A Precious Life

Linda. I remember her: a tall, slender woman with long blond hair parted down the middle. Fastidiously clean. No hand-me-down clothes or blankets, nothing that could have any germs from a previous owner. Life was such a struggle for her. She lived here. There. A trailer. Nothing permanent. Finally, she sold the few possessions she had. She chose to be homeless. Or, rather, she lived at a homeless center. She paid for her board by cleaning the building. It gave her a kind of satisfaction. She knew how to do her job, for sure, she told herself.

She liked living that way, working alone...didn't run into two many people. "Just keep doing what you know best," and even though it tired her out, she knew it was by far the best kind of work for her. Other jobs gave people too much power over her. Didn't like that at all. They always wanted to keep her back. Down. Be mean. Cold outside in the winter, too.Too long 'a walk to get to a job.

She kept to herself."Don't like nobody to know my business. Too many busybodies and that ain't good at all." She didn't know when it all started but little by little, she cut off even those she had trusted. Betrayal did that to ya. Somehow ya end up in prison overnight or locked up in a hospital. "Don't want no medicine. No way I'm gonna be drugged up. I got a daughter." They take everything you love away. Who can you trust?

Brittany. She thought of her daughter. Severely handicapped. But her joy. "Well, I got my pride but I will bend that pride for a phone card to call Brittany." It was the only thing she would bend it for. They took her baby away when she got too big to care for. So hard to lift her. They said she couldn't care for her properly. Or didn't. How would they know? She'd lost track of who sent her away. The State? The neighbors? It didn't matter anymore. She knew they all got it wrong. How did they know what she could do, or just how much she loved her daughter? When they did that, a part of her died inside. The phone was her lifeline. She called Brittany every week to the special home where she'd been taken. She would call her every day if she had the money to buy more phone cards. Sometimes she dreamed that she did.

Nobody understood her. She had to rely on herself. Just herself. "I can trust me." Well, she did let a few into her life. Carolyn. She wouldn't hurt her. She knew she cared. Came from a good family. She brought phone cards, and took her out for a bit. Sometimes to the grocery store. Sometimes to the 7-11. She brought phone cards and money for smokes. Sometimes she tried to convince her to take hand-me-downs but she kept her standard up, and refused. She didn't hold it against her though. She knew Carolyn just wished her to have a warm coat ... or pants ... or sturdy shoes.

She called Carolyn once a week. Woulda called her more but she knew that Carolyn was busy with her own family. Didn't want to be too familiar. "I like my freedom," she'd say but whenever Carolyn came she found herself feeling happy, and relieved. Wouldn't have to walk all that way to the store. Just a short drive. Some cigarettes and a phone card. Callin' ya soon, baby girl. Sometimes hard to remember her baby was almost thirty.

Sometimes the sister came too. Lately she started bringing a cane. Had some kind of a vision problem. Not too bad, though, mostly dropped her off at the library while she and Carolyn shopped. She didn't always feel that way. In the beginning, she didn't like her coming and intruding on her time that way. But little by little she got used to her. Kinda reminded her of the mom, who'd helped her in the past.

Life went on in the same way for some time. Then, everything changed. Suddenly, the pain came. Terrible, horrible pain. She wanted to scream and scream with the pain. She kept it inside when she could. But called Carolyn. She would know what to do. The pain felt so bad, she started calling her three or maybe six times a day, depending on the pain. Somehow she could make her feel better. A little bit anyway. When Carolyn came, she felt she'd been given a lifeline. Things just seemed more in control.

They said it was blood poisoning. And bone cancer. Never felt anything so terrible before. She called and called. Only Carolyn. "No, not leaving my place at the homeless shelter." Can't you see this is my home? Don't have any family. She did but had closed herself off from them. Couldn't trust 'em. Carolyn helped, did what she could. When she came, she could close her eyes. She felt safe. At last.

I remember seeing Linda shortly before she died. Thin, gaunt, but fiercely independent. "They keep on cluttering my place up," she'd motioned to the area around her hospital bed at the county home, muttering darkly. I wondered if she considered my Christmas ornament to her part of the clutter. She didn't want the Christmas tree, nor the television, nor a radio. She wanted it all be neat and tidy. She wanted nothing. Nothing but Brittany. And her continued privacy. She chose who to let into her life. "Those people at the shelter--they are not my family. I don't have any family. Don't call them that," she said sharply. "I don't want anyone calling Brittany either. This is my life. My. Own. Life."

