WAS THIS THE REAL CHRISTMAS STAR?

The question is more telling than the answer

In the waning weeks of 2020, as the world grew darker, we were treated to a rare astral event as Jupiter and Saturn moved closer and closer in each successive evening sky. The slow-mo spectacle provided a pleasant diversion from the grim situation on Earth.  On December 21, the winter solstice, the two planets appeared in their closest conjunction in 800 years, nearly merging into a single brilliant star. Just before Christmas. Could this be a repeat of the planetary alignment that created the Christmas “star” more than two thousand years ago? The astrological sign that led the Magi to Jesus?

The motions of the planets are well documented, and their orbits can be rewound to precisely determine the dates of prior conjunctions. But pinpointing the time when Jesus is more difficult.

When was Jesus born?

The date is hazy. The Gospels of Luke and Matthew state that Jesus was born during the reign of Herod the great. The historian Josephus said that Herod’s death occurred after a lunar eclipse and before Passover. Therefore, most scholars believe he died in 4BC, when there was a lunar eclipse 29 days before Passover. But the 4BC lunar eclipse that was used to peg Herod’s date would not have been so visible in Judea. There were other lunar eclipses during that era, the most spectacular of which was a total eclipse in January of 1 AD.  This would push the potential date of Jesus’s birth as late as that year (Anno Domini, the year of Our Lord), but probably a few years earlier, perhaps as early as 6 BC.

Another time point to consider is the première event of Jesus’s ministry, his baptism by John the Baptist. Luke’s Gospel says Jesus was “around” 30 years old when he began his ministry and that John preached during the 15^th year of the reign of Tiberius. Counting backward from that year, which is recorded in history, would backward would arrive at a birth year of 1 or 2 BC for Jesus, depending on his exact age. “Around” 30 could be 28 or 32.

What Did the Magi see?

The Christmas star and the quest of the Magi appear very briefly in the Bible, and only in the Gospel of Matthew. Wise men came to Jerusalem from “the East,” asking, “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” King Herod was disturbed to hear news and consulted his advisors, who informed him that according to scripture, the Messiah would be born prophesied in Bethlehem. Herod summoned the Magi to his court to learn the exact date that the star had appeared. He sent them to Bethlehem and instructed them to return to him when they found the child. When they set out on the 6-mile trip south from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, they were overjoyed to see that same star rise before them and stop over the place where the child lay.

What Astral Events are Candidates for the Christmas Star?

In the 17^th century, astronomer Johannes Keppler suggested that a convergence of Jupiter and Saturn could have been the bright star guiding the Magi. There were three conjunctions of Jupiter and Saturn in 5 BC, but none close enough to result in a star. Nevertheless, the unusual stellar event could have had astrological significance for the Magi, who were familiar with Jewish scripture. Another candidate would be a conjunction between Jupiter and Venus. In 2 BC, those planets came close enough together to form a single star. Venus is much brighter than either Saturn or Jupiter (The picture at the head of this article is a photo I recently took at the dawn of Christmas Eve), so that convergence would have been much brighter than the one we just witnessed. But planetary convergences are fleeting and would not have remained in the sky during the two months required for the Magi to travel from Persia to Jerusalem.

It is much more likely that the Christmas Star was a comet. The records of Chinese astronomers document a “broom star” (tailed comet) that appeared in the sky for 70 days in 5 BC. The Magi could have first seen that comet in the eastern sky just before dawn. Comets typically move across the sky at one or two degrees per day, so in two months’ time, it could easily have appeared in the south in the morning sky. Thus, as the Magi set out in the early morning to travel south, the comet would have been before them, its tail vertically above, so that its head pointed toward Bethlehem.

What does our curiosity about the Christmas Star say about us?

The possibility that we could be witnessing a re-creation of the Christmas star resonated with a hope that that it could be a sign of better times. It had a nostalgic appeal to believers and non-believers alike. There is a difference between knowing and believing. A tragedy may be impossible to believe, despite incontrovertible facts. We may fear something like a bogeyman under the bed, even when we can see that it is not there. Sometimes we believe some wonderful thing will happen, even though it clearly seems impossible. When there is no way of knowing for certain, we seek confirmatory evidence, sometimes as small as finding cookie crumbs on an otherwise empty plate on Christmas morning next to the stockings we had hung the night before.

What is the answer to the question?

A conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn is very unlikely to be the event that led wise men to seek Jesus. But the planetary convergence at the end of 2020 led me to study scripture and astronomy. I did not gain significant new knowledge about the Christmas Story. But I was awed by the regularity of planets that have followed the same orbits for millions of years. I recalled a line from one of my father’s favorite poems, Desiderata. “The universe is unfolding as it should.” I am watching the planets move further apart each evening, knowing that long after I have departed this world, they will appear together again. Observing the rhythm of the solar system heightens my awareness of my pitiful insignificance, yet paradoxically leaves me empowered and soothed by that comprehension.

