of ice and men

December 29, 2009


As I embark on this adventure of weathering winter as, I suppose, it is intended to be, I am realizing that so far I have a decidedly conflicted relationship with the snow. I resent the way in which it hinders transportation and spontaneous outdoor excursions . . . yet I find it hauntingly, inspiringly beautiful.
This evening, for instance, I stopped on my way into the library, awed by the apparent ice-sculpture of a snowman that was in the neighboring yard. So when I walked into the library, instead of doing anything library-appropriate, I blurted out a query as to the creators of the stunning snowman outside. The librarian was confused as to the snowman itself, but she did say that she assumed it had been constructed by the children who had, in fact, just been in that same library shortly before I was. I took this apparent familiarity as a bit of a photographic go-ahead, so here he is, in his icy loveliness.

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slip n’ slide

December 28, 2009


This evening included a normal sort of Sunday drive–normal, probably, only in my family, as it meant a trip to the dump. But this particular drive also included a stop at an all-too-familiar tree, as of last night. Here is a snapshot of that tree. Sideways, you say? Well, not exactly: for this is the perspective I unfortunately, had, as I tried to decide how exactly I should extract myself from the car without tipping it, the rest of the way, over from its precariously wedged position. Yes, it’s high time for those snow-appropriate tires: no more excuses forthcoming from my winterly-wimpy self!

how’s the "water"?

December 23, 2009


I know I said I wasn’t tempted by my icy lakefront anymore . . . but I guess that wasn’t entirely true. Because today I dove right in–or stood right on, as the case may be. Seeing a father/son ice fisherman team from the shore, I couldn’t resist heading out with my camera. They were kind enough to even let me try my hand at the sport, though I didn’t manage to make a catch [which is probably just as well, considering licensing issues!]. So, in case you’re inclined to come join me for a swim, here’s a glimpse for you of how the water is, from where I stood :-)

refreshing?

December 14, 2009


Funny thing . . . somehow my summer swimming haunt doesn’t quite beckon me to dive on in anymore: why might that be? :-)

on frozen pond

December 12, 2009


I have never before been witness to the freezing process of a lake. So when I ventured out this morning for the first time since returning to the NE, I was floored at how beautiful it was. With the combination of the freezing pockets and the wave-shaped already frozen portions, I just could not get over how lovely the effect was . . . had I not been so frozen myself, I would have been tempted to just sit and watch it freeze :-) Here is one of the photos I took, out of a series of various angles and segments.

a goodbye

December 9, 2009


The weather seemed in sync with the day as we gathered for the funeral: the steady drizzle as soothing as it was dreary. We wrote our final goodbyes on sticky notes, our somber collage to be lowered into the ground with the coffin. “May you have peace,” I wrote. Then we parted, with teary hugs.
And today, one day later, the sun shines warm and bright.

a wintery apology

December 6, 2009


It’s no big secret that I’m not so good at winter. But that doesn’t mean that awaking to the first snow did not make me gasp at the beauty of it all . . . and rush to snap some wintery shots. So much so that I was cutting it a bit close for the morning’s travels, and ended up messing things up a bit: shouldn’t I be too old to have to be rescued by my mother? Thanks, Mom–and sorry :-)

