No Guns in Cuba

     I woke early today.  In time to hear the soft whistle of the train passing by. 
I hate being up before seven but it seems I have some thoughts on guns.  The NRA
clings to their beliefs that our nation has a right to bear arms. I wonder if they
have read the fine print in the Second Amendment (Amendment ll ), which states:

     "A well regulated milita, being necessary to the security of a free state,
       the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed."

Adopted on December 15, 1791, this amendment was meant to protect people living in
a time where order was yet to be established and folks took matters into their own hands.
Like the shooter Friday.  He took matters into his own sick and twisted hands when
he blew the brains out of his mother's head and then repeatedly shot six and seven year
olds while they were probably getting ready for morning snack time.  Are the NRA 
supporters proud that they enabled this?  Can they honestly continue to say this right
is relative in today's society, 221 years after the fact?  Do they need me to send them
an email with the definition and understanding of, "well regulated"?  
     People don't really understand Castro but he has the presence of mind to know that
if you put guns into peoples' hands, someone will get shot.  Dead.  So he makes it
illegal for people to keep and bear arms.  Perhaps he understands that the right people will
not keep and bear arms.  The wrong people will buy them and use them to kill their families and 
innocent children.  Surely some will say that Castro doesn't want to be shot himself, hence,
the rigid laws, but I entice you to consider the realm of possibilities when society finally decides to 
talk things out.  Sure, knives are allowed in Cuba and people do get hurt from them.
However, I can't help but wonder how many would be alive this foggy Sunday morning if
that crazed, disturbed twenty year old would have come into Sandy Hook Elementary
school armed with only a knife. 
       Senseless deaths are impossible to comprehend.  They linger on for the rest of time.
Controlling guns?  Easy to understand.  In the words of my nephew,
   "Why? Why did they let that man have a gun?"  
Aren't we as a nation really just infringing on the rights of the innocents?
They aren't having mass killings in Cuba or for that matter, Costa Rica either. 
Many folks in the world don't have many rights but they apparently value to right to breath.
To live.
     Cuba has a host of challenges: long lines for basic food staples, cigarettes and alcohol
everywhere for purchase but rarely a place to purchase fruits or vegetables. 
Free health care that uses X-Ray machines from the 1940's. Doctors assigned to 
neighborhoods with only a small place on the main floor of their assigned houses
to see patients.  Too, too many patients for a new doctor and one nurse to handle.
Still, they know that when they walk in for their appointment, nobody will walk
in after them with a semi-automatic riffle and destroy their lives in sixty seconds or less.
     We can no longer pride ourselves on our great country when the rights of the
children have been infringed. 
     

Cienfuego, Cuba

    My internet hasn't been working for the last week. Something about
squirrels and wires.  I was about to get cranky about it when I did my 
Costa Rica/Cuba double check.  "Are they going without? Then I can too."
After Storm Blaster Sandy, I can now ask myself about my own citizens as well.
My sister Kathy is in Connecticut. No power. No hot water. NO HALLOWEEN!
Her nine year old went ballistic. They cancelled it. The roads are so 
dangerous with all the downed power lines and since it was dark in spite
of a full moon, they cancelled Halloween.   
     It doesn't matter to the millions of people here in America that Cubans' deal with power outages every day. Often several times in an hour. While on my adventure in Cuba, we were taken to Cienfuegos. A pretty coastal town that
is clean and beautiful.  Situated on the Caribbean Sea, La Peria del Sur, 
The Southern Pearl, is an inviting port city that is worth spending time in. 
Clean, colorful and copious, this city has been visited by Columbus, the Spanish 
Conquistadors and the French.  The French influence is felt in the sophisticated streets, shops and design.  The main area is a boulevard just for people, that passes both government owned and privately owned stores.  We came across a shoe store that carried top of the line American and French athletic shoes.  The look and feel of it seemed right out of SoHo.  Very chic and cool.  It's hard to explain the difference between private and government own shops.  Owners have the "right" to carry the products they want instead of being told what to carry.  They pay for the inventory and get to keep the profits, but must pay extraordinary taxes, 80%, in exchange for this freedom.  The difference is noticeable in the pride of the people working in these businesses and the 
fresh inventory that they carry.  Within 10 doors of each other was a department store, government owned, and the shoe store.  In the department store were
tiny appliances, (average of $400.00), plastic flowers($4.00), top of the line
dirt bikes and other gear bikes (over $300.00 and all the bikes I saw on the roads were the old-fashioned bikes without gears.  Who would be buying these bikes? we wondered.)  I got out my camera and took pictures and was promptly

