Issue 12 Smultronställe, 2023

Ethnosphere Connect, Express, Inspire

Smultronställe Swedish (n) : “place of wild strawberries”; a special place, often secret or hidden, where one finds solace, peace, or happiness Collection 12 - December 2023

Elise Hanson

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Contents

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Masthead

Saved by the Parks Seeking to relieve the pain of a swollen foot, Debbie starts walking in the park every day. The rewards are far beyond what she expected.

Winter Photography by Nick Hoeller

A Letter from Kurt Vonnegut An old message from author Kurt Vonnegut to high school students inspires Mitchell to write a poem.

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A Kingdom in My Corner

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On an Enchanted Street in France

A short story about getting lost in the process of writing and creating.

Madeline reminisces about the apartment where she stayed during her two years in France, and reflects on how time seems to keep pulling her back to it.

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Aunt Ruthie’s A poem about the solace of visiting an aunt.

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A Mind in Motion

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Nestled in Sedona

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Winter Photography by Nick Hoeller

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A Letter to Our Readers

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Beyond the Magazine

Gail and David find different ways to handle the stress of their medical careers. COVID-19 presents a difficult challenge.

Linda shares a place where she feels at peace: a chapel in the heart of Sedona.

The editorial staff closes out the 12th and final issue of 2023 with a thank you to readers and contributors for their support.

Learn more about the people highlighted in this issue and see where you can view more of their work.

Nick Hoeller

www.ethnospheremagazine.com

Editor

Madeline C. Lanshe editor@ethnospheremagazine.com

Editorial Staff

Mitchell Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Madeline C. Lanshe, Marcia Neundorfer, Mike Neundorfer

Designer

Madeline C. Lanshe

Photographers

Elise Hanson, Nick Hoeller, Debbie Kifer, Thomas Ostroski

Writers

Grace Demaree, Mitchell Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Madeline C. Lanshe, Sadie Tooson, Gail Waitley, Linda Williams

Published by Advanced RV

2023 Advanced RV. All materials contained in this publication (including text, content, and photography) are protected by United States copyright law and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, displayed, broadcast, published, or modified in any way without the prior written consent of Advanced RV. Contributors retain all rights to their stories, photography, art, etc. while giving Ethnosphere Magazine/Advanced RV the right to share their work in the digital magazine, print, and any other way they see fit for creative or promotional reasons.

Nick Hoeller

Saved by the Parks

by Maureen Gregory

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ears of a sedentary lifestyle, poor food choices and the lack of any meaningful exercise had left Debbie Kifer in a less than ideal state. At only five feet tall, she carried 255 pounds on her short frame. When she retired in 2012 from her desk job in the federal court system, she was wearing size 24 clothing. She was looking forward to leisurely spending her days at home after leaving the office rat race.

Soon after settling into a passive retirement, a swollen foot began bothering her. Oddly, Debbie found that walking seemed to alleviate the problem. So she came up with a plan to ease the pain – she would try going on regular walks at a nearby park called Lake Erie Bluffs. The trail was a one mile loop. Easy-peasy, she thought.

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Debbie did not make it very far, though, before she was out of breath and too tired to carry on.

She was forced to turn around and trudge back to the parking lot. She returned the next day, and every day after that, with high expectations, only to be disappointed when exhaustion got the best of her.

“I just couldn’t do it,” she explained. Refusing to become daunted, Debbie forced herself to keep going back to that park. After a while, she began to feel a small taste of success as each day she was able to press on just a little farther than the day before.

It was a cause for celebration when, three months from the day she started, Debbie was able to complete the entire one mile loop at

one time without stopping to rest. She was still relishing the sweetness of victory when she decided to set another goal for herself: she would continue her daily walks until she spotted a bald eagle in the park. Within the next month, that goal was met when she was lucky enough to see both a mature bald eagle and an immature eagle in a tree near the trail. And the bonus – Debbie’s foot pain had resolved itself and she felt a few pounds lighter.

