The Amputee Ward

My dad was the oldest of seven.  He came of age during World War II, joined the army and helped bring the Allies to victory in Europe. Even though he suffered a severely injured back due to a glider crash, he was able to stay the course and returned home after the war was over.  The youngest of the family was Ron and not all that many years older than me.  That's because my grandmother had married very young and started birthing children soon afterwards, making the age difference between my dad and his youngest brother considerable.  Ron came of age during the Vietnam War.  But unlike his older brother, he didn't join the Army.  He joined the Navy and became part of the Construction Brigade, more commonly known as the Seabees.  They were in Vietnam building aircraft-support facilities, roads and bridges for their buddies who were on the line and in the air. But they were also humanitarians, building schools and hospitals and digging wells for the Vietnamese. Uncle Ron was a big guy.  If things had turned out differently for him, I think he might have gone into trucking or highway construction.  But he was never able to do those things, and unlike his brother, Ron came home early.

Uncle Ron and my grandmother not too long before he joined the Seabees

I had a dream long ago that I was standing at the top of a hill with a large wheel in my hand.   Letting go,  it rolled down the hill and ran over someone's leg at the base of the hill.  I was writing Uncle Ron who was serving in Viet Nam at the time, and I remember telling him in one of my letters about the strange dream I'd had.  I certainly didn't see it as a warning or premonition, but it wasn't too much later that my grandmother received the news that her youngest son had been seriously injured.  He'd been thrown from his equipment, and the tire from the large earth-moving machine he'd been operating had run over his leg.  They couldn't save it.

There are certain episodes in our lives that make an indelible impact on us.  My parents packed the five of us into our station wagon early one morning.  We were going to the U.S. Naval Hospital in Philadelphia to see my uncle where he was recuperating and rehabilitating from his injury.  Even after all these years I see and feel the sheer size of the building and hear the echo from our shoes hitting the hard tile floor. I couldn't help but wonder if time had altered what I remembered about that day and place.  So I googled it and discovered the place was 352,000 square feet and 15 stories high.  My memory was right on.   And the size of the building only added to the enormity of that war for me, that it was full of people who had come home terribly wounded and were therefore changed.  As a young teenager, I found that overwhelming.       

It seemed like we walked forever, through ward after ward until we found my uncle. And then there he was, his bed in the midst of so many other beds, all filled with amputees.  A muscular young soldier lay in the bed next to his, both legs gone well above the knee.  He was working his upper body and what was left of his legs with a couple of acrobatic type rings hanging from the ceiling.  I didn't want to gawk but couldn't keep my eyes off him.  Without stopping his regimen he asked if I'd ever seen anything like what I was seeing there in that room.  I shook my head, not knowing what to say.  I felt awkward, uncomfortable, as if this place should be private, devoid of outsiders.  But then it was my turn to visit with my Uncle Ron. I walked over to the bed and any words I might have prepared remained unspoken.  I was so overcome,  not just with the emotion of seeing him in that place, but by the number of amputees all around me.  So all I did was hold his hand and he held mine, not letting go for a long time.

U.S. Naval Hospital in Philadelphia

The U.S. Naval Hospital of Philadelphia is gone now.  The Navy decided not to keep it and sold it to the city of Philadelphia.  They demolished it ten years ago.   My Uncle Ron is gone too.  He eventually married, had three children and lived a pretty productive life doing things he enjoyed.  After I moved away I didn't see him much, but he and my father remained close.  He died suddenly, unexpectedly, just a few months after my dad passed on.  I often think of him, and sometimes when I do I'm back in that amputee ward with those wounded soldiers all around me.  I can't help but feel my throat tighten just like it did on that day long ago, and I know the words won't come.  I don't think they ever will.

Postscript:  The acreage where the hospital sat is now used as a parking lot for the Philadephia Eagles.  Sadly, there's not even a commemorative plaque on the site.

Through The Storm

It was Wednesday, April 27th.  We were on our way to Alabama for a wedding and had spent the night before at my sister's in Frederick, Maryland.  The second leg of our trip would take us as far as Cleveland, Tennessee, a city just east of Chattanooga where Larry's brother lives.  It'd be a long day of driving and I wanted to know if we'd be having much rain.  Dawn got on her computer and pulled up a weather map.  It didn't look good, lots of serious storm activity was being forecast throughout the south.  I was glad I'd thought to bring an umbrella.

The drive was pretty uneventful until we hit some hard rain right outside of Knoxville later that afternoon.  I pushed the scan button on the radio hoping to get an idea what we were driving into, and it didn't take long to find out.  A local station was taking calls from people all over that part of Tennessee with stories of strong winds, hail and even a few tornado sightings.  The rain was picking up, blowing in sheets across the highway in front of us, making it harder to see.  We sighted a Cracker Barrel sign and took the ramp; we might want to wait this out.  We were barely seated when the weather seemed to clear a bit.  I looked at the menu, then at Larry.  We weren't really all that hungry anyways.  We apologetically handed the menus back to our server, ordered some coffee to go and headed back onto the interstate.  The sky looked pretty clear up ahead.  Maybe the worst was over.

About thirty minutes out of Cleveland we hit rain again, but this time it came with such fury that the wipers could hardly keep up with the deluge striking the windshield.  This went on for several miles.  And though it was barely six o'clock, it seemed much later, the dark storm clouds blocking what light there was. It was then we heard and felt the hail hitting our little Escort.  With gas hovering close to four dollars a gallon, we had made the choice to drive the more economical of our two vehicles, but now I felt particularly vulnerable as we heard the balls of ice striking the roof.  I sat tensely with my hands clutching the seat, almost expecting to be blown off the road.  But a lighthouse in the form of an eighteen-wheeler with flashing red lights suddenly loomed in front of us, and Larry followed and fixed his eyes on that beacon until we were able to catch sight of our exit.  

As we left the ramp everything was dark, traffic lights included.  Trees are especially vulnerable during a storm and Tennessee has its share of them.   No doubt there would be the roar of chain saws over the next several days.  But as we settled in for the night, all was still, the tempest having passed on to wreck havoc further east.  The house seemed unnaturally quiet without the soothing hum of the refrigerator coming from the kitchen.   Larry had lost his mother seven months earlier, and his brother Paul had just acquired the letters his parents had written each other long ago.  So as we sat and talked by candlelight, it seemed only natural and appropriate that he should read portions of what had been written some sixty years earlier.   Later the news would come that almost 300 lives were lost that day due to that same storm, something I'll never forget.  But I will also remember the sound of Paul's voice in the hush of that living room reading his parents' private expressions of love and longing. For me, the two will always be connected.

