Casablanca has Rick’s Cafe, the 2nd largest religious building in the world and STARBUCKS!

We were without internet in the house for the past two days, and once over the initial “now what?”… I have to admit, it was nice.  Something I remember fondly from my time volunteering in Perú is conversation.  The four 20-somethings in the house did not share that sentiment. Not knowing what to do with their hands, their minds, or their attention, they left the house for some nightlife.  Dee Dee, Mimi, and I sat around and chatted… something I’ve missed. But now it’s back and we’re all connected, especially the 20-somethings, who appear to have regained their will to live.

This morning, I took the train to Casablanca, a little over an hour away, with Mimi and Dee Dee. Our first sense of accomplishment came early, as we successfully navigated the prompts on the machine where we purchased our tickets.  Suffice it to say, it took several attempts, but when tickets appeared (and even in the right place) and change popped out of the orange slot on the machine, there was a unanimous sigh of relief.  People are very friendly and helpful here, although that help usually comes in the form of French, not English.  Few (I can count on one hand) have been able to offer assistance in English, but I expected that.

The station and the train were both immaculate and modern, making for a nice, easy ride. The station in Casablanca was a beautiful surprise, almost like a large shopping center, although most of the stores were closed.  Today is a national holiday for the Moroccans, which is why we weren’t working and could travel.  There are many national holidays in this country, and we will have next Tuesday off as well.  Today was the celebration of Morocco’s takeover of Western Sahara from Spain.
Much to our surprise and delight, we were greeted with a two-story Starbucks as we made our way up from the platform… a very welcome sight!  A  couple of sips into my coffee made me realize how bad the coffee at the house is.  It’s instant coffee that’s been boiled and is served with hot milk.  Tea doesn’t seem to be available unless it’s the traditional Moroccan mint tea, which is only served at lunch, and with far more sugar than I’m generally used to.  I don’t usually visit American sites when traveling outside the country, but I was thrilled to enjoy a Starbucks this morning.

The main attraction in Casablanca is the Hassan II Mosque, the 2nd largest religious building in the world after the mosque in Mecca.  It was completed in 1993 after six years of construction.  The project involved 35,000 craftsmen and had a price tag of over $500 million.  The price tag fell upon the people of Morocco, with even the children offering up their pennies to help pay for it.  We arrived twenty minutes too late for the tour, and we really didn’t want to wait two hours for the next one, so we asked one of the guides if it would be okay for us to go in a bit late.  No.  There were no exceptions.  Dee Dee added that we were staying in Rabat and were volunteering in the orphanage (where her placement is).  It was like Dorothy explaining to the wizard that we had come all that way…

”Well, in THAT case….

I don’t think any of us like playing the “volunteer” card, but it is nice to gain the respect from the
locals when they find out why you are here.  Well played, Dee Dee. Having a private tour was nice.  I must say, as elaborate, exquisite, grand, enormous, and incredible as it was, I found myself somewhat offended by the huge gesture of grandeur that this King built in his honor.  The people built it, but it clearly is not for the people.  First of all, it cost nearly $10 to enter, a price that made it clear it was for tourists, not Moroccans.

Although the call to prayer went off while we were there, no one was coming in to pray.  It felt overly large and far too empty.  Many of the rooms were for “show” only (our guide shared that with us as I asked), such as the rooms for ablutions (where the body is cleansed before prayer).  In a city with so much poverty, walking into a large, intricately tiled room used only as a display for tourists seemed like the wrong way to spend so much money.  From what I’ve read, many of the locals feel the same way.  I am glad we went through, and was happy to be able to step inside, especially given that it is the only mosque in Morocco that a non-Muslim can enter.

The other highlight was a delightful lunch at “Rick’s Cafe” (from the movie, Casablanca).  Although the food at the house has been outstanding, it was nice to have a leisurely lunch in a restaurant.  OK, maybe it was the glass of wine that added so much to the enjoyment.  There was a note on the bottom of the menu, by the way, to any Muslims that may be dining there, that some of the dishes may have alcohol in them, so one should check before ordering.  As Mohamed has said, alcohol is against the law here, but is available for tourists… and tourists only….(I think there is a lot of turning a blind eye that goes on around here…)

One last observation… I noticed small rooms at the train station, one for men and one for women, where shoes are removed at the doorway and people can slip in to pray during the calls to prayer.  I saw several men going in, but no women.  I asked some of my students about this the other day, and one of the gentlemen told me that it’s more important for the men to go pray than for the women.  I’m not sure how accurate that is, but from what I observed today, it seemed like the women were too busy tending to the children to slip into the rooms for prayer.  I suppose what has struck me the most about the call to prayer is that the women and the men pray separately.

We made it back to the house just in time for dinner, but I’m still pretty full from lunch.  Tomorrow, the language school is closed, so I will be spending time at the orphanage.

A welcome site…
Hassan II Mosque
Intricate tile… everywhere!
BIG door!!!
Rick’s Cafe

The young man knows his adjectives and the teacher has success…

Give it time and have patience…

Today, during an impromptu study of adjectives, I had each of the six students come up with three positive adjectives describing someone they knew, without repeating any.  The next-to-last student at the table described her best friend with these three adjectives:

1.  She’s beautiful

2.  She’s stylish

3.  She’s slender

The last student, a 20-something young man with a continual smile on his face and twinkle in his eye, had only one response when I asked him for his three adjectives, and it was:

“I want that girl’s phone number.”