So, for me, the answer to the question is yes. This was my Christmas Star.

 

Southern Snow

It’s snowing down south.

Not really.

The phrase just popped into my head.  It's something my mother used to say.  For the first few years, memories were painful.  Nowadays, I am happy whenever something tweaks recollections of her. 

The white pelicans have returned, as they do each January, gliding across the water like swans.  They swim synchronously, in large clumps.  Sometimes they cover the lagoon behind our house like a white blanket.  But there is no snow here in central Florida, any more than it is in coastal Texas, where I grew up. 

My father woke me early one morning in my seventh winter, and told me to look out the window.  The ground was covered in fluffy white stuff.  It was at most a couple of inches, and very little was left by nightfall.  But while it lasted, we had a ball.   My mother, who grew up in Iowa, tramped down the snow in a circle with a cross in the middle and taught us to play Fox and Goose.  Then we used up most of the snow in the yard to build a snow man with a sarape and sombrero.  A choppy old 8mm movie shows my elfin mother scampering about in her hooded car coat and pedal pushers.  (If you are of a certain age, you will remember that pedal pushers are capri pants). 

Those of a certain age, may also remember another meaning of “It’s snowing down south.” It means, “Your slip is showing.”  Not like the pink slip from the boss.  It’s like a petticoat without ruffles or crinoline.  Just a sleek satiny tube.  Something Diana was not wearing when the paparazzi ambushed her at the nursery school, her legs clearly visible beneath a diaphanous skirt.  There was a time when no self-respecting woman would leave the house without a slip between her skirt and girdle.  Yes, a girdle, even if you were quite thin.  A lady should not jiggle, and besides, you needed a girdle to hold up your hosiery.  But your slip could make an unwelcome appearance.  This was a common occurrence in the late sixties, when the mini-skirt held sway.  Hence the phrase, “It’s snowing down south.”

It can get cold on winter mornings around here.  I cannot find my good black gloves when we take the dog for a walk.  So I have to wear the horrid white fluffy ones that were the last pair left at the Walgreen's next to our hotel in Washington when we were there for a wedding, unprepared for the cold snap.  The gloves are warm, but they make me look like Mickey Mouse.  Or maybe, a mime.  And the fluff drops off.  White flakes drift down and cling to my black corduroy pants.  This makes me smile.

It’s snowing down south.

TO WALK WITH LIONS

Let me say at the outset that I am not a thrill seeker.  Please note that I did NOT say, “nor have I ever been,” although I would contend that the latter statement is true.  Admittedly, some could cite meager evidence to the contrary in the distant past.   I have been known to jump off a bridge into the alligator gar infested Tres Palacios River.  I did scuba dive once in Jacob’s Well, a cave that has subsequently been closed due to a few deaths.  But I doubt that I would have parachuted out of a plane during my freshman year in college, even if my father had agreed to fund me the $100.  I think I would have chickened out at the last minute, gazing out the door of the plane.  And please note that I have never ridden on an oil well pump or walked across a river on a natural gas pipeline.  I do have some limits.

My point is, I am not addicted to adrenaline rush.  I just like to do interesting things, and sometimes my curiosity leads me to distort the risk/benefit ratio of an activity.

We were not seeking thrills when we decided to walk with lions.  My husband and I were visiting Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, a weekend break from our volunteer work in Tanzania.  A travel agent friend had booked us for four nights, and I wondered what we would find to do with all that time, once we had seen the falls.  It turns out, you cannot just “see the falls.”  They are located in a rather inaccessible spot  where the Zambezi River disappears into a massive crack in the earth.  We hiked for a mile along top of the other side of the cleft, looking down into the cataracts.  We were told the full extent of this wonder is best seen from the air, so, somewhat apprehensively, we booked a helicopter.  It was a good call.  We would never have appreciated the geology if we had not taken that ride.  The massive split in the earth is continuous with a zigzagging gorge that extends for miles, the results of multiple massive water falls throughout millennia.    From the air, one can see the beginnings of the next waterfall, a crack in the floor of the Zimbabwe river. In a few thousand years, this cleft will form the next waterfall, and Victoria Falls will become just another zig in the canyon.

We took a sunset cruise on the Zambezi, rode a train across the gorge into Zambia on the bridge that is famous for bungee jumping. 

