THE SIMPLE THINGS

In response to the writing prompt, “The Simple Things” on Mama’s Losin it blog:

Glória, 1967 (top) and 1969 (bottom)

There are times when I would chuck most of what I own, burn down the house, and start over, because sometimes the simple things are the best.


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


In the late 1960’s I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Glória, a small town in the interior of Brazil.  Brunie (another Volunteer) and I lived in a house that had 4 rooms: a sitting room, 2 bedrooms and a kitchen.  We placed a table for eating in the wide hall that stretched from the front to the back of the house.

In the front room, we used our footlockers for seating. They rested on bricks (to keep them from touching the damp mud-brick floor.) We had a small table and chair there for a desk and used unfinished wooden chairs from our dining area when we needed more seating.  We could hang a hammock diagonally from two adjacent walls for an overnight guest.

Each bedroom held a bed with a straw mattress and a mosquito net hanging from the lattice ceiling which supported our ceramic tile roof.  We each had a small hand-made wardrobe and a tiny table next to each bed for a lamp.

The lamps were kerosene-powered.  The town had electricity only four hours each evening, but our house, which we rented for a total of $5.00 ($2.50 each) per month, wasn’t wired for energia.

Once the town’s street lights were extinguished  at 10:00 each night, one could see billions of stars in the southern-hemisphere skies.

The town had no sewage system, nor running water.  Many larger homes held cisternas in back yards to catch and store rain water, but we needed to have water delivered to our home. A teenaged neighbor had a contraption for the back of his donkey which carried four large cans of water from the dam outside of town.  Once he arrived at the house, we strained the water through a clean dishtowel  into a waist-high ceramic jug to filter out leaves, small stones, and insects.  

Water meant for cooking or drinking was boiled for 20 minutes, then put through a water filter.  We boiled our water on a small stove with a propane tank attached to it.  Most of our neighbors used wood-burning stoves.

We had a shower room, about 3-feet square, but we chose not to use it after my house-mate found a snake there one day.  Instead, we heated water on our stove and poured it over our heads in the kitchen.  The mud-brick floor slanted slightly toward the back entrance, so the water seeped under the door into our back yard, past the outhouse entrance and into the mato.

There were no telephones in town and no TVs. Many homes had refrigerators waiting for the full-time electricity that was scheduled to be powered up within a year. We had a temperamental kerosene-powered refrigerator. 

We walked everywhere in town.  If we needed to travel a short distance from town, we borrowed a horse or mule, unless we could catch a ride on one of the half-dozen cars in town. There was a bus three times a week into the capital city ---a drive which might have taken 90 minutes here, but on the dirt roads with frequent stops to pick up or dispatch passengers, stretched to four hours.  

Yet, despite all of those “inconveniences” the town overcame its shortcomings with the warmth of its citizens.  The Brazilians corrected our Portuguese, forgave our mistakes, shared their joys and sorrows, and treated us like daughters.  I don't know that I have felt any more  "at home" anyplace else.

I haven't been back to Glória since I left 4 decades ago. The town’s website shows a much larger city with a cell tower looming in the mato outside of town. The city's praças are filled with stunning tropical plants. Power lines are everywhere.

With TVs in most homes, probably fewer people spend evenings visiting with their neighbors. I’m sure the small circus that used to arrive annually, no longer visits. The nightly social event, gathering in the praça to watch the movemento, has doubtless disappeared. 

Most likely street lights are left on all night. And with all that light, I am guessing one can no longer see the Southern Cross constellation quite as clearly in those big, beautiful, Brazilian skies.   


There are times when I long for the simple life I lived in Glória.  We had a roof over our heads, food to sustain us, boiled and filtered water, meaningful work, and friends.  Really, what more do most of us need?


Despite the conveniences of modern technology, sometimes the simple things are still the best.

Glória, 2009
photo by Alcione (see her on the photo to the right)

-------

Alcione, c. 1967
youngest child of
Dona Guiomar, 
(elementary-school
principal)
with brother & sisters

I will be visiting Glória in just a few weeks ---my first visit since I left in July of 1969.   Check back for photos and new stories.

Read about my return trip to Glória on my other blog HERE.

"What Price, Stupidity?"

In 2008, I wrote a humorous essay in response to a writing prompt to "tell about your worst dental experience, ever." My story was about having my wisdom teeth pulled when I lived in Brazil. (Actually the procedure itself went fine. It was the getting home when I was all doped up on an anesthetic that was the problem.) I called it "What Price, Wisdom?" (It can be found on my other blog by clicking on the title.) 


