Thoughts on Christmas Eve

I just checked the thermometer in our backyard. It reads 90 degrees (in the shade). I hope Santa has a summer outfit. Just put the turkey in the oven, though I’m tempted to try sun-baking it. The CNN weather report informs me that a thunder storm is due in the San Francisco area, and our future daughter-in-law and our son report that it’s sleeting in New Jersey.

    What I miss about Christmas here in Chile is the smell of live fir or pine trees, a nip in the air and a fire in the fireplace. Fires were banned years ago in Santiago due to the smog. Besides, who wants a fire in this heat?

    What is Christmas without the smell of cookies in the oven? My two youngest grandkids came last week to help decorate the tree (artificial) and we baked cookies. The thirteen-year-old twins preferred going to the mall. Yesterday I made more cookies as well as the family recipe for Scottish shortbread. Christmas music on ITunes created a festive atmosphere in the kitchen.

I was up early this morning to get to a French bakery to buy their unbelievable croissants. Then to the supermarket which I expected to be empty at that time. Everyone one else had the same idea.

    We’ll celebrate at a nephew’s house tonight with his three young kids, plus sisters- and brother-in-law, and a couple of nieces and their children. It will be bedlam as the children rip open their gifts. Years ago I tried to instill some calm into this process, suggesting that “Santa” pass out only one gift at a time. It starts out well but the pace and noise and excitement build into a crescendo. Tomorrow our eldest son and wife and our four grandchildren will come for “brunch”. No doubt, our four-year-old grandson will bring his best new toy. I suspect that parked under many a Christmas tree (though not ours) will be an electric scooter – the latest rage here, propelling indignant pedestrians into a rage.

    At the end of another year, I’m filled with mixed feelings and nostalgia. I ponder upon the loved ones who are no longer here. I feel proud of my accomplishments and satisfactions. Normally, I like watching the year’s summary on television, though this year has been a tough one world-wide. I shake my head in despair at U.S. politics and sincerely pray that the American people will come to their senses. To banish this black cloud of pessimism I work to list the good things in life: family, dear friends, old and new, the beauty of the Nutcracker Suite, birdsong, the fragrance of a redwood forest, the panorama of the Andes from my window ….

A list without end.

Giving Thanks

Last Thursday my husband and I spent a lovely Thanksgiving evening with friends, my first Thanksgiving in 46 years, as it is not a holiday in Chile. But we planned our trip to California to include Thanksgiving, and it was special. The hostess prepared the traditional meal: turkey, stuffing (my favorite), homemade cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, green beans and pumpkin pie. We went around the table giving thanks. The hostess gave thanks for her successful kidney transplant (as did her husband), my husband thanked our host and hostess and I gave thanks for all the friends who had welcomed us into their homes over the past weeks.

    I truly feel blessed with my California friends: the high school classmates who attended my book launch, former university classmates, relatively new friends who welcomed us once more into their home in my hometown, and my oldest, dearest lifelong friend.

    Blessings abounded: strolls along beaches of Monterey Bay, visited by arcing dolphins and cruising whales; views of downtown San Francisco’s sparkling Christmas decorations in the rainy dusk, my unexpected first Black Friday shopping excursion, a nostalgic stroll across the UC Berkeley campus, meeting the Ethiopian woman who bought my book for her 15 year-old son who “loves to read”, savoring the clam chowder at Nick’s Cove.

Downtown San Francisco

    Life brings both blessings and tragedies. For the second consecutive year my hometown was enveloped with heavy smoke from wildfires to the north while I was there. Lives were lost; homes destroyed. When will we learn that nature is way older and wiser than humanity and live accordingly?

Thanksgiving lessons learned.

Countdown

I’m excited and nervous! In 10 days my second book, “Notes from the Bottom of the World: A Life in Chile,” will be launched out into the world. The book is a collection of personal essays, exploring topics that inspired me – from Patagonian travels, to aging, to the writing craft.  I’ll be traveling to the San Francisco Bay Area with my husband to present my book at several venues: Book Passage, the Belmont and Oakland libraries.

