A Christmas Carol Treasure

 Embossed on the red leather cover in gold letters and ringed by a delicate holly wreath are the words A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. It is a small book with gilt edges,   ‘a book that can be easily held in the hand and carried to the fireside…’

I’d determined to reread the book to enter the Christmas spirit in this pandemic year. I knew where to find it. In the side cabinet of my grandmother’s desk. Years ago it was to be found on a bookshelf in my family home. I hadn’t held the book in my hands in many years.

It smells old. The copyright is 1920. One hundred years. Because this is a purposeful rereading, I start with the introduction by A. Edward Newton, an American author, publisher and book collector. He tells the history of the book’s first publication and its influences for good in a world seemingly dominated by evil forces, a book, according to Dicken’s friend Lord Jeffrey that ‘had done more good than all the pulpits in Christendom.’

It is a story of redemption. Ghostly revelations spark Scrooge’s nostalgia for his younger, innocent self,  a self-awareness of his mean character in the present, and a gloomy vision of his future self. I can relate. The holiday season makes me nostalgic for Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere with family, especially childhood Christmases. In addition, long months of quarantine have induced me to much self-reflection that I believe also comes with the aging process. Not much time left for self-improvement!

I learn that the small book in my hand is an exact copy of the first edition, following Dicken’s dictates, including four color plates, the title page printed in red and blue, the end papers inside the covers of a Paris green color and gilt edges. I am holding a small treasure.

Our Christmas in this pandemic year will be a simple one in keeping with these times, focusing, as in A Christmas Carol, on extending cheer and love to our family, friends and neighbors.

 May these be our gifts throughout the year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coronavirus Christmas 2020

Christmas in the southern hemisphere where I’ve lived for the past 48 years is quite unlike my previous Christmases in California, distinguished by the fragrance of fir emanating from our live Christmas tree, the cold nippy air outside, Christmas card writing, gift wrapping, mall shopping, carols on the radio, the fireplace ablaze, the thoughtful placing of the figures in the Nativity scene. As the only child, I was the focal point of the day among parents, grandparents and great-aunts. My only uncle was an Air Force pilot, so he, my aunt and two boy cousins weren’t always around. Gathered in our living room, we read each gift tag aloud and handed over the package, waiting to see and proclaim over the contents.

    My first Christmas in Chile was a shock: sweltering days, a drooping pine branch with a few red ornaments, a crèche in the fireplace, in-laws, sisters- and brother-in-law and a gaggle of noisy nieces and nephews. Gift distribution was mayhem. Kids opened their presents in one big explosion of flying wrapping paper and ripped-open boxes. Over the years as I became accepted as one of the family, I suggested a bit of order might make it more enjoyable. In more recent years, when we’ve hosted Christmas at our house, my grandchildren helped decorate the tree with my old family ornaments, and we named a teenage Santa Claus who donned a red hat and white beard. Yet Santa always seemed to be in a hurry. My idea of order was difficult to maintain.

    Now we are the grandparents and the great-aunts and uncles. The younger generation has been hosting the December 24^th dinners. Families have grown as has the number of children present. The mayhem has returned. I didn’t put up our artificial tree last year for the first time. We’d be going to the grandkids’ house. I’d be the only one in our home to stop and notice the gleaming reflections of the colored lights in the silver, red and gold ornaments.

    This year I don’t know if it’s wise for us “seniors” to expose ourselves to the younger generations, who have not been strictly social distancing. I’m imagining a quieter 2020 Christmas Eve dinner at our house with just our generation. I don’t know if they’ll agree to this cautious gringa’s idea. But, after all, on the 25^th we’ll all be spending Christmas Day at our offspring’s homes. I’ll do my shopping online or in small stores. I’ll definitely set up the Nativity scene. Still undecided whether to put up a tree.

     To get into the holiday spirit, I’ll prepare the old family recipe for Scottish shortbread with my IPad tuned to Christmas music, reread my mother’s old copy of “A Christmas Carol,” and each morning I’ll water my zinnias while reflecting upon the most solemn lesson of this Coronavirus Christmas – the Interconnectedness of All.

“Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Mary Oliver.

 

 

Yesterday, a warm spring day, I watched four consecutive episodes of “The Big Bang Theory.” I needed to laugh. Eight months of social distancing plus the past month house-bound recovering from hip replacement surgery require special self-permission to use my time in whatever ways lifts my spirits.

    I’ve had time to reflect. Too much time. Negative thoughts and regrets have been in surplus. Yet, as I begin to feel better physically, positive sparks have begun to surface. Words like grace, patience and gratitude.

    Gratitude.

    I make a list. At the top of the list is Carola, our part time maid who now is my patient, angelic caregiver. Always a smile, never complaining. She’s just a couple years younger than I, and yet is able to do the housekeeping that my body resists. My appreciation (and my husband’s, as well) had already grown by leaps and bounds during the four months of quarantine that kept her from coming.