told cameras were not allowed.  By contrast, the woman who owned the shoe store with her husband welcomed my camera and proudly showed off their

collection. The shoes were all quite expensive, even by American standards, but
she was selling them on a daily basis. 
     One of the highlights of the town was the Thomas Terry Theatre.  A grand ole
beauty that for some reason brought to my mind Abraham Lincoln's era, this

theater was in remarkable shape and was currently being used for comedies, dramas and musical performances.  It wasn't air conditioned, not many buildings are, and the fans placed all around on the magnificent wooden beams seemed out of place.  Nonetheless, it was a fantastic example of the wealth that was once flowing freely in Cuba. We were only allowed 10 minutes inside, but it was enough to imprint in my mind the glory days gone by in old Cuba.  From here we were taken to a very nice hotel, colorful, right on the Cienfuego harbor, completely void of any guests. We were given yet another Mojita, 
 (one everytime we stopped for lunch or dinner or just to visit a special spot!) We were ushered into what must have been a ballroom and were seated in folding chairs lined up theater style.  We were treated to a remarkable gift, 22 A capella voices. Winners of a Latin Grammy, these men and women were rich in sound and soothing to the soul.  They were fantastic and we were fortunate to be able to see them.  
     What made their performance even more remarkable was the fact that 
the electricity stopped working over 10 times in the 45 minutes that they sang.  They never skipped a beat, nor turned around in surprise. This was such a common occurrence for them that never missed a beat. Remarkable in so many ways. They are led by a young woman in her late twenty's and they are
considered privileged because they can travel freely around the country and get to experience many places that are off limits to the normal Cuban. They are also 
paid additional Cuban Pesos which improves their lives as this choir is not their primary job. They are called Cantores de Cienfuegos and can be found on YouTube. Worth the search if you love a classical choir. 
     The spirit of the Cubano's is remarkable by any standards. That they live
surrounded by rubble and ruin, without any of the amenities that we have in our daily lives and that they do it without complaint (publicly at least) is either a testament to their fear of Castro and Communism or a testament to the will of the human spirit to rise above oppression. 
     It's hard to explain to my nephew that Halloween is just a silly holiday 

exhibiting all that is greedy and excessive in America. It's harder still to explain that the children in Cuba rarely are treated to any candy at all. 

Cuba, Storm Sandy Style

     I've been home about 2 weeks now from Cuba and I've had little
opportunity to share my trip with any of my family and friends.  What's 
happened since my return is that my brother was on life support and now
is off, the Giants won the World Series (I just learned that!) my yard needs raking and Storm Sandy has captured all our airwaves and Facebook postings. It's hard to think about my trip when so many are right now without power and have been re-located to school gymnasiums.  Somehow, it coincides with my memories of Cuba.
     There, families of 20 or more live everyday in assigned apartments where
they must walk long miles to work and to their food distribution areas.  Where
taking a long shower isn't a luxury, there just isn't warm water for a
decent shower. Where nobody tries to take care of themselves.  Two generations of families are so used to being taken care of, albeit poorly, by the government, that they don't even think about what's missing from their lives.
     And now, as tourism is on the rise, people are beginning to discover that
they are missing out on fresh oranges and flowers and birds that pollinate 
the world.  I never saw a grocery store.  Only long lines at government stores that sold tomato sauce for $4.00 and only had one type of soap and shampoo.
Most of what we in the Western world consider average items in a grocery store are luxuries in Cuba.  Cuba, where there is no such thing as functional obsolescence.  Where American cars from the 1950's are still running using Cuban invention. 
      Our first day in Cuba we were driven to a "Rum Factory".  A glorified
plant that reminded me of the "I Love Lucy" classic where Lucy and Ethel
are in the chocolate factory and can't keep up with the production.  Only here in Cuba, the 20 or so people  all crammed into a room sat or stood around watching the bottles drop from the assembly line, get put into the proper upright
postion awaiting the label. Three very disinterested women slouched in chairs and slapped on the rum labels.  Others took the bottles and stacked them into crates to be carried into the next room to receive the rum.  The smell was
intoxicating.  Sweet and potent.  Like inhaling straight 100% alcohol. Rooms full of ancient oak barrels, aging the rum to perfection.  We were given a generous shot of 17 year old rum.  Oh wow!  Set for the day with alcohol content!  The first of many tourist trap gift shops awaited us after we all sampled the delicious dark rum.  We are told to drink as much rum as we could, "It's the best in the world."  I know my rum and I agree with that.  But how much rum can one person drink in a week full of early and long days traveling from place to place in a Chinese made bus that seats 30 or so?  
     From the rum factory we were bused to the Revolution Museum.  We would have called it the Bay of Pigs Museum. It houses the Jeep that Castro rode around in during the altercation.  A Russian missel used to shoot down an American bomber sat side by side each other.  Green uniformed guards slowly paced around the outdoor setting.  I walked too far around the corner and got a shrill whistle followed by rapid footsteps to stop me. It was the first time I thought I was in a communist country. It was Cuba's pride showing through the remnants of a botched American takeover attempt. It was the outward
illustration of an inward government gone haywire. 
     Back on the bus we passed buildings crumbling, while fresh laundry strung from the tiny outdoor places flapped in the wind. People stood outside amidst the
rubble waiting. For time, for friends, for change. They watched as another tour
bus ambled past their lives. As people free to move about the world, moved about their country.  They wanted to come. They wanted to go. But it was 
forbidden. Their lives for now is waiting for the laundry to dry.

