job description, schmob description

Today I cut Miss Mary's hair. My intent in going up to her apartment was to have her fill out an application, as she was one of the residents with some mobility issues whom I knew would struggle to come down to sign up for the annual "commodities." When I got up there, however, she mentioned that she was bothered by the way her hair always fluttered into her eyes. She wanted to get it cut but wondered at the cost of having someone make a house call to do that: or at least that's what she replied when I asked if she wanted it cut.
So I said that I could actually do it for her, if she wanted, having spent my college years as a bit of a word-of-mouth hairdresser for all my housemates and friends. I started to feel guilty about offering to do something that I am technically not supposed to do [it falls under to social worker-speak term of "direct service" that I am meant to provide help acquiring but not do myself]. But then I thought more about it and realized I did not in fact feel it was wrong for me to do in this case. As it was, Mary had an immediate need that I could provide quite readily, in very little time. She is planning to move out soon, and as she is one of my favorite residents I am anxious to make the most of what time there is left. And frankly--more selfishly, as far as reasons go--there was nothing I would rather have done with a portion of this day.
It was one of those sweet moments in life when time slows to a blessed stand still. Combing the wisps of baby-fine hair as I knelt beside Mary, I marveled at her beauty, and told her as much. As I am always a bit nervous when I cut someone's hair, I was relieved to see that the result was quite lovely. And I was thrilled at her ready smile when I held up the hand mirror to show her the end result . . .
No, I definitely have no qualms about the non-working time I spent while at work today :-)

lest i forget

I was growing increasingly frustrated today as I spoke with Miss Charlotte’s sister today. It began as what I assumed would be a straightforward conversation. After visiting Charlotte for a check-up last week, I had nearly keeled over as I walked in. Her apartment was filthy with a build-up of human waste and insects, and the odor completely overpowering. And she had no idea. She was even soiled herself, yet she spoke with me in a relatively coherent conversation, chattering on in a blissful oblivion to her surroundings.
As we have volunteer student nurses who come periodically, I made sure she had a visit the next day and I spoke with the nurses afterwards. They told me what I suspected they would: that she could not take care of herself any longer. Up to now, Miss Charlotte has been headstrong in her independence, so I was relieved to hear the report that she had also admitted to them that she knew she needed to move out of her own place . . . “It’s definitely time for her to go to a nursing home,” they concluded as the nurses left my office.
The first step in this move is to contact the family, so I made a few phone calls to her relatives and was referred to her main caretaker—her sister. Each day I had left a message for her, since that day, explaining the situation, telling her it was up to her now to make the decision, and asking for her to call me back. But I still had not heard from her today; I was thrilled, then, to hear her answer the phone this time.
My excitement promptly turned into frustration. She almost brushed me off immediately, saying she was tired today and would call me later. Not trusting a return call, and anxious to get something moving, I quickly explained to her my reason for calling [she had told me she did not check her messages so had not gotten any of my prior ones]. My assumption was that she would immediately realize the urgency of the situation and respond accordingly. Instead, she told me that nursing homes “didn’t take care of anyone,” and their food was awful. She said she’d just try to find someone who would come and help Charlotte in her apartment.
I tried to explain to her that the waiting list for in-home care was a year and a half long at this point, and that Charlotte was really needing more than that anyway. She repeated her feeling about nursing homes, citing her bad experience with one in particular, and rushed off the phone. Before she hung up, I convinced her to promise to call me back as soon as she heard back about the in-home care; she clearly was not going to consider a nursing home.

What was so distressing to me was that she was not truly concerned about the needs of her sister; all she cared about was her own idea about nursing homes. Had she had the financial resources to afford top-notch in-home care, that would be one thing. But this was a lady who occasionally came to visit her sister, and who had refused to help financially [when I called to tell her that her sister did not have a mattress—hers being soiled beyond use—she had told me she couldn’t afford one, and couldn’t do anything about it at the time. I had been left to scramble with a hunt at all the donation locations to try to locate a mattress by the time she was ready for bed that evening].
In short, I was left with the unmistakable impression that Miss Charlotte’s sister simply did not care enough to do what needed to be done.
The normal procedure in this case is to let the family make the decision, which means taking the individual to the hospital. The hospital then refers them to a nursing home, so that Medicare has the “official” word to cover the costs.
In this case, I need to decide how long to wait for Charlotte’s sister to respond. If she does not, I’m afraid I will need to have Adult Protective Services intervene, in lieu of Charlotte’s family. It is distressing to think of having the state do what the family should be doing for her. But the alternative is worse: the idea that no one cares enough to make sure that she is not left alone in her increasing senility and infirmity.
I left work today saddened at the lack of care that is so prevalent in this world. And then I reminded myself that I probably need to be faced with such blatant selfishness in order to take care to guard against my own such tendencies. I pray that I can spend a lifetime cultivating a heart that is willing to break over all that is heartbreaking in life as we know it.

p diddy's got nothing on ms. b

Thank you, Hon--You just saved my butt . . . and you know it's a big butt!
She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to tell someone, and I guess I deserved it, having just followed her instructions to help her precarious position in her wheelchair: I braced myself behind her, grasped the elastic waistband of her pants, and hoisted her up to shift her into a better position. My coworker later berated me for attempting such a thing, as the last time she had done it, she had enlisted the aid of a male nurse. Ah well--it seemed to work alright this time!

why not eat salsa with a fork?

Once church was over and my laundry finished today, I decided to squeeze in a late afternoon trip to the museum: I hadn't yet seen the temporary Moser exhibit and am always eager for the chance to take flash my membership card :-)
So while walking downtown I passed a man sitting outside, talking. He sounded just like any weekend leisurer until I realized he was not holding a cell phone [is that a sign of the times, that his lack of a cell phone rather than the fact that he was alone is what struck me as odd?]. I soon recognized him as one of our local not-quite-sane city dwellers, so it wasn't a terribly surprising sight as far as daily encounters go.
It was, however, an uplifting one. At the time I was rather weary of dealing with landlady issues, as my household is currently in transition. And I was extremely weary of the work issues, Friday being another day of experiencing the vibes of pure hatred I can do nothing about. I cannot tell the residents the truth of the situation, so for all they know, I am a meddling newbie who came in and started a wild rumor about that nice man who stays with his mother. He has now been told he has to leave the building and, if he has any questions, should direct them towards his parole officer . . .
But what I was going to say [when truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact about the ice storm] was that seeing this eccentric man today lifted my spirits unexpectedly. He sat there contentedly talking to his "friend," while sipping a corona and eating forkfuls of salsa from the jar.
So as I continued on my way I grinned at the refreshing thought that we all have a bit of a "crazy" in us. And, sometimes, I think it is the craziness that keeps us sane.

Feliz Dia, ANNA

HAppy birthday! I hope you had a great one- would love to see pics of the party...if you take some!! SO you;re working at a nursing home? How´s your readjustment been to life in the States?
Love susan
Abrazos

if you've ever wondered . . .

. . . what folks who spend their days working with the elderly do when they are gathered together for a nationwide conference: in this particular case, I can vouch for one group who holds serious health care, mental support, and caregiving sessions during the day. But by night, you can find us singing "everybody dance now," dancing with our heads while our bodies morph into digitally mastered dancing genii. Or at least that's what three of us did just now--and I have [safely held hostage] a video to prove it :-)

in all seriousness

I am beginning to realize that sometimes, when life is full of too much harsh reality, the only way to stay sane is to keep a sense of humor. Oddly, it is now, in the midst of extreme stresses at work, that I am making time to laugh at the antics of the crazy dog I am caring for. Being of a rather serious nature, I initially thought that the combination of evils I'm confronted with each work day should make it somehow wrong to be able to laugh; but this is not the case. Life is full of all manner of experiences, and an overload of one does not preclude the presence of another. So today, emerging from a heart-racing day of confronting evil and discovering what it feels like to be someone's enemy, I come home and laugh heartily at this slobbery mutt as he eats, poops, and snores . . . more or less in that routine order.

about those parts . . .