    My family. Sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, sisters-in-law. How I miss the grandchildren’s visits and their hugs. I want to touch their skin. Facetime and videos are poor substitutes.

    Friends. Those that go way back to childhood. Friendships that had lapsed over the years, now renewed. We find plenty to talk about: books, health, our gardens, politics.

    My garden. I spend hours sitting there and observing. Robins have built a nest in the bougainvillea and continue, even after a week, to line their nest with lush grass and clumps of soil. A royal robin nest. I watch the flowers taking turns unfolding in these warming days: the snowball bush blooms are fading; the tiny yellow ranunculus glow brightly, reminding me of the buttercups of my childhood; the California blue-eyed grass sparkles in the sunlight. The seedlings: one tomato plant now with perky yellow blooms; the zinnias holding promise of bright summertime colors.

    And the trees. The branches of our ancient, sturdy apricot are lined with tiny green fruit. Perhaps the most heartening news regards my redwood tree that I’d worried about. Upon very close inspection, I discovered tender verdant shoots among the summer-browned needles of the redwood.

    Rewards of paying attention.

                                             In Praise of Redwoods

In these challenging quarantine times, the appearance of pink cherry blossoms, spring’s harbingers, in the park where I walk is a spark of light and hope. Spring is officially a month away here in Chile but the warmer days have encouraged the blossoms to show off their cheery, silken beauty.

    That hope helps me bear the tragic news of the wildfires in California, my home state. Most saddening is the news of the devastation of the Big Basin Redwoods State Park. I know the territory well. In the 1950’s for four years I attended Huckleberry Woods, a Girl Scout camp in Big Basin. What a priceless childhood experience to be immersed for two weeks among ancient redwoods.

    It’s no wonder I became an avid tree-hugger.

    And we were truly immersed. Divided into groups according to age, we were assigned to separate areas in the woods. We slept in sleeping bags on the ground, softened by accumulations of fragrant redwood needles. The towering trees were our only roof. We lashed sticks together with twine using our knowledge of knots to construct shelves and hangers for our belongings. There were latrines and cubicles for bucket showers with water we heated in an oil drum over a fire. We took turns with fire duty.

    It was inevitable that we’d develop crushes on our counsellors, young women with names like Chipmunk, Otter, Bluejay and Termite. Cottontail was our rather stern nurse. The young male cooks in our outdoor kitchen and dining area were also the objects of our girlish infatuation.

    

Each chilly morning we’d rise to the call of the bugle and dress in our camp uniform, shorts and a pull-on blouse, called ‘Greenies’ (of course, they were green) and a maroon tie knotted twisted into a unique square -ish knot. We started our day with a flag raising and the National Anthem. After a hot oatmeal breakfast, we’d wash our mess kits in a bucket and head off for a morning activity: straightening our ‘nests’, practicing archery, elaborating crafts, checking a book out of the library installed within a gigantic burned out redwood trunk or washing our clothes in large buckets with washboards and Fels Naptha soap bars. After lunch, we had a rest period for reading or writing letters and later could choose a hike or head for a swim in the chilly water of the natural, fern-lined swimming hole fed by a small waterfall. At the Rock Slide, an open hillside covered with a smooth flat layer of rock, we would stargaze and sing at twilight.

Not a day went by without song, while hiking or sitting on logs around the campfire: Negro spirituals, cowboy ditties and American folk songs. “We are climbing Jacob’s ladder…,” or “My home’s in Montana….”  Snuggled into our sleeping bags in the dark, we’d listen for the mournful notes of taps resounding amongst the redwoods and then waited for the serenade. Hidden from view, our counsellors would sing us into slumber. “Desert silvery blue beneath the pale moonlight..,” or “Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander….”

Aside from my memories of Huckleberry Woods, Big Basin holds particular significance for me because my mother attended camp there in the 1930’s, then known as Camp Chaparral. In the photos camp life seems quite like what I experienced, building character and outdoor skills within the magnificence and wisdom of centuries-old redwoods.

Redwoods are known to be fire-resistant. In any redwood forest it is common to come across blackened, flame-licked trunks of a living tree. I pray that Big Basin’s sequoias sempervirens will abide for another millennia to offer their beauty and wisdom to generations to come.

