The crust crumbles

It’s been a short week, full of activities. In addition to the usual sports and classwork, there’s been a fortieth birthday party (one of several this year?) and a baby born. I finally was able to pay forward the favors I’ve received as a parent of multiple children and babysit for kids whose mom was having a baby. 

Since we’ve rarely had family close enough to stay with our kids when a baby was born, we’ve had to call on neighbors and friends to watch our other kids while my husband and I ran off to the hospital.  (A by-product of military life and the general diaspora of modern life - you are always calling on new friends for favors that used to be the job of extended family.) Once my mom and dad were on their way home from vacation and were able to make it to our house before we had to go to the hospital. That one time my dad babysat while my mom, a labor and delivery nurse and the best birthing coach ever, and husband took me to the hospital. Providentially, that was the only time I had a baby in the middle of the night. The rest of them were born during the day while the kids happily played with friends. 

One other time, I was going to watch our next door neighbor’s toddler during the birth of her sister, but when the neighbors tried to call us and even banged on the door in the middle of the night, we never woke up.  I felt so bad about that moment that I went and bought a new phone for our bedside, even though up until then, I didn’t want a phone in our room. Now we continue the phone by the bed because we anticipate the call in the night that someone has died, although we’re down to one great grandmother.

So I was glad to be able to feed and put to bed someone else’s children, who all went down obediently, although they kept asking when their sister would be born.  We met this family because they home school also, and although they are not Catholic, this is baby number 5 for them.  Stepping into someone else's home is always an opportunity to compare.  These kids were all well behaved, and I envied their bookshelves and neat home school workspace, and their maps on the wall. Our efforts looked weak in comparison.  It was hard to turn off that inner voice of self-criticism.

As I tucked the kids in, I told them that their sister would probably be born by the time they woke up, but I anticipated spending the night on their couch. But this baby wasn’t waiting. I don’t think the parents were at the hospital more than an hour before she was born. So I got to sleep in my own bed.  And a new baby was welcomed lovingly into the world.

****

The other event of the week was a nonevent.  When I came home from class late Thursday night, my husband announced that we were taking a trip over the weekend.  Some of his work friends were going to Tinian, the next island over, famous for being the launching site of the Enola Gay, for a mountain bike race. The mayor of the island had arranged a half-price airfare to attract racers.  The biggest (only) hotel on the island, the Chinese-run casino, was offering a good rate, also. My husband wanted to take our whole family on a last minute three day vacation. 

I couldn’t get my mind around it.  On Friday I had to take a kid for a hearing test in the morning, then had to prepare for and host company for lunch, and had to shoo my company out to leave for a cross country meet.  The thought of packing in the evening for a trip to an island where I would be sitting at a casino with the kids while my husband struggled through a six hour or more bike race was not appealing. 

Anxiety set in. I told my husband in the morning that I didn’t want to go.  He tried to convince me. In the afternoon, panic started to set in. While we didn’t have a lot planned for the weekend, we still had soccer, had to serve at Church and to teach CCD, and had papers to grade.  I didn’t want to make time Friday to make calls for subs.  I had entertained visions of addressing a few items on a list of niggling things to do that keeps growing. We are talking about taking trips over Christmas and Spring break – we should be saving up and planning for those vacations.

I have no sense of adventure, no flair for spontaneity, I guess. But this didn’t sound like an adventure. It sounded like work. The younger kids didn’t want to go. I set my heels in. My husband made me call the airline to let them know we wouldn’t be making our last minute reservation, which I did with a sense of relief.

 ****

As so often happens, after a good night of sleep, I woke up feeling differently. Why am I so rarely at peace with my decisions? I saw clearly that I had been driven by selfishness. My resentment about going was all because my time was being threatened.  I didn’t want to deal with the work of packing and unpacking, with the rush to get caught up afterwards on everything that didn’t get done over the weekend.  I like staying home.

But the older boys were disappointed. My husband was disappointed.  And on Saturday morning, I could see what I couldn’t see Friday night: that the initial discomfort would have been forgotten in the rush of adrenalin from taking off on a tiny plane across the ocean.  The wonder of being in someplace new would have offset the irksomeness of extra laundry.  The memories would have been worth the money spent on tickets, hotel, and food.

