Thirty-two years wiser

I read some great advice in Amy Dickenson's column in the newspaper today. A six-year study at Cornell university gathered advice on life from more than 1,200 Americans who were mostly over age 70. These specific tidbits are about marriage.

1. Marry someone who is a lot like you: Similarity in core values in particular is the key to a happy marriage. And forget about changing someone after marriage: the elders say it just doesn't work.

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2. Friendship is as important as romantic love: Heart-thumping passion has to undergo a metamorphosis in lifelong relationships. Marry someone for whom you feel deep friendship as well as love.  

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3. Don't keep score: Don't take the attitude that marriage must always be a 50-50 proposition; you can't get out of it exactly what you put into it. The key to success is having both partners try to give more than they get out of the relationship.

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4. Talk to each other: Marriage to the strong, silent type can be deadly to a relationship. Long-term married partners are talkers (at least to each other, and about things that count).

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5. Don't just commit to your partner, commit to marriage itself: Make a commitment to the institution of marriage and take it seriously. Seeing that marriage is bigger than the immediate needs of each partner helps people work together to overcome the inevitable rough patches.

When I was a highly impressionable teenager and madly in love in the all-consuming passion of the young and the hormonally-driven, I had a vision of marriage. I dreamed of cozy evenings, lying on the couch in front of the fire, waiting for my hard-working man to come home. I suppose I though that we would cuddle all evening, basking in our love. Kinda makes me want to fall on the floor, laughing, now that I think about it.

When Jeff and I got married, we were virtually strangers. I hate to admit it, because it goes against the grain of everything that I believe to be sensible, but it's true. My kids have thrown the fact back at me on more than one occasion. Our first year of marriage was a journey of discovery. It was full of the woes of pregnancy, the trials of poverty, and the joy of having each other. We learned some things about each other that weren't so great. But every evening, my heart was glad for him to walk through the door of our little apartment in Orange County.

Since then, we have had three decades of more discoveries, many changes, more trials, and more joys. To be honest, there were times when one or the other of us felt like packing it in. As in: leaving. But we didn't. We were committed to more than each other. We were committed to the idea of marriage and to the community that we have created with our marriage. And that kept us going when we sometimes didn't like each other very much.

Does that admission shock you?
Probably not if you've known me at all!   


I think it is important to be honest about this, because most people have similar struggles. I want to stand up and be a witness that marriage is work and that it can be successful and worth the fight if two people are committed to it.
Sometimes, when I look at my children and the way they struggle to create a partnership with their spouses, I worry for them. Then I remember our own struggles and I know that they must pave their own way to wedded bliss. And I try to be patient for them and hope that they will continue to strive for their own version of peace.

And then I think what a strange word struggle is. Don't you agree?

This Valentine's Day was pretty awesome at our house. You could have knocked me down with a feather, but Jeff actually read my last post. We ate in, stuffed pasta shells with a bottle of sparkling apple cider. Then, because he wanted to get out of the house (even though I was feeling sluggish and wanted to stay home), we went to the mall. We shared a piece of Wild Blueberry White Chocolate cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory (it was way too sweet and we regretted it) and scored a free Donald Trump shirt for Jeff from Macy's. Story to follow later, because it was a classic. And we talked about how, after all this time, we are happy to be together.

And maybe, one of these days, we'll be answering those questions about life and marriage and feeling wiser than Solomon. 

The Un-Valentine

Saturday was a balmy day for February. 

I felt the need to be productive in the garden.

I'll just go out and prune the roses, I said.

Then I grasshoppered around for a couple of hours, spreading lime and alfalfa pellets because that's what my master-gardener friend said needed to be done.

I weeded.

And spread slug bait.

And admired the snowdrops and yellow crocuses that are bravely blooming.

And I thought that next time I move the birdbaths while the spring bulbs are dormant, I should be a little more careful. 

These daffodils actually knocked over the cement birdbath as they grew up underneath it.

And these yellow beauties grew up inside the hollow base of the glazed blue birdbath.