That day the pain made her burst into tears as my sister, Carolyn, tried to bring circulation into her legs. She thought Carolyn bumped something integral to her catheter. I had to leave. I felt that I would burst into tears myself. My heart broke for Linda who longed for the old control over life -- but would never have it again. She was used to ordering people about. But now she was at the mercy of my sister's schedule to receive her caring ministrations. Whether she knew it or not, Carolyn had become her closest friend-no, even more--her family! Linda let down her guard, let her tears flow, didn't monitor her words--everything one does with family when she was around my sister. I stepped out of the room to stop the queasiness in my stomach and get a grip on my emotions. I couldn't break down now.

That was the last time I saw Linda.

She held the hand of an employee at the Geriatric Center as she passed away this past month - her hand in the hand of a stranger's hand. My sister couldn't be with her the day she died and this made me feel the saddest of all. I knew that was a hard choice for my sister as she had to travel with her husband. But I wonder what Linda felt that last day. And I wonder how my sister felt.

I like to think the prayers my sister, her husband and I prayed with her would lead her to put her hand in the Master's hand as she crossed over to be with Him.

I choose to think that's how it was. My heart now sings for her. The day before when she admitted to being afraid, my sister's friends told Linda, "You don't have to be afraid if you're God's child." She nodded and allowed them to pray for and with her. It seems that for the first time in her life she had come to a place of calm, which allowed her at the end of her life to slip away...no paranoia, no distrust, simply calm.

I cry only for myself and those who loved her because we never could reach her. She never realized how precious she was... and she touched me sooo.

Surprise Birthday Mayhem!

Let me tell you: I love birthdays! I think it’s because I don’t look at birthdays as turning a year older; I think of them as confirming our own unique personalities and worth. They are days when anything exciting can unfold, and I expect it to. My attitude towards birthdays carries over to my friends, and I always try to make them feel special..

So, when I got invited to my Facebook friend’s surprise 50^th birthday party, I couldn’t turn the invitation down, even though I hadn’t seen my friend in thirty years! I looked at it as an adventure—and that’s exactly what it turned out to be. I anticipated a challenge because this undertaking would first, take place at night, and second, in an unfamiliar venue. How would I handle it when my classmate saw I was now using a blind man's cane?

My best friend, Kathy, stamped her feet to get warm,“Got the card and crying towel?” The crying towel was a gag gift for Birthday Boy.

“Yep.”

"Got your cane?"

“Yep.”

“Ready to rip?”

“R.I.P? You mean I’m takin’ my life in my hands?” I quipped. Then a moment of suspicious--and somewhat nervous--laughter hit me, "Did you say 'trip?' "

“Come on, I'm doing you a favor by going with you, and I'm freezin' while you're making jokes."

Brrrr! It felt like the coldest day of winter. When we spoke, our breath came out in tiny puffs. The wind sliced through my fashionable blue jeans where my jacket stopped. I wasn't wearing my warm cap as "limp flat hair" was not simply not acceptable at such a gathering. My fingers became stiff in the short walk from the parking lot to the building.

We ducked into the restaurant. I stood still for a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dimly-lit interior. Kathy waited patiently for me to give the go-ahead to move forward.

"How about that table over there?" I tried to follow her chin movement. Over there? To the right? To the left? Across the room? My eyes were still adjusting.

"Oh yeah...the table is right ahead of you. Can you see it?"

"Ummm. Now I can. Okay, let's go."

I swept my cane back and forth. That made me feel like a street cleaner, except instead of cleaning I was spreading snow in wobbly arcs across carpet those first few steps. We reached the table--to the right of the door and a little behind us--and shed our coats.Some other women joined us.

“Let’s get something to drink.” Kathy suggested.

We ordered our beverages and headed back to our table. Where was Birthday Boy? I set my Coke down. When I set it down, I knocked over Kathy's cup. Ah, I didn't see it there! I watched the contents cover the table in record speed. I could definitely see that! People dashed madly about to bring napkins and paper towels. I just stood there watching. "Sorry. Sorry." I apologized as the woman tried to staunch the mess before it dripped onto their clothes. I caught Kathy's eye. She looked amused. I grimaced. What a way to start!

