The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 5

Millie’s memories continue

Several days later as I walked down the hall with my lunch bag I saw Robbie.  “Hi, where are you headed?” I asked him.

 

“Just going out to sit and have lunch under the maple tree by the swings.”

“Could I come out with you?”  A look of surprise came across Robbie’s face—which probably matched the shock I felt at my own boldness.

“Sure, if you want to.”  I followed him out.  The grade school students were already back in their classrooms, and the junior high and high school kids usually didn’t come to this part of the school yard.  I felt less conspicuous.  Even in the North—which prided itself on being more progressive than the South, a Negro boy and a white girl sitting together was not accepted.

“Momma really liked your gift,” Robbie said as we sat down.

An uncomfortable silence followed.  “Millie, why did you want to come out and sit with me?”

“I don’t know, Robbie.  I like you.  Is it OK to like you?”

“Yeah, I guess so, but I’ve never had a white girl want to have lunch with me.  Did your friends put you up to this?”  I instantly felt hurt.

“Robbie, I’m really sorry if it bothers you to eat with a white girl.  I want to be your friend.  I think you’re nice.  I don’t have any motive—at least I don’t think so.”   I picked up my lunch sack and walked back into the building.

For several days I felt awful.   I got in a fight with my best friend Rita.  I didn’t want to talk to anyone.  Our little town was as redneck as most other small towns.  No one would understand why I’d want to be friends with a Negro.

About a week after the lunch time incident, I was practicing a twirling routine with the other majorettes while the band practiced.  When we finished I ran into the room across the hall to grab my books and head home.  A pink rose lay on top of my notebook with an envelope tucked inside.  At first I thought I must have grabbed the wrong books.  When I saw the name Millie on the front of the envelope, I opened it immediately.   

Millie, I am sorry I was rude.  I would like to be your friend.  Robbie.

I felt a constriction in my throat.  I felt light-headed.  I sat down and looked at the note again.  And the rose—a pink rose!  I quickly put the note back in the book and hid the rose from sight as I walked out of the building to hurry home to the privacy of my bedroom.

“Millie, where’d you get the flower?  I hope you didn’t take it out of Mrs. Ryan’s rose garden!”  My mother was always suspicious of my stealing flowers—we didn’t grow any and I loved having fresh flowers in the house.

“No, Mom, a friend gave it to me.  I’m going to put it in a vase in my room.”  I opened the note once again.  My heart still pounded when I saw his handwriting.  Nice--not the scrawling of most of the boys in my class.

On the last day of school I saw Robbie leaving the building.  “Thank you so much for the rose and note.  I’m so sorry about the other day.  I was confused and I don’t always make myself very clear.”

“Millie, you were fine.  I’ve never had a white girl want to talk to me.  I’m really sorry if I hurt you.”   People began congregating so we said good bye.  I hoped that I wouldn’t have to wait until fall to see him again.  My father would have a fit if he knew that I even talked with a Negro.  Several months before I’d had a crush on a boy.  He had beautiful olive skin.  My dad got furious when I visited him in the hospital after he’d broken his leg in a car accident.  I didn’t even want to think about what Dad would do if he knew I was friends with a Negro!

                             To Be Continued...

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 4

Millie’s memories continue…

The following week I looked for Robbie at school.  Since I’d never seen him there I had no idea what halls he used between classes.  On Wednesday, Mrs. Boyd asked me to take the attendance report to the office, and as I passed a classroom I noticed Robbie with his head down in a book.

I hurried back to my class, but as soon as the bell rang at the end of the period, I raced toward his classroom.  As students started coming out the door, I pretended I was checking through my papers, and looked up just as Robbie came out.

“Hi, Robbie,” I said with a big smile.

 

“Well, you look a lot better than you did a week ago!”

“I’m feeling lots better.  I must have been in pretty sad shape when you saw me.”  There was something about him that I liked.  “Your mother is so nice.  I want to do something to thank her.  I’d like to buy her something.  What would she like?”

 

“Momma doesn’t expect anything.  She likes helping people.”

“But I’d rather find something that I know she’d like.”  I babysat for 25 cents an hour so it took a long time to earn enough to make a nice purchase.  I wanted to spend my money well.

When Robbie saw I was serious he thought for a minute and said, “She irons for people and her hands get real dry.  Some hand lotion would be nice.”  The bell rang then and we both ran in opposite directions to our next class.

