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April 9, 2014

Jonathan Tobin: Why Did Kerry Lie About Israeli Blame?

Samuel G. Freedman: A resolution 70 years later for a father's unsettling legacy of ashes from Dachau

Jessica Ivins: A resolution 70 years later for a father's unsettling legacy of ashes from Dachau

Kim Giles: Asking for help is not weakness

Kathy Kristof and Barbara Hoch Marcus: 7 Great Growth Israeli Stocks

Matthew Mientka: How Beans, Peas, And Chickpeas Cleanse Bad Cholesterol and Lowers Risk of Heart Disease

Sabrina Bachai: 5 At-Home Treatments For Headaches

The Kosher Gourmet by Daniel Neman Have yourself a matzo ball: The secrets bubby never told you and recipes she could have never imagined

April 8, 2014

Lori Nawyn: At Your Wit's End and Back: Finding Peace

Susan B. Garland and Rachel L. Sheedy: Strategies Married Couples Can Use to Boost Benefits

David Muhlbaum: Smart Tax Deductions Non-Itemizers Can Claim

Jill Weisenberger, M.S., R.D.N., C.D.E : Before You Lose Your Mental Edge

Dana Dovey: Coffee Drinkers Rejoice! Your Cup Of Joe Can Prevent Death From Liver Disease

Chris Weller: Electric 'Thinking Cap' Puts Your Brain Power Into High Gear

The Kosher Gourmet by Marlene Parrish A gift of hazelnuts keeps giving --- for a variety of nutty recipes: Entree, side, soup, dessert

April 4, 2014

Rabbi David Gutterman: The Word for Nothing Means Everything

Charles Krauthammer: Kerry's folly, Chapter 3

Amy Peterson: A life of love: How to build lasting relationships with your children

John Ericson: Older Women: Save Your Heart, Prevent Stroke Don't Drink Diet

John Ericson: Why 50 million Americans will still have spring allergies after taking meds

Cameron Huddleston: Best and Worst Buys of April 2014

Stacy Rapacon: Great Mutual Funds for Young Investors

Sarah Boesveld: Teacher keeps promise to mail thousands of former students letters written by their past selves

The Kosher Gourmet by Sharon Thompson Anyone can make a salad, you say. But can they make a great salad? (SECRETS, TESTED TECHNIQUES + 4 RECIPES, INCLUDING DRESSINGS)

April 2, 2014

Paul Greenberg: Death and joy in the spring

Dan Barry: Should South Carolina Jews be forced to maintain this chimney built by Germans serving the Nazis?

Mayra Bitsko: Save me! An alien took over my child's personality

Frank Clayton: Get happy: 20 scientifically proven happiness activities

Susan Scutti: It's Genetic! Obesity and the 'Carb Breakdown' Gene

Lecia Bushak: Why Hand Sanitizer May Actually Harm Your Health

Stacy Rapacon: Great Funds You Can Own for $500 or Less

Cameron Huddleston: 7 Ways to Save on Home Decor

The Kosher Gourmet by Steve Petusevsky Exploring ingredients as edible-stuffed containers (TWO RECIPES + TIPS & TECHINQUES)

Jewish World Review Feb. 28, 2013/ 18 Adar, 5773

Imprinted geography: Home is wherever the mountain is

By Sharon Randall




http://www.JewishWorldReview.com | My mountain. I wish you could see it. Our view looks west across the glittering Las Vegas Valley. The southern tip of the Strip, with its hotels and casinos and flashing billboards, looms large 15 miles away.

On the far side of the valley, the Spring Mountains rise up like waking giants, flexing their granite muscles, daring you to try to cross them to California.

In the evenings, after a neon sunset, my husband and I like to sit on the patio watching the sky fill with jets circling the airport.

"Oh, look," I say, "there comes another planeload of money."

Sometimes, if we're lucky, we hear coyotes singing in the dry gulch on the golf course. It's a song that reminds us — despite our tinted-windowed cars and air-conditioned houses and artificially landscaped lives — that we, too, were born to live wild and free. We, too, like to howl at the moon. On occasion. Figuratively speaking.

I'm not sure when I began to think of Las Vegas as home. I never dreamed I'd live here. I never even wanted to visit. But sometimes life takes you places you never dreamed you'd go. And then, there you are with a choice to make: Like it or not.

