A common disease among young mother's is brain meltdown. This disease manifests itself in many ways and has several symptoms. Some of the more common aberrations include inability to concentrate for more than 30 seconds on any one thought, using one's nose and sense of smell to determine all future actions from changing clothes to selecting food from the fridge, accepting spitup as an accessory for your wardrobe, and adapting to constant noise as the norm, thereby becoming jittery when there is no noise.
A great strength is the ability of young mother's to adapt to this disease. Your brain is melting and so you accept the fact that while you can still do two and even three things at one time, you often cannot put simple sentences together. While you can repair the most complicated train-track layout and successfully install teeny tiny batteries into even smaller places, you cannot remember where you placed your car keys or why you just ran upstairs leaving both small wonders to their own devices.
Ninety-nine percent of mothers live through the disease which can last for several years even. Society does not talk about the other 1%. Usually you know you are over the disease when you sit looking at your bare toes one day and have the urge to paint them; or you look in the mirror one morning and, in heart-attack horror, think you see your mother; or you walk back into a very quiet house and realize it is quiet because you are the only one there.
Thus, in a moment of idiocy, you feel you must start volunteering or go to work to pay those mounting bills. The house is too quiet and the hushing silence is getting on your nerves. It is too clean and you begin to think you are turning into Heloise.
Doing adult activities with other adults outside of the house begins to look inviting if not downright exotic, especially as it requires new clothes. (You have forgotten the Benjamin Franklin aphorism you learned in school: "Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.")
Mmmm..! Black nylons and a short skirt and cute high heels and a new haircut and you look almost sexy...wait isn't that what exposed you to the former disease in the first place? You push that thought to the back of your mind and put on make-up and nice pearl earrings and feel oh so grownup once again. Your brain even seems to be humming like a fancy sports car motor.
You get into the car with your new leather purse and head out to office that in its wisdom saw your intelligence and creativity and hired you. You pull into rush hour traffic and feel more grown-up than you have felt in years. You look into each car and wonder if the drivers notice how you are now one of them. You are part of that busy bustling machine that makes the world go round. This glow lasts several weeks and maybe even into the months or years if you like the job or volunteer work that you are doing.
Unfortunately, you will catch a new disease down the road. This disease is like a leaky gasket that pulls the energy from every pore of your body. Getting out of bed and into a car to fight the headache of traffic becomes a monotonous chore. That neat gray suit is starting to hang funny, especially across your butt. All of those people at the office that admired your creativity and energy have changed their tune and seem to feel you are way too energetic and too creative and are actually making them look bad. Just because you are young and cute doesn't give you the right to outdo them. They were there for years working their asses off while you sat at home and played with babies. They won't say that, but they do think it. And then the worst happens with this new disease...you become one of them! Every idea you get is echoed with "been there, done that.' You find the new young staff so annoying and so cliched and so very naive.
You begin to count the days when you can sit home in a quiet house with the hushing noise and the "Heloise" kitchen and the grandchild baby for playtime.
Look at this shirt in the photo above. It looks pretty pathetic and used doesn't it? Looks like it has quite a history---maybe it was worn when painting a few walls, washing a boat or two? It will not surprise you when I write that my husband does not throw anything away if he thinks there may still be a use for it. It may surprise you that I know the exact age of this shirt --- 35 years old this July.
This shirt entered our lives in 1972 when we were living in Palau, Micronesia. It is a shirt made by my own hand. There are no shirt stores on Palau, or at least there were not any stores like that when we lived there. I was quite the little homemaker back then and for hubby's birthday and in anticipation of a potential trip back to the states in the fall, I made him a couple of shirts. I French seamed them if you notice that kind of thing. It still fits, if you note that kind of thing. It is stained but not falling apart.
I must have been a pretty good seamstress for it to have held up this long. I know that I can't sew that well today. Also, they made better quality thread back then. My husband is sweet to hang on to it this long. I am pretty sure that I don't have any clothes of my own from way back when...nor could I get into them. I think I weighed 105 at 5'5"!
It had started out as a typical afternoon on one of the remote islands of the South Pacific. It was a relatively calm day with coconut fronds waving gently at intervals and with moderate temperatures. My husband and I had headed out on the laboratory boat with another scientist to survey some wild oyster beds. The morning went fairly fast and we collected enough data to stop for an early lunch at the edge of the mangroves. I was eating my tuna salad sandwich and gazing over the stern of the boat watching an archer fish with fascination as he skulked in the shadows waiting for a meal from an unwary insect.
The water in this area was shallow, only two feet deep, dropping gently to about four feet toward the open ocean before reaching the boat channel. Brushing bread crumbs from my swimsuit, I stepped around the outboard and holding the top of the motor housing slipped over the back of the boat for a cooling swim after lunch. Hubby and the colleague decided to motor to the other side of the mangrove peninsula to the mouth of a river in search of some innocuous biological event that I have since forgotten.
