Asleep at the wheel

November 30, 2012

Throughout my life I blare loud enough for whomever is pulling my strings “This is it, I don’t want to do this anymore, it’s too much, I am DONE!” and here I am again, perilous unwilling victim to my provoking teacher at the end of my left leg. An absurd time that springs to mind is smack dab in the middle of a day of child labor. After hours of nonproductive pushing generating profane language and buckets of sweat, the infant crowns only to be retracted back into a feud with the umbilical cord stubbornly secure around the right shoulder, I suggest to Rita, my unshakable midwife, “I want to go home and finish up tomorrow.”  

Becoming more familiar with disappointment as each day slithers by. Hope stirs this relationship since it sets up ridiculous unrealistic expectations for a fully mobile subsequent 16 hours. At dawn I glance down as I drape my overstretched misshapen bandage ‘round the shriveled calf while disenchantment creeps in. The appendage on my left foot is my adversary, one who will not obey and function fully. This lousy foot!

In the practice of Tonglen, (Pema Chodron has Youtube presentations on this) I send my patience, love and healing massage energy to all of those people close to me who are suffering from utter disillusionment from this is not my life I want out! Then I extend to the individuals who branch out from my friends and family. Now to groups and communities of people who are struggling with the same and finally anyone in the world who has a challenging relationship with their left foot or something just as painful. My suffering wanes when I consider just how much I have in spite of the hideous unrelenting inner left heel. The throb turns into dull ache reduced to a twinge.

Getting ready to go to a party at 7:53…kid’s birthday…Friday night and I am tired! The chocolate is sure to wake me up!

Pool party

November 29, 2012

In the company of people I have never met before propped in a vulnerable and silly place with a pair of crutches and big fat toes, nasty scab and unappetizing purplish dented diminishing scar I find the place inside of me that can simply be, present, available, wet my pants heartily snort laugh..at myself. The incredible salty fish red pepper thin crust pizza pie matched with French red blousy wines increase the susceptibility of reaction ‘cause defenses come down. It is wondrous to reveal the joy of being one when typically the strife draws guns from the waist and doors slam closed behind hard feelings. Underscore of misunderstood burdens of the past do not prevent the brothers from deep smiles and shared thin clove covered cigars that stretch the conversation to Cubans and the expense of them.

A morning in the sunshine, sloughing off the particles trapped on the bottom outer edge of the pool tile below coolish water as the plump foot drags along. Therapy that will one day turn the corner to walking without appliances and unnecessary looks of empathy.  

Phone rings, inner complex telephone system buzzes or the doorbell chimes and I haltingly rise to the occasion to communicate with the voice affixed to the individual with the message. Usually comprehension isn’t an issue. More often than not when the information becomes complex, the instigator most likely imagines I am “slow” or drunk. Sometimes they cut the exchange short and leave it at that. The snort laugh returns overruling a previous version of reactive upset. Times are a ’changin’!

Concrete plans for the holidays continue to elude me yet I am hopeful and reaching. Skyped with my favorite elf, Taelor today and hollered over her shoulder to the boy on the bunk who responded in kind. What a treat!

Howard Zinn told an interviewer: “You have to do things, do things, do things; you have to light that match, light that match, light that match, not knowing how many times it’s going to sputter and go out before it’s going to take hold.”

Unpredictable Grounds

November 28, 2012

Lost in the languid wake of the day. Absorbed in the steady disjointed company of Ju while she dreamily putters around with some such utilitarian item in her hand wearing the top half of her black trimmed in crisp white uniform. Mimicking her mannerisms, I choose to ignore the obvious something is wrong here yet if I don’t bring it up it will whither in the damp air. She becomes animated only when I casually refer to the numerous gynormous murdered venomous snakes discovered on the farm throughout my delirious exile. Ju had been stalked by a broomstick length poisonous monster while caring for many, many, many chickens during her stay on a farm somewhere far away! BFF connections are presupposed in abstract bizarre endearing ways.

Tonight this small room seems too large to cross,

And my life is that looming kind of place.

                                                        Gjertrud Schnackenberg

Drug along Christian Wiman’s Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet and have been riveted by the longing and tender, scratch across the chalkboard, surly and despondent poems I read aloud in unrelenting Catholic nun ruler knuckle slamming piano instructor earnest. Instead of turning it over to the library or adding it to the For Trade pile, I intend to gift it to a kindred spirit I encounter in the future who has inspired me to lovingly present it to them. It’s that kind of book. Purchased from Copper Canyon Press at a holiday event at Fort Worden in Port Townsend, WA where Taelor considers home and I a forgiving springboard.  

Phone jingled softly early in the day. Since I was holding down the fort I answered cheerfully, after struggling to reach the handset from behind the Christmas tree plunked in the middle of the table. The upbeat man on the other end requested to speak with Michel and then Cristina. Claimed he was on his way from Santos and would arrive at 7pm. Nearing the end of the conversation he implied we should switch to English. “No,” I responded, “I understand completely.” He was clearly disappointed yet invited me to come and stay at their beach house (whomever he is!) and we would meet soon. He verified the address and apartment number. No one was expected, according to Cris so we would just have to wait and see.

Spent the better part of the early evening with the dark-complected from teenish to my age “babas” in the pristine vacant uneven apartment complex courtyard since the moms had not arrived home from work.  The rapidly multiplying kids (majority are radical knee-sized cowboys) ran, screeched, horsed-around, teased, cried inconsolably and rode flat-tired well-used bikes in circles ‘round and ‘round. It was my sole opportunity to get some fresh air. The disgruntled babas used my foot as a bad example of someone who chose to ignore the “shoes on” rules. See what happens when you insist on taking off your shoes?

