It was hot.
And sticky, and you could see the humidity in the air as it hung around the buildings downtown.
It looked like the weather folks were going to nail it this time about the afternoon storms. Although, you don't really need a meteorologist to predict the weather in Cleveland, it changes so often you're bound to be right at some point in the day.
We'd come into the city after church and crossed the Father's Day inbound traffic for the baseball game. Kids and Dads and all kinds of people sporting their best Tribe attire in red, white, and blue. Caps, shorts, and shirtsleeves, with not a rain poncho to be seen. Denial that weather would interrupt a perfect afternoon at the ballpark was part of surviving in Cleveland.
We had a different destination this Sunday. We were headed for the 3rd Annual Gulyas-Goulash cook-off (to raise money to restore a Hungarian cultural garden). My BIL's family is a strong part of this community. You see, I grew up with a last name that is 10 letters long and the consonants far outweigh the vowels. The kind of name you just spell for people before you pronounce it for them. I had friends with last names like Trivanovich, Schlatzer, and McCollough.
So it's safe to say that supporting cultural festivals in is the blood - and when there is food to be had, more the better!
It was hosted outside of a downtown church. This church was closed by the diocese a few years ago during the heart-wrenching consolidation efforts for economic reasons, but the longtime parishioners still hope they may get to return.
There were portable tents and tables set up in a circle with more than a dozen kinds of homemade goulash. Even in the heat, it was fabulous. Each person was given a numbered list, to be checked off as you got a "taster" bowl from that chef.
One of my favorites must have been others' favorite as well, because they had quite a crowd going!
There were tables with checker board tablecloths set up under every available tree. Some folks had brought patio umbrellas while others wore sunhats. Because we weren't right off the lake, the breezes were few and far between. The crowd had many mature members, but also the occasional child or two, usually found closer to the pastry tent than the goulash!
After tasting as many as you could, before they ran out, you marked your favorite number on the back of the ballot and placed it in the kettle.
Because of course, where else would you collect ballots for goulash but a kettle?
They had a one-man band with his tricked out accordion and high tech electronic back up music. I don't know his name, but he was quite good. My baby niece would be the first to tell you, because she was out there dancing right along with the polka-wanna-be's here. And she clapped after every song!
Just as the kettles were being tipped to ladle out the very last bowls, the announcement came that a storm was about 30 minutes out. I pulled out my smartphone and checked the weather channel radar map. The array of colors close to the GPS pindrop on the map made me think 30 minutes was a generous estimate! We cleaned up the tables, gathered up our belongings, did the 'family goodbye' - you know, where everyone has to say good bye to each person as if they won't see them any time soon...(like tomorrow), and headed to the car.
I'd made it about 2 miles out of town, starting my road trip home before the deluge hit. It didn't last the whole trip home, but it did make me thankful for light Sunday traffic on the highways. If you get a chance to pop into a cultural festival this summer or fall I highly recommend it. Not only could you learn and see new things, and have some great eats, but you support the families that built our cities and towns into the diverse-rich communities they still are today.
M.E.
All of the buildings and the wonderful yard around them are extremely well cared for, almost as if they know the importance of showing a little history to the newer neighbors.
To raise money to keep the program going, this partial miniature replica was built. It was built on a trailer, so it can be moved around and used in parades. It is quite impressive on its own.
There were two creeks. The first creek was barely noticeable, unless we'd had a really good rain. Even with my shorter legs, I could easy jump the creek and get through the woods with boys (my brothers were always quite long-legged). This creek was just out of sight of the house, but within hollering range of the end of the back yard. Some days that was the limit of how far we were allowed to play. If it was getting dark, it looked like a storm was rolling in, or Mom just wanted to know she could call us back at will.
But the funniest thing that I remember from all of those years ago, is the path through the woods back to the creeks. I can still picture it in my mind. At the beginning of each spring, the path was a little overgrown, so we would walk it over and over again to stamp it down. All the kids on our street knew the way to the second creek. That's what we always called it, the second creek. We never needed a fancy name for it, no directions on how to get there, we just knew. After the quick path from the yard to the first creek, which was pretty open and obvious, you had to go up a little hill and through a series of snaking curves. I'm sure it was not the most efficient way to the second creek, but it was the one we used every single year. There were no artificial markings, just tree layouts and fallen wood to show us the way. I always listed for the rushing water, and gauged just how much further it was to the creek. It was easier after rain, and sometimes in the late summer I remember thinking it took much longer to get to the creek. Really, it was because the creek was smaller and quieter, not overflowing the floodplains anymore. Oh, and it was hot and sticky by then.
Throughout the park, there are labels for each type of rose and for whom it was named. 