At that moment, Birthday Boy arrived at our table. Oblivious, he gave each of us a big, warm pull-me-close hug, which stretched out into a second one...

“Guess what Amy did? She spilled my drink all over the table. I didn't even get my first sip!"

She was up to something, but what? I glared daggers at her, but this time the darkness was in her favor. Drats! What would Birthday Boy think? She was not cued into any of my "Watch-it-you're-on-dangerous-ground" signals.

Birthday Boy still wore dark glasses but they didn't look as heavy as I remembered. He had a little less hair on top... and a little bit more on his face (a salt and pepper mustache and beard). He seemed inclined to forgive any clumsy misdeed, “You did that?” He smiled benignly and I noticed a tooth missing on the top right-hand side of his mouth. "You're lookin' good, the both of yous," he gestured to Kathy as well.

“Ahhh…it's very dark in here,” I muttered to explain both the spill and his compliment, thinking how I would skewer my friend the moment he left.

"It's been a long time since I saw ya last." He looked relaxed as he tugged on the flap of his baseball cap.

"Yeah like thirty years," I reminded him. I hadn't seen him since high school.

"Want ya to meet my wife and doctor-I mean, daughter..." He called out to them, swaying a little, "C'mere..."

I smiled in Birthday Boy's direction where I expected them to show up. I held out my arm and thought they'd take it if they were there. No one did. So I quickly pulled it back.

"Oh daddy, whaddya want?" The blurry figure of an attractive blond, but slightly heavy-set young girl came into my view. He put his arm around her shoulder; his pride was unmistakable. "This is my daughter, Kelsie."

I nodded at her.

"Are ya havin' a good time?"

I wasn't sure if she meant Kathy and I or her dad, Birthday Boy.

He smiled at all of us,"What's more importan' than bein' with family and friends at my big 5-0?"

An older, heavier but less made-up version of the teen girl stepped into my view. Long blond hair and a friendly, wide smile caught my attention. She offered her hand, "So nice to meet you. I've seen your comments on Facebook. My daughter here actually sent out the invitations for the surprise party." She looked approvingly at Kelsie.

"So nice to meet you, Kathy." I didn't risk offering my hand. It was a casual outing, after all.

When they all left, I turned to my friend, "Okay, spill it!" I grinned at my pun, "Why did you tell him I spilled the drink?”

“I thought he might offer to buy me another one.” She made a face.

I rolled my eyes. What could I say? "It didn't work now, did it?"

"Nope," She laughed. "Be right back. I'm gonna get a Coke now. But don't go near it!" she joked.

"Don't worry. I don't think I could stand a repeat performance."

*****

The rest of the night passed by without incident-- if you don't include me knocking two pieces of cake out of Kathy's hand before leaving or drawing the attention of another former classmate with my cane. I'll just have to get used to these "happenstances." Is that the right word? It was noteworthy that I managed to go through the buffet line without dumping any chicken wings ... wasn't sure how I could carry a plateful of food and manage my cane at the same time! But slow and steady makes the grade...

Birthday Boy reveled in the attention of family, close friends and old acquaintances. He was kind, generous and very welcoming. I was so glad that I came to be part of this celebration! I think sometimes as in the case of old - let me change that to "former" classmates meeting up -- where there is no bond due to a lifetime of different experiences, the "lifetime ago" becomes that bond. It's kind of a neat feeling.

The ABC’s of the NBC Class

I've been looking at old photos of my students from the Defense Language Institute. I have had so many excellent students. Even now, thirteen years later, many names and if not their names, then faces come to mind. This class was one called "Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare." I taught them the English for this subject.

I surveyed the class. The Africans surveyed me back. In the back, two young guy dressed in camouflage fatigues sat side by side. Curiosity smiled from their eyes. Another, their compatriot, seated in the right corner of the room stared boldly--insolently--with a cocky grin daring me… what? to teach him? The three were Salvadorian soldiers. Really just young cadets. All eyes focused expectantly on me: the teacher.

For a moment, I quavered: could I supply the knowledge each craved? Suddenly I grinned back: “One great week ahead!” was what we understood by it. Communication without words.

That week the Salvadorians let me in on some adventures--missing the bus and getting stuck in downtown San Antonio overnight. Laughing, I commiserated.

