Traveling Through Transnistria

Transnistria, a sliver of land at the eastern border of Moldova, right next to the Ukraine, wanted to be part of Russia, not Moldova, when the former Soviet Union broke apart in 1992. Refusing to assimilate into Moldova, Transnistria continued to use the Russian ruble even after Russia had issued new rubles and stopped accepting the old-style currency as legal tender. The Transnistrians added a postage stamp to the Russian rubles to indicate they were their currency.

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian troops have been present in Transnistria. While my husband Alex and I were in Moldova, from 1992 until 1994, General Alexander Lebed was in command of the Russian 14th Guards Army in Moldova which was involved in skirmishes in Transnistria and another semi-autonomous region, Gaugazia.

The Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) has had a presence in Moldova since the early 1990s, charged with facilitating a negotiated settlement between Moldova and Transnistria. At the time we were in Moldova, the ambassador from the OSCE to Moldova was a Canadian. One weekend, he, his wife, one of his local staff, Oksana, the U.S. Ambassador to Moldova Mary Pendleton, Alex, and I set off for a relaxing few days in Odessa, on the Black Sea coast of the Ukraine. We left Friday afternoon in two cars, the OSCE ambassador, his wife and Oksana in one, Ambassador Pendleton, Alex, and I in the other. The OSCE ambassador's car was in the lead since Oksana was to be our translator for the trip. She was to explain to the guards at the Transnistrian “border,” which the U.S. government did not recognize, why we needed to be given speedy and unimpeded passage through Transnistria to the Ukraine.

Oksana had been a university student in Odessa and she was very eager to show us what Odessa had to offer.  Her initial responsibility, getting us through the Transnistrian border, was not a problem as Ambassador Pendleton was waved through without having to stop. Once we reached Odessa, we checked in at a private sanitarium at the edge of the city. The name conjured up visions of patients with tuberculosis or schizophrenia, but Oksana explained it was a place that offered a relaxing and calming setting and was very desirable for weekend stays.

We didn't spend much time there. That evening we headed for a meal at a restaurant overlooking the coastline and beach. The restaurant was full of very well-dressed, cosmopolitan young couples, some of whom looked as though they had just walked out of a stylish European casino.  There was music and dancing, although we chose to remain spectators as the fashionably dressed couples filled the dance floor.

The next day we toured several museums, many of them with a strong military slant. We also went to see the Potemkin stairs, originally 200 steps leading from the city situated on a high steppe plateau to the harbor. That evening we went to a concert where one of the most noticeable acknowledgements of the change in the government was the hole in the flag on the stage curtain where the hammer and sickle had been. After the concert, Oksana suggested we go to a hotel that was well known for its entertainment at the bar.  As she had done at nearly every other stop, she recommended that we not park directly in front of the location we intended to spend our time. Instead, she had the OSCE ambassador drive around the corner from the hotel where she located two parking spots so that the two cars would be parked one in front of the other. It may have been that desire that the two cars remain close to one another than led her to make the recommendation. We didn't ask; we just wondered.

The next morning, Sunday and our last day in Odessa, Oksana recommended we have breakfast at a famous downtown restaurant before we headed a short distance out of town to see another Ukrainian Black Sea site. At this location, there were plenty of parking spaces directly in front of the restaurant, including on a very wide sidewalk where others parked their cars. But instead, Oksana again took us around the corner to park the two cars out of sight and we then walked back to the restaurant. At the end of the meal, we walked back to the corner. It was immediately obvious that something was wrong. There was only one car on the street, Ambassador Pendleton's Honda. The OSCE ambassador's Lada was missing. Instead of spending a short time at the other site after which we planned to travel back through Transnistria, arriving at the border while it was still daylight, we ended up back at the restaurant where we had had breakfast and Oksana called the police.

Gasoline was in very short supply in all of the former Soviet Union at that time, so when Oksana got through to the police, she was asked to arrange to pick up a policeman who would investigate the missing vehicle. Ambassador Pendleton, the OSCE ambassador, and Oksana headed out to pick up the policeman, leaving the OSCE ambassador's wife, Alex, and me behind.