It was clearly long past 8:00 when the doorbell rang impatiently and the squalling children tromped through to brazenly fling open the front door. Obviously, I ventured, it is a familiar face to the gruff security guard below. The door opened ceremoniously to Michel’s relatives. I do not recall any of their names, unfortunately when a crowd swoops in labels become a blur and inconsequential. My attachment is to their personalities. One uncle is tall with a slightly overbearing enthusiasm as he lifts my hand to his mouth in a smacking kiss and asks me to marry him. He sports a tweed jacket and slacks, glasses tucked around his ears that he shares with his annoyed wife as she unbecomingly squints at the tight font on the computer screen. She is squeezed into a pair of thin slippery shiny pants that might have been comfortable five years ago. Layers of fabric on top conceal her guaranteed breathlessness reasonably well. Michel’s father appeared with streaming long hot ironed straight hair once dangerously handsome and now agreeably good looking with jeans and a pressed button down shirt. Hooked to his right arm is his once petite Asian wife in teetering gold sandals, tight black stretch pants and a belted white peasant top. Her toothy grin pleasantly approached me and we kissed on the cheek. An aunt appeared as well as another uncle. She was dressed prudently in a colorful skirt and top with a pleasant face and engaging smile. The latter in a dark shirt and chino pants was on a determined well-intended mission to visit their recently ill father from Pasadena, California. He and I spent the majority of the time chatting about exposing ourselves on a middle to swiftly approaching downslide of the path of life.

After rounds of wine of mostly French descent, a variety of nuts, cheeses and Portuguese sausage everyone decided it was time for pizza since no one had eaten dinner. Pizza, preverbal dark rich coffee and chocolates followed until things wound up at 1:30am. By this time my foot could have been cut off and preserved for a Macy’s Parade balloon next year.

City Life

November 27, 2012

Matteos wakes up with I can’t go to school since I contracted a stomach ache. I ‘round the corner to discover him scarfing the Andes candy conveniently left out on the accessible side glass table in the wee hours of the night. He challengingly pokes at the remaining tempting pieces that shout “eat me!” and glares, daring me to rat on him. Do I?

A school drop goes smoothly after explaining to Matteos that he had to wear his seatbelt correctly. Look at what happened to Paula when she failed to use the shoulder strap? Afterwards we head off to the fisiotherapeutista, dropping the car at the parking lot miles away over hill and dale from the clinic. Have trepidation regarding the assured year’s salary expense and immeasurable time investment since I do not have one ioda of control over the latter.

OOPS! A miniscule jumping spider attached to my crutches…yikes! Wildlife!

Hunky dressed in pristine white shirt, slacks and matching sensible shoes physical therapist attended to me in the waiting area at the clinic. Plunked on a once white flexible unfastened park bench outside the glass sliding door, which I feared to enter for apprehension of a crash catching the lip of the slider, I listened in earnest to his extensive suggestions. Three times a week for 10 weeks time, $25 per session to peer at my ankle and provide complicated exercises intended to facilitate at home. Hm. Assured me the non-receding swelling is normal and expected. Exercises to rotate the hot ankle, insistent pressure on the scabbed inner and peeling outer foot, flex “fatty” up and down, roll every which way on top of a rubber ball are already part of my painful daily routine. What’s next? Will contact the local public clinic PT to see about gratis visits.

A thick slab of meat wrapped in plastic chills my ankle. I consider my circumstances, though it is still under debate that I should have to deal with this situation, uneven sidewalks, stairs without end, non-conforming footwear, thunking crutches, nerve wracking excursions to the bathroom (I would bring a snack along if I could carry one!) oh how I could go on…and on..

Ju failed to show up for work today. She accompanied her young son on several bus rides to the dentist for a long-awaited necessary exam and services. The dentist is a friend of Cristina’s and is providing the wide-range of services at no charge. Such an immense gift for Ju. Dental care for the unfortunate is non-existent for a number of reasons. The idea of not having a tv in the house is beyond their grasp since it suggests poverty. However being impoverished and a toothless grin go hand-in-hand. When the subject arises no one can believe I would CHOOSE to live without a television. Poor me! How can I possibly keep up with the novella without a tv?

Skype rocks! Spoke with Taelor last night in a combination of Portuguese and English. We set a date for another few days…I’m psyched.

Working on Christmas plans now…aiming for a place where Santa is sure to find me!

Back in the Saddle Again!

November 26, 2012

I don’t believe, if my leg had actually been amputated, Ju, the maid, would have acknowledged the lack of it. Hobbling across the slick shiny terrain brown hardwood floor to the intentionally rustic diningroom table I was met with a blank stare this morning. She hardly seemed surprised to see me. Suppose I wasn’t that impressionable the last time we met or perhaps maids are not permitted to display expressions and practice in front of the mirror each day to mask their emotions so they appear deadpan and lifeless. Ha!

Thankfully Cristina without one ioda of hesitation on the phone late yesterday afternoon, invited me to come and invade her home with my numerous well-worn luggage on wheels once again. Thank you, Cristina and Michele! So grateful and humbled by their friendship and generous nature. I enter the double gates devilishly late last night guarded by a impassive (again with the pokerfaced look!) serious man I can only catch a glimpse of his features through the slanted thick glass, shaken and incredibly indebted. I rode here with a complete stranger who chatted, smoked and chortled in delight, Ana’s glorious bipolar twin. Where had this woman come from that I had not encountered? Perhaps she was as relieved as I to unlock the prison and allow us to be on an atypical and lighter plane.

Relieved the truck, with a nonfunctioning defroster that ensured a treacherous ride, of its fruit and vegetable load as well as my slightly damp stained and well- traveled bags. Gifted Cristina with the freshest of eggs (de mais!) deep rich purple eggplant, greenish oranges, crisp onions, small and firm potatoes, succulent tomatoes, over-ripe papaya and a huge hug of greeting. Sank into bed after lengthy and involved sagas of what happened in each of our lives since I departed for the farm a lifetime ago on October 8^th. Such escapades for the both of us!

Believe it or not I kind of miss the distraction of mosquito swatting, numerous diving insects, shift in the wind coming through the double doors of my shriveling four walls.