    Sometimes in the middle of the night I ask myself: why do I want to do this – stand in front of a group or a crowd or a handful of people and bare my essays, my soul to them? What was I thinking? I calm myself by reminding myself that my deepest hope is that some can relate to what I say or have written. The hours of writing, editing, rewriting will be worth it if my words ring true for just one person.

    If I were to go back 15 years, I never imagined I’d be doing this. Yes, after I retired, I joined an English-speaking writing group and began work on my first memoir, published ten years later. Now I wonder what I’d be doing with my retirement days if I didn’t have writing. Of course, there’s reading, gardening, exercising and traveling, but writing is my creative outlet and greatest satisfaction.

Supermarket Serendipity

Wednesday morning in the bakery section of the supermarket. After a few brief seconds, I realized I’d grabbed someone else’s shopping cart. I turned back and saw an elderly gentleman (my age, maybe?) asking a shopper if she’d taken his cart. I went up to him and explained I was the culprit and returned his cart.

He looked very relieved and explained he was worried about a package that was in a shopping bag. He held up a small gift-wrapped package.

“What is it? I asked.

“It’s a book written by my father. I want to give it to a foreign visitor.”

My writer’s antennae immediately went into high alert. “Did you buy it here?” I asked.

“No, I had it at home. Just had it wrapped here.”

“What’s the name of the book?”

“Aldea Blanca. White Town. My father was born in a small town and later immigrated to Chile Chico in the Chilean Patagonia by Lake General Carrera.”

“Oh, I know where that is,” I said.

“My father wrote about the two towns, where he was born and grew up in Syria and the town in Chile where he made a new life. He was very grateful to Chile for the opportunities here. He raised his four children in Chile Chico and made certain we had a good education.”

“I’m also a foreigner,” I said, “and have written two books about my life in Chile.”

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“The United States.”

We both moved on to our shopping. But then I stopped and turned back to him, pulling out my cell phone.

“What was your father’s name? Where can I find the book?” I noted down the name in my cell phone.

He said I might find the book in a university bookstore, that it wasn’t a big seller. I thanked him and headed towards the yoghurt aisle.

Later I saw him in the vegetable section, buying one avocado.

Back home, curiosity drove me to Google. I looked up his father's story. He arrived in Chile in 1914 and moved to remote Chile Chico in Patagonia in 1933. There he became an active member of the community, helping to create an airplane landing field with shovel and pick, creating a public library in the living room of his home and opening the town's first pharmacy. One of his sons became a pharmacist, but I don't know if he was the gentleman in the supermarket.

What a wonderful encounter with history.

Puppy Love

Roly-poly, snuggle buns. Irresistible. Yet, it hasn’t been easy finding homes for the eight rescue puppies and their mom. My son and his girlfriend, Laura, took them in 10 weeks ago and have cared for them, fed them, cleaned up their poop, had them vaccinated and dewormed, and rescued several who fell into the pool.

                Laura and I took three of the puppies to the international school where I used to teach, invited by the Save the Strays Club in the high school. It was Spirit Week and we headed to the soccer field where the students were competing in games. As soon as some kids spotted the puppies, they rushed over to us. “Oh! Puppies!” They all wanted to pet, cuddle and snap photos of the puppies. “They’re looking for homes,” we told them. Their responses were all variations of:  “Oh, I wish I could, but we already have two dogs.” Or “My mom won’t let me.”

We walked to the other end of the field where there were some parents and teachers. More kids gathered around us and the puppies. A mom and a teacher showed interest, but nothing definite. After two hours in the hot sun and being passed around, the puppies looked as though they had enough. To reach our car, we had to walk the length of the school campus. We felt like two Pied Pipers, kids following us and the puppies, wanting to cuddle them.

Needless to say, the puppies fell into a deep sleep on the trip home, where their mommy dog was overjoyed to see them. We wondered: do dogs miss their puppies when they’re taken away?

This has been a country beleaguered by stray dogs. The congress just passed a badly-needed responsible pet owner law requiring owners to have a microchip implanted and leash their dogs while outside. The law also promotes educational programs promoting responsible pet ownership, but a change in mentality is a long way off.