So in my guilt over not going, I’ve been trying to be entertaining all weekend, although a dark cloud of regret keeps coloring my mood gray. We checked off some of the items on that to-do list: errands and yard work Saturday morning. My husband repaired a couple car problems, which gave him a sense of accomplishment. I made dinner for the family with the new baby, and we had friends over Saturday and Sunday night, one night a family whose dad was gone, and the other, a doctor friend who just returned from a deployment to the hospital in Afghanistan (another story). My husband and I went on a long bike ride and swim early Sunday before church. We fit in a dive Sunday afternoon with the older boys, and my husband and the older boys went diving again early Monday morning before going on their scout hike, which was the other event that would have been cancelled if we travelled.  

Our busy life has continued.  But all weekend, I’ve felt choked by the sense that I let the family down.  Had we gone to Tinian, we would have spent the weekend together as a family. Instead we’ve gone our various ways, one kid here, one kid there.  I’ve already failed at what I announced a couple weeks ago I was going to do: be led by faith.

This regret and guilt is just one more piece of evidence at how weak my faith is. I find it difficult to let go of my failures. Even though on Friday my reasons seemed strong enough for NOT going that I was nearly in tears at the thought of leaving, I can’t be confident in the purity of my intentions.

Lay it down, lay it down. 

My decision means nothing in light of eternity. If nothing else, the emotional turmoil of decision making and regretting has succeeded in chopping away at the crust of complacency, making me little yet again. 

How to Feel 19 Again:

Make an unscheduled stop after Mass downtown in the middle of the day.  See a handsome man in uniform walking out of restaurant straight toward you. Realize, with a flutter in your chest, that that man is your husband leaving a business lunch.  Get swept up in his arms for a big smooch as the cars rush by. 

Day of the Dead

In honor of All Soul's Day: photos of the souls in my prayers, my beloved grandparents. I realize that All Soul’s Day is a day for praying for the souls in purgatory, but I’d like to believe that my grandparents shortened their time there with all the love they gave us. I couldn’t imagine any better grandparents.  They were all involved in their grandchildren's lives. They were generous to us and interested in us, and their homes were like sanctuaries, especially in our turbulent teen years, when we viewed our parents as our adversaries.  

All Soul's Day is a day of celebration here in Guam. A newly arrived neighbor commented with incredulity about the man buying $250 of ugly silk flowers at the Exchange. The cemeteries are all cleaned up and decorated with these silk arrangements, which really aren’t especially lovely, except that they represent the fact that someone took the time to go to a gravesite and say a few prayers. We went to Mass in the chapel, not in the cemetery on base, where the chaplain said Mass in the morning. It is a small town graveyard that got incorporated into military property after WWII, but the base is open to descendents of the people buried there on this day, and our priest mentioned how these descendents bring their folding chairs and sit next to their mom or dad or auntie during the liturgy.  Some of them will go on over to another cemetery for another Mass with another family member.  Not surprisingly, this is a tradition that may die out; few of the people out decorating graves when I drove by one of the larger cemeteries looked younger than 50.  But I hope it survives. There is something comforting in the thought of spending a little time with the bodies of our dearly departed.  I have to credit my grandparents for taking us to cemeteries on Memorial Day to decorate with peonies the graves of my great-grandparents, at least the ones who died in town. 

I scanned some of these photos last spring after my grandmother’s funeral. I love the peek into my grandparents' lives as young people, full of vim and vigor, which is how my grandmother described her own grandmother. I miss knowing them as they were then. I wish my children could have known them as I knew them. And I hope that my children view their grandparents with the same unconditional, overflowing love I felt for these four people.  

Encounter with holiness

I know a few saintly people, but I've only been in the presence of one true saint while he was alive.  Here are a couple photos from the Vatican Piazza nine years ago - it was at the beatification of Mother Teresa, which happened to be the same weekend as John Paul II's twenty-fifth anniversary and a consistory of cardinals. It was great time to be in Rome - with people from all over the world in attendance, the reality of the universal Church was visibly evident and the joy in the crowd was palpable.