The exhilaration Debbie experienced upon reaching her goals made her want to continue the daily walking regimen. The drawback was the boredom she felt while walking by herself.

Her solution was to start bringing a camera and document any of the interesting things she might see. She also decided a change of scenery was in order. Debbie began researching online to see what other parks were located near her home in Northeast Ohio.

Friends suggested some of their favorite parks as well. Thus began an adventure that led her to discover a network of trails, marshes, ponds, forests and meadows, all teeming with wildlife and flora. She began to spend hours every day walking, while using her Canon camera to capture the beauty that was all around.

Debbie became immersed in the world of nature photography. She upgraded her equipment to a Nikon P950, which included a high quality zoom lens. Boredom was no longer an issue.

“You see so much more when you are searching for interesting subjects. You never get bored when you have a camera.”

Debbie found that a certain

camaraderie exists among the other camera enthusiasts she would encounter in the parks.

She made some friends who were happy to share their knowledge about the parks and tips about nature photography. Occasionally, Debbie will spend a few hours together with a park friend, walking and searching for those perfect camera shots of graceful birds in flight, a camouflaged praying mantis, or maybe a field of sunflowers swaying in the breeze. But mostly, she walks alone. “It’s hard to walk with others. We each have our own pace and our own obsessions. I may want to spend an hour searching for an owl’s nest that was rumored to be on a certain trail. That may not be a priority for someone else.”

It is safe to say that parks have become Debbie’s special place. She will travel far and wide to

explore someplace new or to return to a favorite spot. She has found an amazing variety of public spaces that never fail to impress. She does have her favorites, though. “Chagrin River Park has the most diverse range of wildlife, while Holden Arboretum has the best landscape displays of plants and flowers, but with the most solitude. Cuyahoga Valley National Park is 33,000 acres of beauty. I am smitten with the great blue herons who have hundreds of nests in the park.” When asked for a few nature photos to accompany this story, Debbie let out a laugh. “I have over 200,000 photos from the parks stored on my hard-drive. How many do you want?”

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These days, there is no place Debbie would rather be than a park, with her Nikon camera in hand. She has come a long way from that first grueling, one mile loop in 2012. In fact, while conquering one walking goal after another, Debbie accomplished something else along the way. Her now size 8 body weighs a slim 130 pounds. No crazy diets, no pills, no weight-loss surgery. Just walking in the parks. Every day.

With her camera.

There is one size 24 shirt still hanging in the closet. For Debbie, it is a symbol. “That shirt is a reminder of a battle I won,” she says proudly, “all starting with that little loop.”

Nick Hoeller

- Mitchell Dunbar

A Kingdom in My Corner

by Sadie Tooson

“Are you plotting a murder?” I heard my roommate ask.

“A heist, actually,” I murmured, still writing in my notebook.

“I brought you coffee,” my roommate deadpanned.

This fully pulled my attention from my notebook. I put my pen down and looked up.

“You’re the best.” I took a sip of my coffee and watched my roommate as she took in my space. This corner in the room was littered with my scattered ideas and notes.

“Well, happy plotting,” she said, pulling her eyes away and walking out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

I rolled my eyes as I got up and closed the door. Turning back around, I took a moment to observe my corner. From this vantage point, it looked chaotic and cluttered. Papers were spread across one area under an array of colored pencils. A section of the wall was covered in maps and diagrams of castles and chambers. On the desk, sketchbooks and notebooks climbed the wall. In the center of the chaos sat one open notebook, a pen laying where I’d left it to sip my coffee. I walked back to the desk, sat down, and picked the pen back up. The chaos around me shifted and organized and I reentered the kingdom of Leon Falls. As my pen moved across the page, the forest and palace took shape, and characters flushed out their plan.

With a wink, the plan is set in motion. Three friends discreetly exit the ballroom and make their way to the palace vault. They nearly get away when they hear guards walking on patrol. The friends wait for them to pass. When they are clear, they meet the last member of their crew as he waits to drive off in a stolen carriage. Once they are far enough away, they grin at their success. The driver steers the carriage to a clearing near the river and they all climb down to count their new treasure.