The young lovers

The contrast between Wednesday's and Thursday's skies was striking as we left Cleveland behind us that  morning, the temper tantrum most definitely over. And except for some downed trees, we saw little to remind us what had transpired the day before.  But I knew that not far from the highway we traveled there were families and communities devastated by loss, reeling with grief.  We would be in Cottondale tomorrow,  a suburb of Tuscaloosa, just a few miles from the flattened ruins of hundreds of homes and businesses.  We had come all this way to celebrate the wedding of a friend who had been ravaged by his own personal storm a few years earlier.  Betrayal and broken vows had produced heartbreaking loss and grief.   The irony of all this was not lost on me. People recover from storms all the time, no matter how devastating at the time.  Our friend had weathered his.  Love, joy and laughter had been restored through a lovely new bride named Charlotte.

Our friend Larry and his new bride Charlotte, three days after the storm

Our last couple of days were spent back in Prattville where we stayed with our friends John and Brenda Doublerly.  Their son Jeremy just finished up his last year at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa.  He lived on the third floor of an apartment complex but decided at the last minute to take refuge in the clubhouse.  That's where he was when the tornado came barreling down on the city that fateful afternoon. It swiped at the building where he huddled with the others, fortunately no one was hurt.  The story was different for those living directly across the street, however.  When Jeremy exited the clubhouse, he saw that the entire neighborhood had been leveled by the twister, everything lay in ruin.  I didn't pry into all he'd seen, but I know there were some who died there.  And then he smiled and said something like this:  "You know, even with everything going on, there was something funny that happened.  This huge black guy runs into the clubhouse right before the tornado hit and heads for the wall trying to get cover.  And as soon as it's over, he reaches into every part of his shirt and starts pulling out kittens."

When we were crossing Tennessee a week earlier our oldest daughter Angela had texted me.  She had seen the reports coming out of Alabama and was begging us to turn around.   But that wasn't an option,  we were already in the middle of it.   That's simply how life is.  The storms come, usually unexpectedly, and we have no choice but to get through them.  Jeremy's story of the man and his kittens reminds me, however, that no matter the outcome, our Heavenly Father holds us close, refusing to leave us.  The quiet hush of that candle lit room in Cleveland speaks of the peace that comes after the thunder and lightning have subsided.  And the wedding celebration of our friend who had been so battered, the reason we'd come through the storm in the first place, declares that God not only rescues, he restores.

In My Weakness

I'm heading to New York tomorrow for the Botox injections into the muscles that help control my vocal cords.  I've learned to recognize some of the subtle changes in my voice that tell me it's almost time.  First there's that raspy, husky quality, a mix of Lauren Bacall, Tallulah Bankhead and Kathleen Turner all in one. I don't mind it really as I actually get compliments when it's like that. I had a guy tell me once that he could listen to me all day, but since he wasn't my husband, I simply thanked him and left it at that.  I could probably hire myself out to do voice-overs for commercials or animated features, but even if I did, I could easily sound like Porky Pig one day and Darth Vader the next.  I know that's a bit of an exaggeration, but in the world of Spasmodic Dysphonia and Botox injections, one is never sure what the voice will do.

I'll never forget my first injection.  Since I'd never had a treatment before, the doctor guessed at the dosage.  The first couple of days I sounded pretty good.  I didn't realize that it takes about three days for the stuff to kick in.  I woke up that Sunday morning sounding like one of the Chipmunks.  My daughters thought it was hilarious and would phone me so that I could talk to their friends. Needless to say, the doctor cut my dose on the next visit.

After the raspy voice comes the fatigue,  meaning it just takes more effort to talk.  Simple conversations become work.  We'll be riding along and I won't say anything or very little.  Larry will look over at me all concerned then rather tentatively ask if everything's alright.  Well, yes and no.  Things are fine but I'm simply too tired to carry on a conversation.  That's hard for him as he really likes to talk.  Then soon after, the spasms become more intense.  The voice no longer has that deep, husky sound, it merely sounds like it's in pain.  It isn't, but to anyone listening, it seems that way.

So back to my appointment in Manhattan.  I fly tomorrow to meet with my doctor who incidentally is the absolute best at doing what he does. After all, he was a pioneer, the first to use botox in the treatment of Spasmodic Dysphonia.  He's so confident, so adept at his work, I'll be in and out of the chair in just a matter of minutes.  And since I've set up an early appointment,  I can relax afterwards and hang out on Fifth Avenue for a few hours before my flight home.  It's really not a bad way to spend a beautiful day in May.

There was a time when I pleaded with God to give me my voice back.  And there have been times, especially over the last year or so, when it was so strong,  I thought the spasms might never return.  But they did and they do.  That hasn't changed what I believe, however.  I know unequivocally that my Creator could rewire that piece of brain sending the wrong impulses to my vocal cords, restore my voice,  even make it better.  But sometimes it better serves His purpose to leave things as they are.

When I left South Carolina a couple of years back I was hardly able to talk.  Because of insurance headaches, I hadn't had a treatment in well over a year.  But I came into a church that desperately needed someone to take over the music program and I seemed the logical choice.  The piano wasn't a problem, my hands and fingers were working just fine.  I could certainly plan the music and practice with the musicians.  I couldn't sing, but it wasn't all that hard pounding out notes.  Yeah, I could do this.  So I had worked out the music that first week with the singers and the instrumentalists and I knew we were ready.  Except for one thing.  I had no spokesperson, someone to tie the music and the service together.  "You do it."  Ever hear God's voice?  I did, and I argued with Him.  "I can't Lord, not with this voice."   Aah.  My voice.  That was who I had been, my voice central as musician and teacher.  I had done community theater and formed a successful drama ministry. Those things had brought me a sense of pride, of accomplishment.  But now they required too much effort.  Besides,  they were part of my past, not my present.  He responded,  "Now it's time to let me show what I can do.  Trust me."

