Merry Christmas!

I’ve never understood the notion of going on vacation for Christmas. The very premise of Home Alone, one of the best Christmas movies ever made, doesn’t make sense to me. Why would you go to France for Christmas?! The idea of packing wrapped gifts into a suitcase to sleep elsewhere on Christmas Eve—no thank you.

We had an excellent Christmas last Christmas. We spent the holiday with our closest friends in Bahir Dar: Christmas on the lake complete with palm trees, seafood, a swimming resort, renting out a movie theatre, and writing and recording a Christmas rap among friends. It was a lovely and memorable Christmas.

But packing up our gifts to each other, and from our parents, to head to the Axum airport, felt so odd. Christmas, to me and my hands gripping to tradition, is for home, not travel.

And when home is thousands of miles and dollars away, your second home is the second best thing.

I’m so excited to spend Christmas in Adwa this December 25^th. To wake up to our toilet-paper-roll Christmas tree, exchange gifts with each other, stay in our pj’s all day, watching Frosty the Snowman and The Christmas Story, playing games and eating pumpkin pie and coffee cake.

Christmas is for home, and Christmas is for family. And while we’d obviously love to be with our families this Christmas, we’re making the most of this: our once-in-a-lifetime chance to celebrate just the two of us. A quiet Christmas for our family of two, one we’ll look back on with joy.

Exhausted after making a lavish Thanksgiving feast with and for friends, a neighbor volunteer asked us our Christmas plans, if we planned to host a Christmas dinner or party of some sort. Wiping the sweat from my brow (or was it Daniel wiping chicken blood from his shorts?), apologizing, we said, “We’re looking forward to a quiet Christmas, just the two of us. Because when else will we have that chance?”

No one says, “We want to spend Christmas alone this year!” But now that we’ve been dealt that very thing, we are embracing it. What a romantic, peaceful opportunity: a husband and wife Christmasing together, alone.

And I still feel like a kid, anticipating the approaching magic. Tiptoeing into our living room to sneak goodies into Daniel’s stocking, to leave cookies & milk powder out for Santa, and to make a single snowball from our “Snow In A Can.”

Merry Christmas from Adwa!

When in Ethiopia.

Thanksgiving in Photos

If these two folks look tired to you, it’s because they just prepared Thanksgiving dinner for their first time—and did it in a developing country.

Let’s look at some photos of prep. and the big day.

Daniel and our good friend Aaron Arnold were on chicken duty on Wednesday morning. They chased and caught each of the three chickens we had our neighbors buy for us at market, killed them, plucked them, gutted them, and then put them in a brine to prepare for the big day. It took about five hours.

 

Meanwhile, Danielle and Aaron’s wife Sarah were busy baking. They made two pumpkin pies, a red velvet cake, and fudge—all with a makeshift oven jerry-rigged from a little pot in a big pot on our stove.

On Thursday, we were ready and provided guests with all the trappings of Thanksgiving. Here’s a shot of Joel, Danielle, and Sarah enjoying the 2012 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on our computer.

For us and our eight guests, we had three chickens, six-and-a-half pounds of mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, sauerkraut, bread, carrots, canned peas, corn, cranberry sauce, ham, five liters of tej, the local wine made from honey, and the desserts.

After the feast, we went to the college and played basketball with some of the students. It was pretty good game. In true Thanksgiving Day fashion, Daniel got a little too serious and shoved one of the college students who accidentally slapped him across the face.

After the basketball, we returned to the house and used the college’s projector to watch an old American football game we downloaded while in Germany.

All told it was a successful Thanksgiving—thanks to a little luck and a little help from our friends.

Travels with John

            Wherever my copy of John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley now sits, I’d bet my bookmark still sits between two pages, waiting. I read the first half in college, ate it up, then got distracted with coursework. The same thing has happened with The Sound and the Fury, twice.

            Steinbeck is one of those writers I feel I know, like an uncle or something, along with F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and somewhat, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I think the key, surprise surprise, is reading their biographies and as much of their work as you can. Steinbeck, of whose works I’ve read seven, seems the closest—probably because his biography, beautifully written by Jackson J. Benson, happened to be 1,000 pages long and consumed my entire spring break 2009.

            And he reminds me of my dad.

            When a fellow volunteer recently lent it to me, I began back at page one, and read it mostly during the late mornings, sitting beside our garden where the sun and shade continuum is nearly perfect; it didn’t feel right or natural to read an observational, adventurous road-trip book indoors.

            I figured reading a book about America, and the beauty and quirks of each state and her people, would be best read outside of America, when you’re distant and longing for it on a regular basis. And I think I figured right.

            The following are my own reflections on some of my favorite passages from this lovely read; Steinbeck’s passages are in italics, and mine follow behind.

            

            There was a time not too long ago when a man put out to sea and ceased to exist for two or three years or forever. And when the covered wagons set out to cross the continent, friends and relations remaining at home might never hear from the wanderers again. Life went on, problems were settled, decisions were taken. Even I can remember when a telegram meant just one thing—a death in the family. In one short lifetime the telephone has changed all that. If in this wandering narrative I seem to have cut the cords of family joys and sorrows, of Junior’s current delinquency and junior Junior’s new tooth, of business triumph and agony, it is not so. Three times a week from some bar, supermarket, or tire-and-tool-cluttered service station, I put calls through to New York and reestablished my identity in time and space. For three or four minutes I had a name, and the duties and joys and frustrations a man carries with him like a comet’s tail. It was like dodging back and forth from one dimension to another, a silent explosion of breaking through a sound barrier, a curious experience, like a quick dip into a known but alien water.

           

            Connecting with home is odd, and we can’t help it. When we communicate with home, we’re communicating with America and all of its America-ness; and to us, America and her reality is so far away.

            Terms have different definitions on each side of the phone. I say, “We’re having coffee,” and my family can’t help but picture us clicking a button on an electric coffee pot, a buy-one-get-one-free Maxwell House container in my hand. But, really, once a week I’m rinsing then roasting raw coffee beans, fanning away the skins from my doorstep to the yard while trying to keep the chickens from coming into my kitchen, I’m cooling the beans, picking out the rotten ones, storing the rest; once every few days we’re pounding the beans with cinnamon sticks and shaking them from our hallowed-out log and into a French Press. “Going to church” to those back home usually involves hearing a sermon from a preacher whose first language is the same as their own, and attending a service of their preferred denomination; not so for us. We’re Protestants in a Catholic service for sisters, watching our friends file for Communion, while we sit misty-eyed, wishing we could join them, tempted to become Catholic right then so we can join them. “Running errands” is nothing like you’d imagine. The concept of jumping into your car and driving some place to “pick up a few things” from separate, numbered, conveniently-over-loaded aisles seems an unreachable concept, in another sort of strange world.

            I’m not even Danielle here. Sometimes Daniel calls me by my name, and half of those times, it’s Danielle. I’m Babe or Danayit or Ferengi the rest of the time. But we pick up that phone, or we turn on our shoddy Skype, and I’m Danielle again. I always have been, and on that side of the receiver, nothing has changed. I still am.

            Their lives are still normal and predictable, just what we remember. We ask about their day, and they’re either making dinner (in an oven), or just got back from the grocery store (where there was pasteurized milk, gallons of it lining the walls), or returned from their 9 to 5 (where they spoke fluent English with their coworkers), or they’re about to turn on the game, on their very own television. Then we hang up the call and hear the hyenas whooping outside our yard, and the megaphone man riding his bicycle, announcing the news in the streets. It’s a hallucinatory feeling, disorienting and dreamlike.

           

            I sometimes fear coming home and everybody forgetting about our very weird reality from 2012 to 2014. It will change us and follow us around daily, and friends will wonder why, but they won’t really ask. They’ll say, “How was it?”, thinking they’re truly asking—one question, expecting one answer. As if we could sum all of this up with one sentence.

            We went home, and it was like we never left—because they haven’t changed; for the most part, they’re the same family and friends we said goodbye to. And when they look at us, physically we’re the same, only tanner and thinner, and they may not know how to breach the subject, the Are-we-still-a-part-of-the-same-reality? subject. How can they ask, How different are you now? But, then again, how can they not?

            Steinbeck is speaking a truth close to every Peace Corps volunteer’s heart and fears when he says, Even I can remember when a telegram meant just one thing—a death in the family. Every time my phone rings at an hour that doesn’t make sense for the Eastern Standard time zone, my heart drops and I’m afraid to answer. There’s always that first, lingering question that we try to push down and hide: Is everyone okay? And I hold my breath for that first word, to judge from the hello—Is it happy, or is it sobs, like the time my mom called after my sister’s epidural went wrong?

