Why Do I Write?

Why do I write?

 In the beginning, I was anxious to explore what it has meant to be an expat/immigrant, the significant moments, turning points, and losses in my life and how they have shaped me. Writing has given me insight into what I value most in life. I’ve learned over the years that there is more to writing than naval gazing.

    A group of expat women in a local book club recently bestowed upon me a priceless gift-- the knowledge that my words had touched them deeply. They had invited me to attend their Zoom meeting because they were discussing “Marrying Santiago,” my first book, published five years ago.

They sparkled with enthusiasm, each giving examples of aha moments. Yes! Of course! I know what you mean! I’d written about the pain of giving up my California family home. One woman worried where she and her siblings would meet, once her mother passed and the house was sold. Another brought up the great sacrifices we immigrants have experienced. This statement evoked a general and rigorous nodding of heads. Were our husbands and children cognizant of this? One woman shared that her kids commented on how their lives have been shaped by having a gringa mother. “We wouldn’t be speaking English now!”

    I shared that in my family there’s seldom a reference to the sacrifices, the losses, though I know they’re very aware of it. They know how I love going back to my home turf. It’s clear in “Marrying Santiago.” One woman in the group, who happens to be from Marin County where I grew up, shared that even after six years here in Santiago, it still doesn’t feel like home. After my 49 years here, I can say that making a life in Chile has been a never-ending process. I often refer to myself as an “introduced species,” like my California redwood tree, my roots always reaching deeper with the passage of time. My husband, sons, grandchildren are my nutrients. Memories – of past vacations, family birthdays, lunch in the countryside with friends, solemn occasions like graduations and weddings –  all form part of my root system anchoring me here.

     Yet I’ll always feel like an introduced species.

    Our Zoom gathering ended with all the women present thanking me profusely for having written my book! They loved it, “couldn’t put it down.”  Words that transported me into a euphoric writer’s paradise.

           

Green Garden War

 

Peeking out from among browned needles on the redwood twig in my hand is a new green nub! I check other twigs. More green sprouts. New life. Yes! The redwood I brought as a seedling to Chile from Muir Woods in California thirty years ago is not going to die! It is my forest in our small city backyard. How I love inhaling its evocative pungent scent and watching its feathery branches swishing in the wind.

            When I brought the sapling here in a plastic tube, global warming hadn’t hit Santiago yet. It still rained regularly in fall, winter and spring. I never doubted the sequoia would adjust to this Mediterranean climate. Now, after fourteen years of drought, the trees in our neighborhood are dying and the redwood is close to being more brown than green. I’ve begun slow-watering it and observe with hope the progress of the new green growth.

Then the parrots arrive.

The non-native invasive Argentine parrots have taken over the city’s avian air space and food sources. They prefer building their basket-like, bulky condos in conifers. This year they’ve been sampling the flavors of my redwood and seem to find them tasty. When I realize that the small, top branches are bare, I declare a parrot war. I haul out the hose, adjusting the spigot to achieve a long, narrow stream, and aim the water to the highest branches where several green parrots are dining. Depending on the water pressure, I can almost reach the top. Sometimes I manage to hit them and they fly off in a chorus of squawking. I turn off the water and return to whatever I was doing before the parrot arrival. Yet, soon I hear more squawking and I must rush back to the hose again. Sometimes hubby helps, but we realize that this is an impossible task.

He sends out a plea to the family WhatsApp for a BB gun. A nephew arrives with his “rifle” and demonstrates how to use it. We’ve never had a gun of any sort in our house. I never imagined that we, a bird-watching family with a shelf filled with bird books, would be in favor of shooting the feathered creatures. But it was either the redwood or the parrots.

From an upstairs window, my husband takes aim and –pop! At first nothing happens, but then- squawk, squawk and off they fly, disgruntled with that disruption of their meal. Later, when they return, hubby takes aim. Pop! “Got one!” I look out to the garden and there lies a beautiful green parrot on the ground. It tries to fly, but only makes it short distances. My first reaction is to go to it, pick it up and coddle it. It manages to climb into a thick, tangled mass of ivy on the garden wall. Suddenly, we are faced with a dilemma. Our intention was not to injure a bird, just scare them until they learned their lesson.

            “I don’t want it to suffer.” I’m surprised at the intense sadness I feel.

 “Well, we want to get rid of them, don’t we?” says my husband, but I know he is upset as well.

            We search among the tangled ivy vines unsuccessfully. Is his soft green form languishing amidst the leaves or has he managed to climb to the top of the garden wall and fly off to join his clan? I doubt he’s able to fly again.

 We’ve put ourselves in this moral dilemma: the redwood or the parrots. There are hordes of parrots in every neighborhood. Only a few sequoias. Both introduced species. Will climate change reduce the parrot food supply? Or will my redwood, native to cool coastal California climes, succumb to the blistering summer heat?

So far today, no parrots! Have they learned their lesson? We have. Aim to frighten, not to maim.

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.