I can't begin to express how nervous I was that first Sunday standing at the keyboard.  I have never been afraid of microphones but found this one intimidating.  It was time to introduce the first song.  I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and the words poured out easily.  My speech felt free for the first time in months, and except for a slightly raspy throat, no one would have ever suspected a voice disorder. 

This continued for the next several months as I was able to speak week after week.  Without fail, however, the spasms would return immediately after the service ended, simply a reminder that this had nothing to do with me.  This was God's doing.  His strength manifesting itself in my weakness became an ever present reality in my life.  There were even a few occasions when I was able to pray over someone with clarity, effortlessly. But as soon as the prayer was over,  the spasms were back.

So I'm getting my treatment tomorrow.  Did I mention that my doctor's one of the best in the world?  Used to be I could go only a few months without another injection.  I've been going lots longer than that,  and except for a raspy voice, I don't sound all that bad.  Did I mention I'm singing again?  It doesn't come quite so easily as it used to,  so now I ask God to help me with each and every note.  I'm glad He doesn't make it too easy for me.  Besides, I had to learn that I can't do what I do without Him.  There's just one more thing. The injections don't last more than four months,  I happen to be going on eight. Last visit I asked Dr. Blitzer how I'm able to go so long. He told me that sometimes the brain gets fooled and it takes awhile for it to figure things out. 

Hmmm.  Perhaps that how it works for some.  But as for me, I had some learning to do and God knew I needed an object lesson.   So here's what I think He might have said to me:   "Marcy, I'm going to take what you consider the strongest thing in your life to show you that you're nothing without me.  That just happens to be your voice box.  It's going to be hard.  You won't understand at first.  You'll plead, you'll cry, you'll grieve.  But the day will come when you'll understand, and you'll see that it's in your weakness my strength comes through. And you will feel more blessed than you can possibly imagine. Trust me on this one."  He was right.

Speaking of Eggs

We have a gull problem in Elmira.  If you don't know where Elmira is, it's smack in the middle of New York State right close to the Pennsylvania border and several hours from the beach I might add.   When we first moved here and saw all the gulls, they seemed oddly out of place.  Just showing my ignorance I guess because I thought they preferred the ocean.  These particular birds, however, are more than happy with the river that runs through the middle of our city, but the city is not particularly happy with them.  They're messy, noisy and extremely annoying and there's been a lot of complaining around here, especially by the business owners. So last year the city council invited the United States Deparment of Agriculture in to help curb the gull population.  The government people accepted the invite, showed up just in time for mating season and started stealing eggs out of those poor birds' nests.  They say if the eggs are removed for three years, the problem should be pretty much under control.  Hope so.  I'm not overly fond of those screeching, dirty birds.  But at the same time I have to feel a bit sorry for them.  After all, to them they're not just eggs.  They're children.

 

Speaking of eggs, there's been some news recently about an elementary school in Seattle that will no longer allow you to say Easter egg,  referring to it instead as a "spring sphere."  Now before you go on,  try saying that really fast four or five times in a row.  I'll bet you found that harder than repeating sea shells at the seashore didn't you?  Now imagine some little four or five-year-old kid saying, "Mama, look at all the spring spheres I found!"  Yeah, right.  There's also a rumor that the city's Parks Department has removed the word Easter from all its advertised egg hunts as well.  So I pulled up their website to check it out.  It's true, there are no Easter egg hunts being sponsored by the city.  Nope, they're having Spring Eggstravanzaaa.  Huh?  I had to look at that word several times and then sound it out to make sure I was saying it right. Still not sure if I did.  First I thought it was "eggstravaganza."  But a letter's missing so it can't be that.  Or maybe they meant to write that, but in making up the word simply forgot a letter.

No matter.  Wouldn't it have been easier just to call the event what it is,  like an Easter egg hunt maybe?  But no, heaven forbid that some atheist or hindu or buddhist or fill in the blank might want to take their child to the event but feels terribly uncomfortable because someone uses the word, get ready to gasp, Easter!  The funny thing about all this much ado about nothing is that the word Easter is actually pagan in origin anyways, it being the name for a spring goddess or something.  But I guess the powers to be haven't the time to check out the etymology of the word.  After all, they're too preoccupied with other matters.  You know,  like banning anything they deem offensive from the English language.


One Easter morning with our mother

One Easter morning when there were five of us

To be honest, I have always associated Easter with eggs.  I don't think my mom ever missed a sunrise service, yet she always managed to have the Easter eggs already hidden throughout the house before we woke up.  They'd be everywhere: in corners, on ledges, under furniture, in shoes.  I still see the five of us combing the house for hidden eggs and baskets, eager to show her what we'd found as she came through the door. 

 



Some of our Herrickville kids getting ready for the Easter egg hunt

 

The day would come when I would hide the eggs for my own children.  I loved our parsonage in Herrickville.  It was an old renovated farmhouse sitting on three and a half acres of land with a couple of outbuildings and a barn.  It was paradise, especially for those who love egg hunts.  And though Pennsylvania springs are never a guarantee of perfect weather, Easters were never disappointing,  An early March Easter pretty much guaranteed cold, sometimes icy weather, but we were a family and church full of children.  We'd always find a place and a way.

 

Easter eggs hunts usually meant warm coats in Pennsylvania!

Eventually we ended up in Central America.  Unlike the unpredictability of our Easter mornings in Pennsylvania, we always knew what to expect in Honduras.  It would be hot, very hot.  We had a close community of American friends in La Ceiba, primarily missionaries, but teachers and employees of Standard Fruit as well.  At Christmas we had a party, at Thanksgiving we had a feast, and at Easter we had an egg hunt.  The Standard Fruit Company has a wonderful school in La Ceiba that sits on several acres of lush, green land, the perfect setting for hiding things.  Several of us would boil and dye, then gather on Saturday to disperse our colored creations in that  lovely garden where the school just happens to sit.  The fathers would arrive a bit later with children in tow, their baskets clutched in excitement and anticipation.

Fawn hunting eggs at Mazapan

Some of the missionary kids after the egg hunt

 But the egg hunts weren't finished.  My children would insist that the eggs be hidden again on Easter day.  So that afternoon behind the mission house, among the coconut palms and banana plants I would hide the eggs they had gathered the day before.  Once found, they would pool them together and insist they be hidden again.  Then again.  And again.   And once their parents tired of the game it was their turn, each hiding them for their siblings until the eggs were hardly recognizable.  Obviously, we never had anything left for deviled eggs or sandwiches.  But that's alright.  Some eggs are just meant for other things.