And we’ve connected… the teacher and the students.
This is real learning.  We’re getting to know each other well enough that humor is beginning to filter into the lessons….
Today was a much better day.

English lessons for them, Arabic lessons for me.

I have no idea what impact I had this morning during my first day teaching English, but I was given an exquisitely drawn rendering of my name in Arabic by the one student who told me without words that she was not going to talk.  Instead, she carefully drew a very stylized version of my name in Arabic.  Every once in a while, I’d notice her looking up from her drawing, with a
grin or a chuckle at something I had said, so responding or not, I think she understood more than she wanted to admit, and was simply shy about speaking.

There were 20 students at the school, mainly female (three male students trickled in during the course of the class, which surprised me, but I was told that men were allowed to attend the English lessons).  Although they all had different skill levels, the one thing they had in common was their desire to learn.  I was with another volunteer from the house, Kelsey, who made it a bit easier, even if that was simply to have someone to share glances of “what do we do now?”  We decided to break into two groups of ten, which made conversing a bit easier.  Because we didn’t know what their English abilities would be, we didn’t bring any materials with us, so we were winging it all the way.  I did, however, bring some photos I had of my family and life, as I thought they would make for a good conversation starter. They all seemed to be able to understand most of what I said and could string together simple sentences.

Shortly after passing the photos around, I noticed that the woman seated next to me had lowered her head onto the table.  I thought that perhaps she wasn’t feeling well, but then I realized that she was crying.  She explained to me that her son lived in California and she missed him terribly. Seeing the photos of me with my children made her sad.  Of course, I felt terrible, and any momentum I had made with my now smaller group of students was quickly lost.

One of the other women glanced at me and, without saying a word, giving me permission to go on, as she knew her friend would be fine. No one else in the group reacted to the crying. Maybe this happens a lot?  I couldn’t help but remember something Mohamed had told us the previous day: never take the value of our passports for granted.  In Morocco, you must obtain a visa to leave the country, which requires an application several months in advance, along with a $160 fee.  He said that you may or may not get the visa, and you don’t know until you are notified by mail.  Of course, the $160 is lost either way (minimum wage is $250 a month, so a $160 fee is considered a lot of money).  This poor woman, working so hard on her English so she will be able to speak English for “when I’m in America,” may not even be able to get a visa, regardless of her language abilities.

I had just gotten started again with my impromptu teaching when the same woman who indicated to me that it was Ok to continue, grabbed my arm and pulled me closer to her, and told me she had recently had an operation.  It took a few tries of her telling me, but I was finally able to put it together that she had breast cancer, had recently had a mastectomy, and had just finished radiation.  She may have found a friend, but I’m not sure sitting next to me is such a good idea, as I think she was trying to turn a classroom situation into “private lessons.”

I pulled out just about everything I had, as my group patiently waited to see what I had for them next.  No one, except for my new best friend, wanted to take any initiative in the talking, short of the guy in my class who was very interested in learning more about Las Vegas.  I’ve only been there once, but I did my best to stretch out what little I had.  Oh,  and he wondered…”Did I eat at McDonald’s a lot?  I think he was disappointed when I told him no, I didn’t eat at McDonald’s.

This was not easy today, and if I didn’t have something to tell them, they would quickly fall into spirited conversations among themselves… of course, all in Arabic.  I experienced several of those awkward moments of watching myself as I tried to work my way back into the attention of everyone who was surrounding me at the table.  Slowly, work myself back into visibility with anything I could pull up… “What did you do yesterday?  Wasn’t it hot?”   Sorry, folks, but short of asking you your favorite color, that’s all I’ve got.  I know it will get better.

Kelsey had a similar experience with her group, so once back at the house, we started poring through the stacks of materials we found in a supply closet and were relieved to at least have something to work with tomorrow.  This is a free language school for students and is staffed solely by volunteers.  I always wonder how much impact I’m really making during volunteer situations like this, but when Mohammad told us that if we weren’t there, they wouldn’t have had class, it made me realize that we absolutely were making a difference, regardless of how inept I felt today.

Teachers: I’ve always had the utmost respect for what you do, but that respect doubled today.
The rest of the group volunteered at the children’s orphanage or the children’s hospital.   After hearing their stories, I am confident that I made the right choice in my job placement.  Most of the children at the orphanage were “thrown away” after birth by single mothers to avoid jail time, as giving birth out of wedlock is punishable by law.  One of the other volunteers told me that most of them were severely deformed and needed complete care.  She also told me that the place was immaculate and that the children were very well cared for.

I remember the long, quiet rides back to the house after volunteering at my placement in Perú, and today was no different.  No doubt, first and foremost on all of our minds was how fortunate we were that we were born in the United States.  It’s easy to forget that.

We had an afternoon of sightseeing, with time inside the Medina (the old walled town), an ancient fort, and our first glimpse of the ocean.  The colors were amazing.

My name is in there somewhere…

One last thing… in the short amount of time I’ve been here, I’ve already become accustomed to the bells, that sound more like fog horns, that signal prayer time…  four times a day..

Arabic is hard…

This is what I learned today… (Or at least what stood out).  Arabic is a challenging language, but I had kind of figured that out before I came, so I’m not going to count that as one.

