Bette & Bob Mendes in the catacombs beneath Jerusalem's Western Wall. (Note his red travel journal.)

Bette and I took a trip to Israel in the spring of 2012. She had wanted to take this trip for many years. Me not so much, having no desire to be part of an exploding bus or the recipient of some lunatic's homemade bomb. But it was what it was and I'm glad we went when we went. I kept a journal of our trip and here, excerpted from my 38 pages of scribbled notes, is a day in the life of our trip: Sunday, May 6, 2012.

By this date we had already been in Israel for about two weeks. We had started out in Tel Aviv and the port of Jaffa, then traveled north to Caeserea and Mt. Carmel (Haifa) and west to the Golan Heights, spent two days on a kibbutz and then moved south to Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee and on to Jerusalem. After six days of wonder in Jerusalem we left the holy city for Eilat, stopping at the Dead Sea and Masada.

Driving through the desert on this day, we see tented structures and hooded people: Israel's Bedouins. Our guide David Leshnick tells us their tent-like huts have no plumbing and no electricity; the people have no visible means of support other than tending their sheep and goats. I find it amazing that a culture like this could survive into the 21st century, but David explains that they receive heavy subsidies from the state. (The more of Israel that I see and learn about, the more it resembles the United States in its largesse.)

The Dead Sea has been shrinking for centuries and as we approach it we see evidence of earlier shorelines a half-mile or so from the current water's edge. The sea, a third of it salt and other minerals, recedes about a meter a year. I guess if this trend continues, some day there will be no Dead Sea.

We change into bathing suits (not a pretty sight) in a modern locker area and board a tram that will take us closer to the water. Leaving the tram, we walk along a boardwalk until we find ourselves on the beach. It's not covered with sand but rather with crystallized salt, which is almost like poured--but not leveled--concrete. It's hard and solid and irregular.  

There's nothing like a mud treatment to refresh oneself after a float in the Dead Sea.

When I walk into the water it has the feel of a heated swimming pool with a bumpy bottom and there's no sense of the buoyancy I expected--until I walk out farther and feel my legs being carried upward as if I've been forsaken by gravity. I find myself sitting in the water and unable to get up until I sweep my hands underneath me as if I am surface diving. This lowers my legs to the bottom and permits me to get some traction. Some water splashes into my eye and it burns severely. My instinct is to rinse out my eye, but the only liquid available is saltwater, which will obviously make things worse. So I tough it out and eventually the burning goes away.

After our dip in the sea we're trammed to a shower area where there are huge bins of mud. We're encouraged to cake our bodies with this mud and let it dry before showering. It's supposed to do something wonderful to one's skin. I do so and it feels refreshing but somewhat short of wonderful. The overall experience, however, has been wonderful. I never thought I would go bathing in the Dead Sea and I'm grateful that I had the opportunity to do so. Back on the bus we pass evaporation pools on the Jordan side of the road (the road from Jerusalem to Eilat runs along the Jordanian border). The pools are remnants of the Dead Sea, now used for harvesting salt out of the desert.  

Jewish Zealots withstood a six-year siege at Masada, and more than 1000 of them committed suicide when the fortress finally fell to the Romans.

Masada was built by King Herod (apparently everything was built by Herod) in the first century CE (Common Era). It was captured by a Jewish sect, the Zealots, in 66 CE in their revolt against Rome. After Jerusalem fell to the Romans, Masada became the last Jewish-held territory in Palestine. Following a lengthy siege, the Romans finally overran the fortress in 73 CE, only to discover that more than a thousand of the Jewish rebels had committed suicide rather than be captured.

Looking down from the heights of the fortress, the remains of old Roman camps are visible. The Romans encircled Masada so that the Zealots couldn't escape at night. One can also see the water cisterns, still intact after 2,000 years, that enabled the Jews to hold out as long as they did. Walking through the ruins, I picked up a rock and put it in my pocket. It is now in a little plastic case accompanied by a stone and a shell from Omaha Beach. My two symbolic pieces of war memorabilia.  