Muffin Days

ENVY. Yes. Full blown envy is what I feel when I contemplate the photos of natural landscapes on Facebook: a woodland trail by friend Allyson’s Toronto home, Scarlett’s miniature roses with a background of rolling California hills, sunset at the ocean by Chile’s coast. In response to a FB post by the Nature Conservancy, dozens send in snapshots of their local woods and lakes.  Such good fortune to live in those places, I think, while I’ve been in quarantine for four months in this city, currently of 8 million. I grew up in a place of great natural beauty and now in these pandemic times I long for the country.

flowering tarweed at Phoenix Lake, Marin Co. California

        Connecting to Nature is my salve, my comfort and my delight especially in these hard times, but most of Nature is out of reach for city dwellers for now. What to do? I pay attention: to the deep blue sky dappled with glowing puffs of white clouds, to the carpet of lemon-yellow leaves at the park, to the exhilarating sight of fresh snow on the Andes.
    Today, ignoring the strict lockdown, I take a walk to a small nearby park. There I feast my eyes on lemony yellow leaves carpeting the ground. In the distance I can just make out the fresh snow on the Andes. Yes. We’ve had several good long rains after many years of drought. On my walk I pull my mask down below my nose to inhale the tingling sharp scent of wet leaves. 

my local plaza

        My walks to the park have become a daily routine. I discovered that walking improves my physical stamina, eases arthritic pain and corrects bad habits formed while being homebound.
        From the start of the quarantine, I found that following my usual routine has been beneficial for my mental health. Yet I still have days of feeling down. Early each morning, I have an inner conversation with myself, a sort of pep talk. What do I have to look forward to today? Maybe a son will call by FaceTime so we can visit with grandchildren. (Family hugs are what I miss most.) I look forward to the rain forecast for tonight. I don’t know why but I get satisfaction from sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor. Unfortunately for my waistline, meals have become bright spots in my days. Both my husband and I have been resorting to comfort food, especially chocolate. But then I had a stern talk with myself to be more disciplined regarding food. Now, if I need comforting I turn to an absorbing book. Comfort reading rather than comfort eating.
     This is an ideal time to develop greater self-control and patience. Each week that the government extends the total quarantine for another week, I’m able to adjust. Another week. Another month. I know it will end eventually, yet as a ‘senior’, I hold a very different perspective of the terms ‘eventually’ and ‘future’ than do the younger generations. It helps me to imagine the immense joy I’ll feel when I can have family over for Sunday lunch or make an outing into the countryside or make that long-awaited trip to Scotland.
        While I make herb-cheese muffins and order online groceries to be delivered, neighbors at the other end of town are organizing soup kitchens. They’re plugging up the leaks in their fragile homes, built of cardboard, sheets of tin and plastic, while I delight in the sight and sound of rain. Families that hunker down in their small crowded spaces, where it’s impossible to practice social distancing, would feel envy and maybe resentment if they were to see my spacious home where now only two of us live and even enjoy the green of our small garden.
        Life in these pandemic times puts society under an enormous magnifying glass, highlighting glaring inequalities: inadequate housing, irregular incomes, students with no computers to do online classes and no Wi-Fi connection. Inequalities have always existed, but now on the television screen they are in our faces, headlined in giant red letters, impossible to ignore or forget; the woman attempting to sweep the water and mud from her house; wet mattresses upended (where will the children sleep tonight?); belongings piled high into a dry corner; buckets and pots filling with rain leaks.
    The Covid-19 restrictions reveal our true colors. Are we willing to forego today’s satisfactions for the long term common good? Televised scenes of massive pool parties and crowded bars reveal a society of young people unwilling to sacrifice for the well-being of their country.
        This quarantine also has made known the positive: public and private campaigns to help the needy; an abundance of time to reflect, to read, to bake muffins, to write, to share humor on social media, to call a sister-in-law who lives alone or to feed the backyard birds.
        Today I’ll go online to contribute once more to an organization that distributes food to the needy, although I know it will never be enough.

Happy Anniversary?

My husband’s first words to me this morning. I panicked. Did I forget our anniversary? Wait a minute. What month is this? July. We were married in December. What? I said. July 14^th, he answered. Oh. It clicked. Forty-eight years ago I arrived in Chile to pursue our relationship – cut short when his U.S. visa expired the previous October. Our courtship needed more time. Forty-eight years later….I’m still in this beautiful country and mother of two sons and grandmother of five.

    Enough time to have witnessed a socialist government, a military coup and dictatorship, the return to democracy, and recently, severe social unrest and… yes, Covid-19 quarantine.

    I still have moments of homesickness, ‘home’ meaning San Anselmo, the town where I grew up. Though I no longer have any family there, I miss the dark green curves of Mt. Tamalpais, the peace and fragrance of Phoenix Lake cupped in a fold of the mountain, the scent of redwood trees, the grassy dome of Mt. Baldy, those geographic landmarks of my early years to which I return yearly, except now in 2020 due to the pandemic.

    For years I struggled with the question: where is ‘home’ for me? I dealt with my struggles by writing two books: Marrying Santiago and Notes from the Bottom of the World.

    Now, after forty-eight years of memories and four months of quarantine, I know that ‘home’ is Santiago, Chile, where my family is – husband, sons, grandkids, nieces, nephews, sisters- and brother-in law. Because of them, this place is ‘home’ for me. Instead of Mt. Tamalpais, I have a view of the magnificent snow-covered Andes.

