Things I Do When I Don't Know What to Do

December twenty-seventh.  The anticipation and excitement of Christmas and New Years are past. So ephemeral. The Christmas tree in the living room looks superfluous and lonely. I feel at loose ends. I want to write but nothing sparks my interest. The only thing that occurs to me is to write down my thoughts as I wander about in this limbo state.

Tendinitis in my right hip has hindered my usual activity for several months. I’m frustrated with not being able to take my frequent walks through the park to the canal and back. This inactivity drives me to eat, dangerous when Christmas cookies and my Scottish shortbread call to me from their tins. The combination of little activity and sweet-gorging is the perfect recipe for an expanding waistline. Each morning I awake with the intention of this being the first of many no-sugar days. But my willpower flags.

            Today I finish the book my son gave me for Christmas, “The Dark Road,” by Mai Jian. It leaves me perplexed. There must be some symbolism or underlying metaphoric threads I just don’t get. The graphic descriptions of how the Chinese suffered under the country’s One Child Family Planning Policy are deeply disturbing. But why can’t the author grant his main characters some peace or grace as their story comes to a close?  I turn to a book of short stories set in Rumania. Again the tale I read leaves me wondering. Not a glimmer of hope for the two main characters and no hint of resolution - a maddening technique of many writers.

            Determined to find meaning in this day, I move to my study. Maybe if I sit in front of the computer and just start writing?

First I reach for the round brass pen and pencil holder on my desk. On the back of a bill I try out each pen. Five are dry. This is my feeble start to my resolution for a less cluttered 2017.

Before I write, I’ll call Ann. We haven’t talked since before Christmas. But her husband says she’s out and won’t be home until late.

I’ve been tossing around the idea of writing about New Years. New Year’s Eve and the prospect of a new year don’t excite me. I can’t relate to the crowds of people cheering, dancing and hugging in the plazas. During this week of amorphous time, I do reflect upon the past year. I enjoy following the television news and newspaper reports summing up the year – the good and the bad.  I’ll leaf through my year’s agenda book to remind my aging memory of events that marked my year: birthdays, doctor appointments, travels. My year has been a good one and I am grateful. As for the upcoming year, I will begin each day as I always do with prayers of thanksgiving and petitions for blessings for my loved ones, along with the determination to say no to sugar and to clean out at least one drawer. In urgent need of downsizing is my collection of tee-shirts.

These unstructured days I enjoy observing bee activity in my garden. Bees have their favorite blooms. The native Llaupangue was the main attraction a few weeks ago. Now they harvest the pollen from the deep purple blossoms of the buddleia or butterfly bush and the dainty white flowers of the ilan-ilan. Such industrious little guys.

I stop to examine my heirloom tomato plants, poking my nose into the leaves. Such a distinctive, pungent scent that evokes visions of red, juicy, savory tomatoes at summer’s end, not those wimpy, tasteless greenhouse specimens we buy at the supermarket.

I welcome birds into our garden; even sprinkling about Christmas cookie crumbs in the grass. But, now, the ripening apricots are the source of contention between me and the austral thrushes. The greedy fellows spear the not-quite-ripe fruits with their pointy beaks knocking them to the ground. I shouldn’t fret about it; there’s plenty for all, including for Speedy, our tortoise.

Today I take time to read some of Maria Popova’s Brain Pickings newsletters that have accumulated in my Inbox. The rich essays and book reviews overwhelm with their weighty thoughts. So much to absorb and reflect upon, and I’ll retain very little. But I pick out one small jewel. Hermann Hesse: trees “are the most penetrating of preachers.”

One end-of-the-year pleasure I look forward to is opening my new calendar of Molly Hashimoto’s block prints, portraying peaceful scenes of birds in their natural habitats. I love calendars and the promise they hold for the next year. Each month a different vibrantly-colored feathered friend will greet my days.

The doorbell. I see a figure standing outside our gate and open the door. It’s Ann! We retreat to the back garden with glasses of cold water and samples of my Christmas baking for her to try. Naturally, I have some, too.