            Outside of our home we speak a different language; we’re surrounded by it, and good English is rare. Our eggs are delivered from the neighbor boy, sporadically, still warm with feces or blood streaks covering the shell. Our garbage man is ourselves, with a match and a flame and a hole in our backyard. We go to work, to school, in what most people wouldn’t call classrooms, arriving there by stepping stones across a river, and passing flocks of sheep and grown, naked men bathing on our way. When we hear American music, whatever it may be, we feel a tinge of homesickness. Churches blast loud, awful “music” all through the night, keeping us awake. If we want a hot shower, we turn on our water heater and wait two hours; and when other volunteers come to our home, there’s a long line for the hot shower, and they bathe in the middle of the party, and it’s normal. Our neighbors knock on our door five times a day, just to see if we’re there, to talk about the weather. Camels mosey down our road, geckos run in and out of our living room, parrots fly through our yard, tarantulas creep through our grass, and I run into the house when I’m reading beside our garden and see a menacing toucan-ish beak I can’t bear to have near me. We play hide-and-seek for an hour with our favorite Ethiopian, speaking only Tigrigna, our very own Semitic dialect with 200-some characters that my husband can read. We’re surrounded, in every direction, by poverty. Meanwhile, life goes on as always for our family and friends, and if we Skype, we may hear about foreign things like Target or snowfall or ordering things online or baking cupcakes or seeing Christmas decorations in town.

            They’re surrounded by familiarity, and we know exactly what that looks like: the everyday same old—which we often love and long for. But we leave our compound, and we’re Al and Alice in Wonderland, confused out of our minds, often frustrated. Our everyday hours are drastically different from those at home.

            So what could we possibly tell them? Our sitemate Lauren, after Skyping with friends, often asks us, “What do you say to them? How do you explain?” It’s hard. We’re surrounded, constantly, by this very real and very strange Ethiopian reality, so complex and involved; and we can’t possibly tell them everything. So we don’t. They hear the crazy or hilarious stories, but it’s hard to give them a picture of what this place, our life, is really like. If they ask questions, it’s easier. Daniel’s parents are famous for this. Jim is so curious about and fascinated with everything Ethiopian, he knows how to ask great questions. And Debbie has been here. She knows what it’s like, she’s tasted the ful and sat at a coffee ceremony, she’s been followed by kids pretending to be beggars, has ridden an Ethiopian bus, has been confused by Misilal’s rapid Tigrigna, has greeted baby goats at market—has seen the wild world of market—and has scrubbed clothes with us for hours; she knows what to ask. But without questions, we don’t know where to start. We don’t know how to tell them, how to paint a full and accurate picture. Sometimes, they’ll get a glimpse. While on the phone, they’ll ask, “What was that?” as the passing donkey brays or our neighbor’s roosters crow at our doorstep; and we’ll remember that these things were once odd sounds to us too. They’ll hear us holler to our neighbors, who come knocking, and we holler in Tigrigna; to them, it’s novel. To us, it’s normal, and by the fifth time they come to the doorway, we’re tired of opening the door. I realize how much we need to work on explaining, when I get questions like, “Do Ethiopians celebrate Halloween?” and I’m confused. Well, no, of course they don’t. And I realize we’re still at square one, and may always be.

            I realize that Debbie, who has seen and touched, and Jim, who might be able to visit next year, may be the only ones who will ever understand when we talk about these two years. Them and 200-some others who will return to the states alongside us, with whom we must stay in touch in order to stay sane, in order to remember, together.

            It’s as Steinbeck says: it’s a crossing into a different dimension every time we make a call. There, we have a comet’s tail again. We’re connected to our past, American selves for only a brief moment.

            A few months ago I Skyped with my mom, and she had our nephew Zachary with her. He was on her lap, his face up to the computer, waving at us, she said; we couldn’t tell because our video has crashed. He was right up to the computer, so I got right up to the computer too. I was nearly in tears, tempted to hug the computer, and wondering, how can I be this physically close to him, but unable to reach in there and touch him? We’re looking into the looking glass, so close but so far.

            It’s weird. Every so often we break through the sound barrier, hear the sounds of home, are comforted, and then return to our living room in Ethiopia, where next to nothing is normal.

* * *

            But I do wonder if a down-Easter, sitting on a nylon-and-aluminum chair out on a changelessly green lawn slapping mosquitoes in the evening of a Florida October—I do wonder if the stab of memory doesn’t strike him high in the stomach just below the ribs where it hurts. And in the humid ever-summer I dare his picturing mind not to go back to the shout of color, to the clean rasp of frosty air, to the smell of pine wood burning and the caressing warmth of kitchens. For how can one know color in perpetual green, and what good is warmth without cold to give it sweetness?

            When I described the bi-weekly symptoms—the squeezing of my heart, the sharp knives under my ribs, having to fall asleep in the fetal position—my doctor in Addis said it sounds like Irritable Bowel Syndrome, heightened in Ethiopia. But when I read Steinbeck’s high in the stomach just below the ribs where it hurts, I can’t help but smile. Or, maybe it’s that, I think. We need our auburn leaves and frosted windows and cozy mittens. We need the caressing warmth of kitchens, need to put our hands against the oven door while the weekly bread bakes, need to leave the ever-summer. Maybe without these necessities, it’s difficult for a Hoosier and an Ohioan to remain healthy.

            Daniel and I are Mid-Westerners to the bone. It would require hearty convincing to get us to settle in the southern US, or out West. We love Fall, we love Winter, we love experiencing the whole calendar and all her seasons. And yet we’re trapped in a perpetual summer. I once told Daniel that instead of this being like Narnia, where it was always Winter and never Christmas—in Adwa, it’s always Summer and never ice cream. Never swimming. Never softball. Never backyard barbecues. Never watermelon and cornhole.

            There’s a beach said to be beautiful an hour and a half from us. A Peace Corps Ethiopia volunteer from the 60s tells us Adwa was once the coveted site among volunteers, for this reason. But because that beach is in Eritrea, we will never see it. We sweat through seven months without rain, our scalps burn, we see mirages of blow-up kiddy pools in our yard, and we carry umbrellas to protect our faces from the beating African sun; and we can’t cross that border to the beach.

            Steinbeck is talking about us, the Florida retiree who longs for the Middle West. October and November are difficult for the MidWest Peace Corps volunteer living in the tropics. The months fly by us here, and we don’t even realize the calendar is closing. It’s October?! we say. But what about the World Series? What about Halloween? Where are the piles of pumpkins? Or, how can it be December already? Where are the lights and Christmas trees and carols? And why am I dripping sweat? I once asked my brother-in-law, in February, how his soccer season was going. We really, truly, have no idea what month or season is happening elsewhere. It’s always time to water our garden, it’s always time to wear tank-tops and shorts, it’s always time to freeze juice for the neighbor kids. Because it’s always hot.

            Maybe this sounds lovely to you. If so, you should visit us. The cactus always grows in Adwa; and the cactus fruit is heavenly.

            But we miss cold football bleachers, wool hats pulled down to cover red ears, hot chocolate in Styrofoam cups, leaves crackling beneath our soles, fuzzy blankets tight around us, bonfires leaving their smell on your jeans, eating chili and steaming soup when it’s not 80 degrees.

            I was reading Daniel one of Edith Wharton’s ghost stories and she described the winter wind whistling through the trees. I groaned instead of reading it. I paused and waited and tried to hear it. There were Survivor episodes where the contestants would pay the host stacks of bills for a PB&J sandwich, a chocolate bar, a glass of milk. I won’t tell you how much I’d pay for five minutes in a warm room beside a sealed window with frosty air on the other side of it, snow drifting down, and that sound—of a strong and angry bitter wind whistling.

            What good is warmth without cold to give it sweetness?

           

* * *

            Writers facing the problem of Texas find themselves floundering in generalities, and I am no exception. Texas is a state of mind. Texas is an obsession. Above all, Texas is a nation in every sense of the word. And there’s an opening covey of generalities. A Texan outside of Texas is a foreigner….