Once the sound of the outboard had disappeared behind the mangroves, I realized how quiet it was with just the sound of my hands in the water and the insects on the island. Other than the boat just a short distance away, I could imagine I was the only person on the planet. I poked in the soft sand with my toes and watched the sea birds in the distance and listened to the lapping of the gentle waves against the mangrove roots. I was concentrating on retrieving a terebra that I had unearthed with my big toe when I thought I saw the shadow of something on the surface of the water beside me. I looked up but only saw the gently rippled gray surface of the water. I looked down at the sand again, replacing the mollusk and slowly worked my way toward the open ocean until the water came to just below my shoulders for a complete cool down. As I looked toward the horizon I once again caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Suddenly, being all alone became somewhat unsettling. I started scanning the waters around me and in a few minutes a gray dorsal fin broke the surface about ten feet away and swam a foot toward me and then moved away disappearing beneath the surface.
I was guessing by the size of the fin that it was a small gray reef shark, maybe just over two feet in length, surveying the area. In less than a minute, he returned. Initially, I was fascinated by this typical behavior when he started circling me ever so slowly. The concentric circles made by the dorsal fin that broke the surface of the water were about six feet away and getting closer. I wasn't afraid of such a small shark until I remembered he also wasn't afraid of me. He was a “teenager” out for an experimental event. I had felt the sandpaper skin of a shark with my hands not that long ago and realized if he swiped me it would hurt and possibly draw blood, not a good event in shark country.
The boat was too far away to hear my call and the prevailing breeze would have pulled my voice away anyway. I also was too embarrassed to admit I needed help against such a little guy. I moved carefully, walking backwards toward the mangroves, and scanning the surface of the water around me as I did so. There was no place for me to get out of the water and the water wasn't shallow enough to prevent the shark from swimming directly at me. I decided to throw caution to the wind (avoiding thinking about water snakes or crocodiles among the tangled tree roots—both of which existed in these parts) and stepped up to carefully balance on the larger arching mangrove roots as I leaned against the trees. Leaves and blunt branches poked my head and shoulders as I squatted in precarious balance. After about ten minutes of this yoga experience the shark became bored and left the area.
As I sat balancing awkwardly on the roots in my bare feet I began to survey the mangrove jungle and did not realize I was in store for a second adventure of the day. Behind me I heard a weak squawking noise that I must have missed earlier in my mild panic to eliminate the shark bait. I couldn't see where the sound was coming from over my shoulder, and so, gently entered the water and walked behind the first section of mangroves to another sandy space behind the first patch of trees. About a foot above my head I saw the cause of the noise. A small blue heron had become caught in the mangrove branches. His head was caught in the fork of a branch and while he flapped and squawked ever so weakly, his position and weight had trapped him. His outspread wing was the only thing keeping him from hanging himself.
Wary of his long and sharp bill, I realized that I was going to be responsible for his rescue. I tried to balance on the roots but couldn't get high enough to grasp him safely…safely for him and for me. The eye that stared at me was still clear but his movements were very weak. He must have been there for hours. I watched a few minutes more trying to think of some way to lift him from the branch. I was starting to panic for him. I called to my husband. My call was lost in the great expense of water. I walked around the trees and to the front of the island and putting my hands to my mouth called, hooted, and whistled toward the mouth of the river.
It seemed that a lot of time passed, but eventually I heard the outboard and soon I saw the boat approaching. My husband could see I was trying to convey some emergency, and when he kicked off the engine, I explained the plight of 'my' heron. After I lifted myself aboard we poled our way to the back of the mangrove and were able to get close enough standing on the side of the boat to reach and eventually release the bird. Actually, my husband did most of the gentle pulling and lifting while I provided encouragement. We placed the bird carefully, with hands on bill, on a tree root and he paused getting his balance. Like the shark, he too left us shortly for another clump of mangroves and the pursuit of another meal. I didn't mention the little shark adventure until after we got back home.
Who was this man, the salt of the earth?
The foundation of each day for me and others?
His day was never filled with fire or passion.
His day was always the same.
His day was one foot in front of the other.
His day was being there, without complaint and without recognition.
His day was meeting his responsibilities without expectations other than Friday's paycheck.
Other's were smarter and richer, and yet, he was without greed or envy.
He left each morning before the sun came up with that black lunchbox packed by Mom and in his gray worn work clothes.
Sunday fried chicken, the baseball game, his sons on the floor reading the Sunday Post, this was his happy reward.
I remember his quirky smile when we discussed the concept of celebrity.
He would cross the street for a friend but never for a famous idiot.I remember his uncomfortable smile if we talked of God.
He dropped out of school in the sixth grade and became a man at 12 to save his parents' farm
With his final soldier's paycheck, he paid off that mortgage.
He had faced the War and survived keeping all the ugly memories to himself.
He raised five children and saw them all go to college with money made by hard labor.
He always felt intimidated by those with formal education.
Yet his children who were all well-educated knew they never could be as smart as he.
He was part of that great generation who went quietly into that good night.
That great generation that only asked for a roof and a meal and a healthy family.
That great generation whose sacrifices we cannot even imagine.
He knew good from bad and right from wrong by feeling in his gut.
I will never meet his stature, he raised the bar very high.
I can only hope to hang on to his values, to pass them on as best I can, in this crazy world.