Cristina’s father, Joao Jose Leal has only just published a book called Paginas de uma Cidade, Cronicas. His autobiographical back cover adorns his smiling face, appearing very relaxed and content. Consider what that would feel like, with an arms length list of accreditations and numerous accomplishments. The celebration of his release was well attended, reflected Cris and her face shone with pride. I look forward to meeting Joao Jose Leal in the near future since his daughter is one of my favorite people.

Went to a bizarre at a synagog and Cris and I had fun browsing the tables for treasures...she found many and I glommed onto something for Taelor. The old ladies tisked tisked over my ankle and insisted I sit and put my swollen foot up on the boxes while sipping Guarana and munching on some round bread thingamagigs filled with something or other. Hm.

Worlds Apart

November 25, 2012

The direct simplicity with which Solange offers herself is astonishing. Nearly every day I am graced with her unconscious glorious ample smile and generous spirit. The charm she vigorously presents to the world, in a jumbled variety of attire, is unbound. I will send her a card that includes the following, for I doubt she has had much opportunity in her life to receive correspondence via the post office. Neither she nor Marquinhos were certain of their address.

Solange:

You are the bright glowing hearth on Sitio Caaete. I cannot tell you just how much it means to me every day that you ‘round the corner…”Oi Paulinha” (even the reference to Little Paula leaps at my heart) and ask about ME, prior to inspecting my ankle and comment enthusiastically despite the barely distinguishable improvement nowadays. Forever positive and undeniably cheerful even when the smile became a bit crooked and didn’t extend to your eyes as you fretted over Marcio’s desertion to Sao Paulo. The extraordinary gift of a colorful pair of GG panties you presented this morning means so much since I realize it could have meant another pound of beef for the family janta. The “cards” torn from a lined tablet of paper written in strong block letters alongside the design of flowers and trees in bold red pen are endearing and lovely..with the passage from the bible. I am eternally in your debt and am forever altered because of our connection.

Um abraco enorme,

Paulinha

I am not in the same world I was before 10/19. To be the keeper of a solemn secret is no easier than it sounds. Each staggered step has catapulted me into a surreal unstable life and I simply cannot find a way to return. Once I was convinced utopia is Brasil. I was so desperately eager to leave North America, speak for the time being fragmented Portuguese and be with whom I considered some of my kindred souls. Not without some turbulent trepidation, of course, yet that also made it all the more special, unique and precious. My friends and family expressing their fondness for me and well wishes caught me off guard. Few showed despondency or fear…until that fateful Friday. In my hunger for more depth of feeling and spirit I have arrived at this boiling point. Where to next is the poignant question I do not have the answer to yet I am certain it is movement whether sideways, forward or tumbling backwards, movement nonetheless.

Everything At Stake

Here I am, once again, everything at stake, clouded in tears and suppressed anger. Pitching a hushed fit since I cannot for the life of me figure out where to go from here. Without direct contact with my usually reliable friends and concrete plans for tomorrow, I am devoid of options. Where is the opening I can eek into? Silence is steadily claiming my life along with greedy mosquitoes. Feel as though a train wreck lesson is hurling forward in my path at rapid speed and me without a leg to stand on!

One reader commented, “Sounds like you are having a great time!” Hm, guess that is one way of looking at it.

Finally my box (still have yet to receive yours Angela) planted itself in Ana’s Caixa Postal. Imagine my delight as I reserve my joyous anticipation in attempt to pry open the package gifted to me by Judy. A fountain pen nearly snaps in half, the hair clip doesn’t suffice so I hurdle along through the tiled house to snatch a steak knife. Thank you, thank you, muito obrigada! I have a new selection of reading material and goodies to gobble. Took two and a half weeks to arrive.

Dario’s evil streak screeches the metal-based chair back and forth so inherently indicative of their disquieting relationship. Ana’s head jerks in abhorrence reaction which is exactly what Dario counts on with his second grade charm behavior. Top of the food pyramid beer devours the frig. An elephant in the living room meat dish consumes the yellow table with a satisfying plate of plain sticky white rice to appease the vegetarian in the house. What’s a girl to do but divide the stash of chocolate from her delightful aunt who has generously shared delicious vices gained from father’s side of the family.

An invisible man arrives to who park himself behind the pillar while sincerely exploring his financial acumen or lackthereof with Dario. I suspect it is the familiar chicken killer from the neat farm down the road who owes a substantial amount to the sitio. He materializes thin as a chop stick clown jeans drooping from his hips as he jerks them in indifference though puffs of disbelieving smoke curl from his lips. His topless sinewy frame is clean and athletic from chasing the fowl around the butcher’s yard prior to sacrificing them. He is risky business handsome as he gestures his arms in confidence and clearly trouble with self-assured floppy untied gray tennis shoes. Sun glasses tip on the crown of his head to shake a stick at the low impenetrable clouds in the opulent sky. Another voice babbles incoherently from the opposite side of the verandah. Husky, petite, tall, bulky, shoeless or not stimulates my vivid imagination. Shy and hesitant to present myself and explain my existence is more than I can tolerate now. They barrel off with a loud unmaintained muffler. Dario’s empty pocket amiability will be the demise of the farm.

Air calm and dense from a mid-morning rain while near damp clothes glare from the feeble line to settle down for days on end without the desired result. Accustomed to the chortle from the roosters and chirping birds the sounds escape me until I consider my next line of prose. How will it be in the bustling city with cars, endless people on the streets and burble from neighboring windows once I depart from the farm? How many nights must I toss and turn with the disorienting urban clamor? If and when that occurs!

Marquinhos turns up with two bags of churrasco (bbq flavored) thin moon-shaped chips. His mother insisted I have them. We munched in silence each with our own thoughts of brilliant escape. He inevitably took a few pics of himself before announcing it is time for café de tarde (afternoon snack) and off he marched. I adore the fun-filled time with this chatty and exuberant nine year old.  He is truly the son of his likeable mother always cheerful and ceaselessly grinning from ear to ear. Pieces, the two of them. Figures.

Friends Forever!