Arriving home from Church this afternoon I couldn't help but notice the way Dozer was gently, gingerly, lowering himself each time he sat down. So a few trains of thought later I was selecting my tools from the medicine cabinet.
I found what I was looking for: one infection ointment and one pain/itch cream. Dabbing a good-sized dollop of each onto two fingers I walked over to the seated bulldog as he watched me. Since he is not a particularly young, or agile, creature, I hoisted him up rather than wait to coax him. Then, thankful for his perplexed lack of reactive-ness, I smeared first the infection cream, then the pain cream, directly onto his afflicted rear.
It was, I can sincerely avow, the first time I have wiped a doggie's bottom.

all 2000 of them . . .

I had to laugh. Tonight I came home to a mid-bathing extravaganza. I am house-sitting for a family whose secretary enjoys taking the bulldog on photographed adventures whenever they go out of town. So she had checked with me about doing one of her events again, and planned to start tomorrow. First, however, she asked how he smelled. I looked at Dozer as I talked to her and said, “Well, he reeks. So much so that I have taken to washing the furniture slipcovers neurotically, in a vain effort to rid the house of his odor.”
She replied that she suspected as much, and that she had noticed the last time she was here that he was in desperate need of a bath. So she asked if she could come tonight to bathe him before she does his “photo shoot” tomorrow. “Well, by all means!” I assured her, and added that we would all be happier for it.
So tonight she gave him a bath. And then realizing he still smelled, she gave him a double bath. Being somewhat of an expert in canine matters, she informed me afterwards that he had a bit of a sore on his backside that may be contributing to his odor. We looked around the house for some suitable ointment and, finding none, she said she would bring her own dogs’ cream when she came yesterday.
Butt cream, I thought.
Then I laughed out loud and asked if I could tell her why it was highly ironic that we were having this conversation:
One of the day’s crises involved a phone call from Ms. Melinda. As soon as I picked up the phone she began to tell me about the nurses who had just been up to see her [today was the day the volunteer nursing students come, so we had sent a couple of them up to take care of Melinda’s hygiene needs]. She began by telling me about this cream she had that was stolen. “The nurses stole your cream?” I interjected, perplexed for a moment. “Oh no, honey!” she exclaimed. But she said that she did in fact have some cream stolen from her a while back . . . she did not tell anyone about that, though—not until now, as she was telling me. But that’s not why she was calling me; she was calling to tell me how pleased she was with the nurses who had come today. See, they knew just what she needed, and they gave her some. And what was it that she was needing? What other than butt cream, as she proudly, and loudly, proclaimed.
I guess there is no shortage of needy body parts in the world . . .

no, this isn't spam mail

Having not had my usual internet access lately, my computer time has been too limited for me to do justice to the most recent work tales [though I have had no shortage of snippets to be mentally filed away in my to-write-about storage space].
But this is a tale about a tail that was passed along my another children's literature fan--and I do hope you agree with me that it is well worth the re-telling . . .
The father was on duty for the morning, taking his 4-year-old to preschool. He noticed the boy's attire and decided to make some clothing-related smalltalk. "You know, son, I like that Tigger t-shirt you have on today. Do you think you can jump as high as Tigger can?"
The boy looked at his dad and, after a moment of thoughtful quiet said "No, daddy--I don't think my penis is long enough."

qualified nuttiness

Just another day in the land of nutty old folks and nutty not-so-old ones. To illustrate, let me give you one snippet from the day:

Two gentlemen came this afternoon to tell me about the coming opening of a new Counseling Center for geriatric patients--it's the only area center of licensed counselors and therapists that will accept Medicaid and offer the type of services they provide, so they're trying to make folks like me aware of it, so we can refer our residents to them. At one point, one of them asked me how many people I could think of right off the bat who would qualify for psychiatric services, if assessed by a professional. A quick train of thought went something like this: Hmmm . . . we have about 158 residents at the moment. There are about 6 of us here who work directly with the residents . . . Then I responded out loud, “Well, I can think of about 164 off the top of my head who would most likely qualify for psychiatric services at the moment.”

armed, and dangerous?

I didn't have to ask who she was when she interrupted my routinely official phone greeting with an insistent, "Honey, can you come up here for a minute." Wondering what the crisis of the day was, I grabbed my keys and headed up to the 11th floor. The door was cracked and she hollered for me to come on in when I knocked.
Miss B, do you know you left a note up on the door, saying you're changing and to come back in 30 minutes? "Oh yes, I know," she replied. "Soon as you leave, I will--so I wanted that note up now."
Oh, of course . . . so how are you today?
"I dropped Hospice," she began, as I sat down across from her at the dinette. "They just weren't any good. So I got me a real doctor. Her name's over there on the fridge. She has a nurse too but, shit, I can't remember that nurse's name . . ."
I started to get up to write down the Doctor's name but sat back down when she leaned over conspiratorily and said, "But that's not what I wanted to tell you today." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Now I don't want you to tell anybody about this, but you need to know what's going on . . ."
I sat back in my chair and listened as she told me the "real story." It turns out Miss B has had a scare. She had someone break in her door last night. Well, not quite: they almost broke in . . . just loudly enough to wake her up. So she decided to take action. Next time, she'll be ready for the potential intruder . . .
She stopped her story and began rifling through her purse. "I got this a while back; when I got it he told me it was good forever. And not just in this state--it's good anywhere . . . there it is!"
And she handed me a certifiably official Georgia Firearm Licence, stamped with her name and thumbprint.
"Next time my Social Security check comes, I'm going to get me a gun. Not a big one--just a little one. So when he comes back, I'll be ready. It won't be loaded, mind you, but I'll keep the shells by my bed. So if he comes back, by the time he gets from the door to my bed, I'll be ready for him. Now I don't want to kill anybody--'Thou shalt not kill' . . . but I can make sure he crawls out of here if he tries to hurt me. I'll shoot him in the foot!"
As she said this she gestured to my feet, and I widened my eyes as I nodded with her.
She lowered her voice again and came closer to me. "I want you to know this, but I don't want you to tell anyone. You know how word gets around here. But if I die, I want you to destroy all my papers--and destroy my gun! I'm going to keep it in my pillowcase, so you'll know to look for it there."
Her day's task apparently completed, Miss B then wheeled away from the table and thanked me for being "so helpful" all the time.
"Alright honey--you have a good day. And just make sure you latch that door behind you as you go!"
Miss B's secret is safe with me--at least now that I have checked the building policies. The manager assured me that they were not allowed to look for contraband materials inside resident apartments, even if "heresay" suggested the existence of the same . . .

hoists . . . and heists?

