For years, the Anderson family-at-large gathered at the lake cabin for Christmas. After Mom and Pops moved to Ft Worth, the Christmas get-together moved there, too, and evolved into the Cousin's Christmas - Cora and Leon's children, families thereof, and all cousins, near cousins, and anyone foolish enough to be friends of anyone in that group. Kinship-wise, it's loosely defined on purpose; one can never have enough family, and Christmas sure beats funerals for getting everyone together.
There is usually a food theme, which we mostly ignore and bring whatever is our favorite dish at that time, and a gift theme for the exchange. We do the draw numbers and each person in turn picks a gift from the stack, or steals an already opened gift. There has been a broad range of gift themes, from books to music, to things made from wood, etc. Some themes work better than others, and the quality of gifts has varied, accordingly.
This year the gift theme was White Elephant. What gift have you received that you really, really want to re-gift? And as you would expect, the class of gifts really matched the theme. We took a candle and holder, which was a heavy base with two cherubs holding up the candle - sort of like Atlas holding up the world (and almost as heavy). Our second gift was the dinosaur costume that Mom made years ago; she would wear it when she taught her dinosaur unit, and I even wore it once at an IBM sales meeting. I'm sure it was to illustrate some point regarding marketing computers, but for the life of me I can't remember it.
And what did we get, in turn? Mom first got some Roy Rogers TV episodes on DVD, which for some strange reason someone took from her. She then stole a white elephant - really - a cute stuffed plush toy from IKEA - (which she then gave to Taylor, Melissa's nine-year old daughter).
Me? Check this out.
These are staplers. Hot. Pink. Staplers that take teeny, tiny little staples (good luck finding those in the office supply). I know these were re-gifted, because they showed up at this same gift exchange last year. And will they be re-re-gifted next year? Count on it. Next year's theme is "Tools" and if these aren't tools I don't know what is.
Santa left a new lap top computer at our house. Ostensibly, it is an educational tool for Barbara as she continues her studies at Austin Grad. In reality, it is so we can sit and read our blogs and peruse Facebook while we watch TV. Well, I peruse Facebook; Mom says she still has a life. I say, who spent 9 hours catching up on her blogs after we got back from Peru?
But that's not all... when the TV guy says "You can find out more by clicking on the whatever icon on our home page", we are right there. Or "Vote for the TV commercial of your choice on www.yousucker" we're on it in a heart beat.
Only problem is balancing this thing on my lap. There's not a lot of real estate left there, and the PC tends to want to tip over when you open the lid. My solution is to put the recliner back, add a pillow and a lap board and I'm all set. Of course, I'm sort of stuck in this position when I do that, so there's not much else to do but sit back and enjoy life.
I ran across a recipe for "Texas Red Chili" by a guy who writes for Texas Monthly, and he pointed out that this was the basic recipe - no frills, no 80 secret ingredients. Just plain ol' Chili. I 'lowed as how that sounded pretty good, and since the recipe calls for you to make it up and then refrigerate it for a spell, I could make it up ahead of time and we could have it for our Christmas lunch.
We had all the spices - I just needed the meat and some fresh jalapenos and fresh Ancho peppers - so when we went out for supper, we stopped at the Yuppie HEB and got everything but fresh Anchos. I found dried, so I figured I would improvise. Got it all home and put on my Wick Fowler hat and went to work.
Do you know how hard it is to cube 3 ponds of chuck? At the HEB I turned up my nose at the ready-made chili meat - not lean enough, I thought. Of course, if we had a kitchen knife that was sharper than a serving spoon, it might have been easier. I decided that if we were going to eat meat that didn't come sliced into sandwich portions we might have to invest in a knife.
Okay, meat is cut up. You know, we don't have a skillet big enough to brown 3 pounds of meat. Two batches? Nahh, just keep flipping the fall-out back in the skillet. Note to self: add big skillet to list.And lots more paper towels.
Now make a puree of the peppers. Except the dried Ancho is sort of like an old boot. That stuff is pretty leathery. Oh, well, toss it in anyway. The blender should take care of it. Now put the browned meat and the pureed peppers with Ancho chunks in the pot (we do have a big pot, and it only took Mom half an hour to find in the far recesses of the cabinet), add water and bring it to a boil, adding spices along the way.
You might want to know that cooking a big pot of anything with a lot of spices and chili peppers in it tends to affect the sinuses and eyes - even if you go into the computer room and shut the door. We're all breathing freely now; it's seeing the TV through the tears that's hard. But this gave me an opportunity to research Ancho peppers, and it turns out there's no such thing as fresh Anchos. Those would be your Poblanos; dry them and they are called Anchos.
At this point, I began to wonder what else the writer did not know about cooking Chili. But it looked like Chili, and it smelled like Chili, so after simmering for an appropriate time, I put it in the fridge to wait for Santa.
And it tasted like Chili. Maybe we just started a new Christmas tradition.
The anxiety that had gripped him – all but consumed him – since he had received his instructions held him motionless before the small village. “This can’t be right,” he thought. “This backwater village in this backwater region can’t be the place.” He almost thought, “There must be a mistake,” before he caught himself. No, there was no mistake, but that didn’t ease the sense of despair, the dread that had overwhelmed him since he had been sent on this mission.
He thought back to his summons before the Throne. There, before the Most High and a small group of angels, the Word had told him that He was going to leave heaven and go to Earth as a human, to become the King of the wayward and rebellious people and turn them back to the Father. He thought at that moment the heavens would fracture and they would all fall into the abyss, but that was just the beginning. The Word went on to explain how He was going to become human, and who His earthly mother would be and that he, Gabriel, in his role as messenger was to go and prepare her. He had already carried out a similar mission six months ago by appearing to Zechariah, the priest and foretelling the birth of a son. He chuckled a bit at having left Zechariah speechless. But that was different; Elizabeth was just old and childless. This… this was something altogether different.