Then, dreams. A favorite topic of mine. Valenzuela sneered, “Yeah, I had a dream last night--” He looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s undivided attention.“Yeah, I dreamed my father was killed in the war.” His cocky grin returned, his expression smug.“Did you ever wake up from a dream such as that?”(Top that one, his expression challenged). “No,” I sighed, “and I hope you don’t again either.” Silence. How to reach across to soften life’s fears?

Trust. I could feel it growing. Precious minutes at the end of every class period.The Africans shared, mumbled, spoke, laughed and swapped hard field experiences with the Salvadorians who’d trained in swamps and ate uncooked field in the field to avoid being spotted by the enemy.

I saw them raise and lower their barriers in class discussions. I felt them open and close doors to their thoughts.Valenzuela—often the angry one--continued to stymie me. His leadership, when unchallenged, became an eager child. But if it denoted any dare, his insolent grin appeared, and he sounded tough, surly. Even his sitting position appeared different from his Salvadorian compatriots, who seemed gentle, almost innocent in their relaxed postures. He sat, hunched over, wary, alert. Distrustful even in this simple classroom situation. Instinctively, I could feel it was this very distrust that made him such an excellent officer. He was twenty-six, a Lieutenant, and full of bravado forced on him too soon by a war not of his choosing.

This class was studying the terminology of Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare. I didn’t want to teach it, but I had to. At first, I taught it as if the words were isolated from their lives. But the pictures these officers imprinted on my mind during the free moments in our class
made me realize WAR is more than terminology taught.The words I teach and they must follow in their combat will mean SURVIVAL to them.

The task ahead suddenly seemed ominous. Frightening. I wanted to save them all from needing such training.These young frightened Salvadorians who’d lost fingers ... the Africans who’d been fighting for thirty years ... the Honduran who spoke of guerilleros. I suddenly hated my job then. It seemed insignificant and hypocritical to touch on terms so close to their lifestyles that they might come to life while we teachers remained in the security of the artificial environment of our classrooms, spouting more war-like words, affecting the lives of yet other students. In spite of my misgivings, the "One great week ahead" grin triumphed.

I wasn’t surprised that our friendship lasted beyond the NBC class. I was their friend, their cheerleader, their game leader... Familiarity with these words took away some of the sting. Valenzuela shouted “BINGO!” with great fanfare at long last.Those army students from around the world taught me to value my life and freedom. I gave them a chance to talk about what they’d experienced. Our friendship was special. No words were necessary. I felt it all.