Electrified fences along the border with Jordan are a constant reminder of Israel's tense relationships with its neighbors.

Continuing our journey south through the Negev Desert on our way to Eilat, we pass collective agricultural communities, kibbutzim, lusciously green with date palms, orange trees and other vegetation. We also see the occasional ibex, wildebeest and other animals.

With the Jordanian border still to our left, there are electrified fences on both sides of the road and, on the right, missile emplacements and other jarring evidence of Israel's tense relationships with its Arab neighbors. We are told that the missiles face in three directions, east to Jordan, south to Egypt and west to Gaza. Although Egypt and Jordan are currently at peace with Israel, recent events between Gaza and Israel demonstrate why the phrase "Just in case" is heard frequently. We are reminded of the country's constant preparedness for war when we see paratroopers on maneuvers, dropping into the desert from Hercules transports.  

Before we enter Eilat we participate in a delightful custom: stopping at a roadside oasis for chocolate milk. I don't know if our guide just made it up or if it's a long-standing tradition, but he insists one can't enter Eilat unless preceded by a quaff of this always welcome beverage.

Bette atop Bessie

The highlight of this stop, however, is not chocolate milk but rather a couple of camels available for tourists to ride. Bette decides she must ride one so our album now includes Bette atop Bessie.

Eilat is a city that just suddenly appears, emerging from the desert with no warning, no outskirts, no suburbs. Just plain desert--then Bam! Eilat! As we approach the city we can see Saudi Arabia on the far side of the Gulf of Aqaba and Egypt on our side, just to the south. It's eerie how small and close these countries are to each other.

Eilat is considered the Jewish Riviera and we're told it's strictly a resort community. But I wonder, being so close to Egypt, what lies beneath the surface that might be used for defense? Hmmm.  

Our new hotel room has a wraparound terrace overlooking the hills of Jordan, an Egyptian border crossing, the Gulf of Aqaba and a small marina for private boats. Luxury in a war zone!  

POETRY 

One by one, each house on the street goes dark,

as balls of tangled lights, removed from shrubs,

get tossed into basement obscurity until next year.

Front doors get de-wreathed,

and family room trees get stripped bare and dismantled.

Houses will get a good dusting

along with some furniture rearranging,

and it's back to normalcy,

where we were before the holidays,

basking by the fireplace,

watching bad network TV. 

There's a kind of reality check, a riveting in place,

that comes once the decorations are stashed

and gifts of chocolate are either eaten or pitched.

Some people call it a resolution,

a new plan for the new year,

but I'm delighted to be back to the way things were,

unrushed and unstressed,

a winter wonderland of quiet Cape Cod living.

Roy & Cynthia Smith

My wife Cynthia and I moved to Southport from nearby Falmouth, our home for 43 years, in March 2012. We had both been retired for about ten years, Cynthia from a teaching career and, after raising two sons, as office administrator for the Falmouth Jewish Congregation. After a tour of duty in the U.S. Coast Guard, I worked in medical research at Children's Hospital, Boston, then at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution as a sea-going chemistry technician and later as a science department administrator. Following retirement from WHOI, I was general manager for a local oceanographic instrumentation company.

We built a home, raised our family, gardened, remodeled the house, traveled in our RV and enjoyed a moderately active social life. When the time came to really cut back on the work and responsibility, we wanted to stay in the area and after studying our options chose Southport.  

During the lunch break on the Boston Harbor trip in July we enjoyed a chat with David and Billie Kapp. In the ordinary discussion about our lives, family and hobbies it was inevitable that Cynthia and I began to expound on the exceptional resource that the Falmouth area has in the Falmouth Service Center (FSC) and our longtime work there as volunteers. I guess that it was also inevitable for David to suggest that we share our enthusiasm for FSC in an article for Southport Village Voices. After much delay I am pleased to share some information about this wonderful organization.  

The Falmouth Service Center at 611 Gifford Street in Falmouth. recently underwent a major renovation.

