselves---without a man---so they prevailed upon a friend of ours, a Canadian of Indian origin who happened to be in Malaysia on business, to accompany them.

We will call him George.

The hotel doorman got them a taxi, one of the large, air-conditioned cars that one finds at up-scale hotels.

It was one of Kuala Lumpur's typical hot, steamy days and the women found that after an hour or so at the market they couldn't take the sun and heat any more. They were eager to get back to the cool hotel.

With the three women standing at his side, George tried to flag down a taxi, not one of the fancy hotel taxis, just something that would get them back to the hotel.

Empty cab after empty cab ignored George's vigorous waves and sailed by without stopping.

One of the wilting women complained, "What's wrong with those taxis?'

George looked at the women, with a grin. "It's you damn white women. They think I'm a pimp with my girls. No decent Muslim is going to pick us up."

Finally, a taxi, driven by a non-Muslim, stopped and the women and George were soon back in the hotel, having a long cool drink in the bar.

And laughing about 'George and his girls'.


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See you on March 6 for Posting #105 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

POSTING #103

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"What was the weather like in Florida?"

I've been having trouble finding an appropriate answer when friends ask that question.

Do I say to people who have been enduring the worst Ontario winter in decades that the weather was lousy, and hope that that makes them feel a little better?

Or, do I say that it was gorgeous and send them into an even deeper fit of cabin-fever?

After all one's perception of weather is subjective---it all depends on one's point of view.

Which reminds me of an old story about a woman in California who invited her widower father from Minnesota to spend the winter with her. After several weeks, she noticed he looked a little blue.

During breakfast one morning on the patio she asked, "Is there something wrong, Dad?".

"No", he sighed, "just another damn beautiful day."

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I'll just say that we had a lot of 'damn beautiful days' in Florida.

But let's move on!

Returning to Canada

In last week's Posting (#102) I described our trip to Florida. This one will look at our trip home.

Once again, we studied weather forecasts trying to decide on the best route home: I-75, the western route we had used traveling to Florida, or I-95 along the east coast.

We heard that conditions were ripe for a potentially huge storm coming from the mid-west about the time we had planned to drive north, so we decided to leave two days early and slip up I-95 ahead of the storm.

On Saturday, January 29th we were on the northbound Interstate in very good time. We set the cruise control and relaxed. It would be clear sailing until at least Pennsylvania.

Or, so we told ourselves.

Twenty minutes later we ran into a mix of fog and smoke and then a sign warning that the Interstate ahead was closed because of accidents. We exited the Interstate and worked our way north on small roads until we could get back on the throughway.

Then there was more fog and another closure because of accidents. This meant another hour of stop and start driving on minor roads.

These problems were clearly omens, telling us that the trip home was going to be 'interesting'.

When we finally got to our first overnight stop, Brunswick, Georgia, we turned on the weather channel and learned that the storm was larger, nastier and moving faster than predicted. It was going to be particularly nasty in the areas we had to cross---northern Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York.

You know, TV weather people really seem to enjoy a good storm and they smiled as they described what was about to happen---"heavy snow, blizzards, sleet, freezing rain, treacherous driving conditions, downed branches, likelihood of power outages", and on and on.

Great!

We had hoped to get to northern Virginia for the second overnight stop. We decided that although we could probably have reached that area, the roads would not likely be drivable the next morning.

And the hotel might have lost its power and heat over night.

Looking at the map, we decided to head for Emporia, just inside Virginia, a town with which we had a sort of hate-hate relationship because of unpleasant experiences the previous year.

At least, Emporia was outside the storm's expected range, and it was the devil we knew. We made an on-line reservation---for two nights, just in case.

As I was checking in at the hotel in Emporia, it occurred to me that it might be good to splurge on a larger, more comfortable room since we might be there several nights. The check-in clerk. Antwon---according to his badge---was young, witty, helpful and fun. He showed me a larger room that was perfect but when I asked the cost he said he would have to check.

Back at the desk, he tapped away at the computer trying to find the best rate.

"You're not military, government, corporate, or special promotion?" he asked, hopefully.

"Nope, just AAA."

He finally found a rate that was totally acceptable.

After moving into the room, we had trouble getting the TV to work. I phoned the desk and Antwon was at our door in 10 seconds and in another 30 more seconds had fixed the problem (the previous guests had been watching a DVD and the remote had to be re-set). We thanked him but he shrugged it off with an 'aw-shucks' smile and this ditty:

"Thank you for dialing zero,
So I could be your hero."

And with a theatrical flourish, he exited.

You might wish to remember the name, Antwon. I don't know what is going to happen to him, but he is too talented to spend the rest of his life in a hotel in Emporia.

The next morning was surreal. Emporia was warm and sunny but in the hotel breakfast room the television was showing pictures of snow-bound Oklahoma, and Chicago with the 2000 mile long storm pounding into Ohio and Pennsylvania.


