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Table of Contents Masthead

Remembering Jim

Mike shares the heartbreaking story of losing his brother, Jim, on Easter Sunday.

The Spill that Killed the Thrills

Maureen agrees to go on a week-long ski getaway, despite the fact she’s never before skied. She falls...in love and in life. She is left questioning what do about both.

Sugar Bread 11

Growing up one of twelve children, Faith reflects on her vibrant childhood, the traditions her mother passed down, and those she has bestowed upon her own children.

Beautiful Pieces of Patsy 15

Stumbling across a stack of Patsy Cline CDs, Paula jumps head first down a rabbit hole to learn all she can about the singer’s life.

Motherhood: a Roller Coaster in the Dark

An imagining of going back in time and offering wisdom and encouragement to your younger, anxious, pregnant self.

The Rhythm of Resilience 19 Mike and Marcia take a trip to Cuba, where they find joy, creativity, and strength among the crumbling buildings and hardships of the country.

Submissions 23 June Issue Reveal 24 About the Authors 25

Troy Valentik

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 Madeline C. Lanshe, Mike Neundorfer, Troy Valentik

Writers

Paula Carmosino, Kym Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Faith Lanshe, Marcia Neundorfer, Mike Neundorfer

Published by Advanced RV

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We created Ethnosphere as a place to connect people who are alike and unalike, express pieces of the human experience, inspire, and be inspired.

Troy Valentik

Remembering Jim “If you are not doing something, you are

doing something wrong.” This was wisdom my younger brother, Jim, shared with me while he was teaching me to fly an airplane. I was the second oldest child, and the oldest son in a family of seven children. Jim was next, a couple of years younger than I. We grew up in the country, and Jim was always working on a project. He loved to build stuff. He and I would ride our bikes to the junkyard and scavenge bicycle parts. We’d take the parts home, build whole bikes, and sell them in front of our house. For his twelfth birthday, Jim got a welder. We stripped an old Dodge, shortened the frame using his welder, and raced it on a dirt track we made in a back field. He also built a gyrocopter, which are notoriously dangerous. Fortunately, he never got it to fly. Jim studied engineering in college. There, he rebuilt a 1948 Harley Davidson on the balcony of his room in his high-rise dorm. He also restored antique cars. He was in Air Force ROTC and, after graduating, went to jet flight training. Jim got married and had three children before graduating from flight school. He transferred his remaining military duty to the Ohio Air National Guard and on weekends flew C130 transport planes in Mansfield, Ohio. I had started a small engineering and construction business which could support Jim part-time. He convinced me that we needed an airplane to make it more convenient to get to customer projects around the country.

Jim found an old Beechcraft Bonanza, and I sent him money for the purchase. He taught me

by Mike Neundorfer

to fly, mostly while we were on business trips. Jim made me a pretty good instrument pilot, and I flew for over fifteen years, with nearly 3000 flight hours. During that time, I upgraded airplanes a few times. After working and flying in Cleveland for about six years, Jim moved his family to Houston, Texas, to operate part of the business there. In Texas, his projects followed his passion for flight. He purchased an airport with a grass runway about 35 miles from the center of Houston. He bought the airport on land contract so there was almost no down payment. If he missed a payment, however, he lost the whole thing. Like our bike building days, he salvaged equipment for maintaining the airport and did all the work himself. He recruited a WWII airplane mechanic he knew from Cleveland to work on vintage airplanes in a tin roof hangar of the airport. He was flying for the Confederate Air Force and had two WWII trainers, a T-6 and a T-28 that he flew in airshows. He was also building a custom airplane on which he planned to set a propeller speed record. When I visited him in Houston, I was amazed at all he had going on. It was Easter of 1984, and I had flown our current Bonanza, with Marcia and our three young boys, to Elmira, New York, to visit her family. On Saturday night, I got a call from my dad. He told me that Jim had crashed a T-6 trainer. I said, “But, he’s OK,” thinking there could be no other outcome. My dad replied, “No, he died.” That’s all he said. Later, I learned that a friend had landed his T-6 at Jim’s airport and offered to