Baseball

      It's playoff time in Major League Baseball again.  The leaves have 
turned umber, the days are shorter and somewhere in Cuba, little boys are wishing they could just sit in their homes and turn on the telly.  San Francisco is about to shut out the Cardinals in the seventh game of the National League playoffs.  We take television for granted here.  We take everything for granted here. We have electricity and hot water and televisions in every room. We may or may not even care that it's almost the World Series. 
     Not in Cuba.  In Cuba, baseball is the way out. Of the food lines and crowded apartments and sub-par medical treatments. In Cuba, boys of all
ages play baseball in the streets, in the alley's and in the fields. They play 
barefoot with sticks and rocks. They use their shoes for the bases. You see
them playing as you drive through their crumbling country. They cheer and
applaud and smile.  It's the only relief they have from all the grey that surrounds them. 
     Since 1913 when Merito Acosta somehow managed to escape the insanity
in Cuba and become the first Cuban to play for a major league team, there 
have been 172 (baseball almanac) players to leave Cuba for riches and fame
in America.  Jose Canseco and Alex Ramirez are two playing here now. Ramirez was born in Pinar de Rio, hours outside Havana where mountains rise up
and the weather is perfect for growing tobacco. The farmers all lost the
ownership of their family farms when Castro came into play. They get up at
dawn and work the fields using oxen, only to be forced to give 80% of their
income and yield to the government. The sun browns their skin and they
raise chickens and turkeys to feed their families of 10 or more. Three 
generations live in one house. Sometimes four. Electricity comes and goes. A breeze from the mountains cools their concrete block homes. They have no screens on their windows. 
     They are proud. They are kind. They serve dark, rich coffee to all who visit. Without the milk. Without the sugar.  They must walk miles into town to wait hours to collect their food rations which won't stretch the month. They must keep track of what they receive for free. Sugar and flour and salt.  But it's never enough. Everything else they must buy. If they are lucky, they live on $25.00 a month. 
     One sees very few vegetable gardens growing in their yards. They have 
no yards and until recently, they didn't know how to grow anything other than sugar and tobacco. 
     It's raining now in San Francisco. The Giants are one out away from
the World Series. People in the stands haven't left their seats. They are
waiting for that moment when they will feel complete exaltation. 
Something rare in Cuba. Something only those baseball players who get out
can feel.

   

Reflections on

     It's hard to know where to start when I think about sharing my 

experience about Cuba.  Given the circumstances of my day, it's fitting that

I start with the health care systems.  

     On my third day in Cuba, a Wednesday, my group of 25 travelers and I arrived in a small village a day's drive outside Havana.  There we were to visit a sugar cane

museum and see a little film about the history of sugar cane in Cuba dating

back to the 1600's.  I wasn't really thrilled about going to a place that hadn't been 

in operation for several years.  This was an old mill, and that was fine enough

except the Cubans had brightly painted everything fire engine red and grass green

in order to spruce up the place. It didn't help. We first stopped at a small office where two women were assigned to show us how in the past, large pieces of sugar cane

was pushed through a machine that squeezed out the juice.  The canes fell out

the back of the machine while the juice fell into a bucket at the front.

