Paula - Meanderings

The Dodo is…

We were all excited. Next port was Mauritius and we had decided that one stop we had to make was to the Museum of Natural History to see the only complete Dodo bird in existence, stuffed of course, as the last reported sighting of this extinct bird was in 1682. We were a small group of world cruisers who in no time had become as thick as thieves.

“The dodo is in the Museum of Natural History right downtown Port Louis. It is in a park. We can take either a water taxi or land taxi into town.” There was some joshing as they were used to my having a modicum of knowledge on ports and sights. The fact is that I go, and listen, to port talks.

Bea pointed: “There is a water taxi, but that does not look safe at all.”

“I agree. I think we have to go the land taxi route. At the port talk there was a woman who has been here before explaining that getting out from the water taxis can be dangerous and involves climbing vertical iron steps.” I reminded them.

We opted for the land taxi. The drivers were not the most hospitable bunch as each one demanded we take a tour before being dropped off in town. We finally settled on a tour costing $20.

The tour was worth it. Mauritius is quite beautiful but you have to go away from Port Louis to see that. Once we left the port area and started on the road which wound between sugar cane plantations, up to the beautiful church on the hill and drove into the country we were pleasantly surprised. We drove by the City cemetery, library, Hindu Temple and various consulates. But the dodo was our objective and soon we were dropped off in town near the park gates. Our driver/tour guide told us how to find the museum.

“I wonder why we say as dumb as a dodo?” Jay asked. For the first time our driver smiled.

“Because they are stupid and look stupid too!” he exclaimed as he drove away.

(Dodo – Illustration)

The museum exhibit cleared that up somewhat. Apparently the Portuguese named it ‘doudo’ which means ‘fool ‘or ‘crazy’. But the dodo is also to blame for its name. They were not used to humans so when the first settlers came the dodo were fearless and also curious. They went up to greet these strange new creatures. The Dutch, who were the first settlers looked at these fat funny looking flightless birds and saw MEAT! The hungry Dutch sailors and first settlers ate them to extinction. That is a popular theory. The more reasonable and scientific explanation is that the rats, cats, dogs, pigs, goats and deer brought to the island by the settlers contributed greatly to the dodo’s extinction. The dodo was meat for one and all.

There is an entire gallery devoted to the dodo which is the national bird and which you see on stamps, clothing, souvenirs of every form, coins, buildings, and a very colourful statue of the dodo in the park. Mauritians are very proud of their museum and of this bird which is synonymous with extinction and obsolescence.

We left the museum transitioning from the somewhat ridiculously sublime to the ridiculous as after only a few steps to the market we came upon outlet stores for Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren. We knew that both these companies had factories and ergo outlet stores here in Port Louis. Here they were.

Eureka! Jeans from Hugo Boss! T-shirts from Ralph Lauren!. Buy, buy, buy at some ridiculous prices too.

That night on board ship, as we rehashed the day we decided that seeing the stuffed dodo in Mauritius was not a bucket list item but rather a ‘bragging rights’ travel story. What’s the difference? We toured Port Louis, Mauritius and the Museum of Natural History on March 30^th. Just six weeks prior we had attended the opera at the Sydney Opera House, Australia. Now THAT was an item on all our bucket lists!

Which would you choose for your bucket list?

The Meander: Travel to discover. It is an education. I do not believe that the Mauritius Museum of Natural History appears on any top ten list of museums. However, read about the history of Mauritius and about the extinction of the dodo and you cannot help but think about how man can and does encroach on nature with devastating results. The Dodo did not stand a chance.

For Caregivers: All Mothers!

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers!

To those who never gave birth but are mothers of the heart

To those who are mothers on the second shift

To caregiver mothers who are mothers to husbands, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, siblings, friends grandparents, partners

To men who are caregiver mothers to wives, mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents, friends, partners.

Today, I want to be mother to all caregiver mothers, to embrace you, to give you hugs, to let you know that as a caregiver mother I do know the sorrow, the joy and love of being a caregiver mother.

Here’s to another perfect day of doing and an infinitesimal token of appreciation for all we do.

Happy Mother’s Day!

The Meander: Every week I look forward to receiving the Alzheimer’s Weekly & Dementia Weekly Newsletter. It is filled with information on the many forms of dementia, new research, caregiver support and ideas to ease our special journey. It links to other publications and organizations. Each issue begins with a Thought for the Week similar to the one reprinted above. I must confess that in addition to the articles I do look forward to these gems with anticipation.