            Most areas in the world may be placed in latitude and longitude, described chemically in their earth, sky and water, rooted and fuzzed over with identified flora and peopled with known fauna, and there’s an end to it. Then there are others where fable, myth, preconception, love, longing, and prejudice step in and so distort a cool, clear appraisal that a kind of high-colored magical confusion takes permanent hold. Greece is such an area, and those parts of England where King Arthur walked. One quality of such places I am trying to define is that a very large part of them is personal and subjective. And surely Texas is such a place….

            What I am trying to say is that there is no physical or geographical unity in Texas. Its unity lies in the mind. And this is not only in Texans. The word Texas becomes a symbol to everyone in the world. There’s no question that this Texas-of-the-mind fable is often synthetic, sometimes untruthful, and frequently romantic, but that in no way diminishes its strength as a symbol.

            I’m grateful for Steinbeck’s graceful stumbling through his description of Texas. His lack of the right words, his clinging to generalities, to describe Texas and the feelings she hands you, is fitting. How can someone describe, truly and fairly describe this southern queen of a state?

            One of the fun elements of being a part of the Peace Corps community is meeting strangers and friends from all over the U.S. I’ve never before had a hankering or a reason to see California, but now I have Laura Schickling, a dear friend, a fascinating person. I like meeting Peace Corps volunteers from Ohio, I do. Shane was two seats behind us on our infamous flight from Cleveland to D.C., a day before we’d depart from the country. He’s a Euclid boy, here in Ethiopia with us. He knows about the Willoughby Brewing Company, and always asks how my family, how Cleveland, is doing.

            But I feel a different sort of camaraderie and excitement when I meet a volunteer for the first time, and that second question comes—where are you from?—and she names a Texas city. Austin, Dallas, Killeen. She knows, I think. We both know. As if it’s a secret that Texas could be grand enough to place a hold on any or every individual who comes near enough.

            When a friend tells me he’s going to see Texas, I have a mixture of emotions that push and cram to spill out at once. My initial reflex is I love Texas. Texas is wonderful. You’re going to love it, and then I want to clarify and justify and take it back. Because it’s different, I think, if you’re going to visit Texas. It’s likely and often that a temporary passer-through will not love her. He’ll drip with sweat and ingratitude and not appreciate what this sweet, hospitable hostess longs to offer him. I want to adjust my answer to a more honest and helpful one: Don’t visit Texas. Live there, if you can.

            I’m still in the sappy break-up period with Texas. I’m trying to appreciate the time we had together, trusting that it’s fate alone who keeps us from partnering up again. I’m trying to keep bitterness at bay, my anger that it couldn’t last forever. There were two deal-breakers then, they’re there now, and they’ll always be there: she’s too far from family and roots; and she doesn’t give me red leaves or a proper winter. Ohio is someone I can settle down with, Indiana too. Our rough patches would be limited to only a few green Christmases in a life-long commitment; Texas and I would have a nasty row at the close of every year.

            I can’t say exactly why I love the place so much. But it’s more than a place, it’s a being, and I know that you really can’t understand what I mean until you’ve lived there yourself. It likely has something to do with cowboy boots, barbecue, ya’ll and the accents, five or so families I wish I could carry with me everywhere, Bless her heart, ranches, LadyBird’s bluebonnets, the elderly customer on the phone who yelled to his wife in what I thought was a different language, camping in April and October, pecans lining the sidewalks, country-fried steak, and hard workers. In so many ways Texas seems to represent for me the beloved values of America and Americans. She’s hometown, country, family, spiritual, multicultural, with great food with lots of butter thrown in.

            I was born and raised in the same suburb of Cleveland, Ohio for twenty-some years, and yet I claim that swelling Texas pride. I don’t know if I’m allowed this, if Texans are okay with me taking this—but if you’ve met a Texan, you know she’d invite anyone to join her in singing Texas’s praises. And it’s a sort of rite of passage. If you endured the egg-sizzling-on-the-sidewalk heat for a year or more, if you’ve seen her in the Spring, if you’ve been overcome with crickets, you’re in.

            The only way it could ever work out for the two of us, in some alternate universe, would be if my family had brought us up there, if the 20-minute radius in which all my relatives, save a recent handful, have lived, could have been in McClennan County instead of Lake County. Or if she were just a tad bit closer than an 18-hour drive. Yet every time Texas smirks that knowing flirtatious smirk of I won you over, too, and now you’ll never get over me, I find myself both wanting to bashfully agree with her and loudly sing Adele lyrics back at her, at the same time. Nevermind, I’ll find someone like you.

            But the wiser part of me knows I won’t; there’s only one of her.

* * *

            Americans as I saw them and talked to them were indeed individuals, each one different from the others, but gradually I began to feel that the Americans exist, that they really do have generalized characteristics regardless of their states, their social and financial status, their education, their religious, and their political convictions. But if there is indeed an American image built of truth rather than reflecting either hostility or wishful thinking, what is this image? What does it look like? What does it do? If the same song, the same joke, the same style sweeps through all parts of the country at once, it must be that all Americans are alike in something.

            Before I began my semester in Uganda, I wasn’t sure how I felt about America. I was an angsty college student, upset with what I considered to be our nation’s needless consumerism and unhealthy rate of selfishness. There was a point I stopped holding my hand to my heart during the national anthem at baseball games—not to prove a point (I was hoping no one would notice, actually), but because I felt dishonest doing it.

            But then I went to Africa. It was probably as early as the second week that I realized the gravity of my mistake. Going to Africa can do that. It was what I learned about my own country while within one very far away that made me a firm believer in cross-cultural travel.

            Before you leave your country, it’s possible to mistake your basis of logic and reasoning and every part of who you are and how you operate as universal traits of humanity. This is what makes me human, you may think as you complete a task or think a thought that seems to you to be something true for all people. But if the only humans we’ve observed and communed with have been Americans—then, really, how can we know the difference? Then you land yourself in a place like Africa and suddenly everything is topsy-turvy, your head and heart are not just swimming, but floundering, and you can’t believe this alternate reality has been happening all along on the other side of the globe. You do and think your “human” things, suddenly aware that the humans surrounding you are perplexed and staring. Wait. They aren’t like this too? And then you understand the difference between being human and being American.

            It’s safe to say that the basis of most of our frustrations here, our headaches, my ever-increasing number of gray hairs, just behind the bangs, comes down to the qualities and characteristics that I as an American sincerely value and yet find absent in the Ethiopians and the culture around me. Qualities I naively expect good, kind people to innately have, and here, may be nonexistent. No one tells you in third grade Social Studies that good and kind are relative, that maybe fifteen years from now, standing in line in an African bank, you shouldn’t yell at those shoving you out of line to get to the teller before you. No one tells you that somewhere out there in a hot, dry place called Tigray, Ethiopia there’s a language where need and want are the exact same word, and one day you’ll be wringing your hands in front of your classroom, deeply needing to explain the difference, because to you, the difference means the world, as your own personal economy and simplicity depends on this very semantic difference.

            We’re always learning here, and that’s what’s hard. Our brother and sister-in-law, Andrew and Kate, recently told us that a baby has a rough, fitful sleep during a crucial learning period. Nights before a baby walks, he’ll be restless in his dreams, somehow trying to work it all out. Our poorly-made bedframe is louder than a freight train—trust me, I’m not trying to blame my less-restful-Ethiopian sleeps on the constant learning. But it is true, for me, that it’s hard to be fully at peace in a foreign land. You’re always behind the curve, you’re always wondering Where the heck am I? You’re always waiting to be thrown off balance.

            I find it ironic that one of the infamous questions a proud English student will ask a foreigner on the street in Ethiopia is How do you compare Ethiopia and America? Because, really, it’s the contrast that makes the difference.

            And that’s how I came to know America in Uganda. That’s how, when I returned home from Uganda I wasn’t only ready to place my hand over my heart again, I was ready to sing the anthem as loud as my bad pitch could take me. I was eager to be the one to unravel the flag from my parents’ closet on any day that would even vaguely encourage us to wave it from our porch. And if four months in Uganda made me a patriot, a year and a half in Ethiopia has made me—I don’t know, what’s the next step? Should I carry the Bill of Rights around in my pocket?

            Being in other countries, in developing countries, hasn’t made me love my country out of appreciation and relief-at-flushing-toilets alone; I’m not talking about only the abundant American blessings. Being in other countries has simply shown me the tiny details that make up my country, taught me what she’s like, by contrast, and sometimes by comparison. And in this I’ve come to love her.

