My Raphael

The problem was this.  Raph didn't want to do school with us.  He's only three, after all, and although some research shows that early academics within certain social-economical demographics as soon as a kid has cut his first tooth does help with overall academic success later in life, I feel that for our family it's not necessary.  I wanted Raph to have a sweet childhood, and allow him to be little and play without choking him full of data.  That will come, surly, but now, right now, he's only three.  And I want to honor him by letting him have this golden time to be just a little guy, and discover his world on his terms.

He wanted to play with Andres, but couldn't when we were doing school.  School, three solid hours at least of focused and dedicated teaching, meant Raph was playing by himself or watching PBS.  I've usually been pretty persnickety about screen time, and letting him watch three hours of TV a day, even having the TV on for that long, drove me absolutely nuts.  Also, there seemed to be a massive inequity, while Andres got all my attention for that length of time, Raph was required to play by himself or indulge in TV.  So we changed our home school plan back to FLEX, allowing Andres all day on Wednesday to be with friends, and a day for Raph and I to connect and do some fun stuff together.

It's been a good change for all of us, although I won't use the curriculum FLEX gives us, and plan to purchase the curricula from CVA, because it's just that good.  Andres has become madly fascinated with ancient Rome and Greek cultures.

"Mom," he said one day, "I don't want to study Spanish anymore.  Can I study Latin?"

Sure thing there, seven year old son.  You want to study Latin, let's do it!  So I found him a wonderful curriculum at our local library, of all places.  What luck!  It's been fun for me, too, and to see him giddy to learn this new (ancient) language has been nothing short of wonderful for the both of us.

But the transition has been best for my relationship with Raph.  Wednesdays while Andres has been at a brick and mortar school,  we've been able to do things just he and I, and I feel that connective thread between us is viable again, less fragile.  We have so far created the little practice of going to the library, then going swimming at the gym.

Our Raph, as I've said before, is designed to be in water.  It's his favorite place.  He's taken baths close to two hours long, until the water is chilly, and his fingers have pruned, but it doesn't bother him in the least, with his selection of Batman toys and a random Hot Wheels, he's content as any fish.  It's a vision to behold, since he was less than one year old, when we took him to Seaside when he saw the ocean stretching to the horizon, he waddled towards it as fast as his newly used legs could carry him, an expression of determination and focus I hadn't seen in his eyes until then.  And he rushed into the lapping waves like a baby turtle, propelled to go there, driven by some innate command to run into the water and relish it.  

Now we go to the pool, his most favorite thing in the week, and we play in the water, and ride the river, and he rolls around as stealthily as an otter, or sea lion.  His need to be submersed in water hasn't lessened over time, in fact, it's grown more independent, and there are times that he pushes my supportive hand off him, and he doesn't struggle or flail in the water, he just sinks, his beautiful brown eyes wide under the surface and staring at me as he slowly descends to the floor of the pool, his curls billowing around his cherubic face, little bubbles escaping his open mouth smile, before finally reaching our for me again to be pulled to the surface where he sucks in a gulp of air.  You must breath air, my little fish.  I confess it's a little disturbing to see him like that under water and sinking with his eyes focused on me, and I always feel relief when he finally reaches for me, ready to surface.

His new thing that I've rather mandated he learn is to hold on to me as we count to three before sucking in a breath, holding our noses, and with him on back and his arms around my neck, we submerge, swimming a length of the pool before finally popping up at the other wall. He amazes me, and I wonder how God will use his passion for water, what purpose will it serve this little man, or the world?

Raph's favorite thing is helping me cook.  I remember when Andres was this age and the chair scraped from the table over the linoleum to the stove where he eagerly awaited instructions, and it eventually broke my heart when his interest to help faded.  Here comes my Raph now, when he sees me at the stove, rushes to a chair where he scrapes it across the floor to crawl up and stand by my side, eager and ready to cook.  Sure there are mishaps, such as yesterday when we were making cookies (our favorite thing to cook) and the Kitchen Aide was full of creamed eggs, butter, vanilla, and sugars, when we had just added two cups of flour, a couple teaspoons of baking soda and a cup of oats when he too eagerly flipped the power switch from 0 to 9 before I could stop him and, you can imagine, it looked as if it had snowed in our kitchen, and Raph and I were spooks looking askance at each other through powder-coated eyelashes.  But then there are those small magical moments when last week he and I had made vegan Peanut butter cookies together (vegan because we were out of milk, butter, and eggs, and I happen to have an awesome vegan cookie cookbook for just such moments--they were the best peanut butter cookies ever, btw), and my job was to roll the little balls of dough, and his job, with his long-pronged fork raised and ready, was to embellish the cookies, first this way, then the other way.  He felt so big and grown up, and after I showed him that we wanted the little boxes and lines on the top, he created his own adorable Peanut butter Cookie Calling Card, by gently pushing down one of the tiny boxes left by the fork indents.  One little peanut butter cookie dough box in each cookie, smashed.  He was so proud.  He calls them Cookiebutter Cookies.  And he still talks about that day, and our special moment together.