My sweetheart was feeling particularly benevolent and dogged my footsteps for an hour or so. He cut up all my rose prunings for the recycling bin and emptied my buckets of weeds. He even went down to the flowerbeds by the road and trimmed the perennials. 

I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day.

All those over-priced cards and bouquets leave me cold. 

And goodness knows I don't need any more chocolate. 

You should see my stash lately! 

I have all I need. I feel thoroughly loved.

Happy Valentine's Day to Jeff, who had me from Hello.

Now, if he ever reads this, he would know!

Feeling a little too grown-up

I'm not a fan of Edna St. Vincent Millay as a person, but I just ran across this poem, entitled Grown-up, and I like it a lot.

Was it for this that I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past-eight?

I had to laugh.
I've been back from Haiti for a little over a week. We arrived home at about midnight last Friday. The next morning, I had to be at a music therapy conference from 8:30 till 5pm. Same thing on Sunday. It was a great conference, full of thought-provoking stuff, but I barely made it through the Sunday session. All that sitting, three days in a row, nearly did me in, in spite of the therapeutic knitting that engaged my fingers all the day long.

I worked a lot this week, but every evening I have been just sitting. It took until Wednesday for the jet-lag haze to visibly clear. Every morning, I woke up at four. Every night, I was falling asleep by eight.
Sad.
Now, I think I'm coming down with another cold. 
I may have to find another line of work. All those adorable, snotty-nosed preschoolers will be the death of me!

Well, maybe not!

But seriously, it doesn't seem that long ago that Jeff and I would frequently go out dancing at night, or hiking and bike-riding on Saturdays. What has happened to us?

I'm feeling stodgy, old, and unmotivated.
I think I need a party.
Anyone?

A cheery thought from Ogden Nash.

At another year
I would not boggle,
Except when I jog
I joggle.

Maybe tomorrow I will get my mojo back.
After I joggle.

Just for fun

One has to be careful when taking photographs in Haiti. It's best to do it surreptitiously when out in the open, because if there are people nearby they are likely to yell at you and ask for money. 

Children, on the other hand, beg to have their photo taken.

They boss each other around and try to sneak in on each other's moments of glory.

And then the whole gang will cluster around the camera to see the end result.

Notice how many times this girl was in front of the lens. 

There she is again, different day, lower left.

And walking with Dolly on one of our village walks.

Grandmas admiring the new baby.

Random photos.

This young Romeo thought he was hot stuff and insisted on my taking his photo when we were on our walk.

Little Romanov, whose mom is a cook at the clinic. Romanov hangs around after school. He is a little darling. 

He is eating spicy Haitian peanut butter on cassava bread, a favourite after-school snack.

This young woman spends her days mopping and cleaning the clinic. It's astounding how much dirt is generated by all of the residents and visitors to the clinic.

I'm pretty sure that her fashionable shirt is one of the t-shirt dresses that we made at church. I must have sent some to MBH. Can any of my lovely readers verify the fabric?

/

Zeenia, my favourite roaming naturopath, and Howard, the WWOOF'er  who arrived at the clinic just a couple of days before we left. He is from Portland and is a very likeable and adventurous fellow. They had been out visiting an organic garden that morning and I thought the whole American Gothic thing was too good to pass up!

Now for some street pictures.
This was on the way back down the mountain.

Motorbikes are the most prolific vehicle on the streets of Cap. These young men were happy to have their photos taken out of the back window of our car. And yes, we asked their permission. Traffic proceeds slowly  in the city! One of the best things I ever saw was a man driving a motorbike with a twin-size box-springs and mattress set balanced across the back of it. I have no idea how it stayed on.

Now for the surreptitious picture-taking!

You often see men pushing or pulling enormous loads of goods. 

                               

And women (and sometimes girls) carrying large loads on their heads.

                    

Haitian women have the most incredible posture and an unconscious "come hither" walk. Or maybe not unconscious, I don't know. It seems to be in their DNA. 

                    

Concrete is everywhere.