That left us with one more day.  A plan to have a massage and pedicure seemed far too tame, but the bungee jump exceeded my risk tolerance.  Even going to Zambia side to sit in Devil’s pool seemed too hazardous.  Not the pool itself—thousands have bathed in that water without being washed over the edge.  It is the walk along the top of the falls to access Devil’s pool that is occasionally fatal.  Our guide said that when someone slips and topples off the edge, the body disappears for four or five days until it floats up.  The corpse cannot be directly extracted but can be dislodged from rocks and allowed to float downstream, where it can be retrieved. 

In contrast the Lion Encounter sounded pretty tame.  A walk in the park.  With young lions.  I imagined cavorting with kitty cats, scratching behind their ears.  Maybe they would purr?

An orientation video at the preserve explained the purpose of the conservation project: to address the decimation of the lion population.  Cats are bred in captivity for eventual release into the wild.  After weaning, they are taken on daily walks to teach them about life outside.  The fees we paid for this experience supports this project. 
We were assured that the lions would accept us as members of the pride.  But there were safety tips, such as “Don’t wear anything dangly, like a scarf.”  The lions might try to “play,” like a kitten batting a string.  You get the picture.  Also, don’t approach them head on.  (i.e., don’t get near the teeth)  We signed releases of responsibility for loss of life or limb and set off down a dusty path, escorted by two guides, a videographer, and an armed guard.  The size of the gun gave me pause.  They said the gun was not to protect us from the lions.  It was to ward off other animals, such as elephant or buffalo--big animals would jump at the opportunity to kill a young lion.  It was then that I realized that we were not in a “park.” 

We were instructed to select a stick from a pile of branches. “If the lion comes toward you, just point the stick and say ‘No.’” Hmm.  I thought about circus lions, hoped for these cats to be equally well trained. 

The lions were nestled together under a tree.  Looma, the male, and Pemba, the female were three-year-old cousins, billed as “cubs.”  At as they clambered to their feet, muscles rippling beneath tawny fur, they looked pretty big and powerful to me, their haunches as high as my hips.  Looma had massive paws—kind of like a puppy who will grow into his feet—and the beginnings of a mane.

We started walking and they ambled alongside.  Although they apparently “accepted us as part of the pride,” they weren’t particularly friendly.  A couple of times, Looma veered off to one side, shouldering me into some shrubs.  He raised up to sharpen his claws higher than my head on an acacia tree, peeling off large strips of bark.  He and Pemba left the trail a couple of times to play with each other, like kittens—tumbling, biting clawing.  In those moments, I was glad they did not want to play with me.   

Pemba would occasionally growl, and my heart rate would spike.  Once, Looma suddenly started trotting toward me.  I pointed my stick and said “No,” but he was not impressed by the gesture.  The guide stepped between us.  At his point I wondered,  What am I doing here.  These are lions!   

We did get to pat them.  It was very well orchestrated.  The lions lay down and we walked around behind them, giving their heads a wide berth.  Then we knelt down behind them and patted their butts as the videographer documented us and the handler took still shots.  The fur was very coarse—not like a porcupine, of course, but not as smooth and soft as a horse or a cow.  The lions glanced back to acknowledge us, but they certainly did not purr!

We have been in close proximity to lions before, on safaris, through the windows of Land Cruisers.  We also climbed a mountain in Rwanda to commune with gorillas, gentle vegan animals with soft fur.  But to be in the direct company of powerful carnivores who could easily have ripped us to shreds in an instant was surreal.  As Looma and Pemba scampered off into the forest to play with their siblings and cousins, I felt a mixture of sadness that the experience was over, and relief that we had gotten through it unscathed!  We did not make a big impression on the lions, but we will never forget them.

HOW TO COOK CAPELIN

If you’re not from Newfoundland, you may be wondering, “What is a capelin?”

This is like asking “What is a grit?”  (Cousin Vinnie made that mistake)

I have never seen a single solitary capelin.  They only come in throngs—nay, droves!  It looks like the sea water has turned to fish when they wash up on the shore to spawn on gravel shoals.  You can scoop them up by the bucketful.  One wonders where all these tiny fish have been all winter and spring.  

                                        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qusHwTzf3Wo

When the capelin roll in, the bird, whales, and cod follow.  I felt a little bad the first time I jigged a cod and watched him (or her) gasping in the bottom of the dory, drowning in the air.  But when we slit its bulging belly, capelin poured out.  It was plain to see the cod had gorged on the little fish while they were still alive.  I thought to myself, well, what comes around goes around. 

The next question is, “Why would you smoke capelin?”  This is, in my opinion, a perfectly legitimate question.  You would only smoke capelin if you intend to eat them.  Or give them to someone who would like to eat them.  It is a taste that I have yet to acquire.  I prefer cod, in its protean manifestations: pan fried cod, baked cod, deep fried cod, cod au gratin, fish cakes, fish ‘n brewis…

Do I sound like Forest Gump?

