poem

As a traveler, many people ask me what is my favorite country to visit?  I don’t know how to answer as each country and place enters my heart differently. I seek out the unique and the mundane, which sometimes is the same. 

The trick to thoroughly enjoying oneself, is to accept what is and not make comparisons to others or expectations.

Traditionally in Fiji, a stranger must receive a welcoming ceremony in order to enter the tribal villages. Their Kava ceremony requires the Chief of the village, in this case, Navilawa, enter first, then the other men and women follow and greet the seated guests. The oldest male in the visiting group responds to the greeting with a short speech and everyone answers with hello, welcome, Bula. The woman prepare a drink of the mild narcotic kava root (yaqona), three claps, and then the call of thanks, Vanaka.   As a light weight, I drank a “low tide”, Jim, our appointed spokesperson, the only male, and the oldest, toasted with a “high tide.” Not until after the group sang to us in harmony, were we able to walk in the village. On our return the formality had ceased, and we conversed with the villagers. The school children giggled, the woman hugged and whispered questions.

A similar ceremony was performed at our home hosted lunch in Fiji. Less formal and very intimate the humble abode was a two-room metal building with wooden floors, no electricity, despite a refrigerator in the kitchen used to store plates. After a meal of rice, meat stew, and cooked root vegetables splayed on their immaculate floor, the family sang in harmony. Their voices melded the ages of time and the two teens became one with their parents. The head of the family was affectionately called Bishop, an honor bestowed upon him by the local Mormon Church. Bishop took his role seriously until he began to dance. 

My heart raced at the gleam in his eye, the laughter as he placed my right hand bent behind my back to receive his right hand, and my left hand around his frame to catch his left hand bent behind his back.  Side by side our feet and bodies bounced to the music provided by their cell phone. (The teenagers helped set this up). It was the turn that thrilled me. We each went in the opposite direction, still connected, as our hands shifted in a slight rotation, bringing us back to the side by side position, still dancing. Only our hands had reversed still bound by the hold.

I saw this as metaphor.  The family’s life was changing.  Already one of their older children had left for a Mormon mission and stayed in New Zealand.  Their youngest, Emily, thrives at school, and loved the gift of my book, Tattle Tales, a collection of short stories.  She is caught between wanting to go in another direction and keep connected to her religion and to her village culture.  

New Zealand, a larger more modern country, has a similar but opposite situation. Everyone explains that it was the last habitable landmass discovered about 800 years ago by the Maori. Colonization brought rats, rabbits, possums, and weasles which wiped out the non-flying birds almost to distinction.  Visiting Zealandia, and the Kiwi Sanctuary emphasized the damage these mammals have done, and that to bring back the kiwi and other birds takes dedication, money and time. The future has lost these species, unless the connections can be recaptured.

Even the Maori natives, must reteach their customs, history, and language to New Zealanders.  We were invited to an informal welcome and waka paddle. Again, Jim was our leader, but this time he gave his welcome in the Google researched Maori language. Impressed, the Chief-tress noted the effort. Songs were exchanged and as the Kia Ora welcome ended, the Hongi nose-press greeting held even more significance.

Like the villagers in Fiji, the Maori must ensure the visiting party comes with peaceful intentions. With the pressing of noses, breath, the life force, is exchanged. The breath keeps us together despite our differences.

In South New Zealand we took a ferry from Queenstown on to Lake Wakatipu and then drove to the Mt. Nicholas Station.  Station means ranch and in this case the ranch consisted of 100,000 acres with 28,000 Merino sheep roaming in the upper hills of snow-capped mountains.  We arrived in high winds and belting rain. No matter, out we went to round up sheep, watching as the nose-dog corralled them together and the barker-dog steered them to where our guide directed.  

The shearing process is laborious, well-choreographed and fast paced.  With Reggae music playing, the shearers, in less than a minute and a half, shave the coats off as sweepers clear the space for the next sheep.  The brown edges are picked off, and the full coat is thrown to the tables, spread out, hand trimmed, and then thrown to the quality control sorter, the king master, who decides the grading. Once sorted the graded wool is bundled into a machine and then shipped to manufacturers.  The crew works eight hours a day with the same energy and intensity. The shearers earn $3 per sheep. A great income but with the hard work and skills needed, the next generation is not as receptive. The up and coming crop of workers want to be in the city, sitting behind desks. The owners fear that eventually automation will come. 