let Jim take it up. Jim took off with a neighbor in the rear seat. They did a “hammerhead” stall that turned into a flat spin too low to the ground to recover. They both were killed instantly. Our dad was a stoic, larger than life, 6’2”, 220 pound, hardworking man. He’d joined the Navy right out of high school and was on board a ship in Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked. He rarely shared feelings and had little patience for those who did. I am sure Dad wouldn’t say that Jim was his favorite child, but he was. Jim followed my dad into engineering and into military service. Jim never challenged my dad. He did what he wanted to do, but he did it quietly. I, on the other hand, had long hair and a beard, which my dad hated, and I argued with him over the Vietnam War and other political issues. Like Jim, I managed to do what I wanted to do, but I was rarely quiet about it. After one of my rows with Dad, I remember Jim saying, “All Dad wants is for you to listen to him, he doesn’t care and will hardly notice what you end up doing.” Even now, I think of those words, and I wish I was more empathetic with my Dad, especially on that phone call after Jim crashed. I don’t remember sleeping that night. My mind and heart were trying to come to grips with the fact that Jim was gone. I was also churning about another issue: was I in a state of mind to fly the family safely back to Cleveland? Marcia trusted that I would make the right decision. I was sure that the consequences of a lapse of concentration or judgment during a flight home were so huge that I could stay focused for the short flight. In the morning, we loaded up the kids in the airplane and I flew us back home. It was harder than I had imagined. It took everything I had to keep my mind in

the cockpit. I couldn’t believe Jim was gone. I concentrated on the instruments while tears soaked my shirt. This past Easter marked 39 years since Jim died. I quit flying about 30 years ago, because it took a lot of time to stay current and safe. Also, I never loved flying like Jim did. For me, most of the time, it was work. Since Jim died, I’ve been wearing his Air Force flight jacket. Every time I put it on, I think of our adventures together and the joy he experienced from flying and building things. Recently, I decided the jacket was so torn and threadbare, I “retired” it. Marcia found me a replacement, but still, when I am going outside for chores around our house, I pull on his old jacket. It keeps me connected to Jim, his vision and energy. I still miss him everyday.

The Spill that Killed the Thrills

By Maureen Gregory

A s I sat on an old sofa, bundled against the frigid air, questions swirled through my mind

the word “resort”, and in a moment of carefree spontaneity, I agreed to tag along.

It was March, 1984, and I would soon be approaching the “over the hill” age of 30. My friends had invited me to join them on their vacation to a New England resort for a week of outdoor fun. Never one for sports, I focused on

We would carpool, they promised. There would be no cost to me for the ride, they said. That sounded ideal, I thought. Little did I know that I would be spending eleven hours lumbering down the interstate in a gutted school bus (boldly proclaiming its name, Killer Bee Bus, on the front and side, in a tribute to Saturday Night Live legend, John Belushi), that had no heat, and was outfitted with dilapidated sofas for seating. The tunes were loud, my seat was lumpy and the grub was fast food at its worst. I rationalized my discomfort with thoughts of the fun that was to ensue over the next five days.

like drifting snowflakes: “What was I thinking?” “Why did I agree to do this?” I was on my way to Vermont for a week-long ski vacation with four friends who were all avid, experienced, downhill ski enthusiasts. I had never even tried on a pair of skis before and didn’t own any equipment or clothing suitable for this adventure. “Am I going to regret this?”

Maureen on far left

I breathed a sigh of relief upon our Sunday evening arrival at our hotel, Snow Lake Lodge. It was ideally located at the base of Mount Snow, an imposing mountain in the Green Mountain National Forest, with an elevation of 3,600 feet. I had no trouble falling asleep that night, thankful for a room that was heated and a bed that wasn’t lumpy. After a quick breakfast in the morning, my friends excitedly clomped outside to the ski lifts, and with trail maps in hand, shouted, “See ya later!” Alone, I nervously strode over to the Ski Center outpost and joined the line of other neophytes to see about equipment rental and ski lessons. An hour later, I was decked out from head to toe in the appropriate rented apparatus and borrowed apparel, so as to appear like I was a seasoned pro. However, my first ski lesson proved otherwise. My class of seven adults, all first-time skiers, approached the ski instructor with a great deal of trepidation, but he assured us we were in good hands. We would be spending the next five days learning together. He quickly ran through the basic fundamentals of starting, stopping, trail etiquette and safety rules. It was all very intimidating. We scoffed at his statement that by the end of the week, we would be able to ski the mountain with proficiency. The resort’s 14 ski lifts proved to be tricky and an exercise in anxiety. I quickly realized the ride up was worth the effort though, because the reward was the exhilarating descent back down the mountain. We learned to zig and zag across the groomed trails, practicing techniques like snow plow, parallel turns and the hockey stop. Knowing the right way to fall, untangle your skis and get back up were important lessons as well. 9