In the park I often see posters with photos of lost neighborhood dogs with pleas to call the distraught owner’s phone number. Over a dozen websites exist here in the city to attempt to meet the needs of lost dogs and strays.

Caring for the puppies and their mom has been a time-consuming job for my son and Laura, but the satisfactions are have been great. The puppies follow them everywhere, wanting to be cuddled and offer love and loyalty in return.

But it’s time for each of them to go to a loving home.

Addicted

My winter days here are in a lull as I wait for the exciting upcoming event on November 6th – the publication of my second book, Notes from the Bottom of the World: A Life in Chile. With time on my hands, I’ve begun research for an idea for a third book, a historical novel based loosely on the life of my great-aunt Anne. I’ve never attempted writing a novel before and have no idea if I’ll succeed, but the research has me addicted. Like a detective, I follow the clues on the family tree my mother created: names, birth dates and some places in Scotland.

            Genealogy websites abound. Through Scotlands’People, I’ve found birth and death dates, cause of death and towns of origin. By piecing together the puzzle parts, I discovered the answer to why my grandmother and her two sisters emmigrated to the United States while in their twenties. Their mother died of pneumonia at the age of 37 when her youngest child, my great-Aunt Ida, was two years-old, and their father died 12 years later at the age of 54. Another sister, Helen, died as a child. I've been unable to find the cause of her death.

Locating information is a challenge, involving trying different spellings and dates. Even with the information I know to be exact, some searches are unsuccessful, like the date my great aunts arrived in the U.S. and the ship on which they travelled. I’ve tried passenger lists from arrivals in both New York and San Francisco between 1900 and 1910, the approximate date my mother wrote down, with no luck. I feel elated when a search reveals new information and terribly frustrated when the message “No results were found” appears on my computer screen.

I have my great-aunt’s photo albums, but sadly, few of the photos are labeled and they seem to be glued with cement. One photo I love shows the three sisters and their brother, Jack, who remains a family mystery. Hearsay has it that he emmigrated to Australia, but his sisters lost contact with him.

 I learned that the name of their house in Kilsyth, Scotland was Hood-End (I’m guessing that houses had names rather than numbers), that their housekeeper was Agnes, and that my great grandfather was a mineral borer. Viewing census records and death certificates takes me there; family members come alive. Imagining their lives occupies a good part of my thoughts these days.

Maybe I’m on the road to that novel.

The Circus is in Town

Caramel popcorn. Pink cotton candy. I can’t remember when I last tasted those kids’ favorites. I bite into the sickening sweet cotton candy and wonder what it is I’m putting into my system. My 4 year-old grandson sitting next to me shoves wads of cotton candy into his mouth with his fingers. His 10 year-old sister is intent on digging into the box of caramelized popcorn and then passes it to me. I pull out a handful. And then another handful.

We’re at the circus. The schools are on winter vacation and I’ve invited the two youngest of my four grandchildren to the circus. The Flying Farfans. Based on the advertisements, I have high hopes for this circus. My son says he remembers me taking him to the Ringling Bros. Barnum and Baily Circus at the Oakland Coliseum. “But they don’t exist anymore, do they?”

In the car on our way to the circus, the youngest asks, “Will there be clowns?”

“Oh, I’m sure there’ll be clowns,” I say, “But no elephants, lions or dogs like there used to be.”

“They were mean with the animals, so they’re not allowed in the circus anymore,” says his wise older sister.

We enter the large red and yellow striped tent and take our seats in the gallery section. The popcorn and cotton candy are about gone by the time the show begins. Music blares out from vibrating speakers just beside us. Dance routines. Juggling acts (they need more practice). Prancing clowns (not nearly as funny as I remember them). A young boy performs balancing acts. An elegantly- costumed woman walks about the center ring on top of a large ball. Impressive, as was the act of two young men striding inside two large metal rings that revolve in the air.

The grandkids watch wide-eyed the grand finale, the trapeze act. Their heads tilted high, they follow two acrobats soaring through the air from opposing swings, meeting midway and connecting with their hands. Several times one misses his connection and drops into the net. These must be the Flying Farfans.