Now Gabriel stood in the dark on the road before the little village of Nazareth, a collection of mud houses nestled on a hillside in Galilee, one of many such villages, none notable. Some of the houses seemed piled on top of others against the hill, mud roof of one becoming the courtyard of another. Some were white-washed; most were not. At the end of the street a few awnings stretched across poles marked where the vendors made a market each day. The market was empty now, as were the streets. All of Nazareth was indoors.
Gabriel strode quickly to the house. Pausing before the door, he tried to muster as much angelic aura as he could, but aura – and almost everything else – had been sucked out of him. He pushed the heavy curtain aside and stepped into the room. She was alone, as he knew she would be. She was startled at his abrupt entrance, but not as much as Gabriel was. “A child!” he thought. “She’s just a child.” He knew the way of the humans – the betrothals at a very early age, the arranged weddings – but to actually see her just confirmed all the dread he felt. “What was He thinking? This skinny girl cannot be the mother of the King of Israel!”
Pushing aside his misgivings, Gabriel set to his task and exclaimed in his most angelic voice, “Greetings, you who are highly favored. The Lord is with you.” He was chagrined at the weak and trembling way the proclamation actually came out. He cleared his throat.
Mary stared at Gabriel in shock. She was startled, but there was nothing to be afraid of in Nazareth. Certainly there was nothing threatening about this man, stranger though he was. What troubled her was his greeting. Mary was a non-person in Nazareth; hardly anyone ever spoke to her at all, least of all strangers, and this was certainly not what a stranger said to you – not even a stranger who burst into your house unannounced. This wasn’t even a greeting that the Rabbi would make – not that the Rabbi ever spoke to her – but this… this greeting made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
Gabriel, aware that he had startled Mary, quickly said, “Don’t be afraid, Mary. You have found favor with God.”
Now Mary was afraid. First, this stranger knew her name. The neighbors didn’t even know her name. Then he said he knew something about her that she didn’t know – and what he knew came from God. Deep down, the first tiny spark of knowledge of who this stranger was and what was happening snapped into being. Yes, now Mary was very afraid.
“You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.”
Mary heard the words but they didn’t make sense. Then she began to process them, first the part about having a son, then the part about her son being given the throne of David. The little spark was burning white-hot now. Then she went back to the beginning – the part about being with child. Yes, she was engaged to Joseph, and they would marry soon, but something told her this was not what was meant. She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them to Gabriel and said, “How can this be? I... I’ve never been with a man.”
“The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. That’s why the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.”
Gabriel saw the flash of terror pass through Mary like a lightning bolt. She turned her head away, but Gabriel had seen her eyes wide with alarm. “It’s too much for this child,” he thought. “She can’t handle this.” He sought some way to comfort her. He said gently, “Your cousin Elizabeth is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month. Nothing is impossible with God.”
Mary looked at the angel, for she knew full well now that this stranger was from God. Her heart pounded as if it would leave her body. Her mind raced from one thought to another. God has chosen me… What will Joseph say…? It’s not possible… Nothing is impossible with God… What will mother say…? The Messiah – at last…! This can’t be happening to me… Me! God has chosen me…! Why me…? What will father say…? There’s an angel standing in my house… What will the neighbors say…? What of the shame…! Mother of the Messiah…! What will Joseph’s family say…? What…?
Gabriel was stunned. He felt the emotional turmoil, sensed the burning questions as they caromed through her consciousness. He was certain she was going to bolt into the street and he positioned himself squarely before the door to stop her flight when it came. The whole future of creation hung on the answer from this child and he was powerless as to its outcome.
Slowly, the Spirit calmed her mind, softened the trip hammer of her heart, and brought stillness to her thoughts. She looked at Gabriel a long time, then bowed her head and said. “May it be to me as you have said.”
Gabriel blinked once or twice, trying to decide what to do next, but there was no next. His work was done. There was nothing more to say, so he just turned and stepped back into the street. He paused in the dark passage, thinking about what had just happened. He had delivered a preposterous message to a totally improbable girl and she had received it in stride – and was prepared to act on it. Smiling to himself, he set off to find Joseph.
I have the utmost respect for those people who daily fill a blog page with witty insights, or touching stories, or thoughtful meditation. I can't do it. Sometimes your life just becomes un-bloggy, and there isn't a single thing of interest to share.
Oh, I try. I make mental notes about things all the time:
Like the guy in UT regalia wandering around Wal-Mart, yelling, "I'm going to Arizona to watch UT whup up on Ohio State." But I couldn't come up with a second sentence.
Or the picture I tried to take of a tree in the office parking lot that has just been brilliant in color and Fall foliage, but the camera was set to Macro focus and when I got a good look at the pictures they were out of focus. Now the color is gone.
Or wondering where is this recession people keep talking about? We can't get in to our favorite eating places because of the crowds; or can't find a place to park at the Mall because of all the other shoppers.
Or the fun I'm having with the Santa hat; I wore it to a Dentist appointment the other day and he got all the hygienists and office workers out to take a picture with me. Okaaay.
Or about Mom's stuck-in-the-sand adventure at the beach, but that's sort of a sensitive subject and I really shouldn't bring it up.
Or the other things I was going to mention in this blog, but now I can't remember them.