If you want to smoke capelin, you start with a bucket of the tiny fish. 

Actually, you'd better get the charcoal going first.

Then you need another bucket, full of water.  And you need a lot of salt.  Also a potato.
With a nail in it.  

Pour a bunch of salt into the water, and mix well.  Here is where the potato (with a nail in it) comes in.  If it sinks, you need to add more water.  If it floats, then you’re golden.  You have reached 100% salinity.    

Add the capelin to the brine and soak for 5-10 minutes.  If the eyes turn white, you’ve left them in too long!

On low heat, smoke for an hour or so.  Or roast at high heat over charcoal or in the oven until crunchy.  

Eat them whole. 

Enjoy!

Or not.

I’m told they make great fertilizer.

Suicide is a Meme

Anthony Bordain.  Kate Spade.  Young doctors plunging from towers.  Such high profile cases grab our attention, but they are merely tips of an iceberg:  the epidemic of suicide.  What’s going on?  What were these people thinking? 

I wasn’t.  Thinking, that is.  I was far beyond thought.  I had no choice, no other option.  At the tender age of 20, life was unbearable, and I had to make it stop.  Everyone I loved would be better off without me. I remember exactly what I felt, with laser clarity, as if it were yesterday.  Feelings are to belief as facts are to knowledge.  Was there a suicide hotline, 50 years ago?  Would I have called one?  I doubt it. 

My descent into depression was gradual and mundane.  No unique tragedies, just the usual assortment of disappointments, romantic conflicts, a genetic family curse, and a general disillusionment with mankind.  The world was in turmoil:  King and Kennedy assasinations, childhood friends coming home dead or crazy from the Viet Nam War, Kent State, violent demonstrations everywhere.   Graffiti in a toilet stall in the student center read:  “Committing suicide at Rice is redundant.” 

Not everyone who feels sad commits suicide, but contemplation is nearly universal.  Some inciting stimulus is required for actual commission, like a match tossed into the pile of straw.  For me, it was the suicide of a family friend.  She had invited us over for dinner, shortly after her husband left her.  Despite her changing circumstance, she was upbeat and charming, totally devoted to two adorable children.  We shared the same name, spelled the same way, and she understood me, encouraged me.  Less than a week after that nice evening, my parents didn’t show up to meet me for dinner.  That was the time before email and cell phones, so I got the news of her death from a payphone in a dark parking lot.  If I close my eyes, I recall the sound of the nearby surf, the warm, humid air, and the diamond studded black velvet sky. 

Fortunately, I had no access to a lofty ledge, so I couldn’t just take one small step into oblivion.  I didn’t own a gun.  And my room mates came home early.  I have a vague recollection of a large tube pumping out my stomach and waking up to my mother sitting on the side of my bed, wiping my face with a cool cloth.  After a few weeks of therapy, the psychiatrist, threw in the towel.  I wasn’t compliant.  But I was better.  Time and family support lifted the fog of depression.  Here was the big takeaway, the overarching lesson:  my family would never have recovered from the pain of my death.  The real tragedy of suicide is the desolation of those left behind.

It wasn’t grief over the loss of a friend that drove me.  It was simply her act of smashing through the mysterious wall at the outer boundary of life, leaving a gaping hole in reality, like a gash in the side of an airplane at 30,000 feet.  She was the queen of hearts pulled from the house of cards, the domino falling against me. 

Suicide is an impulse that can jump from one life to another, like some viral meme, or a spark from a wildfire that flies across a river or highway to spread the inferno.  If someone else steps over that line, the act is no longer unthinkable.  Maybe the urge to shoot people in a school or a club is a similar germ.  I feel immune now, as if I have been vaccinated.  Still, at the first news about Bordain’s death, before I heard that he had taken his own life, I had a weird random thought.  The world is in terrible shape.  He’s lucky to get out before it gets worse.

Suicide is contagious.  It is a tragic epidemic.  Like any public health crisis, we need more research, more knowledge.  We can’t just build safety nets to catch the falling.  It is just not possible to deliver the a critical message of hope for redemption on a need to know basis, at the crucial instant of decision.  We need to address the forces that drive people to the narrow ledges of skyscrapers.   

(One of) My Worst Nightmare(s)

An old medical joke compares the strategies that different types of doctors would use to stop a closing elevator door.  The internist would use his hand.  A surgeon, would be more leery of a hand injury, and so he would block it with his foot.  An orthopedist would put his head into the gap.  As a surgeon, my worst nightmare has always been getting a hand mangled in a garbage disposer.  I never dreamed that my cat could be a far greater threat. 

