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.