Thank you John Wooden.

Something Worse 05/22/2017

The T.V. is on

An intrusive susurration

Barely audible

I hear, I do not listen

My thoughts are inward, personal,

Dark

Created from fear

Not knowing what lies ahead

Afraid to speculate

So tired, breathing is onerous

Brain at rest is wishful thinking

Sleep deprived too often a descriptive companion

Sleep is a roiling, swirling maelstrom,

Too vigilant to be peaceful

Thinking, doing, planning remembering for two

Forgetting self

Learning new unwanted skills

A logistical nightmare

Endless.

Tears make tracks down my face.

This disease that robs our humanity, our dignity is the worst.

“…Breaking news…22 persons, including children were killed by a suicide bomber at Arianna Grande concert in Manchester City, England… Hundreds are injured…”

Breath caught…Breathe, just breathe.

No, dementia is not the worst.

This is.

The Meander: May 22, 2017 was one day that the burden of being a caregiver was heavy. The senseless bombing and loss of innocent lives at what should have been a happy occasion gave me a new, if somber, perspective. I had to record it somehow.

Mutiny on the Bounty Lives on in Pitcairn Island

As the longboats slowly pulled away from our ship, the islanders were singing a hymn. Those not pulling on oars were waving to the cruise passengers lined up along the open deck. It appeared that every passenger and crew were waving back. I turned to savour the moment with Bert and saw there were tears in his eyes.

“Why are you sad?” I asked.

“What are they going back to? Nothing.” he said. I wondered at that observation but kept quiet.

Pitcairn lived up to its billing. You are in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean midway between Chile and New Zealand. You finally realize how the mutineers could ‘disappear’ as we are in fact in the middle of nowhere. It is also the place that proved beyond a doubt that “you can find a Jamaican in every corner of the world”. Yes, the social worker on Pitcairn was English of Jamaican descent.

There were 49 permanent residents plus an administrator, his wife and two children, a nurse and the social worker who are contracted workers. That was the total population. Pitcairn is a British Overseas Territory administered from New Zealand.

By name and nature they are Christian as almost half the population, Caucasian or Polynesian in appearance carries that surname and when the expedition left England to search for the island there was a Seventh Day Adventist Missionary on board who baptized them all. Pitcairn Islanders are all Seventh Day Adventists.

We learnt this and more from a Christian, the great-great and more greats grandson of Fletcher Christian, he of the famous Mutiny on the Bounty. It was a most informative talk. We learnt that they were not totally isolated as they could and did have the means to connect to the internet for two hours most days. The 45 minute talk became a more than two hour session as the questions flew.

Questions: “What do you eat? Where do you get your food? Do you make anything on the island? Where do you get any money? Who looks after legal matters?”

Answers: “A supply ship comes from New Zealand. It also brings mail and whatever we have ordered. Cruise ships like yours stop and bring us things like toilet paper, potatoes flour, soap. We are grateful for all that. We fish, have a few goats, pigs and chickens. On the island we have a barter system, trading everything and sharing everything. Our administrator looks after the official duties.”

“Our biggest export for money is our stamps. We have brought our post office on board so you can be proud owners of a Pitcairn Island stamp. Better yet, write a card to yourself and we will frank it and mail it to you. They are being traded on E-Bay! We also make crafts that are for sale in the market set up in the lounge.”

If the Administrator was the Governor then Steve (or was it Tom?), Christian was the Mayor. There was no question he could not answer and is often invited to speak about life on Pitcairn internationally. He shares his fees and gratuities with the islanders. I would guess he has to pay for excess baggage after each engagement.

The current major topic of conversation concerned the recent judgment passed down from the highest court in England. The islanders were accused of incest. The islanders lost. They were to be jailed. A six-cell jail was built, duly inspected and opened ready for the incarceration of the convicted incest offenders. The jail, perhaps the best built structure on the island was being put to good if unintended use as follows:

One cell was the general activity and exercise room

One room was used by the social worker for one on one consultation

One was a sewing and craft room

One for a meeting place

One was the medical facility

One was used for its intended purpose, though it was rarely occupied.

An excellent use of resources I thought.