The Falmouth Service Center was organized in 1983 as a privately funded food pantry to provide assistance to seasonal workers, folks on a fixed income, on disability and those who simply have fallen on hard times.  

The FSC motto is:

"Helping neighbors in need."   

Our mission statement is more specific: "It is our mission to ease stress, reduce hunger, and improve the quality of life for our neighbors in need. The Falmouth Service Center works to increase self-sufficiency by helping build networks among clients, neighbors and agencies."

As an example of FSC activities I quote some figures from the 2012 Annual Meeting Report. During FY 2011, (October 1, 2011 to September 30, 2012), there were 12,533 household visits to FSC for food. This included distribution of more than 32,536 bags of

FSC volunteers filled more than 32,536 grocery bags with food for needy clients in FY 2012.

food. In addition, 1,200 households received Thanksgiving food packages, 1,004 children in 475 households received holiday gifts, 580 food stamp appointments were scheduled, 310 "Fresh Start" Back to School and school supply back packs were given out.  

250 clients attended budget classes and another 150 individuals received financial counseling, 48 elder and/or disabled clients received home delivery twice monthly (which included groceries and two cooked meals). Over 7,000 individuals received clothing and household items from donated goods. Other services include individual consultations, fuel assistance, homeless outreach, Mass Health and Commonwealth Care counseling, as well as on-site medical assistance from Duffy Healthcare.  

Funding for this work is derived from donations of funds and food by individuals and organizations, including the Falmouth Enterprise Community Fund, the Needy Fund, state & federal surplus food programs, Emerald House Thrift Shop, FSC on-site recycling program, and grant awards.  

The FSC provided 1200 donated and purchased turkeys for family Thanksgiving Day dinners in 2012.

The facility, located at 611 Gifford Street in Falmouth, consists of a 5,000 sq. ft. warehouse, food pantry, clothing distribution room, kitchen, interview rooms and offices. FSC has just completed a major renovation of the space to improve access to the pantry, upgrade to a commercial kitchen capable of turning out 500 prepared meals a week, expand the clothing distribution area, provide improved interview areas and increase energy efficiency. Funding for this work has been provided by specific donations and grants.

Cynthia and I have been volunteers for more than ten years. Cynthia works on data entry, keeping track of donations and volunteer hours and maintaining the FSC data base. I am involved with renovations and maintenance projects, trucking in our food supplies or wherever my help might be needed. I am also a proud member of the corporation. A distinguished Board of Directors and a dedicated executive director and assistant director lead the organization.  

FSC is especially fortunate to have as its executive director, Brenda Swain, a gifted administrator and fund raiser who will not say "no" to a request for help. Small in stature, enormous in heart and intellect, it's usually fun to follow in her wake. Brenda leads a group of approximately 300 dedicated, cheerful FSC volunteers from the Falmouth and Mashpee area, each working two to eight hours weekly and a few who do much more.  

The Falmouth Service Center Food Pantry

Why is there such a need in this seemingly well-to-do area of beautiful Cape Cod? Why are resources like the Falmouth Service Center necessary? Here are a few answers: We live in a resort/retirement community requiring services provided by many part-time workers who are supporting families, often on a minimum wage. Some of our neighbors were not financially prepared for a long economic downturn. Some folks are temporarily down on their luck, trying but not quite making it. Some are young, alone and struggling with very adult problems. Some of our neighbors are elderly, without partners and struggling with poor health and financial limitations. They are here, they aren't going away, they are our neighbors and we have an obligation to extend a helping hand. It's the right thing to do.

Rob & Cheryl Hansen doing their gig in Nashville last June.

Cheryl Gulde was born in Woburn Massachusetts, the second of five children in her family. She attended high school in Burlington and then studied at Merrimack College for two years before deciding to become a nurse. She enrolled in the Malden Hospital School of Nursing, emerging in 1976 as a Registered Nurse.