Friday night I babysat.  With that money and some I had saved, I’d have enough to get some nice hand lotion.   Saturday morning I went to the Five and Dime Store and found a bottle of Jergens Hand Cream in a gift box.

“Well, Millie, that sure is a nice bottle of lotion.  Are you getting this for your Mother?”  Nothing is done anonymously in a town the size of New Castle.  Everyone knows everyone else’s business.

“No, Mrs. Conover.  I’m buying it for a friend,”  It wasn’t any of her business!    At home I wrapped it up with a blue bow and attached a note,  

Thank you, Mrs. Robbins, for being 

so nice to me when I wrecked my bike.   

I am much better now.   

Millie

Dad was home for the weekend, but he usually slept on Saturday afternoons.  Mother had paid Mr. Moz to fix my bike, so I was ready to set off.

“Where are you going, Millie?” Mother asked as I headed out the door.

 

“For a ride.”  I didn’t want to give any details in case Dad asked.  Mom and Dad had enough arguments—often over me.   I didn’t want to add one more to their already exhausting list.

I arrived at the Robbins’ home and knocked.   I heard noise at the back of the house and then, “Well, hi, Millie!  You’re sure lookin’ better!”  Mrs. Robbins had such a beautiful smile—actually it looked just like Robbie’s.

She invited me in and I gave her the gift.  At 13, I hadn’t often bought a gift for adults other than my parents or grandparents, so I was pretty nervous.  When Mrs. Robbins opened the package and read the card, tears came to her eyes.  “You are so thoughtful, Millie!  Goodness gracious, I didn’t expect anything.”  When I saw her happiness it gave me a good feeling inside.

She served us lemonade and we chatted for a little while.  She talked about ironing for people.  “Some would say that ironing for others is beneath them, but I love to see pretty clothes all neat and tidy.  And my customers are happy when they look nice and I know I’ve helped with that.”

  I left in about a half hour.  Robbie hadn’t been home and I felt disappointed. 

                                             To Be Continued...

Kickin' Cancer's Ass....Together!!

Most all of us know that bad things happen to good people; life can really suck sometimes; and there are days when we all wish we could stay in bed rather than look into the face of you fill in the blank.  But, as we're so often told, since it's going to happen anyway, why not learn from the circumstances.

At my age, I've had to make that choice many times.  And now I'm again confronted with the opportunity...  When Jennifer was first diagnosed with cancer it took me awhile to comprehend the enormity of it--of course I felt all the emotions of grief and sadness, but I think it was when I saw her hair begin to come out as a result of the chemo that I felt the gut-wrenching reality of it.  

Today, I'm hearing another diagnosis for my youngest daughter, with yet more reason to wait and see what treatment, what exhaustion, what needs, what costs.... 

Already I see evidence of what I didn't fully understand before the first diagnosis--

1.  Jen is a woman of strength and courage--she has been sorely tested and passed with flying colors!

2.  Vic is there for her at all times;  whether through laughter, tears, and more often, teasing, there is a pretty amazing connect in their relationship.

3.  Katie and Jack--the kids grew up a lot through the first bout by stepping up to the plate through dish washing, laundry, cooking, and yes, a sense of humor, they were awesome!

4.  Vic's parents and siblings stepped in many times to fill whatever the need.

5.  Jen's sense of humor--sometimes caustic and most often self-deprecating--gives us all reason to laugh instead of cry or kick the cat...

6.  I had known at least some of all of the above prior to the OJ crisis.  But what touched me, and provided the learning-for-survival most was the rallying of Jen and Vic's friends.   I see that in evidence already...

                       We are Kickin' Cancer's Ass...Together!! 

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 3

Millie revisits May, 1956

                                                                

            I’d looked ahead at the long, unpaved stretch of road for just a second when my front bike tire turned sharply into loose gravel.  Before I knew it, I was headed into the ditch, plummeting down the embankment.  I screamed as I landed in topsy-turvy fashion.  Blood ran down my left arm, and my knees were covered with a mixture of blood, dirt and tiny pebbles.  My new yellow shorts and top were covered with dust and torn in several places.  I started crying, hurting all over and feeling alone and helpless.