One woman took the juice and poured it into a pitcher and then into

our plastic cups.  Our capable guide, Yaritza, then added a hefty shot of rum.

It was ten in the morning.  Once we were all spiked up,  we walked about 30 steps

to another building where we were to watch our little movie.  It was air 

conditioned so we were all eager to get inside.  One of our companions, I'll

call her Jane,  was talking and walking while looking over to her right shoulder

to see her friends.  She inadvertently tripped over a large clay pot situated

just outside the door.  

     Immediately Jane cried out, "Oh! Oh! Oh! This really hurts".  A chair arrived and

someone went in search of ice. Returning with a handful of ice, our driver took his 

handkerchief and wrapped it around her ankle.  I saw her immediately as I was

right there with her.  Her foot and leg swelled instantly.  Jane keep telling us that 

she really hurt and that she could, "feel things moving around in there."

She looked very pale and felt nauseous.  Our group leader decided that an X-ray

was in order. Our guide did not.  At first that seemed callous to me but I quickly

learned that there wasn't a clinic for miles and miles and the closest machine

was 4 towns away, about an hours drive.  With much persistence by Jane's friends and Cathy, our group leader, Yaritza was convinced that an X-ray must be taken.

Jane was carried onto the bus, and along with her two friends, was driven to the

"Hospital".  They report deplorable conditions. Although health care is free in 

Cuba, it is obviously sub-par.  The room where they took Jane had three other

patients and no privacy.  There was black mold growing beneath the ancient

window air conditioner.  The doctor never washed his hands between patients.

       Jane had her x-ray taken by a machine that was new in the 1950's.  The film

was so blurred and so dark that it was difficult to determine whether her leg was broken or not.  She was given Advil and had to pay $45.00 for the x-ray.

Carried to the bus by the driver and her friend, (there weren't any crutches in the

hospital) they all arrived  back at the hotel  by 5:30.  They story goes that the guide 

kept insisting all this was unnecessary and we really think that she was just embarrassed for Americans to see how deplorable the state of their health care

system really is. After consulting with a Kansas City doctor, arrangements were

made to fly Jane out of Havana on Friday. Our state department had to get special

permission from Cuba to allow Jane to leave the country ahead of schedule.

      Jane arrived back in Kansas by Friday evening and was rushed to St. Luke's Hospital.  There, doctors were standing by to re-xray her.  She was taken into surgery where they put 12 pins and 2 plates in her leg.  Unnecessary indeed!

     By contrast, I am writing this in the wee hours of the morning. My brother

wasn't feeling well today and was brought into the ER at one of our top

hospitals. Within minutes he was assessed, given oxygen, had blood work done

as well as a chest X-ray.  Within the hour, the doctors knew my brother was

in grave condition. He now lies in the ICU attached to five machines, 19 medical 

bags and is attended by a nurse who only has one other patient. The nurse is in his room every 15 minutes.  He has been seen by a hospitalist, a pulmonologist, cardiologist, kidney specialist, infectious disease specialist, GI doctor and a radiologist.  He is alive but fighting for his life.  Had he been on the trip we me, 

he would not have survived.

     With all the name calling and bad mouthing going on in the presidential campaign

one thing is for sure,  this kind of care should be available to all of mankind.

Cuba, say "Coo-buh

     Here I go again!  Only this time, into one of the most restricted islands in the world.  Cuba.  After missing an opportunity while living in Costa Rica, I jumped at the chance to go with the Kansas City Chamber of Commerce, People to People program.
Six exciting, entertaining and educational days await. Forty of us will spend the week 
driving around the country in one of those obnoxious tourist buses. I absolutely loath those things as I always end up car sick even when I'm driving. 
(No comments children!) 
     They are however, the only way we Americans can safely navigate our way through this country, rumored to be unchanged since the 1950's.  Our packed itinerary begins in Havana where in one day we will be shuffled around to nine places. 
I am excited to hear the variety of music, eye the colorful artwork and drink rum, rum, rum!  I'm certain I'll even partake in a good Cuban cigar.  From Havana we move to Santa Clara Art School and Cultural Center, the UNESCO Biosphere Reserve in Cayo Santa Maria, with a stop at the Che Guevara Museum to learn more about Cuba's beloved hero.  The busy day is topped off with a salsa dance lesson.  Perfection!
     Day two and three takes us to Caibarien and Remedios to hear musicians and walk through the colonial jewel town of Remedios which was founded by the Spaniards in 1578.
     On day four we will travel to the French founded town of Cienfuegos which will showcase the new architecture and urban planning that Cuba's newest cities have.
We will also be treated to a choral concert by locals. 
     On our fifth day we are off to Guanabacoa which is a rich religious town and will be blessed to visit colonial churches. I'm currently reading the Nick Adams Stories in honor and anticipation of our visit to Hemingway's farm, Finca La Vigia.  What a thrill for me! Our last days are back in Havana to visit small area towns and a trip to a local school.  I have packed plenty of crayons for the teachers to use as we were asked to bring school supplies. 
     As I sit in the Atlanta airport writing this, I am so excited to be afforded this 
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!  