So, to my tens of readers out there who have been waiting with bated breath for each new installment, I apologize and suggest that there may be more useful things to do with your time.
And maybe things will get bloggier after the Holidays!
Barbara is in Port A for a couple of days of beach-watching, book-reading, and sea food-eating. I declined the invitation to go with her because I needed to work and I simply didn't have a burning desire to go this time.
So I'm at the office, merrily working away and I hear the little "beedle-eep" that indicates Rob has initiated an on-line chat with me in Google mail. Only, it's not Rob - it's Barbara, who wandered into an Internet cafe in Port A and chatted me so she could share the moment. Whoa!
Google chat is really neat; we discovered in Peru that distance is no object - you can pop up family and friends with ease wherever you are. Where was this really cool feature when Julie's family was in the Czech Republic? And I'm always telling Mom about conversations I have had (actually I just email her a copy of the chat that Google kindly provides for me).
So the other day we set her account up with the chat feature (and Rob really wondered about two people who would sit in the same house and chat each other over their respective computers) and today, the woman who avails herself of only as much technology as she can possibly get by with, popped up a chat session from an Internet cafe.
Question: How many days in a week? Answer: 6 Saturdays, 1 Sunday
Question: When is a retiree's bedtime? Answer: Three hours after he falls asleep on the couch.
Question: How many retirees to change a light bulb? Answer: Only one, but it might take all day.
Question: What's the biggest gripe of retirees? Answer: There is not enough time to get everything done.
Question: Why don't retirees mind being called Seniors? Answer: The term comes with a 10% discount.
Question: Among retirees what is considered formal attire? Answer: Tied shoes.
Question: Why do retirees count pennies? Answer: They are the only ones who have the time.
Question: Why are retirees so slow to clean out the basement, attic or garage? Answer: They know that as soon as they do, one of their adult kids will want to store stuff there.
Question: What do retirees call a long lunch? Answer: Normal.
Question: What is the best way to describe retirement? Answer: The never ending Coffee Break.
Question: What's the biggest advantage of going back to school as a retiree? Answer: If you cut classes, no one calls your parents.
Question: Why does a retiree often say he doesn't miss work, but misses the people he used to work with? Answer: He is too polite to tell the whole truth.
And, my very favorite... QUESTION: What do you do all week? Answer: Monday through Friday, NOTHING..... Saturday & Sunday, I rest.
I know, I know. This is really not a picture of my house, but it speaks volumes to my attitude toward holiday decorations. Maybe that's why Rob said "Thought of you" when he sent me the picture.
Our hotel in Lima was nice; located in the Miraflores section of Peru, well-hidden from the bus driver, it opened on a courtyard with most rooms surrounding that area. Some rooms, like ours, were in a back portion of the hotel, but we had a wonderful view of the back gate.
If you look closely at the picture above, you can see that the dining area was a sheltered outdoor pavilion. Since the temperatures don't vary that much in coastal Lima and it never rains (mists, yes; rains, no) an outdoor area is quite pleasant. Adorning the walls of this dining area are names and comments from groups that have stayed there. If you are diligent, you might even run across the name of someone you know, or a group you are familiar with, such as the Woodland Oaks church of Christ.
Most of the graffiti is just black magic marker, but here and there you can find works of art. Well, works that took longer to draw than others. Like the flags below:
Or the mountain drawing.
Or even the Olive Branch group that was here in the summer for the VBS at the Community.
And how long did it take to work this one out?
I guess, when all the white space is covered, they just paint over and start again.
While in Peru, the team had several devotional times together. We would send out for some food, meet together (in an upper room of the hotel, interestingly enough) eat and share stories of the day's clinic happenings.
One evening as our bus driver was exploring new areas of Lima on our way back to the hotel, our resident interpreter and guide Renzo (known to the single women as "TD&L" - Tall, Dark and Latin) suggested we have a popular roasted chicken - pollo a la brasa - for our meal that evening. Malena gave him a $100 bill to purchase the chicken and he called the place on his cell phone to place the order.
When they heard how much chicken he wanted, they asked how he was going to pay for it. "Dólares," (US dollars) he said. "Qué denominación dólares" they wanted to know. "Cien dólar" he replied, at which point there was a lengthy discussion and the request for the serial number of the bill.
It seems that the $100 bill is popular both with tourists and with counterfeiters and there are a lot of bogus bills floating around. But counterfeited bills tend to have the same serial numbers since they are just duplicated, and any sharp merchant in Peru has a list of these bogus numbers - even the pollo place.
As it turns out, the chicken place canceled our order because of doubt about the bill, but Renzo prevailed, and in the end we did have our pollo a la brasa for our meal that evening.
In Cusco, a popular tourist destination, street vendors are on you the moment you step outside the airport doors. They are in the streets, in the square, outside the cafes, and in the shops. They would follow you to your room if the hotel staff didn't run them off. To call them street vendors may be kind - they are more like assault troops, and "No, gracias" doesn't phase them. That just gives them a clue that you are not a native Spanish speaker, so they switch to English and keep right on.
If you keep walking, they walk right along with you saying things like, "I worry for you Meester, I pray for you Meester." Or, "Remember me? I remember you." Which is not so hard for them when one of the party looks like Santa Claus - a fact which was pointed out by more than one vendor. They have dolls, or crocheted finger puppets, or portfolios of drawings and sketches, or boards of jewelry, and heaven help you if you do pause to look at their wares. This is a signal for all nearby vendors to come rushing to this easy mark; once we thought we had precipitated an international incident when three vendors began a big quarrel over who spotted us first.