            Americans hold politeness very near to love; if we forget to bless someone’s sneeze, it may bother us for an hour. Americans value cleanliness, of person, of home. Americans treasure the freedoms we’re awarded, and struggle to expand and redefine them, in an effort to include everyone. Americans value uniqueness and individuality; we value individuals’ opinions so highly, that if someone criticizes us, we’ll likely not forget it. Americans know the worth of self-esteem and confidence, of independence from the norm. Americans love privacy. Americans think it’s hurtful, and hence, wrong to point out “flaws” of another person, to compare two people, and to do so right in front of them. Americans are protective of everyone we love and everything we own; if we let our young toddling child out of our sight for more than three minutes, we think the world might combust (and it might). Americans hold logic and reasoning to a high standard; we disregard spirituality, or political debates, if they’re not well thought out, if they’re not our own personal opinions and choice, but someone else’s we’ve only copied and repeated as fact. Americans value variety. Americans love food like it’s a family member, understanding that taste is a gift, and experimenting with it is a noble endeavor. Americans respect some animals, our pets, almost on the level of fellow humans; we not only feed them, but we value nurturing them, petting them, welcoming them (and naming them) like people (sometimes, well, clothing them). It should be noted that this certainly is not true for animals that Americans eat; we could take a lesson from Ethiopia in how to care for such beasts.

            Americans value heritage and traditions. Americans, believing so fully in the American dream, really do believe we can achieve whatever we set out to achieve—this makes us feel guilty if we achieve “less,” makes us feel entirely responsible for our own futures. Americans feel deep down that everyone, everyone, deserves to be equal, in everything; our laws, our Supreme Court, are still trying to make sure this evolves with the times and continues to happen. Americans value a job well done; we hold “work ethic” up there with “righteousness” and “integrity,” and feel that if we don’t put in a full day of back-breaking, sweaty labor, maybe we could’ve worked harder. (This is what I miss the most about you, America; we’re a hard-core, trustworthy country when it comes to doing work and doing it with perfection as our goal.) Americans value timeliness and equate it with responsibility—if you’re two hours late coming to meet me, maybe stay home; if you didn’t call to say you’d be two hours late, it will take me a while to get over it.

            The slippery irony of all this is: I’ve lived in Africa longer than I’ve lived in any state outside of the Midwest. And so, everything I just said above may not be true of Americans at all. Maybe it’s only true of Midwesterners, or of the Midwesterners I happen to know. America is a big place; I tell Ethiopians this, when they ask me if I know so-and-so. I didn’t know folks from Maine are a terse group, until I read Travels with Charley. I can guess some laidback, even keel things about Californians. I assume New York, New Yorkers and Chicago-ans are always in a hurry; I’ve seen them cross crosswalks. Texans are as warm and hospitable as you’re imagining them to be. So it’s true that we’re not universal, and have our own separate pockets of truth sewn throughout our great country. But the above is what I’ve noticed about the America I know and the America I love.

Countdowns and 200-Some Meters

We had coffee with the Girimkils recently. Girimkil was telling us about the different foreigners who have lived in our house, and in this area, in the past. We could probably name ten for you, from the stories we’ve heard. The most famous: Don, Sue, Anna Marie. Girimkil was saying Alloe, Arow, Ammo…Luam?, seeking Luam’s help, who offered, “Aaron.” Yes, yes, Aaron. And the story continued. I briefly wondered, Will Luam remind him of Danayit and Daniel some day? and brushed it away like a fly.

He told us about a group of four foreigners who lived here for six months. When they were leaving, saying goodbye, they didn’t want to get in the car. They eventually had Girimkil join them in the car for part of the drive, before they would bid him farewell.

He then told us, in Tigrign-lish and after a few tries, that Meron would go inside our “materials.” He meant luggage. I searched my Tigrigna vocabulary, wondering how I could express If only.

If I think about it, I cry. So I don’t really think about it. One night we lay in bed, talking about what our final week in Adwa might look like. Gosh, can you imagine how excited we’ll be? This line is a staple when we talk about summer 2014. I followed it with something about how devastated I’ll be at the same time. I mentioned leaving Meron, and her not fully realizing that we won’t be coming back. How we’ve given up two years in the states with Zach, but starting next year, we’ll have Zach forever—and yet it’s possible that we may never see Meron again. I’ve learned we shouldn’t talk about things like this at night. I cry into my pillow, and wake up with puffy eyelids.

I’m not a very present person. When I’m in Adwa, I want to be in Willoughby. And I know myself, how I operate: one day, in Willoughby, I’ll be missing Adwa. My future self will give anything to snap her fingers and be back with the cobblestone, bajajes, curious kids, injera.

I’m trying to be more present. At Peace Corps Mid-Service Conference, we wrote letters to ourselves, to open when we leave. We included goals for the next year. My first one was Eat more Ethiopian food.

My sister has been sending me lists of the words Zach says, and the words they’re working on. Down. Tigger. Vroom (that’s Uncle Charlie). When I read the list of names he’s saying, I started crying. He doesn’t know us.

These are the things that keep me from being present. So I remind myself, constantly: Two years are brief when juxtaposed with an entire lifetime. So enjoy it.

This is the kid whose bottom bunk was always decorated with year-round countdown calendars, next to the Kenny Lofton poster. 100 days until Christmas. 100 days until vacation. I’m always looking to the next thing. Nowadays it’s: Two semesters until we’re back home. One year until we start trying for a baby. All the while unknowingly wishing away this precious opportunity we have right now.

I can see it: Two years from now, we’ll have trouble finding a babysitter. We need a night away, just the two of us. I’ll look at Daniel and remind him. Remember Adwa? Remember when school started our second year, and as I walked there alone, I realized it was the first time we had physically been in two different places—in four months?

Four months. Who else is given such a gift? Married astronauts in the same shuttle, that’s who. Them, and retired lovebirds. Some days, spending hours upon hours with my favorite person—knowing that some American spouses cross paths in the night, wishing they had more time—I find myself uttering Lou Gehrig’s words. We’re the luckiest. We know it’s too good to be true, we know what real life with real jobs is like.

And yet I long for home, to be there. Instead.

Sometimes it feels like just another countdown. When visiting a friend in Mekele awhile ago, we saw a stack of Post-It notes on her wall. It said 18. What’s this? we asked. How many months we have left, she said. It’s hanging beside photos of her sister, her mom. She pulls a note away on the first of each month. Sometimes living here doesn’t feel like real life: we don’t have 9 to 5’s, we don’t have salaries. I’ve said this before—it feels like a bookmark, a hiatus of helping. But it’s not a hiatus. This is our life.

Be present. It’s what I’m trying for. After the coffee ceremony, Meron and I played in the yard. I followed her around our house, flapping our fake wings (which were later symbolized by bushels of flowers), cawing and taking turns singing. I echoed her Tigrigna songs, awfully. She echoed You are My Sunshine and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, impressively, adorably, awfully. I gave her piggybacks. We skipped in circles.

It had been a few weeks since Meron came over to color and read. So we asked her to. She came the next day at lunchtime. We were in the middle of a West Wing episode when we heard her knock. We could have said Not now, come back later. It would’ve been easy: we were reaching the episode’s climax—Congress was about to pass a bill the Democrat party wouldn’t have liked, or something. But it would have been a later regret, a way to not be present. She came in and we read, we colored, we dunked biscuits in our tea.

She and Daniel have a few inside jokes. Whenever she knocks on the door, Daniel’s eyes scan the yard at his height. “Man? Man iyu?” (Who? Who is it?) I know when she’s here, when he’s about to let her in, because I can hear her quiet Ana, ana, ana. (It’s me.) They also have this puffing game, between the two of them. Daniel puffs a big breath of air into one of my ears, backs away quickly, and points to Meron. Meron puffs the tiniest breath of air into one of my ears, backs away quickly, and points to Daniel. They go back and forth, blaming each other, giggling; it can go on for awhile.

We’re going to miss her, a lot. I once daydreamed about bringing her back with us. Not seriously, but it didn’t stop me. Meron would hate America, Daniel said. But we could take her to a proper dentist, I said. Meron would hate any place where there was no Misilal. (Her mom.) He’s absolutely right.

Relationships are hard. I’m reading a book right now with one of those characters, you know, who are “afraid to love again.” Three out of five chick flicks, and it has always seemed silly to me. I assume that sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. No one really says that, do they? I don’t want to get hurt again, so I can’t love you.