Martha's Vineyard Reprieve

     The waves lap longingly on the shore. Sand pipers skitter in and out of the water.
Sounds of shore birds tingle in the sky.  I feel home. I've come to celebrate the Fourth of July in the best way I know.  With far away friends and Norman Rockwell leading the parade through Edgartown.  Blooming privet hedges scent the air. It is the smell of freedom to me. Of long ago dreams and dances with the moon.
     Chappy's ferry line swells to thirty cars.  Originally a row boat, the Chappaquiddick
ferry and it's line is a sure sign that summer has arrived on Martha's Vineyard. Holding only three cars at a time, with room for ten bikes and twenty walk-ons,  the On-Time Ferry, located at the end of Dock Street in Edgartown, faithfully moves to and from Chappy all day and into the wee hours of the summers' night.
     Long ago I learned it was best to take a bike over and peddle the 20 minutes to the wind swept Wasque beach that barriers the Edgartown Harbor on the easternmost side of things.  Chappy is much more than a long ago car accident on the Dyke Bridge. It is the Mytoi Japanese gardens, homes without electricity and plenty of fly fishing. Adventuresome kayakers bob in and out of sight. Children squeal with delight and fear from the large waves that crash into shore. This is the Atlantic.
Big and loud and proud of itself.  It has eaten hundreds and hundreds of boats down along this western shore.  It is not to be taken lightly.  
     Today I decorated my friends' porch which faces the harbor and is a main hub
during the parade. Everything from pide pipers to firemen will make their way along the parade route, stopping just in front of her porch with their merriment and folly.
It's a good day to be an American.
     I am blessed once more.

A Costa Rica state of mind

   This weekend is proof that prayer works.  My second son graduated with
dual degrees in physics and mathematics from Santa Clara University.  Much of his family gathered to celebrate his success.  After years of stress and strife
between families, this weekend proved to me once again, that God exists.
     Wednesday last, I was stressed out, left out and blue just thinking about how
all of us would survive 3 dinners, one department reception, graduation (which began at 8:30 a.m. and lasted over 3 hours, with close to 1000 names read, was 
outside in the hot, 97* California sun) AND a post graduation lunch under 50 white gleaming tents with all the grads and their families. 
     During all this we were cordial, smiling and proud of our graduate. We celebrated with his friends and new boss. With his lovely Laura. We missed his brother and family. My father. My mother. But still we managed.
     We rose above all the heartache and hard feelings. All the tempers and thoughtless words. All what was and what wasn't. We put all that aside to pat and praise and puff up about our graduate. We spoke pleasantries to each other.
We were calm. Collected. The best of humanity. We were stupendous in our 
efforts.
     I know that prayer works because throughout the last week I have focused 
my words to God on compassion. Forgiveness. Love.  I have friends who prayed for us. My heart was at peace. All is calm. All is bright. God is here.
     

Mother's Day and Costa Rica

     Today was a Costa Rica day.  Blue, blue, cloudless skies. Gentle cooling breezes. Birds singing, playing, dancing in mid-air.
     And Alex.  My son.  The one who traveled down to help me settle into Quepos. 
He was here, in my new house in old Leawood, for lunch. Al fresco. With his books and computer and phone.  He came to see my 87 year old father.  To celebrate the graduation of his long time friend, to hug family and celebrate Mother's Day.   He looks handsome and smart and alive. Ready to start his life as an adult. I am so proud. 
He will soar. You will hear about him. He is going places.  But to do this, we will always
be saying good-bye.  There are too many good-byes. Not enough hellos. 
 I'm better with hellos.  
     Life isn't about staying put.  It's about adventure. The unknown. The growth that comes from trying something new.  It's about raising a child and watching him soar.
It's about pride and laughter and sorrow and tears. Coming and going. Group activities and solitary time. Life is about love. 
     Today I watched my son impress my father.  I watched him bring joy to an
old man's eyes.  Saw a heart soar. Like the birds dancing in mid-air, he brought wonder and awe and delight to my dying father.  Today, in old Leawood, I saw my son come full circle.  I saw someone with confidence and gentleness and old world manners. The young man from last September, helping me get settled in a whole new world,
has become a man. Ready for his whole new world. 
     Mother's are constantly saying good-bye. We open our arms, choke back our tears and hold on tight as long as they'll let us.  We sing and watch with pride as our children dance in mid-air.  And wait for the next hello.
       