As the longboats rowed to the small island and Bert wiped away a tear an announcement was made that Captain Erik had given the order for some earth and sand from the island be brought from Pitcairn and placed on the aft deck. Passengers were invited to walk on Pitcairn soil. Since we were unable to walk on Pitcairn, Captain Erik did the next best for his passengers. He brought a little sample of Pitcairn to us. We did walk on Pitcairn soil. Thank you Captain Erik for an unforgettable experience.

The Meander: As I stepped in the soil, I looked out at the shrinking longboats riding the waves. The singing waned. I think I understood Bert’s tears. Do these Islanders live a life of only minutiae? What do they dream about, hope for? What do they plan for? Are there any big ideas or desires to be explored or is every day distilled into just the immediate, bare necessities for existence? I want to think they are rowing home to more than nothing. I still ponder that.

Oh yes, we did buy postcards and stamps, mailed a few to friends and to ourselves. Maybe if I can remember where they are I will sell them on E-Bay – Nah!

“If Music Be the Food of Love, Play on”.

“If music be the food of love, play on.”

This was the quote of the evening.

My grandmother was a staunch member of the Women’s Institute. Anyone remember that? The programmes were designed to educate and ‘elevate’. She looked forward to the meetings which happened once a month. Well, they should be once a month, but it seemed that any project going involved extra meetings, extra work and my grandmother. Our living room was often usurped by some project or another.

On this particular meeting night my grandmother was running late and it was mandated that when the attendance was taken instead of answering with ‘present’, ‘here’, or holding up a hand you had to declare your presence by saying a sentence that contained the word ‘music’. No doubt the elevating subject for that night was music. A Royal Doulton tea cup would be the prize given to the person whose quote was voted the best of the evening.

As grandma rushed to get out the door she called to me and said: “What can I say that has music in it.” I told her to say: “If music be the food of Love play on”.

“Who said it? I can’t just say a quote. I have to say where it comes from, at least who the author is.” Then she laughed and said:

“Julie says she can’t think of anything so she is just going to say: ‘Gertie plays great music on her organ, I say it.’ ”

Julie was grandma’s very good friend and was full of fun. It would not have surprised anyone if she did just as she told Grandma. I loved when she visited as Jennifer, her granddaughter, would come too and then I had a very compatible companion. We were supposed to be busy with home work, but often we tried to listen in on their chatting as they laughed a lot and we wanted in on the joke. Turned out it was not funny to us, just boring.

“The quote was written by Shakespeare and it is from his play Twelfth Night”. I did not have to think twice about this as luckily this was the play we were studying at school.

“Just Shakespeare is enough”. A delighted grandma shouted a “thank you” as she went out the door muttering; “If music be….Shakespeare”. I was asleep when she got back from her meeting.

Next morning I got a great big hug and from a beaming grandma who declared: “Thanks, darling, my quote was the quote of the evening”. She showed me the beautiful tea cup she had received.

“I also got a standing ovation!” I thought she was exaggerating until I got confirmation. Sunday morning after service two women came up to my grandma and instead of the usual ‘Good morning’, it was a giggly: “If music be the food of love, play on”.

Julie came running up and in a loud voice declared: “Gertie, let me tell you my dear that food, music and love make one great combination.” Then she twirled and declared as only she could: “If music be the food of love, play on, Sister!”

I can still see it all in my mind’s eye, a laughing grandma, two giggly women, one twirling, too loud gesticulating woman and me in the midst with the biggest grin on my face.

The Meander: Memories of childhood are like pop ups. They appear suddenly and insinuate themselves in the middle of whatever you are doing. Instead of irritating they are moments to treasure. They are comforting. They are adult security blankets. This memory for me underlines the oft spoken adage that the simplest things bring the greatest joy. I wish everyone happy childhood memories.

A most Unusual Birthday

We were in the middle of eating an authentic delicious gourmet Indonesian dinner in Sanur, Bali. It was Valentine’s Day and Duncan, our ‘Dutch son’, met only a week previously, was celebrating his birthday.

He had asked the hotel owners Semadi and Rini, to prepare a special Indonesian meal to mark the occasion. You can do that when your winter home/hotel is family owned, small, where staff and guests mingle, and guests are treated like family. There were eight of us including Semadi and Rini.

We were teasing Duncan about being a Valentine’s baby when I made the observation that my birthday was also a special day as I was born on the first day of Spring, March 21st. A look passed between Semadi and Rini. Rini sighed and when I asked what the matter was she said: “That is Nyepi, our Day of Silence our Bail New Year. This year (1996) it falls on March 21st”.