Once the policeman was on site, he seemed optimistic that they would be able to find the ambassador's car. He recommended that we just wait. In the meantime, Ambassador Pendleton, the OSCE ambassador, Oksana and the policeman made a few other stops to file reports and investigate options.

By 3 p.m., Ambassador Pendleton was concerned that if we didn't leave soon, we would arrive at the Transnistrian border at dusk. She did not want to  confront the informal Transnistrian militia at any disadvantage, so she began to press for the six of us squeezing ourselves into her car so that we could return. Oksana assured her that she could get us past the border without a problem, so waiting a little longer would be fine.

So we waited. By 5 p.m., Ambassador Pendleton decided waiting any longer was out of the question. She insisted that the six of us get into her car and head back. But Oksana and the OSCE ambassador were unwilling to give up. Instead of getting into Ambassador Pendleton's car, they agreed that the four of us - Ambassador Pendleton, Mrs. OSCE Ambassador, Alex, and I - should head back to Moldova while they waited in town until the car could be located. Oksana gave Ambassador Pendleton directions for what she called a short-cut so that we would get to the border more quickly.

The four of us left, now minus the only Russian speaker among us, and headed for the border as the sun sank lower and lower. By the time we reached the border, daylight was nearly gone and we realized that the guards there, most of them very young men without any identifiable uniforms, had been standing in the sun while drinking all afternoon. When the car stopped, the guard who approached the ambassador stumbled as he walked towards the driver side window. His rifle was slung over his shoulder but the other guards were holding their rifles by the barrels, resting the butts on the ground, like walking sticks.

The guard insisted the ambassador get out of the car. She tried to speak with him in Romanian, but that didn't work. He motioned for her to go to the back of the car and then he pointed to the trunk, indicating he wanted her to open it. She did. But when he started opening the suitcases in the trunk she pushed his hands out of the way and told him he didn't have any right to inspect anything in her car because we were all diplomats and her car had diplomatic plates on it. She closed the trunk, got back into the car, put it in gear and drove off. The rest of us slunk down into the seats so our heads were below the level of the back window, expecting the worst.

It took a few minutes before we all exhaled.

Day 365 1/2 - Thank You

by  woodleywonderworks  When I set out to write at least 500 words every day for a year, I knew that declaring that goal aloud would improve the likelihood that I would stick with it. So I chose to use this blog to post what I wrote as a way to demonstrate that I meant it. Along the way, so many of you have helped by providing comments and "Likes" on Facebook so that I could see your reactions. That feedback was invaluable motivation. So I'd like to send my thanks to you all.

• To Benjamin W for asking me questions about Iran that led to a couple of more thoughtful pieces in this series;
• To Dick K for mentioning that you enjoyed reading about my life in the 70's;
• To Tony K for telling me you looked forward to reading what I wrote every evening;
• To Kathy M for telling me even before I got started that I should write;
• To Sharon S for telling me about NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - and for encouraging me to put my posts together into a book;
• To Kevin L for responding to my card that resulted in my writing the precursor for some of these to restart our friendship;
• To Susan B, Kay N, and both Kathy M and Sharon S again for your thoughtful suggestions regarding the piece that was eventually included in The Guilded Pen, the San Diego Writers and Editors Guild anthology;
• To Linda M for telling me again and again I should put these together to publish them;
• To Vicki S, Kathy W, Laurel S, Susan M, Lois G, DeAnn S, Anna W, Mark H, Kathy G, Wayne W, Joan K, Bonnie S, Erin H, Ron D, Bruce W, Sofia D, Jim M, Carolyn I, Marina B, Barbara F, Gloria G, Carolyn L, Julie K, Stephanie S, Benjamin D, Steve F, Jack B, John M, Jodi Y, Marcia C,  Lori W, Melissa J, Susan H, Lynne H, Sandra O, Penny J, Roland O, and Michael W for adding at least one comment along the way to let me know you were reading them; and
• To everyone else who clicked Like for one or more pieces as further encouragement.

I will be looking through the posts for potential pieces to submit for next year's San Diego Writers and Editors Guild anthology and will post again for your incredibly helpful and generous comments.

