Earliest memories - personal history

My mom told me that when I was a baby, I squeaked rather than cried. At that time, I was the fifth child in what would end up as 8 girls and 2 boys.

One of the older children was responsible for me: diapering, bathing, etc. And I also had a sister just 2 years older than I was, and she also considered herself one of my caretakers. One time when I was in the church nursery, I was crying and the leaders were trying to find my mother to help calm me. The playmate sister intervened, and although she was only about 4 years old, she told the worker that I could join her in the older kids' class.

My playmate sister told me a memory that she had of me that I was too young to remember. She told me that one day I had been misbehaving and my dad was displeased with what I had been doing. The playmate sister stood between my dad and me and told him that it was not okay for him to punish me. So instead of me receiving punishment, she was punished for her lack of respect of authority.

A few memories my mom shared with me: while I was potty training, I was so excited at a step I had mastered. I was standing next to the training potty, with a puddle on the floor underneath me. My mom reported that I exclaimed, "I'm potty trained!"

Another memory: since my mom had a baby every 2 years or so for the space of 22 years, she was pretty worn out at the end of the evening after putting the kids in bed. I must have been quite young, with one of those cute faces and voices that is hard to say no to. I would come to her when everything was quiet and ask, "mama make brownies?" And she inevitably would oblige. Because brownies were her favorite.

We moved a lot while I was growing up. I was born in the high desert in south eastern California, by age 2 we had moved to Salt Lake, and at age 4 I lived in a tent for a summer in Minnesota before we found a home to stay in there. 

Shortly before I turned 5, we moved back to Salt Lake, where the age requirement allowed me to begin kindergarten at the tender age of 4 11/12ths. Some of the kids played pretty rough, and I genuinely did not understand why they were so cruel. One time I was hanging from some metal bars that we called a "spider web". A boy was above me, and he pried my fingers off of the bar. I couldn't fathom it, and was unprepared when I fell. I hit my head rather sharply, felt nauseous and laid down in the nurse's office for some time.

I don't remember if it was the same visit to the nurse's office, but I associate my chicken pox experience with this same playground accident. I stayed home for several days, a little bit itchy with red spots. I was probably bored, but it was not so bad, because I was home, quiet, with my mom.

As kindergarten progressed, I made a friend. Her name was Sherry, and her birthday was exactly the same day as mine. I was so excited. I was a very young kindergartner, and it felt really good to have someone my age in class with me. I felt like it was fate. 

I asked my mom if I could go play at Sherry's house. I remember going at least once. Sherry lived too far away for me to walk to her house, and for my mom (who had 7 kids at this point), driving me to play at a friend's house on a regular basis was not a priority. 

I hoped, at least, that Sherry and I would get to celebrate our 6th birthdays together. So, when we moved again during the first month of my 1st grade year -- before my birthday -- I was crushed.

Count Your Many Blessings

My mom sent me a text message this morning.

"Can you come to my house?"

I didn't ask why or what she wanted. I just texted back, "Yes. I can be there in 30 minutes."

As always, songs started flowing through my head.

"Make all my wants and wishes known."
"And oft escaped the tempter's snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer."

"Count your many blessings see what God hath done."

The blessings flowed quickly and intuitively, ideas encompassed by a single word or phrase, without much form or structure. It felt unfinished, but I was driving and it was sufficient.

I visited my mom. She just wanted to talk about how things were going. I'm trying to find a house, a job, deal with the divorce.

When I left her home, within 5 minutes I had been pulled over. The driver's side brake light was out. The police officer spent a long time checking over the license and registration. I wondered how many of my recent encounters with the police had appeared on his little computer screen, and worried what he might do or say when he came back.

"How did this happen?" The officer asked as he handed back my registration. He was referring to some damage to the frame of the back window.

"It's a beater car," I said automatically, without thinking.

"A beater car?" he questioned.

"It's a junker. It's my sister's car. I don't know what happened, but I imagine they locked their keys inside and tried to open the door somehow and damaged it."

"Okay," said the officer. "Well, tell Dorothy she needs to get her brake light fixed."

He got back in his car and left, and I just sat in the car, shaking a little and putting away the registration and insurance cards. I had messaged Jon when I had been waiting for the officer to come back, and I sent another message again to tell him that it was just the brake light.

Jon's message back was cool and calm. He offered to fix the brake light when he came to pick up the kids later.

"That's the blessing," I thought to myself. "Jon wants to help. Changing a brake light's not a big deal for him, but for me it's just one more thing on my plate. And it was s a small thing. Just a small interaction between the two of us that would take us one tenacious step towards re-building trust."

Later, as I was driving again, feeling that the immediate threat had passed, I could think clearly about the implications the law enforcement officer had been making. If I had been really guilty, I would have been immediately offended at the implication. Thank goodness I'm innocent!

Fred

My brother committed suicide when he was 29. It was three months before his 30th birthday.

His death taught my family and me the importance of caring for one another. And, most importantly, it taught us the necessity of caring for our individual selves.

It was the worst way to have to learn that lesson. But even worse if we didn't learn.

Deaf Poem for Upworthy

"Speak!"

Slap

Angry faces

Wordless voices

Kind fingers

soothe purple mounds

of tortured flesh

Where is the love at home?

New faces

Finger speaking

Crying joy, shame

I don't belong here

But I didn't belong there

There it was family love

But here it is true love

I can't accept

Official faces

open mouths

moving hands

Tender smile

patient

It's not your fault.

Come play a game.

It will be okay. 

Come home with me.

Beer, Parties, and Young People

Birthday parties in Santiago generally consist of family and friends sitting down together at their home. They listen to music, sit together, eat cake, and drink. Seriously. They don't really stand up and mingle or mix. They literally sit in one place for hours at a time, talking to whoever is sitting next to them, and partaking of whatever refreshment the host serves.