As I watch, my mind wanders. Who are these circus performers? I try to imagine the kinds of lives they lead, traveling from place to place. Based on movies I’ve seen featuring circus people, I imagine them living in shabby trailers, mending their worn costumes. Today the main women performers appear to be middle-aged, though they are fit and smile throughout their acts. Is that smile just for us? The boy juggler looks to be about fifteen. I wonder where they are from. The announcer informs us that some performers are from Ecuador. The clown who greets us at the entrance is clearly Chilean.

Back home, I do some research. The Farfans are several generations of family trapeze artists. The original trapeze act was featured at the Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey Circus years ago. This performance today strikes me as hybrid, modified continuation of the family tradition, incorporating Latin American artists, and that over the years has struggled to live up to the fame of the original Farfans.

At home the kids talk nonstop about all the wonders they’d seen.

The Fourteenth of July

To most people, the date refers to Bastille Day, but for me it has a very different, personal significance. Forty-six years ago today I arrived in Santiago, Chile, to be with my then boyfriend, Santiago, now my husband.  And I’m still here. That day I never imagined that I’d be spending almost my entire adult life here, more years that I lived in the States. I was just living the moment.

    Yesterday I chatted with an American friend here, who also hadn’t expected to be living over two decades in Chile. I threw out this question to her: what is the difference between an expat and an immigrant? Why are we considered “expats?” Is it because we are light-skinned and speak English? Is it due to our reasons for coming here (not fleeing violence or hardships)?

    Most of us “expats” feel like we’ve lost something and feel an ever-present nostalgia within. But to come to terms we also know the importance of identifying and appreciating what we’ve gained: new perspectives, different cultural values, thinking and expressing oneself in a different language. Over the years I’ve come to realize that a sense of place, this place, has grown within me. As I traveled north and south, I learned to identify local birds and their songs, and flowers and trees and their fragrances, unique to the varying landscapes. I miss the rich natural world of my California home, but have learned the importance of bonding with this Chilean landscape where I find myself. Big city living does not make this easy. I must work at it: appreciating the light and shadows on the slopes and peaks of the Andes, planting shrubs and trees pleasing to bees in my garden, scattering crumbs for the birds, noticing the fall colors and the purple glow emanating from flowering jacarandas in spring.

jacaranda tree

    My Scottish great-uncle, Robert, immigrated to Chile with his wife, Elizabeth, in the 1800’s to settle in Valparaiso. I wonder what her “expat-immigrant” life was like. What means did she use to adapt? After several years, our youngest son recently returned to Chile with his American girlfriend. A repeat act. This globalized world will make her adaptation experience different from mine or Elizabeth’s. Yet she is still far from her family and must adjust to speaking and understanding a new language, perhaps the greatest difficulties of all, true whether you’re an expat or an immigrant anywhere in this world.

Hard Times

Today is the Fourth of July, a grey, windy day, rain on the way. Snow falls gently on the visible slopes of the cordillera. Not celebration weather. I hear from a friend in the States: “Happy 4^th of July, hard as it is being part of this USA right now.” Yes, it’s hard. At lunch with four American friends we discuss the situation in our homeland, all of us in a state of disbelief.

My small attempt to commemorate this day is to send WhatsApp Happy Fourth messages with a photo of fireworks over Washington D.C. to sons, grandkids, friends living here in Chile.  Years ago, I made certain that my two sons, born in Chile, had double nationality. Now, as a small reminder of their heritage, I send the photo to my 13 year-old twin granddaughters who now have cell phones. The twins lived in the States as infants and have American passports.

When one twin responds “Que lindo,” she clearly has no clue where the photo was taken. I realize I hadn’t put a title on it,” so I write back, “Happy Fourth of July.” The other twin writes, “Wow! Where are you?” She also does not recognize Washington, D.C. I answer, “Happy Fourth of July. Those fireworks are in Washington, D.C.” “Oh. Happy Fourth!” she texts back.