Denial of peril is a natural coping mechanism.  How else does one continue to function?  Like when I was Christmas shopping on Oxford street.  I found it a bit odd, but not worrisome, that there were suddenly guards at the entrance to Debenham’s, inspecting all the purses.  I didn’t find out until much later that the Wimpey’s next door had been bombed.  My mother, at home in Texas, watched it all unfold on television and thought I should come back home immediately.  That was back in the early 80’s, and the IRA was always blowing something up.  But I never felt personally threatened during my year in Britain, even when they blew up the Horse Guard parade an hour after our picnic in Regent’s Park.  The nurse from Northern Ireland said she felt much safer back home than in London, because in Belfast, you knew where the shooting and bombings occur.

Back to the cat.  His name is Amarillo and he has black and white tuxedo fur.  To be fair, he gave me ample warning.  We were changing planes in the Philadelphia airport, in one of those “Companion Care” rooms where you can lock the door.  I let my pet out of his carrier, so he could stretch his legs.  The old bathroom had been retrofitted with electric photo sensing faucets and soap dispenser, and a crude wooden box under the counter hid the plumbing and wires.  I didn’t notice the opening at the end of the box until it was too late.  Curiosity compelled Amarillo to leap through the perfectly cat-sized portal.  I reached in and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck so that he wouldn’t follow pipes and wires through a gaping hole into who knows what kind of netherworld.  When he slipped free, I grabbed his leg.  That must have hurt.  He growled and hissed, but I refused to release him until his teeth plunged into my hand.  Then, he was the one who wouldn’t let go.  Think of the Dune Trilogy pain box conceived by Herbert’s sadistic imagination.  When I finally managed to extricate my hand, it didn’t look that bad.  A little blood, a few poke marks, but everything worked.  Amarillo, to his credit, seemed genuinely stunned and remorseful, and retreated into his carrier. 

It was a three-hour layover and by the time we boarded the plane, my hand looked like a baseball.  My pain score was 9 out of 10.  It was worse than labor, because the agony was continuous.  Back in Florida, I had to take the cat home, empty the litter box, and fill up his food dispenser before taking myself to the Emergency Room.  They sent me home with pills, but by the next morning the swelling was half-way up my arm, with pus pouring out of a few orifices and red streaks approaching my elbow.  I spent three days in the hospital on IV antibiotics.  My right hand was useless, and for some reason the nurse in the ER put my IV in the bend of my left arm, so that side wasn’t much use either.  I couldn’t write, couldn’t type, and eating was a chore.  I watched a few bad movies and 6 consecutive episodes of Law and Order Special Victims Unit. 

I did get better and by the next week, I was back at work.  On Saturday, enter the tortoise.  My hand was 90% better.  It was still stiff and tender, and I was guarding it.  But I saw this reptile, a gopher tortoise, to be exact, trying to escape my back yard.   He was wedged against the fence. Who knows how he got in.  I ran out and carried him through the gate and watched the tall grass shudder in his path as he lumbered across the field.  On the way back into the house, I stopped to pull some weeds among the lantana.  Big mistake.  Searing pain.  I couldn’t see my attacker—probably a yellow jacket, maybe a bee.  Within an hour my hand was once again a throbbing orb and the itching and swelling extended above my elbow.   My sympathetic cat tried to lick it and make it better.

The hand is 99% normal today.  My husband, who was out of the country, has returned home.  I am back at work, able to perform surgery.  Still, I am apprehensive.

There is an old medical superstition that bad things come in three’s.  You see two stab wounds in the ER and you know it’s just a matter of time before someone comes in with a gushing jugular.  I feel like Sleeping Beauty on her 16^th birthday, dreading an encounter with a spindle.  I have decided that if I see any animals in distress, they can just do without my help.  Even if a bird flies into the window, or a baby squirrel fall out of the tree.  But what if the neighbor’s pig escapes again?

A letter to my Father

May 17, 2018

Dear Dad,

I had a nice trip up to Baltimore for Susie’s retirement party.  As you will recall, retirement is a bittersweet process, unplugging from a career that provided purpose and friendships.  I was so proud of my little sister.  People said so many wonderful things about her.  They didn’t just talk about what a good job she had done or how effective she had been as a leader.  They appreciated her subtle, dry humor and her patience and fairness.  Some recounted stories of how she had made them feel welcome when they were new to the job and to the city.  She had encouraged many through tough times, and regularly celebrated accomplishments.  One person said that she was the kindest person he had ever known.  Susie, in her typical self-deprecating manner, said to me, “It’s amazing how easy it is to be perceived as kind.”  She is so like you.