Robert Hansen was born in Brooklyn, New York, at Midwood Hospital where his mother was a Registered Nurse. After graduation from high school in Brooklyn, he moved to western Massachusetts to work, but with Viet Nam and the draft impending, he decided to join the Navy. Following his discharge, he enrolled at UMass, earned his engineering degree and then went to work for General Dynamics in Groton, Connecticut and later with General Electric in Lynn, Massachusetts and Melbourne, Australia.

Cheryl and Rob met while both were members of a ski club (Cheryl: "We met in a bar."). They married within a year and will celebrate their 34th wedding anniversary in 2013. From their home in Boxford Rob commuted to work at GE and Cheryl to Newburyport, where she worked at the Anna Jacques Hospital.

In 1983 GE wanted to send Rob to Australia to work on the F-18 fighter jet engine project, so off they went. Cheryl was trying to conceive and got her name on a list at a fertility clinic there, but before her number came up she became pregnant and they decided to come home to the States in 1985. Cheryl: "My son said he wished he had been born in Australia." They now have two children aged, 25 and 26.

After more years at GE, Rob took a position with Boeing, working on the then new 777 (Triple 7) jetliner project in Washington State. They enjoyed living in the Northwest but all of their family was back East, so five years later Rob transferred to a Boeing position in Philadelphia. After 11 years in Philly they moved to North Andover where Rob continued to work for Boeing, mostly from home. He continues to do this, going to vendors a couple of days a week. Cheryl works for Comfort Keepers and still wants to do some per diem work in a rehab; she enjoys working with geriatric patients.

Cheryl's parents have a summer place in Falmouth, which brought the Hansens to Cape Cod. They looked at Southport, liked what they saw, sold their house and moved into 10 Chadwick Place in early October 2012. They like what they see so far (well maybe not the front yard yet) and have enjoyed several events including Hank Phillipi Ryan and the Progressive Dinner. Both enjoy the morning coffees.

Cheryl unfortunately broke a metatarsal bone putting her "out of the running" for aerobics, but she'll try pool exercises instead. Rob plays poker and enjoys golf; he's already lost about eight golf balls in a 9-hole round here. (Welcome to Southport golf!) He has played since childhood "for the enjoyment of getting out there, not to get better." Cheryl, a beginner, also plans to play some golf. She's been urging Rob to pick up on his artistic skills and his woodcarving. Rob: "When I have the time." They like to travel but have some difficulty fitting it in around family activities. Cheryl will visit their daughter in Oklahoma later in 2013 and they're looking forward to some time at Hilton Head together this spring. Welcome to Southport Cheryl and Robert. Live long and be happy!

IN PART I OF THE GOSSIP CLUB, Kate (the narrator) attends her mother's funeral and recognizes three women she hasn't seen in years. She begins to recount her memories of them and her mother when, as a teenager in the late 60s, she accompanied her mother to Gail's hair salon every Saturday. There, Kate got an earful of the group--the Gossip Club--when they sat in the back room, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and gossiping. At first she thinks they're awful but soon realizes that they're harmless. Roberta, an ex-member of the club, drops by to tell the group she's bought a house next to the town cemetery and claims that the voices of the dead are keeping her up at night. AS PART II UNFOLDS, Kate takes us on a journey revolving around her mother and these women, as their lives intertwine with Kate's own.     

And so the years passed and I grew up and went away to school, got married, had three children and moved across the country with my own family. The Gossip Club with its seven members in all excluding Roberta, went on. By the time I was in my mid-forties I was divorced, my children grown. I moved back east before I was fifty, after my Dad died and Mom was alone. My kids were scattered around the country, except my youngest boy, who was still in college. He lived with me and changed schools, hoping to get a medical degree and work in Boston.

I lived close to my Mom. Sometimes I'd take her to Gail's salon, where the five remaining women still conducted their lively chats. By then I had realized that it wasn't so much gossip that they were after, but camaraderie. The women had formed a deep friendship over the years. They often went on day trips together and were still active in the community. Roberta dropped by one day after her husband had passed. She was lonely Mom had said, so they let her back into the club. She was nice but a bit odd for my taste. She still lived next to the cemetery and complained about the dead, though she had learned to tune them out.