November 23, 2012

College friends rock! In my experience, the most deep rich and long-lasting hearty relationships have been with my post college friends, the few years after I left University of MN and ventured out on my own. Today Lava Pe (Wash Your Feet is Daniel’s nickname) one of Ana’s closest college friends dropped by to uncharacteristically hang out have a hot lunch (I made dried eggplant and a cabbage salad) and buy a number of veggies. Very handsome blue eyed wonder, tall and on the husky side with flappy non-descript striped button down shirt and baggy jeans dragging along suede shoes, a startling contrast to the typical Havanas everyone dons. His hair is nearly buzz cut short which consequently causes his stark eyes to pop out even more dramatically. Lava is cheerful teaser, helpfully attentive listener and a great supporter of the farmers. Each and every week he insistently buys a boxful of fresh organic produce and dutifully pays crisp cash on the spot. His wife just as darling and they are expecting their first child next year. Their current brood one giant male Visla and a short-haired male dapple grey Dashund puppy take up most of their energy.

Ana became animated and affable giggly like a school-girl at her first science fair. In his animated mood, Dario also wore a shit-eating grin that made me lighten up a bit. I was not pleased to hear he had forgotten to go to the Post Office to collect my long-awaited boxes. Lava Pe had offered to pick up the packages. We could swing by his house on our way to Sao Paulo this weekend to get them. Plan “B” was discounted immediately since Dario failed to locate the PO Box key he had been given this morning. Sigh. Nothing seems easy at this point. I become easily disenchanted perpetually at their mercy.

I discovered Paulo, the inconsistent painter is 47 and has three children….wishing he could have one more little girl in his life before it is too late! His eldest is a young man at 23 and lives in Sao Paulo, second oldest is a daughter who’s 17 and the youngest is 14 who both live here with him. Brasilians adore big families. I can’t think of one incident where someone didn’t make a comment that I have “only one” they might as well add “Poor thing” since their expression seems to mimic the sentiment.

No sign of Solange today. She popped by yesterday to ask me what number my underwear is. She was going into town today to buy me a souvenir…such a benevolent woman! I hated to point out that my panties could be recycled into three pair for a Brasilian girl. We’ll see what she comes up with…gimminy!

A few days left on the farm. Packed and ready to go save my toothbrush! Not certain of my plans at this point. My girlfriend in Florianopolis has informed me the reformation of her spare room has been delayed and she cannot house me unless I want to stay on the couch in the living room. Hm. So I am putting other feelers out. An endless adventure standing on my own…one foot!

Snake in the grass

Thanksgiving 2012

Feels as though I am trapped in a challenging unsolvable Where’s Waldo page. Wearing the same outfit but unrecognizable and invisible to those who search desperately to find me.

A leg-length lagarta (lizard) was entrapped and tormented today. Battle with my feelings of anger and resentment in disbelief. Marquinhos diligently snapped photos for me. He suggested it was dying and thankfully leashed the assailing troublesome Preta dragging her from the scene. She was barking incessantly and biting the terrified creature from behind to avoid the clamping jaws. In anguish and frustration I could not inquire about the outcome. The bleeding mouth dripping bright red as Reinaldo scooped it up by the long whip tale. In the end Marquinhos admits his sympathetic dad was certain the animal hidden in the grass was a venomous snake and threw an enormous rock at it’s head to prevent it from “pegging” anyone.

Left alone the majority of the day with my intermittent grief and required detailed preparation for one remaining class with my sole English student, Cristiane.

Tested the waters by placing my stubbornly misshapen foot on the dry tile floor, gingerly experimenting with its ability to flex. Exercises (thank goodness for the internet!) are mandatory and painstakingly gradual. An improvised ace bandage wound around my atrophied leg while awaiting the opportunity to buy a “sock” that will improve circulation.

Am pleased to see Solange (Marquinhos corrected me on the spelling of his mom’s name as he insists upon looking over my shoulder as I type) was able to squeeze into the carmel stylish goucho pants I presented to her late last week. She pranced and twirled for me in obvious delight. She has been such a glittering abundant bright spot in my lonely and secluded world on the farm these past four weeks.

Appreciate it is not only what I have to share in my life, especially in these insufferable  past few discerning months, but more importantly where I am when I tell my story. Would my words be poles apart if I had spiraled in Toronto, Port Townsend, Minneapolis, Sao Paulo even? Are events exacerbated by the remoteness of a rural locale, lack of stimulating social structure, constant silence drifting off fern and fauna, vibration of an inaccessible undulating washing machine, roosters crowing, silent energy of the farm house, insistent shouts of GGGOOOAAALLL! from the droll of the tv, insistent protective barking, tapping away on the plastic black mini-table while I lean semi-prone mending leg propped in semi-relief. 

News Flash!

November 21, 2012

Euphoric! I cannot express just how relieved I am after the consult with McWonderful today.

Arriving a few minutes before the appointed 9:00 hour, I knew better than to pull a Mannix move jumping out of the moving vehicle from our past hurry-up-and-wait experience. After successfully checking-in at the hospital clinic, I hunkered down with eyes peeled for ammunition for my Blog. If it weren’t for the ample-eyed sweet disposition petite receptionist at the front desk I could still be parked in the unforgiving vivid purple plastic chair not realizing I was lingering in the wrong waiting room! Drat! She accompanied me, lugging my resilient well-used BECU (for those of you who don’t live in Seattle-it’s the name of a fairly large credit union) cloth bag securing far too many bit of paper, a hint of mildew worn paperback on Lyndon Johnson abandoned by the former farmer, my taut black leather purse with enough goodies to survive two weeks time in the jungle and essential thermal water bottle generously filled by the sullen teen girl arms crossed in a pissy youth fashion. We ended up in the x-ray area where the bald-headed burly Mr Clean technician cheerfully greeted us as, one-by-one, we were escorted into the secured room for our shoot. I knew the moment I glanced at the image, everything looked as it had in the original film. Simply needed McWonderful to confirm my deduction which he did, two and a half hours later.

In the meantime, back in the front waiting room where I confirmed I was supposed to be via several in-the-know looking people who must think I am an absolute idiot…tend not to share that I am a N. American though that misinformation causes a lot of confusion for people having to repeat themselves over and over. I don’t appear to have a disability nor am I accompanied by a helper or a companion animal!