1. TRUE Argon oil (very popular here) comes from the Argon tree, which is only grown in one city in the world… Agadir, Morocco, which also happens to be the hometown of our house manager.  Goats climb the argon trees and eat the hard shell off of the nut, which then falls to the ground and is harvested.  I’m hopeful to be able to witness this… trees filled with goats.  Mohammad said it looks a lot like a tree full of birds, only of course they are goats, not birds.  Seems like something worthwhile to seek out.

2.  Bread is considered sacred (it is a very bread-centered diet here… again, died and gone to heaven on the food here…) so all bread scraps must be put in a separate container when we clean up our plates after mealtime.  The leftover bread is then fed to animals.  All other trash is thrown out.  No recycling (or at least not here…)

3.  If you are Moroccan and want to get a hotel room with someone of the opposite sex, you must show proof of marriage.  It is illegal for Moroccans to share a hotel room unless married.  This does not apply to other nationalities.

This is a fascinating country, and our in-country manager, Mohamed, is extremely personable and very knowledgeable.  He served in the Peace Corps, has a law degree, is fluent in several languages, and has an incredible sense of humor.

She’s not in Kansas anymore…

You know you are far from home when you have to go through two other translations before you finally hear English. Still, you’re discouraged that you can’t understand a word of your native tongue, which is hidden behind a very thick Arabic accent with a significant French influence.  And then there’s the signage, as beautiful as it is curious.

The journey to Rabat was long… not because it was all that far (a “short” two hour flight from
Paris), but because the most significant part of the flight, Boston to Paris, felt more like a Kansas City to Albany run given the size of the plane…knee to knee, elbow to elbow, bad food and generous pours on cheap wine, all adding up to a not so great experience, short of a lovely French woman sitting next to me (seriously, are we ever so intimate with strangers but on a plane?) who was interested in what I was knitting and pulled out her phone to share photos of her recent knitting projects.  Sometimes words aren’t necessary.  I love that.

The house where I’m staying is small but very charming and efficient.  It’s also immaculate, and I would feel totally comfortable eating off any part of the floor, where, by the way, shoes are not allowed.  Barefoot all the way.  I will be sharing my small room with two bunk beds with another girl, whom I haven’t yet met, as she is away this weekend.  I’ve taken cues from her neatly stacked belongings and have tried to organize my things with that in mind. I’ve copied her and am using the top bunk to lay out my clothes, as there isn’t another spot to put them. I couldn’t help but think back to my college dorm days, waiting to meet my roommate, whom I didn’t know and whose bed was mere feet away from mine.

Tomorrow, the four volunteers who arrived today and I will have our orientation, when I will learn more about what I will be doing during my time here. Mohamed, our house manager, said I may be the only one from the house placed at the women’s center, as it sounds like everyone else will be working at the orphanage.  The unknowing, going to bed with new sounds, new smells, and new sensations, reminds me of why I love this so much, which surprises my orderly, Virgo side.  It takes me back to so many first nights in new countries when I teetered between waking up in the middle of the night with feelings of what the hell am I doing?, to not being able to fall asleep because I was so anxious for it to be morning when I’d be able to get a closer look at my new temporary home and learn more about where I’d be volunteering.

There were only four of us in the house tonight as the rest of the group was traveling for the weekend. We had a lovely light supper of lamb, rice, fruit salad, roasted fennel, Moroccan soup, homemade bread, dates, pomegranates, and a combination of sautéed vegetables.  Not only was it a beautiful spread, but it was also delicious.
For now, I’m tucked in my lower bunk, ready to sleep off some of this jet lag.  I’m soaking in the smells and sounds of this new city, new country, new continent, and it’s feeling pretty fantastic.  I can smell a hint of jasmine that is coming through the billowing curtains of my open deck door. Perfection.

I need to add a disclaimer regarding editing. I’m not used to my new iPad combined with my blog site that’s totally gone French on me ( I definitely need to learn how to say “delete” in French and quit pushing that button.) This was quite a challenge for me to complete this tiny task of typing tonight. I’m hoping I can blame most of it on jet lag, but that may be overly hopeful. So ignore the obvious, including the creative indents that insist on being present regardless of what I do.

Salaam from Rabat!

Laurie Sunderland, reading from right
to left.

Going to the “BEYOND” part…

In a few days, I’ll be leaving the many comforts of home and stretching my travels a bit farther than my usual 677 miles east or west down I-70.  I’ll be headed to Morocco, where I’ll be living in Rabat for three weeks.  I’ll be spending my time volunteering at the Feminin Pluriel, a women’s center that utilizes social, cultural, and educational activities to empower women.  That being said, I really have no idea what I will be doing.  The language barrier is a bit daunting to me right now, given that I don’t speak Arabic, and I’m going to assume they don’t speak English, but I may be wrong.

Several months ago, I went through the motions of thinking I’d learn some basic phrases in Arabic. I bought the book, turned a few pages, and got discouraged.  Then there’s the whole Arabic characters situation, which, although quite lovely on the page,  is all very unfamiliar and overwhelming.   I will never complain about the subjunctive tense in Spanish again.  The book tells me that with a vocabulary of only a few hundred words, I will be able to “survive in an Arabic-speaking country and even communicate some thoughts.”  I’m still working on “good morning” (sabaahal kyayr), but am not sure how far the one phrase will get me especially once the sun goes down.  I think I’ll bring my knitting.  That’s one thing I can teach without words.  And photos.  Pictures tell stories without words.