I'm trying to get better at capturing these moments with him, and so I rushed to our camera where the batteries were dead.   I'm left holding the image of his little pudgy index finger so carefully pressing a tiny piece of dough flat into the cookie as a treasure in my heart.

I've taken to babysitting on Fridays for my friend, Staci, and her sweetheart of a little boy comes out to play with the boys.  It's been a double win for us because we love having her little guy over, but also I get a little cash, which we so desperately need.

One week I was able to take that cash and with a coupon Raph and I went to the zoo, for the first time since he was 9 months old.  And it was spectacular.  He marveled at everything, especially the fish.

Our day at the zoo.  He loved the Arapaima (huge fish) display in the Amazon house.  These guys above are trout.
But still cool.

We had a blast, and he was so fun to play with.  Afterwards, we used some of that cash to actually go to Burgerville for our lunch--I KNOW!  A real restaurant, just he and I, and we had a little date.  We've never done that, and would never be able to afford it had it not been for that babysitting gig.  It was a momentous day for us both, and we loved it.

He's quite a joker, too our little Raph, and his sense of humor is so much like Aaron's.  But this week he's said two little things that I need to jot down to hold onto for years to come because I thought they're cute, and they cracked me up.

One evening I got him out of the tub and started to rub his wet curls with the towel, a thing he has always loathed, and he blurted out "Stop, Mom!"  I looked at him shivering cold and wet.

"Honey I need to dry your hair a bit."

With sudden authority and a touch of gravely tenor to his voice he replied, "Don't dry my hair, I'm BATMAN."

I thought it was a good effort at stopping me, and as I chuckled at him, pulling rank as it were, he shuffled away to his room, his Bat-Hair Bat-Dripping Wet.

Then the other day after lunch I sat at the table with the boys as they finished their salads.  I was annoyed, as it sometimes happens after eating roughage, and covered my mouth to discreatly remove the culprit.

"What's wrong with your mouth?" he asked with a mouth full of food.

"I have something in my teeth," I admitted.

He shrugged and shoveled another mouthful of salad in, then asked, "Is it a spider?"

I laughed out loud at that, and told him no, I didn't have a spider stuck in my teeth.  But he was concerned, and wanted to get to the bottom of it.

"A tarantula?"

"No, not a tarantula."

"A bug?"

Seriously, what does this kid think I have in my mouth?  Finally I told him it was just a bit of lettuce, but he wasn't convinced.  He just kept eating and looking at my teeth with skepticism.   He's a fierce arachnophobe, and for some reason he jumped to the worst case scenario, a spider stuck in my teeth!

It's rough at times, naturally, and Aaron and I are spread very, very thin in all things right now, it can be hard to really enjoy the tiny little miracles, the precious fleeting moments, but I pray that I delight in my boys as they're little for only a short while, and they are indeed from heaven, so rare and special, the sparkling stars of my life.

Thank You

When I opened the door Monday afternoon to get the mail, I nearly stepped into a huge bag of gently used, brand-name clothing for boys.  Beside it was another huge bag of gently used name brand boy clothing, some still with tags, and a massive, heavy box loaded with a superb selection of delicious and healthy pantry items, and nestled in among it all was a medium gift bag with fresh Comice pears, just starting to blush, and fragrant, perfect clementines.  After looking around, up and down our street to find the proprietor of such a profoundly generous gift, and even examining the concrete in our driveway for any tracks or clues (always fancied myself rather Nancy Drew-like) only to find nothing left behind, I carried it all in and place it on our kitchen table, marveling at the enormity of it all.  Tucked into one of the clothing bags was a small, simple card, left anonymous, in a elegant red felt-tip script.  I had to read it several times, for the tears had blurred my vision.