Each day was filled with the excitement of learning to control my hips, knees and ankles in order to achieve the thrill of gliding down the slopes. It takes a combination of patience, control, flexibility, gravity, friction and concentration to safely propel forward and downward towards the base of the mountain. Once each daily group session was over, I had a few hours on my own to reinforce the lessons. After the lifts closed for the day at 5 p.m., I reunited with my friends for dinner and a recap of all our thrills and spills. By the end of that week, I could hardly believe my achievements. I was flying down trails like Long John (6,800 ft. long) and Deer Run (8,000 ft. long), jumping around moguls and hopping on lift chairs with ease. I was truly amazed at the progress I had made. In just five days, I had been transformed. That trip to Vermont ignited a new fire in me. I was hooked on skiing. Within the next month, I had purchased my own skis, poles and boots, as well as a certified-warm jacket and pants. I joined a local ski club. My spare time was spent hanging out with other skiers. My spare funds were spent on weekend trips to places like Bristol Mountain and Holiday Valley in New York, or Seven Springs and Laurel Mountain in Pennsylvania. It became an obsession, to experience the freedom, the beauty and the motion of fearlessly zipping along a new trail, leaving a powdery wake behind me. I embraced the cold temperature and spirit of winter. It was incredible, my mind and body working in tandem to bring such joy. Flash forward sixteen years to September 11, 2000. I was running late for work and still needed to drop off my son, just seven years old, at school. I was feeling frazzled as I hurried from my car back to my house to retrieve a

forgotten item. I hastened across the asphalt driveway in my impractical dress shoes, on the same path I had taken a thousand times before. A careless slip of my foot upended me. Both feet flew off the ground, and in that moment I became airborne, like an Olympic ski jumper. I definitely did not stick the landing, however. I came crashing down, with my left leg cracking hard against the edge of the steps. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The immediate sensation of pain was intense and extreme. Seeing me writhing in distress, my son jumped out of the car and rushed over in a panic. I implored him to go get our neighbor. Fortunately, she was an ER nurse who could see I was exhibiting signs of going into shock, and immediately called 911. My first ambulance ride delivered me to the emergency center and a grim diagnosis. My left leg was broken in two places, my ankle was fractured and displaced out of the socket and there were bone chips in my heel, as well as torn ligaments. A week in the hospital, two surgeries and months of recuperation, crutches and physical therapy left me permanently scarred: physically, emotionally and financially. I was unable to work and had to take a leave of absence from my job. I found out the hard way that disability insurance payments were not enough to cover my monthly expenses. I had to rely on a network of friends and neighbors to supply groceries, fill prescriptions, do laundry, take me to doctor appointments and a million other things that I took for granted when I was previously able-bodied. Depression, pain and loneliness were my daily companions. That injury changed me. It changed my outlook and influenced decisions about my future. I

could not imagine myself ever again engaging in any activity that might result in breaking a bone. Caution became my mantra. I began to evaluate the risk factor in every activity that I previously enjoyed. I felt like I had to also start considering my age as a factor. I was on the cusp of being 50 years old. How could I consider buckling on skis when my body was telling me that I no longer had the balance and flexibility that the sport required? The topic of discussion among my friends in ski circles seemed like it had become more focused on hip and knee replacement surgery and less on new ski equipment and planning ski trips. Age has a way of sneaking up on you, but in my case, I felt like it jumped in front of me and screamed, “Stop!” Not a hitand-run exactly, but more like a hit-and-walkslowly-away. I miss skiing. There is nothing that compares to the thrill of zipping down the side of a mountain under your own power, the wind rushing past, snow glistening, powder spraying and you grinning with glee. But I can’t overcome the fear of injury, the threat of a broken bone and lingering thoughts of my age-related loss of physical ability. I still feel an occasional ache from the titanium rod and pins that were implanted in my calf, which serve as a reminder of my unfortunate moment of clumsiness. They say you shouldn’t live your life in fear. Sometimes I have to ask myself if that is what I am doing. Do I lack courage? Maybe. Am I being too cautious? Perhaps. But they also say that with age comes wisdom. And at my age, I like to think that I am conquering my fear of falling by consuming a hefty dose of common sense. 10

Sugar Bread

by Faith Lanshe

Faith on bottom right

Growing up with eleven brothers and sisters

was interesting, exciting and chaotic. The solitude found in writing, reading, and art was highly sought after. Since I was, and still am, terrible at art, I turned to reading. The novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn left a lasting impression on me, and since then, I’d wanted to be a writer, like Francie. Life had other plans, like having seven children of my own, but writing this helps fulfill some of that longing which has never gone away. 11

Many of the things that I loved and cherished as a child have been carried over while raising my children, and now my grandchildren in turn. There is no greater delight than watching your kids and grandkids embrace the traditions you pass down to them. First and foremost, my mom taught us our prayers. Every morning, before we ran off to school, we’d stand in our doorway, my two younger sisters and I in our Little House on the Prairie bonnets, and say our morning prayers.