            Corn fields lined both sides of the road.  No human in sight.  I put my head down in the warm dirt.  What could I do?  No one knew where I was.  Several minutes must have gone by when a shadow fell over me and I looked up.  The sun reflected around the shape of a person.    “Honey, are you OK?” a voice asked.    I immediately started crying again.   She stepped down into the ditch and took the bike off my legs as she looked me over.  “I don’t think anything’s broken.  You stay there and I’ll get my wagon and take you to my house and we’ll get you cleaned up.”   

            Did she say wagon?  I felt disoriented.  Within a few minutes she returned.  

            “Here, Honey, let me help you.”  I tried to move but nothing worked.  She put her arms under mine and slowly I stood on wobbly, muddy, bloody legs.  Coming out of the ditch, I saw an old Red Flyer wagon.  “You sit down and I’ll pull you home.  It’s just a short piece up this road.”  I felt too sore and weak to think except that I wanted to let my mother know what happened.  Sitting upright in the wagon I closed my eyes.

In a short time I felt the wagon change direction and opened my eyes as we went through an old wooden gate.  “Honey, what’s your name?”  

            “Millie Jordan,” I replied.  “Where am I?”  

            “Well, you may know this place as Nigger Town, but we just call it our little settlement.”

Yes, she was a Negro.  I gazed at my surroundings for the first time.  A long row of shanty-like houses lined both sides of the road—all badly in need of paint with outhouses in the back yards.  My dad had talked about “Nigger Town” and how dirty these people lived.  “No good whites go near that place!” he’d rant after a few beers.   

            “Honey, I’m Rosie Robbins,” she said as she helped me stand and walk into her house.  I really did feel faint and leaned on her.  “That’s right you let me take care of you.”

            As we entered her front room, I looked around.  The walls were a light shade of blue.  An old gray sofa and chair with crisp white doilies on the backs and arms sat against a side wall.  A colorful, flower print linoleum covered the floor.   

            She helped me walk through to the kitchen.  It was bright and cheerful—yellow walls and a red table with four white painted chairs.  A hand pump was located at one end of the kitchen sink.  Windows lined the back wall.  This was cheerful and very clean—one more distortion to chalk up to my father.

            Just as Rosie Robbins led me to a kitchen chair, the back door opened.  In walked a basketball player.  I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t put more to his identity, but I recognized him only because of our high school basketball games.  I don’t think I’d ever seen him in the halls at school although I knew he attended my school.  And I had no idea what his name was.

            “Hi,” I said.   

He looked down at my scrapes and scratches and said, “What happened to you?” I’d never been so close to him.   He towered over me.  His dark brown skin looked shiny like he’d been working in the sun.  

“I fell off my bike.”  Again I felt like crying, but didn’t want to look like a baby in his presence.

“Robbie, get my medicine box in the other room.”   As he left, I looked up at my benefactor.  Mrs. Robbins was a large woman with the kindest smile I’d ever seen.   Her hands were calloused and almost looked like a man’s.  When Robbie returned, she said quickly, “I need the mercurochrome and tweezers.  She’s got so many rocks in her arms and knees we can fill the holes in the road when I finish with her.”  Mrs. Robbins smiled while she went through the painful job of cleansing my wounds.  I winced as she continued her work though I felt her gentleness as she touched me.

“Do you have a telephone so I can call my mother?”  It was just late afternoon but I knew Mother would be worried if I were too late.

“Sorry, Honey, we don’t have a telephone.  I’m not sure your bike is ride-able, so I’ll see if Robbie’s grandfather can take you home.”  I was relieved to know that I could go home.  I’d never been in a Negro’s home before, and although it was obvious that Mrs. Robbins was very nice, I still felt strange.  

“Robbie, go over to the Jeffersons’.  I think your grandpa is there.  See if he can take Millie home after I get her cleaned up.”

A few minutes later an older man walked in with Robbie.  I smiled weakly.   “Well what happened to you, Girly?”  He leaned down and looked more closely at me.  “Looks like you went through a meat grinder!” he smiled as his tobacco stained teeth peeked out his full black lips.  It was then that I recognized him.  

“Hi, Mr. Moz, I’m Millie, Fran Jordan’s daughter.”  Mr. Moz was our garbage collector.  His old truck rumbled down the alley behind our upstairs apartment each week.  I’d never seen him dressed in anything other than old dirty, holey, black coveralls.  Today there were no coveralls though his shirt and pants had seen lots of wear. 