The vendors in the shops surrounding the square are no better; if you show any interest whatsoever, they begin pulling out their "best" stuff; if you look at a particular item the bargaining is on. "How much will you pay, Meester? You tell me how much!" We did a little bargaining, or rather I did a little bargaining - Mom is not an enthusiastic bargainer. When I would counter with a price, the look of horror on their faces would convey that you weren't bargaining - you were trying to rob them! As all good bargainers know, walking away is the ultimate weapon. If they don't follow you then you knew they truly thought you were trying to rob them.
I finally came up with a defense against street vendors. Whenever one approached and began their spiel, I would go into gibberish mode: "Nay, nay! Bltz da nghu mker thaa gndst!" They knew it wasn't Spanish, and evidently I didn't speak English, so they had no response. They usually just stood and watched us walk away. Yes!
But our last purchase in Peru was from a street vendor. Mom was looking for an Aztec calendar pendant. We had been to several shops the night before without finding what she wanted, so we were out early on the last morning continuing the search. The vendors know, however that Gringos are not early risers, so all the shops were closed. Finally, we sat on a park bench to enjoy the morning and a little lady came up with a board of jewelry. We bargained a little and came home with our prize, thanks to an eager street vendor.
Cusco - the launching point for visiting Machu Picchu - sits on a mountain top in the Andes at an average elevation of 11,000 feet. This is treeline in Colorado; by comparison, Leadville is some 1,000 feet lower.
All of the tourist information cautions that one should not fly directly into Cusco and expect to be able to immediately do active things - like walk, or breath. One should - the books suggest - take a day or so to acclimate before trying anything strenuous, like sitting up on the side of the bed. So how did we approach this part of our journey? Flew into Cusco on Saturday afternoon and climbed to Machu Picchu early the next morning.
The primary danger in suddenly finding oneself at this elevation is High Altitude Sickness. Headaches, nausea, flu-like symptoms. Ask our teammate Russell about HAS. The hotels even keep oxygen bottles around to revive their guests. They also have the native remedy for altitude-related problems. Cocoa tea. Just as soon as you get to the hotel, the staff begins pouring Cocoa tea down you. Or if you prefer, there's a bowl of Cocoa leaves you can chew on. The indigenous population swears by this remedy. And there's a reason for that; the stuff is... how shall I put this... addictive. I wonder what's in it?
Out for a stroll? Head for the Cocoa tea as soon as you get back. Going out to shop? Better have a cup before we go. Make that two cups. To give you an idea of just how appealing this stuff is, consider my spouse. The only other time I can remember her trying hot tea was in England and that was because she couldn't get anything else. She was not converted. But this?
"Tea, my love?" "Thanks, don't mind if I do." "May I have another cup, please?" "Let's take a cup and go sit on the balcony; it's so relaxing."
You can take medicine to ward off HAS; we started on it prior to going to Cusco, but it makes your hands tingle - really, really tingle - and carbonated beverages taste like battery acid while you are on the meds. I had forgotten that was one of the side effects and ordered a bottled coke. I thought the wait staff was trying to poison me! Next time I think I'll skip the pills and go straight for the native cure.
You can buy Cocoa tea bags in the marketplace, and it was tempting, but I was reminded how much trouble I have with customs anyway, and I could just picture some stateside drug-sniffing dog turning back flips, so we sipped our last cups on the way to the airport.
A number of years ago, this man - Miguel Rodriguez - was a successful journalist for a Lima newspaper. He had a good job, a family, a house in the suburbs, a car - all the trappings of success -until a young son became ill and died. Leaving the hospital the night of his son's death, he came across a couple of boys living in the streets of Lima, and on impulse, took them home with him. He fed them, cleaned them up and gave them a place to sleep. The next morning they were gone, so Miguel did the sensible thing and counted the silverware. That night, the boys were back - with two of their friends from the streets. Miguel took them in, and also the new children that showed up the next night. And the ones after that. It wasn't long before he lost his job for spending so much time away, taking care of homeless kids. The car was the first thing sold, and before long, the neighbors were so unhappy with the parade of unsavory kids through the neighborhood that they took up a collection and bought Miguel's house!
He found a parcel of land about an hour's drive from Lima and moved the kids out there, establishing the Comunidad de Niños Sagrada Familia - the Sacred Family Community of Children. And when we were there, his collection of street urchins had grown to more than 680 children - ranging in age from a few months to older teens! Where does he get the money to care for them? He begs. He cajoles, he wheedles, he promotes, he scavenges, he makes do. Whenever a new kid shows up, he says he has two choices; he can take them in, or he can take them in. No one is refused, but once there they live by the community rules or else.
There are fewer than a dozen adults living at the community. The kids raise themselves; older kids help the younger, younger kids help the babies. Everyone works, everyone helps. They go to school half a day and they work the other half. And they live in a safe environment. They are polite, orderly and greet you with hugs and kisses.
We visited the dining hall during lunch one day (they eat in shifts); all the kids present were waiting quietly for the blessing before eating. It was not a blessing in a form that you or I would be familiar with, but rather a "blessing rap" in which the kids in a very lively way expressed thanks and emphasized to each other that they were community. They had meat that day. Someone had given Miguel money and he had purchased chickens. They cut the chickens into 30 pieces each to have enough for everyone to have one small piece of meat. While they generally have enough to eat - oatmeal, lentils, vegetables and melons - this was the first meat in 6 months!
And this is where they cooked it.
Our clinic was held in their new clinic building, a surprisingly good facility for that area, even if it lacked some things - like a roof over the front of the building. We saw children from the community and others from the surrounding area. And when we were done, they held a ceremony and gave us each ribbons and certificates. I consider them treasures.