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I turned the page and began to sketch. Forests, rivers, and the palace of Leon Falls took form. In a quiet corner in a tavern, Finn, Iridessa, Marisol, Kael, and Merrick are sitting around maps in a crowded tavern. A ballroom is bustling with people; dress skirts twirl across the dance floor. The palace vault is filled with glittering jewels. A carriage flies through the forest in the night. Next to a river, the five friends surround their new treasure.

“Hey!” I jumped as I was pulled out of the world I was sketching.

“It’s been hours, you have got to eat something,” my roommate said.

I looked out the window and saw that the sun was setting.

“You’re right, I’ll come make something in a minute.”

She disappeared into the hall, leaving the door open again. I looked at my notebook, my story spilling across the page. I closed it, sealing the characters and world within, satisfied with the knowledge that they’d be waiting for me, and there would always be another adventure.

On an Enchanted Street in France

by Madeline C. Lanshe

To experience a new place for a moment is beautiful. To witness it through all the seasons, both night and day, is miraculous.

On the east side of the river Sarthe, in the center of Le Mans, France, an ancient Roman wall and watchtowers border the bottom of a hill. Like protective arms, they hold inside them the gem of the city: Le Vieux Mans. Whether taking the dozens of stairs on either side of the tunnel under which the road passes, or walking up a meandering street that leads behind the wall, you will find yourself inside the beating heart of the historic quarter. Veins of cobblestone streets wind through, crisscrossing here, descending and re-ascending there, leading you back to where you came from if you’re not careful; renaissance-era buildings and timber-framed houses reaching four stories tall press against each other, forming walls between which the people, like blood cells, flow; restaurants, with outdoor patios or street seating create the pulse, thrumming always with activity and conversation during meal hours; ornate doors, like valves, open and close to those fortunate enough to hold the keys, hiding behind them secret gardens, layered terraces, and secluded courtyards.

Resting like a long medieval carpet, on the opposite side of the Old Town from the wall, lies Rue Saint-Flaceau. No street will ever be as beloved to me; no abode as cherished as number 6.

What I describe next is the apartment as it was when I lived there between September of 2018 and August of 2020, having taken a job teaching English at the Le Mans University.

The red street door opened to a small hall. To the left, a door to the apartment on the rez-de-chaussée. Straight ahead, a spiral staircase of dark brown, wooden steps, uneven and slanted, wound up three flights. The air, un-circulating, smelled strongly of dust and mildew, weighing heavier and hotter as you climbed, passing a door on each level until you dead-ended into the final door at the top of the stairs. A small landing, made from the same wood as the stairs, was in front of the door. Inside, what I can say with all the bias of someone irrevocably touched by sentimentality, was the most splendid apartment in the city.

To the right upon entering was a tiny kitchen with a half-sized fridge and a gas tank to fuel the oven hiding under a counter beind a curtain. A slanted window looked out at a neighbor’s apartment across an unseeable courtyard below. Continuing past the kitchen was the living area/dining room/ bedroom. A table and four chairs pressed against one wall, and a highly uncomfortable seat made of wood, like a woven basket, with flattened, age-worn cushions, sat against another. In the corner, under the slant of the ceiling, a large mattress sat on a slightly-raised platform. My dad would send me one postcard every week, usually purchased on eBay, which I started taping to the slant.

By the end of my stay, it was nearly covered from bottom to top. Sleeping there was like sleeping within a cozy den, which I found extraordinarily comforting, with more room than I’d ever had in a bed before. Plenty for me, the few stuffed animals I’d brought over the Atlantic, the books I was making my way through, and a box of tissues for the not-so-rare nights of sobbing into my pillows.

The bathroom included a shower, which leaked onto the floor with each use, hardly big enough for shaving one’s legs; a toilet placed, inconveniently for men, under the slant of the roof, making it impossible to stand up straight while peeing, and a window that demanded to be covered by a towel so that the neighbors couldn’t see in, causing the whole room to fog up immediately

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from the steam of the shower since the ventilation was now blocked.