Nyepi perhaps the most important religious and culturally significant day of the year. When a Balinese say it is a Day of Silence they mean it. No driving except for emergency vehicles, no planes arriving, no cooking, little or no work, no entertainment. You stay indoors. There are no Hindu ceremonies on Nyepi in a country which has ceremonies happening almost hourly somewhere on every other day. Devout Balinese Hindus will fast and not speak on Nyepi.

Hotels receive special permission to provide services but tourists are asked to respect this important day and so service is minimal. You are not allowed to go to the beaches. Anyone on the street must have permission from the town council to be out and about and there are security forces to enforce the laws. I could not wait!

There is excitement all around. The kitchen staff has been preparing meals for two days and today is March 20th. Bert and I are up at dawn as we have decided to drive to the Mother Temple, Besakih at the foot of Mt. Agung to witness a bit of EKA DASA RUDRA the 100 year ceremonies and sacrifices. It would take a book to write about the religion of Bali. Suffice it to say that I learned as much as I could in the three months we lived there. It is all a question of balance between heaven, the earth and nature. There is good and there is evil. Accordingly, good cannot conquer evil nor can evil conquer good therefore it is imperative that one respects both.

It was an excruciatingly slow but fascinating drive to Besakih. It seemed all roads led to the Mother Temple and it was a sight to behold. The beautifully dressed and adorned young women and young men in their sarongs marching up to the temple are indescribable. The costumes had all the colours of the rainbow and more. There were colourful umbrellas, flowers and garlands and towering headdresses. The fruit and flowers, effigies and offerings were also colourful. To see them all kneeling, actually sitting in large groups at the temple complex was overwhelming.

Sad to say we did not see the sacrifices as we were too early and I am not sure we would have been allowed to observe them. Also, we had to leave to get back to watch the Ogoh-Ogoh parade. As we walked around, the Balinese people, warm, extremely friendly, happy and most welcoming explained the ceremonies and celebrations and told us we had to see Ogoh-Ogoh.

What is Ogoh-Ogoh? Ogoh-Ogoh are giant statues of demons that represent all that is ugly, negative, and evil. They are the ugliest creations anyone can imagine. They are paraded through the streets the evening before Nyepi.

Ogoh-Ogoh sit on large bamboo frames, carried by young men. For many weeks groups from the various communities have been creating them. They are grotesque, the stuff of nightmares. Imagine the most vivid depiction of ogres, horror, and phantoms. They are terrifying, gaudily painted and menacing as they come weaving down the street. This is evil imaginatively portrayed. This is their night and they tower over us. They can be five metres high! They will rule until sunrise. It is a fearsome spectacle. The parade usually ends at a field where they are burned.

The festivities now over, everyone go home to prepare for Nyepi. You must be home and silent so any negativity or evil spirit still wandering about cannot find you and enter your body to corrupt you or bring you bad luck for the coming year. It is thought that when the evil spirits come out they will not see anyone around, decide that Bali is empty and leave.

The next day, Nyepi, is a day for introspection and meditation and silence. For three days before this day you have cleansed yourself, you have been to the temple with your gifts and have acknowledged the evil ones and now this day you pray, fast, meditate and think good thoughts for good luck in the coming year.

My cold birthday dinner was eaten in half light. It was very quietly shared with all guests and staff in residence at the time. Silence was broken by close family and friends including our new ‘son’, calling to wish me a happy birthday. The conversations were very short. It’s Nyepi, after all.

I would not have missed this for all the tea in China.

The Meander: The festivities and Ogoh-Ogoh were far more interesting than Nyepi. A Bacchanal is fun. Being good takes some effort. In retrospect we have a similar celebration but without the demons. New Year’s Eve is certainly the night to let loose, to have fun and throw off the shackles of the old year. Come New Year’s Day we get busy with the good resolutions.

We are still Mum and Papa to our Dutch son.

(Pixaby images)

Hugs

Family, friends and anyone receiving mail from me know that my usual signature is ‘Hugs’. Sometimes it is ‘love and hugs’ or ‘lots of hugs’ but somewhere the word ‘hugs’ will appear. It was our younger son who turned me on to hugs and in whose memory my signature is delivered. In fact, when I hear of something particularly happy or sad, or needing that little bit of extra, you not only get my hug but a ‘Damien hug’ also. Close friends will call and tell me that they need a Damien hug when they encounter one of life’s more challenging moments. Damien hugs are special. He gave the best hugs. They are happy hugs and also healing hugs.