The one absolutely essential key element for getting anywhere in Lima is that your vehicle horn must work. If it doesn’t, driving is out of the question. I cannot begin to paint an accurate picture of traffic in Lima and all other parts of Peru that we visited. Maybe the best illustration would be to imagine a 3 lane divided highway at an intersection. It is perfectly permissible for the driver in the far right lane to turn left across all traffic and the driver in the far left lane to turn right. All you need is the guts to try it. Beep! In the meantime, the cars in the cross street are doing the same thing. Meanwhile, "normal" traffic is trying to navigate straight across the intersection.
Did I mention that there are no traffic lights or yield signs at this intersection? Doesn’t matter. If you can wedge your vehicle in front of another and blow your horn louder than the other guy you can go for it! Beeeeep! And the amazing thing is that the traffic does not gridlock; if you are blocked, just pull in front of the guy in the next lane. Beep! Up on the sidewalk? Pedestrians do NOT have the right-of-way. Beep! Near collision? Hey, the driver had at least 3 inches to spare. The mantra on the bus soon became “Don’t look, don’t listen.” You really didn’t want to know how close we came to that other bus. We felt somewhat fortunate that our bus was bigger than most other vehicles and mass carried a certain clout traffic-wise. Here it is parked outside the clinic. We really learned to hate this bus.
All cars are small. Fifteen passenger vans are legion, and then come the buses and trucks.On the route to Ventanilla most vehicles are either big trucks hauling cargo containers (Lima is a major South American Port; there are miles and miles and acres and acres of stacked shipping containers along the highway) or they are little motorcycle-based taxis, like this one.
There is no Metro or even City bus line. There are thousands of privately-owned taxis and gypsy buses and vans of all sizes. On most of these public buses there is a guy who hangs out the window, scouting for passengers; if someone waves, he has the driver stop. Anywhere. I was told it was possible to flag down a bus from a bus.
To make up for the absence of traffic lights and yield signs the highway department is overly generous with speed bumps – even on major highways. And every bump was one more jarring blow to the posterior. Altogether, we spent more than 35 hours riding buses and vans, 5 hours on trains and 18 plus hours on airplanes. By the end of the time, no wonder most of the team was singing, “I left my butt in South America.”
I guess with the reason we went to Peru in the first place. A friend of ours is the Program Director for Olive Branch Ministries, International. That means she begs, cajoles and twists the arms of a lot of doctors, nurses, PAs and other medically-related people into donating their time and paying their own way to usually remote places in Central and South America to conduct week-long medical clinics for people who might otherwise receive no care or treatment.
So how did we end up with all these doctors? Eyeglasses. In addition to the opportunity to see a doctor, Olive Branch offers vision screening for both reading and distance glasses and the only qualification needed for this chore is the ability to stand on your feet for long periods of time, point to a chart and say important things in Spanish, like ¿Para leer o para lejos? (for reading or for distance?) and ¿Mas claro o menos claro? (more clear or less clear?).
We’ve done this before; Mom went to Guadalajara, we both went to El Salvador and now we’ve done Peru. The question is will we do it again? It was a hard, hard, trip. We stayed in a relatively nice hotel in Lima and took a 2 hour bus ride each day out to Ventanilla, a large community of shacks in a barren wasteland where Comunidad de Niños Sagrada Familia –a large orphanage - is located (lots more about that later). Nine to five we tested vision and dispensed glasses to hundreds of people daily. Then we got back on the bus and took a different route back to Lima.
The different route was not for sight seeing. There’s nothing worth seeing in Lima. It is a dirty, arid industrial area with no trees, few parks or lawns to speak of and sand and grime everywhere. It is a coastal city, but the beaches are rocky and the ocean is a dumping ground. No, we took a different route – each and every time we made the trip – because the driver could not consistently find his way there and back! I am not making this up. We never went the same way – coming or going – in 12 trips! On the one occasion the driver got lucky and got us back to the hotel in less than 2 hours we gave him a standing ovation!
Vision testing in this environment is frustrating. There is not a language barrier – we work with very capable interpreters who in a few hours can do the job better than Barbara and I can – but there is a mind-set barrier. People will come in who are obviously blind as a bat. They cannot even see the big ‘E’ but when we start trying lenses on them they complain that they are too strong, or that they make it blurred. We work our way down to the very lowest prescriptions and they still say too strong. We explain that that’s the weakest we have and we can’t help them and they sit there and look at you. We explain that if you are not used to wearing glasses it can look strange and “strong.” No deal. So they go away disappointed and we stay there frustrated.
In reading glasses, Barbara had to be very careful that the test set had identical frames or the person would adjust their vision requirements to their frame preferences. And make no mistake; these people know how to work the system. Some come for unneeded glasses simply because they know they can sell them later. At one clinic they discovered someone had gotten hold of a medical form (the "ticket") and sold forged copies. The only problem was they use metric sizes down there and the page was not 8 1/2 by 11!
But every once in a while, you get someone like the little old lady in El Salvador that nearly danced out of the clinic she was so happy. She told everyone along the way, “I can see now. I can see.” Or the two teen-age sisters this trip who literally could not see the chart, and walked out with -7 prescriptions (we’re talking coke-bottle thick, folks) who could now see clearly. They may be few and far between, but you do get your blessings.
I'm sure that my 10's of readers outside of the family wondered just where in Austin my November banner picture was taken. Can't get a thing by you guys and you've already guessed that's a picture of Machu Pichu, or as those who have just climbed up there say, Mucho Peako!