I have to admit that I have traveled LOTS and LOTS in my life. I have traveled across the United States, throughout ASIA and even somewhat in Central America and Europe and Northern Africa. This was due to a promise I made to myself as a young girl that I would see as much of the world as I could, come hell or high water. And, after all of these trips, the airlines has lost my luggage only once. This was on my first trip to my new in-laws in Florida. I didn't panic too much because at 24 you can still look good in clothes that you have been wearing for 24 hours. With the luck of being young, the very next morning a van arrived at my new in-laws door and dropped off the suitcases intact and locked. I was watching the Today Show a few weeks ago and they were talking about lost luggage. The guest expert was providing tips for when the airlines lost your luggage. He repeated the word "when" and emphasized that he did not say "if."
If you live and travel long enough the world changes and your luck changes. Upon our arrival at our airport in the early evening this past weekend, we noticed a large number of people waiting for their bags at one baggage claim. We lined up like penguins and waited and watched as the intermittent and sometimes static aluminum delivery belt went round and round. After 20 minutes my husband realized that our luggage had not made the transition from Phoenix to Denver to Columbus and to our final destination. (When you travel on 'points' you get to see a lot more of the country than you can imagine or actually want to see.) . Shortly after my husband's realization, there was an announcement on the loudspeaker system that the baggage officials (hiding behind the speakers) were very sorry but they did not know where the luggage from the Philadelphia flight was. They were working on it and they asked for patience. About 50% of the people moaned, groaned and wandered off. We were not on the Philadelphia flight and while wondering how an airline can lose all of the luggage on a flight, we became more concerned about our sweaty but well-packed clothes.
We were rewarded almost an hour later with a blue form to complete regarding our missing luggage. (One of the wives asked her husband if this meant they would get a free flight---she hasn't traveled much I was thinking.) I walked the length of the entire baggage claim area which is about two football fields and I hate to tell you that I saw hundreds and hundreds (not exaggerating) of suitcases and bags that sat on the floor forlornly alone next to baggage claim areas on that Sunday evening. The dozens of strollers alone made me sad for the aching arms of mothers and fathers in our nation.
The announcement that we had been recently moved from yellow to orange in our homeland security settings (much like the settings on your oven) did not assure me in any way as I saw all these potential lethal weapons of mass destruction sitting on the floor as far as the eye could see.
Thus, we went home and to bed.
Hubby got a call at 1:00 P.M. on Monday. "This is United. Are you going to be home for the next 4 hours? " When he answered "Yes." they hung up. They were either planning on delivering luggage or robbing us. So, he waited patiently.
Five hours later I was home and had eaten dinner and there is still no luggage. Hubby called the number that had called him at 1:00 and heard from a computer that they were too busy to answer the phone and to call back later. My guess is that the all-great office of baggage losers had been discovered and passengers were holding them hostage.
After this recent trip, I wondered if the wagon trains crossing the desert had it any easier? I really think that the good ole USA is getting to be more like a developing nation each and every day. It is a good thing I have traveled in the 'third' world or I would have said some of the things that were being said at the airport last night when people headed for their taxis empty handed.
Post Script at 6:00 P.M.
Hubby is currently talking to a computer.....
Now he is talking to someone who clearly lives in India or Pakistan...
Now he is listening to very irritating United Airlines music ...good choice on their part to continually remind us of the company that screwed up...
9:10 P.M. the phone rings. Our luggage has arrived and doesn't appear much the worse for the wear. I wonder where it got to travel?
In every person's life, most likely when they are crossing that uneven bridge between childhood and adulthood, but many times happening even later, there are times when you go to a social gathering or you are among strangers and you know immediately you do not fit. You are suddenly and coldly an alien on the side of the planet where you have just landed. This has happened quite a few times in my life, maybe due to my insecurities or maybe due to my conservative (don't laugh) nature or maybe my plain impatience with society and unwillingness to "fit in."
In graduate school in Hawaii, as a very poor student only months away from obtaining a teaching certificate, I and a date from Nicaragua (another life story) went to a party at one of the houses near campus. Neither of us knew the party givers very well, but we sensed almost immediately upon entering the dark living area that we were out of our place. The group of young men and women were very casually sitting around the floor draped around furniture and each other and talking in quiet tones as if they had known each other for many years. The sweet smell of marijuana took its laid-back time reaching us as we both sat on the floor with our backs to the wall. It may come as a surprise to readers, but I never tried the stuff. I knew it was against the law and while I may have gotten three sheets to the wind on good beer in my college days at the dance hall near campus, I was not going to risk losing my teaching certificate (my ticket out of poverty) just to try some illegal buzz.
Everyone was facing a screen at the end of the room with a slide projector set up at the opposite end. There was some food on a table behind the furniture, but no one seemed to be interested. In a short time familiar psychedelic 60's music started and the projector was turned on. The slides seemed to be about some camping vacation that several of the people in the room had taken, although it was too dark for me to really tell who in the room matched with the slide photo. Pictures of the camp set-up, food cooking and people sitting around a fire were the first part of the show. No one in the room did any talking, everyone just watched. The following slides of the next day's camping were a little different. Everyone had seemed to misplace their clothes and the weather in Hawaii was warm enough that no one on the camping trip seemed to notice that they were all naked. Looking back on this show, I realize it was not as shocking as I thought at the time. I wasn't all that innocent in life, but my date (a good Latin Catholic) turned to me and suggested we may want to leave and go get some coffee somewhere. I found myself very uncomfortable seeing people I didn't even know in their birthday suits and agreed to leave. We made a 'graceful exit.' Perhaps if I had really known these folks, I would not have felt quite so odd and out of place. Maybe if it had been more than the second date with my Nicaraguan friend, I would have felt more comfortable. Who knows. I just know I was Out of Place.