Ana came back to collect me. Not sure why she was so distressed by the holdup since our last hospital clinic appointment took up half the day. I felt incredibly guilty about the extensive delay and suggested I hail a cab or request an ambulance ride back to the farm (the hospital offers transport for patients in need.) Ana insisted she could hang around but was extremely disturbed and antsy. I raced into the back waiting room when they called my name and slipped into Conference Room #3, uninvited, to wait for McWonderful. I felt I had the right of way since my film conveniently landed on top of the pile. Beat out the cute tall dark polite young man who was limping along with a cane. Ha! Shameless!

McWonderful kissed me hello on my best side cheek with a loud smack and affirmed my optimistic diagnosis. I am able to begin bear down on my foot. He implored for my forgiveness since he gifted me such a atrocious Brasilian souvenir. Claims he will be headed to New Orleans in February. With a “Good luck” and another smooch on the cheek and I departed Conference Room #3 for the last time.

 

Obviously relieved I chatted non-stop on the way home. You know how I can be! I expounded on some of the writings I created and Ana was quiet and reflective. She extended an invitation to join she and her family over the holidays in Peruibe where her parents live the majority of the time. Ana did share we hadn’t really gotten to know one another in the past month and a half due to the unconventional and strange circumstances. She did seem a bit remorseful about the past four weeks. It has been regrettably excruciating and unavoidable as far as I can tell.

As we turned off the main highway, there was a nine year old boy sized beast running across the road. It looked a bit like a monkey to me but Ana insisted it was a “creature of the forest” clearly not a monkey. I will have to ask her to show me on-line. Pulled over but were unable to spot the renegade. I felt a bit discombobulated as though we had just spotted Big Foot or some other fantastical creature.

Since it was on the main rural road to the farm, we made a quick stop at the local clinic to say farewell to McFabulous (more puckers on the cheek!) and get some last minute advice regarding my physical therapy. Unfortunately the PT is off on holiday so I will have to wait until I arrive in Sao Paulo to get a more detailed regime. For now I work on rotations, use a ball for flexibility and resistance and within a month or so should be able to walk without a cane.  

And so my friends, off to the next adventure! Thanks for all of your steadfast support during this month of incarceration. Though the sequestered part of the journey is nearly behind me, I realize and count on further opportunities to learn and consequently grow from. Dangitall!

Teacher's Pet

November 20, 2012

Bruno’s aim in life is to be an empregada (laborer.) His sloped baseball cap masks the brilliant sheepish walnut shell brown downturned eyes. Red-rimmed drippy snuffling nose takes away from his charming pixie face followed by a dramatic pointed chin. He daren’t meet my severe eyes as I lectured Marlon the what to and where for’s of my displeasure. The swaggering teens are 39 minutes late for class. Deplorable. I sternly suggest they must not be interested in learning English. Marlon is an avid chess player so I inquired how he became such a respectable player…he mourned in silence. I think they were all stunned to silence since they had never experienced this obituary tone from me. I lectured them on taking their lives more seriously and pressed them to make a decision to either learn or leave. I am willing to support them in any way possible as long as they do their part. Homework is not an option. When pressed Bruno finally opted for the aspiration to be an Engineer living in Curitiba.  All is relative in a lived experience.

My classes commence with comfortably familiar words and lead into new fairly simple vocabulary and undemanding concepts such as time of day. Repetition is rapid-fire to prevent them from second-guessing themselves. Cristiane benefits the most since she is decidedly devoted and has superior English skills. She is sixteen and wants to find a stimulating secure position that obliges her to speak English. Not wanting to appear disingenuous nor disheartening I encourage her to be creative. Cristiane won an Achievement Award and was granted a semester of gratis English classes. The teacher is persistently inaccurately changing her grammar homework and mispronouncing the vocabulary words. Sigh. There is a University in town where she might be able to take some language classes or uncover a program to enhance her studies. Problematic to say the least.

As the four moderately animated rejuvenated and boisterous students meandered across the verandah I unsuspectingly glanced up to witness a hefty white-bellied snake vehemently wrapped around the sturdy surmising beam above. Paulo insisted on repetitively poking it with a thumb-sized deep green freshly cut bamboo branch and it slithered into his home in the sizable gap between the slats of ceramic tile roofing and the cement block wall. Three quarters the length of my body and perhaps an inch and a half around delicately shimmered with a black diamond pattern and fortunately non-venomous!

I cannot help but wonder the outcome of these innocent raw insolvent most-likely inopportune youths. A tenderness defined by necessity overwhelms me. To seek passion demands absolutely everything of me yet who am I to say they need to be driven as well?  I cannot write my truth without having a witness.  Every single day I am acutely aware that I live in the rich poverty of pain. Is there such a disparity between “them” and me?

Chicken Little

November 19, 2012

Now who’s the chicken?

Scraggly feathered fugitive hens wobble ‘round the yard, scratching in every nook and cranny for juicy bugs and delicate fresh stems. Double trouble! Negihna and Birnabem (the cats) turn the other cheek when the “girls” strut by. It’s as though the sparse felines are embarrassed they cannot take the barren creatures down despite the fact that the chickens are in the bird family. The drowsy dogs also scoot around the two-legged plumed foe. Though there are just two stragglers they seem to be everywhere at once; inside the slippery livingroom, pecking on the porch, out back by the pervious coop, struggling with worms in front of the slick verandah, even in the darkened bathroom and on the marbled tabletop. After an efficient shower I nearly slip on the blob of unashamedly laid excrement plopped indiscriminately in front of the hollow door. Shameless!

The chickens continue their prancing parade until Ana and Jo arrive. Instantly the girls are corralled into the prison we refer to as a coop. The obvious unpopular one (she has a mere handful of tail feathers covering her rear) escapes and ensnared adeptly once again. Both dogs race around excitedly, one caged and whiney while the other incessantly circles around shrilly barking at the unimpressive game. 