But the most spectacular feature of the apartment was the windows in the living space.

Or, rather, their views. One looked out over a patchwork of rooftops, with the bell tower of the Cathédrale de Saint-Julien visible in the not-so-far distance. Every summer night, a lightshow was projected onto the façade, depicting things such as the Garden of Eden, or the fallen angels plummeting into the fires of Hell, and turning the entire cathedral into stained glass.

The same window looked below onto the most open part of the old town: a parking lot with the Hôtel de Ville on one side and four restaurants in a line, all with crowded patios during the warm months, on the other. At night, with all the lights off so as not to attract ravenous mosquitoes of an unholy size and number, I would open the window. I’d sit on the sofa and listen to the clatter of dishes, jumble of voices, and hum of cars. Sometimes, I’d kneel, watching the waiters, dressed in their fine black uniforms and white aprons, hurry from one table to the next with the grace of water striders.

My second summer there, one server with blonde hair caught my eye. I couldn’t see his face behind the mask all the staff wore. I fancied him nonetheless, the way people develop crushes on movie characters. I imagined sitting in his section, striking up a conversation in my broken French, and spending the rest of the summer in a whirlwind romance. I imagined him giving me an inarguable reason to stay in my darling apartment, on my charming street, in the heart of Le Mans, in the northwest of France for a third year.

Sometimes I would go out at night, when the dinner shift was wrapping up, and walk by, hoping there would be a reason to speak to him. After several nights of doing this, I worked up the courage to stop and ask how late the restaurant was open. But his manager behind him answered, and I returned back to the apartment disappointed, knowing I couldn’t ask him another question now, and all that bravery had gone to waste.

On my last night in France, I finally had the guts to make reservations at his restaurant. But the patio was full, and I was led inside, not to his section, which also meant I didn’t get to enjoy the lovely blue lamps they placed on the outdoor tables. We never had the opportunity to speak.

The other window had two frames that opened inward, with views of the cobblestone three stories below and an apartment of the same height across the narrow street. Often, drunk hooligans passed through at three in the morning, week days and week nights alike, laughing and hollering.

On warm nights, when I didn’t have to teach at the university in the morning, I liked to skip down the winding stairs like a bouncy ball set loose and make my way to the other end of the street, where a tower of sorts stood. There was no way to get inside it. In fact, it had no base. The top of the tower sat on cement that bridged the street. You could climb up the stone and cement if you had the skill, and sit with your back pressed against one side of the tower, just below the roof, looking towards Rue Saint-Flaceau. Steps wound down to the bottom of the hill, grapes grew on a sloping yard, and other greenery spread below.

That side of the tower was embellished by graffiti that got redone every few months, whether by the same people or a group of warring graffiti artists, I’ll never know. When I first moved there, in big red letters, it said “Léo, je t’aime.” I’d sit up there and look up at what stars were visible past the glow of the street lights and buildings below. No matter the hour, people

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6 Rue Saint-Flaceau

would make their way up the stone steps and under the tower.

Sometimes, unaware of my presence, they would walk into the circle just below the tower, which had a stone wall curving around it. It was a popular place for teenagers to gather after school. Once, I found myself in the awkward situation of going unseen from where I sat above as a couple stood below me, whispering sweet nothings, thinking they were alone in the night. I felt like a vigilante, or maybe something not entirely human: a creature of the night. I waited for them to leave, but as the minutes stretched on, and they drew nearer each other, I scraped the stone beneath me, intentionally creating noise before things went too far. They looked up, startled. The girl let out an uncomfortable laugh. I nodded a “Bonsoir,” and after returning the courtesy, they left with as much haste as they could without looking like they were fleeing the scene.

The cats of Rue Saint-Flaceau

There was a grey and brown striped cat with a belled collar who lived in one of the houses on the street. He was frequently found lounging in the sun, ready to greet me whenever I walked by. He’d roll on his back and let me rub his blonde belly.