Hugs are wonderful. You cannot give one without getting one in return. Talk about a win-win situation. I am so in love with giving hugs that I almost got myself in trouble because of that. I give them freely, often and always with a smile. When I cannot give them in person I send them in snail mail, emails and messages. Even my voice mail ends with a suggestion to hug someone. One unexpected and dear friend I have is a result of an email hug.

Here I was sweating over a letter asking for support for one of my community volunteer projects. This was perhaps the tenth iteration of this most important missive. I wanted it to be the best ask ever. Outline the project, say why I believed this person was the most appropriate for the task, show a commonality of purpose, emphasize the positive, and predict a most favourable outcome and personal reward in helping to make the project a success. It also had to be grammatically correct, persuasive and not overly long. Phew.

I had been told that all I had to do was to put the request in writing and forward via email it to a particular address. Once I decided on the final version, I took a deep breath and clicked ‘send’.

Feeling good about a task accomplished and reasonably done well I decided to print the letter and put it in the relevant file. Yes, I keep hard copies. I have no idea where that paperless society is. Smiling complacently, I looked at the printed copy and gasped. My wonderful painstakingly written, grammar perfect letter boasted ‘Hugs’ above my legible full signature.

After the moan, the groan and swear words in English and languages I did not know, I could only become philosophical. I rationalized that I had aimed too high, that I would not have received a positive response in any case and so this mistake was from the philanthropic gods preparing me for the let down. I resigned myself and began to winnow my lists of contacts to select a second choice. Well, I reasoned, I already have a letter that I can edit, I would not have to start again from scratch. Faint consolation.

Surprise, surprise! Almost one week later I received a call.

“Hello”

“May I speak with Paula de Ronde”

“This is Paula”

“Ahem, do you always close your letters of requests with hugs?”

Omigosh, here we go. Do I tell the truth? As I hesitated, I heard a laugh.

“It’s OK. I really needed a hug that day and then came your letter and my day brightened immediately.”

A huge sigh, and in my relief, I gushed: “I wanted the letter to be perfect and was totally distraught. I could hardly believe my eyes at what I had done. I thought this was it, a harbinger for me to prepare myself for a negative reply.”

“That’s interesting, as I thought this was an omen that I should say yes to your request. It is yes, and by the way, you may send me hugs anytime you wish”.

We have been sharing hugs whenever and wherever we meet and our messages always end with ‘hugs’.

Among Damien’s personal effects was this laminated card. It says: FREE HUG COUPON; Good for a minimum of one HUG; Redeemable from any cooperating HUMAN; A Hug improves anyone’s appearance; (and the small print reads) “Greet one another with a holy hug” Romans 16:16

The Meander: The reverse of the card is an article entitled Hugs Called Good Medicine . The social scientist lists many benefits and says: “You need four hugs a day for survival, eight for maintenance and 12 for growth.” Here is a hug for you. Now you only need 11 more. Oh heck, here are some more…

HUGS!

Earthquake! Terremoto!

February 27, 2010 at approximately 3:35 a.m. the bed rocks. I wake up. I put my hand out to Bert: “Did you….” The walls shift to the right. The bed rolls …”feel that?”

Bert leaps straight from sleep and grabs the 21 inch T.V. from its stand. It is as if it was only a toy.

“It’s an earthquake,” I scream. He slams down the T.V. on the bed and races into the living room.

The gut clenches. Fear is a building that moves and shakes and trembles and floors that undulate. We are on the topmost floor, the sixth. The ceiling seems to be moving in concert with the walls. That seems good, somehow.

Pure terror grips me and I know viscerally that we will die. Extraneous thoughts intervene: Wills are made and our friend Maureen, knows that if something happens to us, to give the envelope to Harry. Oh son, oh darling, your parents are going to die here in Santiago. We love you. We love everybody!

Crash. Sounds of breaking glass. Bert cannot find his footing as the floor does another dip and shimmies as it falls back in place. He bellows: “We have to get out.” There is a complete discrepancy of feet as the floor rises, falls, dips and jitterbugs in a danse macabre. More sounds. This time an eerie cacophony as the entire building screeches in protest. The curtains race to the left of the track then race back. The lights go out! Another crash! Terror made more terrible in the darkness. There is bewilderment as the building seems to belch while steel and concrete rolled then shifted and I know it will crack wide open. Another heave. A waltz of death. How long can this last? A lull, but no peace nor release from fear.