Happy All Saints' Day.
All holy men and women, pray for us.

See the babies? One is my daughter and one is my cousin's baby.

This one is actually from about1993. That's my husband's hand that JPII is holding. He had to knock down a couple nuns to get this close.

Working through the stack

About a month ago I finished Great Expectations, a project that took about 20 years.  I can’t say how many times I have picked up this book and put it down again without progressing very far. Actually, the honest truth is, I would simply see the book on my shelf and feel its disapproval with me for not reading. Waiting. Mocking. Pitying.

But joy! Finally, I began the book, dragging my feet a bit at the beginning, until at last I began to feel a kinship with Pip and Joe and an interest in their well-being.  Once Pip went away to London, I was spending more and more time in the bathroom catching up on his comings and goings and becoming attached to his friends.  Dear Mr. Wemmick, Mr. Jaeger’s clerk, and his Aged P. Poor Mr. Pocket and Matthew.

It wasn’t the plot that kept me returning. That Miss Havisham was not Pip’s benefactress was always obvious, as was the link with the criminal Mr. Magwitch from the Moors, although I didn’t guess his connection to Estella. The characters are all so much more eccentric than modern characters, although I have to admit they seem familiar – several of them resemble some people I know in some way or another. But really it was Dickens’ language that I couldn’t get enough of.  So rich, so varied - especially after reading contemporary fiction lately. I felt the same way after rereading “Young Goodman Brown” by Nathaniel Hawthorne again for my literature class. Yes, you have to go back and reread a few passages to make sure you properly followed all the turns of phrase. And sometimes it seems like being more direct would be beneficial to the flow of the story. But the imagery and vocabulary are so much more vivid than most of the short stories we read for class. It’s like the difference between European chocolate and Hershey’s. Hershey’s is good, but no match.

My edition of the book included two alternate endings, along with a biography of Dickens that seemed to suggest he preferred the ending in which Estella and Pip remain estranged. I have to admit that I preferred that ending myself. It seemed more natural, like Pip’s punishment for his superiority towards Magwitch and Estella’s for her inability to empathize and love, although in a story where all the plots and relationships tie up in a pretty neat little circle, perhaps the ending that sold better – the one with Pip and Estella reunited – is the way to go. Maybe Estella and Pip are humbled for their mistakes and able to love each other for who they are.

*******

Speaking of contemporary fiction, I also finished Clare Vanderpool’s Moon Over Manifest, a newer young adult book – came out in 2010 and won a Newberry medal.  I had to make my 10 year old daughter read it, and she didn’t love it, (She’s was on a Percy Jackson jag, but I’m thrilled to report that she finally finished Anne of Green Gables and is started on Anne of Avonlea. This makes me joyful!) but I enjoyed reading this story of a young girl growing up in the 1930’s. Abilene’s father is seeking work, and after riding the rails with Abilene for some time, he ends up sending her to live in a small town in Kansas where he once spent some time as a teenager. He leaves her in the care of a preacher named Shady, which gave me the creeps a little bit because I’ve been through the Virtus training for child safety.  A pre-teen girl living alone with an old man who is no near relation? Fortunately, nothing inappropriate happens – turns out Shady is ministering to hobos and lets Abilene wander where she will. Abilene gets to know the people of the town, including the gypsy-like Miss Sadie who tells her stories about two teen boys, Jinx and Ned. Abilene figures out that Jinx is her dad, and in the meantime she unites the town by asking them to share their memories.

It’s an engaging story and since it is told in flashbacks to 1917, it acts as historical fiction about both the Depression and the Great War.  It’s not a story that is destined to win hearts and become a favorite of hundreds of young girls, I predict, because it just doesn’t have enough heft. Abilene is spunky and curious, but she doesn’t do much but listen.  A valuable talent, but not one that inspires emulation.