As of last Friday, I have a new dental story about oral surgery to repair receding gums. 


The trouble began before I left home. My appointment was for 7:30a in the nearest large metro area. I had planned to leave at 5:50a to drive 45 minutes to my niece's place where I would park. From there, I could walk less than 2 blocks to catch a bus at 6:45 which would give me a free ride with my Medicare card. The bus would arrive at 7:20 leaving me more than enough time for the short walk to the dentist's office. For me this was preferable to driving into the city, finding a parking spot, and robbing a bank to pay for parking ---with a little leftover for the dental procedure.

But time got away from me and I suddenly realized it was 5:50 ---time to leave. I had taken a shower, applied makeup, and eaten breakfast, but still had to brush my teeth, don my shirt, grab a water bottle, and fill a cooler with ice packs (for my face after surgery) so I left 10 minutes later than I had planned. I was speeding and gripping the steering wheel for the entire 45-minute drive, afraid I would miss the bus. Of course if I had, I could have parked in the city. I ran from my niece's to the bus stop and crossed the street to the stop just as the bus arrived. Whew! Just made it!

The periodontist removed tissue from the roof of my mouth and grafted it on my gum line above or below three teeth. The "discomfort" (as it was understated in the dental brochure) started with the injection of novocain (or whatever numbing agent the dentist used) ---I thought the top of my head would come off from the pain. But after it took effect, the rest wasn't too terrible ---just a lot of pressure and the stitching thread cut the corner of my mouth a bit ---and of course there was blood. The procedure lasted about 90 minutes and by the time I reluctantly handed over a sack of money for the procedure and left with the ice pack the assistant gave me to use until I returned to my car & the additional icepacks in my cooler there ---I was feeling rather beat up. 


Little did I know that "beat up" was the perfect term. 

Despite following instructions to keep ice on my face most of the next 24 hours, by Friday afternoon I had a small light violet bruise between my chin and lower lip ---about the size of a dime. I bruise rather easily, so this was no surprise. My face was only slightly swollen.


By Friday night, the bruise had grown to about the size of a half dollar. 

By Saturday morning, the bruise had spread half way down my neck and half the distance from my mouth to my right ear and my face had swollen so I looked like a chipmunk with cheeks full of seeds. By Saturday night, I also had a black eye and the bruises weren't a pale violet anymore, they were a deep reddish purple.

I am afraid to leave the house. My face is really awful enough to scare children. Although the swelling has gone down and the bruising covers a smaller area than it did previously, from a distance much of my face and neck resembles raw meat. I am concerned that neighbors might call the police to report possible domestic abuse. But, the only one who beat me up was my dentist. 

My dental plan didn't cover the procedure. 


Imagine putting out more than one and a half month's of my Social Security income to be tortured! What was I thinking?  


"What Price, Stupidity?"

-------------------
On my other blog, you can find my story about my previous worst dental experience:
"What price, Wisdom?"

LIKE THE WIND

In response to a writing prompt on
 Mama'a Losin' It blog:

"A Phone Call You Won't Forget"

This is a slightly fictionalized version of a true story. 

          “Oh, no. Oh, my gawd, no,” my mother gasped into the receiver.

Although I was only eleven, I knew that something was terribly wrong.

It was the Saturday between Christmas and New Years. When the phone rang, I thought it was my alarm clock. Reaching toward the nightstand to turn it off, I remembered that I had slept on the living room couch. My older sister Charlene had invited several friends for a slumber party the previous night. She and her friends had slept in her room and mine, upstairs. I didn’t know what time it was, but the sun hadn’t colored the eastern sky yet.

Still on the phone in the dining room, my mother moaned in response to the caller. Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry, Mid. Is there anything I can do?” After a long pause, she meekly said, “I’ll call Ruthy and Dorothy. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” I thought I heard her sob when she hung up.

It was my mother’s older sister calling. Her name was Mildred, but everyone called her Mid. She was the aunt who always instructed my mother on how she should raise us. “Charlene’s too young to be wearing nylons,” she would say. “Why do you let your girls pull their hair back into those tight pony tails. They’re going to go bald.” Meanwhile, her three sons rarely obeyed her.

What had upset my mother, I wondered. Perhaps something had happened to my Uncle Albert. He worked in a steel mill. Maybe he’d been in an accident at work.