“Poppa Moz, could you take Millie home?  Her bike’s front wheel is all bent and she can’t walk home—that’s for sure!”  Mrs. Robbins seemed to have a lot of concern for me.  I was actually beginning to feel comfortable.

“Well, I can take her now, or just wait and drop her off when I pick up her garbage tomorrow!” a teasing smile covered his face.  I returned the smile.

“Millie, try to stand and let’s make sure you don’t faint.  You’re as white as a ghost!”  Mrs. Robbins helped me from the chair.  I slowly stood.  

“I think I’ll be OK now.  I really thank you for all your help, Mrs. Robbins.  I don’t know what I’d have done by myself.”  She reached over and gave me a warm hug.

“Now, Robbie, you go with your grandfather and make sure Millie gets into her house OK.”

Our drive home was quiet except for the sound of the motor.  I’d ridden in many old trucks.  My dad and uncle never had anything clean and new, but I’d never sat between two Negroes.  I just didn’t know what to say, and my mind wasn’t working quite right yet.  I really just wanted to crawl into bed!

Mr. Moz and Robbie walked on either side of me to make sure I didn’t fall as I approached our front door.   When Mother saw me she was shocked, “You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder.”  Mr. Moz and Robbie began laughing. 

“That’s just what I told her Ms Fran.  And her bike ain’t in much better shape,” Mr. Moz obviously felt comfortable with Mother.  I knew she often invited him into the restaurant where she worked and she’d give him breakfast.  Mother thanked them and we went into the house.  I was glad that Dad had a Chicago haul that week and wouldn’t be home until the weekend.  

Mother suggested that I get right into bed and she brought me a bowl of soup.   “Mother, I don’t think they have a bathroom.  I’m sure there were outhouses in all the backyards out there where they live.”  I just couldn’t bring myself to say Nigger Town.

“You’re probably right, but just remember it wasn’t that long ago that we didn’t have indoor plumbing.”  Sure I remembered that.  But it still seemed strange.  Like maybe a really good basketball player should have a bathroom.  

                             To Be Continued...

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 2

September 9, 1975

Dear Millie,

            Remember me?  Goodness, what were we, 14 and 15, the last time we saw one another?  Mother told me you came by when your family visited New Castle, but I was with Dad in Georgia that summer.  

            Big news!  I graduated from Franklin Law School of Capital University in June and just passed my Boards.  I am now an attorney!  

Seems like such a long time ago that we were friends.   I remember our talks and all those tuna fish sandwiches on our picnics!  And I think about how you told me so often to let go of my anger.  Not sure it is totally gone, but at least now I hope to direct it in a positive way.  I’ll be moving to Alabama to join the Southern Poverty Law Center in Montgomery.  It’s an organization that began in 1971 to fight discrimination.  

            No wife yet, or on the horizon—just too busy studying the last few years to get serious. 

            I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about our family.  My father died as a result of a beating during a civil rights march in Alabama in June 1964.   He was a man I admired.  It nearly killed my mother—she was never the same after that.  Two years ago my grandfather—remember Moz?—had an accident with his garbage truck.  He lived for five days, but his injuries were really bad—broken back and punctured lungs. 

            Six months ago Momma was diagnosed with cancer.  She lived to see me graduate.  Nobody left but me.  

            I would love to hear from you.  You’re probably a wife and mother by now—or did you throw all that away and go off and become a writer?

            I want you to know that during some of the tough times, the memories of our talks kept my head aimed in the right direction.

Always your friend,

                        Robbie

            Millie folded the letter and realized her hands were shaking.  Her mind went back to her adolescent years.  

                                                        To Be Continued...

The Black and White of It All...

I have enjoyed writing for years, creating numerous stories, but never knew what to do with them.  Now that I have my blog, I thought it might be fun--or boring or laughable or sad or comical....--to share them in serialized form.  Would love to get your comments!  Here goes -- Chapter 1...

                                               The Black and White of It All

          Millie sat looking into the stream’s movement.  She had so carefully laid rocks along this 10-foot strip where she often meditated.  Millie loved the communicating sounds of nature.  She often wondered if this language had universal understanding—the swirl of her creek fully comprehending the rustling of the leaves and the soft, quiet movement of deer, bear, and cougar whose tracks Millie often recognized.   And then there was Gilly—her 4-legged part Ridgeback, mostly mutt—who understood her movements before she did.  Surely all of nature has extra sensory antenna that enables them to communicate.