You never know what a day will bring.
This particular day brought the occasion for me to display my brute strength--or at least my brute stupidity . . .
One of our more vocal residents wheeled herself into the office shouting that somebody needed to get Mr. Williams off the ground. Now it is common knowledge around the facility that Mr. Williams is not the most sober of gentlemen, so I immediately suspected the cause for his prone position, My suspician proved correct. In this case, he could have actually harmed himself badly, as he was outside on a concrete patio at the time. But when I peered over him, he returned my gaze in an encouragingly coherent manner, glassy eyes and tell-tale breath notwithstanding. Mr Williams?, I began, Are you ok? "Well . . . I guess so," was his reply. So, while a crowd of elderly men and women gathered around to comment on the daily state of Mr. Williams, I hoisted him back up onto the bench. A few more questions left me reasonably assured that he was unhurt, so I brought him some water and then returned inside. I had to laugh a bit later when the initial announcer of the situation came back to ask how Mr. Williams had gotten back up. I got him up, Miss June--he's fine now. "What?!?," she incredulously replied. "What about all the men out there?" They watched me, I told her, grinning.
Several hours later I was finishing up my distribution of the newsletter, walking down the hallway after exiting the stairwell. As I neared the office, I watched the almost comical scene of Mr. Williams' slow roll from the wooden bench onto the floor. I was almost next to him by that point, so I could see that he was conscious as he fell. And I'm afraid I must admit that I was not too concerned as I watched: my intitial reaction was a bemused thought of Oh, so that's how he did it the last time!.
Admittedly, this is NOT the way one should respond when watching an elderly gentleman fall--please do not take my admission as any sort of justification for my wrong response! But in this case, it turned out to be fine. He was still coherent--in an inebriated sort of way--and he let me hoist him back up again. While I did so, he apologized, saying he didn't know what was wrong with him today. A coworker had come over by that point, and she rolled her eyes as he said this. I have had significantly fewer dealings with Mr. Williams than she has had; consequently, I still have a significantly greater level of patience remaining. We'll see how long that lasts :-)

taken for a ride

My job is getting to me . . . I think I’m falling in love with it ☺ Today I was laughing at myself, realizing that I was drawn to putting myself in a work-like role on my off day. Walking towards the downtown library, I heard a shouted, “Can’t nobody get no help around here?!?” As I came closer, I realized she was talking to me, though she peered in all directions around as she talked. I stopped and listened to her for a while, finally interrupting to figure out exactly what it was she was asking for. It turned out to be $4, “for gas,” as she had run out on her way to her grandmother’s house, from Ohio. She only had an account at a northern bank, so couldn’t get money here, and “nobody would help” her . . .
I offered her my phone, then continued to dial the number she had called after she hung up, saying her uncle wasn’t answering. After some inner debate, I decided to offer to take her somewhere if she needed a ride to her uncle’s house. I told her I was going into the library and if she still needed a ride when I came back out in 30 minutes, I’d take her where she needed to go.
Now I should clarify that I had, by this point, already called my grandfather and been assured that this was a typical con story. My decision turned out to be a decently wise one, as she disappeared without taking me up on the ride. But it had me thinking as I continued from there on to the museum.
You see, Monday I will continue a project I began Friday afternoon at work. This particular project involves coaching a woman through her parole requirements to help her fulfill her requirements. I am being very careful to only help in her the ways I am authorized, abiding by the rules of her parole officer. But I do find myself very drawn into the whole situation: externally I am professional in my dealings with her, while internally I am convinced that she is sincere in her desire to do right from now on. As a result, I am adamant about doing everything in my power to help her as much as I can.
Is it possible that I am wrong in my assessment of her intentions? Certainly. I can only pray that I have the strength to do my job—every day—with cases like this. The strength to do what I can without being heartbroken when, as will inevitably happen, I am disappointed by the outcome or mistaken in my judgment concerning another’s heart . . .

at the end of the day

I spent the entire hour of running errands and driving home this evening trying to force myself to “let go” of work. My heart was racing still from the stress of trying to deal with this particular situation and my mind was racing with possible scenarios that I worried he might encounter on his own for the rest of the evening.
This elderly gentleman came to me today asking for his caregiver. He needed help but could not remember anything that would help me find out what he needed. His repeated apology was, “I’m just so confused . . . today I’m very confused . . .” Not having names or numbers, it was truly a wild goose chase to try to figure out what his medical situation was, who could help care for him, and what medications he needed at that time.
At the end of the day, my quest was successful: his caregiver was located, immediate needs met, and I finally ushered him back to his room, promising to return tomorrow. He apologized once more for his confusion, and replied that he was fine as I asked again if he was going to be ok.
I thought I had successfully let go for the evening until I was telling my mother about it on the phone just now. As I explained the situation, my emotions flared up again and I found myself suddenly on the verge of tears . . . I suppose it is a good sign when I am anxious to get to work tomorrow ☺

what i'm reading

As is my tendency, I am in the middle of a string of books by my current author-of-choice: Sue Monk Kidd. Beginning with The Secret Life of Bees, I moved next to The Mermaid Chair, and am now nearing the end of The Dance of the Dissident Daughter. Another of her nonfiction works is next on my list, as I placed a hold on it and am awaiting its arrival for me at the public library. I find her writing style to be understatedly captivating, so zip effortlessly through each of her works. What is gripping me the most about her works, both the novels and the nonfiction, though, is her brutal honesty about the walk [and sometimes, more accurately, the grueling climb] of faith. She is unflinching in her portrayal of what it means to be a "normal" American woman who is in the midst of a not-so-normal inner battle over what it means to be true to your faith, to yourself, to your family, and to your God.

a matter of perspective

This snippet ought to illustrate rather well the nature of my beloved new workplace. It may also demonstrate my reasons for being so smitten with the people and stories I am getting to encounter 5 days a week . . .

One of our residents [a former resident, I should add, for reasons that will soon be self-evident] found a young man who was willing to, er . . . run some errands for her. She provided him with the funds to make the purchases, instructed him as to where to go, and waited for his return. Once she had waited longer than she deemed fit, she wandered the neighborhood to ask if anyone had seen this gentleman and had insight as to why he had not returned. Sure enough, she found someone who recognized her description and who informed her that he seemed to have been delinquent in the work he had been hired to do.
Indignant, she promptly returned to her apartment and called the police to report the transgression. Though there was nothing they were able to do about the man in question, the police dutifully came . . . to arrest the woman who had made the call. You see, she had called to report to them that this young thief had run off with her money, leaving her without the drugs she had sent for. As she was arrested, she reiterated her disgust at the state of youngsters these days: you just can't count on youth to be reliable these days

smoking elders

The majority of my afternoon was spent with a chain-smoking elderly women who had me held happily hostage to her Medicare tales of woe. As a result, I am left chuckling at this quote, though I know nothing about its background. Please feel free to enlighten me if I have any readers out there who know more than I do about his reasoning for writing such an intriguing little smippet:

"Everybody welcome-especially elders who smoke."
Jacob de Jager (1923 - )

so i'm told

"Anna: Your Photo, 'Dropped One,' Will Be Published. Congratulations for your publication"

hmmm . . . don't know if I believe it, but I must say I'm flattered by the idea. Perhaps it does some good to post photos on a photography website after all.

the clan

A conversation with my little brother just now has made me photo-hungry for family. So just for fun I am posting this one: Mom and I were playing around with my Mac while out running errands. Returning home, I showed our photo booth shots to the boy, at which point Alex teased us for looking like a "girl band." The boys and I then decided to play off on that theme and make our best "boy/girl band" faces. This is the end result of the combination of the the two . . . the J**jan Clan Band? :-)

the daily grind

It is a strange pleasure, an exquisite ordinary-ness, to have a “normal” day job. The simple routine of going into the office each day, of earning a small but consistent paycheck, of having an office . . . it is all so much more than just a simple joy. I am finding the greatest of pleasures in the most unexpected places, in activities I used to regard as utterly, undesirably humdrum: organizing my rolodex, filing paperwork in its proper alphabetical order, signing and dating paperwork.
But the greatest pleasure is that of listening to the residents. I get to have the “job” of letting them tell me their stories. “How did you get the first name “Lloyd?” I asked Miss Marguerite. Once I had shouted loudly enough into her ear for my voice to be audible [to her 92-year-old ears that don't work quite so well anymore], her face lit up with a wide grin, Well, my Daddy named me. See his first sweetheart was named Marguerite Lloyd. So when my Mama had me, he decided to name me after her—I guess he figured if he switched the name around my Mama wouldn’t get a bee in her bonnet about it. So here I am now: Lloyd Marguerite!