People may not say it, but we do feel it. In different, less-cliché ways. In a masked form, so we don’t even realize it.

In another late-night conversation, I cried about Waco, about missing Waco, about Adwa becoming just another Waco. (For the record, I cry easily. This doesn’t mean I’m depressed about Waco. It means, simply, that I’m talking about Waco, hence I’m crying about it; that’s how great Waco was.) Time passes too quickly. People and places come and go, and far too quickly, they become the past. Just like that.

So, be present, be present. Be present.

J. Grigsby Crawford, in his memoir The Gringo, writes about his Peace Corps experience:

            And here you are, measuring your life not in coffee spoons, but in baskets of laundry done by hand, walks down the dusty road to swim in the river, and cold showers that are good cold showers because it’s hot as hell and from the bathroom you can look through the crack between the brick and the corrugated tin and see the green foothills surrounding the small valley.

            You measure it in Saturdays spent drinking bad beer—except it’s good beer because it’s light and cold and you can drink it in the shade and watch the grainy TV in the corner while the women behind the counter ask you questions about the world….

            There is a calendar on the wall and turning the page over to a new month is nothing if not a satisfying and glorious feeling. But then you feel bad about counting down the months or weeks or days because you realize that this is real life, and counting the days is like marching toward death.

Our last day in Waco was hard. It was our first home. Our home away from home, just the two of us, so far away from family and old friends. I stood in our empty living room, scanning memories, trying not to cry, trying not to think of bringing our kids to this apartment some day to reminisce. I spent a few minutes in each empty room, saying goodbye, savoring last glances. I stood for awhile at the doorstep, and wouldn’t let Daniel get in the car until we took lots of final photos.

We drove our packed-to-the-brim car and van to Seth and Julie’s house, for our final Waco moments. It was a Wednesday. It was Bible study. I tried being present in that hour, tried forgetting that in an hour and a half, this would be the past, and we would be on the road. I scanned the room: Seth, Julie, Cameron, Wendy, Heather, DeAnn. Our lovely friends who I was hoping very much could just get inside our “materials.” Our luggage.

In some ways, it was a blessing driving two separate vehicles from Texas to Indiana. We stood in Seth and Julie’s drive, hugged our friends, and hit the road. In another car, Daniel didn’t have to listen to me crying. I cried our entire way out of the city, out of the county. At stoplights I took photos of street signs. I resented every turn away from the place, and looked in my rearview mirror maybe too often, too long, to be responsible. I prayed, and dripped down my chin, into my lap, thanking God for such a place. For great friends. For an amazing first home. For a church under a bridge (which we also drove past, where I probably nearly collided with a car or a pole for craning my neck in goodbye).

This is why relationships are hard. Sometimes it seems like maybe it would be easier if you just didn’t let yourself get too close. If you refused to become attached to people, because you knew what it would feel like to leave them.

I ran the 4 x 400 in track; I was the last runner, the closer. With just two seasons left in Ethiopia, I feel we’re at the point three or four strides away from the final curve of the track. After a few strides, it’s time to sprint. I know the loop well—we’re close, I can feel it. I partly envy the volunteers who really can’t wait to get out of this place. Who’ve felt this way from the moment they arrived. Who may not have friends, family really, as close as the Girimkils.

One of my best friends, Elizabeth, 2^nd grade sidekick through high school, sat at my kitchen table one night, maybe in 8^th grade. We were having a late night snack. She named her Pop Tart and started playing with it. A bit of time passed and she still hadn’t eaten. Well, I named it. She looked down at it, ashamed that her joke was becoming a little too real. It’s kinda hard to eat it after that. People can get attached to anything. We attach, it’s what we do. It’s even crazier when it’s people. Relationships are hard in that way.

This is why I have to be present right now. As much as I try to brush it away, a time will come when we’re putting our last pieces of luggage into the college car. When I’m biting my lip, trying to look away so they don’t see, and have to physically pull myself around to give them final hugs. We’ll be a few bags of mini-pretzels and a few glasses of tomato juice deep before I can brush away the tears and start smiling about entering American airspace.

It’s not natural for me to live in the present. It’s natural for me to look ahead—to say in Waco, How can a place not have Autumn? I can’t wait until we’re back in the Midwest for Autumn. I can’t wait until we’ll live near family, and can have our parents over for dinner—and then be shocked, devastated, when it’s actually time to leave that place and go have Autumn at home. It’s illogical, maybe insane. I never learn.

So, knowing what I know about myself, I’m trying not to say I can’t wait to get home unless I couple it with We should ask Meron to play today. We’re really going to miss her.

Because, believe me, we will.

Meron Goes to the Dentist

When we went home a few months back, a wise friend gave us some great advice. When we told him we weren’t sure how much good we were doing, that it was hard to see the fruits of our labor, he told us not to think that way. “Don’t keep asking yourself, ‘Are we making a difference?’ We can only do what we’re supposed to do, and God takes it from there. Even if you’re just doing a little, you’re doing your part, and we have no idea what God will do once you leave. But he’ll certainly continue the work you started.”

We know he’s speaking the truth. If we think along these lines, as he suggested, we’ll be more likely to remain sane, positive, realistic, honest, and humble.

I also found truth in Laura’s words to Joe, when we discussed one evening how discouraging it can be to not have much work to do at site—to have community members simply not interested in the help you want to provide. “No, no, no.” Laura said to her fiancé. “I expect you to be performing arm surgery by the time you get back! If I’m giving you up for two years, you’re going to perform miracles!” This is how many of us feel. If we’re postponing baby plans, house plans, careers (or simply getting a real paycheck), and missing out on major family events, we want to do something while we’re here. Something big.

While we find value in all our projects—and there are quite a few—there’s nothing like seeing actual good that one individual can do for another. Yes, Adwa needs English. And I know English. But we’re residents of Africa for two years. Can’t we give something other than English? Something more?

And we’ve found that thing—that “arm surgery miracle-performing” thing. In 2024, when we’re remembering our Peace Corps service and sharing it with our children, I’m sure we’ll mention our English clubs, classes, and reading programs. But we’re guessing that forefront in our minds will be our neighbors, their income, their health, and the knowledge that This was a difference we made.

* * *

A few weeks before leaving for America we were having coffee with the Girimkils. Misilal raised Meron’s upper lip for us, showed us the root of her front tooth plowing right up through her gums and touching the underside of her lip. Afraid that Meron’s tooth would continue to move that direction, Misilal put both her index fingers on her little girl’s tooth and pushed down as hard as she could. Nigoho, nigoho, she said. Every morning. Every morning, Mom pushes on Daughter’s tooth to keep it from moving upwards. We told her it had to be removed. She told us they don’t have the money. Daniel and I exchanged glances, nodded, and said we’d pay for it.

(This was the point where we ran in the house to grab some toothbrushes and toothpaste that a few of our sister-in-law Lindsay’s students sent, in a gracious box full of goodies for students.) We had a toothbrushing training right there in our yard. I brushed for them, repeating, “Komzi,” (like this), through my foam. Teeth-cleaning here is traditionally done with a pointy, green stick; they sell them on buses.

Dental appointment number one was a few days later. Misilal, Luam, Meron, Daniel, and I all piled into a single bajaj on each other’s laps and went to the hospital. We were told nothing could be done that day because Meron had to apply a disinfectant on the protruding tooth for one week. We’d be gone in six days, on our way to America, so we gave Misilal the money in advance, for the taxi, for the hospital bills, etc. The dentist—a loud, obnoxious, young man—also told us Meron would have to get all her teeth pulled, one at a time. They’re all rotten, black, and cavity-strewn, but since they’re her baby teeth, we thought they’d fall out naturally. He said they were so much decayed that they wouldn’t fall out on their own.

So, dental appointment number two we didn’t see. But we came back to a happy Meron, who still seemed to like us, and no protruding tooth. Misilal gave us the receipts, but no change. She swore up and down that the charges required the full amount we gave her, but there was a 60 birr discrepancy. New lesson: If we don’t want to get cheated in the middle of our generosity (they don’t truly realize it’s generous; they still think we’re rich), we have to take her to the dentist ourselves. No stand-ins.