 Millie’s seven acres, an insignificant plot tucked away in the Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon, became Millie’s sanctuary the moment she saw it.  Friends had discouraged her saying that it would be too much to care for—retirement was for relaxation, they’d tell her.  But not for one moment had she regretted her choice to live on this beautiful land.  

The house sat in a grove of maple and blue spruce planted by the former owners.  These lovely gifts of nature stood far enough away from the house that the large windows in all the rooms took in light and sunshine most of the day.   A stream meandered through the trees—the perfect sight for quiet meditation.

Today Millie didn't linger by the creek as she often did—the temperature had dipped during the night and the cool morning felt a bit too brisk.  Also her list of errands was long—Grange Coop, grocery store, haircut, and lunch with a friend.  

Since she hadn’t gotten her mail for several days, Millie trekked down her driveway to the mailbox.   Walking back up the lane, she shuffled through the stack of catalogs, two books she’d purchased on the internet, and other miscellaneous junk.  Among the pile she noticed a discolored envelope.  

Millie wondered if this could be an ad trying to appear time-honored.  Then seeing the return address, she felt a knot form in her chest.

Stepping onto her front porch, the red front door framed the bedraggled envelope as matting on an antique picture.  The postage date was unreadable.  Millie went into the kitchen and poured a cup of tea.  Sitting down, she took the letter from the envelop and saw that it had been written nearly 40 years ago.

                                                  To Be Continued...

 

The gray-sludge blues...

At the beginning of each year, as soon as my Christmas decorations are packed away, I begin searching for signs of spring.  I'm well aware that we're just a couple of weeks into winter.  But when the Rogue Valley is hit with inversions that bring horrible air quality, and the gray-sludge that stays around for days on end, I'm ready to crawl into my memory foam mattress and hibernate until a hint of blue sky is seen on the horizon.

I'm glad I live where we have four seasons--but I see no reason they all last three months.  This is my ideal:  Spring, 5 months; Summer, 1 1/2 months; Fall, 5 months; Winter, 2 weeks.  Makes sense to me.  Unfortunately, the Maker-of-Seasons never consulted me when she put the weather patterns into the realm of world phenomenon.  Consequently, I look out my windows and see gray sludge much of December and January.

Perhaps if I were a true artist and looked at my surroundings as more of a poetic setting, I could write alluring words to describe the view with romance and beauty.  But I just can't give eloquence and style to cloudy, damp, hazy, gray sludge--nope, can't take it to that level...

Yet hope isn't completely lost.  This morning I actually saw tiny green shoots peeking through the tired, cold ground.  A good omen?  I see promise.

So just maybe--the sun'll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there'll be sun...

 

Customs, culture, and charity...

Living overseas—away from friends and family—one becomes childlike at the prospect of letters from home.  I'd race to the mailbox each day hoping for at least one.  However real excitement took over when a customs slip appeared in my mailbox—that meant a package awaited at the post office!   The procedure to obtain the parcel was to give the customs slip and 23 shillings to the university driver who picked up the item in town the next day.   On one such occasion, the customs slip said I owed 1,427 shillings.  I knew the parcel was from my brother when I read the zip code which also meant that, though the contents would be fun to receive, they did not warrant such a large customs charge.

            Two days later, I drove into Eldoret to confront the post office.    Behind the counter were two women and a man—each in dark brown uniforms.  I walked up to the counter and stood...and stood...and stood—a good 10 minutes, while the uniformed man read a newspaper.  No clearing my throat or tapping on the counter roused his attention.   The area held one desk at which the man sat and a small table where two young women wrote on forms making carbon copies—by its appearance, carbon paper in its third year of use.  Looking around at the filthy forms covering the counter I wondered if I should stop off at the health department for shots after leaving the premises...  another attitude adjustment in the offing.  Finally the man put the paper down, folded it, and got up to face me.  “Madam, may I help you?”

            “I have a customs slip and need to pick up a package.”   He looked at the slip of paper I handed him.

            “You owe 1,427 shillings.” Did I detect a gleam in his eye?  “You can pay me and I’ll get your package.”

            “Well, you see,” I began, “there’s been some mistake.  That charge is too much, but I will pay the usual fee to get my package.”  The man told me to wait.

