Scarcity

In India, my yearly salary as a second tier experienced teacher was about $8000. My ayah earned about $600 annually. In Wilmington, I earn more at 50 than I have every earned in my life. When our friends in India ask if we can give them some money for school expenses for their kids, we tell them we can't afford it. We give to the church and to LCS a faith-based social service agency, and to Heifer Project and ELCA World Hunger, but we don't have a whole lot more, after paying the mortgage the electric the phone and cable bill car insurance and our three kids' college tuition. Some weeks we have to car pool or ride the bus because there's not enough gas in the car.
Some people get $15 worth of food stamps for the month and say it's not worth the trouble, and some people get $15 worth of food stamps and say every little bit helps. Some people say 2 pieces of chicken to feed three people for a day is not enough. If I could count the times I fed my kids "potato patties" for dinner--a couple of grated potatoes, an egg, a grated onion, a spoonful of flour, salt and pepper, fried in a little vegetable oil... They all grew up to be contributing members of society.
But we're rich. We have a roof over our heads and clothes to wear, food to eat and enough for a treat every once in a while. Our kids are in college. We both have masters degrees. My husband and I still love each other after 27 years together. We have loving family and stimulating friends. We have jobs that are meaningful to us. We have international experience, speak different languages, and Skype people in other countries. We have faith that has stood the test of time. Our bodies and minds still work and we still laugh and breathe and enjoy the sunset. We are rich.

Hot Tea at Dawn

My dawn cup of tea these days is taken in front of the computer with my spectacles on. I'm in virtual office hours for my college level ESL Grammar and Writing course.

Bridges

"The hanging bridge is closed for repairs, It will be opening again in the fall," the sign proclaims. The footbridge crosses the Brandywine just above the diversion into the canal. The water is deep and still, a refuge for ducks and other water-loving creatures. I just checked; they still have chain link fence around the entrance and you have to go to another crossing point if you're going to the other side.
As I stand, stopped on my route, I remember a different bridge that crosses the Sethi Khola right at the entrance to Pokhara, situated right where the gorge is narrowest, so there would be less bridge to build. It's just a little wider than the one in Wilmington, maybe a little shorter. It used to accommodate the animal and human foot traffic, but now with the areas on both sides of the river developed, it seems sadly inadequate.
On our way to school in fifth grade my friends and I would always pause at least for a minute to throw a stone down the dark gully imagining we could see the foaming water that we could hear while it coursed between fortress rock walls. We could see the the calm power of the river before it entered the narrows, and just downriver it spewed out the other end of the gorge in a torrent of white water. We never heard the rock hit bottom, but we had to try anyway. It never lost its intrigue.
It reminds me of another gorge, deeper and narrower, that I visited with my husband years later. It crosses the Rio Pastaza near Baños in Ecuador, under the shadow of the volcano Tungurahua. That must have been the vacation my husband and I took when our oldest two children stayed with Grami and Grampim when we realized there would be another one joining our family soon. We took pictures posing on the rocks in the pool at the bottom of that gorge with the untamed river tumbling in the background.
The pictures, snapped at a moment in time, span spaces and times in my life, a testament to deep gorges successfully crossed.

Shelter

In a shady cove in the woods in Brandywine Park, almost invisible from the main trail, a sturdy stone and beam shelter stands lonely. Those who happen upon it these days are up to no good -- as attested by the graffiti on the walls and smells and detritus around the back. But if those stone could speak, they would tell stories of families gathering to commemorate a marriage (low-budget) or graduation, badminton and punch, neighbors being community. It used to be fully equipped for a day in the park. These days it stand empty from dusk till dawn when the park is closed, while homeless men sleep under the freeway bridge a few steps away.
High in the Himalayas, in shady spots along the way, public shelters are common, mapped out about a day's trek apart, waiting for the next night's trekkers: tourists, mountaineers, merchants, refugees, goat herders. They provide a fire pit for cooking rice and dahl, maybe a nettle stew. Signs of previous occupants remain day after day, connecting users with others. It's safe shelter for the night.
In the modern day, editorials decry the lack of care for the religious pilgrimage sites (Hindustani Times, June 2013), and far too much graffiti mars these Indian national treasures. Now visitors drive their SUV's up mountainsides and don't take the time to stay overnight.
One day, maybe you can visit one of these shelters, either in the Brandywine, or in the Himalayas, or in your local park, and stay a minute to read the stories written there.