****

Also blazed through another Alexander McCall Smith book about Precious Ramotswe to keep up with my father-in-law, but I never got around to finishing Michael Chabon’s Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it; it just couldn’t compete with all the other stuff I had to read for class before it’s due date arrived. I have been dipping in and out of several books I found at the library, just before they instituted a 25 book limit per sponsor. (I’d be more compliant with the rule if it seemed like there was a rush on books, but typically the only people at the library are a few young sailors on the computers.  People check out the mysteries and romances pretty regularly, and story time draws a modest crowd, but most days the library on base is pretty quiet.  You’d think they didn’t want the books to be read.  And in fact I was disheartened to see them boxing up a bunch of the old books that hadn’t been checked out in more than 5 years. I asked if they would be for sale, but the girl didn’t know. Since the librarian was let go to save money, no one who works in the library seems to know much of anything.  But my frustration is probably another instance of spinning wheels in a mud puddle.  Since people come and go here so quickly, change happens quickly on this micro-scale, and prodigiously slowly on the macro-side.)

******

Although heavier than Chabon’s book, V. S. Naipaul’s A Way in the World is the other book I finished.  Not really a novel, more of a collection of anecdotes that relate to each other because they all have something to do with Trinidad, but they don’t always connect.  Naipaul is from Trinidad, and this book is broken into chapters focusing on individuals who either were from Trinidad or somehow were connected to it by colonization or revolution, including explorers Walter Raleigh and Francisco Miranda, another character who is a writer like V. S. Naipaul, and two revolutionaries, the older one Lebrun and the other Blair. The book travels back and forth through time and space – to Trinidad, Venezuela, Spain, England, Africa.  I almost gave it up, but again, like the Dickens, it was the language that kept me reading. Some haunting passages: “Perhaps below all the accidental things about people – birth, character, geography, history – there was something truer. That was what I had always felt about myself. Perhaps all men, if they were given a wise and rational liberty, became worthy of Plato’s republic.”

The book is mostly a meditation on Trinidad, a place that Naipaul considers home, but to which he rarely returns. It is also an interesting look at colonization – its beginnings and its effects, which particularly interests me because we are in the position of being colonists right now.  It’s an odd book, not one to rave about, but also not one to dismiss.  Although slower and without plot like Chabon’s book, it had greater complexity and personal interest.

********

After moseying along, I at last finished Moonwalking With Einstein, Joshua Foer’s account of learning to train his memory and his success at the US Memory Championships. Basically, the message is you can train your mind to remember, but it takes practice and skill. The art is in learning to create a “memory palace” – a mental image into which you can position all the information you want to remember. Like I suspected, Foer finds that improving your memory is about improving what you notice.  Pay attention, in other words.

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And finally, my guilty pleasure: Diary of a Wimpy Kid books. My youngest son just bought Cabin Fever with some of his lawnmowing money. When these books first came out, I was skeptical, if not downright suspicious, of potential potty humor and other forms of degenerate jabs. All those drawings of Greg Heffley in his underwear, for pete’s sake!  But these things are downright funny.  I love them.  I can’t laughing – not a little giggle, but a guffaw  - outloud when I read them. Even though Greg can be mean to Rowley, Rodrick is scary, and Manny is a brat, the Heffley family isn’t broken like so many families in kids’ books – they even go to church regularly.

The newest book in the series will be out soon.  Greg Heffley in his underwear won’t be so funny when he’s in 9^th grade, so I assume the series will have to end soon before he graduates from middle school. Cabin Fever just covers Christmas break, and my older boys were joking that the new book probably only covers a week or a day, so that Jeff Kinney can eke all the money he can out of the series before Greg gets too old to be funny.  The books are still making me laugh at any rate.

On speaking your mind

I wrote the following a few months ago, and hesitated to post it because of my limited understanding of local politics and a concern about misrepresenting what the admiral said.

Since then, though, local elections have heated up, and these issues are even more in the news.  Guam does not participate in the presidential election, although military members and dependents like myself send in absentee ballots. (I've learned that the local ballots include the presidential candidates' names.  Guam has correctly chosen the winner of the presidential election in every race except when Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter.)  But elections are big news here, and candidates for mayor and local government representatives from each village are chosen, along with a nonvoting representative elected to US Congress.