This will be my second volunteer trip with the Cross Cultural Solutions organization (my first being to Peru) and my first time in Africa, which feels very far away to me right now… 4,681 miles to be exact.  While preparing for this (ie, packing, unpacking, rethinking, then repacking, etc.) I find myself teetering between feelings of excitement and anticipation, laced with a bit of what the hell am I doing?  I’ve been down this emotional path before while anticipating the pathways to new adventures. Whether it’s on a mountain trail by myself, or getting ready to travel to a foreign country for three weeks by myself,  where I don’t speak the language and know little about the culture,  I think a bit of fear and trepidation is good.  I believe it helps keep me safe.

I’m guessing people will ask me when I return home, What did I do? Did I help build houses, schools, or develop programs that will live on long after my stay?  And I’ll answer just as I did when I returned from Perú—none of those things.  But what I did do was, I listened.  I held hands.  I accepted gracious invitations into homes with dirt floors and was invited to sit on couches that scared me because of the rodents that I’m sure were sharing the cushions. I danced to Peruvian music that I never could find the beat to, and painted the thick, dirty nails of grateful abuelas with old, sticky nail polish while I held their hands in mine and recognized the thread of vanity that connected us both.  I listened to countless stories of abuse, fear, and pain told to me by some of the strongest women I’ve ever met.  I laughed with them.  I cried with them.  I held their hand and accepted their affection.  I immersed myself in a culture that I thought I knew about before going, but really had no idea.

But what did you DO???

What I did was learn that the world is far bigger than the country where I comfortably reside, and that there is so much to be learned from the handful of third-world countries I’ve spent time in.
I learned how much I take for granted—clean water for starters.  I saw a lot of sickness that resulted from drinking the local water without adding bleach to it first.  Seriously.  Bleach.  While we run our water through filters that are supposed to remove impurities, these people were adding drops of the same substance that has warnings on its label not to ingest. Fortunately, I had the luxury of bottled water at my disposal while in Peru, unlike so many in the community where I stayed.  One of the first things my daughter, Emery, said to me during our initial stay in Perú was how little the people we were volunteering with had, yet how happy they were, and maybe, just maybe, they had a much better understanding of what makes a person happy than we did.  What a beautiful realization for an 18-year-old to recognize about life.  To see such joy on the faces of people who live their lives in a constant struggle to survive was a lesson to us both on the importance of living in the moment and finding gratitude in the simplest of things.

I have no idea what to expect during my stay in Rabat, but am guessing many of the experiences will mirror those from Perú, which is what has attracted me to volunteer again with this organization.

Years ago, during my second attempt at college, I decided to major in anthropology after sitting through the first lecture of a cultural anthropology class.  Before signing up for the class, I wasn’t sure what the study of anthropology was.   After making a definitive declaration that my major was going to be cultural anthropology with a minor in Spanish, I was asked countless times what I planned to do with my Anthropology degree and Spanish studies. Teach Spanish,  perhaps?  I really had no idea.  Almost 30 years later,  it’s all starting to make sense.
Although I’m feeling nervous and have no idea what is ahead for me in the African country of Morocco, or “al-Mamlakah al Maghribiyyah” (المملكة المغربية), which translates to the Kingdom of the West, this feels exactly like what I’m supposed to be doing right now.

I look forward to writing my blog posts from Rabat, as much as time and the internet connection allow.  So, for now…. as-salaamu alaykum – the most common Arabic greeting and one that thankfully gets shortened to “salaam”, which means peace be upon you.

I’m going to call that “how to communicate without fuss or fear… instantly!” false advertising…

Apostrophes, ships and the 3rd grader who ended up writing stories about it…

Shortly after I shared my last blog entry about revisiting my first home with my parents as guides, my Mom emailed me with this:

“All that beautiful prose from the 3rd grader who didn’t understand apostrophes.”

My first reaction was feeling very honored by her words given that I was retelling her story about my beginnings in Colorado, as I was too young to have my own story.  Secondly, I was touched that she remembered the story about the difficulties I had with grammar in the 3rd grade, specifically with the placement of apostrophies.

I have more memories from 3rd grade than any other in elementary school.  I loved my teacher.  I loved her shoes. I watched those red fringe-toed shoes walk up and down the narrow aisle of the temporary mobile unit classroom, demonstrating to a captivated audience how Indians would walk without making a sound… toe heel, toe heel, toe heel.  It was crowded in our small trailer classroom and maybe because the situations weren’t ideal, she was just a little more patient with us than a teacher in a normal-sized classroom would be.  We were the class who had to spend the year in the mobile unit because of remodeling, and initially, I think most of us would have opted for the normal classroom we were used to as the mobile unit was half the size, leaving us with very little personal space.

One of my favorite memories was when the Sacajawea book would be pulled out every afternoon after recess and Mrs. Faires would read to us. I was mesmerized. I held onto every word and for the first time, the notion that school could be fun and interesting took hold.  She made that year of being crowded into the tiny temporary classroom one of my favorites, and even though elbows were bumped as we did out lessons in our pushed together desks, I would not have traded those squeezed together conditions for a normal classroom.  It felt special, like we were special.  All that love went out the small louvered trailer window when the lesson on apostrophes and ownership began.