Ode to the Bay

Sittin' in the mornin' sun

I'll be sittin' when the evenin' comes

Watchin' the ships roll in

Then I watch 'em roll away again

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay

Watchin' the tide roll away

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay

Wastin' time

Otis Redding wrote this favorite song of mine by San Francisco Bay, the Bay of my growing years and beyond, the Bay to which I migrate in early fall, the Bay of my memories.

    First, were the sounds. I'd lie in bed at night hearing the haunting calls of the fog horns warning ships passing through the Golden Gate.

    When I was five, we moved north of the Bridge, where we undertook many bay outings: China Camp where we'd buy tiny pink bay shrimp from Chinese fishermen. Their old wooden wharves and shacks continue there, preserved as an historic site; Tomales Bay where we'd head in rubber boots with buckets and shovels to dig for clams. I remember my surprise seeing my grandmother eating them raw from the shell. My childhood curiosity was piqued by the purple sea anemones clinging to rocks in the shallow water. If I touched them with a stick, they'd squirt water. Also on Tomales Bay was Shell Beach, where we'd head on hot summer days, carrying folded chairs, beach towels, and a picnic down the steep woodsy trail. I had mixed feelings about Shell Beach. The road to get there was windy and I was prone to carsickness. Once there, I'd have to deal with avoiding the jellyfish lurking in those waters.

    My last excursion to Tomales Bay was just a few years ago where I embarked on my first kayaking trip with friends.

    I'll skip the details as I wrote about that outing in my book "Notes from the Bottom of the World." As we neared the shore, I could see Nick's Cove in the distance and the thought of its renowned hot clam chowder urged me on for the final challenging leg of the expedition.

    When you live by a bay, you acquire tastes for shellfish, not only clams, but shrimp and crab. Those early culinary experiences foreshadowed a life in Chile, whose coastal waters provide an abundance of seafood, my all-time favorite being machas (razor clams) a la parmesana.

    I'll bring my bay ode to a close with another song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAjhLexlrDc

Rain and a Fire

RAIN! GLORIOUS, SPLENDOROUS, MARVELOUS RAIN! What a blessing for this parched city. My garden gives thanks; my redwood tells me it’s a happy camper. According to the weatherman, this is most bountiful rain in two years. From a second floor window, I see that the mountains have a fresh cloak of snow. Now, in the afternoon, the sun gleams, drops of water on leaves glisten and the sky is the bluest of blues. So much to be grateful for.

redwood in the rain

     I ran out in the rain to pick up the newspaper this morning and placed it in the oven to disinfect it. Then, with mug of coffee in hand, I joined hubby on the second floor to view on his computer the funeral in England of Betty, his father’s Scottish/Chilean cousin, who passed away at 89-years of age of coronavirus. On her visits here, she entertained us with her wicked humor and feisty character. While watching the service, I noticed the smell of burning paper and rushed downstairs to the kitchen, filled with a thin veil of smoke. I’d forgotten to turn down the temp on the oven since I’d baked chicken yesterday. I pulled out a part of the paper in flames and doused it under the faucet. It was the business section. Oh, well. Hubby warned that I could have burned down the house. I doubt it. I have a very efficient sniffer. The whole house smells of burnt paper.

     The day called for hot butternut squash soup. While it was simmering, I whipped up a batch of granola. Things I do during quarantine, which shows no sign of easing up. And I write (here) and read. Time to download another book. Am thinking of something by John Grisham as I’ve never read any of his books. My sisters-in-law knit during their free quarantine hours: sweaters for newborns and squares to make afghans. One sister-in-law just made a poncho for our year-old granddaughter, Mila. I’ve forgotten how to knit and crochet. I sold my sewing machine years ago and hubby knows he must sew on any of his loose buttons. I’m all thumbs with a needle.

     I think of things that give me pleasure during these lockdown days: the sound of rain, the blue sky, our backyard birds, a clean kitchen floor, unexpected emails, a phone call, a Facetime visit with grandchildren, a good book, chocolate. Surprisingly, the days and weeks fly by.

Feeling Bitchy

This quarantine feels eternal. I succumbed for two days to feeling crotchety and bitchy, angry at the world: my wooly socks that resisted my efforts to yank them onto my feet; the pull up tab on a tin can of tomatoes that refused pulling up. (Hubby’s comment: what will you do when I’m not around); the soup that boiled over in its pan (because I forgot to turn off the flame); my inability to stop snacking; the misguided who don’t respect the quarantine. I won’t go on.

Then, suddenly, I had a great day, reminding me that nothing is forever. What made it great? The shining sun, inviting the fall leaves to show off their golden and ruby colors; a morning email informing me that online magazine Literary Traveler accepted an article I’d submitted (yes!); Radio Beethoven playing Rossini’s overture to the opera Masmetto II, and ALL music, for that matter, now that our only classical music station is back on the air after a lapse of several months, just in time for quarantine. I think ahead to the joy of attending a live concert in the future.