Although I’ve lived in Chile for 46 years, the United States continues to be “home” to me, and I am deeply concerned about the current state of affairs there. I hope and pray that Americans in these hard times remain strong in fostering the values and spirit of the Declaration of Independence and a return to civility, honesty and tolerance in in that wondrous land.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Our neighbor Andrés is out on his sidewalk raking dozens of tough, prickly seed pods from his liquidambar tree. “Malditos loros!” “Damn parrots!” It is late fall and the city’s Quaker parrots gorge on the seeds, knocking the round pods to the sidewalk. You walk through them at your own risk. Trilling notes from high in the treetops tell me the wild canaries have arrived. They, too, come for the seeds.

                            

    I nominate the gingko’s magnificent saffron yellow attire as the most spectacular of the fall colors.
    It rained last night. This morning I take our grand-dog, Frida, out for a walk. She sniffs along the ground and I lift my nose upwards to inhale the exhilarating fresh air laden with rich wet smells. In the distance, fresh snow covers the mountains, so very white.
    Yesterday, it rained and thundered and hailed and even snowed in some sectors of town. This morning our city lies in the white embrace of the Andes. At noon, it is just 45 degrees in the sun.
    One of fall’s small pleasures is putting out the hummingbird feeder. Santiago’s hummers move out of town during spring and return in fall. The cold weather reminded me that I’d forgotten to put the feeder out. I felt guilty. Where would they get their sugar fix? Now on this sunny day, they careen about competing for the feeder.
    Today is grey and cold. The perfect weather to read and savor a thick chunk of dark chocolate. I'd decide it's time to take on a challenge and read Virginia Woolf. I choose “To the Lighthouse.” It is not a book to read in bed, and even in mid-afternoon, I find my head getting heavy. It’s just not a page- turner. But, when I’m feeling more alert, I forge ahead, determined.
    To brighten our garden I buy four primulas. I yank out the wilting petunias from the blue pot, replacing them with the primulas. Since I’m outside, I’ll do a bit of pruning – the hydrangea and my one rose. My aching back tells me to stop.

                    

All of my fall musings seem insignificant after watching the German documentary “Aquarius- Rescue in Deadly Waters.” Shocking. Deeply disturbing. 

                    

    The photographer takes us aboard the Aquarius, the Mediterranean rescue ship, where we witness a boatload of frightened immigrants grabbing onto the life jackets thrown to them and struggling to leave their fragile inflatable vessel to board the safety of the rescue ship. Tears well up as I listen to their stories. Newborn babies are passed to outstretched arms.  In Libya, because they are black, they’re treated worse than animals. They are fleeing poverty and violence, just as the Central Americans arriving at the U.S. border.

 
PLEASE  watch this documentary.

Stories That Don't Make the News

I am a news junkie. I struggle to keep up on events in both Chile and the States. My day begins with El Mercurio, Santiago’s major newspaper. Yes, the paper newspaper. A fast look at the headlines and I turn the page to read the letters to the editor. The titles and the signee’s name determine whether I’ll read the letter or not. The same goes for the editorials. Though they often reflect conservative views, they do offer varying opinions and allow me a perspective on issues of concern to Chileans: the implementation of the educational reform established by the previous government; the president’s disposition to dialogue with the opposition; the furor caused by a judge releasing two men arrested by police who found a cache of arms in their car with polarized windows; another march downtown by university women demanding equality.

    I turn to the inside pages to news on Venezuela, which the Organization of American States discusses its suspension from the Organization; the disastrous volcano in Guatemala; protests in Nicaragua; the change of the Spanish government; Saudi women allowed access to driver’s permits. Surprisingly, nothing on Trump today, but here’s an article about Bill Clinton’s new book.

    Skip over the society page with photos of Santiaguinos enjoying one of the many coffee shops, but take my time looking over the cultural and science news: the discovery of a colorful new species of fish in the waters of Easter Island; new geoglyphs, formed with rocks, found on Peruvian hillsides, similar to the Nazca Lines; a new cellphone application to facilitate the diagnosis of autism and attention deficit.