It has been a long time since I felt uncomfortable in any social or other situation.
On Monday morning my husband and I were on our way back to the city from our house on the river. Since we were goofing around and failed to eat breakfast, I proclaimed that we deserved Dunkin Donuts and coffee. This is a rare treat as we tend to eat healthier in our old age. After loading the car we headed to the nearby shopping center.
It was about 9:00 A.M. and several early workers were already taking their mid-morning coffee break. We seemed to be noticed by several of them as we exited our car, which would not have surprised me so much when I was a young and, if I do say so myself, attractive woman. But since this was certainly no longer true, I was wondering what was up. Then my husband passed ahead of me in his eager stride toward the pastry palace. Aha! Mystery solved. He had on a very nice suit and tie for a luncheon meeting that he had planned in the city. He looked so out of place and I quietly mentioned it to him when I caught up. He threw back his head and laughed, which caused an elderly man in front of us to turn and look, not once but several times. My husband said under his breath "Make way for the Senator." Something only a man raised in the South would say and I had to smile.
Upon entering Dunkin's my husband actually turned to the two men behind us and smiled and gesturing to his suit said apologetically, "I have a meeting today."
I grinned thinking they probably thought he was appearing before a judge. Weddings and court hearings would be the only time one would see someone in a suit in that part of the county...unless they were a Senator, of course.
Years, alright, decades ago when I lived on a very small island in the South Pacific with water that ran or not and lights that lit or not and cars that started or not, I had a very bad case of the flu. I swear to this day that it was Dengue fever but I am usually poo-pooed by medical intelligentsia when I say this. I guess one should not live through Dengue? Dengue fever makes you feel as if you have been run over by a large train and every joint aches.
I had a two year-old daughter at the time and was confined to a small apartment with no real help...including my hubby whose life revolved around his job and who never took any of my illnesses very seriously anyway.
I clearly remember being up part of one night helping my daughter through her share of the illness only to have her reach the top of this roller coaster ride to health and end up the next day as the energizer bunny. Something that happens to small children with amazing and unexplainable speed. Their eyes become bright and they run everywhere and their chatter can hurt the ears when only hours before they were panting with weakness on your chest.
I was lying on the sofa in real pain when my little two-year-old found the two-inch-thick tabloid-size fairy tale book she had received for Christmas. She lifted the book (almost as big as her) with surprising ease and hurried across the room. She lost her grip just as she reached the sofa and dropped the book like a slab of concrete across my abdomen. I almost blacked out from the pain and barely heard her sweet voice asking me to read her a story. Trying to care for a tiny someone when you are sick is a real challenge!
Now to the present. This weekend we babysat for Xman who had the flu. He hadn't eaten much in days and had intestinal flu and all that that entails. His dad also had a long night rendezvous with the porcelain throne the night before. Mom, who is now pregnant, is sick from the pregnancy and may be fighting a lighter version of the flu. They were a trio of sad sacks. Fortunately they have us and we took Xman for a long drive and a brief visit to the park so that they could recoup and re-focus. Family is so important and I sure could have used a grandparent when my husband and I were being adventurers in our youth.
A long time ago when I was living in a land of artists and spiritualists and peaceful people with violent rivers inside their souls (Indonesia) I took a batik course at the Palace grounds in Jogjakarta. I was taught privately by an old man who was as small as a goat and as brown as a coconut. He was always patient and smiling through his many missing teeth. He also taught batik to a class of young Balinese men, who were the real artists and devoted their lives to the medium, in early afternoons. I have had no formal artistic training ( unless you count the elementary teacher's art class I took in college many years ago), so his patience with me as I practiced in this very unusual medium was amazing. Of course he probably saw me as this rich, idle, American who helped him put rice on his table. I was too young to see myself in that way and I was also tutoring American children half days and desperately needed this artistic break.
In my memories I can visualize driving down a street toward the Palace past the Chinese men who cut hair and trimmed toenails at their stands on the narrow sidewalk.
My work would take place in a small room with bamboo walls and a dusty floor. It was so dark inside that I can remember looking through the spaces in the bamboo and seeing the lady who sold birds in cages on the sidewalk outside. The smell of the pine resin that was added to the wax was pleasantly welcoming when I arrived each afternoon. The dyes were strong and we washed the fabrics carefully in very hot water over a ditch outside behind the building. I purchased all the chanting tools, bowls and kerosine stove and was fascinated with the shapes and rustic metals of each one. I bought large blocks of wax and small blocks of pine resin and would melt them together for the correct mix. The dyes would come as fine powders in small plastic bags and I could not really tell the exact color I would get until I dyed the fabric.
At first all I did was try to copy the batik patterns I saw in the fabrics around me each day. Then I decided to try something original. The batik above was one of the very first pieces I did. It took quite a while between the washing out of wax and the application of each new layer of wax for the new phase of dye.