Thank you all.

Day 365 - Final Reflections on Mom's Assignments

fifteen cents

The topic of Mom's fourth assignment was the role of money in her life. I had never thought of Grandpa, her dad, as being wealthy, but a few years out of college when I volunteered as a translator and driver for a man from Bolivia who was brought to the Red River Valley to minister to the migrant workers in sugar beet country, the people on the farm where the Bolivian lived referred to Grandpa as the man who owned half the county. An exaggeration, I'm sure, but Grandpa provided valuable lessons to his children on how to live frugally.

Mom and Dad taught me the value of money and how to use it when they first gave me a weekly allowance of 15 cents. A dime went into my piggy bank, a penny went into my church envelope, and I could spend the remaining 4 cents any way I wanted. In order to buy a candy bar, I had to save at least a penny from one week into the next week. Others might have concluded my allowance was only 4 cents, but no one could have convinced me of that. When I got my first paycheck with money deducted for taxes and social security, I was already used to the concept of withholding.

Camp Fire buddies Sherry, Sandy, and Mary

Camp Fire Girls provided an opportunity to learn to budget -- even if it was really just recording how I spent money. I learned the difference between fixed and flexible expenses, a valuable lesson when I returned to graduate school and had to survive on an income that just barely exceeded my monthly rent.

The values of those early lessons weren't always obvious until much later, of course. A sharp contrast makes an image appear clear. Neither Don nor John had ever learned to manage money. Don was used to taking money from his Mom's wallet when he wanted it, so that's what he did with my wallet -- always without telling me. One Friday, the only day of the week that I needed more than 15 cents to buy lunch (a dime for a day-old ham and cheese sandwich and a nickel for a snack-sized bag of Cheetos), I was ready to leave with Kris, the woman I worked with, when I found my wallet was empty.

John was used to handing over his entire pay check to his father -- with great resentment -- and then getting from his father whatever he asked for, no matter the cost. The misalignment of earnings to costs was never clear to him, much to the detriment of our relationship. I thought it would work for the two of us to agree we should live on an allowance, so we each took a specific amount from our checks to spend however we wanted. When I used mine on a blender, John accused me of making the decision to use "our" money without consulting with him. He spent all his allowance on lunches. He couldn't comprehend that I would put money from my allowance aside to spend on something tangible. Eventually we settled on using different checking accounts. He had his, I had mine, and we had ours. The allowances went into our personal accounts. When John's checks bounced, he always declared it was the bank's fault.

And I also have felt through all of my life that I needn't worry about money -- when I need it -- if I truly need it -- it will be there. The fact that I won just over $2,000 two months before I planned to quit my job and return to school, with no savings to fall back on, was probably the most dramatic example. I am sure I would have managed somehow without that source, but it made the transition from full-time work to full-time student less intimidating. And then, the fall after the summer I volunteered to drive the Bolivian around Cass and Clay counties, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis and couldn't work so I didn't even have that meager income to cover my rent. Just when I didn't know what I was going to do,  the church group that sponsored the Bolivian sent me a check for $100 to thank me for my volunteer work - just enough to pay the rent.

The fifth assignment topic was the meaning of life, aspirations and goals

by  readerwalker  I don't know if I'll know what the meaning of life is until I have finished living it. But I believe there must be meaning in the living. And I believe that I have the power to choose to live so that the effect on myself or others is positive. I try to learn good lessons from every person I meet and from every situation I am in. I sometimes get distracted, and then too often disappointed, by the aspirations others have instilled in me -- promotions or assignments others recommend, for example. But after reflection, it is always clear that these external goals are not important. Knowing that I have caused no harm or maybe even contributed some good is what is important.

Alex recently told me that one of my previous bosses in the Foreign Service told him I would never get promoted into the senior levels because I cared too much about my staff. Given those options - promotion into the Senior Foreign Service or caring about my staff - I think I made the right choice.