I didn’t realize the importance of this until I had my own kids. The discipline of offering the day to God and thanking Him for all things has served me well in my life. It brings great joy to see my little grandkids fold their hands and say their prayers. “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad.” My mom was an excellent cook. She had to feed a lot of people and had a difficult time cutting down the portion sizes as each of us moved out. I feel her pain, as I am down to two kids in the home. The first time she made lasagna, we had no idea what it was! Our dad was a meat and potatoes kind of man, so lasagna was “exotic.” At first, we didn’t like it because we didn’t like ricotta cheese. But then, Mom switched it up and used cottage cheese, and lasagna became a favorite. It is with my own family as well. I never remember going hungry - there was always food on the table. However, by Friday each week, the food was scarce, because Saturday was “store day.” Never fear - Wonder Bread, butter and sugar would sustain us. We had a drawer in the kitchen: one side held flour and the other side, sugar. We would pull that drawer out and load up our buttered bread with sugar. “Sugar Bread” still sounds good today. Special Sunday meals were a tradition that continues with my kids and grandkids. When my mom would make spaghetti sauce, she had that old iron grinder, and we would load in the carrots, onions, and green peppers, turn the crank, and watch the water and ground up veggies come out. The hot, buttery dinner rolls were my favorite. On Sundays, we got a glass of chocolate milk with our dinner. Inevitably, with all those kids, someone always spilled the milk. I never served drinks at the table to my own kids - they had to ask their dad.

My mom made the best pies, with the perfect, homemade crust, rolling it out, crimping the top edges, baking it to a golden brown. The pies always looked perfect, until my brother would pick off a piece of the brown sugar crumb top! I never mastered the art of the pie crust. When I found out that one of my sisters was using Pillsbury pie crust, I liberated myself and did the same. Summertime picnics and clambakes at our pavilion were fun-filled. We still use a special “family secret” dressing for the potato salad that has been passed down for generations. Thanksgiving and Christmas had an array of delicious foods that my mom started preparing two days ahead of time: nut bread, pumpkin, pecan and custard pies, Christmas jello, Grandma’s cut out cookies, and stuffing. We would help with the stuffing by toasting the bread and tearing it up. It took a lot of bread for over fourteen people! Trimming the tree a few days before Christmas, putting up the crinkly, red candle wreaths on the windows, dangling the outdoor lights, and hanging the stockings are all traditions that have been carried over to my own family. When I was younger, we had a special Silent Night ornament that our dad always carefully placed on the tree. When undecorating the tree, we saved the tinsel and laid it carefully in the Stroh’s Beer box which was used to preserve it. I wish I still had that tinsel: it was soft and shiny, unlike the tinsel you can buy today. Christmas morning was a child’s delight at our house. Many gifts littered the rooms, and we shouted out names and handed packages to each other. As long as one of us got something, we all got it, so we were really happy for each other. Some of my favorite gifts included my baby doll that I named Theresa, my stuffed

animal monkey named EepEep, and the wagon that I used for the paper route that I shared with my brother. Two gifts stand out in my mind though, because I know my mom went out of her way and thought of me: Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits and my pearl ring. I didn’t think my mom would go into the record store and buy that album for me, but she did. The pearl ring was my birthstone. I don’t know how, but I lost that ring at some point. My mom replaced it for me years later and I still cherish it. My mom loved music. She had a beautiful singing voice and she taught us many songs. Our favorite was when she imitated the Lion from the Wizard of Oz and sang “King of the Forest!” She was proficient at the piano, although she didn’t think she was, and I loved when she took the time to sit on the piano bench and play some hymns or songs that we could sing along to. Many of us played instruments or sang in the choir. I was privileged to receive a violin and years of lessons. I still have it tucked safely away in my closet, ready to be dusted off and tuned if I could ever find the time. We instilled the love of music in our children, too. One of the first things my oldest son said when he could say words was “Billy Joel.” The grandkids unknowingly honor our Irish/Scottish heritage by singing the “Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’’ and the “Irish Lullaby.” On All Hallows Eve we’d run around at night, getting candy while dressed in costumes that my mom spent hours making. After trick-ortreating, we traded candy all night - a tradition my children really enjoyed! It wasn’t possible to eat all the candy. It was more about the fun. Like my mother before me, I loved making costumes, searching thrift stores for great finds, and being creative. We came up with themes

such as Star Wars, Universal Monsters, Batman, and Lord of the Rings. The two costumes I’m most proud of are the Christmas tree, which lit up, and the gumball machine. Then, for All Saints Day, the kids dressed up as their favorite saints and gave a report so we could all emulate the qualities and character of each saint. The key was this: don’t let mom write your saint report because it will be too long! With twelve kids, I’m amazed that my mom wasn’t in the ER every day with one of us. Our Guardian Angels must have been working overtime. I think there were only four broken bones, a few stitches, and an allergic reaction to a bee. One of my brothers broke his leg because he didn’t listen to our parents about not riding his bike in bare feet. One of my sisters had a terrible bike accident, and my mom very gently and patiently picked the cinders out of her torn skin. There was a never-ending rotation of less severe health issues. I remember my mom pouring warm oil into my sore ear and giving me a hot water bottle to ease the pain and my mom and dad bathing my little sister with a sponge and rubbing alcohol when she had fever seizures. Maybe these events led me to become a nurse. We all had chores to do, like pairing all the socks and then putting them in the sock drawer, folding laundry, running the sweeper, helping in the kitchen. I don’t remember being micromanaged unless I was peeling potatoes wrong. The outside chores were usually managed by our dad, but mom was out there, too, clipping bushes, trimming trees, tending to the flowers. They both got poison ivy terribly! When my mom painted something in the house, she would put an old pair of underwear on her head so the paint wouldn’t splatter in her hair.