on this day

December 1, 2009

I remember, this day–November 30–in 1988. On this day, I awoke excited–no, more than that–I was ecstatic. I was running through lines of the Christmas program in my head, eagerly rehearsing for the program that night. You see, tonight we were performing for our families, for my family. They were on their way by this time, I knew, beginning the drive early that morning that would bring them along many lonely dirt roads, winding through villages and across open plains, to arrive here.
It had been 3 months now since I last saw them, when I boarded the little Cessna on the grass strip of our village, clutching my stuffed bear in one arm and holding my sister’s hand with the other. We stood there waving goodbye one last time on the boarding stairs, and then waved again out the window as we sped along the airstrip and lifted off into the air. I loved that moment of lifting off in the airplane–and have ever since–the exciting rush of becoming airborne and soaring faster and faster through the air.
That day, however, my excitement of the beginning was tinged with the sadness of knowing I would be away from my family for many nights now. The days were always full of learning, fun adventures in the bush with friends and with various creatures to be discovered and trees to be climbed. The nights were the hard part, though, when I fought the tears that often came in spite of my fierce will, silently dampening my pillow while I stifled the shortened breaths that may give away my tears to the classmates sleeping near me in rows of bunk beds.
The 3 months since that last flight had passed quickly–3 months of good books read, math problems solved, geography discovered, play weddings acted out in free time, and all manner of grade 4 activities. I had also turned 9 the previous month, and knew my family would now celebrate my birthday and my brother’s 4th birthday 3 days earlier, as soon as we made it back home. While on a shopping trip in South Africa, my Dad had acquired our first car, so the decided to make the road trip instead of Helen and I flying home as we had always done before. So, I knew they were loaded up in the Isuzu, along with 2 village friends–a teenage student of my Dad’s and the Zambian pastor he worked with in our Church.
So that afternoon, after various activities designed to keep all us boarding students preoccupied so we wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls with the excitement of our families’ arrivals, we all filed out the drive-up area to await the first arrivals. I had in my mind the perfect picture of what to expect, so as each vehicle arrived, I craned my neck to see my mom’s long arm waving out the window and Alex’s goofy grin peering out from her lap. But the cars came, parents claimed their clamoring kids, and my picture-perfect arrival still had not appeared. Finally, a lady I recognized as the mom of some friends who lived fairly near us went over to our Dorm Mother and said something to her, gesturing in our direction. She then came and told us to go ahead and get ready for the program–not to keep waiting for our parents there.
I was disappointed, but assumed they would arrive at any moment, so just kept waiting as we practiced our songs. My mental image just altered itself to adjust to a late clamor of hugs and kisses rushed in before the program started . . . but the program came, began, and ended, and they had not arrived. The next morning we were taken to the Cessna, and told we were going to go back to the village by flight after all. This time I imagined the whole family standing there on the airstrip, coming into focus as the plane landed, with eager smiles and waves–still, no. The parents of a classmate took us in their car instead–so of course I changed my expectation once more, this time thinking they were taking us to our house where the family would be, picture-perfect, waiting in front of our little home.
Instead we arrived at their house. Auntie Elaine (according to British habit, all family friends were “Auntie” and “Uncle” to us kids) finished up dinner preparations while we helped set the table. And then, instead of sitting down to dinner, she asked Helen and I to come and sit with her on the couch–“Anna, Helen–I have some really sad news . . . your Daddy went to heaven . . . ” Before the sentence was finished, I had burst into loud sobs, Helen looked at me and started crying, and Auntie Elaine and her daughter were both crying and hugging us.
I don’t remember any mention of the rest of the family at that point–nor did I wonder, as far as I can remember. The rest of the day, of the week, of the month, passed in a sort of a fog, in which my memories are clear but displaced, as if each memory was plucked from its proper place in the continuum of time and placed instead in some never never land of homeless moments.
I remember falling asleep with fitful dreams, waking up convinced I had dreamed reality, and that Daddy would walk in and comfort me any moment. I remember being reunited with my brothers, staring at Alex’s discolored and misshapen head, and carting Ian around carefully in his body cast, propping him up against walls . . . supporting him and holding his modesty blanket over his midsection as he pinned the tail on the donkey at his belated birthday party. I remember visiting Mom there in the Zambian hospital, horrified at the sight of my strong, active, beautiful mother lying there on the stretcher bed unable to move herself. At one point during a visit, the nurse had to turn her over so that she wouldn’t get a bed sore. As she did so, she let go of the sheet and mom was briefly exposed to us all in the room. I didn’t know whether to blush, sob, or scream–I wanted to just run away, to disappear forever into the endless, dreadfully beautiful African wilderness. I hated seeing mom like that, and dreaded the visits . . . and I hated myself for feeling that way, thinking there must be something wrong with me if I didn’t want to see my mother . . .
Somehow, time passed. My Daddy’s funeral passed in a blur of friends, strangers, languages I didn’t know, and wails I knew only too well. As soon as mom was strong enough to be transported, we were shipped to the U.S., where hospitalization and then physical rehab came for her. I hid in my books–in beautiful worlds of fantasy–to the extent that my grandmother still teases me for always having my “nose stuck in a book” as a child.
And eventually Mom was well enough to take over the care of the 4 of us again. I still don’t know for the life of me how she did it–a paraplegic supporting and caring for a home of her own and 4 not-always-angelic children. She did it well . . . she loved us well.
On this day, as a child, Mom beautifully commemorated the anniversary. She would buy what looked to me like hundreds of helium-filled balloons, bringing them home so that the house was bursting with balloons. Then she tied note cards to the string of each one, and told us to write notes on them–as many as we wanted, and whatever we wanted to say to a stranger. I remember writing things like “Jesus loves me this I know . . .” and “My Daddy died on this day, and he is now in heaven with God, because he loved God. I do too.” I wrote silly notes, but meaningful ones, longing, in all my childhood intensity, to somehow tell the world that I had a great Daddy, and that some day I would see him again.
I still catch myself, when I am still enough to listen to the deeper desires of my heart, craving moments of remembrance of my Daddy, and eagerly clasping to memory any tidbits about him that people from his past may be able to share with me. And thankfully my own mind clamped down firmly on all the memories I had of my times with him, out of a personal need for them and, I suspect, out of a nagging suspicion that someday, somehow, there would be a greater use for, outlet for, it all.