sikisa hapa

I was struck today by the difficulties of working with the Burundi refugees . . . the newness is wearing off a bit—the “honeymoon” period, if you will. So now I am getting more concerned about the hugeness of the task of teaching them—and the hugeness of the problems they will face in general as they try to acclimate to life here. There is so much that needs to be done before they can live independently and I worry about the logistics of it all. How will the children get registered in school in a couple of weeks now? Who will help them with all the practical matters entailed in moving into their temporary government housing? How will the children get used to school life here when they don’t even understand English yet? . . .
My head starts to spin just trying to figure out what needs to be done, never mind figuring out how to do it! But of course it is not up to me. And Lord knows we would be in a sorry state if it were! Thankfully there are people much more suited to figuring out logistics and, well, just “taking care of business,” than I will ever be!
Anyhow, telling of the past few days of lessons are the phrases that have become my most useful Swahili words of late: Wacha hio, Sikisa hapa, and Hapana. Loosely translated, that would be “Don’t touch that,” [for when they get overly zealous about starting the tape player again that we use for ngoma, or “drum and dance”], “Listen to me!” [this one needs no explanation, I expect], and “No” [i.e. no, don’t climb in my car and lay on the horn today—that was a rather noisy ordeal yesterday!].
So we stumble along each day. We figure things out as we go, making plenty of mistakes, laughing at mistaken translations, getting frustrated when we can’t understand each other . . . and, by grace, perhaps we make some learning progress along the way.

jambo sana

There was no place I would have rather been than singing and dancing around a vacant church building this afternoon with a small crowd of African children and grown-ups. It was an odd transition to make from the morning job interview; but it was with gusto that I shed my professional attire, gathered my Swahili books and tapes, and headed to the church to bid my friends “Jambo!”
This made the 4th day I have spent as an informal English teacher for one family group out of the Burundi refugees recently placed in this city. The "lessons" are quite impromptu, considering the language barrier, but I'm happy to see that Swahili comes more easily to me than I expected--and, no doubt due to their extreme immersion, the family is learning quickly. So far I'm relying on picture books and cassettes I found at the library, so our days are consisting of attempts at conversation, repeated phrases, words, & numbers, and, of course, singing and dancing.
It was perhaps presumptuous of me to find out where they were staying, show up, and simply start spending each day with them . . . but I could not help myself ☺ The discovery that African refugees had just arrived when I was returning brought to the surface all my emotions and culture shock from the return; it made me realize that even though I was ready to return, and am glad to be home, I did leave a piece of my heart in Africa. And that has left me with a heart for the African people.
I would like to think I have something great to offer, some grand way to help. The truth is, however, that I have been in a rather needy place in life lately, left with no choice but to rely on my dear friends and family for practical support.
But I want to trust that God can use the little I have in the way of time, and a heart, to make some sort of a difference in the lives of those with whom my own life circle intersects.

chicken little

I had what I deemed to be a highly ironic return to the country. For those of you who have followed my blog at all over the past little while, you will know that I spent the last 6 months getting used to cold showers. So in the back of my mind, as I flew, bussed, and drove back to the U.S., was the happy thought that I was returning to the ease of warm showers . . .
Well, arriving late at night, I did a bit of perfunctory unpacking and then promptly went to bed, sleeping soundly. The next morning I awoke to discover that my water heater had burst, flooding the attic [yes, unfortunately, the water heater is unwisely located in the attic], and causing the ceiling to collapse under the weight of the soggy floods.
Needless to say, I did not have a hot shower that morning. Or the next. Or the next.
But now, after a week of calls to roof repairmen, electricians, plumbers, and insurance adjusters—and of course, my ever-available superman and superwoman grandparents—all is well.
I have purchased a fine new water heater that sits proudly in its new home in the basement, the ceiling is looking more lovely than it has in 20 years, and we all are enjoying wonderfully hot showers!

annie

god be with you

I never knew I was capable of such great emotion in a simple goodbye. In the past, goodbyes have been rather cold affairs, dreaded because of what I thought I should feel instead of what I actually did. But this time the dam broke. What I expected to be a routine round of kusse [dutch for "kisses"] and hugs became an unstoppable flow of tears springing up from some hidden geyser of grief. Every time I looked into Annie’s eyes and tried to tell her how lovely, how precious she was, I ended up instead blubbering incoherently through my mess of tears and sniffles.
Annie was my dear friend, my lifeline of a caring friend, for the past six months. She and I spent our days caring for the children together, then I ritually walked her back to the compound each afternoon, recapping the day and laughing about the girls' antics or bemoaning their naughtinesses.. On weekends I clung to her, following her around like a homeless puppy dog on the days when she was on duty and I was off. And on the rare days when we both had free time, we sat in her little hut chatting, walked through the compound visiting, and sometimes took the bus to nearby towns for a change of scenery and the chance for her to buy maize, kapente, and other staples. Annie was my dear friend.
And what hurts so intensely is the knowledge that she most likely will never have the chance to pursue her dreams, to explore the world. as she so longs to do. She has never been given the privilege of enough schooling to learn how to read. She has never been able to travel outside the borders of her home country.
I cannot help but ask that almost cliché question of why some in the world have opportunities that others never do. Yet I suspect that this question cannot be answered—not this side of heaven, at least. What I do know is that Annie is every bit as talented, as capable, as charming, as the most accomplished of modern young women. And what I must trust is that she is where she is, with the opportunities she has and does not have for a greater purpose than what we mortals can see in the here and now.

that's all she wrote

enough said . . . :-(

fred's finicky dining

Fred paid one of his regular visits to the lodge, and I spent about 30 minutes mesmerized by his munchings. It is amazing to watch the way elephants know to pick the grass and then sweep the bunch back and forth against the ground to clean off the dirt before he enjoys his meal.

It seemed to me that I should somehow commemorate the moment when I had the strange realization that it did not faze me to be showering with a warthog. This morning as I walked to the bathhouse, Herco warned me that Poomba was in there and showed no signs of leaving. I replied that I was used to it and proceeded to turn on the shower. At the moment, Poomba had actually followed Herco out, so I latched the door as I entered [a door that was actually raised to prevent the warthogs from coming in] and explained to Herco that I was going to pretend that she actually was prevented by the latch on the door. A few minutes later, I heard the familiar sounds of her grunts as she shoved against the door and then backed up to jump over it. She then shoved her nose through my shower curtain to presumably reassure herself that I was within sight. Seeing that I was, she proceeded to gnaw on the loo door, promptly chewing a hole in yet another door. Destroying on, she proceeded to the second. By this point I was finished with my shower so, as I toweled off, she peered once more into the stall and then, as I walked out of the bathhouse, she followed me. Her shower company gone, she went off to find another companion for the remainder of the morning.
What I mused over after finishing my morning routine was that the fact that it included the company of a warthog has become so commonplace that it does not even delay me anymore. No doubt I will miss her company once I am once more left with lone showers.

setting the baobab

Walking home late from the schoolhouse one night last week, I was stunned by the beauty of the sun setting behind my favorite Baobab. But alas, I was camera-less. So this weekend I snagged the time to chase the sunset to the same spot, this time armed with my camera.