Shouts. The security guard is knocking on doors. Terremoto! “Get out, get out”. We open the door and he screams at Bert: “Put on your pants”. It is all in Spanish.

“What is he saying?” Bert asks.

“He says you are to put on your pants and we are to leave the building”.

“I told you we should get out. Come on.”

Confusion. Is this a dream? I seem to watch myself put on a robe. I want to go back to bed but Bert grabs my hand. We get to the door and use the light from my cell-phone to go down six flights of stairs.

People are milling about. Some are crying, some are swearing never to go back indoors, all are bewildered and frightened. Pandemonium reigns. We go across the street to the hotel lobby to look for three Canadians we met at breakfast.

“Go outside!” is the shouted instruction. We obey. “There they are”! Our new best friends were looking for us as we were looking for them. Jim is off to the left near an unoccupied home which is said to belong to the Allende family. Why? He thinks it is low enough so when it falls he will not be under it! We join him. Wife is nowhere to be seen. We ask for her. Jim tells how she wanted to be properly dressed. Then even as he panicked she declared she had to brush her teeth. He told her to go ahead but when they came for him to identify the pieces and asked him what happened he would just tell them: “She had to brush her teeth”.

Then mother in that ‘Mother’voice that was a mixture of love, fear and exasperation for a recalcitrant child said: “Can you imagine, as I rushed towards the stairs I saw her brushing her teeth!” We roar with laughter, the merriment heightened to near hysteria fueled by the recent panic and still present fear. Linda appears. Teeth brushed, dressed, clutching her toothbrush and cosmetic bag.

I hear one young woman telling her husband in no uncertain terms that she is not returning to the apartment. When he tells her she had to return she says: “After what just happened I do not have to do anything I don’t want to ever again”! It sounds funnier in Spanish.

Still no lights. Sound of a bullhorn. Providencia (our community) Security is giving information about first aid stations, social service help, medications as needed and to watch out for thieves and vandalism. Amazing as this is within a about 15 minutes of the earthquake. We are outside. We are told to wait for at least two hours before going back into the building.

We mill about, we talk and decide we could go back even though it is only one and a half hours since the big quake. There are no strangers tonight, only people sharing a traumatic event. I look around and observe that people wear the weirdest things to bed or dress in a most amazing assortment when panic strikes. Then I look at myself. I am in a very nice area of Santiago, on the street, in a Chinese silk robe over a cotton nightgown, two different shoes on my feet and oh my goodness, no bra. Bert who combs his hair at least fifty times a day has a lock falling over his eyebrows and tufts of hair at the back that looks like a backwards cock’s comb, kitty corner to his left ear.

We go back to the apartment still in the dark. There are constant tremors. No T.V., no lights, no water. At 5:05 a.m. the lights flicker on and then off again. Fear makes you do strange things. I know there is broken glass and in fact I think all the dishes and glassware must be lying broken on the floor, but Bert gets busy in the kitchen. I plead with him to come back to the bedroom where things are all in their places except the T.V. which is askew at the foot of the bed where Bert dropped it.

Bert is reporting from the kitchen: “There’s no glass on the floor. Oh, here is a tomato” “Ah! I’ve found three apples.” “There is another tomato and the plantain and a banana…….”. All this he is doing in the dark crawling on all fours. He says he has a headache and he is giving me one as I remember the terrible crashes I heard. I think he is not going to die under a heap of rubble but from loss of blood when he steps in the broken glass. It is unreal.

Finally at 6:15 a.m. the lights come on, the water is on and the living room T.V. comes on. The earthquake is the news wherever you look. This is the ultimate breaking news. I reconnect the bedroom T.V. after my personal Superman puts it back on the stand and now we have both televisions going. Bert is right, the crashing sounds were two wine bottles on the living room bar falling and breaking, some bottles and the flower arrangement falling in our bathroom and the pots and pans crashing against each other as the building rocked and rolled. Everything else is intact. I can hardly believe it as I notice the wall to wall mirror in the bathroom is totally whole. Not a crack in it.