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What to do with our time?

Pat found a quilt shop on the Internet that was an hour or so due west of Emporia. Unfortunately, when we got there we found the store had closed down.

We re-traced our steps and decided to explore the historic district of a small town, Lawrenceville. Our own town, Virgil, used to be called Lawrenceville so we felt a kind of psychic connection.

In the middle of the town was a sign for the Brunswick County Museum. We are suckers for a museum, so we pulled in.

The curator, a woman in her 40s with high cheekbones, dark eyes and black hair in a long braid down her back, greeted us with a warm smile.

"Welcome to the museum. Are you from around here?'

Interesting, no accent.

"No, we're from Canada/"

"I'm from Ontario!"

"We're from near Niagara-on-the Lake, where are you from."

"Manitoulin Island."

"We had our honeymoon on Manitoulin Island!"

It turned out that the curator, Meg Cywink, is a Native American born on a First Nations reserve on Manitoulin Island and is a graduate of the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

We spent two fascinating hours touring the museum, and learning about how she had come to settle in Lawrenceville and about her work as a museum curator.

Pat and I have been volunteers at the Niagara Historical Museum  and know something about the problems of running a small museum.

For example, how does one persuade people to donate their items of historical value to the museum rather than leave them to relatives who will probably sell them on eBay.

Museums also have to deal with sensitivities from issues in the past. At the Niagara Historical Museum, one of the issues is about how to present the War of 1812 in a way that accurately depicts what happened but respects the feelings of both Canadian and American visitors.

I am sure that the Brunswick County Museum must have to deal with sensitivities about how to depict issues involving race---for example the history of slavery, the Civil War, and the end to segregation. We had been told in Emporia that this southern part of Virginia considers itself part of the 'deep south' and refers to people from northern Virginia as Yankees.

These sensitivities must create problems for the curator from Manitoulin Island but she seems to relish the challenge.

Meg is a remarkable woman with a wealth of stories that we were only able to begin to sample.

When we said our reluctant goodbyes we promised to stay in touch.

And we will---either during our next trip to Florida or perhaps when Meg comes north to visit her Ontario relatives.

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Back at the hotel, the weather reports were getting worse so we decided to stay a third night.

After dinner at a local restaurant, we drove to the Food Lion supermarket for some snack items. In the parking lot I spotted an older car that was covered with stickers. As a lover of bumper stickers, I wandered over to read them.

A middle-aged man returning to the car with his wife saw me studying the stickers and quickly said, "It's our son's car!"

There was a "'Vote Obama" sticker and one that said "A nuclear bomb can ruin your day" and yet another that contained the famous quotation from Mahatma Gandhi: "I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ."

Plus at least a dozen more.

It turned out that their son is a student at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, a college with extraordinarily high admission standards and an enviable record of producing scientists, doctors, Fulbright Scholars and Peace Corps Volunteers.

The father wanted to know where we were from.

When I told him Canada, near Niagara Falls, he said, "There was a video made in Canada of a group singing the Hallelujah Chorus in a food mall".

I told him that the video was shot not far from where we lived, and that a friend was one of the singers.

"You know", he said, "a lot of people around here don't like Canadians. They think you are all godless socialists."

"I've heard that", I nodded.

"\But they liked the video, even played it in church. They thought it had been made here in America."

"Un-hunh", I offered, wondering where this was going.

"I love to tell them", he carried on, "that it was made in Canada, and then I ask them did they know that every person in that video has health insurance while we have 40 million people without insurance. And pharmaceuticals cost a lot less in Canada."

As he told me all this, his wife was nodding and smiling.

We chatted some more. I wished their son success in his studies and they wished us a safe trip home.

Nice, pro-Canadian people.

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We spent the following 'free day' visiting the superb Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk Virginia.  More about that in a future Posting.

The next day, after our third night in Emporia, the weather reports were much improved and we had an uneventful drive to Lewisburg PA, where we spent the night.

In case the name, Lewisburg, seems to ring a bell it is probably because of the nearby Federal Penitentiary with its 'Mafia wing' that houses many convicted Mafiosi. Or, the name may seem familiar because it is the home of a respected university, Bucknell.

Lewisburg is supposed to have some of the best-run hotels in the US---ours was great!---and in a future Posting I will explore why that should be. Is it the impact of relatives and friends visiting the Big House, or that of parents and alumni visiting Bucknell?

The next day we were safely home in Virgil, 'enjoying' the three feet of snow that covered everything.

I wouldn't call it 'a damn beautiful day' in Virgil, but it was good to be home!


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See you on February 27th for Posting #104 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

POSTING #102

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Back from a Winter Holiday

It's good to be back!!