Dental appointment number three was to kick-start the “removing all of Meron’s decayed teeth” program. The dentist didn’t seem to know whether or not he could give a five-year-old the same Anesthesia he gives adults. It was a mirror image of my time on a bus in Uganda some years ago, when a family of elephants was blocking our way in the road. The bus driver turned to me (because I was seated up front, and he assumed I was in charge of the 40 of us) and asked, “Is it safe?” He was asking the American if he could drive forward toward the elephants. After 10 minutes of hurried discussion, we decided no (with a small margin), and later learned from a laughing policeman, “They would’ve KILLED you!” (Note, Mama elephant was flapping her ears at us, which was the deciding factor, given one of the gal’s experience with Animal Planet.) So, fast-forward to today, and the dentist is asking me, “Is it safe?” while I’m fuming on the inside You’re the dentist! We ask him, “Well, what did you do last time?”, indicating dental appointment number two. He stares blankly.

            Later, we’re in line for one of the several unknown things we have to stand in line and pay for, and I’m praying. God, if he's going to harm her, please provide another way. I have no clue. Obviously neither does he. Take care of this. I look down at Meron, playing, seemingly unaware of her fate. We weren’t at the first appointment, so we don’t know if Anesthesia was involved. I kneel down to Meron. “Mis kali sinni, kidmi hanti warhi, himam neyru doe?” (“With your other tooth, one month ago, was there pain?” is the closest I can come to a direct question.) She shakes her head, smiling.

            The dentist decides to give the Anesthesia, and gives us a form to take to the hospital pharmacy to buy two syringes for said cause, and latex gloves. We bring them to the dentist. He puts her tiny body in the huge chair. His assistant pulls out a box of metal, scary-looking things. He’s putting on the gloves and walking towards her, but the syringes I just bought him are on the other side of the room. It’s happening way too fast. Nervously and suddenly, one of my favorite, most looked-forward-to things—going to the dentist—is becoming something horrifying. And I’m not even the one in the chair. Daniel leaves the room for fear of squirmishness. I’m alone in the room with them, deciding what to do, fast. I inch towards them—do I remind him about the Anesthesia? Do I interrupt?—I watch, hand on mouth. Meron is wiggling her tiny hands around, eyeing all around her. Looking nervous, but composed. It happens in five seconds. He puts the pliers to her mouth and I’m nearly about to scream out at him, and he starts to pull. She screams. She’s wailing, he’s tossing a tiny something into the large garbage can beside her. He puts gauze to her bleeding hole, and Wadina. We’re finished. Nearly in tears myself, I’m picking her up and soothing her.

            “What happened? Why didn't you numb her?” He says he decided last minute not to give her the adult Anesthesia. As these words leave his mouth, I’m not incensed. I’m relieved and grateful and know where it came from, his last-minute decision. He had decided on the syringes—he made me go spend 20 birr on them. I bring them back, and he ignores them without explanation. Yes, it was last minute. Something entered his mind at the last possible moment, and he took a different route. So as he told me he changed his mind, I breathed thanks to God for answering my If he’s going to harm her, provide another way prayer.

            Meron cried for two minutes. She still wanted to be held for awhile, but she was quiet and strong. We called her anbasa (lion) for the rest of the day.

Dental appointment number four was a direct contradiction to number one. We told the loud dentist that we had come to get another tooth removed. He asked why, loudly. We said you told us to. He said these were her baby teeth, and by the time she is seven, they would fall out. So why remove them? Because you told us to. Three months ago you said they were so decayed, they wouldn’t fall out naturally. They had to be pulled. He stared blankly. No. She needs fillings.

Dental appointment number five is at a real dentist’s office. Not a hospital with a general dentist on staff. He peruses her cavities, and charges 600 birr for 6 fillings. To us, to Ethiopians, this is a lot of money. Six hundred birr lasts us a long time. It’s a fifth of our monthly stipend; this same amount would pay Girimkil’s salary for a month and a half. But in dollars? Thirty-one dollars for 6 fillings.

            Misilal sits in the dentist chair this time, and Meron lies on top of her. Misilal grips tightly for the entire hour, crying at intervals for her daughter, in this single painless dental appointment for Meron. There’s a loud soap opera going on behind me as the assistant mixes powder with drops, making a paste, and the dentist scoops it up with a stick, then applies it to each tooth. It reminds me of a thick frosting, particularly the praline I put between the layers of my carrot cake (without the pecans). Now, neither Daniel nor I have had any cavities, so we don’t know how this works. We don’t know what it should look like. But it’s surprising to me that this is what fillings are made of. Paste of some kind.

            He tells me in English that she can’t eat or drink for five hours. I tell him, Don’t tell me, tell her mother in Tigrigna. This has become my most-repeated statement at each dental appointment—even when Loud Dentist told me what the cause was: either breast-feeding in the middle of the night, or breast-feeding for too many years (it was confusing). Still his instinct wasn’t to tell the obvious breast-feeder who could tell her breast-feeding friends and get the word around—he told the ferengi for her own edification. “Tell her. In Tigrigna,” we repeated. Everyone wants to show off their English.

            Filling-dentist assures us that these should last until she is seven, and then her teeth will fall out naturally.

            According to Girimkil, the whole family “guards” Meron that day, keeping her away from food and drink. I look at her mouth the next day, and the fillings, though sloppy and not in the shape of teeth, are there. A much prettier sight than gaping black holes.

           

* * *

            The story would’ve ended beautifully there. I would’ve made the essay go full circle, and underline our wise friend’s advice. This would’ve been the thing we did to help Meron and that we would look back on, knowing we were of use and made a difference. But that would’ve been too easy.

            Two months pass. We’re back from Germany. I’m sitting with Meron on our doorstep, and I give her a banana. Watching her chew makes me think to look at her teeth. She opens her mouth for me. All signs of the 600-birr fillings are gone. Gaping black holes have made a comeback.

            I go to the dentist. I give the same speech, separately, to his assistant in Tigrigna and then to him in English, when I pass him on the stairs. Note, last time I complained to a business in the states—a certain university records office—I was so nervous and “hurt” as a consumer, that I cried through the entire conversation. But when incompetence is expected and you feel you’re surrounded by it—it becomes a lot easier to yell at people who do their jobs terribly:

            Six hundred birr! We are volunteers without salaries, and that is a lot of money; we’re not rich ferengi! You said it would last until she was seven, and it lasted TWO MONTHS. Why? Is your medicine expired? I am telling everyone in Adwa what happened, and that this is a bad place, and not to come here. This is not good business.

            He said to bring her back and we would “discuss.” But we know how this works. Product quality—apparently even fillings—is low here. We buy a brand new dog collar and it’s broken next day. Twice. Our non-stick pan from Addis became our stick-pan after a few months. Brand new pens here are a one-time use deal. Sometimes, our lightbulbs last us one day. And the list goes on. (What this place needs is 3,000 of my dads spread throughout the country. Craftsmen, handymen with know-how and integrity.)

            So we won’t take her back there. We won’t bring the Girimkil family to the other side of town to argue with this dentist, and eventually agree to get the same two-month fillings at a discounted price. We can’t, we won’t.

            So the good we thought we were doing wasn’t as profound as we would’ve liked. One dangerous and protruding tooth was removed, and one cavity. She got fake fillings for two months. But she’s five, she says they don’t hurt, and when she’s seven, they should fall out.

            We did what we could, and that has to be enough. When Misilal lifted Meron’s lip to show us her impaled gums that day, we didn’t stop at “Ajokum, Igzyaber yihabkum”—Be strong, may God give to you. We had her at the dentist the next week.

            If we had to put our fingers on why we think we’re here, a good reason God directed us away from new nephews and toward strangers in the other half of the world, we’d both say it was this family. Girimkil went blind seven months before we arrived. He couldn’t work anymore; he used to be a guard and the goat-slaughterer for the community—each goat, 20 minutes, he says. He tells us often how it was before we came. He says he was sick in his mind and in his heart. He wasn’t happy or at peace; he couldn’t provide for his family’s needs. The first time this blind man asked, or rather told us, that he would be our guard, we didn’t realize that this would be our one great contribution to Adwa, that we’d be so thankful we said yes. He thanks us, and he thanks God, that his heart and mind are now happy, free of worry. He recently told us that he doesn’t know what will come after us—we leave in eight months, and what he’ll do next, Igzyaber yifalit. God knows (according to His will). What Girimkil doesn’t know, is that we’re comforting ourselves with this same thought. We don’t know in what form or increment we’ll be helping them after we leave. But we know that they are what we were here for, and God will pick up where we left off, when we leave. We know this much about our Father—this is what He does; He follows through.