I honestly don’t know how my mom did it all, as I myself have only a little over half of the number of children she did, but somehow, she more than managed. I don’t remember her being stressed, or ever complaining. I never remember her being sick, except one Easter when she lost her voice and had to nurse it back before Easter Mass because she had to sing in the choir. Living with eleven siblings meant always having a friend, playmate, or confidante. It meant sharing a bedroom with three others. Instead of looking forward to the day I finally had the room to myself, I was sad. We shared clothes, toys, laughter, and tears. We had a lot of freedom, played outside with the neighbor kids, climbed trees, built forts, swam in our little pool, sunbathing in the driveway after. We built rooms out of pine needles and played house

in there with our dolls. We rode bikes, played kickball and football, Kick the Can, Ghost in the Graveyard. It was a simpler time, and I tried to instill simplicity into my children’s lives (which wasn’t easy with the advent of electronics). We only had three channels on the TV (and sometimes channel 43!), and one phone on the wall. We got Burger Chef once a year, new tennis shoes for the family reunion, and went to Playland Park. Maybe it is due to my fond memories of growing up in a large family that I wanted to have one of my own. I appreciate moments of solitude, but I am not a loner, and I’m forever busy, just like my mother before me. Through all the hardships, moments of sweetness are always there to be found, just like sugar bread. Faith fifth from left

Patsy demanded payment up front saying, “No dough, no show.” She didn’t let a little thing like broken ribs and other injuries she sustained from a head-on car accident stop her from performing, she just steadied herself on a pair of crutches.

I grew up in New England, where country

music was not popular. At all. But I stumbled across a box set of Patsy Cline CDs in my cabinet when looking for new music to listen to on a long drive, and I decided to give it a chance. While listening, I hastily decided it wasn’t for me. With that being said, I can’t explain why, but I was still curious about Patsy. I started doing some online research and discovered a few things that shocked me and pulled me in. Patsy Cline, who was more famous than I’d realized, had notoriety that went far beyond her vocal abilities. She was a trailblazer for women and, more specifically, women in the music industry. She stood up to society, unscrupulous promoters, and life itself. Patsy was so secure in herself and her talent that she wasn’t afraid to coach upcoming competition, like Brenda Lee, for example. When Patsy joined the Grand Ole Opry and was told she couldn’t wear pants, she did anyway. As a result of promoters running off with the money from concerts before paying the performers,

Her personality became larger than life as the details about her leapt off of the computer screen and aimed themselves squarely at me. This was someone who was totally different from me. I was raised to not make a fuss, to go along with whatever, and do so, quietly. Through Patsy, I found strength. Slowly, I gained the courage to come out of my shell and be okay with who I was. In getting to know Patsy, her music became more appealing to me, and I listened to it without the bias or judgment I carried with me from my youth. I was so invested in Patsy that I proceeded to spend the following 6 years traveling to sites related to her life. With each new experience, she felt more and more alive to me, and it became harder to believe and accept that she was gone. I started in Winchester, Virginia, Patsy Cline’s hometown, and the site of the Patsy Cline Historic House. This was a must-see for me, as it is where Patsy lived when she won the Arthur Godfrey Talent Scouts show back in 1957. That appearance subsequently launched her career far beyond the local stardom she had achieved in the greater Northern Virginia area.

In November and December of 1962, Patsy was the first major country singer to perform in Las Vegas. Little did I know, The Mint Casino, where she appeared, had been remodeled and renamed. When I arrived there, a little sleuthing was necessary to locate the sidewalk where Patsy had once posed for a photo all those years ago. Much of Patsy’s fame occurred posthumously, so it wasn’t until 1999 that she was finally awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The quest to see Patsy’s star involved a ten hour round trip drive, completed in one day, from Northern California to Hollywood, and back again. It was extremely satisfying to see her name alongside so many other legends. My determination persisted the day the Patsy Cline Museum in Nashville had its Grand Opening. I somehow managed to get there and back, again, in just one day. I didn’t let inclement weather, flight delays, or connecting airport mishaps deter my plans. In the end, the trip was worth the effort, just to be surrounded by so much of Patsy’s history all in one place. Embracing the thrill of adventure struck me once again when Madame Tussaud’s likeness of Patsy toured the museum’s locations in Las Vegas, Hollywood, and San Francisco, before finally arriving for permanent installation in the Nashville location. With the help of the wax figure’s travel schedule, I followed right along to those places. I remember shouting, “There she is!” when I spotted Patsy from across the room the first time. A photo is one thing, but a 3D, life-sized likeness that you can stand next to, is quite another, believe me. And finally, the one place I felt simultaneously compelled to visit and yet avoid at all costs: the place where Patsy’s journey came to an end. Located in the lonely woods of Camden, Tennessee, a memorial marks the spot where the plane Patsy was traveling home in fell from the sky on March 5th, 1963. Patsy was