We spent the next two days at her house, sorting, tossing, packing, getting her house ready to put on the market.  She will be moving back to Texas.  Of course, our family home was sold several years ago.  Still, she is still going home.  It has been said that “Home is that place where, when you go, they have to let you in.”  But a place is not necessarily a specific a building.  Home is family–people who love you. 

I helped her install a new tile floor in the bathroom--something you would have done, if you had been here.  I found a box of photos that you took 20 years ago, when you helped her to move into this house.  And in another box, I found a letter that I wrote to you in 1979.  Back in those days, before email, before texting, when we actually hand wrote letters.  I will never forget that you wrote a letter to me every day during my first year in college.  This particular letter had to do with Aunt Frances.  She had recently been discharged from the hospital after a prolonged illness.   The nature of the illness wasn’t stated in the letter, but I recall that she fell and broke her arm.  In the hospital, she had a seizure, and it became evident that she was in withdrawal.  For years, she had taken a “stomach medicine” that contained phenobarbital, and she was addicted to it.  We joked about how this sweet little old lady with matching purse and shoes was a junkie.  Frances was very sick, nearly died.  She was never what I would call a pleasant person, and the withdrawal made her much worse.  She said some very hateful things to Mom.   But she was your sister, and you loved her and took care of her.

The old letter that I found was apparently intended as an apology for seeming unsympathetic to Frances.  I said that I was glad that Frances’ ordeal was over.   I said that I had been more worried about you than Frances—that it was such a strain on you. You always know what to say to make people feel better, to help them see the answers to problems.  I said that it was a rare talent, something that I wished I had.  I went on, at some length, to tell you what a wonderful person you are. 

I said that I was sorry that the letter was not more cheery.  But it must have touched your soul, because you kept it, all those years. 

You used to have this saying, “A successful family is a self-destructive unit.”  You meant that in reference to a nuclear family—that children grow up and build home of their own.  But in a larger sense, a successful family is bound together by the kind of love that endures. 

I can’t mail this letter to you.  The postal service does not make deliveries to heaven.  But I can feel you reading over my shoulder.  Give Mom a hug for me.

Love always,

Gayle

The Shape of Toilet Overflow

    I have not seen the movie, THE SHAPE OF WATER.  It wasn’t on the airplane playlist.  But It’s a very catchy title, so I have adapted it for my purposes. 

I’m not talking about the icky mess that requires a plunger.  The floaty ball in the tank failed to shut off the inflow.  Anyway, the shape of the water that greeted us after a long day in the operating room, was a flat, giant amoeba.  We propped the door open so that we could sweep out the water.  Some flies got in, but we don’t really care about that.  They are annoying, but don’t carry malaria.  Only the night mosquitoes do that. The skinny cat with the big ears, who always seems to turn up when we are around, came to the door, desperate for some tuna or at least a hot dog, but he was reluctant to cross the thin waterfall over the threshold. 

It’s ironic.  At breakfast, this morning, I said, “Well, at least we still have water.”  That was just before the woman called to us through the kitchen window, announcing that she was the electrician sent to repair our water heater.  I had to inform her that it would futile at that moment, since the power had been off since sometime after 10 pm last night.  And no, it wasn’t that we hadn’t prepaid the power company.   We had 110 credits when I checked the meter before going to bed.

We had encountered a Goldilocks moment when we arrived back in Tanzania.  We were the bears.  Someone had been sleeping in our house, and he left his stuff.  A receipt indicated he was off climbing Kilimanjaro.  When a young man from Oregon returned on Saturday, intending to stay another week, we told him we were surprised to find someone in our house.  Hands on hips, he declared, “Well, they didn’t tell me you would be here.” He wasn’t aware that had been assigned to the wrong house.

We hired a man from town to repair the fridge on Saturday.  The electrician says the hot water heater is fried and maybe tomorrow he will have the right part.  This afternoon, the power was restored, so we plan to heat up water in the electric kettle for a lukewarm bath.  Tom just announced that he is wading back to the bedroom for a nap.

A little voice says that maybe someone is trying to tell us we shouldn’t be here.  But a great big voice says, “Don’t be ridiculous.  This is exactly where you are supposed to be.  Have you ever felt happier, more alive?” 

There’s the way Kilimanjaro glitters in the sunrise, the rope of ants across the kitchen steps, the grapefruit size tumor removed from a young man’s face (and the three similar sized tumors scheduled for next week), the emergency trach in a baby who choked on gravel, the six-hour throat reconstruction in a woman who has been unable to speak ever since she slashed her own throat 7 months ago, in the throes of post-partum depression.  Monkeys are jumping on our car, coming to beg for bananas. 

We’ll have plenty of hot water when we get home.

Road Trip: The Adventure Begins

The open road beckons:  a six-week odyssey, wending our way from Florida to the east coast of Newfoundland.  We travel in a Tahoe towing a trailer, in the company of two dogs and a cat, visiting friends and family along the way. 