Living for two years without a pet left me craving animal interaction, and I emotionally adopted this cat as my own and named him Capuche. The name was chosen more for how much I liked the sound of the word than the definition: hood.

There was a second cat who lived on my street. This one was all white, with slightly crooked teeth. He was the type who would sometimes deign to let you pet him, only to swat you away on random occasions, as if to keep you on your feet. He lived in a house-turnedcocktail-bar on the street called Le Saint Flaceau.

He was able to go in and out on a whim, through a flap that had been cut into one of the lower windows, creating a catdoor.

The interior had an 18th century feel, with lovely carpets, tapestries, and furniture. There was also a balcony in the back of the place which was open when it was warm. I liked to order their fancy mocktails, which had artificial flowers or butterflies sticking out of the colorful glasses, and look out at the city. Sometimes I’d worked on my novel, sipping tea in a 500 year old building in France with a sleeping cat on the comfy sofa next to me. Never have I felt more like a writer.

I bought a live, plump Christmas tree from the Christmas market in the town square my first winter. My forehead was covered in sweat, despite the cold weather, by the time I finished the conversation with the vendor. I’d only been in France for three months, so each interaction was nerve-wracking. Later that day, they delivered the tree, now wrapped up, to my street door. Next began the awkward process of carrying it up three flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, I was sweating again. This was the first Christmas tree of my own, and it brought me great joy. I decorated it with lights and ornaments I’d bought from various shops in the city. What I hadn’t thought through was that, unwrapped, the tree was too wide to carry back down the staircase when the time came to pitch it. So, with the only tools I had, scissors and a dull, serrated knife left in the apartment from the previous tenant, I had to take it apart limb by limb. The process took hours and left me feeling like a butcher.

The next Christmas, I got an artificial tree.

My second spring in Le Mans, a mysterious car drove down the narrow street every night between 2:30-4am during the height of the pandemic.

Obligatory confinement had completely altered my routine, and I was often staying up past 5 a.m. and sleeping till the afternoon. It had been over a month since I’d had human interaction beyond a few words exchanged with cashiers when I bought my groceries. It had put me in an odd, dreamlike state of existence.

I decided one night that I would sit at the base of the tower, hidden by the curve of the stone wall, and wait for the car. I settled into my spot at 2:30 a.m. The night was warm, but a grey layer of clouds stretched above. Lightning signaled that a storm was coming. Soon, the rain began, seeping into my black hoodie and coating the stone street in a wet sheen. Waiting for the headlights of a mysterious car as streaks of rain shone in the light of the street lamps and lighting lashed above...nothing could’ve been more cinematic. An advantage to the rain was it surely kept any other late night goers from disturbing my stakeout. I wasn’t sure I had the words in French or in English to properly explain why I was there.

Around 3:30, I heard tires bumping slowly over the cobblestone. The glow from two headlights preceded the vehicle. I knelt on the cement, my eyes barely peeking above the stone wall. There was enough light from the streetlamps that, if the driver looked over, past the tree and towards the tower, they might see my glowing eyes and hooded head.

When the trunk of the car was past, I crept, hunched over, out of my hiding place, and followed at a distance. I peered around the corner and watched it drive down a straight stretch of street which led out of the Old Town. With nothing to hide behind, my mission ended.

I returned to the shelter of my apartment, no answers, but no new questions either. Still, I felt electrified by a rare moment where accomplishing the goal was superfluous, and the moment itself was everything.

I was forced to leave France at the end of that second summer, as my contract and visa expired, and no new visas were getting processed due to the pandemic. I didn’t know at the time, but my plans to return to Le Mans in January of 2021 were hopeless. The world remained shut down.

It would be two more years before I could return to Rue Saint-Flaceau. When I did, Number 6 was no longer available. I stayed across the street, renting one of the apartments from my neighbor in a beautiful 16th century building called the Logis Saint Flaceau. While it was much larger, with nicer amenities and a little terrace and yard in the back, sometimes I found myself staring longingly at the apartment across the street, missing the space I once called mine.