It’s important these days to have things to look forward to. I’ll be relieved to visit the dentist. I’ve had a loose molar since the beginning of quarantine and I’m tired of months of chewing my food on one side of my mouth.

Rain is announced for the next couple of days. I pray that the weather app knows its stuff. How I long to hear the swish of a heavy rain. All the growing things in my garden and the surrounding dull brown hills would give thanks as well.

 How satisfying and comforting the books I’ve read in this time of solitude, (more satisfying than snack food), the last two written by Sue Monk Kidd. Now I’m reading The Last Wilderness by Neil Ansell, who describes his solitary walks through the Scottish Highlands. Anything to put me in a Scottish frame of mind as I sit in front of my computer waiting for inspiration on my novel. I wanted to play some Scottish music but the CD player wouldn’t cooperate. I’ll have to try YouTube

            I’ll enjoy preparing for our book club meeting in 10 days, via zoom. I will be the moderator as I suggested this month’s book The Invention of Nature. Alexander Von Humboldt’s New World by Andrea Wulf. What an extraordinary, brilliant man Von Humboldt and so unknown. This fascinating book is a must for all nature lovers. I had my son bring me a copy from the States because I wanted to be able to underline and place the volume on my bookshelf among the keepers.

            In this time of contemplation many turn to nature for spiritual sustenance. How fortunate are those who live in the countryside or at the coast, in less developed places. Our city garden is small but I can look out my back window and rest my eyes on the feathery branches of the California redwood tree I brought to Chile as a seedling thirty years ago. It is my forest.

Scotsmen on My Mind

Two-week Coronavirus lockdown again. The entire city of Santiago. If I’m not allowed out, I determine to make good use of my free time (when not cooking, sweeping, ordering groceries on line). So this is the perfect time to pour myself into my writing. Right? My historical novel based on the life of a Scottish great-aunt. It’s actually more research than writing. The research takes me there. As I study the family tree on my computer screen, long dead family members come alive. The past few days I’ve been reading about early 19^th century Gibraltar, where my grandmother spent time as a governess for a naval captain’s children. I have a few photographs she took while there which give me inspiration and give flight to my imagination – two small boys in sailor suits, the family with my grandmother,  officers in dress uniform, aa Royal Navy steamship.

What better way to get into a Scottish frame of mind than to immerse myself in the world of the Outlander series? Jamie Fraser is my kind of Scotsman: blue-eyes, red hair, powerful physique and winning accent. Exposed to my Outlander marathon, I just may slip into speaking like a true Scotswoman! After all, it’s in my DNA.

So I deal with quarantine retreating into an imaginary world. Aye, I’ve sighed over Jamie Fraser’s brawny good looks, but it’s difficult to imagine myself with someone that young. By the last episode, I’d changed my loyalties for that tough, gray-bearded rakish Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser. Enamored, I check him out on Google. Damn. He’s twenty years younger than I.     

Well, I did marry a Gordon, a Spanish-speaking Chilean, twice removed from Scotland. The only thing Scottish about him is his last name. When I met him, he looked more like Pancho Villa, moustache and all, than Jamie or Murtagh.

Succulents, Weeds and Other Wild Critters

A few days ago I bought myself a Mother’s Day present on-line. A cardboard box of twelve tiny succulent seedlings, along with a spray bottle. On a trip to the drier north months ago I’d gathered cuttings of a variety of succulents and cacti. Though I managed to get them to root in sand, they all dried up after I transplanted them in especially researched and prepared soil. I blame our extremely hot summer and global warming, though you’d think they would have been happy in that climate. I lost several plants this past summer. My two potted tomato plants were not happy campers either. One, after producing a few tomatoes, shriveled and bit the dust. The other one decided to yield one tomato and two promising-looking blooms.

    In the time of quarantine on-line shopping has blossomed. I bought the succulent seedling kit for my two daughters-in-law as well. 

        Yesterday our youngest granddaughter, Mila, celebrated her first birthday. We bought her a set of musical instruments and an animal puzzle (with animal sounds when she places the right piece), all made out of wood.  Mila came with her mom and dad and opened her presents in our front yard, all of us wearing masks, except Mila. No hugs allowed.

        This morning the doorbell rang, which is unusual these days. A big wooden box was delivered. At first sight I thought it was a box of fruit of the season. Apples? Pears? But no. Lined with a large sheet of brown paper, the box held our breakfast: a bag of assorted fresh breads, jars of honey, cream cheese and Nutella, yoghurts, two tea bags, a jar of juice and a little nosegay. Breakfast in a box. What a delight to receive such an unexpected gift! With malls closed, creativity blooms.