                               

                               

And that, my lovely readers, is the end of the Haiti posts. There are more stories untold, like the day we spent at the orphanage, but you will have to see Dolly or me face-to-face for those, if you care. I hope I have given you a small inkling of life on the island. But more than that, I would hope to have stirred you into starting to contemplate what you can do in the wide, wide world to make a difference. It's okay to contemplate the idea for a while. Sometimes I contemplate for years before I actually bring an idea to fruition. But when you decide to do something, I would love to hear about it.

Until then, prayers are good. 

Mountains beyond mountains

There is a proverb in Haiti that has been popularized by Tracy Kidder's book about Paul Farmer's humanitarian work in Haiti and around the world. 

Beyond mountains there are mountains.

Like most proverbs, the meaning has multiple layers. 

In its simplest form, it seems to mean that when you solve one problem, there will be another one beyond it to solve. 

Or, when you surmount a great obstacle, it is only get a clear view of the next one. 

It can also mean that opportunities are limitless.

And so it seems to be.

There is a story to tell that is layered with curiosity, intrigue and pathos. It unraveled over the course of several days and the ending surprised and disturbed all of us that witnessed it.

A woman brought her two-year-old daughter into the clinic. The mother had recently delivered a baby at the clinic and said that the child was a twin and that there was also an older sibling, but that this baby was the only one who was sick. The poor little toddler displayed the edema and split skin that is typical of severe malnourishment and just lay on a bed, whimpering and crying when anyone tried to touch her. The mother told of taking the baby to the hospital the week before and being sent home after only a day. Sarah was concerned for the girl and decided to transport her and the mother back to the hospital and check to see what was going on. Dolly had been attempting to soothe the child by removing her clothes and dressing her wounds, so she wrapped her in a nice, clean blanket and went along to the hospital.

A few hours later, the entourage returned. The baby was admitted and, strangely, the doctor told Sarah that, rather than being ejected from the hospital on her previous visit, the mother had chosen to leave. We thought it was curious, made even more so by the fact that she hadn't shown any affection for the child and that this was the only malnourished sibling. Sarah said that, sadly, sometimes it is almost as if a parent has already given up on a child. We wondered how you could choose which child you would not feed. The other twin was a boy. Male children are often valued more than girls in many cultures and have better survival rates, so we thought that this may have featured into the equation.

A few days later, they were back at the clinic. The little girl didn't look much better, so we tried to give her something to drink and eat. She cried and threw everything on the floor. I was starting to think that maybe she was just ornery and a picky eater. I do not think that one could be a picky child and survive in Haiti. Then, her mother gave her the plate and a spoon and she actually ate a few spoonfuls. When her older sister put some fish on her plate, she got mad and threw it on the floor and stopped eating. I was totally starting to see how a mother would get frustrated with such a child! When you're struggling to feed your children, what would you do?

The mother finally went home after Sarah decided we could keep the baby at the clinic so that we could nourish her for a few days. It was late by now and Dolly was all ready to spend the night downstairs with the baby. I went to bed, as it was getting late. There was a hubbub some time later and I only found out after the fact what happened.

As the real story unraveled, it became known that the child was not the mother's biological child, but that of her husband, who had died shortly before she delivered her last baby and left her with his three other children and no way to support them. 

Mountains beyond mountains.

It certainly explained her lack of natural affection for the girl. 

When the baby's paternal grandparents found out that the mother had left her at the clinic, they threatened to kill her if she didn't get the baby back. Haitians often threaten to kill each other. Whether they ever carry out the threat, I do not know! So mama came back to get the baby so that the grandparents could take her into their home.

We sent her off with some formula and the hopes that she would find a better home with her grandparents. 

It would be easy to judge this woman, but when you think about the adversity she had suffered in just a few months, there must surely be more compassion than judgment. Hardship, bereavement, hunger, discomfort, illness, and deprivation are such a fact of life in Haiti that it boggles my mind to imagine living in such conditions.  And, of course, there are many other countries where life is just as harsh as it is in Haiti.

If you wonder what little-old-you-I'm-only-one-person can do about this, there is a book I would like to suggest. It is called Half the Sky and it will make you mad.