The issues mentioned below, decolonization and the marine build-up, are still being debated.  I sometimes get the feeling that the US is sometimes seen as a military imperialist power.  It's uncomfortable to be in that position as an American who is supposed to promote freedom. I wonder if giving Guam a voice in the presidential elections would be a step toward its full participation in American citizenship. I still appreciate the Admiral's confidence in speaking out on the issues, but also wonder what compromises could be made. It seems to me that America needs Guam as much as Guam needs America.

***********************************************************************************

From August: One of the pleasures of military life is the opportunity to attend the frequent ceremonial events: hail and farewells, retirements, balls, changes of command, etc. This summer has been a busy one for turnover, there have been a number of change of command ceremonies.  They follow a similar format: the band plays as guests are seated, the important officers are officially piped in, an MC makes introductions, and important person makes a keynote speech. Then the outgoing commander gives a speech thanking everyone, the incoming commander gives a speech about how excited he is to be here, and the chaplain intones a final prayer. Finally, the commanders are piped out, and guests adjourn for snacks. The officers wear dress white uniforms, ladies get dressed up, and the civilian men here wear their best Hawaiian shirts or the Filippino barong.

As much fun as pomp and circumstance are, the refreshments are often the most memorable part of the event.  What is said by the speakers is usually forgettable.  But last month’s turnover between admirals was a little more exciting. The outgoing admiral's speech was critical of recent political discussions in Guam. We were squirming in our seats because the key players - lieutenant governor, senator, local representatives, mayors – were all present.

He actually touched on two controversies: The military build-up that has stalled and recent calls for Guam independence or self-determination.  The build-up has had a mixed reception here. Some locals support it, some do not. Some people perhaps acted like they opposed it in order to get concessions from the federal government, and now that no money at all might show up, they are supporting it.

The politicians are indirect in stating their opinions. They keep calling for more studies. There is some land in dispute for a shooting range that is near a popular hiking route. And there are concerns about the infrastructure and impact on the island from the potential increase in personnel.

Meanwhile, the calls by some Guamanians for self-determination and an end to colonization seem to be more of a younger person thing. I’m not in touch enough with the local political scene to be familiar with the dialogue about it, but I can see both sides. The US is far away, and perhaps some people feel like the government is using the island just for its strategic location for the military.

On the other hand, Guam gets a lot of money from the federal government.  The military also provides a lot of jobs.  And it sends a lot of people from the mainland who spend money. People from Guam with money for a plane ticket can come to the mainland for educational opportunities. Economically, it’s a good deal for Guam.  Environmentally and culturally the build-up might have a mixed impact, although I get a feeling that it’s people from the mainland who drive some of the sustainable future moves.

The admiral was clear about stating what he thought: the build-up is a good thing; de-colonization is not. And he has done a thorough study of history to support his opinions. About de-colonization: “That decision was made 50 years ago.”  Guam sent a representative to congress for some years, with instructions not to come back until Guam was officially a colony.  He pointed out that more Marines died on the shores of Guam than at Guadalcanal. The military here are willing to put their lives at stake for Guam and defend its shores again if necessary. They’ve built it back after typhoons and would do so again. He seemed confident that the military gives as much as it gets from Guam.

He also made it clear that the local government, without the aid of the federal government, would do very little to bring economic stability to the island.  He pointed out how much land the local government owns but does nothing with, including quite a bit of property handed over by the US government with habitable living quarters, which now are abandoned and rotting away (where my sons like to play pellet gun wars).  He accused the local government of caving in to a few activists on the build-up, and now it was time to “man up.” 

Here's the local write up with photos.

The admiral must have felt free to speak his mind after serving here years ago and again as commander of the region.  He knows Guam pretty well. And he knows his history extremely well. He’s been promoted to a three-star admiral, and he’s going to a war zone next. Why not say what he thinks? 

I'm typically a coward about speaking out.  Part of this is because I don't feel strongly enough about some issues. Sometimes I can see both sides. Other times I just don't see room for convincing someone to change a viewpoint. (For instance, Facebook posts are not going to win converts.) 