        In Coronavirus times, with many options denied, I’m challenged to come up with alternatives for using my time. Cooking is not my favorite pastime, but I feel pleased with myself when I come up with original ideas for using left-overs. I’m a gardener of sorts, but our garden is looking sad now in fall and I can’t go out to buy some bright flowers. I’ll check if I can buy plants online. I’ve been entertaining myself feeding the three birds that consider our tiny garden theirs: a robin and two rufous-collared sparrows. I’m trying to train the robin to come when I whistle. He’s been coming closer to me, but is still very wary. And to think that in San Francisco California, coyotes are romping around as if they owned the place.

        How I miss contact with the natural world. I read about a new hobby in England that combines botany with city streets and sidewalks called botanical chalking. I love the idea! If you identify a weed growing in the cracks, write its name next to it with chalk. The first challenge is to learn to identify the weeds (got plenty in our patch of grass in the back yard)! But this must be in a public space, the idea being to promote an appreciation for those lowly beings we call weeds.

    An interesting, worthwhile project to fill those pandemic hours.

Bird Watching in Times of Quarentine

Flashy red cardinals, speckled woodpeckers, metallic blue-black starlings, multi-hued blue jays, dainty chickadees, red-winged blackbirds  flashing their colors, swooping into the feeders, competing for the abundant seeds and nuts, sending warning calls or perhaps calling a mate. A feisty dove defends its territory, until a plump squirrel arrives,  helping itself to the tasty seeds. So much activity, live, right before our eyes in our TV room. The Cornell Lab Feeder Watch entertains my hubby and I, avid bird watchers, more than any Netflix series. Just imagine, we’ve been under quarantine for a month with no access to the outdoors except our small garden and then we discover the Feeder Watch bringing the outdoors – a pond with Canadian geese, newly-budding trees, birdsong – onto the wide screen before us. The burden of quarantine feels lighter, hope glimmers on our horizon.

    Total lockdown in our neighborhood was lifted two days ago, so today we plan to take a drive! We feel it’s safe to leave our city confines to delight in the natural world first hand. Not far, just up into the foothills of the Andes. We’ll take our masks and maybe get out of the car to inhale the mountain air. Simple pleasures.

    We head up the narrow curving road through the Mapocho River canyon. The majestic Andes rise tower before us with tiny patches of snow on their peaks. It feels so liberating to be here out of the city away from concrete, glass and metal. Yet, hubby voices what I’ve been thinking, “Look how dry everything is.” The hills around us are a dull grayish brown, their sparce vegetation a drab olive green, and, most disturbing, multiple skeletal dry trees standing in sad testimony of more than a decade of drought.

     I say to my husband, “Let’s stop up there a ways where we get a closer view of the river.” River is too grand a word for the trickle of water. I get out of the car and walk towards the bushes that line the riverbank, stepping through roadside garbage to reach a place where I can hear the gurgling of the water over rocks.  I want to don a pair of gloves, tote a large bag and rid this roadside of its human detritus.

    This foray out into “nature” reminds me of the degree to which the Earth is suffering from our neglect and abuse. I wonder if the idyllic scenes on the Feeder Watch Cam will only be accessible to us in the not so distant future on a television or computer screen.

Love in the Times of Coronavirus

In these times of lockdowns, curfews and social distancing, how adaptable we’re proving to be. Our writing group meets as usual on Thursday mornings, via the Zoom application. 

    Zoom also allows me to exercise three times a week with my Pilates group and our Cuban professor, Alberto. Little by little, I’m creating a home schedule to inject a level of normalcy into my life. On the non-Pilates days, I do exercises on my own. I signed up for a writing course for times of “Uncertainty.” I write. I read voraciously, while my husband cycles furiously upstairs on his stationary bike.

            Though my husband is semi-retired, we usually do not spend much time together during the day, each with our own activities. Now we have fallen into a routine, quite different from when our daily cleaning lady was coming. We make the bed together. I cook, he sets the table and washes the dishes. Yesterday, before he showered, I handed him a squirt bottle of bathroom cleaner and a rag and asked him to clean the shower when he finished. After I finished vacuuming and complained that my back ached, he said he could do that next time. Words I never thought I’d hear! He’s getting a sense of what it takes to keep up a house. We have a ritual these days of watching a Netflix series called “Trapped” set in Iceland. The landscape – white and many shades of grey – lurks, looms (it’s a murder mystery), fascinates and amazes with its unusual beauty.

Another ritual, now more than ever, is watching the news together. The latest news flash was a welcome distraction to us, both animal lovers. Yesterday at 5:30 a.m. a wild puma visited the empty city streets of several neighborhoods, most likely having wandered from the foothills. He looked young (big paws) and disoriented. Animal experts from the zoo were able to sedate him and transport him to the zoo, where, we were glad to hear, he was declared to be in good health and soon to be released back into the wild. Amazingly, another puma was sighted today in another residential neighborhood!