The subject appeared from nowhere into my head. Since I am allergic to cats I am not really fond of them, and I don't really know where the idea of this brown cat came from. I made him guilty, so I guess my lack of love for cats shows. I did a lot of needlework at one time and that was added. I also fell in love with a maidenhair fern that was growing on the wall behind my house in Jogja. All of these were added into my piece.
This batik has sat for decades folded in a box. My powderoom (with the famous sink) in the new house happens to go with these colors, so I spent a small fortune at Michaels getting it matted and framed. I have an Egyptian parchment cat that I framed to go on the opposing wall. No, the powderroom is not that big, and the batik just fits on wall, but that is the only room where it seems to fit in color.
The young woman who matted and framed it at the store kept praising it and several other patrons in the store also said it was a very nice work. I never thought about it much, but now I guess I can share it with you.
A number of years ago I had reached the time in my life that was after my children were on their own in junior high school but before I had become comfortable in my new role as 'lone adventurer'. Children had become a nice buffer for me on my life challenges. It didn't matter if I got lost or used the wrong product or dressed poorly or made a public mistake. I had two kids that were distracting me and who in turn could be used to distract the focus of others on me. I was an overworked mother who was allowed mistakes. My entire day revolved around their needs and the tight time schedule I had set for myself regarding family life.
I look back on that transition to adulttime now and wonder when I had accepted with blase the habit of using the kids as my invisibility cape, but I do remember the first time it was very strange to enter a restaurant as just me and to sit alone at a table and to order adult food and to eat the food all alone. (One of these times was in Houston at a conference in a restaurant across the room from James Darren at another table. Honest!) It was strange to drive in a car and not be distracted by munchkin battles or flying cereal or upset stomachs. It was strange to have free afternoons (though short) to go anywhere I wanted and to do what I wanted. Being the good Puritan I always ran the necessary errands before dinner.
Years ago I was in Raleigh, North Carolina with my husband who was attending a meeting. This left me with free days exploring on my own. I enjoyed walking the town and visiting the farmers market, but I eventually realized that I would have to take the rental car and do some country exploring to fill the final remaining day of the trip. Those of you who are born to explore cannot imagine why it would take courage to do this. But I was very uncomfortable with the thought of going out all by myself in a different car and reading a map all by myself to drive on different roads for several hours.
There was a recreational lake and state park about an hour away and I decided that adventure would be my afternoon. I studied the map, scolded myself about how childish it was to fear this little adventure and used my instincts and made it to the resort without a hitch. Weather was still warm and so there were quite a few families on picnics or boating on the lake. It was a lovely blue sky day. I explored the lake and then found a long path that walked around the lake. It was a very long path and I knew that I could not make the entire circuit, but I could walk a short way before my time to return to the car for the drive back to town.
I was twenty minutes into my walk when I saw grass movement just ahead and to the side of the gravel path and then I heard a gentle but somewhat familiar vibration/buzz. I could not stop myself, but had to get closer to see the source of the rattle. I just knew it was a small rattlesnake, but the closer I got and the nearer I peered into the grass the more insistent became the rattle. I never saw the snake as I would have had to reach out and part the grass and did not have the courage for that. But somehow, just then, I felt as if I had made some personal growth that day by testing my fear against my curiosity and feeling good about it.
I no longer felt odd as a single person.
Now I have a new time in my life. Twice in the last month I have had trouble finding my car in the parking lot at the shopping mall. I was sure about where I parked my car last weekend and walked back and forth down the parking row several times as darkness moved in before it dawned on me that the parking space I was searching was where I had parked on a prior night...not the current night! I then did some hard mindbending thought and remembered I had parked the car further up and around the store. This forgetfulness is not normal for me and I am afraid it is a small or maybe a large transition I must face as I get older. I know that this is a nice Saturday Night Live skit for many, but for me it was also a damn nuisance.
But as with everything, I guess I will have to take it One Day at a Time.
It seemed that we had actually become settled in our new place on the side of the mountain just off of Kaliurang Road in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. After several hectic weeks of looking for hired help to do laundry by hand since we had no washing machine, and hiring a cook since food had to be purchased at the market on a daily basis, water had to be purified, vegetables had to be sanitized, etc., I finally was able to start tutoring my daughter in her second grade lessons. There was a small mission school but it only had classes up to the first grade. I hired a jaga malam (night watchman) who actually babysat my youngest son during the mornings when I was tutoring.
We had gotten used to the crowded dirt roads, the unusual smells, and astonished reactions to our white skin. We were even beginning to sleep through the blare of the Imam’s call to prayer through an electronic loudspeaker just outside our upstairs louvered bedroom window at sunrise each morning. During the daytime, Kaliurang Road was busy with dusty traffic heading up and down the mountain, but at sunset the area suddenly became quieter and all you could hear was the infrequent bicycle bell and the rhythmic call of the street vendors with their wheeled carts.
Our two-story house, while built of concrete, was oddly shaped with stairs of inconsistent height, the occasional rejections of small pieces of cement from the high ceilings above and a small patio in the back with an orchid covered wall which was also another house’s patio wall. It probably would not pass code in the United States, but for Indonesia it was considered a small palace with its extensive terrazzo front porch, terrazzo floors throughout and electrical pump for our well water.