just 30 years old. She left behind two children, ages 2 and 4. Standing in those woods, buckling under the weight of the tragedy, I burst into tears without warning. It hit me at that moment that she was gone. Eventually, COVID would put a damper on my extensive travels. However, Patsy is never far from my thoughts. My SUV is known as the “Patsy mobile” as it is peppered with Patsy related decals and has license plate frames dedicated to her as well. These items have spurred interactions with other Patsy fans, helping to keep Patsy’s past in the present, always. The catalyst for both my physical and emotional journeys was finding some Patsy Cline CDs stashed in a cabinet. I’d later find out that the day I found the CDs was also the 50th anniversary of Patsy’s death. Fate? Serendipity? Coincidence? I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that in discovering her life and music, I traveled great distances, made new memories, and grew into someone stronger.

Motherhood: a Roller Coaster in the Dark

By Kym Dunbar

Their eyes locked as they passed each other in

the park. Beyond their similar style of clothing, they saw an eerily familiar look in each other - the same hair, the same face, and against all odds, the same name - Kym. Besides the obvious gap in age, the most striking difference was that the younger Kym was pregnant, about 6 months along. Compelled to connect with one another, they found a nearby bench to explore this surprising encounter. What became clear shortly into the conversation was that they were, in fact, the same person, separated in time. Not knowing how long this encounter would last, the two of them quickly moved the dialogue towards Younger Kym’s pregnancy. The child was due in only 3 months, and Elder Kym noticed a sense of uncertainty in her younger self. Now, 30 years older and a mother of four, she thought she’d share her wisdom. 17

Elder Kym framed motherhood as a roller coaster, very different from the merry-go-round that preceded children. Before kids, the merrygo-round was predictable, comfortable, and had a degree of control. Motherhood, on the other hand, was the front car of an ever-changing roller coaster, full of bends, twists, loops, drops, high and lows. It was the most exhilarating and breathtaking journey imaginable…and one that you never get off of. Because a mother “doesn’t know what she doesn’t know” as she climbs aboard, it’s like riding that coaster in the dark! One lesson the metaphor bestowed was that flexibility and adaptability were key - any plans for the week, the day or even for the next hour could and usually would go astray and change. The second lesson was that, if blessed with multiple children, each child presented a unique and different coaster ride - no paths or interests or traits were identical. Elder Kym

had embraced that uniqueness, and her four children blossomed in four special paths. Each had different interests, paces, needs and wants all requiring tailored and specific mothering. Elder Kym swore that she would choose the roller coaster a million times over, because even 30 years later, the ride continues to enrich and fulfill. Younger Kym was relieved to hear such confidence in the journey ahead. Nevertheless, a sense of uncertainty remained. “How will this baby change everything? Will I even be a good mother?”

Elder Kym expressed that giving and sustaining life has been the most rewarding creative act she could ever imagine for herself. While the speed and adrenaline rush of being on the roller coaster demands complete attention, there are moments of the ride where it’s important to catch one’s breath and cherish the experience. Treasure the highs, value the lessons from the lows, and gain strength from fighting through the gut-wrenching twists and turns. Over time, all of Younger Kym’s questions would be answered, but not in any way she could have predicted or planned. That was all part of the ride.

Mike Nueundorfer

Iboardwalk was walking along the South Beach at 3 a.m. Latin music was pulsing.

Strangers smiled and moved down the beach front strip, almost dancing to the rhythm of the music. Most were speaking Spanish, and all were dressed in bright, glamorous clothes. This was South Beach, Florida, a predominantly Cuban enclave at the southern tip of Miami Beach. I was there in the mid 1990s with a group of business friends. I wondered, “Is this what Cuba is like?” It was a country I’d wanted to visit in order to experience the exciting bustle, the eclectic music and the joy of these people. Decades later, in January, 2023, I was finally able to.