 

Egg hunting in one of the fields by our place



Everyone loves to hunt for Easter eggs!



Hunting eggs in Prattville, Alabama

Three of our children were teenagers when we moved to Alabama, but the Easter egg hunts continued.   We had a lovely home on a cul-de-sac with lots of yard and fields on either side.  We seemed to again have the perfect spot, and year after year the children came to find what was now candy-filled plastic eggs. Eventually my own grandchildren joined the ranks of those who came with baskets in eager anticipation.  Because of the warm springs in Alabama, we didn't usually put chocolate into the oval-shaped containers.   But the children didn't care.  The joy is in the hunting and finding.  By the way,  I heard the church had their egg hunt last week.  I wrote someone asking where it was held.  "Your house,"  they wrote back.  Like I said, some places are just perfect.



Tyler with his Aunt Autumn at our house in Prattville

 

 

 



 

Our granddaughter Hayley at her first egg hunt

We don't have a place for egg hunts right now.  Our parsonage has a small yard and the church sits by a busy road, hardly conducive for children's activities.   But there's a nice park not too far from the church with lots of grass and open spaces.  I've thought about calling city hall and seeing what we'd have to do to get permision to use it.  I'm hoping it won't be a problem.   I think it would be absolutely perfect.

And We Danced

The bride and groom

I talked to my son-in-law a few days ago.  He reminded me that it was five years ago this week he married my second youngest daughter.  It was an outdoor wedding in a Greek garden, there were hundreds of people there, and I didn't get to meet or visit with most of them.  That's because I was too busy dancing. 

Zac and Fawn had started taking each other pretty seriously when they were juniors in high school, and except for one breakup a piece during college, it looked like they might make this a permanent relationship.  It happened while Zac was in Baltimore, the Ravens needing a linebacker and all.  Fawn had flown up from Birmingham for a few days visit in mid December and it was cold, especially for a girl who'd spent most of her life in Alabama.  But Zac had a plan and nothing was going to deter him, not even the weather.   He took her to the newly unveiled World War II Memorial in D.C.in honor of her grandfather, and  there in that solemn place, he knelt and asked for her hand.

The date was set for April which didn't give us much time to get a wedding ready.  Even for a simple affair, that's pushing it.  But my daughter doesn't know the meaning of the word simple. And as if I didn't have enough to do, she informed her father and me that we absolutely had to learn how to dance before the event.  After all, she insisted, this was the most important day of her life, she wanted lots of music and dancing, and she expected her parents to be a part of it.  Period.

Us?  On a dance floor? 

I'd never danced. My parents didn't dance so I didn't either.  They never told me I couldn't but somehow I always sensed they might disapprove.  I wouldn't have been very good at it anyways as I've never been especially coordinated. And as for Larry, he can barely clap to a drum beat.  No, this wasn't going to be easy for either of us.

Anyone can slow dance

Did I mention that my parents considered dancing a bit on the worldly side?  I don't know what they would have thought of the dance lessons Larry and I were having in the church basement where he pastored.   A young military couple had recently visited on a Sunday morning, and the wife was pretty accomplished in the ball room.  She offered to meet with us there,  hopefully enough to keep us from looking totally inept on the dance floor. Thankfully she kept to the basics, teaching us a simple three-step with an occasional spin.  After a few sessions, she told us that we were ready to be on our own, reminded us to practice and bid us adieu.

Larry dancing with his other girls

One of Larry's favorite pictures sits on my piano.  It was taken the night before the wedding at the rehearsal  dinner.  Our young granddaughter Hayley is dancing, her face filled with laughter and delight, holding hands and being twirled by her grandfather. It was simply a prelude of what was coming. 

Hayley dancing with her grandpa after the rehearsal dinner

I think it's a shame that our culture gets the wedding thing over in one day, especially after all that preparation.  I personally like the way the Jews did it back in Bible times  Those people knew how to celebrate with several days of feasting, music and of course lots of dancing.   I wouldn't be at all surprised if Jesus danced right along with everyone else at that wedding in Cana, you know, the one where the wine ran out before the celebrating was over.  I've read that those wedding feasts could last an entire week.  Imagine.

Anticipating the next dance!

Fawn would have liked that.  Because after all the necessary formalities were out of the way , the serious stuff was about to begin.  This was what she had looked forward to since she was young enough to dream of a prince who would hold and cherish her forever.  The music was queued up, the dancing was about to begin. She laughed out loud in expectancy and pure elation.  This was what she had been waiting for.  She turned and looked for us.  She was about to dance.  And we were going to be there with her.

Fawn with her dad

The Bird On The Ramp

Fawn's window killed a bird today.  She'd heard a bump and found the little creature with his broken neck lying on her front porch.  And being the tender creature she is, she grieved.  I'm sure most of us have a bird story or two, but nothing stands out in my mind quite like what I saw some years back while  living in Alabama.

I was sorting through music in a small office at the church one Friday afternoon when I was startled by a loud thump at the outside door directly behind me.  I peered through a pane of glass and saw a bird with a twisted neck lying on the metal ramp which ascended from the front lawn to the door where I was standing.  It wasn't hard to figure out what happened.  Poor bird, I thought. 

I remember once when I was a girl my dad threw a stone at a robin that was in his strawberry patch.  I'm sure he only intended to scare it away, but instead he hit it in the leg.  The bird slumped to the ground, the lower part of his leg dangling and useless.  My father got a pair of pliars and held the terrified creature in his one hand while trying to cut off the dangling appendage with his other.  The bird cried out once more and then went limp in his hand.  I had never seen anything die of fright before.  I was horrified  and began to sob, so heartbroken at what had happened.  I could tell that my dad felt as bad as I did.  I put it in a small box and he buried it for me under the pine tree at the corner of the rhubarb patch.   In his retirement years, he would devote a lot of time and money to taking care of the birds that visited his yard.