We're back and I have about a year's worth of material about the trip to blog about - so much so that pretty soon I'll be the only one who doesn't skip right over my posting when they see that it is YAPS (Yet Another Peru Story). You have been warned. But now it's off to bed.
The other evening we ate at Brick Oven and then wandered down to the HEB in that same shopping center. Mom was looking for some Styrofoam ice-chests with handles to help her with her Meals-On-Wheels deliveries. For the record, at this point she is delivering them - not receiving them. That may change.
There was a jovial greeter at the front entrance - sort of like Wal-Mart, but much happier. He asked if he could direct us to some needed item and Mom described what she was looking for. He told us where to find two versions that they stock and that there might be others over in another section of the store. He described the chests they had, gave us the temperature coefficients of each and drew us a map. Okay I made part of that up, but as we were walking away, Mom said, "That was a little too helpful."
We checked out the chests and Mom decided they were not what she needed. On the way back to the entrance, I commented that we were going to have to deal with Super Greeter; she said she was okay with that, and sure enough, SG was poised - very disappointed that we did not have ice chests in hand. He then directed us to the alternate location and all but scooted us off in search of the ideal chest.
We did go to that area to look, but SG was wrong - there were no chests in that area. Rather than have to tell him he was wrong, we went to the exit at the other end of the store, thinking we would just avoid the issue - but you're way ahead of me, aren't you? You already know which door SG was at now, don't you?
I'm not proud of it, but we hid. We waited until he was occupied, then scooted out with heads turned and faces hidden.
When I become a Wal-Mart greeter I'm going to take this lesson to heart.
I'm not sure I uncovered the whole story. I certainly have issues with each and every Presidential and Vice-Presidential candidate, but they don't let you say "None of the above" yet, so I made a choice and I'll live with it.
When one retires (or should I say if one retires), certain aspects of your life should slow down. For example, it may not be as important to be plugged in, tuned in and turned on - phone wise, at least. The ability to get in touch with one's spouse with your handy-dandy Blue-Ray equipped, full screen, I'm Touched, GPS equipped, multi-function cell phone does not become as big a deal when all you have to do is shout, "Honey! Would you get me another cup of coffee." Not that I would ever do that, mind you - but you get the point.
Nor is it necessary to read my e-mail off a tiny screen. Chances are, I'm sitting in front of my computer all day, anyway! And who needs a calendar when your schedule is:
Get Up.
Eat Breakfast.
Short Nap.
Eat Lunch.
Longer Nap.
Go to Chuy's for supper.
Watch ballgames till sleepy.
Repeat.
And you've already seen how facile I am with texting.
I should point out that I began lugging a cell phone around back when the affordable models were bag phones. Yes, it was that big and you had to plug it into a car to use it. So I'm not a Luddite when it comes to cell phones, it's just that I just don't have as much need for one now. That was pointed out when I divided the minutes we actually used into the dollars we were actually paying and discovered that this convenience was costing nearly 90 cents a minute talked.
Okay, thanks to my grandson, I have been exposed to the Pay-as-you-go concept. I'm way past needing to stay on any plan - so just switch me to a flat .25 cents a minute; I'll be way ahead. Here's $25 bucks for each phone - that will last us months.
Or until the minutes expire, which comes a short 3 months later. No problemo (I learned that in Spanish class). I'll just add $5 when they are about to expire and roll the minutes every 30 days. I've got time on my hands to do this.
Three months later, and I'm looking for the $5 option? What do you mean there's a $15 minimum and it expires in 30 days? I was planning on paying $10 bucks a month for the 2 phones - not $30. Oh, the best deal is $100 a pop and that gets me a years worth of minutes?
Somehow getting off the grid is harder than I thought it would be. Call me. I need to burn some minutes to make me think this is a good deal after all.
If you receive an e-mail entitled “Badtimes”, delete it immediately. Do not open it. Apparently this one is pretty nasty. It will not only erase everything on your hard drive, but it will also delete anything on disks within 20 feet of your computer.
It demagnetizes the strips on all of your credit cards.
It reprograms your ATM access code, screws up on the tracking of your DVR, and uses subspace field harmonics to scratch any CD’s you attempt to play.
IT WILL CAUSE YOUR TOILET TO FLUSH WHILE YOU ARE SHOWERING.
It will drink all your beer. For Pete’s sake, are you listening?
It will leave dirty underwear on the coffee table when you are expecting company!
It will cause you to run with scissors and throw things in a way that is only fun until someone loses an eye.
It will rewrite your backup files, changing all your active verbs to past tense and incorporating undetectable misspellings which will grossly change the interpretations of key sentences.
If the Badtimes message is opened with either the Microsoft or Apple environment, it will leave the toilet seat up and leave your hair dryer plugged in dangerously close to a full bathtub.
It will not only remove the forbidden tags from your mattresses and pillows, it will also refill your skim milk with whole milk.
Warn as many people as you can….
Better yet, email this to all the people you know and swear that it happened to a friend of someone that you work with. And not only that, Neiman-Marcus sent you a bill for their cookie recipe!
Mom has always said that in the context of the Lady Longhorns. When the tournament begins the games take on too much importance; up to that point we've been able to go to the games, enjoy the experience, feel good about wins, feel not as good about loses, but hey, there's always another game in a few days.
So it is with the football team. Really, most fans would call it a perfect season if we beat Oklahoma, Tech and A&M and the rest didn't matter that much. Now they've gone and named us #1 and every week is agony. Every game is a must-win situation and frankly folks, this wasn't supposed to the year we were ready to play for a National Championship.