    Midafternoon, I turn to CNN, especially Wolf Blitzer, for U.S. news. In the evening my husband and I watch the Chilean news which involves a great deal of channel changing. The three main local channels usually transmit the same news, with a depressing abundance of robberies. If my husband is out with the guys, I switch back to CNN or BBC.

    I can take only so much of this “breaking news” and have learned to pay close attention to the stories of the people who cross my path, sometimes prodding with a question or two. Yesterday Elsa came to the house to give me a pedicure. Unmarried and semi-retired, she now does house visits. How lucky I am.  I’ve known her for many years but it is in this intimate home atmosphere that our conversation flows more readily. She spent last week visiting brothers and sisters in Chillán, her hometown to the south. “We were 14 siblings, though 2 died as infants.”

    “Fourteen!” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. “How did your father support you?”

    “We lived out in the country. My father was in charge of the workers and harvesting at a nearby farm. With the harvest money we bought our school supplies and clothes. They had to last for the year.”

    I'd imagined an impoverished farm family, but she banished that notion.

    “My grandfather kept a vegetable garden so we had plenty to eat. We had a wonderful childhood. All that space, and the animals.”

    I asked if her father helped out at home. “The older kids helped care for the younger ones. My father never lifted a hoe. He was the jefe. But I do remember, when my mother was sick, how he cooled her brow with wet cloths.”

    Hearing her story makes the “breaking news” of political scandals and robberies seem insignificant.

The Path from Drought to Shinrin-Yoku

My husband and I watch in disbelief the televised scene on the evening news: an occasional cow roaming cracked, dusty, desolate terrain, a dusty bowl that until recently held the blue waters of Laguna Aculeo.

    We’d enjoyed going there to the lakeside home of friends, our country escape from the sizzling heat of the city. Along the way we saw farmers selling watermelons piled high in roadside wheelbarrows. Handmade signs advertised fresh, homemade bread. We spent refreshing afternoons savoring the barbequed fare and relaxing on the wide lawn where kids romped, followed by a swim in the lake. For decades the small lake attracted enthusiasts of water sports: skiing, sailing, speed boating. Growing numbers of vacation homes began to populate its shores, each surrounded by lush lawns and aquamarine pools.

     Now there’s no water for gardens, pools or boats. No water for watermelon vines.

    I read in the newspaper the politicians’ and experts’ speculations regarding the causes of this disaster: years of scarce rainfall, over consumption on farms and vacation home and illegal commercial use of subterranean waters. To me it smacks of lack of planning originating in the general belief that the earth’s resources are there for the taking. Aculeo’s dry lakebed is climate change thrust into our faces.

    Now people are paying attention.

    I see glimmers of hope beyond the dark gloom of drought and careless overconsumption. This week local supermarkets will no longer hand out plastic bags to shoppers. Other cities throughout Chile have already adopted the no plastic bag policy. The newly passed Law of Recycling proposes to regulate the use of plastics and move Chile towards a circular economy. Perhaps a turning point in attitudes here have been the shocking newspaper photographs and televised scenes of massive islands of plastic floating in the ocean

    Neighborhoods are actively looking to create more parks and green areas. Residents of three residential downtown towers are dismayed by the filth and graffiti of the elevated pedestrian walkways connecting the towers. The disgusting sight has motivated students and architects to create a group dedicated to the restoration of this space using the High Line Park of New York City as a model. I’ve walked the elevated Highline Park, marveling at the bees and butterflies visiting the lush gardens there in midtown Manhattan, and would love to see it replicated in Santiago.

    I’ve long known what research now shows that access to green areas improves the overall quality of life for residents. I have access to several city parks, though barely within walking distance. Besides, decades living in a big city plagued by smog, congestion and noise make me want more than a park. I want a forest. I yearn for place to practice the Japanese tradition of shinrin yoku, forest bathing, where I can sit below a tree and inhale its fresh, pungent breath, soak in the silence and allow my body to acquire a forest rhythm.

     Now for a good rain.