 Now I fantasize a futuristic scene (not too far into the future), the city in total lockdown being visited by an assortment of wild animals: guanacos, foxes, more pumas, condors, ferrets, living in harmony with the human inhabitants. If only we could learn how to tread this earth softly. Are we willing to change our ways? 

The March of all Marches

“March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb.” So goes the saying. Here in the Southern Hemisphere, March brings the final days of summer and soon the first days of fall. March signals the massive return of vacationers to Santiago, massive traffic jams and the start of the school year. It’s the same every year. Well, almost.

       This March the atmosphere is charged with anxiety. Multiple protests and marches are scheduled, which sadly means the continuation of violence and vandalism in the streets which began last October. I agree with what most of the protesters are demanding: improved pensions and greater access to health and educational opportunities. I abhor the vandalism that has sprung alongside these protests – looting, setting fire to museums and churches, destroying property in general. Downtown looks like a war zone, windows boarded up, walls covered with graffiti (“Kill the cops, down with the president, no more tolls”)

        Affected businesses have let employees go, resulting in hundreds of unemployed. Particularly worrying is the lack of respect for authority. In spite of pushing through reforms, the government has been unable to maintain public order in cities throughout the country.

            These worries are compounded by a severe lack of water, due to a 12 –year-long drought. The central valley of Chile, where Santiago is situated, is brown and parched. Farmers are suffering; animals are dying. This has been the hottest summer that I can remember.

            Is there a silver lining to be found in these dark clouds? Some. More bike lanes are being added to major thoroughfares and increasing numbers of Chileans resort to bikes and scooters to get about. New bright red electric rental bikes, owned by Uber, stand clustered at street corners. Most of the metro stations destroyed by protesting masked vandals have been repaired in a period of months. Delicious summer fruits - peaches, melons, grapes - still abound.

            The political situation in the States also has me on edge. I follow the news on CNN daily, hoping for some positive news, something to feel hopeful about. But the November elections are many months away. My hope beyond hope is that the President gets his marching orders.

What to do with all this waiting?  I think of the robin couple that frequents our backyard. Last month their two fledglings were mangled by a neighborhood feral cat, who generously left them on our doormat. A few days later the two robins began building a new nest in our avocado tree. Yesterday I noticed a gawky adolescent robin practicing flight patterns. So what to do when the world feels dark? Do as the robins did: try again.

Will I join the massive march planned for March 8th, International Women’s Day? I don’t like crowds, and my marching days are over. I think. I did go out to march with American women on the streets of Santiago just two years ago to protest the newly-elected U.S. president. I hope, if I do go to the streets again, it will be in celebration – for my two countries.

Taking on the Challenge

Can I write fiction? An historical novel to be precise. Why not give it a try, I say to myself. It will be a great challenge, but I need a writing project to work on. I’ve read countless novels over the decades, but does that qualify me?

I want to build a story around a great-aunt who lived a rather unconventional life for the times. I only knew her when she was an elderly woman. Now I’ve become a sleuth, piecing together bits and pieces from her past: photographs, mementos, diplomas, possessions and remembered conversations.

She and her two sisters, my grandmother and another aunt, were born and raised in Scotland and immigrated to the States in 1910. Internet has greatly facilitated exploring family history. As I access Scotland’s census documents with birth and death dates, cause of death and addresses, the family members have taken on life for me. Now I know my mother was named after a Scottish aunt and my grandmother’s younger sister who died at the age of eleven. I’ve had to make deductions, like their reasons for immigrating, probably due to the fact that both their parents were deceased at an early age and few prospects were available in their small town.

The research fascinates me. I discovered photos of the ship on which they traveled. I’m currently reading “A History of Everyday Life in Scotland, 1800 to 1900”. Gradually, with more and more details, I begin to imagine family members, breathing life into them. My greatest challenge is creating interesting complex characters that feel as real to the reader as they do to me.

My grandmother, Molly, her two sisters and brother

A Beacon in the Dark

These first days of the year 2020 have felt like dark times. I find it difficult to feel hopeful. The 12 year-long drought continues in Chile. The temperature everyday soars in the 90s. We live under a pale, washed out sky under a cover of smoke from the Australian fires. Plants in my garden are scorched. Since the massive social outburst in October here, life feels uncertain in this society where angry Chileans, empowered by social media, challenge authority, established institutions and the rights of others in massive demonstrations, looting and violent attacks.

The latter dominated the conversation at tea time in the house of my husband’s cousin. We were a group of six women all in our seventies and beyond: two of my sisters-in-law and two friends of the hostess. The house was dark and dreary, curtains closed to “keep out the heat.” Fortunately, someone opened the double doors to the minute back patio, letting in a bit of light and air.