It’s not that I didn’t understand the the concept of ownership and placement of the apostrophe, it’s that I did not understand my Alabama bred teacher’s accent.  When she gave the explanation of “ownership,” what I heard was “on a ship,” which made little sense to me, especially given that I lived in Kansas and could count on one hand how many times I had actually seen a ship. Were ships really that important that they got their own apostrophe when used in a sentence?

After hearing Mrs. Faires’ explanation on apostrophes and possession, my conclusions were to use an apostrophe when whomever or whatever were “on a ship,” or “showed on a ship” as my teacher explained it.  I wasn’t sure what “showed on a ship” was, short of the visual of people on a ship, which was simple enough… or was it?  This all makes a whole lot more sense when I’m able to voice the words out loud and show that “ownership” sounds like “on a ship” when spoken with a heavy southern drawl.  I usually did well with understanding new assignments in school, especially when they weren’t of the math variety, but my 8 year-old, wanting to please self, was getting discouraged when worksheet after worksheet were handed back to me with an embarrassing amount of red ink on them.  Even the boy next to me, whose papers were always marked in red when he got them back, was getting good marks and happy faces on his returned papers.  And then there was the amount of time it took me to complete the worksheets.  While the other kids seemed to breeze right through the sentences, without having to look up in thought or confusion, I would read each sentence over and over again while trying desperately to find the ship, the boat or out of desperation, simply the water in the sentence so that I’d have clearance to add my apostrophe.  It seemed to me to be a futile exercise as few, if any sentences, made reference to a ship or for that matter, any maritime reference at all, but none of the other students were questioning the absurdity, so in trying to fit in with my peers, I kept quiet and kept searching… for the ship in the sentence.

More than once Mrs. Faires brought me up to her desk and would explain the “on a ship” concept to which I would share my frustrations of not understanding what “on a ship” had to do with most of the sentences.  Of course in this now comedy of errors, she heard my words speak Southern to her and would explain, yet again,  that “on a ship” requires an apostrophe, hoping that eventually it would all make sense to me.  After failing exercise after exercise, some how, some way, someone who did not speak with a heavy southern drawl, put it together that what I was hearing was different than what my teacher was actually saying.

It was my Mom who eventually shared the story with my teacher, Mrs. Faires, after she had reached out to her over their monthly bridge game, with concerns that I wasn’t understanding apostrophe placement.   It was also my Mom who noted the way Mrs. Faires said “ownership.” After  a shared laugh, she insured Mom that when teaching the concept of “ownership” to a new group of 3rd graders, she would make a point of writing the word on the chalkboard.

The one in the middle sporting the Bob Dylan look and the attitude smirk,  wasn’t about to admit to anyone that she didn’t understand why ships garnered so much importance that they got their own apostrophe… especially in Kansas for Pete’s sake!

I’ve got to wonder how long this would have gone on had someone not stumbled onto the problem, given that I was too embarrassed and too insecure to admit that I didn’t have a clue as to what the teacher was trying to teach me.  This insecurity would resurface again with my 7th grade Algebra teacher, who was from Brazil,  and spoke with a heavy accent.  The difference this time though, was that the rest of the class was hearing Mr. La Torre the same way I did, so would throw their hands up in question before I had to.  I ended up struggling with Algebra through college and have to wonder if I had had a teacher who I could understand and felt comfortable simply asking for help, would seeing the x’s and y’s still throw me into panic mode today?  Or am I simply more of a words person than a numbers person?  I’m grateful that my stumble with the apostrophes in the 3rd grade didn’t ruin me for the act of writing, the way x’s and y’s did for me in math,  as it’s been something I’ve loved and enjoyed for as long as I can remember.

Thank you, Mrs. Faires, for giving me pause and a smile every time I place an apostrophe, whether there’s a ship in the sentence or not.  And thank you, Mom, for not forgetting the story and continually encouraging my putting pen to paper.

Returning to my roots with the keepers of the stories at my side…

A few weeks ago, my sister, Robin, and I were given the tremendous gift of getting to step back in time for a few days, and with our parents as our guides, revisited the place where we spent our earliest days – Evergreen, Colorado.

Although our time there was relatively short,  one would assume that we had lived there for decades, given the many stories Mom and Dad have shared with us throughout our lives.  Because of the many stories and the joy with which they have been shared,  I grew up knowing how significant this little mountain town was in my parents’ lives.

They were young, very young, 20 and 25, with a baby on the way (Robin), and were actually on their way to Oregon, simply on a “Why not?  It sounds like a nice place to live…” when they stopped in Denver to see my Mom’s parents.  While there, Dad found out that to teach high school music in Oregon, he needed a master’s degree (something that would come later and in Missouri), so they decided to stay in Denver.  Besides, with a baby on the way, it would be nice to have family nearby.  I love thinking about those carefree 20-somethings with a baby on the way, pointing their car and trailer’s belongings west, without really having much of a plan.  Somehow, it gives the many wing and a prayer plans I’ve had a bit more weight.