     

People

     Three of my favorite people are no longer in my life. Death and distance separates me from them. Their memory lingers in my mind long after the sun goes down.
Each of them gave me the gift of love that I now carry closest to my heart. 
Today, while Adele sang on my Pandora Radio station, I remembered. 
Their smiles and their laughter. Their way around the kitchen.  The way I felt in their arms.  So loved.  I am blessed for knowing them.  They are missed.
     Yesterday, I was blessed to have six other favorites around my table. One is new.
The others' represent my youth and the treat that comes with having people in your
life for over 40 years. The laughter is always present.  We all know our way around a
kitchen.  My childhood friends have maintained our friendships. They hold all our secrets and our sorrows. We have days that we remember and days we'd like to forget.
We didn't know then, we we all gathered, that we would still be connected after all these years.  We know now that we will still be connected when our time here ends.
We are each other's memories and each other's friends.
     My new person is an answer to a prayer. She is a blessing in my life and the life of 
those she loves.  I can't wait to have 40 years with her.
     There are people in all our lives who have touched our hearts in ways that linger
on throughout time.  My goal this year is to be one of those people. To love my
people so well that I linger on their hearts.
     Be well my friends. 
     
     

Eleanor Rigby

   
     Where do they all come from? 


Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been,
Lives in a dream,  
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door,
Who was it for?
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?




     I went south for the solitude. In my solitude was a loneliness.  My loneliness held an immense desire to be healed.  I wore a face that I thought said all was well with my world.
     I am home now. For a minute. Where all the loneliness came from.  My face is my own now. Free from sorrow and sadness and sad songs.  Friends are telling me I look younger, prettier, more rested. They think the length or color of my hair makes me seem this way.  But I know different.  I know something they don't.
     I am at peace.  Healed.  No heartache. No angst. Purely and simply at peace.
My time in Costa Rica gave me that.  Long quiet walks. People with goodness and
kindness and joy in their hearts.  Helpful people. Smiling people. Content. 
Wanting nothing but needing everything.   
     Now in this Lenten season I am reminded of the solitude that Christ experienced 
in the wilderness.  I wonder if He was lonely. Perhaps He maintained such a prayer life that He never felt it. Perhaps the beauty of Capernaum was enough.  
     Enough to provide the peace He would need to endure the thorns. The thirst.
The excruciating pain.  

     While I would never put myself in the same boat as Christ, I will share with you my thorn story. This is the path from my first house to the river that Lucy loved to swim in. One hot hot morning, Lucy finished playing catch with me early and made a 
B-Line for the river.  I grabbed up Gizmo and followed Lucy down the path.
Unfortunately, I tripped on a big rock, and not wanting to drop Gizmo, put my hand 

on this tree. Like the new photo on the first page, this tree is  the joke of all children in Costa Rica.  Evidently, when you fall into it as I did, you never do it a second time!  Boy, do I understand that!  The smaller thorns went deep into my hand, leaving a painful poison that lasted for several days.  They were impossible to dislodge and I was instantly reminded of what Christ went through. Those thorns on His head must have been tortuous. Yet He endured. He exampled how to be alone without being lonely. How to wander around town making new friends. Why endurance, even with a thorn in our side, is a virtue. And how to be grateful for all life gives us. 
        