After surviving Oklahoma, Missouri and Oklahoma State, I'm glad I won't be able to see next week's game with Tech. You are only allowed 4 anti-acid tablets in an 8-hour period.
"Hey Dad! We're at the ACU ballgame and I need you to keep me posted on the UT-Missouri score!"
"Okay. I can do that."
"Bye!"
"All right! Texas scores!" blip-bleep-blip - - brinnggg!
"Hello?"
"It's seven - oh! Missouri went three and out and Texas scored on their first possession!"
"What? I can't hear you. You are supposed to text me!"
Oh, okay, BUT IT'S SEVEN TO NOTHING!"
"Okay. Seven to nothing. I got it. Text me, okay? Bye!"
"Yes! Texas scores again! Let's see now... (blip) Messaging... (blip) Text Messages... (blip) Write New... (blip) oh, wait! (beep, beep, blip) Okay...(blip, blip) How do I make a number? Never mind... (blip, blip Ty) - uh, no - (blip, blippty, blip Two#) - no, (blip - Two blip, blip, blip) how do I make a space? Okay! (blip Two pop) No, not p! I want to type an s!! (bleep bleep...) Wait! What happened?"
Brinnggg!
"I have a text message! Now what do I do? (blip, blip..) Aha!"
10/18/08 07:48PM U guys falling down on the job. *** End ***
blip-bleep-blip - - brinnggg!
"Hello?"
"IF YOU KNOW THE SCORE WHY DO I NEED TO TEXT YOU!"
For a number of years I have provided sound and lights for the Murchison Middle School Choir concerts. Lacking a good-sized auditorium, they perform at Westover, and do three programs a year - Fall, Christmas and Spring. The director is Mr. B - a no-nonsense, very intense and very strict young man. The choirs (there are usually more than 200 kids participating, divided into 3 or 4 choirs of varying ability) are quite good. They bring their hardware to display after the Spring contests, and they always have multiple tables full of trophy's and plaques. I enjoy doing these programs because the choirs are quite good.
The other night I walked in to get ready for a program and no Mr. B. I finally figured out that the very young woman bouncing around down front was not a student, but the new director, Miss L. Mr. B has moved on to take the position of Choir Director at Anderson High. I suspect the kids at Murchison who thought "Finally, he's gone!" are chagrined to learn he's just waiting for them at Anderson.
Miss L introduced me to Miss F, the assistant director, who if anything looked younger than the students. And yes, this was the very first year for both of them. No one had to tell me that - I could tell from the noise level in the room. Mr. B would have had everyone in their seats, by now, absolutely silent, eyes straight forward. Misses L and F were yelling at each other and joking with various students from across the room and the ambient noise level was approaching the pain threshold.
Mr. B warmed up each choir, one at a time with traditional scales. Miss L had all the choirs doing musical jumping jacks. At one point, she called for a continuous 'oooooo' from everyone. It was a rather unusual, disquieting sound, and as it stretched out, the room gradually got very quiet until you could only hear the 'oooooo'. When she cut it off, she said, "I've never heard that in an auditorium this size. That was kind of scary, wasn't it?" And it was.
I doubt that Misses L and F will be able to show the volume of hardware in the Spring that they have lugged in in the past, but I'm pretty certain the kids will have more fun in choir than they did with Mr. B. It was a fun program and the kids obviously had a good time.
I saw Mr B after it was over. He had been sitting way up on a back row in Tinsel Town, and he had a big frown on his face. Too bad. I think I will continue to enjoy doing these programs because they will be a lot of fun.
I didn't take a picture of it because it won't show up in the photo, but the sign in front of the SkyView Baptist Church now has a nice Plexiglas cover fastened securely over the letters. No more editorializing with the sign. It was fun while it lasted.
Of course, it's always possible that they will continue continue to mispell words.
During the last couple of weeks the City of Austin has delivered a big blue cart to every residence and duplex in the city - some 120,000 carts. It's similar to our garbage cart, but bigger (than ours, at least) - capable of holding 60 gallons of stuff. And what stuff would that be? Why recycled stuff of course.
In the past we've had a little blue bin and we would put all our newspapers and recyclable paper and #2 bottles and our cans in it (actually we had 2 bins - one for paper and one for bottles & cans, but that was just for our convenience). Every Tuesday evening we would put them out on the curb and every Tuesday night someone would come by and scavenge the aluminum cans from them and early Wednesday morning the City would pick up what was left, a meager pound or two of newspapers and a few glass jars.
So what are we going to do with a 60 gallon cart, besides take up the very last space available in the garage? But along with the new carts, the recycling rules have changed. Everything goes in the carts - no more mashing cans and stomping on soft drink bottles. And we get to recycle all plastics from #1 to #7, plus pasteboard like cereal boxes and also cardboard. Just toss 'er in there, thank you very much. And oh by the way, we'll only be by every 2 weeks to gather your contributions.
So how much recycling flora and fauna can our small household generate in two weeks? Well, we've had the cart 5 days and it's half full, about 30 gallons worth. That does include last week's bin offerings which they didn't pick up since we got the cart instead. I'm actually rather amazed. But the cart has put us in a recycling frame of mind and now we look at every bottle cap and container and divert every scrap of paper, no matter how small to the big blue bin. Just call us Ecology in Austin.