There were no teaching jobs in Denver, but while interviewing, a call came through from the principal in Evergreen with the news that the high school music teacher had not renewed his contract and through the perfect timing of a synchronistic moment, my Dad had a job and their plans to continue their journey west to Oregon were shortened to the short 30 minute drive west from Denver to the scenic mountain town of Evergreen.

Robin and I have both heard the stories, countless times, of our time in Evergreen, but to get to hear them again, with the soil underfoot, was truly a gift.  Hearing about Dad coasting down the mountain from Evergreen to St. Anthony’s hospital in Denver, my Mom in labor with me, made a lot more sense as we recently made our way down from Evergreen to Denver  – an easy coast of a drive that was a necessary choice on that day, almost 60 years go to the date, as the gas tank was near empty (he made it with fumes to spare, I’m told…).

Although Robin and I had tried to find the house we lived in when we were in Colorado last summer,  our interpretation of Mom and Dad’s directions had us on the wrong end of the town. Still, with their keen memories and navigational skills, we drove right to the house a few weeks ago.  Both of our initial reactions upon seeing the lovely home that sat off the road on five acres were… “wait… I thought we were poor.” ….  Yes, they reassured us… We were poor.  They said it looked like the house had been added on to and that while it looked nice on the outside, the inside had needed work… work that Dad chipped away at when he had the gift of both time and money.   The furnishings were sparse, and although Mom had a wringer washing machine, she didn’t have a dryer, so after washing the clothes, diapers in particular, with two under the age of two, she’d hang them out on the line, where they would freeze dry in the arid air.  She’d then bring them in and lay them throughout the house to thaw.  For some reason, I’ve always connected with pioneer women and have sworn that I must have lived during that period of time in a past life.  This explains it.  I did.

As we sat in the drive and looked directly at our past, hearing the stories from the ones that created them, that piece of my past, that I don’t remember, became real, and I understood where my love for mountains was born.  Dad told us that when Mom was pregnant with me, she told him that she was not going to come home from the hospital until we had a flushing toilet IN the house.  Yes, these adventure-seeking parents of mine were using an outhouse, not to mention transporting their water in  50-gallon drums.  Dad worked tirelessly at digging the leeching well near the house in preparation for my arrival, using a pickaxe, a shovel, and his favorite tool, dynamite.  And lo and behold, Mom had the flush toilet she had requested upon her arrival home from the hospital with me.  Simple times, but not all that simple a request.  Still, every mom just home from the hospital with a newborn and a one-year-old to greet her deserves the luxury of an indoor toilet —and one that flushes, no less.  It sure beat any “congratulations on your new baby” flower arrangement Dad could have gotten her.

Out of the many stories I’ve heard over the years, and my hands-down favorite, I heard for the first time last year.  Because evergreen trees surrounded us, Dad would go to the woods behind the house to select the Christmas tree, then drag it down to the house.  I believe it was my first Christmas (and if it wasn’t, I’m taking artistic license here) that Mom questioned the tree he brought home, wondering if he could have found a tree that was just a little bit prettier.  So, on his way home from work the following day, the perfect tree came into view with the lights of his car.  He cut it down, put it in the car, and as he was pulling away, his car lights gave him a better view of exactly where the tree he had just cut down had come from… the landscaping in the front yard of one of the summer vacation homes in the area.  When I asked him what he did after discovering what he had done, he told me that he couldn’t exactly put it back, so he covered the stump with snow and drove home.  Given that it was a summer vacation home,  he had several months before the missing tree would be noticed.  No doubt some of that guilt waned with Mom’s overwhelmingly positive reaction to the beautiful specimen of a tree that would grace our small living room that Christmas.

“Now THAT’s what I had in mind!  It’s the PERFECT tree!”

Dad had set the Christmas decor bar high on this one…
I don’t know how long it was before he came clean on exactly where the tree had come from, and I am betting that the following Christmas, it was back to the scrappy juniper Christmas trees.  All of our Christmas trees in those early Colorado days were decorated with pine cones that Mom had spray-painted gold.  It was only in later years that I understood the significance of Mom insisting on adding what we thought at the time were “the tacky gold spray-painted pine cones” to our then more lavishly decorated trees.  It was a nudge to the memory of where they began as a family, and although times were very tough, they were also very good.

I love hearing their humble roots stories—two kids with two babies eking out a living in the mountains of Evergreen, Colorado.  Funds were so tight that when a job offer in northern Missouri came in for far more money and an unlimited high school band budget, Dad had to say yes.  He has told me several times that when they drove out of town for the last time on their way to Missouri, he had hoped for a rainy, cloudy day or at least weather that was overcast enough so that he wouldn’t have to see the mountains in his rearview mirror.  It was sunny that day.   To this day, I think both Mom and Dad would agree that it felt like the mountains were waving goodbye to them as they left them in the rear view mirror.

What a gift it was to return to those Evergreen mountains just as they had left them so many years ago, and better yet, to get to return with the keepers of the stories.  Although I was always a part of the stories,  I feel a real sense of their connection to me now.

My Evergreen, Colorado roots
Mom and Dad… who still have a bit of that Colorado spirit in them….