Kitchen Blizzard

Clic. Clic. Clic. My sandals sound as I walk across the kitchen floor. We’ll surely win first prize for The Absolutely Stickiest Kitchen Floor. My black pants wear white smudges. Flour. Powdered sugar. Blue food coloring adorns my fingers. Cookie dough has worked its way under my finger nails.

            I give each of my three granddaughters a job.

            “Who’d like to measure the flour?” I show Manuela how to bang the measuring cup on the counter to settle the flour.

Colomba flings her long hair in wide circles for several minutes. Then volunteers to separate the egg yolks.

Oh-Oh. Two yokes. Oops, the yokes break into the gooey whites along with pieces of shell. I demonstrate with the second egg. Again, two yokes. Tricky.

Pascuala has her hands on the glass sugar jar. I’d best give her a task with the sugar.

“We need one-and-a-half cups. Up to this line.” Crunchy sugar grains join flour on the floor.

They correct my Spanish. This is a first, but I don’t mind. I tell them, “It’s a deal. You correct my Spanish and I correct your English.”

Our first attempt using their great-grandmother’s cookie press is a disaster. Butter oozes from the press. An 85 degree day is not ideal for achieving the right consistency of cookie dough. We manage to pop one tray of cookies into the oven. The rest of the dough goes into the frig and we take a time-out for lunch. They wolf down spaghetti. Pascuala demonstrates her skill at counting from one to ten in Mapundungun, the Mapuche language. We devour the first batch of cookies for dessert.

Colomba suggests we start again, forget the cookie press and make patterned cookies with fresh dough. I send them off to put some ornaments on the Christmas tree, while I make a new batch of dough.

Manuela calls from the living room, “Sue, what’s your password?”

“For what?”

“Your computer,”

“Why?”

“We want to show you something on YouTube.”

“Please! Let’s get the cookies finished first.”

  They return to knead the dough into a compact ball and take turns with the rolling pin while Pascuala sings a song in a squeaky voice over and over again.

While they cut out the patterned cookies, I snap photos. Cookies in the oven, I get out the ingredients for the glaze. Pascuala yelps, “I burned myself!”

“Where?” I grab an ice pack from the frig and apply it to her elbow.

“We need Ziploc bags and rubber bands for the glaze,” says Colomba. They clearly have more recent practice with patterned cookies than I have and work well without my supervision. Soon the table, chairs, clothes and hair are dotted with globs of blue, red and green frosting.

While I’ve dropped my guard, they managed to take a dozen photos with my cell phone, photos of elbows and headless cooks.

“Damn! These cookies are stuck to the pan.” I pop broken chunks into my mouth.

Grandpa arrives and surveys the scene. The cookies are finished, and we all drift into the dining room. Pascuala trips and lands on the Christmas tree, her arm tangling with the tree lights. The girls want to play a new game with us, Mannequin Challenge, which requires us each to hold a body position while one films us. When the video maker sweeps the camera in another direction, we must change positions. No talking. No moving. Someone giggles. Then another. Soon all of us are laughing. Video maker gets frustrated. Try again. After five or six takes, we’ve had enough.

We sit down in the back yard, and I pass around chocolate ice cream bars. Manuela and Pascuala smear melting chocolate ice cream on their faces.

 Don’t know if I’m capable of standing up again.

            

My Days

Tendinitis in my hip has me in the dumps. I’ve had to slow down, limit my walking. But the days go on; things happen to me or I make them happen – good and not-so-good, expected and unexpected.

My favorite moments are the good and unexpected. My neighbor-friend, Isabel, rings the doorbell. She holds a covered bowl in her hands.

“I’m hoping you’ll receive this.”

Is she bringing me food?

“My cat was about to kill it.”

An injured bird?

“Come in,” I say, “What is it?”

She removes the cover. “It has the most beautiful colors.” In the bottom of the bowl lies a multi-colored lizard – chartreuse, yellow and cyan – with part of its tail missing.

“I’ve seen these before,” I say,” but never here in the city. In fact, I’ve never seen any lizards in my backyard. Let’s check my “Wildlife Guide to Chile” to see what it is.”

We identify our visitor as a thin tree lizard “… females are always found within the confines of a colonized tree or fence.” This brightly painted fellow appears to be a male.

“Isabel, he may feel lonely in my garden. There must be a mate where you found him.”