God knows it's been a year of strife and struggle here, and the waning has began wear us down like sand rubbing on wood.  My faith has grown brittle, and my hope has thinned.  Sometimes I feel myself becoming bitter and pessimistic, which I resent, but can't wash away.  I'm exhausted by hoping for things to get better sometimes.  As if hope is like some kind of unicorn or mermaid, a mythical beast that teases me to chase it murky, uncharted forests, leaving me feeling baffled and lost when I finally come to senses and realize it was just a figment of my imagination.

But that massive load of love that someone most carefully deposited on our doorstep, that was real. Real as oxygen, and made hope tangible again.  And so I see God working in the people around us, reminding us that we are taken care of and loved, and not to give up, gives us meaning and recharges us, drives our courage and focus, and challenges us to be more attentive to His voice and His nudge.

Thank you, to my mysterious donor with really good taste in clothing and food.  Thank you for the thoughtfulness and generosity.  Thank you to all the people who have been so loving and thoughtful this past year, taking time to share tea, or have a playdate, help fix our car, or coming out and pray with us until 2 am.  Thank you for leaning in to His voice, and for modeling to us how to be in the world.  God bless you and your family!

Season of Wonder

What will we remember of this season, this year, this month?  The toys under the tree, or the laughter over the table with friends?  The way the cookies smell of cloves and cinnamon or buttercream?

Here's what I want to remember from this year--

Raphael, who is now three and a half, has awoken to the magic of the season.  He is a Christmas boy, and I imagine one day, he'll be the one with his house finely lit, complete with yard ornaments of wise men and a manger.  A very hip and jive version of Clark Griswald.  Tastful, not tacky.  And oh the magic!  It will be there, in his eyes, years from now, as they round and sparkle with the wonder of it all.  His sensitive ears tune into the music we play in our home, the Jawbone speaker blaring from its perch on the shelves over the TV, and Pandora chimes all the vintage Christmas favorites.   And "Jingle Bells" is his favorite.  His language is still choppy, and I need to lean into his words for meaning, but the joy is expressed through his chocolate brown eyes, and his dimples when he smiles with a gap in his front teeth.  Words?  Who needs words when you have so much joy spilling from those deep soulful eyes?  When the song comes on, he lights up and sings along with it, at the top of his voice, and mah-mah-mahing his way through the words when he doesn't remember them (as we all do, honestly).  And his new favorite song, "Let it Snow!" has been claimed, and he does reclaim it each and every time it's on, declaring "It's my song, Mama!"  How did he learn the words for that?  Who of us in this house have ever claimed a song like this?  None, but our dear Raphael.  Our sweet little man whose ears are so finely tuned, and heart so mildly forged, that he owns a song as if it has been stirred and baked from the ovens of his own toasty-warm heart?  His heart sings.  For me, this is part of the season's magic I inhale like perfume.  

The days have been long this winter.  Spiked with a surprise snowfall that shut down the city, and our efforts to sled at the park were greeted with dismal grass that had frosted over, winter has arrived.  The days have been frozen, chilly, and the fog as thick as soup.  After homeschool the boys romp outside, and I warm their Ramen for lunch (we be po' this year, just another year of living as starving college kids, again...still, and goodness knows there's no nutrition in that Ramen, but when I add some frozen peas, I feel better about it, and they feel full), and sometimes some hot cocoa with mini marshmallows in their matching orange mugs, or blueberry tea, to warm their cold little fingers when they come in from the biting chill of outdoors.

My Blueberry Tea Recipe
-boiling water
-frozen blueberries
-lemon or orange slices, whatever is in the fridge that day
-honey to taste
Stir with small Austrian coffee spoons, and serve with a Russian Tea Cakes or iced sugar cookies.  Make sure holiday music is blaring, it adds sparkle to the flavor.

