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SCRAMBLING, SCRAMBLING...I CAN'T keep up!
Yesterday evening, dashing in to center city on business just about closing time, I find the streets blocked off for a fiesta of fireworks. Folks are already congregating, and traffic is clotted. Trees are swaying in the stiff breeze that is ushering in rain! On the radio, the broadcaster is announcing a severe thunderstorm watch. The folks putting on this show, what on earth will they do?! I wonder.



A short time later, headed out of the city and inching along, the sky is an ominous gray. I think of my yard man and the little actor waiting for me at home. The minute I get there, they'll clamber into the car and we'll be off to a picnic at the home of an Amish family. Also invited are a group of visitors from various European countries. The folks hosting this picnic, what on earth will they do? I wonder.

While I can't tell you how the fireworks fanfare fared, Reader Dear, I can detail the dinner (it happened indoors!) The Yard Man, Little Actor, and I rode through torrents of rain on our half-hour journey to the home of the hosts. We saw fireworks in the sky, a very brief display, but vastly more impressive in terms of sheer magnitude than any that were set to go off in center city!

















There were nineteen people around the long table at the home of Melvin and Esther, counting only those who could sit up in a chair (and, at the very least, eat one piece of jelly-bread after another, and ask for more) and not counting their six-month-old grandbaby. We all reached and helped ourselves from steaming bowls of pork, potatoes and carrots, platters of corn-on-the-cob, and dishes of tangy coleslaw, then passed a big bowlful of berryful, whipped-creamy delight. When the meal had ended and the second prayer been observed (the Amish bow their heads for a silent prayer before and after dining), I helped wash the dishes along with Carla from Germany and Mary Jane from Luxemburg, both of them fluent in English (which was marvelous for me, Reader Dear, as it meant my end of the conversation could go beyond speaking of coup d'etats, lyrics to the Beatles' Michelle, and numerals from one to one hundred.



Seated snugly on the spacious porch, I was fortunate to end up next to Mah-ri Zhan (it's my best approximation to the lovely French pronunciation) whose native language is Luxembourgish, but who is fluent in four other languages, as well. She tells me that Luxembourgish is technically called a dialect, but to the native citizens of Luxembourg, it is a language, and one near and dear to their hearts! When I press her, she speaks a bit of it for me (to present to you, Viewer Dear! [I'm in the dark as to what she said, so if you are able to translate for me, Dear Listener, I'd be ever so appreciative (I'm saying "Merci!" in advance)]).

Alas, there are so many other fascinating bits of our conversation I would tell you if only I had the time. But I'm scrambling, scrambling! I must say " Äddi"!*


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*(It's Luxembourgish, yes!)