I hope you had a fine holiday season and found an occasion or two---metaphorically speaking---to put your feet in the oven of an old wood stove.

A New Way to Search "Letter from Virgil"

You will notice something a little different at the top of the postings from now on, a box marked Google Custom Search.

I have been trying to find a simple and convenient way to search through the more than one hundred postings.

New readers with a special interest in stories about, say, my Immigration, Russian, Jordan or Frontier College experiences have suggested that it would be good to be able to 'pull out' all the postings that pertain to that interest.

The Google Custom Search feature seems to fill the bill.

One uses it in exactly the same way as the normal Google search---by entering one or more key words---but the search area is confined to the blog not the whole web.

I hope you find it useful, and that you will not be put off by the advertisements that help pay for the service.

Florida or Bust

We didn't actually put our feet in the oven during the blog hiatus but instead headed our car to the sunny warmth of Florida---Bonita Springs to be exact, on the Gulf coast between Fort Myers and Naples.

Driving to or from the south in the winter has always been a risky business but this year has been exceptionally tricky, with storm systems from the Gulf, California and the Arctic linking arms and doing a weekly square-dance do-si-do across the middle of the continent and up the east coast.

In this Posting I'll tell some stories about our trip south. Later Postings may pick up other stories from our Florida holiday.

Eating Our Way South.

Having celebrated Christmas with our family in early December, we began packing for a departure on Christmas Day, which, with three nights on the road, would get us to our rental condo by the start date of December 28th.

And then we watched weather forecasts---radio, television, Internet, everything but the Farmer's Almanac. Pat set up an elaborate chart with predictions for the three overnight I-75 stops we had decided upon: Columbus, Ohio; Knoxville, Tennessee; and, Tifton, Georgia.

It soon became clear that Santa was going to treat Virgil and Columbus to an old-fashioned storm on Christmas day.

So we set off two days early, on December 23rd.

It was a good decision, which helped us avoid snow storms except for a few tense hours in the mountains of Tennessee.

The problem was trying to find restaurants over Christmas.

We arrived in Knoxville on Christmas eve and the hotel clerk told us that all the restaurants were closed. He suggested we get some things for dinner in the food section at a local gas station.

We just smiled.

After last year's Christmas eve experience on the way to Hilton Head ( click here) ) we had come prepared. We heated some baked beans in the hotel room microwave and ate them with cheese and bagel chips. For dessert we had Canadian mince tarts from our stash (a Welsh tradition demands that male Hunters have to have 12 mince tarts between Christmas and New Years so they will have 12 months of good luck) and some squares of Lindt's delicious dark chocolate.

Not bad at all!

(For more on the mincemeat tart tradition click here) 

As we set out the next day, Christmas Day, we knew that it was going to be tough to find meals. Our favourite family restaurant chain, Bob Evans, was closed, as were all the restaurant chains that we consider acceptable alternatives, such as Cracker Barrel, Applebee's and Ruby Tuesday.

A USA Today article said that three chains would be open on the 25th: Shoney's, Dennys and the Waffle House. We had had unfortunate experiences at the first two and vowed never to return, and had always given a pass to the Waffle House as a place that was likely to be just too carb-intensive.

Mid-morning on the way to Tifton we needed one of those 'fuel and de-fuel' stops. Spotting a Shoney, next to a gas station, we pulled in for a cup of coffee. As we sat down, the server told us that they were only offering a buffet lunch. After some coaxing she agreed---very kindly---to let us have just coffee. As we left we looked over the buffet tables. The trays of pork chops, sausages, biscuits and gravy, salads and all the other dishes looked good---but not at 10 am. We made a mental note to try to find a Shoney's down the road for lunch.

Unfortunately, neither our trusty GPS nor Dave Hunter's excellent guide to the I-75 ("Along Interstate 75") could find a Shoney's at noontime but the GPS did locate a Waffle House, 10 kilometres off the I-75 in a rundown area of a small town.

The sign was a bit battered and the restaurant could have used a paint job---hell, the whole town could have use some paint!---but it was open.

And busy.

As we waited for a seat at the counter or at one of the round bar tables at the back, we listened to the staff bickering and shouting orders back and forth (it reminded me of the now deceased Nate's Delicatessen on Rideau Street in Ottawa) and inhaled the fumes of a very hot, busy grill.

We were finally seated---at the counter---and tried to make sense of the huge menu with its endless combinations of waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage etc. Totally confused, hungry and low on caffeine, we opted for the first item, "The All Star Breakfast". We couldn't figure out exactly what it consisted of but since it seemed to be the most expensive item, we felt it would probably give us enough to eat.

Soon, two large plates heaped with bacon, eggs, home fries, grits, toast and jam were slapped on the counter in front of us. The food was good and although we couldn't finish everything we made a real dent in it.