So I admire that the Admiral didn’t soft pedal his ideas.  He used humor but was direct. No one got up to leave; no one hissed. But I noticed several people besides myself looking around, thinking, “Did he really just say that?”  And I noticed that the local officials didn’t stay for the snacks, which were VERY good – fresh fruit, sushi, wontons, grilled kabobs, and delicious desserts.  Maybe they were offended, or maybe they just had other business to attend to.  Happily, they left those of us who did stay plenty to indulge in.

Rolling stones

The word is official. Orders are in hand. We will be moving again at the end of the school year. Our three-year orders to Guam are being cut short a year because my husband has been picked up for a command job, an honor but also an obligation.

When we first found out we were moving out here, I wished and hoped and prayed it would be for only two years. I dreaded the distance, the expenses, the remoteness. When we first arrived, I was depressed by the black mold everywhere, massage parlors everywhere, tattoos everywhere. I was disappointed in the schools. I grew tired of rain and heat. I was homesick.

But in between discovering the coral reef, learning to dive, meeting new people and making friends on base and off, finding a place at the chapel, joining the community of runners and triathletes, getting a job at the community college, and becoming familiar with the different Mobil stations in each community which are essential to understanding driving directions because road signs are uncommon, I began to feel at home. And I’ve got a garden going at last. Six fresh okra pods and 2 Japanese eggplants are simmering in my gumbo pot right now.

Picked these red zinnias a couple weeks ago in the back yard. Note the Thai peppers are drying up because they are just too darn hot.

The island now is familiar – like family. I’ve begun to love the place. I love having no traffic. I love the lack of materialism. I love the importance of families and celebrations.  I love our friends. I love only having one wardrobe all year round: island casual. I love flip-flops. I love island time. I’m never late any more!

The mold no longer catches my attention; the sky, the sunsets, the palms, the waves provide distractions.

But woe to those who get too comfortable! You will be handed moving orders! Were I to be miserable and bereft, we would probably get an extension.  Now we will have to say goodbye just as we were beginning to fit in.  Even though our move is still a little over 7 months away, already I feel myself pulling back from taking on responsibilities.

As I’ve observed before – it takes about 6 months to get everything that’s going to be unpacked put away and to figure out your way around a place. Then it takes about 6 months to plan a move (although often it happens faster because orders change or are delayed).  So we have about a year to enjoy life for every year’s worth of transition time.  Troublesome.

It would help if I had no hesitations about our destination.  On the one hand, most people are thrilled to go to Southern California. We lived there for a few months 12 years ago, and had a great time, but we lived in a furnished condo on the beach – a small perk of temporary duty. The weather will be beautiful. Our flipflops will still be our main footwear. We’ll still be close to the ocean, although the water won’t be nearly as warm or the sealife as colorful.  I’ll have to get a wetsuit. The national parks and museums and places to go will be wonderful. We’ll be living in the same day as the people we love – instead of 15 hours in the future.

But I kind of like NOT having any place to go that takes more than 15 minutes. I’ll have to face the traffic!  Dread. The consumerism! Dread. The gargantuan schools! Dread. And to visit family will take, not 24 hours of flying, but 24 hours of driving, at least.

I could continue to least my anxieties and concern, but since the year of faith is officially underway, I will make an act of faith and believe that we will love our California experience just as much as we have loved every other duty station.  Who knew that I would find myself, a Midwestern girl who never saw the ocean until she was a junior in high school, loving island life?

God has made the world a beautiful place, full of beautiful people everywhere.  Is there a bad place to live? Is there a place where you couldn’t find a friend? Surely not, as long as your heart is disposed to love.

A baby bittern disturbed by the mower and photographed by our middle son.

So my goal for the year of faith, which promises to be another year of change: be grateful for this life that isn’t what I expected, but is more. Be grateful for the many interesting people, with so many different stories, who are all willing to be a friend, even if just briefly. Be grateful for the universal church that provides instant community, instant belonging, wherever we go.  Be grateful for the confirmation of God’s existence in the love that we’ve been shown as strangers, a love that converts loneliness into friendship. My prayer for the year is that God will help me mirror that love to others, and help me forget my discomforts, my inconveniences, my selfishness. 

I think I've posted this one before, but I still can't get over the view from our front yard.