It is now 7:30 a.m. so we decide to get properly dressed for the day. The building does a shake, rattle and roll and Bert shouts: “Oh *#^! It’s another one. Don‘t tell me I have to walk down and up those stairs again!” I am thinking I need to put on a bra. It is a big aftershock. We shower and dress.

Our Brazilian friend got through at 8.a.m. He has been trying to reach us. Finally his cell phone is working. He tells us how he and his wife, were terrified and are still shaking. We have a hysterical laughing fit as he tells of a co-worker living in his building who ran down 15 flights of stairs, scaled two walls, leapt over a fence, ran around two swimming pools only to get to the front lobby and realize he had left his keys in the apartment and he was naked except for very tight, tiny briefs. He was the comic relief for the crowded foyer as they opened the door for him. Then there were the four who were driving around Santiago and when asked where they were going said: “We don’t know. We just want to go home to Brazil”!

Bert, a Chilean, a Peruvian and I, all guests, acted as restaurant crew, setting out trays of food as the chef fills them and clearing the dishes. The restaurant staff is en route trying to get to work using any means available. They do get in and in no time have everyone settled and eating, all of us extraordinarily grateful to be doing that so very normal, everyday thing – having breakfast. There are no strangers here. Only friends.

I feel the earth shake. The hotel receptionist calls it a tremor. I look at her with sarcasm dripping from every pore. Soon comes a news report that there has just been a 5.6 aftershock. I look at the receptionist with an “I told you so” look. I am to learn that I have become a human seismograph. I feel every tremor, every aftershock. I feel the slightest movement of the earth! I am to learn that there were 17 tremors in the first 24 hours but I felt 21. My number is the correct one, I am positive.

I breathe. I am breathing. Life is good!

A few facts

The epicenter was in Central Chile approximately 100 Kms south of Santiago

It was measured at 8.8 on that famous Richter Scale (Hah! More like 8000 on my scale)

Sadly, approximately 500 died most near the epicenter.

The tsunami warnings were issued but did not turn out to be as devastating as feared.

Massive infrastructure damage of bridges, overpasses and highways. The airport was closed.

It was felt as far away as Buenos Aires and Sao Paula (Poor those engineers fleeing to Brazil). It lasted approximately 3 minutes. Eternity is three minutes long. Who knew?

The meander: I have a great admiration for President Michele Bachelet. Within half an hour of the earthquake she was helping to staff the Central Emergency Post, calling for calm, being a leader and reassuring her people. Chile has one of the highest anti earthquake building codes in the world. Our friend the engineering expert tried to explain how the buildings are on rollers or some such thing. Some things you do not need to know, right? Oh, yes. In 2011 we spent the winter in Chile again.

Gratitude art

Gratitude Art.

I cannot draw to save my life. Even my stick figures look rather strange. It is so bad that in high school when it was discovered that Latin was a particular challenge I was encouraged to take art as an alternative. I was happy. How difficult could that be? Also I liked art from a spectator’s point of view. Three weeks into the artistic experiment I was back to Latin with a note which indicated that I cannot be as bad at Latin as I am at art.

I am glad I conquered Latin. However, I still loved art enough to do some art appreciation courses later on. Also, I know without a doubt that I am vital to art and artists. My reasoning is as follows: If everyone was an artist who would appreciate the art? I am definitely in the art appreciation camp. I revere those who can and am first in line to show appreciation.

Fast forward many years and as a result of Alzheimer’s my art has been hung in an art gallery. I can claim to be a curated and hung artist. Will wonders never cease?

I do know my limitations but when it comes to my Bert there are no limits so off I went gallantly with him to art therapy. It was interesting to attend as it was held in a historical home and museum. After the usual tour and tea the project was to create a work that illustrated gratitude, or something for which we were grateful. I decided I would help Bert with his idea and interpretation rather than show my ineptitude. That was not to be. I was told everyone had to produce something.

Bert did not need my help. In no time he had drawn something that looked like a house with a figure in it. He told our wonderful art therapist that it was me at home. He told her that meeting me was the best thing that ever happened to him. Awhh. That’s my Bert.

However, remember I cannot draw period, so I could not return the compliment. I went the modernist route to create a ‘thought’. Yes!

We had paints, canvas, dowels, string, shiny buttons, sequins. My creation was a wall hanging using mixed media. I used a pretty crystal studded button and if you look carefully the squiggly thingie in the middle is embellished with sequins. Yes, even I have trouble with an adequate description of this masterpiece.