My wife Marcia and I joined a group of sixty Clevelanders for a six day trip to Cuba. On our bus ride from the airport to a small, privatelyowned boutique hotel, we bumped along potholed roads, passed buildings crumbling from decay and saw few people on the streets. That evening, we departed for a welcome dinner in central Havana. We all were assigned classic 1950’s, U.S. made cars, and drivers for transport during our stay. These colorful cars often had been passed down from the driver’s grandfather and were well maintained and kept operational by Cuban ingenuity, with engines and transmissions made by various foreign manufacturers. Our orange, 1954 Chevy had been retrofitted with

a Mercedes diesel engine and transmission, stamped with a Chinese brand. At the restaurant, in a hundred year old former mansion, we climbed three flights of dimly lit, crumbling stairs, passing Cuban art on the walls, to arrive at the rooftop. There, a 15-piece live band played Cuban music that filled the night and soon had us all swaying and dancing. The view of Havana lights at night, with darkness hiding its deteriorated buildings, was stunning. Maybe the Cuban vibe I was expecting only happened at night. Each morning, we walked down to the Malecon, the walkway along the ocean, to view the water and imagine the Florida Keys, only 100 miles north. The sidewalks were busted up, the road was marked with potholes and garbage was piled up on several corners. We passed stately, old homes, now dilapidated, some with laundry hanging on the formerly elegant front porches. The only buildings that were maintained were the few government buildings and the newly restored, privatelyowned boutique hotels. The Malecon sidewalk was broken up and weeds grew in the cracks. During the days, we heard wonderful musical performances, including the Youth Symphony Orchestra, exuberantly playing everything from classics to Cuban music to jazz, and a happy choral group of 9 and 10 year olds. We also saw amazing dance performances executed with great skill and joy, a fashion show and several art exhibits. We walked through Old Havana, a UNESCO World Heritage site that is slowly being restored, and took a bike tour of Havana sites. The joy, beauty and eclectic vibe were definitely here, just hard to find. One morning, we listened to a panel of Cuban entrepreneurs, including one young woman

whose designs we had seen in the fashion show the evening before. The three panelists were passionate about creating businesses in Cuba, but were honest about the challenges. Although the Cuban government now allows more private enterprise, the rules are cumbersome

and ever-changing. Complicating that is the embargo imposed by the United States. For example, the fashion designer explained that she is not allowed to import fabric from the U.S. or ship finished products there. She, or someone on her behalf, has to travel to the U.S., pack fabrics and supplies in their suitcase, bring them to Cuba, and then reverse the trips to deliver her clothes to U.S. customers. Also, by U.S. law, Cuban businesses are not allowed to import any product that is more than 10% American made. Cubans have converted large houses to small privately-owned hotels, mainly to house American tourists, because the U.S. government does not allow Americans to stay in the large, luxurious, state-run hotels, with pools and beaches. During the Q & A, someone from our group asked the panelists where they saw themselves in ten years. The fashion designer answered with a laugh, “That is such an American question. I can’t look beyond three weeks.” Yet,

these entrepreneurs chose to stay and create businesses in Cuba. Another day, we heard from the Minister of Foreign Relations of the Republic of Cuba. He joked that his job was to improve American Cuban relations, and he was obviously failing. Cuba is on the American list of terrorist countries, and it is easier for Americans to travel to North Korea, Iran and Afghanistan. Cuba recently created a new constitution and laws to expand human rights and private business opportunities. But, according to the Minister of Foreign Relations, the U.S. has not lightened up on their sanctions. Although neither he nor anyone else claimed that U.S. sanctions are the main reason for the poor Cuban economy, it certainly is a factor. The U.S. continues its 60 year old embargo of Cuba with the intention of making life so difficult for Cuban citizens that they will rise up and overthrow their government. So far, there is no sign that this will happen. Why is this country of about 11 million people so poor? Based on the talks we attended and many conversations with our Cuban guides, there is no single answer. They do not simply blame the American embargo,

although it clearly hurts. Is the problem their own socialist government? That is what many Americans might say. From Cubans, we heard more nuance. One issue is the loss of young, energetic citizens to emigration. Last year, around 300,000 Cubans emigrated to the U.S. One guide told us that Havana used to be bustling with life 24 hours a day. Now, as we observed, there were few people on the streets. Marcia and I chose, with four other couples, to extend the trip with an excursion to the countryside of the Vinales Valley, about a three hour drive southwest of Havana, known for growing the best tobacco. We made the scenic trip in a 1959 purple Plymouth to a farm where a family welcomed us with a delicious dinner, including roast pig, all produced on nearby farms. The power went out at 9 p.m., so after finishing cigars and rum by candlelight, we retired early to our simple casita. The next day, after a wonderful breakfast, we drove directly to the airport. As we reflect on the Cuban people we met, we remember the hard working hotel manager and staff who took good care

of us, despite the chronic shortages of toilet paper, soap, shampoo, Wi-Fi and electricity. Our Cuban guides, among the best paid people in the country, were good at adjusting for any glitch that occurred. There were lines into the streets to purchase the most basic items, the store shelves were nearly bare, but we heard little complaining. Once, one of our guides teared up when she talked about how hard it was to get the medicines her grandmother needed. Over our six days in Cuba, did I rediscover South Beach and its party atmosphere? No, except for a couple nights at rooftop restaurants with great, live, Afro/Cuban music. Instead, my simple assumptions and expectations were replaced with an appreciation for the Cuban people and their ability to find joy, beauty and creativity amid crushing restrictions. No, it was not South Beach, but we found much to enjoy and admire. 22