In my mind's eye, I can envision these natives doing much the same thing for generations -- sitting together in a circle, not having any reason to stand up and move around. Just sitting and being content to listen to each other and just be together.

So yesterday, as I was walking down the street, I saw my neighbors outside having a birthday party. Martha and Reynaldo were visiting his sister in her home. I've visited all of them often, since his sister is frequently at Reynaldo's house and I often stop in to say hello there.

I really should know this lady's name but it's 2 a.m. as I type this (fell asleep, woke up at 1:30, decided to write). Anyway, her son, Fernando, was having a birthday party. I was somewhat hesitant to join them this time, because of an experience I had a few weeks ago.

I went by somewhat later in the evening because I had an urgent concern I wanted to discuss with Martha. The family was outside in the years, socializing and drinking. I didn't fully appreciate how drunk Martha was until I had already committed to stopping to talk, which meant I'd have to stay at least a half an hour.

Every time I visit, if they are drinking, they always offer me some and I always refuse. But on that occasion, they wouldn't take no for an answer. Martha was literally trying to pour beer into my mouth!

So this time when they offered me beer, I used my strong "no." I changed the subject and talked about how important her friendship was to me, and how I get drunk on the joys of life and friendship. She just was not letting go of the need for me to drink with her. But thankfully, I got the idea to turn to her son, who was next to me, to start a conversation. And Martha allowed herself to be distracted.

Dito (Reynaldito, a.k.a., Reynaldo Junior) is 18 years old. He graduated from high school last December, and pretty much on graduation night began his journey into true adulthood by getting his girlfriend, Flavia, pregnant. They're married now and living in his parents' home. His dad is away during the week because he has to work pretty far from Santiago and can't travel back and forth daily. So Dito and his young wife and baby live in the home. His mother is often there with them, taking care of the baby so that Flavia can finish her senior year of high school.

Lately, Dito has initiated conversations with me. When I'm out of town, they notice, because our chicken coop is right behind their back yard. So he started messaging me when he could see the chickens were being neglected. I've asked him for help on several occasions. His mom, of course, is generally in charge of the whole affair. But I communicate through social media with Dito.

I don't know why he started messaging me for no apparent reason a month or two ago. Maybe he feels sympathy for me being in a difficult situation with my marriage. I think he can sympathize being in a marriage where one or both of the partners aren't in love with each other. But when he messages me, he doesn't have anything to say. We don't exactly have a lot in common!

So when he texts, I just talk about what I always talk about when I visit my neighbors. I talk about my life, which lately has had a lot to do with finding God in the everyday routine and challenges that I face. I suspect that has struck a chord with Dito, seeing how I've weathered the difficulty that I'm going through in my marriage.

I'm guessing that Dito feels something when I talk about God, and he probably doesn't understand very much of what I say, and can't really fathom why I do what I do. It really seems to be beyond his comprehension - and not just his. I've tried having these types of conversations with others. I guess I have to learn a different way of communicating. Maybe just my refusing to drink beer, and always talking about God is what they need to help them understand.

So trying to evade Martha, I felt confident in turning to Dito for a conversation. I asked him why he wasn't drunk like everybody else. His reply was surprising - if Mary Lynn isn't drinking, neither am I. Or something to that effect. I really can't understand everything people say.

His meaning was evident, though, since, as we talked, I could see that he had punctured the bottom of the can that he was holding and allowing the beer to spill out onto the ground. I'll have to remember that tactic. I'm not sure I can always avoid going to the parties. And once I'm there, they'll expect me to drink with them.

I learned today that as long as I am holding something in my hand, they sort of leave me alone. Sort of. I had a glass of water in the beginning, and I think they were kind of okay with that. But, silly me, I drank it all. And when my glass was empty, they had to fill it up again! With beer!! That's the point I was using all my powers of diversion and evasion to avoid drinking it. But for the rest of my stay there, I held a cup of beer in my hand.

I thought how opposite that situation was from what I've been taught -- avoid the very appearance of evil. Holding a cup of beer in my hand would certainly seem to fall into "the appearance of evil" as I was taught. But here in Santiago, with my neighbors, refusing to drink with your friends is the greater evil. So, in order to avoid the appearance of evil here, I had to hold a cup of beer in my hand.

Real Work

Blog - 14 January 2019

One week ago I started teaching free English lessons for what’s left of summer vacation. It’s really a laid back atmosphere. After the 30 minute lesson we play. One time we went to the Plaza to teach the inexperienced how to ride a bike. There was only one bike, so the others kept themselves busy in other ways while waiting for their turn.

  My kids have been helping with the “teaching” by reading to the kids in English. We also learn Spanish by asking the Santiagueñan kids how to say things in English, and my kids read to the younger ones in Spanish as well. Win-win!

We also get to watch a house being built only 300 meters from where we’re staying. So far the work is with simple hand tools. The workers dug holes by hand, two meters deep, for the foundation pillars. By afternoon they were ready to fill the holes with cement.

I want to make posts of everything that’s been happening up until now. At this point, though, I’d better just stick to what’s happening today. Hopefully I’ll be better able to stay on top of things now that I’ve figured out the Internet here and have replaced the computer that I lost. (Jon bought me a notebook for Christmas.)

 

Back up

Today is Sunday, 18 November. Since I last wrote, I lost my computer (left the suitcase in the Uber and the driver says he never saw it). A month later, my phone was stolen out of my hand as I sat next to an open window on the bus. The thief reached through the window as the bus was going slowly through the crowded street at 10:30 p.m.

I just now re-established my connection to gmail and can now resume blogging. More to come soon!