Wild Berries

People around the world tell me not to eat them, but there's something alluring about a handful of wild raspberries warm from the sun that ripened them. People are too concerned about thorns and germs and poisonous things and dog pee. We will never experience life's fullest joys if we are too cautious. I figure people across time have been eating them, and it's a taste experience nobody can duplicate anywhere.
In the Brandywine River valley, where the river breeze cools the heavy humid air just noticeably, the berries are bright red when they're ready. My favorite Himalayan variety are deep orangey yellow. There's a backyard in Oregon that hides black berries; all slide off the bush into my hand when handled just right.
You have to be observant, because raspberries don't just grow on the path. You might have to climb across a slippery slope to get them, or a field of poison ivy. And of course you must watch you don't get stuck on the thorns because once you're caught, there's no pulling loose. The only way to get free is to ease closer then slide sideways out of their grip (without getting caught by another branch).
There are only a few days the best wild berries are available because other creatures like them. It's always worth the search!
By the way, berries are always better when they're shared with someone. You shouldn't always do what other people tell you--or not do what they tell you not to.

Train Whistle

Peter, Paul and Mary sang the version I remember best, "...You can hear the whistle blow 100 miles..."
When I got "home" from my trip to India at 2 a.m. and stepped out of the car, I heard the train whistle floating through the night. A few hours earlier we were in the train, leaving Mussoorie -- again. I was in the sleeper car, middle berth, and I could feel the rocking motion in my sleep; the announcer's mechanically pleasant voice drifted through my dreams at each stop. We were woken by the coolies early in the morning surging through the carriage vigorously shaking our feet and asking if we want help with our luggage. Too early even for "CHAI-CHAI".
It's funny how a single note can take me around the world and back. I remember trips with my brothers and sisters on the "Nepal Party" going home from boarding school for the holidays. I can almost taste the mango juice dripping down my chin, and the Kwality ice cream cones. I hear the vendors clamoring for business on the platform. I smell the smoke from cooking fires as we chug through villages. I see images as though looking at photos: people I have met on train trips; tranquil sunrises and boisterous sunsets; a crush of bicycles, motorcycles, rickshaws, bullock carts, buses and lorries waiting at railroad crossings; a red-shirted coolie with a trunk on his head and a shoulder bag over each arm dodging through a crowded station to get to the right train.
In college, I used to ride Amtak's Empire Builder from Minneapolis to the West Coast. I would imagine I was in a covered wagon slowly covering the miles. That train dives into the Columbia River valley at sunrise: the memory of watching the colors change still sends thrills through my senses.
My family and I once went to a family reunion in Minnesota on the train. It's such a relaxed mode of travel, compared to flying. It gives you time to reflect.
When we lived in Upstate New York on the Erie Canal the sound of the train whistle reminded me that there is more to life than just what we can see here. There is cargo to carry from East to West and North to South and back again. There are people going places for different reasons. Progress is happening. (Now the locks on the Canal are mostly used for pleasure cruisers.) At 2 in the morning, the train whistle welcomes me home to Delaware.