I knew I would have to do something with the bird on the ramp. After all,  I couldn't leave him out there in the hot Alabama sun.  I'd finish up my project and would later dispose of him.  It was about then I heard another noise directly outside the door, the sound of anxious birds.  I looked out again to see three or four of the same kind flying directly over the still form lying there, obviously very agitated.  Then suddenly one of them landed on the ramp next to his fallen comrade.  The others continued to fly and swoop and call out in their own peculiar tongue as the lone bird began little by little to roll the body of his dead companion down the ramp with his head.  I would later walk down to find him lying in the grass.  He had been pushed the entire way.  

That whole incident touched me deeply and I've thought about it several times over the years. In fact, when I heard about the bird hitting Fawn's window today,  I thought of it again.  It reminded me that Jesus was talking to a bunch of people one day and told them that a sparrow doesn't fall to the ground without the Father knowing about it.  And then he reminds them that if He cares that much about the birds, He must certainly care for us all the more.   I don't have any doubt about that at all.  I figure If He cared enough to use one common bird to get another one off a metal ramp, certainly He has his eyes on me.  

Leaving Tortuguero: Day 2

When I recently asked Joel what he remembered about Tortuguero, he told me he remembered the two holes!  Let me remind you that he was in kindergarten at the time.  If you haven't read the first part of this story, "Trip Down Tortuguero," make sure you go back and read that first. See if you can figure out which two holes he's talking about.   This is the conclusion:

When we signed up for this trip, we were assured that we were going to be traveling to Tortuguero at one of the nicest times of the year.  We were in the dry season, a prerequisite to a trip like this.  I guess that was pretty obvious considering that we had so much trouble getting down the canal on the first day. Even if the boat hadn't been overloaded, the water seemed too shallow to get a boat our size down the waterway.  That's why the storm that hit us in the wee morning hours took us by surprise.  But hey, if you're going to have a storm, why not have a good old tropical one?  They say that area gets about 250 inches of rain a year.  It seemed like we were getting most of it in one night.

It was still drizzling when we got up for breakfast, rice and beans again with eggs, bread and coffee.  Sigh.  I was so ready for a bowl of cereal.  And where was all the fresh fruit they had promised?   As we left the gloomy little restaurant we noticed a group of our teachers at the dock loading their bags onto a sleek- looking craft, considerably smaller but much newer than the tub we'd ridden the day before. They'd obviously had enough of Tortuguero.  A few minutes later they were out of sight.  It wasn't going to take them long to get back down the canal at the speed they were traveling. Sigh again. 

Larry decided to go for a swim in spite of the damp, chilly weather.  The Ticos simply smiled at the gringo.  We knew what they were thinking.  The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and we were told to get on the boat, we were going for a ride.  The sun stayed out for a total of two hours, enough time to travel to the entrance of Tortuguero National Park where we visited the beach and then on to a deep lagoon where we jumped and dove off the boat.  Hey, maybe all was right with the world once again.  We got back to the hotel at 12:30 with thirty minutes to pack up everything and leave.  We were now two hours behind schedule and I don't remember getting any lunch.

The rain had started up again, and the long voyage back down the canal was anything but pleasant.   Well, at least Joel was happy.  Dr. Long, the director of the language institute, had found a couple of fishing poles and kept him occupied all the way down the river.  But I was exhausted, and the dreary day was making me all the more weary.  At least the day before had been somewhat interesting with the sandbars and the boat almost sinking.  I'd been able to watch for wildlife and had spied some three-toed sloths hanging from the trees along the bank.   But today it was just dismal and gray, nothing to do but get down the river. And I wasn't feeling all that well.

We had our best meal in two days that evening in Limon, and that's because we ordered off the menu and paid for it ourselves.  I didn't want to look at another bowl of beans and rice for a long time.  By the time we left the restaurant, we were probably running another hour behind.  It didn't look like we were going to make it by nine o'clock.

We hit fog not long into our ride home.   We seemed to be moving at a crawl, the driver barely able to see ahead.  I just hoped he knew this road well.  Mountain roads in Costa Rica are steep with lots of sharp drop-offs.  I could tell Larry was nervous. Suddenly without warning the bus stopped.  Everything was quiet, the diesel engine silent.  The other bus driver stopped and came to the door.  It didn't take long to realize what had happened, we were simply out of gas.  I was fuming!  We had been in that restaurant for almost two hours, and our driver had never bothered to fill up the tank!  We sat there as two gallons were siphoned from the one vehicle and put in the other.  But how far do you go on two gallons?  Not far.  A short distance later two more gallons were siphoned and off we went again.  And then once again.  Finally arriving at a station that sold diesel, our inept driver filled up and continued on towards San Jose.  Hopefully we were on the last leg of this very long, very bizarre adventure.  We pulled onto the Institute grounds at two in the morning, five hours later than our itinerary projected.

I think every dog in the neighborhood was barking as we unlocked and opened the door to our house.  Larry had the suitcase and camera bag while I carried in a very tired little boy.  We fell into bed knowing that it would be a short night with school for all of us the next day.  Larry called a cab for Maria and her daughter Anna as soon as he got up.  She'd stayed an extra night and needed to get home.

It took me two days to catch up on my rest.  Between naps and getting to bed early the next two nights, I was starting to feel human again.  Well, sorta.  You see,  I realized soon after that I had taken someone else on that trip down Tortuguero with me.  Eight months later, in a small clinic in La Ceiba, Honduras she would become an official member of our family, and we would name her Autumn.  

So perhaps it wasn't the best trip I ever took.  Maybe the food and the lodging and the mode of transporation were well, disappointing.  But that's life at times. We have our itineraries all planned out, anticipating how everything will fall into place.  But then we get stuck on a sandbar and our timetable gets thrown off.   Not a whole lot we can do at times like that.  But how we respond to those situations, that's another thing all together.  Those teachers that left early taking the easy way out,  I'm sure they got a good night's sleep.  But I saw the adventure through to the end.  And because of that I have a much better story to tell.

Trip Down Tortuguero

Tortuguero (Region of the Turtles) on the Caribbean Coast of Costa Rica is a jewel.  Not only is it a nesting ground for four types of marine turtle, it is home to many animals of the rain forest including jaguars, ocelots, monkeys and three-toed sloths.  For the bird watcher, you might see the toucan, macaw or blue heron, just a few of the 375 species to be found there.  And there's always the hope that you'll spy the gentle manatee.  Who wouldn't want to visit if the opportunity should come along? Well, it came for us.  Read about our adventure on the Tortuguero Canal:

    

It sounded like a really good idea, this trip down the Tortuguero Canal.  One of the things we had especially enjoyed as a family since moving to Costa Rica were the monthly "paseos" for the students, allowing us to visit and experience firsthand some wonderful vistas in this beautiful country.  We never missed one, wanting to take advantage of every opportunity that came our way.  So when we heard about the two-day excursion down Tortuguero and back, we couldn't pass it up.  It had actually been arranged by the teachers at the language institute we were attending, but they had invited any students to go along that were interested.  Yes, we were definitely interested. 