Uncle Albert was a restrained and unemotional Englishman. His fatherly duties were fulfilled by the occasional purchase of comic books for his boys, but he wouldn’t allow his sons to touch the comics until he had finished reading them himself. When the older boys had become teenagers, Uncle Albert forbade them to drive the family car. So the boys had worked to pay for their own beat-up jalopies. Aunt Mid had signed for them against her husband’s wishes. 

My mother returned to my parents’ first-floor bedroom. I heard her talking to my father with some urgency. Soon, I smelled bread toasting. My parents continued speaking in hushed tones in the kitchen. While setting the dining room table for my sister’s friends, my mother said, “Don’t say anything to the girls. We’ll tell them after we take the other girls home.”

I had butterflies in my stomach, the kind I usually experienced only when I had to get up in front of the class at school. What could possibly be so upsetting to my parents and so private that our friends couldn’t be told? I heard my mother approaching the living room. I closed my eyes so she would think I was still sleeping. After checking on me, she tip-toed to the dining room and dialed the phone.

“Ruthy, it’s Ann.” After explaining that I was asleep on the couch, she continued talking to her sister in a half whisper, “I have bad news,” she confided. “Mid called to tell me Denny was in an accident.” She gasped for breath, as if she couldn’t take in enough oxygen. “He’s dead,” she blurted out with unusual abruptness.

I felt sick. 

Denny was my cousin. He was only seventeen. How could he be dead? 

Denny had movie-star good looks, that special captivating, yet brooding, James Dean appeal. He had earned enough money as a newsboy to buy himself an old car by charming his customers into giving him big tips. Yet, I knew, he had a wild and defiant streak, too. While my friends were emulating the wholesome Kingston Trio look, Denny dressed in white socks, black shoes, skin-tight jeans and a T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes up the sleeve. His hair was slicked back in a DA.

Kids aren’t supposed to die, I thought.

My mother continued on the phone. “Several other boys were hurt. Two’re in critical condition. It happened late last night, downtown. The police told Mid Denny was speeding and hit a patch of ice, side-swiped another car and ran into a telephone pole. Apparently he knew the boys in the other car. The police think they might have been drag racing.”

My heart felt as if it were idling too fast, like a car engine. I lay with my eyes wide open, in a fixed stare. Across the room, something sparkled. It was one of the Chirstmas ornaments catching light from the dining room. Gees, I thought, what a terrible time for someone to die.

After my mother called Aunt Dorothy with the same sad news, I dragged myself from the couch and aimed toward the bathroom, plodding as if I were being controlled by someone else. My mother intercepted me and hugged me much harder than usual. “Did you hear, Honey?” she whispered in my ear.

“Uh, huh,” I nodded.

“Don’t say anything to Charlene or the other girls, okay?”

I tried to act normal until my sister’s friends had gone home. It wasn’t difficult. I had temporarily switched off all feelings.

During my young life, my family had spent an inordinate amount of time at funeral homes. Most of the deceased had been my father’s relatives ---great-great aunts and uncles, people I didn’t know well ---so I didn’t mind much when they died. I thought death was for people who were so old that their passing was probably welcome. I couldn’t remember seeing anyone cry when those people had died.

But Denny’s funeral was different. When my family arrived at the funeral home, the place was mobbed with Denny’s high school friends. Girls sobbed loudly. A few shrieked uncontrollably. The teenagers hugged each other and wiped tears from swollen eyes. Baskets of huge mums and gladiolas spilled into the halls and adjoining reception rooms, down the staircase and into the lobby. The smell was so sweet I could hardly breathe.

Aunt Mid, usually gruff, was docile. She was the only family member who wept. Uncle Albert showed no more emotion than usual. Denny’s older brother Bert remained as unresponsive as his father. Bobby, the youngest boy, squirmed restlessly in his Sunday suit and played in the halls with younger male cousins. They didn’t seem to understand the finality of Denny’s death any more than I did.

My sister and I didn’t talk about our feelings. I didn’t cry. I felt as if none of it were real. My other aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and my parents remained stoic. In whispers, the adults speculated on the cause of the accident. They described Denny and his friends as irresponsible, foolish, and delinquent. My father, I knew, would make Denny’s life and death an issue in a moral lesson for my sister and me. I suspected I was going to hate hearing it.

I had held a secret crush on Denny. Sometimes he had ruthlessly teased me. I loved every second of the attention. I admired his rebellious streak. Anyone who could defy Aunt Mid’s harsh words was okay by me. Denny had given me my first puff on a forbidden cigarette behind the old chicken coop in his back yard. Looking back, it seems terribly irresponsible of him, but at the time, Denny had treated me as an equal and I had been thrilled.