Meanwhile a venomous snake is caught in the fields above, head smashed-in to ensure instantaneous and certain death. Solante trophies it ‘round the yard on the end of a wrist-sized stick. I requested a keepsake photo in an obituary tone. She promptly laid it on the small grey stones in a majestic straight line. Life and death come easy on the farm.

Seven more sacrificial hens run around and around then eventually ceremoniously trapped and delivered to the slaughter farm this balmy afternoon. Two startled fowls managed to elude and escape, play “catch me if you can” while the serious olive-skinned slip of a boy, whitish yippy mixed-breed underfoot dog, two thinner than average drabbish men hurled profanities between nervous laughs and Preta, mostly chasing the other pup, trailed behind. Twenty minutes and merely R$24 in collections later the truck sputtered off with its clucking load.

My quandary involves the medium-sized brown furry spider I spotted lurking behind the livingroom sofa this morning..failed to point him (must be a male-too skulky to be a female!) out to the chickens cavorting through the house..drat! Now I have something else to toss and turn about tonight.

And finally, which comes first, the chicken or the egg?

Chicken Little

November 19, 2012

Now who’s the chicken?

Scraggly feathered fugitive hens wobble ‘round the yard, scratching in every nook and cranny for juicy bugs and delicate fresh stems. Double trouble! Negihna and Birnabem (the cats) turn the other cheek when the “girls” strut by. It’s as though the sparse felines are embarrassed they cannot take the barren creatures down despite the fact that the chickens are in the bird family. The drowsy dogs also scoot around the two-legged plumed foe. Though there are just two stragglers they seem to be everywhere at once; inside the slippery livingroom, pecking on the porch, out back by the pervious coop, struggling with worms in front of the slick verandah, even in the darkened bathroom and on the marbled tabletop. After an efficient shower I nearly slip on the blob of unashamedly laid excrement plopped indiscriminately in front of the hollow door. Shameless!

The chickens continue their prancing parade until Ana and Jo arrive. Instantly the girls are corralled into the prison we refer to as a coop. The obvious unpopular one (she has a mere handful of tail feathers covering her rear) escapes and ensnared adeptly once again. Both dogs race around excitedly, one caged and whiney while the other incessantly circles around shrilly barking at the unimpressive game. 

Meanwhile a venomous snake is caught in the fields above, head smashed-in to ensure instantaneous and certain death. Solante trophies it ‘round the yard on the end of a wrist-sized stick. I requested a keepsake photo in an obituary tone. She promptly laid it on the small grey stones in a majestic straight line. Life and death come easy on the farm.

Seven more sacrificial hens run around and around then eventually ceremoniously trapped and delivered to the slaughter farm this balmy afternoon. Two startled fowls managed to elude and escape, play “catch me if you can” while the serious olive-skinned slip of a boy, whitish yippy mixed-breed underfoot dog, two thinner than average drabbish men hurled profanities between nervous laughs and Preta, mostly chasing the other pup, trailed behind. Twenty minutes and merely R$24 in collections later the truck sputtered off with its clucking load.

My quandary involves the medium-sized brown furry spider I spotted lurking behind the livingroom sofa this morning..failed to point him (must be a male-too skulky to be a female!) out to the chickens cavorting through the house..drat! Now I have something else to toss and turn about tonight.

And finally, which comes first, the chicken or the egg?

Mother Knows Best

November 19, 2012

A form-fitted intricately blue patterned billowy dress embraced Solante as she hollered “Oi?” from the low lit windy verandah. She came bearing a look I knew well. Expressions of a similar loss. Her powerful determined and know-it-all eighteen year old son was making his way swiftly to danger and destruction in the great city of Sao Paulo with a trusted neighbor. Marco (their names all resemble the other, only need to replace one or two letters and I cannot keep them all straight) resists boring, stifling and dash your hopes Registro, yearning for the fascination and thrill of the promise of easy cash. Solante can’t help herself as she tumbles into Alice’s hole to the hand-ringing place of terror and drug-induced thieves, illicit men and opportunistic enticing so-called friends. Holding both hands in front of her face, she draws in the hideous news stories flashing before her eyes from the television screen. Faces that resemble Marco, the shape of his shoulders and strong stable legs startle her. “Those must be my baby’s alluring shoes that thief threatened off him!” The girl, woman, old man, string of out-of-focus faces are him, she simply knows it in her weakened breast and distressed heart.

We talk of being mothers. We have the slimmest of chances to set a prevailing example before the children (for they will always be thus) are off and running in the opposite direction from where you are insistently pointing. We do the very best we know how with what miniscule information we have. Marcela, the only girl in the sizable family lives with Solante’s sister in a nearby town. The eldest boy, Marcelo (I told you!) stays with his grandmother in another state. It must be exceedingly yet painfully heroic to make that stab at your heart decision to allow someone else to raise your children, in spite of the fact that they are relations or can provide sufficient food and safe shelter you cannot.

He will make mistakes without a doubt. You can only pray that he has the courage to recognize choices that are in his best interest, I urge her to consider. Laughingly remind myself, as I share, that I continue to make numerous gruesome mistakes and yet live to tell the bloodthirsty tale. I held a rough weathered weary hand and kissed her innumerous wrinkled cheek and off to church she went after spending time in the fields going to the only other salvation Solante accepted-Mother Earth.  

I reflect on Taelor and her exuberant adventures at Hamline University in St. Paul. Wonder when she too will face that trek to the big city/international travels/partnership/children/peril and ruin! Considering her mother…who knows what will inspire her to take her further from me. I can’t wait!

in mom's memory

Eventually all loss is washed away. Bliss follows like eyes of a portrait. Grace persists. 

It was December 8 1993

Mom called with a tentativeness she never portrayed. She announced a cancer diagnosis and was given a six month prognosis. I declared I would come home as soon as I could. Did not leave her any room to argue.

Within a week I had the house and all of our excess belongings sold. Bags packed, goodbyes all around and Taelor and I were off. John Henry made plans to drive Kibby and Aja across the country when he could.