I got a kick out of her just the same and dismissed her ghostly stories. Maybe she did hear sounds coming from the cemetery, but no one quite believed her, until Missy, of all people, came up with an unusual idea. She suggested they hold a vigil in the cemetery to see if there was any truth to Roberta's claims. They all laughed, but in the end they decided to go through with it. Since Roberta's husband was buried there along with many of their friends, they felt safe. I didn't like the idea of six septuagenarian women traipsing around a cemetery late at night, even though it was next to Roberta's house. So, I tagged along.

It was late September and the night air was chilly. We left Roberta's house just after eleven -thirty and settled in near the tree line along the back. The moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds as we hiked up the small hill near Dot's grave. She was one of the founding members Mom informed me. I didn't remember her. She died young, shortly after the group started. Betty was another founding member. They were friends of Gail's. Roberta was the third. Her husband was buried in the older section of the cemetery. It wasn't a huge bone yard, but big enough for a few roads to access the far lots.

It was almost midnight by the time we spread the blanket in front of Dot's headstone. Roberta and the others sat down drinking warm cider from their thermoses and beaming  their flashlights around. I walked over to the stone wall behind us to investigate the sound of twigs snapping, but it was just a squirrel. I sat next to Mom, keeping an eye on the woods. Mom and Roberta were leaning on Dot's headstone.

"The chatter usually doesn't start until well after midnight, around two or three though sometimes it starts just after eleven." Roberta said, glancing around nervously.

"What does it sound like?" Missy asked, wrapping her heavy sweater around her thin frame.

"Just chatter mostly. I can never hear the words. Its sounds like many voices in a restaurant, you know all rising above the din of dishware and such," said a stodgy Roberta.

"So you brought us all here to hear a cacophony of chaos, something we can't discern?" Ethel fumed.

"No," Roberta protested. "I didn't say that. The chatter is usually pleasant."

"How can you tell?" Betty asked, sipping her cider.

"One can feel the weight of a conversation. The voices don't sound angry, except sometimes. Mostly they're friendly, though lately there are too many of them and that's what keeps me up. They seem to be growing in number."

"How long does it last, and how loud does it get?" I asked, taking a cup of cider from Betty.

"It can go on for several minutes or several hours, depending on how close they are. Sometimes they're quite loud and very close, like they're right under my window. Other times they're distant like the dead are walking around."

"How creepy," said Missy.  

Everyone began looking around, myself included. After that we were silent for a while,- listening. But the only sounds we heard were woodland creatures and wind. Finally Mom got up. She and Ethel ventured off to nearby graves of people they knew while Betty went with Roberta to visit Roberta's husband. Gail went off on her own just a few rows away while Missy and I stayed behind. When Mom came back, she and I visited another former member's grave, Olivia.

"I'm not sure I remember her either," I said. "Just how many members were there?"

"Eight all together. Olivia was the fun one. Like Dot she was with us early on. She was the practical joker in the group and often had us in stitches. She moved away shortly after you started coming to the shop. We all missed her."

"I think I remember her now," I said, recalling how the group would often break out howling in the back whenever she was there.

"Olivia was a great story teller too," Mom added. "She moved back to take care of her mother and died shortly after you got married."

"It seems so long ago," I sighed.

"A lifetime ago," Mom nodded then crossed her arms to ward off the chill.

It was strange, but Mom and I bonded that night in a way we never had before. It was like a common thread uniting us as if something sacred had been passed on from mother to daughter. My heart warmed, and I felt a kind of kinship with these women, the live ones and the departed.

The rest of the night was quiet, save for the occasional owl and small creatures running about. There were no voices of any kind, nor did we see any wandering spirits. Roberta

felt foolish, but no one called her a liar. After they all left, Mom decided to stay the night with her. I didn't like the idea but thought it was best Roberta not be alone.  