I remember one peaceful morning while my daughter was working on a school project, I headed upstairs above the servants’ side of the house to talk to our babu cuci (laundress) about something. She was in a small sheltered alcove on the roof hanging clothes. I had never been up to this area which also housed our drinking water in a large cement catchment. The view looking over the chest- high wall above the red-tiled rooftops was so freeing in its vastness. In the distance I could see the perfect cone shape of Mt. Merapi with its little cloud of volcanic smoke blowing away in a feathery wisp. (I think I have a photo of this somewhere that maybe I can add here.)
A few nights after this I was shaken roughly awake from a deep sleep by my husband. “Get C. (our son)”, he cried. “I will get Y (our daughter). Hurry! Hurry!” He threw back the covers and jumped out of bed.
My brain was foggy and I moved slower than I should have while trying to absorb the anxious tone of my husband’s voice.
“Wha…What is it?” I sat up in bed.
“Just hurry! We have to get outside. There is an earthquake.”
I got up from the low platform bed and ran to my son’s room and scooped him into my arms. I didn’t feel anything unusual as I moved across the floor, but as we descended the stairs I saw out of the corner of my eye the aquarium water slopping in dramatic waves out of the sides of the aquarium onto the floor.
We rushed to the street. Only a few others were outside standing in the dirt road. We waited in quiet shock anticipating the worst. There was a small tremor that swayed the bamboo fence in the front of the yard and then nothing for a very long time. There was no noise in the neighborhood to indicate anyone else had noticed that the earth had shaken her shoulders.
Our crazy concrete palace was still standing and nothing had fallen from the ceiling as we carefully made our way back inside. We eventually fell asleep and awoke the next day with the memories seeming like a dream.
If you are following the news recently you will understand that we could have been going through much worse with Mt. Merapi eruptions.
As I promised (threatened) a while back I would tell you how my first lengthy trip to Yap became dangerous.
First, let me tell you a little about the island and its culture when I visited there about 35 years ago---geeze am I THAT old? Anyway, the island of Yap is part of a group of loosely federated islands in the South Pacific. During the time I was there the islands were part of a Commonwealth and under the protection of the United States. They used our mail system, our judicial systems, our airlines, etc. Their primary product was copra which is dried coconut and used to make coconut oil. They also had smidgen of tourism, mostly SCUBA divers. Since that time some of the islands groups of Micronesia have gone ‘independent’ or to other forms of affiliation with the U.S. You can go here if you want more about that sort of thing.
When we lived in Micronesia the people held some resentment toward Americans, they probably still do. There was the feeling that America was trying to be a ‘parent’ to full grown children. This resentment varied in intensity from island to island as the people were slightly different in culture and very different in language. Back in the 1970s there was only one small hotel in each of the district centers; the roads were unpaved coral fill and rutted from the increase of automobiles on the islands; there were no food stores as we know them--maybe a bread bakery; and only an open market with a small variety of vegetables being sold. The expatriates that lived on the islands imported their exotic foods from Guam. This might have added to the island resentment.
Our project involved accompanying a marine biologist to the island of Yap to implement a reef survey. The growth of interest in Yap, primarily as a transit port, brought about interest in building a larger airport on the island. The island, while small, had a shallow reef area near one end that could be filled and paved for jet traffic. Yes, I know, today that sounds like using your backyard for a bathroom. But, at that time, people did not understand the rareness of these ecosystems and the importance of protecting a society’s culture. The islands were viewed as possible resources by the U.S.
Our marine biologist was a 6’2” good looking hunk from the University of Hawaii. He could have been a lead in a movie. He was charming and smart. My husband, I and Leading Man landed on the island and went to the village of Colonia. We checked into the tiny hotel, changed clothes, got our snorkel gear and procured a dusty and sad-looking rental jeep. We headed out to the other side of the island to look at the reef. I was along for the ride, since I know nothing about airport engineering, marine biology or anthropology. It took us some effort to find the place as we got lost in a few villages along the way and had to ask for directions. Clearly we were a rare site as most of the locals stared at us. I have no idea if they knew why we were there or not. My husband and I were fairly new to the islands and realized later that we would have been much better off taking an elder with us on this jaunt.
We had to park the jeep on the other side of a small village of about 6 grass huts and cut around the jungle to the coastal side. It was a lovely open coast and you could see the reef extend for a long way out to the ocean. We didn’t really need the snorkel gear because the water was so shallow for such a long way. I can’t remember what notes and photos Leading Man took because I was poking along the deeper side of the reef, which has always been a love of mine. After a little over an hour, our researcher was ready and we headed back to the jeep. As we crossed through the jungle and approached the grass huts a native in traditional thong and with a 6 foot fishing spear in his hand started talking loudly to us. His eyes were red and his gate with a little unsteady. We realized he was probably drunk and hurried to the jeep to avoid any confrontation. Another native approached him and appeared to be trying to calm him down. We didn’t know what they were saying, but the body language was clear. A third man joined them.