Maybe even mad enough to do something about it.

And then we can talk.

High on the mountaintop

From the upstairs balcony at the clinic, you can see the mountain known as Bonnet a L'Eveque, the smaller one on the right. The strange shape of the summit is actually a gigantic fortress built by Christophe (remember him?) called The Citadel. It is visible from much of this part of northern Haiti.

On our second Saturday in Haiti, we were lucky enough to pay it a visit. Sarah arranged for ten of us to rent two cars and drivers to take us almost to the top of that mountain. We drove for an hour or so, through the village of Milot that lies at the base of the mountain and then up a narrow, winding road to what is known as the "second parking lot". I never did find out where the first parking lot resides! By the time we got there the radiators on the cars were steaming away merrily, but the drivers paid them no heed.

Shortly after we left Milot, we were pulled over by some men on a couple of motorbikes. They extorted $5 from each of us (well, I guess that's the cost for foreigners to enter, but the manner of the request felt like extortion) and we were back on our way. As soon as we exited the cars in the parking lot, we were surrounded by Haitians who were selling tourist trinkets and food. I told one lady that I would buy a couple of maracas from her when I came back down and it seemed to pacify her, but it didn't stop the rest of the vendors from harassing me as I started up the hill. 

Jennifer, the president of the board, had arrived the day before. Here we are, beginning the ascent. Note how small the Citadel appears at this point.

It was a beautiful day, sunny but not too hot, with occasional clouds floating in the sky.

A local Haitian man attached himself to each one of us, apparently appointing himself as a personal guide. I tried to tell mine that I didn't want a guide, but it was a lost cause. Other men, leading small horses, tagged along as well, apparently hoping that we were too wimpy to make the climb.

Ha! I showed them!

It was hot and steep, but I made it to the top in good time, ignoring all of the food vendors that lined the path along the way. There were houses all along the path, which I couldn't figure out. They kind of hang on the side of the mountain with no visible support. Banana and citrus and avocado trees are planted on the steep cliffs. Again, I have no idea how the fruit is harvested. Yet there is a whole mountainside community that somehow lives and eats and does their laundry in this seemingly inhospitable environment.

When we arrived at the top, our guides guilted us into paying them. I didn't give mine much, because I had warned him that I didn't want him. Dolly, on the other hand, had been lagging at the back, and her guide told her that $20 is the normal amount of payment, so she gave it to him. Luckily, it was all the money she had in her pocket, so at least she was safe from any more extortion or guilt-induced beneficence.

The guides tell some fantastic stories, but much of Haiti's history is difficult to authenticate and I have an inkling that they fabricate some of the tales. This much is certain. It is the largest fortress in the Americas and is part of a series of fortifications that was built as a defense after the slave rebellion in case the French ever tried to regain control of Haiti. It was built by about 20,000 workers between the years 1805 and 1820. It must have been an astounding feat of engineering and labour, as the mountain is 3,000 feet high and very steep.

When Christophe commissioned the fortress, he was a general in the Haitian army in charge of the northern regions. He and fellow conspirator Alexandre Petion led a coup against Haiti's emporer, Jean-Jacques Dessalines. The result was a divided Haiti, with Christophe ruling the north and Petion ruling the south.

One of the outstanding features of the fortress is the cannons, of which there were originally 365. There are still enormous stockpiles of cannonballs throughout the structure. The Citadel has withstood many earthquakes, but has never had to stand against a French attack.

The views are breath-taking and you will please pardon me for subjecting you to a plethora of them.

Everywhere you turn there are walls with no barriers to a precipitous fall.

Lovin' my Einstein hair, which was even worse this day because it was combined with hat-head!

There was another guide who was determined to lead our group through the entire Citadel, but I lagged purposefully behind. This was one of the first areas as we entered the walls. It's shape was whimsical, but I'm sure it was of great utility in its time.

The stone floor was damp and slippery with moss. The foundation of the fortress was built right into the stone of the mountaintop and fastened with a mortar made of quicklime, molasses, and the blood of local goats and cows. There is no symmetry to the design, which includes storage space for enough food and supplies for 5,000 defenders for a year.