            Fifteen minutes later he returned and asked me to follow him.  I entered a dingy office where another man sat behind another desk.  This gentleman had brass on his shoulders—obviously more rank!  Across the room a woman sat at a small table.  Apparently women aren't allowed desks....  

            The customs agent asked with a big smile, “What can I do for you?”   Obviously he’d seen the amount owed on the customs slip—another attitude adjustment  alert....   I explained that the box, which now lay on his desk, was from my brother and I wanted to pick it up.  “Yes, you may have it when you pay 1,427 shillings,” he said, another smile illuminating his perfect white teeth. 

            Surely this was a reasonable man.  “No, you don’t understand.  This charge is too much.  That’s more than the package is worth.  I can’t pay that but I want my package.”

            “I’m sorry, Madam, but you must pay before you can have the package.  If you do not pay, I will have to keep the box.”

            OK, power play alert!  “No sir, I am not going to pay it.  You and I both know that if I don’t get my package that you’ll take it home tonight.  But I’ll tell you what—I will open the box and you can have anything you want out of it.  And I’ll give your secretary whatever she likes as well.”  At this the secretary smiled.  The man stood up—hmmm, he was a big guy….  

            The customs agent left the room while I began opening the package.  When he returned about 10 minutes later, he again sat at his desk and said with a smile, “Let us begin this once again.”

            I smiled and said, “Yes, Sir!  Habari aku,” as I stretched my hand out in a greeting.

            Again his beautiful white teeth gleamed as he responded, “Mazuri sanna.”  He then produced a new customs slip.  This one had no charges on it.

            By this time, the entire contents of the package were on display—toothpaste, peanut butter, hand lotion, gum, note pads, stomach acids—all treasures because they were from my brother in the States.  I turned to the secretary and told her to select what she would like.  She smiled shyly but was reluctant to step forward.  I looked over my loot and handed her a bottle of hand lotion.  Then I turned back to the customs agent.  “Now you choose something you would like,” I said holding my arm out to show the items.   He said he didn’t want to take anything.  I placed the jar of peanut butter in his hand and told him it was a gift for his wife.  He smiled and accepted it graciously.

            It was so easy for me to stand there and judge—old carbon paper, women working at small tables, men doing little but sitting at large desks, offices that hadn’t seen a good cleaning in years, and, yes, I do believe they were trying to take advantage of me.  But peeking behind and underneath, and seeing a bigger picture, I had so much to learn.... 
             There is the story of a man who visited an African village.  He was offered a hut to stay in.  The next day when he returned from visiting the village school, he saw a man wearing a shirt that had obviously been taken from his suitcase.  He walked up to the man and asked why he was wearing his shirt.  The old man said, "Because you had two, and I had none."
              Another lesson in customs, culture and charity.

You never understand a person until you consider

things from his point of view.

 --- Harper Lee 

            

...but how much did you spend?

I've always enjoyed a good buy--preferably a gigantic sale.  I love that giddy feeling that envelops you when what you're wearing or eating or sitting on cost much less than the ticket price.  Whenever I make a purchase of great savings my daughters get a call.  I mean, why keep such great achievements a secret?  (The first year I moved to Oregon from Washington, I automatically counted NOT paying sales tax as a savings....yeah, that borders on addictive tendencies...)

Earlier this week I had such an adrenaline-pumping experience!  A friend and I went to Costco--I don't have a membership, so rarely walk through those doors into the gigantically cavernous space that, according to David Sedaris, has its own weather system.

Item by item I ticked from my list.  Wow!  Look at that!  And better yet, see the price!  I must have it--and with the 1000 count, I won't have to replenish my supply until...until I'm dead.  But it's such a good bargain!   Dishwasher soap, craisins, almonds, rubber bands, chicken broth, toilet paper, band aides, mouthwash...and aren't those sweaters cute?  (Shades of  Did You Hear About the Morgans? enter the warehouse-of-the-century atmosphere.)

$836.49 later--that's between my friend and me--and with everything now put away, I'm looking at my checkbook balance--and even more thought provoking, remembering a conversation of many years ago.  Honey, I saved you sooo much money today! I'd chirp happily to my Girls' dad.    The corners of his mouth would turn up slightly as he responded,  All I want to know is how much you spent.

Perhaps I should take a breather from shopping for just a short while...  

Meeting the Mzee continues...

