The Poultry Pact, and more

Thank you (those who know already, or are just learning) for your kind comments and prayers since last week, when my Dad learned he has Parkinson's.

Jesus will carry us - especially Dad - through this. We'll process this news in our brains, ask for God's help and do what we need to do.  My mom, my sister and I, however, will need to gather soon, drink too much coffee together, and make a solemn Poultry Pact. For Dad's sake and sanity, the following activities are forbidden:

1. Squawking
2. Clucking
3. Henpecking

In case you didn't know, Dad regards chickens with mild disdain, unless they're presented to him from the grill, covered in barbecue sauce. So keep up the prayers, please, for Dad, Mom, us.

"I don't much feel like posting about my fabulous trip when everyone's learning your news,"  I told Dad, on the phone today.

"Don't let that stop you," he said.

So this post will contain no chickens, but rather an animal much nearer Dad's heart.

At our first breakfast in Murren, the hotel owner served warm milk. We were supposed to put it in the coffee, but I drank both straight up. The milk was delicious.

"Swiss cows," said the  hotelier.

"Do they eat flowers?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

We finished breakfast and walked out of town, along the train track, past a ski lift called Winteregg (a cuter name I can't conceive - egg means hill) to the funicular. We took that, plus another train and funicular, across the valley to a place called Mannlichen, on the lower slopes of Jungfrau.

We hiked all through the mid-day, and ate picnic lunch on a cliff edge, looking straight at Eiger. Note to self: sliced hard-boiled eggs taste great inside a baguette, with meat, cheese & pickles.

The alpine meadows were green with an impossible greenishness, and walking, sprawling, and munching all throughout were the most beautiful cows. Their bells made a bonging, clanking sound that echoed off the rocks and cliffs and hillsides.

The raw edge of this glacier appears blue because the ice crystals are under enormous pressure, so they reflect back only the blue part of the spectrum.

Now wait - we here another cowbell, but where is the cow?

There he is.  Zoom lens to the rescue.

The hike ended at a place called Kleine Scheidegg (little something-hill), where you can catch a cog-rail train to the top of Jungfrau.  Jungfrau's peak was socked in with fog, so instead we took another train down to Lauterbrunnen.

That evening, we had fondue for dinner, of course.

"Cheese is a binder, let this be a reminder!"

-Yvonne Taylor