Some things remained the same. The bench on the street was still a favorite make out spot for high schoolers once classes let out, the tower still stood, with a new coat of graffiti, and tourists still trickled past, their accents drifting through the stones and wood.

I even spotted the white cat, creeping through the grapevines and judging the passersby. In the two months that I stayed, though, I never once saw Capuche, which made my heart ache.

The blonde waiter, too, was gone. Perhaps he’d graduated college by then, moving from the small city of Le Mans to a place with grander opportunities. Would I have spoken to him if he’d still been there? Two years of living out of my comfort zone due to the language and culture barriers had instilled a new confidence and resilience within me, which continued to develop when I moved back to the States. It is possible that this time, I would’ve found the courage to be more direct. Or maybe the loathing I still felt about my accent when I spoke French would’ve kept me silent.

Next summer, I will return to France for the 2024 Olympic Games. After a week in Paris, going from one volleyball match to the next, I will take the hour train ride to Le Mans. I could not be more ecstatic, because not only will I be returning to Rue Saint-Flaceau but, with the help of my former neighbor, I was put in touch with the new landlord of number 6, and she has agreed to let me stay.

I don’t know what changes await me within the space that I called my home and sanctuary as I started a new life alone in a foreign country, nor in the neighborhood itself. But I do know that entering the apartment once more, four years after I moved back to the States, will feel like being embraced by an old, dear friend. A week will not be enough. When you fall in love with something, nothing ever is.

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Aunt Ruthie’s

by Grace Demaree

Warm, welcoming, wine Bon appétit, accepted, appreciated Cherished, charming, charcuterie Lazy days, loved, lemons Triple chocolate ice cream, important, impromptu Peaceful, positive, pottery Salads, sunshine, solace.

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A Mind in Motion

by Gail Waitley

E

arly in our medical careers, the efforts of growing our practices and starting a family presented a whole bucket of challenges, obstacles and stresses for me and my husband, David. Trying to juggle call schedules with sleepless nights, family obligations, and career aspirations put us in a place far out of our comfort zone. We had left the isolated world of medical school and training and were now combining two medical careers with a once familiar world. Life was exhausting and overwhelming. Most terrifying was the realization that we were no longer the same carefree people we once were when we started medical school. We hadn’t yet mastered the art of leaving our work at the hospital, along with the accompanying frustrations and rainbow of emotions we felt there, so unpleasantness and tensions were starting to seep into our home and personal health. But, as in common medical practice, early detection of a problem is the best prevention.

As scientists would, we tackled the stress of our lifestyle like an experiment. Starting with the development of a hypothesis, then gathering our materials, we would be able to formulate a schedule and a plan to create a more balanced space in which to exist. Relying on several nannies, family, and individual ‘to-do’ lists, we divided and conquered. We believed

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that daily physical activity would be a great stress relief. I would go to the gym early in the morning before work and David would go after. Weekends allowed the opportunity to involve the children in family-time physical activity. For days when leaving the house was less convenient, we installed a gym in the basement that included a treadmill, elliptical, stationary bike and a universal weight machine.

The cardiovascular equipment was placed in front of a television alongside a wide variety of DVD’s. Concerts of our favorite groups, comedy shows, and movies were our favorites to watch while exercising. It became apparent that our ‘safe place’ was the concept of distraction.

Exercising together, watching a music DVD while discussing the good, bad and ugly aspects of our day, was the most therapeutic release that we found. It was not healthy for us to ignore the life-or-death situations we were involved in every day, and distraction provided us with a mental break, allowing us to return to those same stressful situations with a fresher, more relaxed perspective.

Our routine eventually incorporated travel all over the world. From taking local trips, to cruises, to hiking the Alps, travel and its planning not only presented unforgettable experiences, but different stressors that distracted us from our taxing work

environment. Excluding some outliers, we had decades of what we considered a well-balanced life as a medical couple. That is…until COVID came along.