Last weekend was chock full of joy for us.  Friday night as soon as Aaron came home from work, we changed and prissed up for a company party with Tia Kissy in Portland.  This is our third year going and the food and music, not to mention the company of amazing social workers serving severely abused children in the state of Oregon, we had a great time there, and were able to even get a sitter which in our book qualifies as a real date.  The next day we had our dear friends the Votrobecks out, and they brought a lasagna dinner, then we decorated about 100 sugar cookies, making sure they took home their share.  And Sunday, our beloved friends-dare I call them just friends, for they feel more like family-the Coomalas came out for the day.  How indulged!  Sarah and I prepared the lunch while the men tinkered in our dieing car--long story, epically long, and not very interesting at that, but the synopsis could be this: if our car was a horse, we'd have shot it three years ago.  But Jon, bless him, was such a help for Aaron to help fix our car so it would work, and Sarah and I were able to catch up, decorate gingerbread/"ninja"bread men, AND put three boys down for a nap while the guys worked out in the cold!  Superstars, that's what.  It felt like family, to settle in, hang out, drink tea, and share time.  I loved every moment, and was so sad when they had to go home that late afternoon, but so grateful for the memory.  That night we were indulged by our sweet friends the Grice who came caroling with their four beautiful children, bringing delicious chewy molasses cookies with song.  Raphael, who was in the tub and wasn't about to miss the moment, rushed down stairs, shiny wet from his bath and not wearing a stitch, to offer a very merry Christmas streak to them as they loaded up for the next house on their list.

These days I have grown lonely in the kitchen, and it seems only proper that the boys help me in the Christmas cooking.  For both sugar and gingerbread cookies, the boys have helped me.  How deeply does it tickle me when I get out the cinnamon, and rather than reach for a measuring spoon, they offer their cupped fingers, to measure as I do, because they have learned what a teaspoon looks like in the palm of the hand?  Many days I have put Raph down for a nap and as Andres rests in his room I have tiptoed to his door to peek in.

"If you pick up your toys, you can come downstairs and make (insert any sugary Christmas treat) with me."

He responds with an eager hustle of effort, and none too quietly stumbles down stairs to wash his hands and begin the baking with me, standing on a chair at my side, his cupped hand extended as I pull down the nutmeg from cabinet.  He does it all these days:  crack eggs, pour milk into the measuring cup (some things must be measured out properly, after all), work the Cuisinart mixer...he's a wonder boy, that one.  Both boys helped cut sugar cookies and gingerbread men, so mature and on-task in the kitchen.  I'm so blessed to have such great helpers!

What will I remember of this year as I'm gray and old so long from now?

Not the fact that we're broke, and stressed, and strained, and choked so full of humanity and struggle that we can't sleep at night.  Not that we find ourselves growing into an age that suddenly slows us down via energy or effort.  Not the Ramen and Cup-o-Soups that we call food, or the meager stash of dollar store toys high in our bedroom closet that we call stocking-stuffers, or the mess and filth of our rental that's a far cry from the magic of a Dickens' Christmas setting, not even the great void of family that I had when I was little, specifically my own family, especially now.  None of that will stand out when I wrap myself up tight in that shawl so many years from now, lost in my nostalgia of Christmases Past.

What I hope to remember is what warms me now:  the song in my son's voice as he blares "his song" from the depths of his lungs, the way Andres hops out of bed to hunt down the Elf every morning, the smell of cookies in the oven, and the laughter, story-telling, merry-making, and sounds of small boys who will one day be men.  And even then, even then, I will lean into them to see their then-large grown, manly hands cradle a teaspoon of cinnamon.

The Best Pep Talk

November has been a crazy month, and December doesn't seem to be less busy.  But NaNo is over, and although I didn't think I could do it, because we spent three days at Thanksgiving in Selah and became horrifically behind in my word count, like 8,000 words behind!  I was ready to throw in the towel, but my amazing husband encouraged me to keep trying, to meet that goal, and after typing out 6,500 words to finish, I was able to win NaNoWriMo this year!  Of all the pep talks the nice folks a NaNo send to my inbox, the very strongest and most profound came from my husband standing in the kitchen telling me to not give up, after having come so close.  His words, love, encouragement for NaNo are just part of the everyday, big or small, words, love, and encouragement he always shares.  I may have reached my 50K, but that man, because he's in my corner, and the very best man I've ever known, makes me a winner.

Finally, with NaNo out of my hair, I'm all about Advent.

I've been following this blogging mom, Oh Amanda, for nearly four years, and after that amount of time watching other bloggers have such success and so much fun with her ebook for Advent, I finally purchased the Truth in the Tinsel, with a 20% off coupon, and have set aside time each day to do our little Advent devotionals together.  It's perfect.  It lays out scripture, a small activity of creating a little ornament together that links to the days theme, and has devotionals for little kids to really have scripture accessed and understood.  It's very well done, and I'm so glad I finally dropped the dough to get the ebook, best less-than-eight-bucks spent this season, so long as I don't have to plan it out right now, what with homeschool, Advent, Elf on the Shelf, baking cookies, making cards and gifts, and other holiday events.  Each daily activity only takes 10-30 minutes, really as long as we want or need it to.  And it's something we can do every year for a while, so the money was well worth it!