As we leaned back feeling full and ready for the road, the dirty plates were whisked away and two more plates each with a gigantic waffle, accompanied by pats of butter and a pitcher of syrup, were plunked in front of us.

We looked at each other as though to say 'we don't need this' but the waffles looked delicious. So telling ourselves that it might be beans for dinner, we dug in and managed to eat a fair bit of the waffles.

We later discovered that the All Star Breakfast has a cult following on the Internet, with people blogging back and forth about the quantity and quality of the dish at different Waffle Houses across the US.

Fuelled by the carb overload, we made super time and changed our hotel reservations on the fly so that we would spend the night in Valdosta, just north of the Florida border, instead of Tifton.

As I waited to check in at the Valdosta hotel, I overheard the man in front of me being told that the only restaurant open in the whole area was Dennys, across the street. "Are you sure?", he asked. The clerk assured him that she had called everywhere.

"I don't know how I'm going to handle this", he muttered to himself as he went out to the car to get his passengers and baggage.

When we were in our bedroom, Pat and I tried to decide what to do.

Our first, last and only experience with Dennys had been some years before in upper New York State. We were on our way home from Vermont and had stopped at a small town, which we later discovered was close to the site of the famous 1969 summer-of-love Woodstock happening.

We also discovered that there had been a re-enactment of Woodstock that weekend.

As we pulled into Dennys---the only restaurant in town---we noticed that the sidewalk outside the restaurant was littered with young people asleep or stoned. We parked and carefully made our way through the bodies into the restaurant. Inside we found that all the tables were taken, some with people eating and others by people sleeping. (It must have been a great concert!)

When we finally got a table, the service was slow and the food abominable.

We told ourselves at that time that we would never again visit a Dennys.

Now, sitting in our Valdosta hotel, we had to decided whether we should give Dennys a second chance or should we dine on baked beans?

We opted for Dennys.

As we entered, we were met by a greeter who wished us Merry Christmas and gave us a specially printed Christmas menu. I was impressed with the choices offered, a good blend of traditional holiday fare with other dishes.

The food surprised us. It was attractively presented and tasty.

Our only problem was our server. She had to be in her 70s, wiry, full of frenetic energy as she whirled around the dining room with a tray--- held high on one hand---loaded with dinners.

I could see a right-winger arguing that she was proof that the Social Security retirement age could easily be raised to 70---or perhaps 80!

The problem---as we discovered later---was that she was convinced that we, as fellow 'seniors', would want---and should have---'senior' portions.

Pat ordered a shrimp brochette dish and I chose the pork cutlet dinner. As she wrote down my order, I thought I heard the server repeat to herself "senior order". I corrected her, saying I wanted a full order.

"It's more expensive', she said.

"That's OK."

Twenty minutes later, the server slipped our plates in front of us and rushed off to another table.

Pat's plate had 4 measley shrimp on a bed of rice---obviously a senior order--- while my plate was covered with pork cutlets.

When we were able to catch the server, we protested at Pat's small portion.

"Oh, have you changed your mind, dear, about having the senior meal?, she asked Pat.

Now, since Pat definitely hadn't asked for a senior order, and since she hates people calling her 'dear' there was potential for a bit of a barney, as the British would say.

In the end, Pat bit her tongue, decided not to argue or send the shrimp back but, instead, to accept my offer of some pork cutlets.

As we prepared to leave, feeling full and telling ourselves that it was better than 'nuked' baked beans, I saw the man who had been in front of me at the hotel check-in counter. He was leading in an elderly couple---his parents we assumed--- frail but elegantly dressed, with a presence that said they were used to eating at their country club or in the dining room of a five star hotel.

The son was whispering something to the couple, presumably that Dennys was the only game in town. The parents were nodding but in a confused way that suggested that they had no idea that places like this existed.

We hope that they had a good meal---and that they didn't get our server!

Back in our hotel room we reviewed our Christmas day meals. We felt grateful that people had been prepared to give up Christmas day with their families in order to feed us.

And our opinion of Shoney's, the Waffle House, and Dennys had gone up a bit. They would be OK in an emergency but, as food critics sometimes say, they would not be a destination.

But when I feel like a dietary blow-out---and even Michelle Obama agrees that every sensible eating regime has to allow for periodic blow-outs---I would think about heading for the All Star Special. (I should add that Pat has made it plain that she would not be accompanying me!)

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On December 26th, Boxing Day, we arrived in Bonita Springs having dined a couple of times along the way at dear old Bob Evans.

Although we were two days early, the landlord generously allowed us to move into the condo.

After we had carried our bags into the house, two very tired people took off for Outback for dinner, and then to a Publix supermarket for some groceries.

Back at the condo, we mused for a few moments on how much of life revolves around eating---and then fell asleep!

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See you on February 20 for Posting #103 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.