pampered in prague

Who would have thought that a “Congratulations—you have won!” email, flagged as questionable, would actually have a valid reason to be in my inbox? I most certainly did not. It was only out of amusement that I decided to read this one as I went through my daily deletions of inbox clean-up. Amusement turned to incredulous curiosity when I realized that I was oddly familiar with the contest this email was referring to. And so it happened that two months later I was bound for Prague, straight out of the African Bush.
For someone accustomed to mosquito nets and Tsetse flies, candlelight and cold showers, giant centipedes in my schoolhouse and warthogs in my bathhouse . . . I was in for a bit of culture shock, to say the least. It was with wide eyes and a gaping mouth that I settled into our Five-Star hotel—one of “The Leading Small Hotels of the World”—with its bed piled high with feather pillows and its table laden with fresh fruits and chocolates.
Once I had made a valiant effort at scrubbing the dirt from my body and smoothing the wrinkles out of my chitenge [Zambian dress], we headed to the set. Oddly enough, here on the set of the film, I felt strangely at home. You see, the brilliantly created magical world of Narnia was sort of like just another beautiful dream world for my safari-accustomed eyes. It is an amazing thing to enter this set and be instantly whisked away into a land of talking trees and centaurs—but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you? ☺
So began my four-day adventure in Prague: a whirlwind of soaking in the sights of this stunning city, hobnobbing with hobbits, prattling with Princes, and returning each evening to be catered to, and spoiled rotten, in the lap of luxury.
It was, like I said, a whirlwind of experiences packed into too short of a time frame. Consequently, there was no way I could have gotten any sort of full sense of the place. I did, however, feel like my experience was complete, thanks to my last day of sightseeing.
On this day, I had a moment of absolute awe, in which I said to myself, Now I feel like I can leave this place in peace. In a sense, my traveler’s sensibilities were soaked to saturation point thanks to my visit to the cathedral of the Prague castle.
This visit came at the end of a day in which I had seen enough sights to start to be tired of sight-seeing; granted, I should admit that I have a rather low tolerance for tourist attractions, so my sense of “enough” is decidedly lower than most people’s, I believe. At any rate, it was in this state of mind that I entered the cathedral. And then I stopped, stunned, gazing up and around me with an instant teary-eyed reaction to the beauty. I can no more describe it to you than I suspect an angel could describe Heaven to a mortal. Suffice it to say, it is a magnificently glorious construction.
The next day I departed from Prague, saddened to leave and not quite ready to return to “real life.” But I was satisfied, filled up by the experience, and inwardly richer thanks to the time.

Kimba's romantic side

Kimba got to go to Prague. He of course could not travel to such a romantic city alone, so he took his girlfriend . . . yes, Kimba has met someone while here in Zambia. Her name is Reginia and she is, as you can see, quite a lovely companion for Kimba. At any rate, in order to celebrate their arrival, the two decided to take a ride on the luggage carousel--perhaps not the most exciting of rides, but it turned out to be a fine way to inaugerate the trip.

home

A week of traveling days has given me a humbling awareness of my reliance upon the people and things that fill my basic human needs. The first portion of my travels was a time of great luxury, excitement, and good companionship--more updates on that will come soon, I promise!
But at the moment it is the second portion of my travels that is prominent in my mind . . . A few days of loneliness, extreme cold, inadequate funds, and missing baggage have given me a renewed gratitude for simple comforts, even those here at the safari lodge that I never would have thought of as "comforts" till now.
I'm growing weary of life being so difficult--and I think I'm ready to come home. When traveling here in Zambia, I am just floored by how hard it is to get by, from transport to supplies to funds. And winter right now is brutal, especially in Lusaka--so lodging in a little cottage with my hot water bottle in my missing bag was quite brutal. It is so humbling to be alone, without means, and without even a way to simply get warm.
But I made it, and a trip to the airport this morning left me giddily relieved with a successful retrieval of my bag. So here I am, "home" again for now--and for perhaps the first time in months truly looking forward to being home.

if i had a hammer

Lately I have taken to loitering around the workshop in my free time, after discovering that one shop artist allows me to "help" occasionally. After watching him at work one day, I asked if I could staple one of the stool cushions together as well. He entrusted me with his tools, and a few minutes later I proudly displayed the finished product. Then I asked if I could mark it on the underside so that I could find "my" stool later on--he again obliged and, sure enough, the next day I went around peering underneath bar stools until I found my initials.
So for my most recent loitering, the project in progress was chairs instead of stools. This time my work involved hammer and nail more than the staple gun but, once again, I was able to proudly claim a finished product. Here is a shot of the underside of "my" chair, not yet out in public view. Note the faint "AGJ" in the bottom right corner.
I must say, I did enjoy surprising various workmen and safari guides as they came to look for Harrison and found me instead [he actually trusted me enough to leave me with the work!], happily hammering away . . .

sentry of the day

So this is no award-winning photo, admittedly--but I believe my choice of safety over photographic brilliance was probably a wise one. This fellow decided to camp out at my place for the afternoon, preventing me from getting back inside for some time, after my work day was done. I figured I was not about to try to battle or berate this guy, and opted instead to capture his rear end for, er, posterity? ;-)

dreaming practically

Having been intrigued by dream psychology for some time now, I have read various dream books over the years. For the most part, they seem to agree on rather complicated explanations. Or, if not complicated, you can at any rate assume that what happens in a dream is not supposed to relate too closely to the real-life correlation.
I think, however, that my dream the other night pretty much means exactly what it seems: I dreamt that I was able to wash my hair, and in my dream I reveled in the extravagance of such a luxury. For several weeks now, I have grown increasingly aggravated by my itchy scalp. Not so aggravatted, mind you, that I was willing to extend my icy shower for the amount of time necessary for more than a quick hopping-in-and-out-while-distracting-myself-by-making-odd-noises. So my hair has persisted in its unwashed state. My dream convinced me, however. So this morning, upon the occasion of:
1. enough firewood for relatively hot water
2. a Saturday morning with extra time
. . . I washed my hair.
And it was glorious!

traveling Kimba

Thanks to a family trip, Kimba got to go to South Africa. Unfortunately, however, the silly lion forgot his camera--so I shall have to rely on his travel souvenirs in order to show you that he had a lovely time in Johannesburg and in Durban!

what one can do

I was vaguely aware of the voices from the TV in the background, engrossed in my book while friends plaited hair and commented periodically on the antics of the Lusaka network series’ characters. But then, after a few minutes of the next program, I suddenly realized what I was hearing and I was drawn to the set with a sort of disturbed fascination. It was simply an animated show for children, I thought—until the child on the screen sadly mused, “ . . . I used to have a mama and papa, and an auntie and uncle, and many relations here in the village. I heard the neighbors whispering about AIDS . . . I am lonely—and so hungry . . .”
When I asked my friends about the show, they said, with a sort of matter-of-fact indifference, that is was an educational program, teaching Zambians about the spread of HIV and about how they must not be afraid of, or discriminate against, those with the disease.
It strikes me that the problem with this approach may be that, while the disease is indeed everywhere, those who are ill either do not know it or will not admit it—to anyone. I think of a man whose employers found him immobile in his hut when they went to see why he had been missing from work. Taking him to be tested for HIV, they found their suspicions correct, and so they signed him up for the Antiretroviral Therapy, free thanks to internationally funded relief programs. He is now doing well, a year later, working and apparently healthy—but to this day he refuses to tell his own wife that he is infected. Talking with some missionary friends recently in Ndola, they confirmed that they too knew of many such instances.
Here in Zambia there is a strong cultural taboo against the disease—a taboo which is combined with a resigned acceptance of promiscuity that comes in the form of affairs, multiple wives, and the like—clearly, a deadly combination. And a hugely daunting problem, in the grand scheme of things.
So when I start to think about it, I worry, and I wonder what can be done. But frankly, I haven’t the slightest clue how to begin in this realm: this sort of relief and development work is way out of my teacher/librarian/writer league. Beyond that, I am increasingly aware, as the years go by, of my limitations [though I spent my early years fearlessly assuming I could do anything and everything]; I am simply not one to do great things, in terms of accomplishments.
What then, can I do? Perhaps all I am meant to do is build up those around me. In some small measure, if I can encourage and empower the people in my sphere of influence, I may be able to influence in some way, when it would be pointless [and perhaps detrimental] to try to change behaviors and cultures. This, I suspect, is why I was struck by the urge to make a small gift to a friend in the village. It was a photo of a stunning West African woman, staring frankly into the camera, with a caption that read “I am powerful.” I made a simple matting and a frame for the photo, and took it to her, explaining that it made me think of her when I saw the beauty and strength of this woman’s face. My friend cannot even read the words herself, but my hope is that in small way this reminder that now hangs by her bed can keep her mindful of the inherent, God-given worth that she must never compromise for the sake of empty words and human frailties.