“I’ll watch for another, if the cat doesn’t get to it first.”

“Shall we name him?” I ask. “How about Iggy? He is related to the iguana.”

I go outside and release Iggy into the shrubbery, wishing him luck.

The next day my clothes dryer breaks down. Oh, oh, is this the start of a chain of bad luck? A Chilean superstition has it that bad things occur in a series of three. The bright side of this incident is that I have a reliable repairman. The problem is just a disconnected wire, but… (isn’t there always a ‘but’?) the fan belt is about to break. He brings the part the next day, and charges me the minimum. Bless him.

Since I’m in the fix-it mood, I decide to take my car to be washed.  (Its last bath was about six months ago.) Opening the driveway gate, I notice a semi-flat tire. Sh--t. The tire has a faulty valve so I can’t put air into it. Off to the tire repair shop. The helpful man replaces the valve and inflates the tire, but…there’s a nail on the inner wall of the tire.

            “We can’t fix it here. It has to be vulcanized.”

“Where?” I ask.

He describes a place a considerable distance way, which I spot amidst road work and mall construction. I pull up to the open air garage.

“You’ll have to wait while I fix that lady’s tire.”

She has driven in RIGHT before me. I’m glad I remembered to bring my I pad.  I turn the ignition on and off to get some AC. Did I mention it’s noon by now and a very hot day?

When it’s my turn, I sit in a greasy, grimy red plastic chair trying not to touch anything. The fellow tells me it will take about half an hour since he must apply heat. My eyes tired,  I close my I pad and study my surroundings: advertisements for motor oil, an old calendar page of an Alpine scene, oil stains on the concrete floor and assorted tools scattered about.

At last, it’s ready. I zip home and gobble down a salad, just barely to making it to my physical therapy session – a wonderful, painful deep massage. Ricardo knows all the key points on my half-exposed butt, reassuring me that we will beat this.

Back in the car, heartened, I think maybe I can still make it to the car wash. It’s 5 p.m. Friday, a very busy time, but, what the heck, maybe I’ll be lucky. There are five cars ahead of me, but I decide to wait it out. At least, I’ll have accomplished what I started out to do in the morning. Two of the young workers at the car wash are Haitians. I know this because an influx of Haitian immigrants is adding some diversity to this insular country at the bottom of the world. Outside a building construction I spot two signs reminding the workers of the safety measures – one sign in Spanish, the other in French.

My week ends with a joyous occasion – a reunion of my husband’s family, fifty-three including twenty four children ranging in age from 6 months to 21. Two sons can’t make it, including our New Yorker, Nico. Several of the smaller cousins barely know each other but a swimming pool and water pistols break the ice. The day is recorded with a plethora of photos.

            In the waning light we all agree that we’ll have to do this again next year.

Street Murals, Stray Dogs and Ocean View Cemetery

Valparaiso. A port city of cliff-hanger houses. Stairs instead of sidewalks. Bright, crazy wall murals lining narrow alleys and roadways. Homeless dogs with dreadlocks. We spend two days wandering and climbing two of the city’s steep hills: Cerro Alegre and Cerro Concepción. Yes, the many hills separated by deep ravines have names. You can walk from one to the other.

We’ve come to explore: an art gallery with a monster theme (left-over from Halloween), a sweets shop, La Dulcería, which advertises via white ants painted along the sidewalks, port and bay views from hillside promenades and  terraces, streets of grand 19^th century homes built by foreign merchants – English, Scottish, German. A Scottish great uncle of mine had settled here. I want to visit the Cementerio de los Disidentes, Dissidents’ Cemetery, where non-Catholic foreigners were buried. I’d been here once before and spied a tombstone with his family name, Riddell.

            We easily find the grave and snap photos of the names inscribed on the pink-toned stone. I’m excited. This is definitely the family, but not my great uncle, Robert. Checking my hand-written family tree, I learn it’s the grave of his brother, Thomas, a daughter and his wife. Thomas came from Midlothian, Scotland and died in Valparaiso in 1880.