Submissions Who can submit? Anyone! If you have access to our magazine, we’d love to hear from you. What should I submit? Anything creative and heartfelt that can be shared in digital form! Photography, illustrations, poetry, short stories, personal stories, art, etc. Why do you accept submissions? This magazine is a space for people to share their stories and passions in hopes it will connect us with others in a positive, uplifting way. “The ethnosphere is humanity’s great legacy. It is the product of our dreams, the embodiment of our hopes, the symbol of all that we are and all that we have created as a wildly inquisitive and astonishingly adaptive species.” - Wade Davis When can I submit? In each issue, we will reveal the theme for the coming issue. If you’d like your proposal to be considered for the coming issue, submit as soon as you can to give us time to review it with our team, communicate with you, edit, and fit it into the greater picture of the magazine. Otherwise, submit anything at any time. It may fit in a future issue or even inspire the theme of one! What do I need to include in my submission? Tell us a sentence or two about yourself, how you discovered Ethnosphere, and the work you’d like to submit. If possible, attach any images, PDFs or other files to be reviewed, and the editor will be in touch with you. If you have a story that you think would make for a great article, but you don’t have the narrative prowess to write it, don’t worry! There is an opportunity for a conversation with the editor so that she, or someone on the editorial staff, could write the story with you. If your submission is not accepted, don’t get discouraged. There is always a chance in the future. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy all that the magazine has to offer. Even if you are not featured within it, your experiences, dreams, and creations are equally part of the Ethnosphere. Disclaimer: Contributors retain all rights to their stories, photography, art, etc. while giving Ethnosphere Magazine/Advanced RV the right to edit and share their work in the digital magazine, print, and any other way they see fit for creative or promotional reasons.

Coming in June: Issue 6 Jayus Indonesian (n) : a joke that is so unfunny and told so poorly that one cannot help but laugh

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About the Authors Paula Carmosino is a retired data analyst and self-avowed crazy cat lady. Originally from New England, she moved out West after graduating from college and never looked back. Over the years, her hobbies have included writing, B&W darkroom photography, interior decorating, playing guitar, writing and performing her own songs and, of course, traveling to places significant to Patsy Cline. She believes life can lead you on some surprising journeys, if you let it.

Kym Dunbar was born in Milwaukee and grew up just north of Green Bay, Wisconsin. She re-located to Cincinnati, Ohio where she worked at P&G and met her husband of 32+ years, Jim. The two of them have raised four children together in Ohio and outside London, England. Kym loves any and all types of creative pursuits, especially with her hands - cooking, baking, crocheting, gardening, paper flower making, furniture re-habbing, etc. She has a soft spot for puppies, and is a fan of country music, watching movies, and just about any type of sport.

A resident of Willoughby, Ohio since 1955, Maureen Gregory retired in 2020 after working in the legal field for almost 40 years. Maureen 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 and she highly recommends it.

Faith Lanshe is the proud wife of John, mother to 3 young men and 4 young ladies, and extremely happy Grammy to 2 grandsons, 2 granddaughters, and 2 to be determined this fall. She has been a registered nurse for over 30 years, and a nurse practitioner for 6 years. She is passionate about helping people optimize their health and well-being through Functional Medicine. In serving others she serves God. She loves the beach, warm weather, summertime, red wine, a good book, occasional solitude, the laughter of grandchildren, the love of family and friends, and sugar bread.

With a PhD in Nursing, Marcia Neundorfer taught at Case Western Reserve University and worked as a nurse researcher at the University Hospital’s Alzheimer’s Center, and later at Menorah Park Center for Senior Living. She’s been married to Mike Neundorfer, president of Advanced RV for 52 years, and a supporter of all things associated with ARV. She and Mike raised three boys, who now have families of their own. Marcia loves traveling in Advanced RVs with Mike all over the country.

Mike Neundorfer is the president of Advanced RV in Willoughby. He supplies ideas and motivation, enabling his team members to take ownership of their roles. Mike and his wife, Marcia, toured the US and Canada in four different class B motorhomes, inspiring the creation of ARV in 2012. The Ethnosphere magazine is a passion project of his, stemming from his desire to share incredible stories, inside and outside the ARV community, in a classy, exciting way.

Madeline C. Lanshe