The date was March 1, 1985.  Our maid Maria had agreed to stay at the house with our two girls, Angela and Fawn.  But we thought Joel, who was six at the time, would really enjoy the trip up the river.  We left the house at 2:30 that morning to catch the bus leaving for Limon.  We were to stop around 5:00 to have breakfast in Puerto Moin and then continue on to our destination.

The trip did not start out well.   We boarded one of the two microbuses waiting at the school and started out of the mountains. It didn't take long to realize that the first stretch of this trip was not going to be a good one thanks to a broken window directly in front of us.  For the next hour and a half I wrapped my arms as tightly as I could around my body trying to keep warm.  I was relieved when we arrived in Puerto Moin, anxious to get off the bus for awhile and get something to eat.  But as we entered the town, the bus suddenly pulled to the side of the road.  Turns out we had a flat, and since nothing ever gets done quickly in Central America,  I knew we'd be sitting there for awhile.

Perhaps breakfast at this particular restaurant would have been better if we'd actually arrived on time.  It was a major disappointment:  rice and beans that were barely edible, eggs, bread without butter, orange juice and very strong coffee, which I assumed had been sitting for a long, long time.  Limon couldn't come soon enough.   I was sure the boat ride down the canal would make getting up at an ungodly hour, the uncomfortable bus ride and the horrible breakfast all worth it.  The rest of the bus trip to Limon was pretty uneventful.  I was glad that Joel slept.  We arrived about an hour late.

Then I saw the boat.  It was made of wood, probably 10 to 12 feet wide and about 50 feet long.  It had a  "canopy" with benches underneath with about a two and a half foot wide walkway around it.  And it was obviously very old. On top of that, there were already approximately 35 to 40 people on board.  I remember thinking that this couldn't possibly be the right place or the right boat.  After all, this was supposed to be an exlusive tour for us and us alone.  But we were obviously the "first class" passengers, because those already on board left their benches for us as we walked up the gang plank and made our way to our seats.  I don't remember where all those people stood or sat, but I do know that some went down into the hold where curiously there was a large stack of  mattresses and pillows piled high.

The boat was full, really full.  There were probably about 80 of us now.  We would later find out, not surprisingly, that the boat was packed with a lot more than what was allowed.  There was supposed to be another boat, but since it was out of commision, they put everyone on ours.  I was not happy.

We finally set out.  About every 20 minutes or so, someone would throw just as many buckets of water off the side of the boat.  Hmmm.  That was about a bucket a minute I figured.  It seemed that we might be taking on some water from the heavy load.  Larry wanted some sun, so he and Joel climbed onto the roof.  Every once in awhile we'd have to stop and let people off,  not a bad thing except that it slowed the trip down considerably. The problems seemed to escalate as the boat suddenly refused to move any further.  About half the passengers got off and waited on shore while several of the guys, including Larry, spent an hour trying to get our craft off a sandbar. Finally it broke free, the passengers reloaded and we started back down the canal once again.  That is until we hit another sandbar, then another and another.  Each time Larry and several of the other guys got out and pushed.  Did I mention that I had seen crocodiles on this trip?

After the third or fourth sandbar Joel told me he had to go number two.   I thought I should probably help him being that the bathroom was a toilet seat with water swirling rapidly below, a bit disconcerting for a six-year old.  He had just finished up when I noticed a large tree branch hitting the bottom of the boat  I heard a loud scrape.  A few moments later people started shouting and running towards the back.  Some  were screaming and crying as we began tipping to the side.  We now had a hole at the front and were obviously in danger of sinking if we didn't do something quickly.  This time everyone unloaded onto the shore, and I had visions of camping that night in the jungle.  But much to my relief the hole was repaired fairly quickly.  Well, sort of.   A guy cut a piece of wood with a machete then plugged  it with gunnysacks, boards and nails while others began rapidly bailing out the water.  Amazingly, a half hour later we were once again aboard and on our way.  Of course everything in the hold was soaking wet by now.  I felt sorry for whoever was waiting on those mattresses.

We arrived at our hotel around 4:30 that afternoon.  Not only had we missed lunch by four hours, we had also missed our afternoon trip to the Tortuguero National Park. The crew immediately began to empty the boat of its extra cargo.  It was then I saw the wet mattresses and pillows being hauled out of the hold and carried into the hotel.  Our hotel.  It suddenly dawned on me.  They were intended for us!

We entered a big gloomy restaurant with a tiny kitchen, a bar and a juke box.  And the bathrooms were the pits, literally.  We ate around 5:00, a full 12 hours after breakfast.  That was lunch.  I don't know what ever happened to supper.

Larry and I lucked out after the meal.  We found the rooms and managed to obtain the only one with both a john and  cold-water shower.  Hey, they were in the same stall but what did that matter?  They both worked.  The others in our group were going to be sharing the other bathroom.  Yep, bathroom.  Singular.  One.

After settling in, we walked down to the beach for a swim. But by now the sun was sinking and I decided to head back to the room..  Larry and a couple other students stayed, determined to end the day on a positive note.   I arrived back at my room to find a couple of teacher friends there using our shower.  No problem except that I was so tired and more than anxious to crawl into bed.  Not only had I been up since 2 a.m., I was totally bummed about the trip so far.  It had been a huge disappointment up to this point, not only for me but for my Tico friends as well.  Tomorrow simply had to be better.  The bed felt so good.  We had hit the jackpot with a dry mattress, possibly the only one on the premises.  I was dozing off as Larry came into the room.  The walk back had been a bit precarious.  His flashlight had died.  Ah yes, tomorrow had to be better.  How could it possibly be any worse?

TO BE CONTINUED

A Father's Day Story

Fathers Day is celebrated in Honduras on March 19th.  I wrote the following in my journal 18 years ago this month.  I thought I'd share it.