     

Birth Control, Barack and Babies in Quepos

     While the debate swirls among the political's and apolitical's among us
regarding who should pay for birth control, my mind returns again and again
to the streets of Quepos.  Every day as I wandered the streets, I was amazed 
at how many 15 and 16 year old girls were pregnant.  Walking with either their 
mother's or boyfriends, they would proudly strut their stuff, bellies popping out from
under their short shirts. Here, there are no concerns of who pays for birth control.
Nobody in the lower classes use birth control. By the time sexual awakenings
occurs in these girls, they are long past the time to be taught about birth control.
They give in to their needs like Romeo and Juliet, with the consequences not death, 
but life of continual poverty. 
     I was having lunch one day and a fourth grade girl, a cutie from France, struck up a conversation with me.
     " I know what sex is.", she said looking at me without inhibition.
     "Oh, how did you find out?", I said.
     " Well, my mom tried to tell me but then she said I should just go to school tomorrow and see what the teacher said.  The teacher told me that it's when a boy and a girl in high school kiss so much they make a baby!", This darling 9 year old was looking to me to confirm or deny the information.
     "Well," I said, "kissing is a lot of fun but you can't make a baby from kissing.
And you don't want a baby in high school.  They poop all over you and throw up
on your favorite dress and they cry all the time."
     "Yuck!  Papa! Papa! Did you hear that?"  she said as she ran back to her table.
I was struck by the absolute contradiction of it all.  Here in this predominately Catholic area, the schools aren't dealing with the facts of life. The parents are obviously uncomfortable talking about it.  The centuries of Ticos having babies once they hit their
sexual stride in their mid-teens, hasn't changed. It's such a fact of life that people go about their business because this IS what is normal for them.  They wouldn't use the birth control if the nun's were handing it out at school.  
     What results is often 4 generations of families living under one roof, about the size of the old fashioned 7-11's that we used to walk to for ICEE's.  Nobody is smiling but every one seems happy. Or maybe just content.  They all get along.  A Tico never argues.
They all help each other out without expecting anything in return.  They work hard and play hard.  And church is packed on Saturday night and at the three services on Sunday.  They linger afterward to catch up with those they didn't see that week. There's ice cream and often empanada's.  All is well.  As I watch the families walk toward home after an hour or  more hanging out in the church,  I continued to be amazed at how peaceful they all seem. 
      Two grandmother's, one grandfather, a 20 year old son, the pregnant 15 year old, a boy about 10 and a baby.  Walking up the street toward their neighborhood just passed the main street.  The main woman, about 40 but looking 10 years older, 
picks up her pace just a bit.  She needs to catch up so she can shepard them home,
cook dinner, change and head off to her night job at Si Como No.  A local hotel with a busy clientele.  There she will work until after midnight, then head home for a few hours sleep, rise at 5:00 a.m. and start all over again.  She is the main breadwinner. Her oldest son can occasionally pick up work but he generally just hangs out.  
     It's the women from 20-65 who earn most of the income in Costa Rica.  The men haven't been involved since they made their first baby back in high school. Unless they live in the villages on the palm farms.  They are proud to be providing for their families and seem not the least bit lazy.  
     So when I hear the news about all the fuss regarding birth control in the 
United States and who should pay for it and where it should come from, I am curious as to if the men in charge of our country and churches ever stop to consider how our society would be with so many more children to feed.
     If we can't talk about where babies come from in 2012,  why do we even bother
fighting over how to stop them from coming?
     I challenge each of you to take the time in the next week or so to discuss babies with your children of all ages.  Let them know about the perfect timing of children. Give them
an opportunity to live unencumbered for a few years into their 20's.  Share your joy about love with them, even if you feel uncomfortable doing so. 
  It's time we moved forward into this millenium able to speak freely with our loved ones.  Wouldn't it be a good first step?
      
      

     

Finally!