I didn't always want to go to church every Sunday. There were plenty of Sundays when I felt that having to get up early was punishment for having had fun by staying up late on Saturday -- not the best motivation. We older kids felt the twins were getting off too easy by being able to play in the nursery instead of having to sit still and be quiet for a whole hour with us. I didn't think about the fact that handling two toddlers in the pew would have taken away the quiet Mom needed.  The end result was worth it. I have amazing siblings who all have amazing kids.

Day 364 - My Assignment 2: Family

Dudrey Court beauties

I loved growing up in a neighborhood full of kids about my age. And I loved having so many cousins. There seemed to be so many relatives that I had a hard time reconciling that some people we used to drop in on didn't fit into the relative category. They were called friends, like Ruby and Stanley in Fargo. But even they seemed to be connected to the concept of family and relatives because they were from Hawley or Hitterdal.

I loved all the family reunions we seemed to go to several times each summer. Even if the range of relatives extended beyond those we saw often, there was comfort in knowing we were all related. Remembering this has probably helped me when I moved to places in the Middle East where clan and tribe are still strong ties among the community.

At the same time as I had all these positive feelings based on being part of a family, I didn't want my world limited to the scope of my extended family. I wanted to see more and get to know people whose lives followed unfamiliar paths. So my moves to California and then Iran and Romania came with efforts to recreate a family from the friends I met in those locations. My lack of success in marriage to both Don and John may have been in part because I wasn't able to reconcile being part of a couple with my desire to be surrounded by a larger family at the same time. Both Don and John were trying to separate themselves from their families while I was trying to extend mine. Don once told me I had to choose between him and my family. John used me as the excuse for his withdrawal from his family. Neither offered a very auspicious beginning for forming a new family unit.

Part of my Tehran family

The "family" that I acquired in Tehran was both most unusual and most intense. Of the 25 of us in the University of Southern California English teaching program, about half became close enough to celebrate all holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries together -- all the things that I had associated with family events. And because doing anything in Iran was just a little bit more complicated than anywhere else, we also had the bonding experience of having overcome obstacles together. We didn't just have to stuff and cook a turkey for Thanksgiving, for example. We also had to finish plucking the feathers from it the night before. So Thanksgiving became a 3-day holiday: Wednesday we got together with bottles of wine and conversation as we surrounded the bird and plucked or burned the last of the feathers off. Thursday we prepared and ate the meal. This meant mashing potatoes for 15 with just a fork and making squash pies in place of pumpkin pies. And Friday we got together again to finish off the leftovers.

My birthday dinner

Even going out to a restaurant wasn't a simple matter. We celebrated my birthday one year by going to the Polynesian restaurant in one of the city's big hotel. They had a special show that week so in addition to good food -- and wine again -- we also were entertained by musicians from Hawaii who dragged several of us onto the stage to learn the hula. At the end of the meal, the bill came. We knew the bill would be higher than usual, but it was really high: so high that one of our group took a close look at the details and he found there were significant discrepancies in the amounts for the same items: a few extra zeros had been added here and there. But even more surprising was the fact that the grand total at the bottom didn't match the result of adding up the individual amounts -- and the bill was done on an electronic cash register, not by hand. We pointed out the discrepancies and asked for a corrected bill. Instead of a new bill, we got a condescending lecture from the restaurant manager who pointed out that the cash register they were using was an American brand, so how could we possibly question its accuracy. The director of our program offered to leave his American Express card with the restaurant as our assurance that we would pay the bill, but only after we had received a corrected version. The manager refused that option but said he would straighten out the bill and contact us later. For the next year, the couple who had made our reservations received a monthly phone call from the hotel to ask us to pay the bill. But the restaurant never produced a corrected bill. The last phone call came when the couple was out of the country on leave and I was staying in their house. I answered the call and told the hotel that Neal and Shirley were out of the country, but they would be back in a week. The hotel never called again. So the 15 of us had a very handsome time, probably paid for by all the other patrons at other tables who were likely similarly scammed by the operator of the American cash register.

With challenges like that facing us every week, the bonds we developed were very strong. Thirty years after our Iranian adventures, I went to California to celebrate the summer solstice (a tradition that one couple introduced to all of us during our days in Tehran) with several of that group and we all agreed that none of us had ever found a similar work environment again.