We got in the open jeep, hubby in the back seat and me in the front next to Leading Man. Unfortunately we had to back up to turn into the open area leading to the rutted road. This gave the angry native time to catch up to us. As Leading Man stopped backing and turned the wheels, the man with the spear ended up within arms-length of my side of the jeep. He continued the lecturing and was working himself up into a good anger finally talking in a broken-English. He was mad we were there and clearly felt as if we had trespassed in his living room. Leading Man talked to him in English and tried apologetically to get him to calm down. Within seconds of this exchange Leading Man was reading the native’s body language expertly and managed to place his hands over the keys in the jeep ignition just as the native lunged for them across my knees. My heart was in my throat as this angry character was inches from my face. The native got the rental’s logo key chain, but not the keys, thank goodness. The situation immediately escalated and Leading Man gunned the jeep as we spun sand and headed to the road at full speed. I looked back as we hit the road and saw the native throwing his spear and missing the back of the jeep by only a few feet. Whew!
Talk about needing a drink when we got back to Colonia!
One of the joys of living a long time is that you have a lot of life stories to carry you through the years. The story that goes with this picture above is not mine. It is my husband's, and since he doesn't blog (he can barely use the computer), I get to tell it.
This picture was taken in Cuba sometime in 1959 or maybe early 1960. Those of you that know your history realize that this was the year that Fidel Castro took over the Cuban islands driving out Batista in the Cuban revolution. The picture is of my husband with his mother and father in front of a fort somewhere on one of the islands. Here is the story of how they got to Cuba and what happened after they got there.
My husband's family lived in Florida at this time. They went to one of those fun beach parties which had some contests with prizes. Since my father-in-law was in real estate this was probably a company party. One of the contests was a 'limbo' contest. I am not going into details about limbo (look it up.) Anyway, hubby was very limber and youthful then as you can tell from his body build in the photo above and he WON the contest. The prizes were a bottle of Cuban rum, and even more significant, a trip to Cuba.
His parents were certainly surprised when he ran up to them with this good news. As soon as they could they made their arrangements for this trip and flew to Cuba. Their hotel was one of those beautiful hotels with marble everywhere. They were certainly confused to see collections of rifles in the marble urns at the entrance to the hotel, though. They were also surprised to see so many revolutionary soldiers in the streets and so many weapons being carried about. But the hotel staff greeted them warmly and acted normally and checked them into their room. This put them at ease. While they were in the lobby they saw Castro and Che, et al. When they asked the desk clerk about the all the activity he told them about a new government in Cuba. They spent one day in Havana and the next day left for Isle of Pines.
After checking into the hotel at the Isle of Pines, they went down to the dining room at the dinner hour. They were very surprised to see that the tables in the dining room had been arranged into one long table for Castro and his "generals" and one tiny table in the corner for them! Of course, they were a little uncomfortable as they crossed the room in front of Castro and his contingent and proceeded to be seated. Then to their surprise Castro waved his arms to the waiters and insisted that the American tourists join him at the head of his table!
My husband's father (and my husband also) are gregarious and friendly people. So the evening was filled with lots of drinking and laughter; and god, I wish I had been there. Hubby said Castro was a very interesting and good host.
My husband had persuaded his parents to arrange a fishing trip for him...the love he has clearly had since birth. The next day my husband awoke early for his fishing trip and as he headed out, pole in hand, toward the dock to meet with his fishing guide, a jeep with Che Guevera in it passed him and stopped. Che asked where hubby was going and hubby explained.
"Get in." said Che. Hubby didn't hesitate since there was a man standing through the open roof of the jeep with some impressive weapon in his hand.
The jeep proceeded to the dock, but since Che and his buddies were also going fishing, they insisted that hubby join them on their boat instead. Their boat was much, much nicer anyway. Never one to pass up an opportunity, the twelve-year-old boy jumped in their boat and spent the entire day out fishing. They didn't return until well after dark.
When hubby got back to the hotel he found his dad drunk at the bar and both mad and terrified at not knowing where his son had gone for the day since the fishing guide was still there.
The next day they returned to Havana for one final day of sightseeeing before heading back to Florida. Imagine their surprise upon checking into their hotel in Havana when they found it was the headquarters for Fidel and his 'army.' Fidel was meeting with his generals there that night!
Hubby's parents had arranged for a trip to the local tourist nightclub (I really think it was called the Tropicana) for a floor show that evening. They had reservations for a very good table center front stage. Things got a little creepy when after being seated, the couples at the tables on either side of them were replaced by men who certainly looked like revolutionaries. That night they were starting to be glad the vacation was coming to an end.
The next day at the airport before departure they were separated for a security check and hubby said his mother indicated she had NEVER been searched as fully as she had that day. They made it safely back to Florida and only years later realized how close they had been to history.
Fun trip, huh?
I had just finished putting together a little photo album about my two weeks with my grandson. As I was moving some of the photo albums I have in my bookshelf, these two fell to the floor. Boy do they bring back the memories. I think the guy with the GREAT thighs and totally sweet personality was called Lazarus, if I remember correctly. He was an elder selected as our guide and was helping my husband and I get some drinking coconuts since we had gotten thirsty while touring an area for an environmental study on a possible reef airport. (The reef won, thank goodness! That story involved an angry native and a spear and danger...another blog for another time.) The second photo is me standing next to probably a million dollars--that will never happen again. These giant doughnut shapped stones are money on the island of Yap. They represent a family's wealth. They come in all sizes, but this one has to be worth a LOT! Nice memories of a long time ago.