I admit to mixed feelings about this trip.   On the one hand, I am apprehensive and at times my anxiety rises to the level of a sense of doom.  But another part of me says, “Hey, get a grip.  How bad could it be?  Let’s just get it over with.”

The roots of my apprehension are my memories of a family vacation in a recreational vehicle during the summer of ’63.  I was twelve years old and paid close attention during the orientation.  One point that particularly interested me was that you could hear the pump kick in every time you turned on the water.  If the pump ran unceasingly, it meant you were out of water.

 We spent our first night in a campground in Bastrop State Park, in central Texas.  There were no RV hookups.  In those days, such things could only be found in a trailer park.  It was hot that night and my mother wanted to run the air conditioner, which required running the generator.  This was not very popular among the people around us who were sleeping in tents.

In the morning, my father announced that he was going to take a “Navy” shower.  “First you get your body wet, turn of the water,” he explained.  “After you get soaped up, you rinse off.”

He stepped into the tiny bathroom, with the shower head projecting from the wall over the toilet, and we all listed as the water pump kicked in for the first phase of his shower and then stopped.  A few minutes later, the pump kicked in again.  But it didn’t stop.  It droned on as he emerged from the bathroom dotted with soap bubbles.  He didn’t seem that grateful to me when I reminded him of what the man had told us about the water pump.

We did not have a hose to refill the tank.  None of the people around us would lend us a hose.  Generator noise had made our family a pariah.  We drove to a gas station where my father, still coated in bubbles, refilled our tank with water.  When he got back into the driver’s seat, his hand was wrapped in a bloody towel.  My mother asked “What happened?”, but she could not understand his muttered response.  The third time she asked, he shouted, “I cut it on the license plate!!”

I wish I could say that the rest of the trip went smoothly, but the best I can say is that nothing worse happened.  Despite that negative experience, I am taking the plunge once more.  My husband and I bought a third-hand trailer for this trip, and recently took it on a trial run go a campground a few miles from our home.  Facilities for trailers and RV’s have come a long way since 1963.  The sites have water, sewage, and even wi-fi!.  The water hookup was on the wrong side and so we had to run the hose over the picnic table and under the RV, but otherwise things went smoothly.  We only had to return home twice for things we left at home, and then went out for dinner.  There was only one tense moment:  My husband tripped over the water hose, and guess what—cut his finger!!  After a trip to the drug store for band-aids, we decided that one night in the camp was a sufficient trial. 

My parent’s marriage survived that trip more than 50 years ago.  With luck, Tom and I will stay married, too.

Hospitality

“Want to go to Jordan with me?”

This was September, 2013, and so my answer was swift.

“Are you crazy?  We just invaded Iraq.”

Her answer was equally swift.  “So?”

Linda is a New York Speech Pathologist.  She had been invited to lecture at a conference in Amman.  The doctors there asked her to recruit an ENT surgeon to come along to teach them a procedure that restores voice to patients after removal of a cancerous voice box.

It was a worthy project and I wasn’t too busy to go.  I had just relocated to Springfield, Illinois, and my practice hadn’t ramped up yet.  No State Department advisories about travel to Jordan.  So, after a few days of equivocation, I agreed. 

Getting there was easy:  A direct flight from Chicago O’Hare to Amman.  On landing at Queen Aliah airport , I spied three Iraqi passenger jets, grounded since the onset of Desert Storm. 

A couple of other activities had been added to my agenda.  I was immediately whisked from the airport to a conference at the Jordan University of Science and Technology, about an hour north of Amman, near the Syrian border.  In the midst of a sea hijabs, my long blonde hair was exposed for all the world to see.  At first, I was embarrassed, intimidated, thought that I must look like a harlot to them.  But I was received warmly.  I was told that the hajib is a choice, not a commandment.

I lectured in the morning.  In view of my jet lag, I was humanely excused from the afternoon session.  After lunch, when everyone else returned to the conference, I was instructed to wait outside for a driver. 

I stood on the sidewalk, near the curb, gazing at the new and modern buildings that gleamed in the bright sun.  I wasn’t wearing my watch, so I don’t know how long I stood there.  It was long enough for me to be concerned. 

The car that screeched to a stop in front of me was a far cry from the sleek Mercedes that had collected me at the Airport.  This car had seen better days—had a dented fender and needed a paint job.  The driver leapt from the vehicle, grabbed my rollerbag, and motioned for me to get in.

As we sped off, I thanked him for picking me up.  No response.  He leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel tightly.  I couldn’t see the speedometer, but we were moving very fast, and the wind was doing a number on my hair.  I struggled in vain to close the window, but the hand crank was broken. 