Emergency preparedness at its finest!

No roof at the top, but the open space gives you an idea of the shape of this area.

Most of the following pictures are just places that I liked but have no idea of the purpose they served.

We spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering around. Every now and then a Haitian would try dogging my footsteps and talking to me, but I studiously ignored them.

The walls are all pitted and covered in variegated lichens. The outside walls have holes in them, I suppose for guns. Some are unfettered by weeds and you can see through them for miles.

Other holes, like these, serve no other visible purpose than to be homes for geckos, of which there were many.

Some areas reminded me of Labrynth, in the staircase scene.

Cannonballs are everywhere, should you ever need one.

And lovely old cannons. This was the one time I regretted not taking my good camera, as the lighting inside was a little difficult to work with, such bright light through the windows but dim in the recesses of the rooms.

Some of the cannons had intricate designs in their casting.

Up in the sunlight again.

Sarah found herself a quiet spot.

This was a huge cooking pot on top of a fire pit. It was probably four feet across.

More Escher-esque design.

I think this was a system for the water, but don't quote me on that. It was the topmost part of the fortress and we were walking along the edges, high above the ground.

Jennifer bought a flute and the guy was teaching her how to play it.

On the way back down the mountain, I made Dolly link arms with me. Her flip-flops were not serving her well on the treacherous path and I also wanted to protect her from the voracious vendors. We passed many more  vendors and musicians on the way back down. First there was a group of men playing pipes, which we walked resolutely past. Then around a couple of corners was a group of young boys playing the same instruments. That was more difficult to ignore, but on we marched. Lots of fruit and snack vendors. Then, an old man playing a flute. He followed us for a long way, playing Auld Lang Syne over and over and over again. Later, we saw him in the parking lot, still playing the same song.

As we neared the parking lot, I could see that we were the first of our group to descend the mountain and I knew we were in trouble. Sure enough, we had to endure the solicitations of the vendors, who were increasingly insistent that we buy their wares, for about 30 minutes. One lady sidled right up next to me and nagged me in a soft voice. Mum, mum, please buy something from me. I have five children and I need to buy food for them. Mum, please mum. Over and over and over again. After I had moved away she came up to me again and started in: mum, mum, please, please, I have six children at home, at which point I burst into laughter and did not feel guilty at all for not buying anything from her. If you're going to lie, you'd better tell the same lie every time!

We finally all piled into the cars and started back down the mountain. This was a very slow journey and nerve-wracking, to say the least. About half-way down the road to Milot the brakes were smoking on both cars so we pulled over and some local residents threw buckets of water on them. I think it is standard procedure and probably the only source of income for the families that lived in that spot. Right where we stopped, you could see Sans-Souci Palace, which was one of nine palaces, fifteen chateaux and various other summer homes built by Christophe for himself and his family. It's not hard to see where Haitian history started to go wrong, is it? Um, let's see, how about within days of the revolution?

So, here's what I think about visiting the Citadel. 

If you ever get a chance, go for it. It is a unique experience, uncrowded (we only saw a half-dozen other foreigners the whole time we were there) and the views on that mountain-top are stunning. I am glad that I went, even though the aggressive locals came really close to ruining the experience for me. 

Take plenty of small bills if you want to support the local economy. 

Never pay the asking price. I offered the woman $10 for two maracas. She wanted $25 and said she couldn't do it, but after 30 seconds of haggling she met my price. Then another lady offered me two maracas and a carved box for $10. I tried not to kick myself all the way back to Mourne Rouge. 

If you give money to one person, you will be inundated with ten other people wanting money from your deep pockets. Personally, I don't mind paying a reasonable amount of money for a service or goods, but I deeply resent the implication that I owe the locals a living. And if I am lied to or harangued I will zip up my pocket so tight that my cash will never see the light of day.

Like so much in Haiti, forewarned is forearmed, so there you have it.

Thirty-nine photos.

A personal record.