Gayle

Life in Romania was much the same. One of the elementary school teachers in Bucharest, Gayle, became the central character in the lives of many of us there. Whenever I made my way from Iasi to Bucharest, I stayed at Gayle's. And every Sunday evening I was there, Gayle and Roger (now her husband) and I would cook dinner for anywhere from 8 to 16 people -- as close to the tradition of family reunions as I had come since moving from Minnesota nearly 10 years before. Is it all that surprising that I misread the signs of John's attitude toward family in that environment?

After marriage to John, I think I had expected that we would continue to have the kinds of frequent gatherings of family members and friends but this time in the U.S. with my family or in Canada with his. Slowly I began to realize, however, that my role in the relationship had shifted. Before the wedding, I was outside his family which put me in the position of being his ear as he complained about how overbearing his aunt was, how domineering both his father and grandfather were, how backward his mother was. He had very little respect for any of the women in his family: his grandmother let his grandfather walk all over her, his sister allowed his parents to arrange her marriage. He resented the fact that his aunt had attended parent/teacher conferences in place of his parents because they didn't speak much English. And suddenly, after the wedding, I was also just another female relative. With no positive models of how to relate to a female relative, he fell into the patterns he was familiar with -- and I therefore deserved no respect.

When I finally realized how many internal conflicts he had with the many members of his family, I decided the only way I could hope to maintain our relationship was to make a commitment to myself that I not have children. As much as John loved other people's kids, I could not risk putting a child in the position of having to deal with his anger, especially if the child were a daughter. But as much as I was convinced this decision was necessary for our marriage to work, it was also probably the decision that led John to realize he no longer wanted to be married.

The years between the end of my marriage to John and my meeting Alex were often filled with thoughts of guilt about my selfish life choices. I often wondered if my choices were evidence that I was running away from or avoiding something. I hope that I will eventually accept that my choices have been moving toward, not away from, something. Those choices eventually led me to Qatar and therefore to Alex and Simon. And finally my life-partner choice fits with my image of, and my need for, family. So, even if selfishness was a factor, even if I might have been just a bit looking to escape from something, Alex has brought me back to a place I want to be -- inside a family every day, not ever feeling like I'm on the outside, always able to look in.

Day 363 - More Reflections - On Family and Careers

The subject of Mom's second assignment was her family. As I read that piece, I was surprised at how much about her family - my family - that I didn't know.

Great-Grandma Tangen and six of us oldest ones

I still don't know when or where our grandparents were born, but Mom knew details about hers. I didn't even know where my parents were born, whether on the farm or in a hospital. I just remember that Grandpa and Grandma Wenner lived in the big house at the edge of Hitterdal, at the top of a long drive up a hill that leads away from Hitterdal Lake, which used to be a potato field. And Grandpa and Grandma Dauner lived in Hawley, in a house with a screened-in porch that became the bedroom for Lois, Diane, and me when we all got to stay at Grandma's house in the summer.

The Dauners

I remember Great-Grandma Tangen when she lived in Hawley with Grandpa and Grandma. And I remember trying to figure out a way that she wouldn't have to go to live in Eventide when it became too difficult for Grandpa and Grandma Dauner to continue to take care of her at home. I couldn't understand why she couldn't come to live with us if she had to move from Hawley to Moorhead. Great-Grandma had tried to teach me how to crochet, but I didn't catch on until years later when Maryann from the other end of Dudrey Court taught me. All I was able to learn from Great-Grandma was how to do the chain stitch. But I wanted to learn how to crochet because she made so many beautiful things -- lace for pillow edges, bookmarks in the shape of a cross, doilies, and even ladies' high-heeled shoes that were starched to stand up by themselves.

So many cousins

I knew we were lucky to have so many cousins. And since so many of them lived near one another, I never knew whose house we were going to stop at when we went visiting on Sundays until we drove into the driveway. I knew that Mom and Dad didn't spend as much time with their cousins as we kids got to spend with ours, and I was always a little sad to think that as we grew up, we would probably stop seeing the cousins so often. But so long as Lois didn't have a sister, and Joan was so much younger than we were, I felt as though Lois was more like a sister than a cousin, so I was sure we would always remain close and visit one another often.