Click here to visit Truth in the Tinsel.

Today, we did Day One together as a family, and that was special since Aaron could read the scripture and be able to participate, which won't always be the case as Aaron focuses on sending out three applications to PhD programs, finish the quarter, and take finals these next two weeks.  How that man manages is beyond me.  He works long hours at work.  He commits long hours to grad school.  And completing these applications is like another part-time job!  Ammmmaaaaaazzzzzzing.  God bless him.

So we put the tree up this morning, amidst merry Christmas music and periodic stressful moments regarding small boys and Grandma's heirloom antique glass ornaments.  This year, Raph absorbs it.  He loves it, and would lay under the tree all day, if we let him.  He was so excited to decorate, it just melts my heart to see the magic in his eyes this year.  Andres is stoked as well, and loved to help Aaron string the lights on the tree, historically having been my job!  He's getting so big so fast.  I can't believe, when I look at him with his handsome features, that he's my own son sometimes.

So the season of wonder is here, and it's so precious and fleeting.  I'm holding onto this joyous age when our boys are little and full of the miracle of Christmastime, holding on with all my strength, to relish it, to capture the sparkle of twinkling lights in their dark brown eyes, of the way their little fingers cling to a red shiny ornament, and the whimsical swirls of hot cocoa mustaches over their little lips.  This is the sweet spot.  This age, this season, this time of parenthood and childhood, is so very precious.

Signs

When Aaron and I were in college we avoided the sweltering heat one evening and ran to the movie theater where we could relish a few hours of air conditioning, and watch a movie that was touted to be the 'Jaws of cornfields'--a little M. Night Shyamalan flick that was slotted as a thriller movie.  But afterwords as I left the cool interiors of the movie theater into the oppressive heat of the summer night, what I realized was that it wasn't an alien thriller movie at all.  It was a metaphor about faith.  Omit alien and insert anything you like.  Cancer or car crash, lost job, or cheating spouse, whatever it is, it comes to us unwelcome, invading, confusing, and painful.  And in the midst of that struggle there are hints at something bigger, something sacred in the suffering, something drawing us into the powerful connective tissue of humanity, with small, darting glimmers of hope that keep our feet moving forward despite the mud and blood and tears.

Her husband suffered a brain injury, and her story speaks to all of us.

When I was a middle school Language Arts teacher I attended a workshop in a high school and that teacher had a poster on his wall with a quote that melted me.

"Be kind, for everyone is fighting a great battle."

~Ian MacLaren

It moved me because I wanted to be that person who had an awareness of the pains around me.   I wanted to see the troubled behavior as reaching out, as communication, as an SOS from someone as their ship is sinking.  Not that I thought could swoop in and save them, not that I had the perfect thing to say to remedy their pains or struggles, but that I could just simply be kind.  Be kind without judgement or condemnation.  Be kind and nothing else.  

Years ago I watched an interview with Oprah, and was moved at her insight about what every human being she has ever interviewed:

“I’ve talked to nearly 30,000 people on this show, and all 30,000 had one thing in common: They all wanted vali­dation. If I could reach through this tele­vision and sit on your sofa or sit on a stool in your kitchen right now, I would tell you that every single person you will ever meet shares that common desire. They want to know: ‘Do you see me? Do you hear me? Does what I say mean anything to you?’

Everyone wants validation, compassion, encouragement.  Everyone needs kindness because aren't we all in a fight, exhausted, wounded, troubled, crippled in some way?

Our family has been graced with powerful reminders to be aware of the people around us, of the flares they send out for help.   We are penitent for the judgements we have cast on others when our lives were clicking along beautifully and we were frustrated with them because we wanted them to just hurry up and be happy, get over it, move on because their struggles were killing our buzz.  At the time it didn't feel like that, but now, on the other side of experience, we see it for what it was.  

I feel especially sorry for responding to my brother this way years ago, my little brother Wade, who had consequences and circumstances that I had never had to deal with personally, and I wanted him to just get it together.  We were doing well at the time.  We were in a house, happily married, a new baby boy, in secure jobs, plugged in at church.  Why couldn't he just follow our model and do the same thing? The funny thing about circumstances is they are always theoretically applied.  We can say we know what we'd do in their shoes, but it's not true.  We can tell them what they should do, or how to handle their situation, or give them a stirring motivational oration that would move angels to weep, but that's not what anyone needs.  What he needed, what we need, what every single person needs, is kindness and validation.