I started to wonder, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten into this car.  Who was this driver who would not speak?  What if I’m a hostage?  Visions of beheading videos played out in my mind.  Would I ever see my family again?

My chest felt tight and it hurt to breathe.  I had felt this way once before, when our two year-old son disappeared, briefly, from our home in La Jolla.  We called 911 and searched desperately for what seemed to be forever.  I couldn’t stop thinking, “My son is going to be a picture on a milk carton.”  Within 10 minutes, he reappeared, pedaling up the sidewalk on his tricycle.  He had just toodled off, right under our noses, as my husband and I stood in our driveway, consulting with an architect about a wall to secure our front yard. 

I wouldn’t be on a milk carton.  Worst case scenario, maybe on the news.  And as the car continued southward, I convinced myself that my fears were unfounded.  I resolved to dismiss the dark thoughts and put my trust in the kind people who had arranged the transport. 

Until the car began to decelerate.  As far as I could tell, we were in the middle of nowhere.  To add fuel to my paranoia, a large sedan was parked on the roadside ahead and it was clear that we were pulling in behind it.

The driver of that car got out and turned to face us as we approached.  Two figures stepped out of the rear doors, one on each side, each clad from head to toe in light gray gowns and hijabs.

“My handlers?” I wondered.  My heart pounded in my throat.  I only hesitated a moment after my driver yanked my door open.  What options did I have?  Out in the middle of nowhere? 

As I climbed into the back of the sedan, a bright, voice called to me from the front passenger seat, “Hello there!” 

All was explained.  The passenger in front was a Professor of Midwifery from Australia who had also been lecturing at the same conference.  The sedan was already en route to take her back to Amman when the decision was made to send me back to my hotel, so a second car was dispatched to catch up .  It was a perfectly logical plan.  The only flaw was that my driver didn’t speak English.  Or that I didn’t speak Arabic.

The remainder of the drive delightful.  The two women who flanked me in the back seat were also midwives.  They were charming, intelligent, ardent feminists.  Not as in free loving bra burners.  They were strong and vocal advocates for women’s rights:  education, health care, autonomy…  We arrived at my hotel too soon.

My husband and I have made multiple visits to Jordan to help care for patients and have forged strong friendships with our colleagues there.  It is not a wealthy country—no massive mineral resources—but is the most compassionate and hospitable place I have ever been.  Consider the ratio of refugees to the general population.  At my last visit, the Iraqi jets were still on the runway.

DAWN AS A DRAGON

Dusk and dawn are two sides of the same coin—sunlight refracted by the atmosphere, the same colors and intensity of light, but in reverse order of appearance.

I have long been a fan of sunsets.  We hear a lot about rainbows—the Bible says they are a sign of God’s promise not to destroy the world by flood again.  He seems to be leaving that task up to us, now, as we saturate the air with CO2, melt the ice caps.  I think sunsets are a much more hopeful sign.

You never know what the sky will look like as we rotate in andout of sunlight.  Sometimes it is gold and rosy, sometimes clouds completely blot out the spectacle, and sometimes the sky is so perfectly clear that the sun just plops under the horizon.  But a beautiful sunset, when you get a chance to see it, can fill you with peace.  If you’re not starving, and you have a comfortable bed somewhere, a sunset gives hope that tomorrow will be better—if not immediate tomorrow, the very next day, then the future, however distant.

Dawn was not often my cup of tea in the first half of my life.  I preferred to sleep in.  And when I did arise early, it was because I had something to do.  I was full of purpose, on a mission, no time to meditate on the horizon.  As a child, I clung so stubbornly to my bed that I never had time for breakfast and was often late for school.  As a solution, my father took to waking me before sunrise, to engage me in some task, feeding the chickens, tending to the horses, milking the cows.  That was fun, and I was ready for school on time.  One summer, I joined the swim team, and the sun was usually a bright red ball on the horizon as my mother drove us to practice.

I have become more of a dawn person in my later years, in retirement.  A major activity each day is a long morning walk with my husband and our dogs, before the heat of the day sets in.  But I still prefer sunsets, looking across the Indian River Lagoon with a glass of wine, as we look forward to a good night’s sleep, with pleasant dreams.

Dusk and dawn look very different, depending on where you are.  From the west coast of Zanzibar, sunset is breath-taking.  But on the east coast, it is dawn that inspires awe.  Long before the sun rises from the sea, its light can play through tall thunder clouds and patchy rain showers.  The orange orb turns yellow, then becomes too bright for our eyes, as it burns away the mist, bakes the sand on the beach.

Dawn is a fire breathing dragon, that cremates last night’s dreams and nightmares.