Back in my boots…

As of yesterday afternoon, I’m back in the saddle…. or hiking boots, more specifically.  Feeling ready and anxious after almost two months of babying my injured shoulder, I ventured out on a real hike with boots, poles, and a full camelback.  I hiked  Mt. Royal, and although it’s not a long hike (only a mile and a half to the top), it’s not easy, as during that short mile and a half, 1,500 feet of altitude are gained, translating to pretty much straight up with no switchbacks.  This was a hike that I did several times over the course of my stay here last summer, as it was literally right behind where I was staying, so there was ease and no excuses in getting to the trailhead.  It also became my measure of how much I was improving, which speaks to the Virgo in me.  My first time up was a miserable journey that took over two hours to get to the top, and the last time I journeyed up last summer,  I had bettered my time to just over an hour – an accomplishment that I’m pretty proud of.  While making my way down that last time and feeling quite smug with my improved time and general efficiency, I passed my neighbor, jogging up the rocky trail and with still enough breath that he stopped to chat.  So much for my thinking I was “all that…”  I’ve learned while living part-time in this very physically active state that the safest person to compare yourself to is yourself; otherwise, you’re likely to be disappointed.

In keeping with the open and honest approach I’ve adopted for this blog, I need to back up a bit and do some rewording.  I hiked Mt. Royal, but I did not make it to the top, and I must say, it’s one of the prouder non-accomplishments I’ve had this summer.  It’s tough for me not to barrel ahead when I can all but see the end, ignoring any physical or emotional signs that are telling me, “Enough already!”  Well, yesterday, probably within ten minutes of the top, I experienced one of those “enough” signs.  Up to that point, I had been hiking like a 95-year-old woman in stilettos on ice with a tailwind… being very mindful of foot placement and with an eye on constant patrol for mud, exposed roots, or loose rocks, as I know too well that a quick slip can and does happen.  That’s the part that sucks.  I rather liked that barreling ahead with an eye on the prize and complete confidence that I’d summit without a scrape, take some time to revel in the beautiful views, and with a proud pat on my own back, would make it down again.  No problem.  But knowing that accidents do happen has changed the way I hike – or at least I was changed for the inaugural hike.  I feel more apprehensive, more cautious, and certainly more timid, yet I still have the confidence that I can do it, as I’ve done before.  But I also want to do it in a manner that doesn’t require a trip to the ER.

I had to stop several times to catch my breath, totally normal, but by the time I was almost within shouting distance of the top, I started to feel a bit dizzy.  My town of Frisco sits at 9,097 feet, an altitude that can easily affect even the fittest if not acclimated, and that’s what I’m going to blame it on.  Having only been back in town for a little over a week, I called myself acclimated, but more than likely was not.  So when that feeling of apprehension, laced with a bit of dizziness, came over me, I was very thoughtful of the messages and opted to abort the nearby summit and head back down.  As disappointing as it felt, at the same time I felt significantly grown up for having listened, very carefully, and followed through with what my body was telling me, which was go home… You already did most of it.  It’s OK.

By the time I got home, I had come to an easy place of peace with my decision and knew that honoring that slight twinge of a feeling was the right thing to do.  And so, in keeping with my hiking tradition of eat what sounds good post-hike because I’ve earned it, I sat down to a plate full of spaghetti and several heaping forkfuls of sauerkraut because that’s exactly what my body was asking for… oh yeah, and a cold beer…I mean two cold beers, to round it off.  And good it was.  I never falter on post-hike refueling.   It’s genuinely one of my favorite luxuries of the sport.

Today, rather than revisit my not-quite-accomplished hike from yesterday (which will happen and soon), I opted for big views, low physical expenditure.  And it worked… satisfyingly well.  The Lower Cataract Lake in the Eagles Nest Wilderness area never ceases to amaze me.  It’s not a strenuous hike as there’s little to no altitude gain, but it’s enough of a workout that I still get to savor the post-hike accolades of feeling strong, committed, and a little bit more in tune with nature than I was while driving to the trailhead.  I’m not sure I can think of a better way to spend a sunny Sunday morning.

Accomplishments come in all sorts of packages, and it isn’t necessarily the straight-up journey to the top that has given me the most pride.  Yesterday, it was NOT making it to the top that made me the proudest.  Next time…

Views of Frisco and Lake Dillon while on my way up…
The only non-climbing part of the hike… really…
Views for days…
The very majestic Mt. Royal (also the mountain I have a view of from most of the windows in my house).
Nature’s painting…
Wildflowers in full bloom…

Give it to Mom… she’ll carry it.