So here it is followed by the ‘artist’s note’.

My Gratitude Hanger.

This represents a positive attitude and sunny disposition. The colours are bright, happy, and sunny with sparkly embellishments to represent certain intense moments of happiness.

Friends and family have spoken of my happy outlook. Many have told me that when they are feeling down they call me and know that they will have a brighter outlook afterwards.

Look and you will and see the tears, but they are dominated even overwhelmed by HAPPY and reach upwards to become the streamer of a kite? A bird? Wings?

It was in middle age that I finally realized that this quality so obvious to the people I meet was a wonderful gift. Now I recognize that as a fact and I am immensely GRATEFUL!

Come on stop laughing! It’s not that awful. Maybe it is. When I proudly presented it together with the catalogue, which also featured my work and photographs of the exhibit to our son, he looked at it made a noise that sounded like “Huh!” and said: “Mom, you are a better writer than artist”.

OK, I’ll take that! “Huh!” Everybody is a critic. “Huh!”

The Meander: Look at my big grin and the proud stance of my Bert. Priceless!

Elvis is alive and well…

Elvis is alive and well and living in Israel. At least he was on Monday September 4, 1989.

We were excited to be going on this Mediterranean cruise as we were visiting both Egypt and Israel for the first time. We met up with Elvis on the road to Jerusalem. Our ship was docked in the Port of Ashdod and we had to get up very early as the tour we booked took in both Bethlehem and Jerusalem. We were in for a long and full day.

Security was tight and each of the tour buses was accompanied by two Israeli soldiers carrying machine guns. A few guests said they were AK 47 but since I have no interest whatsoever in guns they could have told me they were medieval slingshots and I would have just nodded. However, the serious demeanor of the guards and the easy handling of their weapons inspired either assurance that we were in good hands or increased our trepidation. Take your pick.

Bert and I were on Bus #4. We had a knowledgeable guide, a most convivial driver and the regulation two security guards on board. We did not find the road to Jerusalem from the Port of Ashdod particularly scenic. To pass the time we started a sing-a-long and everyone was shouting out their favourite song as we all joined in the singing. About forty minutes into the trip our guide announced we would be stopping at a cafe for a washroom break, coffee or soft drink and to stretch our legs before we resumed the journey into Jerusalem.

Soon we were turning into a parking lot. We got down from the bus. Elvis Presley greeted us at the cafe. No kidding. There was a life sized cardboard cut out of Elvis at the entrance and the human version, the owner of the establishment, was right behind with a welcome complete with the voice, dress and mannerisms of Elvis. He had a big smile, flicked an errant curl from his pompadour and in an uncanny imitation of Elvis said: “ Are you surprised?” Talk about an understatement.

The walls, the roof, the salt and pepper shakers, the plates, the tables, the chairs, the counter, everything channeled Elvis. There were Elvis glasses, place mats, coasters, souvenirs, recordings. None of us had ever seen so much Elvis paraphernalia in one place. To enhance the Elvis ambiance, heaven help us, the juke-box played only Elvis hits.

Only two young and beautiful Israeli women in army fatigues seated near us did not have an Elvis theme. Bert, being Bert latched on to them to find some variety or distraction from the dominant motif, I supposed. He began talking to them asking many questions, wondering where they lived to be in that cafe in the middle of the road in such a nondescript place. He asked their names. He was voluble and they answered not one word. They just sat, looked at us, the bus and around the cafe. Bert decided that they must not be able to speak English. That did not deter him. He told them they were beautiful in at least seven languages. He told them he too had to do military service in The Netherlands. No response.

Our guide was smiling as she called us back to the bus. We stood, and so did the two women. Bert’s mouth opened and it took a minute or two for his jaw to come back up from the floor. Now he was the mute one. All of his seven languages had deserted him. The two women had pushed aside the table and chairs and there, ready for any contingency, were their weapons. We gave a collective gasp. One of them approached Bert, smiled at him and in perfect English said:”See, we are here to protect you. We are on the job. We hope you have a wonderful tour and a great time in our country, and by the way we love you too.”

The Meander: We have been to Israel four more times and each time this Elvis interlude with the two beautiful Sabras coupled with Bert’s loss of speech comes back to me. A moment like this is one of the joys of travel.

Note: Elvis died on August 16, 1977