If I was younger, I’d try to learn the art of sheep herding, shearing and sorting. Farming that connects the mountains, the weather, the sheep and the dogs keeps a tradition alive.  Merino wool has rejuvenated a dying industry. Now that I know the history, I’ll keep their way of life alive as I purchase socks, scarves, sweaters and ear-warmers with the 100% Merino label.  I’ll hold their energy close to my skin.  

The beauty of majestic waterfalls, on a ferry ride through the Milford Sound, or the awe of trees and views in Abe Tasman National park, caused me pause.  As did the small towns where we wandered. Mud baths, geo-thermal reserves and jumping off a boat into the warm waters of Fiji, made me laugh, extend past my fears of heights, puzzle at nature’s surprises.

The sites awe, but for most part it is the people of a country that stays with me.  Coffee and New Zealand homemade treats with our guides family topped off the visit. Each of us must hold together what is important, move side by side, breath the essence of others and dance through life, still connected.

P.S.  Some other time I’ll write of Si—the master of ceviche and song.

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I base much of what I do on a reason, maybe not a good one, but it comes from a memory, advice or experience.   The best times are when I do something for no reason at all.

When I was younger, my family declared I was a finicky eater. (As an adult, I’d say I was discerning).   I didn’t like my mom’s spaghetti sauce. Every time she made the dish, I’d remind her that I just wanted plain spaghetti. She would nod and proceed to wash the sauce off.  I was young and watched silently until the time that she exclaimed in horror, “Oh, Abbe, I just washed your spaghetti down the drain.” In my smallest voice I replied, “Mom, why don’t you make me some without the sauce?”   

In my innocence I discovered, a hole in her thoughts.  She had repeated her recipe of combining the noodles with sauce for years. It never occurred to her to find a simpler way to accommodate my request.  My mom hugged me and boiled water.

Recently I learned of a new way to make corn on the cob.  Reed, a farmer in the valley, brought hot corn on the cob to a family reunion.  He simply husked the corn, filled a cooler with hot water, and let the corn cook as he traveled to the party.  The corn remained hot, and the kernels perfect—not hard or mushy. His reason was practical.

I discovered another trick from my sister-in-law who cans pickles. She takes the box of cucumbers and dumps them in the washing machine and puts it on the gentle wash cycle.  No soap but the water takes away the grime, the spikes and saves a ton of time. Her reason was to expedite the process and she bought an old washing machine for the cause.

As an author, I hold these snippets in my story bank, waiting for the perfect character. This is where I can show the depth, humor, and quirks of a life.  We all need these quips to keep us grounded. 

I usually have a cloth rubber band around my wrist, a habit I acquired when I became a mother.  My girls often lost theirs just when it was their turn on the soccer field. Now I keep the rubber band for security.  My past employees often came to work at my restaurant not prepared. I’d whip out the hair-tie and send them back on the floor to prep food. My old habit comes in handy.  When the weather turns hot, I rely on the rubber band to pull my crazy hair into a ponytail. Reasons change but not habits.

After I retired, I changed my time that I set off to swim.  Who in their right mind would leave the house at 5:00 am to exercise?  But a creature of habit finds change difficult. I compromised and discovered a new world.  Instead of just laps, I added water aerobics. I find myself laughing with all the women and a few men.  The instructor works us hard and I’m relieved when the class is done, because I’m left with an empty pool and just myself lapping the lanes while I pretend, I’m a mermaid.  

This minor change in time allowed for other discoveries.  The pool is the same, but in fact my Monday experience allows for new friendships, different patterns.  I even drive down different roads to avoid traffic. Still, I keep to my schedule on Wednesdays and Fridays.  Changing a habit is hard.

Summer is gone but here the Pacific Northwest, September is a gift.  They call it Indian Summer when autumn should be knocking at our door, but the weather is unseasonably warm, the sun shines. We get a second chance.  Our tendency of assigning names that might be offensive strikes me as another habit. Some call this time the gossamer or the goose summer. Others say it’s the time for spiders where their glossy webs are seen in the early mornings.  Coining a new name for an old habit will take time. I’ll start today, celebrating for no reason at all.  SSG– Summer’s Second Gift.      

If you look carefully at the characters in my novels, you’ll discover many of my observations of daily life.  I assign the quirks to them and give my idiosyncrasies purpose. My reason—to ensure that my craziness will endure.

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