I went home.

The next day Mom told me that she and Roberta did hear voices around three in the morning. Mom said it sounded exactly as Roberta had described; noisy, like many people talking at once. She said the whole paranormal experience lasted only about fifteen minutes then quieted down as if the voices had moved away or faded. They gave her chills. My mother didn't say anything to the other women. Roberta had asked her not to.

Later, after Mom's funeral the women all came back to her house with me. They wanted to be near Mom's things. I told them I would have to sell the house. They were saddened but understood. They were all so nice and very supportive as I went through the grieving process and the pain of selling my childhood home. I asked them if they still met at the shop for their gossip sessions. Ethel reminded me that they stopped after Gail died, when her daughter took over the shop.

"Oh we tried, but Candy didn't like the idea of us old biddies taking over the back room. She has a younger clientele and doesn't think it fitting. So we only go there now for haircuts," Ethel lamented. "But I think I might take my business elsewhere."

"Oh, you can't do that," Missy piped up. "We owe it to Gail's memory."

"I don't know," Betty said. "Candy is nothing like her mother. She's impatient and intolerant of older people."

"She was like that with Gail when she got older too, even when she was sick," Ethel sneered. "I don't think she had much sympathy."

"How sad," I said. I liked Gail, but I never really knew her daughter. How things change.

"So you don't meet anywhere I asked?"

"Well," Missy said, glancing at Ethel, who put a finger to her lips. "No," she said, and looked away.

I thought it was odd, but it wasn't any of my business. As long as they were happy and kept their friendships alive, it didn't matter how or where they met, or even if they did, they would always be together.

And so the women kept me company in those long lonely months, and for years to come until, one by one, they died. I attended each of their funerals, and all were buried in the local cemetery next to Roberta's old house, except for Missy, who had her ashes spread on a nearby pond, her favorite place to walk and picnic.

I often thought about them in my own old age, even when my youngest, the doctor, put me in the nursing home because I could no longer live alone. Dementia had set in. But I can still hear their laughter erupting from the back of Gail's shop and see smoke billowing out of the room. I can hear customers chatting and hair dryers blowing. I hear my mother's laughter and Ethel's quick witted remarks. I can see Betty's bosoms shake whenever she'd explode with laughter. I can picture Missy saying or doing something sweet. I can still recall how Roberta's face lit up when she rejoined the club,and can feel her disappointment when the night at the cemetery had not produced one single ghost or sound of the dead. It doesn't matter how much time passes, I still see them laughing, fighting, and helping each other through a crisis. They had always been there for one another. But mostly I hear them gossiping, sharing the many stories that had brought them together in the first place.

And when I died I saw them again, these eight women, including Olivia and Dot. They

were all sitting on or near the stonewall chatting in the back of the cemetery, except Roberta. She was perched atop a tall headstone, not far from her old bedroom window. She was looking up, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The smoke blew across their faces, but had no odor. From a distance I heard people talking and the familiar sounds of running water and hairdryers going. The customers began filing in. I couldn't see them, but I heard their incessant chatter, just like Roberta had said. It got noisy as the shop began to fill up. That's when I knew who all the voices were that had kept Roberta up at night. And that's when I knew that the remaining women had secretly met here after Gail's daughter had broken up the gossip club. They had opted to be with their friends until their own deaths.

"Time to get started," Roberta said, jumping down from her perch. "It's almost midnight."

"Are we going to keep the new people in your house up again tonight Roberta?" Ethel asked with a sly grin, her form fading in and out.

"Maybe later," Roberta said. "First let's go visit our husbands then find a spot to gab."

I smiled. Gail winked at me and said it was nice to have me back. My mother walked out of the shadows and took my hand. "What took you so long Kate?" She asked.

"I told you she'd join us one day," Betty said.  

"You must tell me news from the other side," Mom whispered as we caught up with the others who were already heading downhill and gossiping away.