            Meron will remember her five dentist appointments, strutting down the cobblestone road and entering the taxi like a queen. Part of her bravery each appointment seemed to be her pride: she was a big girl, going to the hospital. How many kids get excited to get a tooth pulled, when they had one pulled weeks before? After her second tooth was pulled, she danced around her house, giggling and taunting her brothers in Tigrigna. Girimkil explained she was trying to make them jealous, she was “rubbing it in.” She got to ride a taxi, and they didn’t. She got to go to the hospital, they didn’t. (I was thinking, You have decayed teeth, they don’t.)

            She will remember she was important, that Daniel and Danayit loved her. And the family will remember the importance we placed on dental hygiene. We at least did what we were supposed to do. And we at least felt like real Peace Corps volunteers while we were doing it.

Send Us Some Love: Care Package Requests

We’re not saying we can’t survive out here. And we’re not even asking for care packages. We know that married volunteers will get a heck of a lot less packages than the single ones: we have each other, so, who needs cookies? But in case you just had a hankering to send a package our way anyway, we thought we’d cut out the middleman (us) and just make public the sorts of things we miss, and love to receive.

-Good Earth sweet and spicy cinnamon tea (sold at Wal-Mart); remove the tea bags from their boxed packaging, and all you need is an envelope

-Pepperoni

-Tuna packets, not cans (sold at Aldi); cheaper shipping this way!

-Flavored liquid coffee-creamers, wrapped in bubble wrap

-Hot chocolate packets (we have limited cocoa powder, so from-scratch isn’t an option)

-Parmesan cheese

-Any sort of chocolate is always welcomed with open arms and mouths

-Any slender sort of beginner’s clarinet book, preferably jazz

-A dog collar for our dear Butche; we keep putting money into collars and chains, in an attempt to give her more than three feet of leeway from her tree. We beat our standing how-long-til-Ethiopian-made-products-break record two months ago, when her spankin’-new collar from market broke in less than 20 hours, and the neighbors were back to wrapping metal around her neck.

And, drum roll, please…

We haven’t had home-baked cookies from scratch since May 2012. It’s the one thing our makeshift baking apparatus isn’t capable of. Why didn’t we make sure we crossed this off the list on our trip home this summer? We have no idea. We were just so busy eating other things—everything—that we forgot to bake some cookies.

Our sitemate’s saint of a mother has proved for us it’s possible. She often sends Lauren boxes of home-baked cookies, which she vacuum seals. We’ve seen it: they stay fresh and lovely this way.

So, the big ticket item:

-Home-baked cookies, vacuum-sealed

If only the more missed items were easy to send, like eggnog or Easy Bake Ovens or, say—you!

As a reminder, this is our address:

The Luttrulls

P.O. Box 227

Adwa, Ethiopia

We Luttrulls may soon be releasing a rationing handbook: Tips on Self-Control so Your Happiness Goes Further. We’re infamous, and alone, in these parts for making candy bars or Oatmeal Crème Pies last three to five months, when they last other volunteers two days. Be proud of your Midwest hoarders, who’d undoubtedly have the best-stocked bomb shelter pantry. But it’s been six months; we don’t want to have to steal from Lauren. Pretty please.

We thank you in advance.

In Deutschland

Intro: A Lesson in Genealogy

            I think we all have memories that we aren’t sure happened or not, where the line between dream and reality is a bit fuzzed. This isn’t one of those.

            But it’s one I rarely and barely remember, and when I do remember, my instinct is to assume it’s one of the dream-memories, because it seems out of character, being too brash a type of bravery for someone too shy. The time frame is blurry, but during one of my college summers, I felt God tugging me toward nursing homes, asking me to spend time with people. I recall looking nursing homes up at random in phone books, voice shaking when I called to ask for hours, hands jittery while searching MapQuest. Do I really have to? was a lingering thought that I didn’t dare acknowledge and kept stifling. But it felt awkward and inconvenient nonetheless. But why not? proved the louder of the lingering questions, and eventually you just get in your car and drive.

            I showed up to a few nursing homes that summer, asked the ladies at the front desks which patients hadn’t seen visitors in awhile, and sort of meandered into their rooms, alone and, again, awkward. My clearest memory is sitting at the bedside of an old woman, watching golf. We watched golf together, mostly silently, for at least an hour. Let the record show that there is no other circumstance in which I would willingly watch golf on TV. (Unless you paid me. Contact me if this is an option.)

            This was one of those things I wanted to keep quiet, not out of embarrassment, but out of my, perhaps superstitious, theory about Treasures-in-Heaven. Part of me still clings to the possibility that if I do good works, or give to the poor, and someone learns that I’m doing it, it’s not really a good work anymore (see Matt. 6:2-4).

            But somehow, for some reason, my mom found out. Maybe it was the classic So, what’d you do today? and I don’t know how to lie to my parents. But once I told her, she didn't seem impressed. That’s really sweet, hon, but—you’re visiting strangers in nursing homes when your own great grandma is at a nursing home. Why not go see her?

            It hadn’t occurred to me. That “golf-outing” with a stranger was my last. It was my great grandma’s room I visited instead.

            I remember hovering over her shoulder as she sat in her quaint room, in her wheelchair.  She wasn’t exactly talking anymore. Maybe at 103 you’ve said quite a lot already, and the quiet becomes a necessary calm. Maybe at 103 you’re plumb tuckered out. She silently reached for a black and white photograph while I reminded her I was Sue’s daughter, Gene’s granddaughter, in case she forgot. The woman had enough grandchildren and great grandchildren.

            This was the first time I’d ever seen the family photo. Amalia with all her many brothers and sisters, parents and heirlooms, posed and statuesque in black and white. It seems to have been taken in their front yard. It’s a work of art, now packed in one of our household boxes, waiting for the perfect frame so it can hang in our future homes. Soundlessly her finger moved slowly over each family member, and we watched together, the still faces. Her index finger hovered over a healthy-looking girl of about fifteen in a simple dress. Then she pointed to her own chest. Memory is deceiving; I can’t remember if she was crying. But I was. Looking at this young girl in Germany, I was understanding for the first time that my whole life, everything and everyone I loved so much: Grandpa hence Grandma, Mom hence Dad hence my siblings, aunts and uncles and cousins, continuing through the entire Distler line, came from this one teenage girl. And would continue to move forward. She came alone to Buffalo, New York, America, carrying her future bloodline with her, leaving all people and things familiar behind.

            This same old woman who creamed us in Rummy every week, as we sat in her red upholstered booths, child-sized bellies full of spaghetti or spaetzles. She was a young girl once, without all of us. And because of her and her husband Hans—poof. There we all were, this sea of Distlers so necessary to my person. I learned, and felt, genealogy and its mysterious beauty for the first time that day, alone with Grandma in her assisted living room. How brilliant and kind of the Lord to populate and manage the earth in this way—through family, through marriage, through love.

            As my husband admits to me that he doesn’t quite understand it—this seeking after my roots, traveling so far to scan over tombstones, looking for names like Freida and Krug; walking aimlessly down unfamiliar streets so I can think She walked here once; tracing landmarks to find where the family business, her childhood home, used to stand—he still let me do this, and joined me, gladly. He didn’t mind my distracted fascination my first time in New York City, on our honeymoon, when I wanted to go through the papers at Ellis Island to find Amalia Krug, the ship she was on, the names of the passengers before and behind her in line, the distant signature of the customs official who first greeted her.

            And I’m dumbfounded that it isn’t obvious: why wouldn’t you? If you knew where your family came from, why wouldn’t you go to that place, if you could? Why wouldn’t your very first day in Europe be spent in the place you stem from? I can only compare it to so many Christians’ desire, like my own, to see the Holy Land. Sure, it’s not the same anymore—landmarks haven’t been preserved. And yet you can know in Galilee or Nazareth that the path under your feet was once beneath Christ’s feet too. And that closeness, whether to your God or to your family—essentially, to your own soul—is what is so surreal and necessary for me.

            If that girl with the healthy cheeks, standing there resembling my mom’s dad, but decades earlier, hadn’t bravely come alone to America, where she met her German husband, or had she not been born, I wouldn’t be alive. Neither would Don or Christine or Michael or Jenny, etc. etc. And we’re just the family of one of her boys!

            Thanks be to God, maker of Heaven and Earth, who goes before us and behind us, hemming us in.