I remember the Lysne Christmas pageant as part of our family's Christmas tradition, even though I don't think we ever went to it. It is just that Christmas Eve was always spent at Grandpa and Grandma Dauner's house -- until they moved to Arizona -- and the cousins who attended Lysne always had to recite their "pieces" on Christmas Eve for all of us.

The Wenners

Christmas always meant peanuts and other nuts to me as a child, too. I don't know for sure where Dad got them, but it seems like it was somewhere near the river, and we only got nuts -- almonds, hazel nuts, peanuts, Brazil nuts, and walnuts -- at Christmas time. That's when we got to use the silver nut cracker and those other implements with the tiny, pointed scoops at the end which we used to coax out the bits of nuts that inevitably got smashed as we crushed, not cracked, the shells.

I remember Mom telling us that Grandpa always joked about getting married on the longest night of the year, but Grandpa to me was someone else -- Mom's Dad -- and I knew my Grandpa and Grandma got married on the day before Grandma's 18th birthday, which was in June, not December. For years I tried to figure out how a wedding in June could have been on the longest night of the year. It should have been the shortest night. But after reading Mom's assignment, after nearly 50 years, the mystery was solved.

One paragraph in this piece confused me for awhile:

The last two years [of high school] my sister, Madelyn, and I stayed with Grandpa and Grandma Tangen who had moved from the farm. It was during this time that I met Arthur. He and his uncle Bill came by to say goodbye when they were on the way to California to enter the Merchant Marines.

That paragraph tells when Mom and Dad met, although for some reason I thought it meant they met when Uncle Bill and Dad went to say goodbye to someone else in that house, but not how or where. I thought everyone could tell the story of when and where he or she met that special someone.  So I asked Dad, but he said he couldn't remember. He said he always knew who Mom was. If he did, he must have kept it to himself. But then, he was always the introvert; Mom was a bit further out on the introvert-to-extrovert scale.

The topic of Mom's third assignment was careers. Not surprisingly, she wrote of being a mother and later working for Trinity church. But I was surprised to learn she had wanted to be a singer or an actress. How little I knew of Mom's early thoughts.

I don't know if I ever really thought about careers. I grew up assuming that I would get married and have kids. When in high school, I wrote out my life's plan. When I found it many years later, it included steps such as:

• Finish college
• Have a career for two or three years
• Get married and have kids

Silk kimono

And when I finally did get a job after finishing college, it wasn't what I had expected. I expected to teach English in high school. But, having swapped the order of the first half of my third step with my second step, I had gotten married and we moved to California where I expected to start my career for a few years while Don finished his Masters degree. But California didn't need any more high school English teachers. It was difficult to reconcile having spent four years in college to get the magic piece of paper that was proof that I was qualified to teach, and instead spending my time at a desk in an office typing and answering the telephone.

But, as Mom said in her assignment, each step is really training for the next one. Because I wasn't hired as a teacher, I volunteered to teach English in Oakland's Chinatown, and that led to a return to school to get certified to teach English as a Second Language -- first in California, then Iran, Romania, and Illinois. And when there were no options for teaching in Minnesota, I had to switch again. The plan that has since evolved was a most unlikely one -- certainly not one I would have written in advance: secretary to teacher to software engineer to diplomat may look like an entirely serendipitous path, but the connection throughout was the fascination with people and places unlike me, a fascination that started very early in my life, with glimpses of kimonos and silk skirts in a wooden trunk in the basement of 307 Dudrey Court.

Day 362 - My Assignment 1: Major Branching Points in My Life

First, there was one

 As the oldest child, I am lucky to have memories of being the most important person in Mom and Dad's life. And those memories are likely the basis for the most fundamental branching points in my life: the addition of each successive child changed my life, four times, and I still learn more each year about the impact of each of those changes.

My earliest memories of Wayne don't include baby pictures. I remember that he had to go into the hospital for a few nights when he got pneumonia. I remember playing with an elaborate set of plastic farm pieces -- fences, cows, horses -- on the living room floor. I remember a Captain Hook puppet that we used to tell each other stories.  And I remember having to share my time with Dad at basketball games, baseball games, and fishing with Wayne. So, with the arrival of Wayne, I learned, perhaps not gracefully, that I had to share.