Leave Takings

As I mentioned yesterday, traveling has always been the easy part for me to do. But saying goodbye has upon occasion torn my heart out. I still remember a very poignant moment with my nieces. It has burned itself into my memory. The girls were still pretty young. I guess Rachel was seven, Emily, six. It was the end of August, 1988 after their first day back to school. I had come home for a high school reunion earlier, had a short visit, and was heading back to Indonesia the following day.

~~~~
I had spent the day with my nieces and two little kids that my sister also babysat, Christina and Jeremiah. The three children and I were seated on the living room floor. I recall we had just finished coloring.

"Emily, you always color so nicely in the lines," I complimented.

"I know."

I smiled. I love how kids acknowledge their talents with that supreme confidence.

"Who taught you how to do that?" I asked.

Emily lay on her belly, with her legs crossed in the air. She was very focused. "My daddy."

"Hey, everyone! how about a book? If we pick up this stuff, you can choose a book for me to read."

"Yay! Hurry up!" the girls cried.

"You pick all the broken crayons, and you pick the books " That was Emily, the little organizer, trying to tidy it as quickly as possible. After a flurry of activity, the kids were ready.

"Aunt Amy, sit here!" Rachel called out.

Emily plopped down on the other side of me. She peered into the book...

Christina stood up, her hands on her hips. "I want Aunt Amy to sit by me, too!"

Emily narrowed her eyes and placed a possessive hand on the book I was holding, "She's our Aunt Amy, not yours."

"Hey, hey, hey! None of that," I chided. "Let's sit in a circle so we can all be together and see the pictures. Besides, I am everybody's Aunt Amy."

We got on with the business of reading. I had a captive audience and really let my storytelling skills go wild. It was a fun, exciting time. I even recall that Jeremiah, an adorable, chubby toddler, wore a big wide grin. He looked from person to person and began to clap his hands as he picked up on the excitement in the room. Maybe my sister had brought him in to share in part of the fun. She always wanted to capitalize on positive experiences. I don't remember what book I read but I remember thinking it was a perfect end to an excellent afternoon.

Soon after, Christina and Jeremiah went home for the day. I stayed on with Rachel and Emily as it was almost dinnertime. We ate dinner and the girls had their baths. Soon it was time for them to go bed.

"Can I tuck them into bed, and say goodnight--and I guess, goodbye?" I asked her.

"Sure," she responded.

I sat down with Rachel and tucked her in. Rachel burst into big, noisy sobs. She just didn't understand why I had to leave. She lay in her bed sobbing and I sat holding her. I didn't have any words this time, no pat hotel plan. I teared up myself. It was all I could do not to cry in front of her. When I left her, she was sleepy and finally calm.

Next, I checked in on Emily, who had been waiting. She lay very, very quietly in her bed and didn't say much. But when I kissed her goodnight, I felt the hot tears that covered her face. She had been crying silently for some time and the hurt seemed to go even deeper.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

She struggled to get the words out, "How come you like them better than us?"

"How come I like who?"

"Those IN-DO-NEE-SIANS!" The words burst out with a torrent of feeling.

"Oh honey, I don't. I don't. I promise you."

"But you keep on going there."

How does a little girl grapple with such emotions? Emily reasoning abilities surprised me.

"I just work there."

"You're not even going to be here for my BIRTHday!" She, too, sobbed.

"Oh, Emily! When is your birthday?"

"I don't know. Ask my mommy!"

I wanted to laugh, but this little girl was so intense that I had to hide it.

We talked for a bit more until she felt better. I promised to write her a lot.

When I finally closed the door, I was an emotional wreck. This goodbye stuff had really taken its toll on me.

I told my sister about what happened, and she sighed, "They're overemotional. Remember it was the first day of school for them. You've been with them ever since. Emily rarely shows her emotions. And both of them really miss you when you're gone."

"I guess..."

I was still pretty shaken by the unexpected way they'd pulled on my heartstrings. In fact, so much so that I canceled a date with an old friend I had planned to meet up with. I just wanted to go to bed and wake up early to catch my flight out. I felt drained.

I found that I couldn't enjoy my flight back as I normally did. All I could think of was the little girls I had left behind. Of course, they woke up and went to school. Life was back to normal for them already. And it would be for me when I settled back into my job. I loved it all over again.

But I will never forget my encounter with their tears. Children have such an innocent way of showering us with honest emotion, in a way that adults rarely do. We keep it inside. Like my mom did for so many years each time I left. I think it got harder for my mother to hide it, though. A few years back I watched my mother walk away from me from inside the window at Erie International Airport. She slowly hobbled back to her car, leaning heavily on her cane. The sight of her stooped over made her appear so lonely that I was at once reminded of that long ago farewell scene with my nieces. I decided then that I would have to come home soon to live. Farewells has begun to hurt too much.

Once Upon a Yogurt: Part 1

I never really liked yogurt until I was forced to eat it for a period of time in the Far East when I was ill. There are moments when expats return back home when nothing, but nothing, tastes like it does overseas. We can only long for the impossible. This account illustrates both the reminiscence and the tale of how my love affair with yogurt began.

~~~~

Vivid Memories & Local Indonesian Cuisine

A splendid day, the San Antonio sunshine filled the air making it the kind of Saturday that belied sadness and that invited smiles from strangers. As I sent my car through the car wash, I dangled my purse and smiled back at everyone.

A dark-haired teenage boy swung a drying cloth in the air and tucked it in his back pocket before he handed me my car keys. "Your car is done now, miss."

"Oh thank you," He called me Miss, not Ma'am. That deserved a tip! He took it and sauntered on to the next vehicle, whistling as he swung his cloth. He snapped his towel as another worker, and started a playful fight. Such lightheartedness...

I opened the front door and sat down to the recently-sprayed new car smell. Great! Where could I go next? The sun was shining. I had all the time in the world. I thought for a moment. Why not? Impulsively, I set out for Albertson's, the local grocery chain.