The night before the funeral, I finally came to the realization that I would never see Denny again. Alone in my bed, tears rolled onto my pillow as I tried to muffle my sobs. No one heard me ---or at least no one arrived to console me.

It was the first time I experienced a feeling of tremendous loss at the death of a loved one. At age eleven, I learned I could die in a split second, just as Denny had. I understood mortality.

For weeks afterward I woke feeling fine, followed by that sinking sensation a few moments later when I remembered that my cousin was dead, that Denny would never grow up. Forever, he would be remembered as an appealing but irresponsible seventeen-year-old.

My grief was like the wind. Soon it came in gusts with periods of calm in between. And after a while, I rarely noticed the breeze. Denny would come to mind only if I caught a glimpse of someone who resembled him or when I heard a news story about another teenager who died when his car hit a utility pole. Like James Dean, they died too young and each became just one more departed rebel without a cause.

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

In response to a writing prompt on Mama'a Losin' It blog:

"A Vacation to Remember"

        While serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Brazil in the late 1960’s, I used my vacation time to travel by bus from the Northeast of Brazil through major cities and tourist spots, southward to Pôrto Alegre in Brazil’s southernmost state and onward to Montevideo, Uruguay, eventually arriving in Buenos Aires. There, a kind taxi driver deposited me at a small hotel owned by a Brazilian couple. I had learned Portuguese in order to survive in Brazil, but my Spanish was minimal.
        For vacation days, Peace Corps personnel in Brazil were allotted $9 per day. To save money, I would catch a late bus, saving the cost of a hotel room by sleeping on the bus overnight when traveling between cities. I was in my early twenties and didn’t mind a noisy bus, even though I woke with swollen feet and a stiff neck on scheduled stops every two or three hours. I might mention that buses between major cities were modern, clean, and often more reliable than air travel in much of South America at that time.
       On my way back north, I returned to Montevideo. I arrived in the capital of Uruguay around 10 a.m. on a cold, rainy Saturday and planned to catch a bus twelve hours later. On my first stop there, I had seen many of the sites, so I spent the dreary, wet afternoon in Montevideo dozing in a dry movie theater while a very bad Dean Martin movie repeated every two hours. It was still raining when I left the theater.

      The northbound trip to Pôrto Alegre was supposed to last ten hours, arriving around 8 a.m. On the bus, a Brazilian teenager struck up a conversation. The boy was curious about the United States and eager to practice his English, but we spoke mostly in Portuguese throughout the long night.
        As the dawn broke, the rain ended. It looked like it would be a beautiful day. Because I would have to wait another ten hours in Pôrto Alegre to catch my next bus, the boy urged me to go home with him to meet his family. I politely declined.

        At the bus station I said my good-byes to him, wondering what to do for ten hours on a Sunday when most of the city would be closed.
        After retrieving my luggage, I was confronted by a dozen Brazilians ---the boy’s parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and grandparents ---all insisting I visit their modest home for the day. After several polite refusals and their enthusiastic insistance, I agreed to spend the day with them.

        They fed me breakfast, took me on a driving tour of the sun-drenched city, and served a huge lunch (which is the major meal of the day in Brazil.) The family was of Italian descent; the meal consisted of ravioli soup and pasta along with the traditional feijoada, the Brazilian national dish made with black beans and a variety of meats, served over rice.

        Afterwards, the boy's mother insisted I take a customary siesta, which I needed after spending most of the night conversing in Portuguese with her son. An hour before my departure time, she woke me and thrust a large brown bag at me. It was filled with enough fruit, bread, chicken, and guaraná (a Brazilian soft drink) for three or four people. The entire family accompanied me to the rodaviaria where I caught my next ônibus.

        After returning to my Peace Corps site two weeks later, I wrote to the family, thanking them for their hospitality, and later sent a few friendly notes to the boy. They never answered. In my experience, Brazilians weren’t zealous letter writers.
        Forty-plus years later, I can barely remember what I did in Buenos Aires or Montevideo, but I remember that bus ride with the eager Brazilian teen and his congenial family in Pôrto Alegre ---which, by the way, means "Happy Port" in Portuguese.