Soul Music

We’d bought the last tickets for the concert and our seats were in the back row. The program didn’t matter. This was Amsterdam’s Concertgebouw hall famous for its unparalleled acoustics. At first, all I could do was marvel at the splendor of the concert hall. Teardrop chandeliers sparkled throughout, illuminating the high-ceilinged, rectangular space. Red upholstery, rugs and curtains contrasted beautifully with the decorated pale beige walls and gilded pillars.

When the conductor raised his hands and the musicians readied their instruments, the chandeliers were slightly dimmed, leaving the hall in a glittering tenuous light. And the music. Oh, the music. It soared and rose, taking me with it, transporting me to a place of light and beauty.

Afterwards, I regretted we hadn’t remembered a program. With my mind brimming with travel impressions, I couldn’t remember the name or the composer of the violin concert that had cast its spell over me.

    Today, two years later, I turn up the volume on our kitchen radio. A magnificent violin concert strikes a chord within me, but I’m at a loss to identify it. The notes penetrate my core, triggering a sense of splendor and euphoria within. Why is this concert so familiar?

At the end of the piece, the announcer identifies the orchestra as Amsterdam’s Royal Concertgebouw and the piece as Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus. 64. Suddenly, I know why the concerto is familiar and moves me so.

 I’ve recovered something precious that I’d thought lost to me.

Fiddlesticks and Beyond....

Is it possible? It’s been fifty years since the assassination of Martin Luther King. Fifty years. And fifty years since Richard Nixon was elected U.S. president. And half a century since: Yale decided to admit female undergraduates; the first color photograph of earth “Earthrise” was taken by humans in orbit aboard Apollo 8; the musical “Hair” opened on Broadway; Rowan and Martin’s “Laugh-In” debuted on television. 1968 was also a year of multiple anti-Viet Nam protests.

            I’m propelled into a state of disbelief as I read the news from 1968. I was a young woman working at my first teaching job then, after two years serving in the Peace Corps. The realization hits me that I’ve been living a long time. I’m a senior citizen now and dealing with the well-known ailments, both physical and cognitive, of advancing age.

            My oldest hometown friend, Paula, in California and I were sharing our aches and pains over the phone. She’s just a year younger than I. Although she suffers from disabling arthritis, we can still relate and laugh over our multiple old-age frustrations: difficulties retrieving words from memory, tripping, energy loss. Frustration with a capital F is dropping things because then we must PICK THEM UP. Our bodies don’t appreciate the bending position.

            I tell her that I’ve taken to swearing when these frustrations interrupt my life. And I’ve advanced from lady-like swearing (fiddlesticks, darn, damn) to more hard core vocabulary. I confess that the F word is my chosen swear word now. “I know,” she laughs. “Sh__t just doesn’t cover it.”

We howl in laughter.

           

Destination

Hunched forms move through the mass of dripping gray-green foliage, alert to a movement, a crack of a branch, weapons raised forward. An earth-shaking blast. Bodies fly. Screams.

Back in camp, a damp, disheveled young man bends over a typewriter, tapping the keys with urgency. “He’s here as an observer,” a soldier comments.

    Names surface in my memory: Daniel Ellsberg, Robert McNamara, Ben Bradlee. Katharine Graham. Viet Nam. It was the late 60’s and early 70’s. A political science graduate, I was living in Berkeley, center of anti-war protests. Here in the theater, the events on the screen begin to come back to me. I’m surprised at how little I remember now. More than fifty years have passed, but the suspenseful unfolding of the story of the Pentagon Papers in the movie “The Post” grabs me.

    Lies. Lies. Lies. The American public hoodwinked. There’s a good word: hoodwinked. Duped. Bamboozled. Thousands of young soldiers sacrificing their lives for what? I am angry.

    And now? Tantalizing tidbits of information leak out to the public. In a few years we’ll learn the truth about the machinations of our current administration. How we let ourselves be hoodwinked once again. Have we lost the capacity to demand transparency? To be shocked or indignant at the constant flow of lies?

    With the movie jungle scenes still fresh in my mind, I watch a “Sixty-second Vacation” feature on CNN. Tall buildings brightly lit up with neon signs. Solid masses of cyclists flow down a broad boulevard. I’m invited to enjoy the attractions of Viet Nam.