I strolled up and down the aisles and studied the food I could buy with more interest than usual. Ah yes, the dairy products. I browsed through them until I found what I had come for. There it lay where I always found it: white yogurt with live cultures. I checked the price and set it back down again. Maybe next time. I said the same thing each time I came. But deep down, I knew the price had less to do with it than the memories associated with the yogurt. In fact, to try to duplicate the taste seemed sacrilege to me. I longed for the fresh, cool taste replete with sun-ripened papaya just as I remembered it from Indonesia.

The memory had everything to do with my stay at Meryl, my supervisor's, ‘fortress on the hill,’ the nickname my colleagues and I had given her mansion away from the masses. It was a grand place with a wall surrounding it. She actually had a small plot of grass surrounding her home that contained exotic tropical fruit trees. When we arrived at the gate, Yadi, her driver, rolled down the window and rang a little buzzer outside. A gate boy swung the gate open for Yadi to drive the SUV through. Ju-ju, the maid, would then come to greet us, and take Meryl's bookbag from her weary shoulders. Dinner came a short time later after we freshened up. Someone-usually Meryl's husband-signaled meals by clanging an old-fashioned. six-foot gong which stood in all its brilliance in the freshly-swept hallway. I loved visiting Meryl, and on occasion, imagined what it would be like to live there. I'd eat fresh bananas every morning.

Unfortunately, Lydia and Frank, her husband, lived in the same house. Lydia and Frank were Meryl's daughter’s in-laws. Lydia, with her pursed lips and constant whining, rubbed everyone wrong. Frank was her dull, plodding husband. With his hair cut in block-style straight across his forehead and his flat-feet walk, the ridiculous image of Fred Flintstone always popped into my head when I saw him. The way he spoke, "Good mor-ning," in his even, monotone voice, tempted me to take on Barney's persona and respond, "Hi, Fred" in exactly the same way. Thank goodness, I never did. Frank and I taught at the same language school where Meryl directed. Apparently, Frank had recently retired from the Navy and needed a job. So, in a burst of nepotism and goodwill, Meryl hired him on. How she must have regretted it when she realized what life was like under the same roof as that couple! But to her credit, she never said anything about that to me, a lowly teacher. However, the tale of my time in The Fortress comes up later. For now, try to imagine my life in this exciting Far Eastern country I found myself in.

Ah, let me tell you about my culinary adventures in Indonesia...


When I arrived in Jakarta, the sights and sounds of street life beckoned me and most of this included tasting food one way or another. Satay ayam, skewered goat kabobs dripping with lovely peanut spicy sauce cost almost nothing. Kelapa muda, sweet coconut water served in the unripe shell, could be found everywhere. I sampled bakso, small round meatballs, noodles, fried rice, and Chinese food sold in tents on lunch breaks with my local colleagues. I thought nothing of it because it all tasted so delicious.


I also remember some petite square, green rice cakes – twice boiled -- filled with some sort of melted brown sugar and covered with fresh coconut peddled down our road, Jalan Salam, by a local tukang. We could hear the vendor coming. His cart boasted a whistle that sounded like a teapot filled with boiling water. In order to pay, I had to squint through the steam, then I would take the cakes he placed in a small plastic sack from his gnarled, outstretched hand and carry them back to the house.