Eighteen years ago is a long time to recount this story. Taelor and I were housed with Louise in her vast Frank Lloyd Wright design home in Madison. We visited mom every day though there were numerous times Taelor and the other grandchildren were not allowed in the family house. Taelor was the youngest of the kids at nine months. I expect an acceptable powerlessness of not witnessing these children as grown ups though perhaps she just couldn’t tolerate the accelerated noise level. 

Couch bound, mom vacillated between a grimace and cheerful resignation. When visitors came to call she rallied and presented her old vivacious self. At times I couldn’t believe the transformation and questioned whether she was really ill. Jerry Seinfeld and Phil Donohue were her saving grace, subtle giggles to outright bursts of laughter gave us all relief each night. Her favorite meal was angelhair pasta with olive oil and fresh ground pepper. Until the time she rejected any sustenance.

The third to youngest sister, Angela was mom’s main caregiver and spent the majority of the seven months by her side. Angela, your precious commitment and dedication to mom was incredible. I honor and respect the time you relinquished from your life to be with her. 

She had lapsed into a coma and died on Father’s Day. It was far from a peaceful and graceful Hollywood death. A relief from visible torment nonetheless. Dad insisted it was purposeful so we would all remember the anniversary.

I think about her frequently. Wonder what life would have been like for our clan of 37 if she was still with us. Would she have marched down to Brasil to collect me or badger the surgeon with alternative options? Or would she have mellowed in age and calmly sent me an email of support and encouragement, declaring her love and acceptance of my decisions?

Time on my side

November 17, 2012

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Marlon swaggered in with his short cropped hair, athletic shape and a warm smile that rarely lets him down. He was uncharacteristically early for English class yet I didn’t want to squelch his eagerness so I relented and charged in on his limited vocabulary. He thoroughly expects to be able to remember words from one class to the next. Damn near impossible so I recommended, once again, that he prepare flash cards. Perhaps I can get the students to purchase and generate them as a group project. I will assign gangly pre-model doe-eyed Camila the task of buying the index cards for the keen teens.

Luciana’s staggeringly skinny daughter peeked shyly around the verandah to observe our meeting. I encouraged her to participate. I have yet to encounter a child who doesn’t earnestly want to learn my native language. So glad for this opportunity to give these young people the chance to hear the language from a North American. Both the school books and daily homework assignments are riddled with errors. If nothing else, they will remember how to pronounce “th.” I show them where my tongue lies with each letter and unique sound. We don’t have much time together (I pray!) so I am covering as much material as I can in one hour on the days they actually show up for afternoon class. It is a delightful respite from my preoccupation with my current circumstances. 

Making fettuccini for lunch today with sautéed eggplant. We’ll see just how that turns out, eh? Salt is the only seasoning in the house so I will just have to make do.

I finally received the box from my good friend, Marlys. Turns out there was an issue with the PO box key that had to be resolved…I get more insight every day..What a perfect gift of shirts (although I don’t think anyone else cares that I sport the same tops over and over, IDO!) and chocolate. We made a cake in the bread machine and added some of the said powder to make it extra scrumptious! The enclosed letter was icing on the …cake. The card is beautiful Marly and I look forward to leaving it as a thank you note for Ana and Dario. I am also gifting them the plastic box which they could well use in the office area. You will be happy to know that I recycled the duct tape to reform my crutch pit pads and I reinforced the rubber bits at the bottom…nothing goes to waste..surrounding brown paper is stuffed in the wood stove for starter, masking tape is securing the plastic protector on the wall for the painter. Aren’t we just so resourceful!

Also obtained the card my dear Aunt Judy sent way back on the 5^th of the month. Such a cheery card on a gloomy chilly day. I scooted back to my room to read it and begin a letter in response. Since I hope to, plan on, consider “done,” pray and count on being gone from here lickety split I discourage any more mail or packages. I will let everyone know of my plans as soon as I am alerted to the viable options.

Labor Intensive

Novmber 16, 2012

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Unpardonable envy of those steady stream of capable steps outside my partially ajar door as I rouse from a fidgety sleep.

This afternoon thin as an immature bamboo branch Luciana will arrive on her dependable bike to sweep through the spacious house cleaning it inside and out. The complex and multi-layered class system in Brasil is evolving a bit. Every middle class family from upper to lower, has a maid. She either lives with the family in a small room off the kitchen or comes and goes on either a part-time or full-time basis. Most have weekends and holidays off to spend with their own brood. If the servant has children they are typically residing with one or both of the grandparents or another family member. A grand majority live in the favellas or much further out in the country. Either way, it is a long and tedious bus ride.

Along with a maid a great majority of middle class and higher families have a cook. Consequently the dutiful wife/mother does not have this skill set. It is clearly a status issue. The maid, depending upon where the supporting family lives, has a salary of R$15 (US$7.50) per ½ day to minimum wage R$800/month (US$400.) When tragedy strikes a family and the breadwinner father loses his job or dies it is the equivalent of a national disaster. The entire extended family holds conference to maintain the integrity of their indispensable servants. It is unspeakable to go without the indelible pyramid of support.

When a farmhand, maid, cook or other service worker arrives at the door they dip their heads and silently request permission to enter, mumbling “excuse me” as they do so. They are generally a very humble crowd and clearly well aware of their inferred status.

I have asked several people about unemployment statistics in the nearby city or Brasil as a country. No one seems to know those figures. My guess is that the multifaceted system is so vast and complex it is a hard number to come across. There are many, many people who are working sporadically on an hourly wage to raise their struggling families who have disappeared into the integral design.

North America is shifting extraordinarily as well. I had much difficulty in obtaining steady livable wage employment in the last five years especially. Although overqualified, more often than not, I was offered several posts with absolutely no benefits and a miserable hourly wage for an insurmountable list of duties. Yes, things are ever-changing and I do have eternal hope that each individual country can discover its unique character through every human being. Everyone has something to contribute.

It's a Holiday!