As we sit sipping our tea, I introduce myself and tell the old mzee I have come from the United States to teach at a university nearby, I want to learn all I can about the Kenyan people.   As he listens to the translator, his eyes light up. 

I learn the gentleman’s name is Ochieng Odinga. He is a Luo and with fierce pride, the mzee speaks of his tribe as a proud people, fishermen, who did not have their land taken during the British rule as many other tribes did.  The Luos, he continued, played an important part in the independence of Kenya.

He tells me that he was born in a hut near Lake Victoria on the outskirts of Kisumu—which was then just a village.  He thinks he’s about 70 years, and has four wives and 27 children—12 sons!  

As he talks, his face goes from the gentle look that first attracted me to one of animation.  He speaks quickly and with many gestures—hands flying and eyes sparkling as he talks of his children. 

I glance at my watch.  It’s nearly lunchtime, and I remember that I had only a cup of tea earlier.  I ask our translator if he has chips.  Kenyan chips—better known as french fries to Americans are what muzungus—white foreigners—eat regularly at the kiosks doting the countryside.  Though thoroughly unhealthy—they are cooked in hot grease—so are presumed “safe” for foreigners.  (I never had the courage to ask how long the oil was used before being thrown out!)   But even at 15 shillings, chips are too expensive for many Kenyans.  When the food arrives, I enjoy watching Mr. Odinga eat with gusto.

I’m just about to suggest that I’ve taken too much of my friend’s time when he asks if I’d like to visit his home.  “Ndiyo, ndiyo!” I respond enthusiastically.

His home is about a kilometer from the village.  We walk on hardened red dirt and mostly shaded paths.  I feel like a child following the Pied Piper as I walk behind him to his home.   Along the way, children run out from their shambas to greet us yelling “muzungu, muzungu” as they reach out to touch my hand.  In rural areas, whites are not often seen.

When we arrive at his kiwanja, his plot of land, his wives come out to greet me.  I have no doubt that through the infamous Kenyan-grapevine his family knew of my impending arrival.   The wives appear to be lined up according to age—which seems to be from about 25 to 65.  The ages of the children vary accordingly.  Mr. Odinga proudly tells me that five of his sons live in nearby Kisumu where they work.  After the introductions, done amazingly well without a translator, one of his wives leaves and goes inside a hut.  When she returns, she offers me a bottle of soda.  I bow in respect saying “Asante sana”.  Hospitality is not undermined by poverty.

Mr. Odinga takes me into his garden—tended by his wives.  The produce includes most everything I saw earlier at the market.  Chickens run around cackling as the youngest children follow me closely.  I ask if I can take their pictures.  They are excited and quickly line up.  Why don’t I take a single picture of each person I suggest?  They love that idea. 

As I prepare to leave, my new friend accompanies me back to the village—this time with several of his children.

As we near my car, I turn to him and ask, “Kumbatia?”  I want to hug this dear, gracious man, but don’t want to offend him with my forwardness.  He smiles his toothless smile and puts his arms out.  I assure him that I will return in a week or two with his pictures.

I pay the askari and get into my car..  As I drive away I look in my rearview mirror and see my new friend and his family standing in the dust of my car.

What a privilege to have had this intimate experience with the mzee.   Besides hearing his life story, his soul has touched me.  I doubt that this old man can read or write, yet even in his life of poverty—lacking most all in life that I find essential—he is a man of great pride and dignity.  His picture below, minus his jacket, speaks to me of age and wisdom and character.  I love looking at this man who allowed me to intrude into his world.

Meeting the Mzee...

I love telling stories  --  here is one in two parts...

While living in Kenya, I’d often go to a nearby village to shop in their open market—picking up fresh fruits and veggies.  On one such day I parked where an askari was on duty—for just a few shillings my car will be protected.   

This small village seems to appear out of nowhere.  Shops line one side of a distance no longer than a city block.  An open grassy area is filled with entrepreneurs selling used clothing; red hot gekos roasting corn on the cob; and peanuts encased in small newspaper cones.

On the boarded walkway in front of the shops a young man sits at an ancient Singer treadle sewing machine.  Behind him are simply made men’s shirts and women’s dresses in colorful African cloth.  Next to him, an old man repairs shoes.  Inside the shops—no larger than 8 x 10 feet—one can purchase anything from shoe laces to loaves of bread to cans of motor oil.