Headless angels and lopsided tombstones tell of the many earthquakes that have shaken up this quiet hillside. We visit the office where 80 year-old Señora Teresa, the administrator’s mother, is eager to help us search for more names. She has my son pull heavy, brown, dusty record books from a shelf. She turns the pages scanning the handwritten grave numbers and names, though she actually knows the names and location of most cemetery dwellers. She’s worked here for thirty-nine years. A living record book.

We then cross the narrow lane to the Catholic cemetery and wander about reading the inscribed names, wondering about their lives. I sit to rest on the edge of a dry fountain, its paint peeling. My son takes a seat by me. Strange. We look at each other. Is the fountain shifting under our weight? It only takes a few seconds to realize it isn’t the fountain that is moving. I announce, “Earthquake!” The rolling movement doesn’t last long, so “tremor” is more accurate. A fitting exclamation mark for a cemetery visit.

We follow narrow lanes and head for the Paseo Atkinson to view the city at night.  The lights twinkle. Then in a shadowy corner comes a growl. Black dogs at night run the risk of getting stepped on. All the strays look related or – is this the same one we saw earlier who has decided to follow us? Both my son and I are softies for abandoned dogs. He must have caught our scent.

Election Day Worries

I usually refrain from commenting on politics but I can’t pass up this opportunity to share an incident today at my local verdulería, neighborhood fruit and vegetable store (actually a repetition of the conversations at my morning Pilates’ class) . In line to pay, I recognized an acquaintance. After the usual greetings, she brought up the subject of the U.S. elections, which are being watched very closely here in Chile.

            “Have you voted?” she asked.

            “Yes, I have.”

            “I hope that horrible man isn’t elected! He hates latinos!”

            Cristina, the owner of the shop, chimed in. “Oh, he’s awful.”

            The other customers in line agreed. While Cristina weighed my strawberries, I said to the group, “I only wish that Chileans could vote in this election.”

My Nation

My eyes travel to the top of the slim white obelisk penetrating the blue sky. Bright, fluttering flags ring the monument. A glorious day in my nation’s capitol, a nation in which I haven’t resided in over four decades. Is this patriotism that I’m feeling? This mix of nostalgia and pride? It’s been many years since I last visited Washington, D.C. Now I’m with Nico, my 38-year-old son, born and raised in Chile, and his girlfriend, as he sets sight for the first time on these monuments, the National Mall, the Reflecting Pool, the round-domed capitol and the just inaugurated African-American Museum. The flags and monuments and museums tell the stories of a nation – its founding, its growing pains, tragedies, errors and triumphs. They have the power to evoke in me the idea of my country.

            As if a preface to visiting the nation’s capitol, bits of American history and geography surface during our drive from New York City to Washington, D.C. The freeway doesn’t allow much of a view of Philadelphia. But then – “Look over there. Isn’t that the tower of Independence Hall? Yes, it is!” Even from a distance, I identify the familiar spire rising above the surrounding buildings.

            “Nico, that’s where the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

He hadn’t studied American history. Unexpectedly, I have the opportunity to imbue him with a bit of his heritage.

            An overhead freeway sign announces Betsy Ross Blvd.

“Do you know who Betsy Ross was?”

To his negative I explain about the first American flag.

“Do you know what the flag was made of?” he asks.

He has me there.

“Hemp.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“I read it somewhere.”

Studying for his Master’s degree in New York has clearly allowed him to absorb more than just what the curriculum offered.

Our chat is peppered with new discoveries.

“What river is that?"

“Think it’s the Delaware.”

We decide that the large body of water on our left is the Chesapeake Bay.

“This must be Maryland.”

Five states within a few hours. A revelation to my West Coast geographical mind set.

Upon arrival, we head for George Washington University and the last session of the yearly Peace Corps Connect conference. The following day, our only day for sightseeing, we decide to start at the Capitol and walk that long open vista to the Lincoln Memorial. The Native-American Museum seems a good place to begin, after all, they were here first, and Nico tells us he has been reading about the sustainability practices of Native Americans. To our amazement the main exhibit explores the cultures of the Inca Trail, which extends the western length of South America through Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and central Chile. Serendipity? We wander through displays highlighting the accomplishments of the Inca peoples: a facsimile of an intricate rope bridge used to cross deep canyons, intricately woven textiles and photographs of steep hillside agricultural terraces. But what catches my attention is the sacred Incan tradition of reciprocity (ayni). Ayni is the backbone of daily Incan human-to- human interaction, in which there is a mutual flow of giving and receiving. I am struck by how this concept dovetails with the ideas proposed at the Peace Corps Conference by journalists Sarah Chayes and Sebastian Junger.  They make a strong argument that the alienation of individuals in our society has its roots in a lack of community and sense of the common good. Values of cooperation and solidarity struggle to survive in our society where the almighty dollar rules. Not a heartening picture.