Walking in Snow

A late snow made it hard to walk on the sidewalks. Salt from yellow Department of Transportation trucks ate at my boots. Ice hid under new snow making steps treacherous.
Usually when we had to walk out of Jumla to get to school it was because of monsoon. The heavy clouds filled the mountain passes, sometimes for weeks on end, so the little Canadian-made twin engine planes could not see their way through. We would wait till the last possible day to make our connections, then hike out carrying our school stuff in our backpacks. It took 5 days if you kept moving.
A couple of times we had to walk out when the snowfall prevented planes from landing. We didn't own boots; it was hard to keep your footing on the mountain paths with the stiff soles anyway. Our canvas sneakers got pretty wet and our feet got pretty cold after 15 miles. We would come to a "hotel" along the trail: hopefully a space to share with people not animals where we could roll out our sleeping bags, with a fire to dry out our tennies overnight, and a big plate of hot rice and dahl. That was all we needed. Next day, hot "chiya" before starting out. In the winter we had to use the lower pass, which took a little longer, because the snow might catch us in the highest elevations if we used the shorter route.
In the Himalayas people don't just put on an extra layer of polar fleece and pull on their Sorrels. Winter involves a lot of sitting next to the smokey wood fire. The animals live under the kitchen, so they help warm the house and it's not far to take care of them, but you have to go and forage food for them. When you go to school or to market, you wear wool socks your father knit last fall as he walked to work. If father had an especially good job you might be able to buy woolen boots from Tibetan traders on their way to India with a mule train. You also might have been lucky enough for grandmother to have woven you a woolen shawl made from the wool from the sheep you herded all last summer.
I think of the hefty heating bills with our severe winter on the eastern coast. And I think of evenings spent sitting in the kitchen with my family next to the wood stove, reading by the light of a kerosene lantern or a camp light charged by the sun. When the battery wears down, it's time to take your candle up to your cold room and climb under the covers quick.

Morning Again

Someone at the National Weather Service thought up the name "polar vortex". Cute. Well, we're in one, about the fourth one so far this winter halfway along the eastern seaboard of the United States.
BUT, the birds are singing, and the sun is warm when it comes up. Sun triggers memories: falling asleep on the train to the rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks; waking up early to crisp, pre-dawn air blowing in the open windows.
After that first cup of tea, I find a spot to watch the morning wake on the plains of India. From the window, I get a front row seat on the proceedings. Before the seething heat overcomes the lowlands, there is a peace at sunrise.
As we chug through the villages, morning exposes residents squatting in their private sections of field with their water bottles, taking care of morning necessities. The Mrs. is already making the first cup of tea to greet the day. I glimpse the fire winking through the low wooden doorway. I see the Mr. hitching the hulking water buffalo to the cart for the first load of the morning--maybe a lot of little kids in their uniforms, hair neatly oiled  and pulled into pigtails with ribbons, going to school.
I peek over the fence at the Daughter sweeping the door yard so the activities of the day can get a fresh start. I see the Younger Brother milking the gentle she-buffalo. If there is some milk left over after deliveries the family might get some in their afternoon tea with their biscuits.
Soon that magic, misty sheen will burn off and the sun will just be up. Horns will blare as we pass lines of traffic. Commuters will join us at each stop and sit on the end of the bunk. Conversations will rise and fall; business will be completed. But for now, there's peace.

Morning Sounds

Right before sun-up, the wind blusters one more icy gust on the commuters at the bus stop. Then it's calm. Not warm -- not any less cold. Just calm. The sunlight, pale and shrouded with clouds, lends a little hope of change. Last week the sun didn't rise until we were almost into the city. It has been a cold winter in Delaware.
In India, the morning begins with the call to prayer from the muezzin (before the last bluster). On the train, the bearers offer the first tea for the early risers. By then I've had enough of trying to rest on the hard berth and I sit on my bedding cross legged; even before I wash my face I savor my tea, and the sound of the wheels clacking as we speed towards our rendezvous with the school party traveling in big noisy groups up the mountain to the hill station school, protected from the crushing heat of the the plains.
In the old days, the first lesson of the day was music, and we had to come to school before everyone else to practice our instruments or rehearse with our ensembles. We called them the cells because that's what they were: three levels of tiny practice rooms built off the side of the hill, guarded by Mrs Biswas who could somehow hear if I wasn't practicing. The cacophony of so many aspiring musicians created our own call to the day. I would steal a minute to listen to the bells on the first mule train bringing milk in to the town dwellers from the farms. Now, a jeep loaded with fresh produce for market roars or sputters or clunks by, noisily shifting gears around the narrow curves.
Music is not the first lesson at school anymore. But in the amphitheater of the hills we can hear all the sounds of the morning: school bells donging to wake boarders, whistles directing early morning exercises, voices of young students in neat rows in neat uniforms intoning the national anthem standing straight and unmoving as required by law, and finally the Hindu prayer service broadcast over loud speakers.