I'm so grateful to the people in our live who have been graceful with us during this season of tribulation, and gentle, and kind, and validating.  There are no words to convey how your love has taught us how we want to be in the world.  

This article is what I needed today.  The story broke my heart, and spoke to my heart, and reminded me to simply have heart.

En Route

Fade In:  Night on the freeway.  Raining, wipers streak against the windshield.  KLOVE plays softly on the radio.  Red break lights illuminate faces in the car, boys getting restless in the back seat, mom anxious to get through the congested Portland traffic to pick husband from work.

Raph:  IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII love you, Mom.

Mom:  (sigh)  I love you too, Raphie.

Raph:  I love you AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH lot, Mom.

Mom:  I love you a lot too, sweetheart.

Raph:  Okay, stop talking now, Mom.  It quiet time.  Quite time NOW.

Back On the Horse & the Holiness of Garbage Trucks

I've been a naughty blogger.  Sporatic at best.

I actually created an epic photo video from the summertime to compensate for the vast drought of posts here for four months, and after hours and hours editing that masterpiece, YouTube nixed it because it detected the contents I used regarding copyrighted music.  Not like I would be trying to make money off it, just a digital scrapbook with sound, that's all.  I had given all the props right there on the video to each artist, and I even tried to make my blog private and YouTube was still all "no way, you filthy, rotten music stealer."  I totally get it, I really do love musicians, and value their art and craft, and really do have respect for their rights and all that.  But COME ON!!! That video was going to be the coolest thing since sporks, man!  So, currently it's vaulted in my computer, and hopefully I can alter it and share it here one day.  With uber cool reggae music nonetheless.

In the meantime, I thought I had better get back on the saddle with this blog and continue to chronicle the events of my family so one day my boys can read it and (hopefully) appreciate their childhood through my eyes, and draw new insights into adulthood and parenthood through my words and experiences.  We're still seeking miracles here, and it's still very messy.  So the show must go on.

Today was an average day where we took Papa to work and then rushed home to eat breakfast then dive into school.  And as we were trying to back into our driveway to get it all started, the garbage truck was blocking our route.  As my right turn blinker ticked away, we watched that giant truck extend an arm with perfect agility and clasp with two robot fingers onto our garbage can.  Somehow, for some reason, it was hypnotic, and we three each absorbed the slow, mechanical movements as it heaved the garbage off the roadside and hold it over the massive hole on it's top, releasing a week's worth of diapers, cat litter, laundry lint, and other unspeakably nasty things dismissed in a family's trash.  And it occurred to me that the man driving the truck was good at his job, and I waved at him, as did the boys, as he drove down the block with a kind smile on his burly face.  

I couldn't help but smile as well, and I suddenly wanted to hug that man.

What if we didn't have garbage trucks?  I know what that looks like first hand.  When we were in Senegal 5 years ago, we were mesmerized by the raw and rustic beautiful of sub-Saharan Africa.  But the population isn't capable of affording food or medicine or clean water to drink and wash babies in, let alone the luxury of a sanitation department to collect and dispose of waste.  And the land was decimated by not only poverty but filth as well.  And even way out in the bush, far from the cities with their weak but running sanitation efforts, the beautiful, iconic African landscape was ruined by trash.  Plastic sacks wrapped around and hung from ancient baobab trees, and soda bottles or cans lay where they were dropped or where the wind had swept them.  Little bits of cellophane fluttered like butterflies from branches of acacia trees, and donkeys lumbered around with plastic wrapped around their legs or suctioned to their mouths as they tried to graze around it.

Somewhere between Baba Garage and Theis, Senegal in 2009:  I took this shot from the van as we left the villages, the long road into the city, the airport, and home.  Sadly the trash litters the bush as far as the eye can see.

And I'm not saying this with any elitist Christian pity, or ugly American arrogance.  It's only an observation, a contrast of cultures and circumstances.  I mention Senegal because today I wanted to hug my garbage truck driver, I wanted to yank him out of that odoriferous beast with its didactylous arm, and squeeze the prunes out of him because he did his job well, and he did it with a smile, and a friendly wave at a mom who was anxious to get the long day going, and two little boys who were enchanted by the truck he operated with such ease, for making it look easy, for lifting three dark fingers in a small salute to us, and smiling inside that scruffy beard as he drove our trash away.