Late in October of 2019, the US was alerted to a coronavirus that was previously unidentified in humans. This meant that there was no preexisting immunity in the global population, making everyone potentially susceptible. The virus had a high rate of transmission, both through symptomatic and asymptomatic carriers. This, combined with global travel, led to widespread dissemination across the globe, leading to a pandemic. The severity of the symptoms in a significant proportion of the early cases placed immense strain on health care systems worldwide, leading to overwhelmed hospitals and a need for unprecedented public health measures.

Despite using the personal protective equipment (PPE), it was still an agonizing feeling walking into a patient room when so little was known about the disease. Both of us left the house thinking, “How are we NOT going to get this?” We witnessed people suffering and dying from the disease. Young and old. The hospitals now looked like war zones. Patients had to be placed in the hallways as there were not enough hospital rooms to accommodate those who were infected by COVID. The shortage of ventilators and other lifesaving equipment forced the medical community to choose who would live or possibly die. We were often treating our hospital staff, colleagues and friends. As physicians, we take an oath to never see in the patient anything but a fellow creature in pain. We also took an oath to ourselves a long time ago to always trust in God and let God continue to direct our clinical and personal decisions. In the hands of

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God, we tackled the workload.

The overwhelming number of patients and the fear of the disease fronted another problem.

Not only did we see hospital staff become ill, with some perishing from the disease, but they were also rapidly resigning or retiring from the medical field. We were now required to work more shifts, and everyone’s time off and vacations had to be canceled.

David, who practices infectious diseases, was particularly affected. The infectious disease experts were working tirelessly, trying to develop treatment plans and vaccines. David’s group collaborated with other groups around the world, eventually starting to treat the illness with steroids and antivirals. The treatment, along with less virulent strains and vaccine development, paved a path to better and more successful patient outcomes.

The patient care aspect of David’s job was physically and emotionally taxing. Coming home from work was just a transposition of his physical self from hospital to home. Instead of leaving the hospital to get a little solace at home, his day extended well into the night as he was constantly called by staff, friends and families of staff, and colleagues, all looking for COVID advice and treatment.

Needless to say, the ‘safe place’ we once knew our home to be was long gone. As we were constantly exposed to the virus, distancing ourselves from each other and living in different parts of the house was the new normal. No more going out to the gym as the virus was everywhere. No more gym time at home as we were too exhausted to work out. It was amazing to discover how one can lose interest so quickly in a lifestyle that was so beneficial and satisfying.

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A new distraction developed. We started watching YouTube travel videos. Road trip videos, especially about national parks, were particularly interesting, as we no longer desired to travel by plane or train. The concept of traveling in a mini house became a fascinating idea that we spent countless hours researching.

This led to building and purchasing a Class B RV. Unfortunately, this was a less physical activity, but given the circumstances, it provided a more than adequate stress relief from our distressing work atmosphere.

The ability to travel and conveniently park our little home on wheels felt like an incredible freedom. Witnessing firsthand the devastation of the virus, social distancing and masking was of utmost importance to us. Not having to travel on planes or go into public restrooms or restaurants only solidified our desire to invest in an RV. We have since then spent long days at the lake, attended David’s beloved cross-country meets, and visited the national parks.

COVID is still around, although less threatening.

The work atmosphere is still stressful and incredibly busy. David is now semi-retired from his amazing tenure as an infectious disease specialist, planning to fully retire in May, 2024.

We hope to eventually return to a more active lifestyle, incorporating spontaneous RV travel into our plans. We want to head southwest again this winter for two weeks before escaping into the dreamworld of planning a European road trip with our new van. A place of solace for us is not always a quiet, physical space: it is a place of change, a place that replaces one mindset with another. This, of course, is all secondary, as our true solace is our trust in God.

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Nestled in Sedona Visiting the Chapel in Sedona, Arizona, I always feel a sense of peace, calm, and quiet, even with other people around. Perhaps part of it comes from vibes from the vortex at Bell Rock, which can be seen in the background of the top center photo. Or maybe it’s just the beauty of nature I find there.

Truly, it is God’s country.