So here we are. And we like it. A job change for my husband moved us to Vegas in 2006, a year after we were married.

When he proposed, he never mentioned relocating. I'd been a widow for seven years, living in the same house where I'd raised three children on the coast of California, a short walk to the beaches along Monterey Bay.

My desk was wedged in an upstairs bay window looking out on a basketball court that served as a gladiator arena for my kids, their friends and an assortment of dogs and cats. The action seldom stopped. But the distant view was blessedly more serene.

MOUNTAIN HOME
The house sat on the tip of the Monterey Peninsula with salt water on three sides. My window faced east, beyond the basketball court, across the blue bowl of Monterey Bay (we called its curve the Queen's Necklace) to a small coastal range presided over by the queen: Mount Toro.

In spring, Mount Toro turned Land of Oz green. In summer, she was purest gold. In winter, she could be snowcapped.

I loved her. I've always had a thing for mountains. You could say they're in my blood. I grew up on the border of North and South Carolina, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, in the shadow of a mountain called Hogback.

I left Hogback when I grew up. But it never really left me. It has followed me all my life, showing up whenever I needed it — in the faces of other mountains, other times, other places, the coast of California, the campgrounds of Yosemite and now, much to my surprise, in the Mojave Desert outside Las Vegas, of all places.

I saw it again today through a brand-new bay window that my husband gave me for my birthday. He didn't install it. There aren't enough swear words in his vast vocabulary to cover window installation. He hired a crew of men who did not swear at all.

The new window faces west toward California, through two tall palm trees that frame in fine symmetry the lights of the valley, Red Rock Canyon and a snow-covered Mount Charleston — with Hogback peeking over its shoulder. Maybe nobody else saw it. But I did.

KNOWING HOME
We all see in different ways. My brother was born blind. He has never seen a mountain. But he smells rain, hears thunder, feels a warm Southern breeze on his neck and knows he is home.

We are imprinted, I believe, on a cellular level, by the geography of where we are born. The land where we play as a child leaves its mark like a brand on the soul. It causes us to feel a kinship to mountains or rivers or rocks or concrete that is as real and lasting as anything we will ever feel for flesh and blood.

For me, home is a mountain.

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Previously:


Long-overdue thank-yous

My sister's big news

Finding peace wherever I can; at the moment and in memory

I wish someone had told me this before it took years off my life

The best part of being a grandparent

Feasting on scraps: The reality behind a life habit

The only tradition to keep absolutely

The class hears from the teacher's mom

We live in different towns, but share the same home

The value of one true friend

With Sandy raging, a 'which' kind of day

The connections that truly matter

Children don't need much --- but need to know they matter

Cancer is everyone's story

When does 'happily ever after' begin?

Is there ever a good way to say goodbye?

The being and the finding

When fishing, she lands companionship

Trophy sunsets

Helping a friend find the way

A home abloom with family and sunflowers

Healing is our highest calling

Needing help can really make you feel so, well . . . helpless

The bedspread from hell

A phone call to treasure

It was close to the best gift my father had ever received

It was the right time --- not a moment too late or too soon

25 tips for staying married

Some people water your soul --- a storm worth waiting for

Driving country roads helps restore hope

Confessions of a bad-weather magnet

The new star of my husband's harem

Shared family moments are precious, irreplaceable

What I'll remember from serving on the jury in a murder case

When someone walks into your life and never lets you go

Look for beauty

We can't always 'be there' when we're needed

Picture-perfect memories

To love someone is to want to hear all their stories

With age should come at least some wisdom

A story for my grandson

Regretting she didn't help out a woman in need

Post-holiday-visit blues

For 2012, tuck some hope into your wallet

The measure of a time well spent is not where you went or what you did. It's the way you smile remembering it

Treating people we love like the Jello salad at Thanksgiving dinner

We all need something or someone to pull for

Hold on to treasured words, don't trust memory

A storybook princess

Love reaches forward, never back

How to Watch a Sunset

Waiting often comes with gifts

An exceptional book club

There is no guilt in moving forward

Celebrations full of love and buttercream

It takes a whole village of shoes to raise a child

The best stories always tell us who we are

Stop, look back . . . and listen

The great outdoors, if one's lucky, a rock-solid companion

An iChat with my grandson

Lightening bugs and other things make us glow

Each and every Fourth of July a cause for celebration



© 2012, SCRIPPS HOWARD NEWS SERVICE

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