dancing direct objects

this post is slightly outdated now, as I've been traveling and without internet for the past week: lusaka, ndola, and lusaka again at the moment . . . but here is is, outdatedness and all :-)
At dinner the other night I asked Eva if she had told Mom and Dad about her goofy direct object lesson that day. When she said she hadn’t, I asked why not, to which this sensitive youngster replied that she didn’t want to make fun of her teacher. My encouragement did not seem to persuade her so I finally informed her that I would then make fun of her teacher . . .
You see, we happened upon a rather unusual, but quite effective, method for learning the difficult lesson of how to identify the direct object of a sentence. As we wrestled that day with how to distinguish between nouns and predicates, subject nouns and common nouns, and, of course, direct objects, I had a bit of a teacher’s “Aha!” moment.
As I began to explain how to decipher the direct object, I discovered a little trick: a simple way to locate it is to read the sentence once and then reread it, eliminating the end and replacing it with the question “what?” For instance, “My dog ate a large bone. My dog ate a large what? A bone!” And so you have discovered the direct object—“bone,” in this case.
I believe this is a relatively standard method for teaching direct objects. What I realized that day, however, is that when you start going through a series of sentences, a bit of a rhythm develops. So as I illustrated this method, I began to lapse into a rhythm, which morphed into a bit of a rap, which led to the obvious next step of dancing as I rapped. When I recovered from the losing-myself-in-the-moment syndrome and glanced at my pupil, I found her wide-eyed with delight. So I continued. She quickly caught on when I paused after the sentences to allow her to insert the “what” of the direct objects. And so we rapped through a page of her work.
Until one of her answers made me stop—I realized she had given an incorrect reply, so I stopped to correct her. And stopping the rhythm of course interrupted the routine. When Eva commented that I had stopped dancing, I replied that her goal was “to keep teacher dancing.” By this point, both girls were getting into the game, and we laughed our way through the entire lesson for Eva’s English that day. In the process, I believe we also managed to give Ellen a head start, as I suspect she will remember our little trick once she reaches the same point in her grammar lessons.
Sometimes it behooves a teacher to be willing to be a bit of a goofball.

who's hanging out by your pool?

Giving a new perspective on fear of wearing a bathing suit in public . . .

. . . a sight so lovely as a tree

Another favorite Baobab of mine, along the vein of my previous "sight so lovely" post.

the post i almost didn't post, and may still decide to un-post . . .

This week has thrown my people-pleasing, affirmation-driven self for a loop. I pray that the worst of it is over, and can’t quite see how it could be any more difficult. But it has no doubt been a good growing experience.
I have been forced to realize that sometimes one just has to grow up and take the crud as it comes. In the middle of a barrage of unexpected, unwelcome stresses, sometimes you just have to step forward, one baby step at a time, and pray for the strength to get through it.
I think on some level I have been holding on to a notion that I can make my life work out at least somewhat the way I want it to. Perhaps that comes from being forced out of childhood too early, and so being a bit of a control freak ever since: an intense upheaval at a crucial age in childhood has maybe created a need to feel that things can’t get too out of hand, or too crazy, ever again.
But you can’t really count on that, huh? And I am realizing new levels of an inner ability to keep moving when all my senses tell me that I have no tangible support to grab onto any longer.
So here I am. Moving forward. I don’t necessarily know why, or towards what, but I push on. Realizing that sometimes you just have to be a big girl and remind yourself who you are, even if no one cares. Pressing ahead in doing what I know to be right, loving those I know my job it is to love, and patiently waiting out this dark time. Waiting for a light at the end of the tunnel. Believing beyond hope that God still works miracles. That He, if no one else seems to, really cares about me. That He really is making something worthwhile out of my life.

on the 30th . . .

. . . Alexander Thomas was born!!

the perfect pod

These unique pods fall from great trees all over this area. And if we can snag them before the monkeys do, the colorful seeds are ready for all manner of artistic uses. This particular one was found by Eva, and she was kind enough to donate it to teacher :-)

roses & a razor

I fear I may not be a very good ascetic. Ok—so I know I’m not a good ascetic. And I fear this may also seem rather unspiritual; but the fact of the matter is that God’s grace manifest itself to me in the form of roses & a razor, Indian food & ice cream.
I should probably explain why exactly it feels unspiritual for me to feel this way: the reason I was able to experience such luxuries is that I was passing through the bustling metropolis of Lusaka en route to a “Spiritual Life” missions conference. So my tears of gratitude came more intensely from the outing offered by a generous friend than from the speakers & studies of the conference itself.
That said, the conference was certainly not without enrichment—not in the slightest. But it was the old connections that I benefited most greatly from, since I am not an official member of this missions crew. I was invited to the conference thanks to old family ties. Or, as I was introduced when I arrived, I am a “former missionary kid.” At which point a voice piped in from the audience: “So at what time of life exactly does one cease to be a missionary kid?” The dissenter was answered with a sharp glance of un/-amusement, but a few chuckles were heard shortly thereafter when another member was introduced simply as a “missionary kid.” [Later I asked him how he had earned his lifelong membership in the club].
The conference was full of people eager to share memories they had of my parents & siblings; I, in turn, was eager to listen. It was also filled with sweet times of communion with people my bush-isolated self was unaware I was hungry for.
As for those roses . . . a friend took me to an unusual spot in Lusaka, a small corner to “home” for those of us accustomed to such aesthetic delights as gardens. In the midst of heat, dust, and a city focused on survival, this was a stunningly beautiful rose garden and park. I stood there for a while, stunned at the sight; then I proceeded to walk around, smelling all the roses. What I am guessing is that Zambia is a perfect rose-growing climate, and so when someone makes the effort to grow them, the results tend to be brilliant blooms in vibrant hues. For me, this discovery was intensely moving: a simple discovery that yielded a most immense delight.
And the razor? Well, for approximately 2 months now I have been using a half of a razor, the other half disappearing into the belly of a warthog. And this was the first time since then that I have been able to get to a store in which to purchase such extravagances.
Indian food and ice cream I will assume to be self-explanatory as far as pleasures go. And so concluded the happy week and a half of adventures of a bush resident in the big city :-)

cotton[tail]

What--you don't know what this is? Why it is, of course, Peter's tail. Or that is what I decided when I discovered it, in the form of 2 bushes right outside my bedroom window. Perhaps more officially, this is known as a cotton plant--here pictured in the 3 phases I used it as: the seed pod, the opening of it, and the fully opened one. I saw Peter's Cottontail, as it was right before Easter weekend that I found them, and I was at the time brainstorming for children's activities. For the bustling family weekend here, I was manning the children's activity room, and these lovely pods proved to be perfect for turning an average drawing of a bunny into each child's exciting 3D masterpiece.