    I imagine the faces of an American family sitting in their living room watching this latest vacation destination – where their son lost his life. 

History in the Making

The signs are subtle. Shadows fall at a different angle in the backyard. The sun has taken up a more northern position. Scattered clouds drift across the sky. Today it is refreshingly cooler – only 85 degrees. In this last week of February I savor the summertime quiet of the city. Next week the onslaught of vacationers returning from ocean and mountains begins. Children will don their uniforms to return for another year of school.

    The earth follows its orbit, slipping us here in the Southern Hemisphere into fall. School days. Cooler days. The seasons according to schedule. We pull on sweaters. Leaves turn brown and orange and yellow. Flowers make way for seeds. These events are so totally predictable that they don’t make the headlines or the history books. They just are.

    I’m outside cutting dead flowers when with the new guard on our street walks by. “Buenos días,” we say. I think from his accent he might be Colombian or Venezuelan. I ask. “Venezuelan,” he tells me. He arrived five months ago. “It’s so much easier to get into Chile than the United States.”

    This is history in the making. Peruvians. Colombians. Venezuelans. Dominicans. Haitians pour into the country. Word gets around. In Chile there are jobs. The country is stable. Skin tones on faces on crowded downtown streets are darkening. In this insular country most surprising are the growing numbers of black faces – janitors in the supermarket, gardeners in public parks, truck drivers, and construction workers. Others attempt to eke out a living on the street selling black market purses and scarves made in China.

    How brave and how desperate the Haitians must have been to find a way to reach this distant country where a different language is spoken. Television reports show classrooms in the modest sectors of town sprinkled with children with big brown eyes gazing out of round black faces. Chileans joke that in a few years, the national soccer team will be a dream team of tall, dark immigrants’ offspring.

    I'm considered an expat, not an immigrant. Is that because my skin is lighter? Because I speak English? Because I have a profession? Perhaps it's due to my reason for coming to Chile. When can an immigrant be considered an expat? A look at the big picture reveals that all history has been shaped by movements of populations. Thoughts worth considering.

    I like seeing this increasing diversity and smile at the black man I pass on the street. It is a smile of welcome. I hope he knows that. 

Validation

Ricardo, my physical therapist, presses his strong hands into my lower back, rubbing in cream with soothing circular and up-and-down motions.

    “That’s where it still hurts,” I say. “Is it normal that I still feel pain after seven weeks?”

    “Of course,” he answers. “You had major surgery. “They made an incision in your skin and then pulled you open. In my experience, your recovery should take about 3 months.”

    “I’ve been feeling kind of low,” I tell him.

    “Perfectly normal.”

    My step is lighter as I leave.

In spite of my doctor’s reassurances, I need validation for what I am feeling. My family treat me like a queen – breakfast in bed, morning checks on levels of pain, hands to help me up –  for about the first month. I think they expect that I should be better now. Yes, they still ask daily how I feel, but I sense they are losing patience. At the dinner table one night, they claim to feel frustrated that I can’t describe in detail the intensity and location of the pain.

“How does it compare with before surgery?”

“You’re healed on the outside so should also be healed inside.”

“Then the surgery did no good.”

“That doctor keeps changing your medication.”

I tell them I have complete confidence in Doctor B. who reminds me of a big brown teddy bear that I want to hug. We actually do hug each time I leave his office. I can send him a WhatsApp which he answers immediately or calls me on my cell phone.

At home, I report on Ricardo’s comments. That should keep them at bay for a day or two. But doubts prevail in my own head. I pull out the long sheets of information on the two meds I’m still taking.

Adverse Effects: Drowsiness, weight gain, puffiness, weakness, depression, irritability. (and “fondness for doctors," I add.)

    That just about covers it. I spend half the day in a stupor, can only walk 4 or 5 blocks, my face is swollen, I feel ugly and find solace in reading and swear like a drunken sailor when I trip over the vacuum cord.

    Two days until I see Ricardo again. He reminds me of a ...