*     *     *     *

 

            Visiting Germany put another tick on the board Why Peace Corps Was a Great Choice for the Luttrulls. As we chalk the tick, our hands are a bit shaky and hesitant: That wasn’t a dream? We really did that?

            Our first stop, Tauberbischofsheim, was certainly dreamlike. Even the train ride in was full of wonder—this is when I first realized travel abroad should include more than just Africa. Having only seen impoverished lands outside of America (well, I’m not including Canada), it never occurred to me that there could be countries more beautiful than my own. This train ride, complete with castles and no two houses looking the same (come on, America; step up your game, your roofs, your construction), made me jealous of Germans. They are blessed with a gorgeous land that they’ve been great stewards of. As an American I’ve often wished I could have seen America in her early glory. I got teary-eyed both times I watched Pocahontas; imagine Autumn without industrialization, without drab housing developments. But Germany seems a place that has only become more beautiful with age. Building homes on her land hasn’t taken from her beauty, but somehow added to it. This country has no shortage of breathtaking architecture. (Maybe I’m biased; my number one house choice is German tudor style.)

            Tauberbischofsheim gave us a glimpse of smalltown Germany—the German countryside. The highlight of our first day was finding the graves of my great grandma’s parents, sister, and brother-in-law. This was as special as I imagined it would be. That night we sought out the German meals that have lined my family’s table for years: spaetzles, sauerkraut, bratwurst. Even cucumber salad. While the sauerkraut was heavenly (very atypical of sauerkraut), it is confirmed that my mom’s, my grandma’s, my sister’s, my own spaetzles are far better than Germany’s. Even if we do pronounce them “spechlies,” with Cleveland flair.

            The highlight of our second day was every moment. Aside from our wedding day and those of our siblings, I can’t remember thoroughly enjoying an entire day more than this one. Our self-designated “Bed and Bike” hotel—Germans love cycling—offered us complimentary bicycles. After an apple-jelly donut breakfast, a habit that would become a norm for our stay, we began riding. We rode to neighboring villages Hochhausen, Werbach, and Werbachausen. We got a taste of the Tauber Valley, which runs along the long and beautiful Tauber river, through the train windows. But on this day we got a fuller helping, via handlebars and pedals. I’d like to write a letter to the man or woman who designed this bicycle path, running the length of the valley. It wound through backyards and kitchen gardens, along forests where steeples jump out at you, unexpected. I couldn’t help but cry out various times on the bike ride; my adrenaline was higher than on both of my airplane jumps. Everything was perfect and seemed otherworldly, too beautiful to be actual: We were inside an old, black and white film; we were inside a block of dollhouses; we were inside Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs; we were inside my own family’s neighborhood. 

            Some of my favorite bicycling scenery were the old German men who rode past us. I’d double-take and stare, thinking I was looking at my own grandfather. Turns out, many aging German men share the same full, ruddy, jolly cheeks as my grandpa and his brother. I kept seeing the “German version of so-and-so,” then considered so-and-so’s family name and thought, Hmmm. Probably German. Staas. Becker.

            Werbach was a quaint ghost-town of sorts, its only stirring being the church bells. We entered a bakery to buy a loaf of fresh bread and block of cheese, to take to the park for lunch. The memory of passing this loaf, too hard to tear, back and forth between us, ripping off chunks with our teeth and glorying in the more-than-one-bread-option is something I’ll keep with me. Give these two a bread stand, and we’ll be happy; if you can guess, we spent little on food those ten days. It was so easy and inexpensive to keep us in the simple joys of culinary heaven.

            Later that day we walked another bike path to another town, Impfingen. And after that, we recovered from our cheese-heavy lunch (wait; it was a bad idea to share an entire block?) in one of Tauberbischofsheim’s parks, enjoying Autumn as Daniel read a mystery novel to me, and I “caught leaves,” a favorite fall pastime I thought I’d have to wait until 2014 for. This surprise of being given Autumn when we thought we were fasting on Autumn-lent, was lovely. I felt I couldn’t complain about the chapped lips—bring ‘em on, and let us see pumpkins.

            Berlin, too, was lovely. Similar to D.C., which I feel is “big-city history,” Chicago but with monuments and chilling stories—every day in Berlin was a history lesson. An interesting one (partly because I married a great story-teller and wealth of information). The Brandenburg Gate; Checkpoint Charlie; what remains of the Berlin Wall (and now has murals); the abandoned airport-now-park-for-parasailing of what was West Germany; Potsdam, important at both the start and end of WWII; the fascinating Pergamon Museum; Sunday service in the Berlin Dom, a gorgeous Protestant cathedral I assumed to be Catholic only because it seemed too majestic, ornate, and beautiful to be otherwise. (The unexpected surprise of partaking in Communion again, before 2014, was similar to the glimpse of Autumn.) Though Dr. Pong, the ping-pong tournament bar we visited, wasn’t exactly historical, I did feel like I was inside a smoky indy German film, and loved it. We watched karaoke on a hill in one of Berlin’s parks. We went to Oktoberfest, ate pretzels, listened to polka, considered what “traditional American dress” would look like if it existed, and simply enjoyed. 

            We spent our last day in the Berlin area in Oranienburg, where we visited Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp. This was overwhelming and sobering in its realness. I think we both expected a museum, not a left-as-was expansive reality of location. We stepped through the gate inscribed with Arbeit Macht Frei, Work liberates, and into something like the set of The Great Escape. Tall, barbed stone walls surrounding a fortress of land; watchtowers that seem all too recently used; remains of crematoriums; too many gates, too many places to imagine a starting point, an entryway, of terror.

            The most shaking and terrifying part for me, was seeing it all beneath a gorgeously blue sky with clouds you’d call perfect, beautiful pines and other natural greats standing rooted behind the ugly walls. It was horrifying to see it all in color. I too often forget that history wasn’t in black and white, wasn’t too long ago, wasn’t all that different from what we were seeing, smelling, thinking on that same plot of land seventy years later, two weeks ago. The prisoners, the dead—they saw and felt unsettlingly-divine days like those too: those sorts of clouds, that gorgeous sky, the lovely trees and changing leaves. They still saw evidence of what was normal and good and peaceful, but could have no part in it. If they tried standing close enough to the walls to smell those trees, or watch the sun from a particular angle under the brush, they’d be shot for crossing the line. Hate is an absurd thing, and too difficult to see and know in color. It affected me in a way I didn’t expect: I expected a museum, and what I got was realness, evidence, everydayness.

            Josh was a magnificent host, with a lovely home he and his housemates welcomed us into, and a fantastic know-how for navigating Berlin’s public transportation. We had a great time with him. I think Daniel will cherish their late-night football viewings and recollections of college as some of the best parts of the trip.

            Frankfurt was a pretty place. A serene end to a busy trip, as we saw most of what it had to offer in a short morning and afternoon. The Kaiserdom, where German emperors used to be crowned, was fascinating, pretty, and old—one of the only buildings in its neighborhood to mostly escape the blasts of war. Their statue of Mary had me thinking of the mother of God differently, as she looked like all the photos I’ve seen of my own mother in her late 20s. I guess it’s to Germany I have to go to find my family’s likenesses. Goethe’s house was also neat to see.

            It was healthy and fulfilling and inspiring to be again surrounded by architectural and religious beauty. To see bridges again; statues again; gables again; churches again (we’ve yet to physically enter an Ethiopian church); clean bodies of water again, without thinking of scary medical terms like Schistosomiasis. To be surrounded by a different sort of culture, one more like our own, whose sense of beauty matches our own.

            Growing up, I remember my mom’s measure of a good vacation being that we were ready to return home again. The vacation, the rest, had done its job. Our last night in Frankfurt featured no sort of dreading: we were ready, we were excited, to go back. By day two of our trip, I confess I was hankering for some Ethiopian food. We still had our bags on us when we beelined from the cramped bus (21 people in a 12-passenger) to a restaurant where we could eat special ful, and eat it immediately. I recall last June, being so sad for Ethiopians—They don’t know about tacos or burgers or barbecued ribs or lasagna or pizza or any other creative way to cook chicken outside of their single chicken dish—and today I’m sad for my pre-Ethiopia self, who had to wait 25 years for a decent pot of doro watt. Grilled chicken doesn’t know what it’s missing. I tell you, my idea of comfort food has shifted in the past year, and come late 2014, we’ll be in trouble once we’re not surrounded by it.

            In short, the vacation passed my mother’s test, and was, in every way, perfect. It’s almost tempting to plan every vacation in a single week.