where lions sleep

It is a sound unlike any I have ever heard before, and a sound impossible to describe with the written word. But once you have heard it, you can never forget it. So my sleep has been sweet, lulled into slumber each night to the soft and steady hum of the lions.
It has been the week of the lions. A small pride of females moved into the camp—no one knows why, as it is unusual for them to choose such a relatively inhabited spot, humanly speaking, for their hunting grounds. But they are most definitely here. And our daily life has been significantly disrupted.
I first realized how much so when a vehicle arrived early Monday to pick us up from school. The driver explained that the lions were right there behind the school, and so it was not safe for us to take our usual 5-minute walk back for lunch break.
For the remainder of that afternoon, we heard consistently intermittent reminders that one large cat was lounging right behind us. She was just hidden enough by the grasses for us to not be able to get a good look, but tauntingly close enough that each rustle in the grasses left us with almost-glimpses.
The next disruption occurred when the subject of my morning runs came up among staff. While I had asked about running before I came, it has ended up being debated off and on, as local folks notice my habitual roaming of the grounds.
It was with trepidation that I awaited the outcome of these deliberations—being an utter addict, if I were to be cut off from my run, I would be a lost soul indeed. Ultimately, to my great relief, it was decided that I could keep my routine, on one condition: I can no longer run with headphones.
So I am, for the first time in about 10 years now of running, getting used to what I call my “silent runs.” It’s been actually quite a nice realization to find that I can adapt to hearing only the sound of my own feet and breath. No doubt when I am once again living in an area where I can run with my iPod, I will welcome its return, but for now, I am happy without.
And so we have come through what I will remember as the week of the lions.

after the rain

Before the rain began this afternoon, Eva announced that there would be a rainbow today . . . I was thrilled to see that she was right :-)

Kimba's first prey

Inspired by the recent lion activity we have had around here, Kimba decides to try stalking his first prey. He is clearly still honing his skills, however--this Impala saw Kimba perched on the fencepost and promptly resumed his calm grazing, brazenly flashing his lovely striped behind as if to taunt poor Kimba . . .

the week's end

It has been a busy week. A good week, as far as the sum total goes . . . but an eventful week, for sure. The week of the lions. I hope to elaborate more on this when I snatch a few writing minutes this weekend. But for now, the occasion of seeing the sunset [recent days have prevented even this], more than merits its own post, I believe. You can be the judge, but I suspect that this shot will make up for my lack of posts this week . . .

signing hands

It was a moment that froze itself in my memory—a still frame of sorts, marked in its exquisitely ordinary coming about.
The sun was blazing, but nearing its late afternoon waning point, as I walked to the neighboring compound. My intention was to meet up with Purity on the way, as I knew she was planning to attend my Women’s Study that evening.
Getting to the village itself, I instead began to search for her home, not knowing yet which was her house. I did know, however, that my three pupils had come to the village with her, for a Sunday afternoon visit; this knowledge made me suspect that it would not be terribly difficult to find them. My suspicion was correct.
Spotting a small congregation of brown heads, I shielded my eyes to get a better look; then I smiled to myself as I headed towards the telltale crowd of curious children. Sure enough, I soon also spotted three very blond heads in their midst.
But then I realized what was happening, and I was stopped short in pleasant amazement: There stood my nine-year-old young charge patiently teaching “Into My Heart,” in sign language, to all the village children. These youngsters, from two years of age on up to twelve, were all painstakingly copying her motions and repeating each word she dictated.
Catching sight of me then, Eva summoned me over to help [though I was thrilled to notice that she knew it perfectly, after only 2 days of us working on it during our school day lessons!]. She wanted me to sing it, being too shy herself to sing out loud for them all. So I sang and signed, to a chorus of heavily accented echoes, as the sun set over the river behind us.
From the mouths of babes . . .
Strange how the most memorable moments of learning, in my life, have often come about outside of [and perhaps in spite of] all my school day plannings and lesson preparations.

Happy Birthday PaCharley!

With love and slobbery ear kisses, from one doting granddaughter plus four schoolroom pupils :-)

if the paw fits

For the animal print "series": this one was spotted by Ellen as we neared the house, walking back from the schoolhouse. Probably a leopard and, if not, a similar variety of large feline.

under african skies

If I had ever labored under illusions of any real scientific giftedness, I would have probably aspired to be an astronomer. But I had no such illusions and so no such aspirations. I did, however, pursue as much knowledge about astronomy as I could justify in my undergraduate studies.
And so it was with great delight that I finally did something I have been meaning to do since before arriving in this hemisphere several months ago: I studied the proper constellations and then located my first of the constellations visible only from this part of the world: The Southern Cross. It is a small but distinct diamond that can be found closer to the horizon in a line that runs diagonal to Orion’s left shoulder.
I should also confess that I was ignorantly surprised that Orion was easily visible here—I guess since I was so familiar with his distinctive presence, I thought he was a more northern constellation . . .
Also of interest to me here has been the brilliant presence of Venus each clear night—she shines brightly well before other stars show their nocturnal faces. And my youngest pupil has an inexplicable but quite delightful name for this planet; she is always quick to point out “The Fairy Star” when she appears :-)

two kudu

Though difficult to see here, these are two Kudus--they were photo worthy when I saw them as it was the first time I had seen these relatively less common variety of deer-like animals around here. Plus, their great size makes them quite striking to come across in the wild.

in-print

bug hunting

It occurred to me today that I may have hit a point of no return, after which I will never be able to return to the confines of a "normal" school curriculum--I am falling in love with the freedom of my schoolhouse setting. This afternoon we went on a bug walk, thanks to a day of being a bit ahead of schedule with our day's goals. Armed with only a blank notebook and pencil, we took off on a makeshift path through the grasses behind the schoolhouse. We first experimented with "owl ears," a trick I learned back when I was the Nature Teacher for summer camp; by imitiating the shape of owl's super-ears, cupping your hands behind your ears, you can noticeably improve your ability to hear the sounds around you. This makes for great fun when you close your eyes and see how many different animal sounds you can pick out as you listen.
Then it was time for tracking "bugs," just open to seeing what we could find. I told them, as an intro, of the man I met in the jungles of Ecuador, whose house was filled with jars of brand new species of bugs. He lived so deep in the jungle that the village was only accessible via plane. After our Cessna landed on the strip, he greeted us and proudly showed off all the insects that he had been classifying over the years. After each discovery, he would report his findings to the insect experts [I'm afraid I forget who this was], who would confirm if it was truly an as-of-yet undiscovered variety. It turns out that there are in fact a great many creatures, especially out in such remote areas, that are still waiting to be “discovered” and properly classified.
Admittedly, my crew this afternoon had no such aspirations ☺ We did, however, happily observe several interesting insects and butterflies. Carefully sketching them and noting colors, size, and such, we eventually returned back to the school. A book of the insects of Rhodesia in our library allows for reasonable accuracy in pinpointing the species.
And so the first entry of hopefully many future Bushwalks is now carefully noted in our “Bushwalk Journal!”

Kimba goes to the city

Thanks to a family weekend in the big city, Kimba got to experience Lusaka's water fun park . . . and in case you can't tell, he is here sporting a huge grin of having-a-grand-time :-)

the sky's on fire . . .