Life was sweet for me at that time. Both my western and local colleagues formed friendships over that food in the roadside warangs, tents and stalls. I was young, unassuming, and newly-professional, up for all that came my way. At the rate I devoured the local food wherever I went– sweet, spicy, hot and cold, most of it not-so-hygienic -- it came to no surprise to anyone when my life of culinary street savvy turned the tables on me (so to speak!).

~~~~

Read tomorrow's episode to find out what happened next!

Recuerdos a Colombia

Here I am at the Colegio Panamericano wearing a wig and dressed up as an old woman on Halloween during my first teaching year at the school. Juile Holdridge, another teacher, is seated next to me. I taught English to pre-school through fifth grades for two years there.

If I remember correctly, the name "Bucaramanga" is taken from two words, "the Bucas" and the "mangas." I don't know if the Bucas are a tribe or what. This city is the capital of the northeastern state of Santander. It lies in the plateau (the Cordillera Oriental) of the Andes mountains. It was so scenic and had the nicest weather I remember any country having - not too hot nor cold.

I am remembering Colombia because my Colombian friend called me tonight and we spoke for an hour, and I might add, only in Spanish! Although I now teach Spanish at a local Christian school, about twenty-five years had passed since I spoke the language regularly. It was quite a challenge, therefore, to speak for such a long time tonight! It felt great!

I spoke with my friend Arcinovice. We were young women in Bucaramanga back the, and attended the same church. We had a few adventures as we traveled together to her home town of Corro Morro and back to Bucaramanga during one "puente" (three-day weekend). A great storm hit and all transport had been cancelled from the town. Massive amounts of mud covered everything. I remember stopping at a restaurant and eating. The cook actually killed a chicken in front of my very eyes. The ensuing pandemonium caused me to stop eating chicken for two years! From that restaurant , we actually hitchhiked, and ended up on a beer truck (me lying on top of the beer bottles in the back, Arcinovi sitting up front in the more respectable spot). The driver stopped every fifteen minutes to sell his wares! We did arrive back in time for me to teach on the appointed day. What a wonderful and crazy memory that trip was!

Arcinovice was always beautifully-made up and elegant, with painted nails. She dressed very fashionably. There I was, a simple, very plain gal who almost never wore any make-up, dressed comfortably and was always ready for a trip within the country. Though we were so different, Arcinovice and I hit it off and had great times together, usually along with another friend our age, Patricia.

Life seemed very simple then. I lived to travel and traveled to live. What a joy! Colombia was a dream-come-true for me. I made very little money teaching, but it cost very little to travel. It was easy-to-get-around. I had lots of people my age to travel with, and I didn't mind traveling alone if I couldn't find anyone. My church was there; I worked with the local teenagers and the five-family missionary team. I didn't think life could get any better back then...

I remembered that feeling of carefree abandon tonight when I spoke to my friend from so long ago. We spoke of our travels, the food, our friends and how the city had changed, along with our lives.

"So when will you return to Colombia?" she asked me in Spanish.

"Algun dia, me gustaria mucho. Vamos a ver." I'd like to return very much one day. Let's see.

I wonder if I will ever make it back. Can we ever return ... re-experience such visits ... such a place in time? At one time I would not have hesitated to take the next flight over. Have these last few years back home changed me that much???

Louis Hannah: The Traveler

Louis Hanna was a local hero; he was rumored to be the oldest working living firefighter at age 97. Louis meant a lot of things to the townspeople where we lived. He was a characater about town, well-respected and loved by all. To me, he was a traveler and storyteller, the very best kind of person to know.

We met one summer after my mom had a car accident. She drove through a double brick wall and dislodged a pop machine in the center of town (this is worthy of another story altogether!) and he was directing traffic on Main Street that day. Unbelieveably, my mom exited her totaled car without a break, a bruise or even a scratch! She simply fell asleep at the wheel, or so her doctor said. She drove through town asleep. Louis took his job of directing traffic seriously but got bored after awhile, so went over and snapped a shot of the damaged car. The day he met me, he delivered the photo to our home. (I don't think my mother ever fully appreciated this gesture as seeing her car in that condition upset her).

Louis found out I had traveled quite a bit, and he began to talk about his foray into India during World War II. That day I was smitten by the adventure and daring of Louis Hannah, or "Snapper" as he was fondly called. At 93 or 94, his eyes still expressed the excitement of the moments he disobeyed his commanding officer and went out in the villages.

This was the beginning of a great friendship. He never forgot to look me up when I got in town and take me to some of his favorite places, including a renovated ship called Flagship Niagara. The ship was used during the war of 1812. He served as a hand on it at age 85 or 86 for a seven months. Even though he was the crew's favorite, he insisted on doing more than his fair share of hte work. At my insistence, he showed me some award he got for that tour of duty. "Ain't nothing much." The men meant the world to him.

"Snapper, can I write your book?"

"Someday I will give you a run down on some of my life, which I'd like to compare with yours as you sure seem to get around a lot in different parts of the world that I have not been in yet."

I had to pin him down but we finally started the interview process when he realized that I was serious. I tape recorded some of his stories and he also wrote letters annotating his memories on an archaic typewriter. He brought out some very old pictures, which I still have.

Louis and I didn't finish his book but he has a very special place in my heart. I would like to do some fresh anecdotal research and finish it off one day soon. Our town deserves to read the rich story that made up his life--the travels he was so proud of, his years in the military, his thirty years as firechief, and his continued service, his time on the ship, and his years on his Harley, late in life...! Snapper lived an unforgettable life of adventure but he never forgot his manners along the way!