        After leaving Pôrto Alegre, my bus took me north to Salvador where I ended my trip by attending a regional conference, bringing Peace Corps Volunteers together to share experiences, disappointments, successes, problems, and triumphs.
        I hadn’t seen most of the other Volunteers from my group for a year, yet I was not surprised to hear how many had experienced similar acts of hospitality from relative strangers who were eager to know North Americans and show off their Brazilian culture.

        Brazilian hospitality was a perfect example of how wonderful travel can be in foreign countries and what warm, friendly people one can meet. The most generous people were often those who had relatively little themselves. Such hospitable folks could rarely be encountered in a fancy tourist hotel. More likely they would be met in a local restaurant, on a bus, or in an inexpensive pensão.
        After leaving Brazil, I never encountered any of the people who showed me such warmth, but every time I have had the chance to “pass it on” I have embraced the opportunity to do the same for foreigners in the United States, especially those who may have felt a bit lonely away from home and family.
        I only hope each person passed it on and the next person passed it on, so that eventually those folks in Brazil were rewarded with the type of kindness they had extended to me.

(Text and bus illustrations ©2010, C.J.)

COLD TOES, HOT COFFEE

If my feet are cold, I can't fall asleep. In winter, my feet almost always feel frigid after only a few minutes in bed.

My attempts to solve this problem have been many.  

When I get up, I place a pair of heavy socks on the bathroom radiator so they are toasty warm when I am ready for bed. I slide my slippers under the radiator so the tops are warm, too.  But that seems to keep my feet warm for only a few minutes after removing the slippers and crawling into bed.

My next strategy is to fold a flannel sheet to approximately 6 ft. X 3 ft. and drape it on the bedroom radiator. When I go to bed, I fold it once more and place it under the covers at the bottom of the bed, then place my feet between the folds. This keeps my feet warmer longer than the heated socks by themselves, but not by much.

A few weeks ago, I searched the internet for "foot warmers."  I found several different ones and finally purchased Bed Buddy Soothing Foot Warmers on eBay. (Later, I found them for about half the price on amazon.com.)  They are fleece booties with long, oval bean-bag-like inserts. It is recommended to  place the inserts in the microwave for no more than one minute ---although I heat them for two ---then place them in pouches under the soles of the booties.

After heating them, I scurry upstairs and place them on the radiator under the flannel sheet while changing into PJs. I grab them right before I jump into bed and quickly put them on before inserting my feet between the folds of the flannel sheet.  They heat the bottom of my feet, but if my toes are cold, I have to maneuver my feet so that the bottom of my left foot is on top of my cold right toes, for example.  They seem to stay warm for quite a while, at least until I fall asleep, which sometimes takes 30 to 45 minutes.

One can't walk with the inserts in the booties.  I don't want to walk on my dusty floors and then crawl into bed, so this is not a problem.  If I get up several hours later to go to the bathroom, my feet are plenty warm, so I remove the booties and drop them at the top of the steps so I remember to take them downstairs to store near the microwave.

The biggest problem is that the booties come in only one size. I have large feet for a woman ---size 10. Yet the booties are so loose that they often come off during the night ---but usually after I've fallen asleep  when my feet are already warm. The product could be improved with velcro closures or, perhaps, by manufacturing them in varied size ranges.

After retiring from teaching, I took a position as a customer service representative, where I worked nights. Even though I RE-retired months ago, I am still in my night mode.  Many days, my husband is up before I hit the sack.

So last week one day, he was in the kitchen eating his breakfast while I was completing computer work in the next room.  When I was ready to head toward bed, I grabbed my foot warming inserts, placed them on the paper plate I use to warm them, opened the microwave, shoved the plate inside without even looking, and hit the mug my husband had placed there, spilling coffee on my foot warming inserts, the paper plate and the inside of the microwave.

After cleaning my mess, I placed the warming inserts on the kitchen radiator to dry, so my feet remained cold when I went to bed that day.

The blurb on the label for my foot warmers explains that they are scented with "eucalyptus (to revitalyze), clove (to comfort), and cinnamon (to calm)."  I actually don't find the scent soothing, but once my feet are under the covers, I can't smell the herbs. I am hoping the scent will eventually go away.

Now, when I heat them, my foot warmers are scented with eucalyptus, cloves, cinnamon, and COFFEE ---definitely NOT an improvement.

Maybe the label should read "eucalyptus (to revitalyze), clove (to comfort), cinnamon (to calm), and coffee (to stimulate your heart, respiratory system and central nervous system)" ---not something I really need when I'm attempting to fall asleep.