. . . is what I was saying to Marieke as I walked into the office and back out again to snap this shot, before its glory had finished setting :-)

what remains

This is what remains of the evening's visit by a hungry lion. What does not remain is one not-quite-fast-enough Puku, or so reported the Zambians who told me about the prints and the marks of the struggle.

flushing froggy

As is customary, I took my morning walk from my room to the Bush Camp shower and toilet house I use. As is also customary, I then used the toilet before hopping in the shower. The bathhouse being dimly lit, I do not generally peer very closely into the toilet bowl, but this time I noticed something there after flushing. I guess the last visitor left a little something here . . . I thought, slightly amused. So I waited a moment and flushed again. Still there. And again. Still there. That’s odd, I thought. This time I bent down and looked closely into the toilet bowl.
Then I laughed.
There looking up at me was a good size bullfrog, toes gripping the sides tightly and an expression of what I perceived as annoyance on his froggy face. Rightly so, for sure. I apologized out loud to him then, for showering him with such a rude morning awakening.
Leaving the toilet cover up this time [it is generally left shut], I was relieved to see that he had left his post by the time I finished my shower, presumably to a more sanitary and suitable habitat.
I was, however, amused to learn later that this does happen regularly, not because they jump into the toilet bowl but rather because they come up through the pipes themselves . . . so maybe he did not escape to such a sanitary abode after all ☺

a birthday "card"

Happy Birthday Helen!
with lots of love, and creative energies, from:
Lara, Eva, Ellen, Annie, & Anna
[in other words, the entire crew of my little one-room-schoolhouse :-)]

weekend visiting

A friend and her little one, during a Sunday spent visiting with her at her home in the village.

for the sake of the blog

You should know that I risked my life for the sake of you blog-readers today . . . this shot led to a charging hippo and to a nearby shout to me of "Just run!!!" I then sheepishly apologized to folks here for ignorance as to the speed capacities of these lumbering creatures, and for causing some quickened heartbeats :-)

another setting

I warned you not to mind multiple sunset shots, did I not? :-) When the school day lasts until around 5:30 these days, I'm afraid a captured sunset is generally all that time remains for. But I dare say, when it looks like this, one could do worse than capturing a setting sun!

the day's greeting

As a way of sending out a festive greeting to you all in my little blogger's world, here is one of the projects from the day's themed art class. It went over well, and prompted a discussion, that warmed my teacher's heart, as to which was each student's favorite out of all our art projects thus far :-)

beautiful relief

Another long and tiring day of teaching is done, and I am intensely grateful for this beautiful close of the day . . . so you will have to have patience with yet another captured sunset :-)

Kimba's first Zambian birthday

Kimba and friends celebrate with the birthday girl. And I learned Ngili Ngindo Maama, Mbela Mbela. Ieee! . . . ["Happy Birthday" in Nyanja].

the setting sun

Another evening of an on-fire sunset I had to capture, after my jaw un-dropped itself :-)

in a while, crocodile

My first croc-in-the-wild sighting since I was a child . . . I was intrigued to discover that my chiildhood fear has not seemed to dissipate with age, as my heartbeat quickened noticeably and I drew a sharp, quick breath when I saw this one :-)

rainy days and mondays

A[nother] day of rain has left me considering how easily things that used to be taken for granted have now become luxury items . . .
Dry clothes and shoes, for instance: the combination of constant rain plus no machine washers or dryers equals an all-pervasive dampness, and occasionally outright drenchedness.
Hot showers are another. My cold shower this morning very nearly didn't phase me; a fact that left me rather proud of myself, as the first few cold showers were quite difficult.
It is a blessing to realize that when life demands adjustments, the grace is given with which to adjust . . . I pray, that is, that I am adjusting gracefully :-)

safari sunset

Last night I went on my first game drive for this time in Zambia. Few of the animals I remembered from childhood drives were out, though we did see several elephants, plenty of kudu and impala, and a Spotted Eagle owl. The highlight of the evening, however, was this view of the waning rainy season sun.

i think that i shall never see . . .

. . . a sight so lovely as a tree . . .
This Baobab has become my favorite nearby tree and I have finally taken the occasion of a free Saturday morning to take a camera-walk.

inadequate expressions

Not having my camera, this is my feeble attempt this evening to capture the peaceful sunset moment I am looking at . . . thanks to Mac photobooth. After an intense day of classroom discipline, time outs, the relief of a return to peace, an intricate science experiment, and all-around adventure of a day, I am intensely grateful for a moment of peaceful African sunset. I also am struck by the deep joy of loving children enough to discipline; it was indescribably meaningful to know today that I was playing a role in the education of these sweet youngsters, and a relief to see that when I am consistent in my firm love for them, they recognize that and respond with great affection . . . the highlight of my day was an apology that came in the form of a tearful hug. At the moment, I was so relieved and so proud of her that it was all I could do to keep from crying myself.

roots

Coming to the country of my father’s resting place could never have prepared me for the apparent grasp-ability of a first visit to his grave.
Here I am, just over one week into my sojourn as a teacher, not connected in the slightest with my childhood roots, and yet I have happened upon quite a close connection.
Finding out my Zambia history, the owner here at the lodge said he thought one of the guides was from that area, and that it may not be very far from here. Sure enough, the next night this guide asked to see me.
His name is Meekson, and he is indeed from my home village. He also returns there every weekend during the dry season, when the trip takes only a day. This man was working for the school where my father taught, and he also went to the church to hear my father preach. The day my parents’ car accident was found, Meekson was involved in handling the crushed vehicle. He described the white car, gesturing to indicate the V-shape that I could picture perfectly from the pictures I saw. He was able to describe Daddy’s grave, and to reassure me of what I’ve always wondered: there is a woman there who has faithfully tended his grave for all these years.
Meekson had me write a letter to the one woman I remembered by name—the other widow of that accident’s fatalities. He knows her as a teacher there, and will see her this next weekend when he goes. She will certainly send a letter back this coming week, he assured me.
My own visit will likely have to wait several months yet, until the rains abate and the roads allow for a manageable length of a trip. But that is alright with me; the knowledge that it is feasible is enough for now.

lion pals

Kimba and his new pal, relaxing after a tiring day of tackling flooding in the schoolhouse, slaying giant centipedes, and trying to get some studies done in the process . . . it's a lion's life :-)

tili bwino

This first full weekend has been spent surrendered to the skilled hands of women in the neighboring village. A new friend, named Blessed, has been hosting me in her hut while the women plait [braid] my hair. I have no idea what their plan is with my hair, but they clearly do; they are chattering contentedly and occasionally interjecting an English praise of how “Beautiful!” it will be. I have no doubt it will, judging from their own lovely plaits and striking beauty. I have been gazing at them in wonder, amazed by their multitasking hands and mesmerized by their stunning features.
What is also amazing to me is how quick they have all been to shower me with hospitality, freely sharing the precious little that they have. It is humbling to have only small trinkets to give them in return.
This weekend has included my first nshima meal for this time in Zambia; it brought back comforting memories of childhood meals, and tasted just as I remembered it. The experience held also an oddly spiritual dimension. Blessed’s instructions of “Wash,” “Take,” “Let us pray,” and “Let us eat” felt much like a communion supper. We ate quietly, taking bits of nshima from the shared bowl and eating each bite with a piece of chicken. It was good—very good.
And when we were “satisfied,” more women filtered back in to join in with the plaiting. In the process, babies were nursed, crying children tended to, and hungry toddlers fed bananas. “Muli basanji?” a passerby asks. “Tili bwino,” we reply. How are you? We are fine.
It is a sweet privilege to be welcomed into this community . . . fine. Yes, we are fine.

how do we know

It is a frightening thing to be in charge of the mental formation of three young minds. It is a terrifying thing to be entrusted with their spiritual education!
How ever-so-humbling it was to sit by Eva, preoccupied by a simple social studies lesson, when this thoughtful nine-year-old suddenly thrust at me the most difficult of spiritual dilemmas: “But how can we know that Christianity is true? If there are so many religions, how do we know ours is right?”
As we were in the midst of a lesson on the main religions of Zambia, it was a logical line of reasoning in one sense. But I was nonetheless floored, having never before explained my coming-to-terms about this issue to such a young and impressionable mind. In that moment, watching this furrowed brow and intensely thoughtful young face, I was as certain as I could be that this was a moment of great significance, now and for eternity. I was awed by its realness and honored to be allowed to participate in it.
Somehow, in the midst of my own uncertainty, I was able to put words to an explanation that seemed to satisfy her reasonably well. Eva nodded and, with a thoughtful “Hmm . . . ok,” returned to her lesson. And I spent the rest of the day somewhat dumbstruck with reverent wonder.
May I live in such a way as to be open to moments such as these, and may I never lose the humility that allows me to see how unworthy I am to receive them!