-Linda Williams

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Nick Hoeller

Dear readers and contributors, This issue, the twelfth, marks one year of publications for Ethnosphere. We’d like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read it. We give special thanks to those of you who have contributed your stories, photography, art and poetry.

In 2024, we hope to continue elevating the quality of our publication and connecting more people from around the world. Ethnosphere is built around the beliefs that everyone has a story to tell and that, while we all have our own unique experiences, we are all connected by the human experience.

We embrace the beauty in learning from each other, and the solace in sharing parts of ourselves.

If you’ve enjoyed the magazine, please share it with your friends, family, and anyone who may want to read it and/or submit their work. We do not have a magazine without your stories, photography, and poetry, and we always welcome submissions! If you want updates, calls for submission, or to know when new issues are published, you can subscribe on our website or on the last page of the magazine.

We look forward to creating more issues for and with you in 2024, taking the knowledge we’ve gained to grow and improve. We appreciate everyone involved, and are always eager for feedback.

We hope the coming year brings you experiences worth remembering, and that you continue to connect, express, inspire, and be inspired.

-The Editorial Staff

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Thomas Ostroski

Beyond the Magazinee Grace Demaree has been married to her husband, Mark, for over 30 years, and together they have four children and three grandchildren. Her Aunt Ruthie’s house has always been an open invitation for their family, and they’ve spent many lovely, welcoming times there. Grace strives to embody Christ’s spirit of charity, and has a particular attachment to the children of Haiti.

She has gone twice to provide ministry, love, and support.

Mitchell Dunbar grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio then London, England, before moving back to Ohio, where he now produces and oversees media for Advanced RV. He loves to create across a variety of platforms. He is interested in photography, videography, graphic design, producing music, and writing. His favorite thing in the world is to go on a hike with someone.

A resident of Willoughby, Ohio since 1955, Maureen Gregory worked in the legal field for almost 40 years. She spends her free time volunteering for a variety of local non-profit groups. Travel time includes visiting her son in Manhattan and her daughter near the Mojave desert. Her oldest son lives in Willoughby, so she enjoys having her two granddaughters nearby. Being retired is all Maureen hoped it would be. She highly recommends it.

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Madeline Lanshe is a writer from Green, Ohio, with a passion for traveling, rock climbing, photography, and getting lost in the night sky. She taught English for two years in Le Mans, France, which now feels like her second home. She works at Advanced RV as editor-in-chief of Ethnosphere, as well as in media production.

Besides dreams of becoming a published fiction author, Madeline is a volleyball addict. She believes life is about collecting moments of magic wherever you go and immersing yourself in the things that light your heart on fire.

Instagram: @mudpuddlephotogrpahy51

Sadie Tooson has always been a daydreamer and lover of stories. She writes stories just outside the realm of reality and enjoys taking a mundane concept and adding a bit of thematic elevation to it. Sadie loves to read, and her friends will attest that she also loves sending handwritten letters.

Gail and David Waitley are a physician couple, each with over 35 years of clinical experience. They have two children. Gail is a hospital medicine specialist and spends her professional time taking care of sick and critically ill patients. Born, raised and educated in Chicago, IL, the birthplace of 16 inch softball, Gail found her calling in the sport. David, born in Evanston, IL has been a lifelong sports enthusiast and participant. He is an Infectious Disease specialist and a founding partner in the largest Infectious Disease practice in the country.

Linda Williams was born and raised in Northeast Ohio. After a thirty-seven year career with the federal government, the majority of which was spent at the United States Attorney’s Office, Linda retired ten years ago and now enjoys many leisurely activities. She has two children and one grandson who she enjoys visiting every chance she gets. She loves to travel; some favorite destinations have been Sedona, Savannah, and Traverse City. Linda enjoys reading, taking photos, winery outings, and lunches and dinners out with friends.

View work from the photographers Nick Hoeller www.hoellerphotography.com Instagram: @hoellerphotography

Debbie Kifer Facebook: Debbie Kifer

Thomas Ostroski thomasostroski.com

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Nick Hoeller