I smile and wave a greeting at some children as I start down a hill behind the shops.  Over the years, erosion and hundreds of bare feet have formed irregular trails winding their way down to the open market below.  Rickety wooden tables hold tomatoes, sukumuwiki, bananas, potatoes, fish, eggs, and live chickens.   The market place gives my Kiswahili ample practice.  Beautiful white teeth stand out against a deep brown face as smiles compliment my attempts at learning new words.  As my load of produce grows, a young boy approaches to ask if he can help carry my purchases.  I happily give him my burdens and a few shillings for his work and ask him to take them to my car.  Without giving directions, he knows which vehicle is mine.

I’m about to ascend the uneven path up to the shops when I glance in the direction of laughing, playing children.  There, standing under an acacia tree, is an old man—small, with deep creases on his face that remind me of the footpaths that form the transportation system in Kenya.  He stands erect, almost regally poised, holding on to his staff—an old, smoothly worn tree limb. 

His dress is typical of a poor man in Kenya.  A suit jacket, threadbare and several sizes too large—probably purchased years before from a pile of used clothing.   His trousers drag the ground around his calloused feet.  He wears a white shirt—I’m always amazed at how whites stay white when wash water is often darker than strong tea.   His tie is a swirl of color, four inches at its widest, reminding me of years and fashions gone by.  Yet in all this, I see a man of great dignity. 

I enjoy making friends in my newly adopted country, so I walk over to him.  I lower my head and bow as I say, “Habari yako, mzee”--I want to greet him with the respect he deserves.  He returns my greeting, and his smile reveals the hole left from six teeth extracted from the mouth of Luo men during their initiation.

Once again, I try my limited Kiswahili.  “Mimi kamata enu picha?”   Kenyans love to have their pictures taken—with a promise they will receive a copy.  Photography is a hobby of the rich!

He looks confused until I show him my camera—obviously my Kiswahili needs more practice.  Also many rural Kenyans, especially the elderly, only speak their tribal tongue.  He smiles again and replies, “Ndiyo.”   I take several pictures and with each one he stands in his kingly, dignified way.  Within a few minutes, a small crowd has gathered—obviously a camera in a poor village draws a lot of attention.  I ask if anyone speaks English.   A gentleman steps forward and offers to help.

“Can you ask the mzee if I can buy him some chai?”  We proceed to a small building with a crude table set in the dirt—shaded overhead by a torn canvas.  My translator is also the shop owner.  He goes inside to get the chai, and when he returns, joins us.   

                                                 To be continued...

Wisdom of the Age-ing...

I recently watched Calendar Girls for the umpteenth time.  When it first came out, I suggested to my friends that we should also do such a calendar--ten years later, I've still not convinced them...

One line from the movie wraps around my heart,  "The flowers of Yorkshire are like the women of Yorkshire; every stage of growth has its own beauty, but the last stage is the most glorious."  These words inspire me to see the beauty of age.  Yes, the beauty of contribution.  We've all contributed something worthwhile, haven't we?

My constant coffee table book is Wise Women--A Celebration of Their Insights, Courage, and Beauty (published in 2002) presenting photographs by Joyce Tenneson.  The book not only features the amazing images of women from 65 to 100 years of age, but offers their thoughts on life. 

Here are some of the thoughts that keep me grounded in their wisdom...

The most important thing is to try and enjoy life

--because you never know when it will be gone.  

If you wake up in the morning and you have a choice between doing the laundry

 and taking a walk in the park, go for the walk.  

You'd hate to die and realize you had spent your last day doing the laundry!  

---Christine Lee

Life is short but it is wide--it is so magical

--filled with mystery and wonder.  

Butterflies are special to me.  

Their life is the examined life--it has passion, purpose, and a destiny.  

---Joan D'Arcy

A sage knows there is both the wisdom of the universe and of man

--and finds a balance between the two. 

---Clara Holm

I went to a Quaker boarding school.  They believed in fostering the one or two things 

they saw as your center.  For me it was acting.  

I've never been interested in "success," which is so ephemeral.  

For me success is having the respect and love of people who truly know you. 

---Dame Judi Dench

I don't need a mirror to see how I look.  

Long ago, I realized the inner self is visible 

if you present yourself truthfully and authentically.  

I'm comfortable with getting older.  I have lived a good life.  

---Geraldine Smith