November 15, 2012

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A holiday of some sort today. Woke up late as most people do who have the chance to sleep-in. Thoughtfully there was a dinner-sized plate, healthy cup, chillish milk (the type in the box needn’t be kept refrigerated) largish sugar container, slightly mussed brown paper bag with a few smushy rolls (sounds a bit horrid but actually quite tasty!) cheerful yellow plastic container of  butter and a tub of sweet spread a bit like honey with larger bits of stuff (I know, a highly technical term that only those of you with higher level of education will comprehend!) a partially filled coffee thermos and a stool beside the firm chair for me to perch my foot. How kind!

Sauntered over breakfast since my calendar is vacant today. Hm.

Took myself over to the Horta (fields) meandering in memory of the vast mounds of veggies and palms of mamao. Imagine the plump eggplants hovering over the hearty green leaves, swaying in the slightest breeze. Stiff Couve (kale) leaves umbrella white thin plastic nursing the rows of roots. Perky green cherry tomatoes lurk under penetrating sticky shoots, the perfect match for whomever is munching on the luscious nearly ripe round fruit…Buggers! Young shoots of cukes lie awaiting their prime, plenty to go ‘round! The neglected student farmer humps are loaded with rotting vegetables, hankering to be plucked from their death.  

Dedicated a few minutes to the luscious valley below. The depth of promise in the farms beneath astounds and inspires me. Families devoted to producing substantial amounts of food and livestock to feed the thin to hefty multitudes. Who better to turn our hope and guardianship of the land to than the diligent and resilient farmer? The land owner rarely  accepts a holiday for the assaulted crops, hungry stock and dry buds that refuse to open need attention. Thank you farmers of the world!

 As I march back to the house on perfectly able feet, I wave and “berp, berp” at the crowds in the chicken coops-tortuous traffic back and forth chasing and racing skedaddling and screeching. Oh how I miss asking the “girls” for their daily egg production numbers!

So, I lie on my bed, taking myself back and forth to the fields and coops wondering where I end up tomorrow?

Only five more days until I get my final X-ray!

Happy Trails!

Fishing

November 14, 2012

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“Go Fish” was the highlight of the day. Taught Marquinhos how to play the card game and we only shared about a dozen sets before I cried “Uncle!” Once he began to cheat, I was done. Little Stinker!

Robert Louis Stevenson was bedridden with illness much of his adult life. If he could produce novels like Treasure Island prone…I can at least make an attempt to eek out a few solicitous words, eh?

Friends and family have suggested they are interested in mailing out care packages. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances here, I am discouraging everyone from doing just that. It is just not a high priority for the farm couple to inquire after my boxes at the post office in the city. I do so appreciate everyone thinking of me and my needs yet it is impossible for me to control this aspect of my life. When I am able to receive packages or letters, I will let you know. The best option would be my close friends in either Sao Paulo or Florianopolis at a future date. I will keep you abreast of my travel plans.

A galinha was slaughtered this morning. Reinforces the fact that I do not like chicken! I won’t go into the gory details for those of you who do partake in meat products. 

With Ana and Dario careening through town while delivering produce to quite an extensive list of clientele this afternoon (since tomorrow is a holiday) I am decidedly catching up on breaking news on the CNN channel.

English class with Cristine and her sister, Camila earlier in the day proved to be  uneventful. The latter has had a full two years of English language class in public school yet could hardly pronounce the alphabet. I felt inspired by the simple fact that within an hour, she was decidedly more comfortable with “a” through “g” and had a warm smile on her face.

It is another chilly night so I have three layers on top and socks with Croc sandals (gulp!) on my mismatched feet.

Perhaps chickenless soup for dinner tonight?

Ta ta for now!

burro bust!

November 13, 2012

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A burro came for lunch. He trailed his tie-out rope like a bowtie designated for special occasions finally torn off and dangling in ecstasy. He was chased ‘round the yard a bit before he discovered the gaping gate out front. Off he went. Drat, didn’t have time to get my Ipod to snatch a photo!

Smell of the sea is wafting through the chilled house and out the flung open wide doors and heavy wooden windows. A cool day forces us to don longer sleeved shirts and slacks. I have one pair of pants and one long-sleeved shirt. Luckily for me they match save the fuzzy red and white socks I had to put on..frozen toes…not that the fashion police come to call, if they did, they’d be quite occupied! Enough said.

Pain was so bad last night, I wanted to jump up and howl, prance around the room and shout some very profane language yet I simply plugged my ears with a headset to drown out the hideous mosquitoes and absorb the soothing music of the 80’s. McFab insists the constant ache, dark rich bloody skin and swelling is normal. He believes I will have a full recovery and encourages me to twist and turn my throbbing ankle joints as much as I can tolerate. Yikes! The puckered wounds continue to pull and pinch as they heal. Scrub away with warm soapy water in the shower sitting impatiently on my stiff white plastic stool as I squirm in disgust. My heel to middle foot is still quite numb which actually helps when I scrape and shed the deadening layer of skin. I know…YUCK!

Feeling extraordinarily sensitive these never ending days. Seemingly hardened sideways glances twist at my heart more than usual. Don’t take anything personal is my motto today!  The renovation activity began early, before I know it there are voices outside the French doors to my dark and humming room. Ceiling fan prevents the mosquitoes from landing on my exposed veins yet chills the air and forces me to cover up and wrestle with the delicate linens throughout the endless wee hours.  I am thankful I do not have to be alerted at midnight and 6am to take antibiotics any longer.

Had some sort of heady spiny fish, firm and hearty pasty manioc, preverbal rice and beans, cooked flavorful cabbage and grapelike fruit for dessert. Will have coffee after English class with the teens. Held the cover-the-basics class for one hour and ten minutes this afternoon. Buzzing from the handsaw interrupted our session but there really isn’t anywhere else I can take them, unless they carry me like a pharaoh on a throne. Read advertisements out of the Forbes magazine since it is the only thing I have with me besides advanced novels and complex poetry. I will find something simple on the internet to copy for them.

Meu deus do ceu!  I am freezing!