Moms are carriers.  Plain and simple.  I suppose it was my restricted carrying the past month due to a shoulder injury that has me thinking along these lines.  For nine months, we carry in our expanding belly an expectation of something we can’t possibly begin to understand until we’re able to hold it in our arms for the first time, and then we don’t want to let go.  We carry babies until they’re toddlers, and when they discover their independence and no longer wish to be carried, we carry their things.  We carry toys that should have been left at home in the first place and mutter  “I told you so” under our breath, while more unwanted “had to bring it” things are piled onto our already full arms.  When my middle child, Grant, was born, he spent the first four months of his life unhappy unless he was being carried.  The words, “Can you carry Grant?” were heard so often during those first four months that Grant’s other name became “Cary” Grant, quite by default.  Anyone slightly younger than me had no idea why we found his name to be so clever.  And carry him, I/we did…. in a front pack, on a hip, over a shoulder, or in the crook of an arm.  That same baby, many years later, while playing competitive baseball in middle school, had a coach who would tell the team as they were gathering up the equipment post-game,
“Catchers don’t carry.”
I loved that sliver of recognition that the catcher would get for having spent the past few hours in a squatted position looking through a hot mask.  He should get a pass.  In fact, more than once, I felt like the team should not only carry the equipment, but the catcher as well.  A few times, when I’ve been in a situation with Grant when I didn’t feel like I should have to carry something,  we’ve locked glances, and he’ll take the words right out of my mouth before I even have a chance to utter them.
“Catchers don’t carry.”
He gets it.  My child, who wanted to be carried for a solid four months, can appreciate that sometimes the person who’s expected to shoulder the heavy load needs a break.
I’ve often wondered what would happen if just once, a rule of “Moms don’t carry” were thrown out there?  (and not just on Mother’s Day…)  Would there be piles of half-eaten bags of popcorn, still sealed water bottles, souvenir caps, and worthless trinkets piled up at the exit of every amusement park because there wouldn’t be a mom to schlep them to the car?  Would stuffed animals, shoes that fell off of tiny feet and were easier to carry rather than put back on again, and the stray jacket be left behind on empty chairs in restaurants?   Or more likely, would the moms swoop in with exasperation and, like any good pack animal, load up the gear with a sigh and a “never mind” and continue?  Maybe we do it because it’s important to us.  Perhaps we know that a handful of stale popcorn will save the day, twenty minutes into a ride home with grumpy and tired kids.  Maybe we know that we’ll be the ones who will suffer the consequences if all of our options are left behind in piles when exiting.

When my third child, Emery, was born, the kids outnumbered the arms, which I hadn’t really considered until my maiden voyage outside the house with all three in tow.  My sister, Robin, said it reminded her of the guy who appeared on the Ed Sullivan show, balancing three plates in the air with two long sticks.  With the plates outnumbering the sticks holding them up, there was always a vulnerable one that had you holding your breath.  I think that same guy showed up every week on the show, and still, we watched with bated breath (entertainment was simple, times were different…).  I would think about that man on the Ed Sullivan stage a lot while I juggled three kids and their stuff —maintaining the balance of keeping all three “plates” in the air at once, always with an eye out for the vulnerable one.   I know I speak for other moms when I say that there was a little bit of “bring it on… I’ve got this” going on, maybe because there was an odd desire to see how much I actually could do or carry or manage before the delicately stacked tower would tumble.  It was always far more than I had predicted, by the way…
When kids had big enough arms to hold their own stuff, the rule was always “If you want to bring it, you carry it.”  The unwritten rule that seemed to go along with that, or at least as far as the kids were concerned, was, “Bring it.  Mom will end up carrying it.”  And sadly, she did.  Rules regarding carrying seemed to be regarded as mere suggestions, and I take total blame for that one.

All of the carrying becomes normal, and any mother of young children will tell you that when their arms aren’t overflowing with babies, car seats, strollers, or stuffed lovies, something feels wrong… almost like you have forgotten to put your second shoe on.  I marvel now at the strength and balance I had when I was able to remove and open a heavy double stroller from the back of the car with one hand,  while holding a crying baby and trying to keep a physical touch on his rambunctious older brother with any part of my body that was available.  Never again will I have the strong, chiseled arms I had then that sadly went unnoticed, simply because they were a side effect, not a goal, and something that I had no time to give importance to.  Even lifting weights 3 times a week with a personal trainer not that long ago couldn’t bring them back to their glory days. Funny how things work.

As much as I juggled, schlepped, and complained, the day came when I realized that my arms were swinging back and forth as I walked…back and forth and strangely empty.  It felt surprisingly freeing, yet not quite normal, and with a lingering sense of having forgotten something. Holding my kids and their belongings gave me a sense of control and security and comfort as all I had to do was look down and it would all be right there-right there in my tired, but contentedly filled arms.  When the babies, toddlers, crying children, and armloads of stuff no longer needed to be carried, that was when the real heavy lifting began.  This was the part that no one told me about.  This was the part that even the well-toned and strong arms wouldn’t be able to help me with.  This was the part when my arms set down the physical loads and my heart stepped in to carry the load.

In our ever-expanding hearts, we hold the hopes, the tears, the joys, the fears, the desires, and every memory, both the good ones and the not-so-good ones.  Unlike our limited arms, our hearts are limitless and seem to expand with ease to make room for more memories, more touching moments, more feelings that you want to hold close.  I’ve come to realize, after saying goodbye to my children so many times, that I must honor, respect, and hold tight to what I can no longer carry in my arms, but now hold in my heart. Although it’s not a load that can be felt physically, its presence is as present as my breath, my pulse, my being.

I’ve been reminded twice in the past month, while carrying the boxed belongings of two of my kids and their spouses, that the carrying doesn’t truly ever end; it just changes.   Although most of the load I’ve carried since my children reached adulthood hasn’t been carried in cardboard boxes, but rather in my heart, there are still times when I get to re-exercise my carrying muscles, and honestly, it feels nostalgically wonderful.  But kids,  six times in three years is enough!  Any more than that, and I’ll have to enforce my “catchers don’t carry” rule (which you’ll wisely read as “don’t worry, she’ll still help us move our stuff”…).  You know me well.  Of course I will.