These momentous concepts percolate in my mind as we continue our stroll along the Mall to visit to the National Botanical Garden, lamenting we have so little time as we pass by one imposing museum structure after another. We contemplate the war monuments: World War II, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, which again takes my thoughts back to Sebastian Junger’s analysis of returning soldiers’ alienation in our deeply divided modern society which foments a culture of greed and fame.

Just beyond the Washington Monument rises the bronze-toned Museum of African American History and Culture. Barricades maintain order in the winding lines of opening day visitors. Bright faces reflecting anticipation and pride. The air vibrates with rock music and dance performances, while savory smells waft from soul food kitchens.

 In the late afternoon we climb the marble stairs of the Lincoln Memorial to stand before the solemn sculpture of Lincoln and contemplate the words of his Second Inaugural Address and Gettysburg Address inscribed on the walls. Again war and injustice are the focus, his words still relevant, still there for thousands to read and reflect on the injustices caused by slave owners ‘wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s brows…’ From his grand marble chair, Lincoln has a direct view across the Reflecting Pool to the African American Museum. But his countenance is lined with worry. Does he despair that our nation hasn’t followed his counsel: “a house divided against itself cannot stand….?”

Sneak Preview

Sensations, experiences and smells pour through my fingers onto the keyboard. Just back from a month in the U.S. – New York, Washington, D.C., Iowa, Wisconsin, California – I don’t know where to begin.

To get a handle on it all, I write down some glimmers of my journey, a sneak preview of what’s to come:

New York:

Precious time with my son and his girlfriend

Pablo Neruda’s face on the Barnes and Noble coffee shop mural

An American kestrel alighting on rooftop terrace

Nocturnal stroll along the Chelsea High Line

En route from NY to Washington:

Warm welcome from girlfriend’s family

Touching five states: New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland

Independence Hall tower in the distance

 Washington, D.C.:

Award at the Peace Corps Connect Conference for my memoir “Marrying Santiago”

Recalling fifty-year-old adventures with long lost Peace Corps friends

With my son, his first view of the iconic Capitol, the tall, slim Washington monument mirrored in the Reflecting Pool, the solemn Lincoln Monument.

Inca Trail exhibit at Native American Museum – Incan concept of reciprocity (ayni)

Iowa:

 “Mammoth muffin” at Perkin’s roadside restaurant

Welcomed by eighty-nine-year-old Betty into her farmhouse

Corn fields, silos, green and yellow John Deere machinery, barns, barn quilts and white farmhouses displaying American flags

Local lingo: acreage, blacktop (paved road), and crick (creek); jokes about Minnesotans

Plot of wild prairie grasses, once site of covered wagons and grazing buffalo

Resplendent musical events at Luther College, friend Ann’s, alma mater

The plaintive call of the train passing through town. Whoo-whooooo.

Wisconsin:

My first sight since childhood of the wide Mississippi River

Green, wooded rolling hills

Our hostess Edie’s account of  taking tea with Svetlana Alliluyeva, Stalin’s daughter, who spent her last years in Richland Center, Wisconsin

Unique design of the A. D. German warehouse designed by Frank Lloyd Wright

California:

The pleasure of familiar sights and scents of my hometown

Reunion with former classmates at San Anselmo Coffee Roastery

Magnificent breakfasts prepared by my Airbnb hostess, Joanna

Point Reyes Station’s Bovine Bakery – refuge from the rain

Quiet moments at parents’ graveside at Tamalpais Cemetery

Poetry reading by two-time poet laureate Billy Collins

Blue Angels Squadron acrobatics over San Francisco Bay with friend Paula

And so much more that I must assimilate and let percolate….