March 20, 1993

La Ceiba, Honduras

Fawn and two of her friends from school planned and prepared a Father's Day dinner for their dads.  All three girls were in our kitchen by 8:00 this morning with the menu in hand ready to start baking.  One of their grandmas was making pizza, but the rest was up to them.

I distinctly got the impression that Fawn had put herself in charge.  She enjoys dessert and had six listed, cut down from an original ten:  cake, cupcakes, no bake cookies, brownies, caramel popcorn and sponge candy.  Tooth decay, here we come!

"Fawn," I tactfully approached her.  "There are only going to be three fathers here.  You're having pizza and salad.  I really think we can cut down on the desserts, don't you?"

I could see by the glare she gave me that she wasn't happy with my interference, but with help from the other two, I was able to talk her down to three desserts.

She had decided on a white cake, meaning that eggs would have to be separated.  "Mom!"  This was not going to be one of my more relaxing Saturday mornings.  I stepped into the kitchen.  "We can't get these eggs to work."  She pointed at the bowl accusingly. 

She was right.  Too murky.  "Nope.  This won't work.  You'll end up with a yellow cake, " I told her.

At that she picked up the mixture and dumped it down the sink!

"What are you doing?!  Those eggs could have been used for the brownies!"

She looked a bit uncomfortable.  "Oh yeah."

Oh yeah?  Is that all she has to say?  She's not the one buying the eggs going down the sink.

An hour later she came looking for me again.  "Mom, would you come look at the brownies.  They're weird.  We tried putting them in the pan, but they won't spread."

She was right.  They were weird, and they didn't spread in the pan.

"Fawn, I went over the whole recipe with you."  And then I went over it again.  We never did quite figure out what they had done wrong, but we ended up adding another cup of sugar and a bit more flour.  It still looked weird.

The kitchen was an absolute disaster.  Maria, who generally gives it a good cleaning on Saturdays, just grinned and said she thought it best to wait until another day.  I agreed.

I think the brownies did them in.  All three agreed that perhaps two desserts were plenty after all.  I was beginning to relax again.

The card table, three chairs from the dining room table and a child cabinet from the toy room were dragged out and set up underneath a coconut palm in the backyard.  Then they simply waited.  For three hours.

Larry did not know the two Hondurans who sat down at the table with him under the palm that afternoon.  But I don't suppose it really mattered.  The girls had pulled it off.  Three 10-year- olds had actually prepared a banquet for the most important men in their lives.  They served them and catered to their every need, from the ice in their cups to the delicious desserts (yes delicious!) that topped it all off.  I was proud of them.

Unfortunately, the day ended on a bit of a negative note.  Just after her friends left for home, Fawn dropped a pop bottle and put a deep gash into her leg.  A couple of hours later she was home with five stitches.  So guess who got to wash the dishes?  Dad!

Broken Voices

It was an early Saturday morning in late March that Larry and I traveled from our home in Liberty, South Carolina and headed up to Charlotte, North Carolina,  just a couple hours to the north of us.  I would be attending a symposium with a hundred or so others who had come in from all over the country.  As I entered the hotel lobby later that morning I  immediately noticed how diverse our group was.   It seemed pretty evenly divided between men and women, but ages ranged from the young to some who appeared to be well into their seventies.  And as for the dress code, there didn't seem to be one.  Some wore jeans and t-shirts while others opted to dress up for the occasion.  So at first glance, it didn't seem like we'd have all that much in common.  Well, that was until we opened our mouths to speak.

A little over five years ago I noticed something weird going on with my voice.  Right after Christmas I had what I thought was a simple case of laryngitis, possibly brought on by allergies.   Several weeks later, however, the laryngitis had developed into a persistent rasp.  I scheduled a long overdue physical which revealed absolutely nothing.  That doctor referred me to an unimpressive throat specialist who checked for nodules, found nothing, gave me some pills to try and sent me on my way.  The problem progressed.  It was harder to get words out now and I felt as if a fist had clamped itself around my throat.   I was teaching music and directing our church's worship and drama ministries, and I didn't know how much longer I could  continue.  I finally pleaded with God to give me a name for this thing that was disrupting my life.

One afternoon, frustrated and desperate,  I sat at the computer and went on a Google search.  I typed in everything I could think of related to the throat, looking for any clue that might solve the mystery behind my troubled voice. Then suddenly, there on the monitor, was a list of symptoms that described perfectly what I had been experiencing over the past several months.   And it had a name.

It's called Spasmodic Dysphonia, a condition centered in the brain, that was forcing my vocal cords to close too tightly, making it difficult to get my words out.   Initially I felt relief.  At least I knew what I was fighting, and with that, I was ready to do whatever was necessary to get my voice back, to have a break from the vice-like grip on my voice box.    

I opted for what I thought to be the most reliable treatment available, Botox injections into those out-of-control muscles every few months to calm them down. And they worked for awhile.  Well, sometimes.  I had good weeks, bad weeks, good days, bad days. During the good times, I was grateful that it was possible to talk without getting tired or embarrassed.  I cherished those days when I could call my children or make an appointment over the phone.  But there were also those times when it was easier to avoid people,  hoping and praying that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone, uncomfortable at the curious looks. At those time my voice felt like it was in prison.  

When I traveled to North Carolina that morning, my voice was doing quite well.  I was having pretty good results with my new doctor in Atlanta.  And though it was unlikely I would sing again, my speaking voice was the strongest it had been since all this had started.   I felt confident, sociable.  Well, at least for now.  But I also knew this was temporary.  The muscles controlling my vocal cords would start acting up again, they always did.  And that's why I needed to be here, to meet and learn from others who had been through it, who understood my loss, and more than anything, to find out if things would ever feel normal again. 

As I approached the registration table, there was a cacophony of voices like I'd never heard before.  Some seemed almost normal.  Most likely they were benefiting from their injections or whatever procedures they were using, as I was.  But  others struggled to be understood or even heard, some much worse off than I had ever been.  That lobby seemed like a tiny universe with its own peculiar inhabitants speaking an odd language.  Except that I was a part of this little microcosm, and for the first time in a very long time I felt a connection.  Though these people were strangers to me, we all shared something in common.  Our voices were broken.  