The Texas Longhorn football team is nowhere near the top of the "Bad Boys" list, but in spite of Mack Brown's best efforts - and he evidently puts forth a great deal of effort - they still have some players who end up in close personal contact with the Austin Constabulary. DUI seems to be the act of bad choice. After a recent incident, a local sports writer informally asked some of the other 21-year old players if they drank, even though Mack asks them not to. Most said they did not. A few said they did. Colt McCoy said he has never had an alcoholic beverage and stopped drinking carbonated drinks on September 15, 1999. And he was a six Dr Pepper-a-day guy back then. "Water's good for me." he said. I don't know the significance of the date. Maybe I could ask the next time I see him - in church.
Given Colt's heritage it is not surprising to see him on Sunday mornings - even mornings when you know the team didn't get back to town until the wee hours. At first it was a little awkward - he, and usually Jordan Shipley and sometimes another teammate - would come in after services started and duck out before the Amen to avoid creating a scene. I'm sorry to say there were even a couple of autograph seekers at first, but thankfully we've gotten over that and now they usually come and go with the rest of us. Colt usually has a lady friend with him now, and a lot of folks want talk to him, but it's not a groupie thing - just being friendly to folks you see at church regularly.
I'll bet Mack wishes the rest of the team came with him.
For some reason, my Conversational Spanish class is meeting in a room that is obviously set up for teaching would-be health workers. There are glass cases full of skeletons and skeletal parts; there are cases of anatomically correct plaster body parts, including one partial body with the label "Annie." There are charts of the muscular system, the nervous system, the gastric system and some systems that I am not sure of. I know that in the closet there are several resuscitation dummies. It's a little unnerving.
However, this might come in handy when we get to the really conversational part of this class. I mean, how better to teach those really important words that you need to know than by pointing to plaster replicas? So far, Aunt Bea has refrained from doing this, but I'm sure that if this class is truly meant to equip one to speak like a native we'll get to that soon.
The UT Woman's Soccer team has had several successful seasons and Mom and I had remarked several times over the past few years that we ought to go to a game. We went to a game many years ago - back when the kids were small and the team was playing at a level just above Intermurals. It was free, played on a PE field and we sat on the grass - until it started raining.
These days, it is an official NCAA sport, and they play at the Mike Myers stadium on the campus - a facility used solely for track and soccer (and bigger than 90% of the University and College stadia in the country). Friday night's opponent was arch-rival A&M, it was a pleasant evening, and Senior Citizens got in for four bucks, so we went.
Now if you know me well, you know that I am not fond of crowds and traffic jams, and we live in a Primo crowd and traffic jam city (as I write this there are 65,000 people at the ACL Music Fest in Zilker Park and 100,000 up the road at the UT-Arkansas game). Stay at home, stay at home! The traffic was manageable because after all these years of attending Woman's Basketball at UT we have worked out a back-road route to get down to the campus. In the evening, there is ample parking, so everything was cool there. We were there with only about 4,000 of our closest friends, but the traffic patterns aren't too hot at Myers, so it got a little confining for my taste.
They are working hard to make UT Soccer family-friendly. There were blow-up bouncing castles and slides and such in one end zone for the kiddos, tricycle races and youth team scrimmages at half-time. It looked a lot like minor-league baseball. Bring the kids and everybody have a good time.
Oh, and the game itself was okay. UT appeared to be the better team - though the game ended nil - nil (notice the clever use of soccer talk) after regulation and two overtimes. No shoot-outs at this level. But frankly you can see a lot better on TV. So perhaps the most interesting aspect of the evening was sitting in the (hard, hard) stands, listening to all the socializing going on around us. Parents in front of us explaining that they were not going to pay $7.50 for hamburgers and $4.00 for cokes (got to make up those Senior discounts somehow); the guy to our right hitting on four young ladies, explaining why they should join him and his three buddies; the women behind us who had no clue about soccer, but it was a good chance to catch up on the latest gossip.
And yes, we did leave at half-time. It was fun, but one half is about my limit of crowd and traffic events for a while. We'll do it again in 2012 or so.
Back when I was really retired, I got this idea that I could use some of this surfeit of time to study Spanish. Sounded like a good idea, right? I mean it is the minority in the majority these days, and besides, maybe I could understand what Mom says about me in Spanish, so I signed up for classes at Austin Community College.
Of the choices, the closet venue was the ACC building by Highland Mall - but only on Tuesday nights, 6pm to 9pm. Okay, that's not so bad - no football on TV on Tuesday. I can handle this. So here I go, brand-new student off to 1st day (night) of school. People, I can't even remember as far back as when I was in school; I would need a bigger calculator to figure it out! I've got my textbook, I have sharpened pencils, I have a notebook. I've even read the 1st chapter - "El mosquito es chiquito." "El elefante es grande." I can't believe I'm doing this.
Twenty-two of us, waiting patiently for la maestra and in walks Aunt Bea. You know, from Mayberry? A little old lady, gray hair up in a bun, with the notable Hispanic surname of Walsh. Oh-kay. Turns out Senora Walsh moved to Mexico City when she was ten and lived there most of her life. Teaching English. Now she's here, teaching Spanish, and she's very, very good. I learned a lot.
The most important thing I learned is to sit by someone who speaks English. The person next to me, with whom I was paired (this is conversational Spanish, after all), was fresh off the boat. Literally. She was born and raised in Scotland and has been in the States a very short time. I could not understand a word she said. Okay, we were supposed to be speaking Spanish, but I'm not sure she was. It didn't sound like what Senora Walsh was saying. It didn't sound like what I was saying. I just didn't know. And she was fairly fluent in whatever she was saying. She said a lot of it.
I think there's going to be a lot of blog material from this class.
Student Visuals for Preschool Circle Time Songs
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As a preschool special education teacher, I am always looking for ways to
make learning more engaging for my students – and easier for me. Recently,
I d...
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