Watching the news this week, the discouraging images were so familiar to me. In the late 1970’s upon returning from living in the South Pacific, Hubby and I excitedly purchased our first real home as a married couple in southern Texas. The house was located in a small and lovely suburb surrounded by shady live oak and sweet gum trees covered with Spanish moss and bordering lush green lawns. The house was a three bedroom, two bathroom ranch in excellent condition. We owned about a half acre. The back yard also had a garage-size greenhouse that kept all my tropical plants protected through the short winters of southern Texas. The former owner was a landscape addict and the yard was spectacular; we even won an award one year from the local garden club. Across the street was a slow moving bayou that my husband explored in his canoe on weekends. My daughter was almost four at the time and my son was about 8 months old. I was still nursing him, which later became a blessing.
Hurricanes were common in the summer months in this area of Texas but none ever reached our area. In 1979, Tropical Storm Claudette moved in from the gulf and while we expected lots of rain and flooded lawns, we knew it would move on as these tropical storms always did. But Claudette was contradictory and decided to stay awhile. She moved up to Alvin, Texas and then proceeded to sit there like a drunken sailor sucking up moisture from the Gulf and dumping it on our heads. 42 inches of rain fell in 24 hours. According to Wikipedia: “Claudette was a long-lived (August 15 - August 29) but fairly weak storm that spent almost its entire life as a tropical depression. Claudette formed in the mid-Atlantic east of the Windward Islands. It had two spells as a tropical storm; the first was a brief one east of Puerto Rico. The storm passed directly over the island just after weakening, where it killed one person from flooding. The depression moved casually through the Greater Antilles and moved into the Gulf of Mexico. Claudette restrengthened into a tropical storm south of Sabine, Texas and made landfall near Port Arthur, killing one person from floods. Damages from flooding in Texas were enormous, totaling $400 million dollars. Claudette was one of the costliest storms on record that never reached hurricane intensity.”
After hours and hours of gray rain, fear was starting to set in. By early evening I could hear the water gurgling beneath the bathtub in the children’s bathroom. It was a strange and unsettling sound. In the dusk, I tried to see where the level of the bayou was in the neighbor’s backyard across the street, but the rain was so heavy I couldn’t make out anything but gray water against the window. Uneasy, we put the kids to bed and then headed to bed ourselves. The numbing sound of rain continued throughout the night. We slept on and off, and in the morning, woke up to about six inches of water in the bedroom! We hurriedly packed some clothes, got the kids dressed and talked about what to do next.
I remember getting my daughter her breakfast before we left. The water had come up another 8 inches by that time. I put her on the kitchen table and fixed her cereal. Although the electricity was out, the milk was still cold from the fridge. She was fascinated with the swimming pool that had previously been our home. While eating she suddenly squealed in delight. When I looked up, she giggled. “Mom, look, there’s a fish under the table!” In verification, there was a small 4 inch fish swimming around the legs of our kitchen table as if it was his own small wooden reef.
The water continued to rise, and we eventually had to leave our home by that reliable old canoe. As we paddled down our street I noticed that the waters were teaming with balls of fire ants climbing over each other in order to avoid drowning. We had to be careful not to brush up against those lovely live oaks and sweet gums branches, as they, too, were covered in fire ants and harbored their share of poisonous and non-poisonous snakes as well. We paddled out to the nearby freeway and then hubby returned to pick up our neighbors. Eventually a school bus took all of us to the local elementary school. While the rains stopped, the water continued to rise for another day. We got over 3 feet of water in our house. When we realized that it would be days before we could get back home, friends took us in. After several weeks of living with them, we accepted that we had to find some place to rent for the longer term and fortunately we had the limited resources to do that. I remember thinking that although I had lost the inside of my house and most of my belongings, I was so thankful we were alive and uninjured.
We returned to a neighborhood of refuse-covered lawns. People were trying to determine what could be salvaged and what had to be thrown out among their treasures. I still have in my mind the nightmare images of soaked furniture, buckled oak flooring, and days and days of doing laundry when the electricity was finally restored. My neighbor’s dryer worked and my washer worked and we ran them non-stop together for days. You have to wash EVERYTHING you ever owned that is washable. We probably thought we were washing the flood away.
We retrieved the chest freezer from the neighbor's swimming pool where it had floated out of our garage. All of our food was lost, of course.
Months passed before we could get a contractor to help us rebuild. We gutted the house ourselves in the interim. The fireplace had not been pushed off its base and we did not have a can of diesel oil on a counter to tip and spread everywhere as one of our neighbors had experienced.
I ended up having to wean my son earlier than I wanted, because we had to shop for cars (both of ours floated away) and handle tons of insurance paperwork and loan paperwork. (This was the flood, by the way, that gave Texan, Dan Rather, his first big newsbreak and helped move him forward as a major news anchor.)
As I see these people in the Gulf who are so thankful just to be alive, I know that months from now when they will have to accept they have a long road ahead after the initial shock wears off. They will need the help of the charities more than ever and the support of their relatives and friends to help them see the light at the end of the tunnel. As my blog emphasizes, you get through these things One Day at a Time.