I hadn’t met the hostess’s two friends previously but had heard my sisters-in-law often mention one woman, Carmen Slight, an unusual name that I immediately connected with our trip through the Straits of Magellan a few years ago.

Magellan Straits

 Reading historical anecdotes about the area, I came across the fascinating story of Scottish engineer George Slight who built many of Chile’s lighthouses, the first situated on one of the rocky Evangelista islets at the western entrance to the Straits from the Pacific. I told Carmen that I knew a bit of the history behind the lighthouses. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I love talking about it!” she said. “George Slight was my grandfather. The Chilean government asked him to help design and build the lighthouse, badly needed to guide ships through the entrance of the Straits.”

Her grandfather fascinated his family with tales of four meter high waves, blustery winds and the inexistence of a place to dock on the rocky outcropping, making access difficult and dangerous. But Slight had experience with lighthouses in England and India. In 1898 the light first flashed over the seas, a welcome beacon for the sailors in those treacherous waters.

 Slight went on to build 72 lighthouses along Chile’s coast.  He married and settled in Chile, becoming head of Chile’s Maritime Signaling Service.

“The Navy continues commemorating him to this day, often inviting me to ceremonies,” Carmen told us. “A few years ago they took me in helicopter to visit the lighthouse! Now for the first time they have women naval officers there.”

We sat to have tea in the walled-in backyard, the conversation centering on people they all knew, the names of spouses and those who had passed on. I listened politely, while praying for a breeze of any kind, but Carmen Sight had brightened my day. What a privilege to hear the story from Mr. Slight’s granddaughter.

His gravestone in Valparaiso General Cemetery bears the English epitaph “His lights still shine over the waters of the Pacific Ocean.”

Colombia, Part V: Macondo

Local bus, 1988 Trooper jeep, pickup truck, carro-taxi, bici-taxi – they all eventually deliver us to our destinations. But it is in Aracateca where, on the wings of imagination, we travel the furthest, back in time to the fantastical town of Macondo.

Having had our fill of beaches, we opt for a comfortable, air-conditioned bus ride to the towns of Cienaga and nearby Aracataca, birthplace of Nobel winning author Gabriel García Marquez (Gabo). At the bus’s door in Cienaga, a jabbering swarm of young men descend upon us. They want to take us around town on their bici-taxis.

“I’ll take you!”

“Me. Me!”

“Look. Come this way!”
Making our way through the throng, we finally settle on Jesus, sitting apart from the others, a young man with limited language skills. “Can you take us to see the plaza and the church?” we ask him. “And then to the statue commemorating the 1929 massacre of the strikers against the United Fruit Company?”

He pedals us around town on his rusty, wobbly contraption, part bicycle and part bench on wheels (with a fringe on top) made with assorted components of unknown origin, yet I feel like royalty. Jesus pedals hard, taking us where we’ve requested, then depositing us at the stop to catch a bus to Aracateca.

The short bus ride from Ciénaga to Aracataca, is lined with banana plantations as if forshadowing the setting for “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” García Marquez´ prize-winning novel.

Bici-taxi is the way to find a place for lunch in Aracateca. From there, we walk along well-kept streets, passing a wall painted with a likeness of the author and a flock of hamburgers with wings, announcing “Gabo’s Comida Rapida,” (Fast Food). I don’t recall that his magical realism conjured up flying hamburgers.

     We arrive at Gabo’s museum, a series of replica rooms located on the plot of land where only one original structure remains. His words written on an outside wall set the tone for this visit. “More than a home, the house was a pueblo.” In the first room, his grandfather’s study, I read: “The move to Aracataca was seen by my grandparents as a journey into forgetting.” There are very few visitors. We walk through silent rooms of memorabilia: his grandfather’s desk, his childhood bed, family sepia portraits. Nostalgia permeates every space. Along the walls are quotes from Gabo’s books, which give me the sensation that he is present here with me. He says: “There is not a line in one of my books that does not have its origin in my childhood.” In the kitchen filled with old utensils, I read: Nothing was eaten in the house that was not seasoned in the broth of longing. In these rooms I’m a visitor to the past where the imagination that created the town of Macondo in “One Hundred Years of Solitude” found its early inspiration.
    In a back patio stands a majestic rubber tree, its thick tangle of roots and lianas reach high above me. It must have intrigued Gabo as a child. A bright flash of color flutters by. Before I can say “mariposa!” it comes to rest on one of the gnarled tree roots, but I see no bright colors, rather a large splendidly camouflaged moth, a day-flying moth. I imagine Gabo’s crinkling, laughing eyes as he recalls the garden creatures.
    Aboard another bici-taxi, we view colorful murals lining the canal coursing through town and, finally, arrive at the town’s entrance to catch the return bus.  There I pose in front of colorful, giant letters announcing “Aracateca” and “Macondo”. The locals have opted for a double name for their town. I send this photo to my family saying “Greetings from Macondo.”

---