     I have finally found a chair to sit down in.  I can't believe it's been so long,
over a month, since I have said, "Hi".  So many of you have been so gracious
with your compliments and encouragement. Thank you for that. And I have missed writing.
     I was forlorn as I boarded my puddle jumper in Quepos to catch my flight in 
San Jose, which took me to Houston and after running with too much luggage, 
four overweight bags and two carry-ons, finally touching down in Kansas City.
Mi amigas, Erica and Roxanne, were waiting there to drive me to my car, which
was parked in my friend's garage.  Unfortunately, the battery was dead.  Erica is 
a great sport and offered to drive me to my Dad's house.  AHHHHHHH! Home Sweet Home at Aberdeen Village on the Independent Living floor.  It was great to see Dad
and be hugged by my nephew  so late into the night. After months of sleeping like a dog on a log, I fell into bed only to be reminded that this was the same bed with the same mattress that I slept on in junior high!  Lot's of tossing and turning going on!
     My trip home was full of adventure and fun.  The first hysterical thing was watching a darling Tico boy, load my overweight luggage onto an old wobbly, rickety cart and go bump, bump, bumping around the pot holes.  It was refreshing to have so much help from strangers as I tried to maneuver the bags through the snake line and up to the counter.  I was leaving two days earlier than my original ticket said and got myself into the First Class line, expecting a smooth check in. Imagine my surprise when the agent, after giving me my boarding pass said, "Ms. Curry, that will be nine hundred and forty cents."  "What?"  I exclaimed!  "Well, we are so sorry but you have 3  more bags than allowed and both of those bags are overweight."
     How could this be?  I specifically bought a first class ticket once I realized that I 
that I would be able to take two bags on for free and that my two extra bags would cost $100.00 total.  My reasoning was that I had to get these bags home as they held clothes that I didn't need in Quepos but would eventually want them in Kansas City.
While packing, I had to separate out many items that wouldn't even fit in the bags.     
No worries!  I am always willing to pass on clothes I can't fit into or no longer wear and as I continued to pack, I simply pile to pass onto my local friends.
There!, I thought.  It will all fit. I was able to  make room for all the gifts I was bringing back.   
     Back to the agent at the counter, imagine the look on his face when I shrieked,
"WHAT?  $900.00!  WHY IS IT $900.00?  I'm flying first class so that I won't be charged for 3 extra bags, only 2 and I thought it was only $50.00 per overweight bag."
     "Well, Ms. Curry, first of all, you are not flying first class, you are flying coach."
"COACH!!!  That's not right!  Look right here on the confirmation I have from your airline on my paper here!!!!!"
     "Well Ms. Curry, that's your confirmation from two days ago on the 16th and on that flight you were in first class.  When you changed your dates, you lost your seat."
     "Lost my seat? I paid extra for first class because I needed the extra bag allowance.
Why did I lose my seat?"  
     "We-e-e-l-l-l-l, Ms. Curry, there aren't any seats in first class on this flight when and there weren't any in first class when you switched your ticket two weeks ago and the airline policy is to charge coach passengers $200.00 per extra bag and yadda yadda yadda for every overweight bag and there are airline taxes for leaving Costa Rica and airline taxes for landing in the United States and I am working overtime so they have to make extra money to pay me and these 2 bags here are very overweight so the airline is charging even more for that. I am so sorry for the inconvenience.  I could check and see if we could put you on our flight leaving tomorrow."
     " Tomorrow????? My father is sick and my son's getting married and I have to get home and run all over town finishing my Christmas shopping and trying to get a job and trying to find a house and move in with my Dad and then 3 days later move into my friend's house and then move into a hotel where I have to spend Christmas Eve alone without my children and then 2days after Christmas I have to leave Kansas City and fly to Chicago for my son's wedding.  I can't leave on any other flight but this one.  Can I fly stand by for first class?"
     I need to fill you in on something happening at this time of my encounter with the
Continental Airline agent.  The line behind me had gone from a family of five, to a long snake winding around those silly line dividers.  I saw many, many faces pleading with me to stop talking and move on.  I felt self conscience and suddenly in a hurry to pay my fines and leave.  The agent was most apologetic for all the money I was spending to get my bags home and suggested trying to ask his supervisor if he could reduce the cost.

      Coach proved to be as crowded as ever but I settled in with a good book and a friendly seat mate and it was a pleasant ride home.  Houston, however, was a different story altogether.  The plane was stopped within jumping distance from the jet way and we had to wait 10 minutes for the guy to flashlight us the final few inches.  Then they were late opening the airplane door and since I was in coach, I had to wait a few minutes to disembark.  By now, my connection time had shrunk from one and a half hours down to one hour. Rushing through an airport with two many carry-ons and holiday travelers was an exercise in studying Eric Dickerson run through the lines on SMU's football field in the late '70's.  Of course baggage took for ever and there were no Red Caps to be found and I was on the last plane to Kansas City in the entire airport.  As I struggled to load my overweight bags onto an overpriced, undersized rental cart, I caught the eye of a great looking, well built man in a uniform. Four swoons later I was able to help him to help me push and pull my bags through customs. I reached into my wallet to thank him and only saw one bill.  It was Christmas and he was going home after months and months at war.  I shook his hand, said Merry Christmas,  as he told me he needed to run to catch his flight home to his wife and daughter.  As I turned to wave goodbye, I was filled with pride in him and delight in me as I saw him look down and realize that I had given him a hundred dollar bill  The look of gratitude and surprise was worth every penny.
     It's a new year. Shouldn't generosity prevail?