Before the day was over I would hear story after story of people whose lives had been interrupted just as mine had been.  There was Leta.  I had met her once before in my doctor's office in Atlanta.  Tall and striking, she had a successful career in sales before her voice broke.  Warm and vivacious with a vibrant faith, she talked about the challenges she now faces daily in her line of work.  There was the young missionary wife who had plans to go to Russia with her husband before their mission board advised them to consider another field where the people wouldn't be expecting physical perfection.  I still hear the frustration expressed by the recently diagnosed police captain who feared that his now broken voice would be misunderstood for weakness and cause a loss of respect. But there were also the Overcomers, like the pastor who discovered he could preach by whispering his messages through a microphone,  the national radio show host who had responded well to treatment and had continued on with her career, and the teacher who showed up everyday in her classroom with an amplification device to be better heard and understood by her students.

When we climbed back into our car that evening for the ride home, I knew that God had prearranged this day for me. During one of the sessions I had asked the question, "How long does it take to quit grieving what you've lost?"    Several immediately rose to tell their stories, some of whom had lived with broken voices for a long, long time.  Unequivocally the message was the same.  Things will get better. And I would make it.

They were right.  Things did get better.  I still faced challenges, of course, and at times became discouraged.  One of my next treatments didn't work, and because of insurance issues, I went well over a year unable to get any financial help. But I was now better able to handle the setbacks and disappointments in part through the example of those whose resilience and courage had so inspired me.  Their voices might have been broken, but their spirits were not.  They said I'd make it.  They'd be pleased to know they were right.

The Squirrel That Came Back to Life

Quilty of breaking and entering

There's a squirrel in the church.  Larry came face to face with the critter down in the furnace room.  Later on the little guy showed up in his office.  Obviously he's been checking the place out.  Too bad.  The first spring-like day we have and he's stuck inside.

To be honest, I am not crazy about squirrels.  They're a nuisance. Just take a ride through my neighborhood on trash day and you'll see what I mean.  I personally think they've worked out a deal with the blackbirds and the gulls to drive the sanitation workers crazy.   And I'll bet if you took one of those man on the street surveys, you'd find that only a few empathize with Mrs. Squirrel having to provide for her family because hubby got flattened on the corner of First and Maple.

Growing up I lived in a big old house surrounded by trees.  There were squirrels in them there trees, and they took a liking to our attic.  I remember hearing them above my bedroom ceiling, scurrying around, doing whatever it is that squirrels do. My father starting trapping them, determined to remove them from the premises. One day we were playing outside with some neighborhood friends and found a flying squirrel lying underneath one of our pines, obviously an escapee from the genocide taking place in the attic.  We excitedly gathered him up, put him in a cage and left him in Mark Lowe's garage for the night.  The next morning a few of us went to check on him before school and were horrified to find him lying cold and stiff at the bottom of his cage.  A few minutes later we boarded the bus with our little dead friend.



Beware.  Behind that cute exterior is a monster!

 

As you can imagine, that rodent created quite a stir that morning.  There were plenty of oohs and aahs as we held him up for all to see.  And then the miracle happened.  Nancy Williams, a high schooler, asked if she could hold him for a moment.  Before our eyes she began to rub his little body between her hands and amazingly he began to stir.  A few minutes later he sat in her palms totally recovered.  But then the unthinkable happened.  Lazarus bit down. 

The biting incident was pretty much forgotten as I importantly carried my new pet from class to class, allowing the other students to peer into the cage and see what a real flying squirrel looks like.  That is, forgotten until that evening when the constable showed up at our door wanting my squirrel.  He said something about it being sent away for tests and all.  Gene Williams was a big intimidating guy with a booming voice and I was always a bit afraid of him.  He also happened to be Nancy's dad.   A bus full of kids, and that mangy animal had to go and bite one of the Williams girls.  Stupid squirrel!

Actually,  I don't think this particular species of rodentia is stupid at all.  Many years later my dad's war against the squirrels went full-scale.  Now retired, he had more time to devote to his flower gardens and bird feeders.  Here came the squirrels, determined to get to the seed and other delicacies placed there.  But my father had anticipated the coming aggression and had wisely installed squirrel-proof feeders.  His adversaries, heavier than the average bird,  quickly learned that the additional weight would close the feeders.  Undeterred, however, it was no time before they were hanging from their back feet at the top of the feeder, emptying out its contents. 



They're sneaky and smart!

 

Sometimes in a war you don't kill,  you simply take prisoners.  So my dad set out his traps.  There's a lovely cemetery on a hill in nearby Portville with lots and lots of big trees. For a time he hauled the little buggers there and let them go.  But the squirrels continued coming, and no matter how many he trapped and hauled away, the population never seemed to decrease.  He later found out that some nice people in Portville were trapping squirrels as well and releasing them in Weston's Mills, back behind the Methodist church, not all that far from his home on Chestnut Street.  The war had taken an ugly turn.  Desperation can drive otherwise nice people to commit unconscionable acts.  This was the case with my father.  I won't go into the morbid details, but let it suffice to say that he kept a very nice, very full rain barrel back behind his garage.

So is there anything good to be said about the lowly squirrel?  Well,  next to the moss covered good-for- nothing sloth hanging from his tree in the rain forest, these annoying, hyperactive little creatures actually look pretty good.  I mean, they are most definitely persistent.   Their tenacity, keeping at the task until they get results is pretty admirable. I've found the lids pulled off our trash cans on numerous occasions.  It seems they know how to get others in on the act as well, cooperating when they need to.  Or should I say when there's something in it for them?  And how about innovation? Not too many of us would think to hang upside down by our feet to get at some good grub.  Have you noticed how alert they are, constantly taking in everything around them?  I know, I know.  They have an advantage.  I mean who wouldn't with those giant eyes protruding off the sides of their head?  Then there's the issue of personal hygiene.  Have you ever seen a dirty squirrel?   Granted the male is a bit vain and spends twice as much time grooming himself as Mama they say.  I think she is simply too busy to do anything but have babies and teach them to be respectable. Oh, and the hygiene issue extends to their living space as well.  If the nest gets bugs in it, the family's off to a new locale without even a word to the landlord.

Larry just heard a loud noise in the basement of the church.  It's probably the squirrel trying to open a drawer or something.  Perhaps he'll find his way to the bathroom and fall into a commode.  Wanna help me hold the lid down?

The only good squirrel is a dead one