Then there were two

Joan's arrival is much more memorable for me. I even remember Mom being pregnant, and that I had to help her wash the kitchen floor when Joan's birth was near. I wanted a sister so that I could say I had a brother and a sister, so I was very pleased when Mom brought Joan home. I remember Joan's blonde blonde hair which contrasted strongly with the brown blonde that Wayne and I had. And I remember how cute everyone thought she was (I even thought she was). In fact, only recently I realized that Joan's arrival probably sparked my need for competition because Wayne and I didn't spend so much time with Dad once Joan arrived. I may not have realized then that I was jealous, but I realized since Joan was the cute one, I had to find some other way to excel -- and thus was born my need to win and be the smart one.

And then three

By the time Roger arrived, I began to think more of my being part of a family. I remember Mom telling us that we were going to have a new brother or sister. And I know I wanted another brother -- to keep the genders even I said, but perhaps I didn't want even more competition from another sister. Roger's arrival brought opportunities. I got to "help" Mom give Roger his daily bath. I don't recall doing much more than watching, but being in the room during the ritual made me feel part of it. And I even got to babysit on Saturday evenings when Mom and Dad went out, however infrequently. I felt that I had passed some magic point of growing up with Roger's arrival.

And then came the twins, the biggest impact of all up to then. While my role in taking care of them was really quite small, the impressions on me were enormous. Where taking care of Roger was an opportunity, helping Mom feed, change, and clothe the twins became more of a chore. Thank goodness they were both so cute!

And four

But their arrival also meant I couldn't babysit for all the kids alone. Mom always arranged for neighbors, not always that much older than I, to babysit and for me to help. From this I learned that all responsibilities are not equal and growing up was going to take a lot longer.

Those lessons -- the need to share, the desire to compete, the opportunity to accept responsibilities, and to recognize that I might need help now and then -- probably explain my decisions throughout high school and college.

The additional goal -- I wanted to find something special in myself -- was motivation that made me seek out the opportunity to go to New Jersey for the summer of 1968. That experience within a Cuban immigrant community so close to New York City brought me many life-changing decisions. First, I realized I already knew a foreign language that I could teach, so I changed my major from German to English. Second, I knew I wanted to spend my life in big cities so I shrank away from anything that I thought would keep me in Fargo and Moorhead, including the wonderful man I had promised to marry before those life-changing events.

And more

And that led me to meet Don, a symbol of anywhere else. Don became my means to get to the big city when we headed west to California. And for all the pain that relationship brought, Don ended up the most important influence for me when I needed to find confidence to stay in California. He told me I could stand on my own (not necessarily in a tone of voice I welcomed), so I dared to try. Joan's arrival later that summer was just what I needed to conclude that I really could continue my California life instead of returning to an old life.

Remaining in California made it possible for me to get the opportunity to go to Iran to live and work. And the evenings I spent while in San Francisco at folk dancing halls turned on my interest in Eastern Europe which led me to Romania. While these two events started out as adventures to spice up my life, they transformed into the goal for a new life. And I thought I had found a partner who shared that goal in John. I think the slow realization that his goals were actually so different from mine -- and from what he had told me when we met -- was the unraveling of that relationship. When he asked me why I couldn't just love him for himself, I could only respond that I had no idea who he was -- he changed his story in every situation.

With my entry into the State Department's Foreign Service, I had reached the most significant branching point. I realized when I got the phone call asking me if I wanted to be part of the January class or the March class that having the choice was more difficult than having no choice. Until that point, getting into the Foreign Service had been a goal that consumed an enormous amount of my effort. Once the call came, the dilemma was that I realized it didn't matter whether I joined or not -- I needed a new goal. And I spent the first four years questioning whether I had made the right choice.

And then I met Alex, who helped me realize that my personal life is more important than work. Of course, that has been a lesson long in the learning. We have had many discussions about why I have had to work so late -- or why I have chosen to work so late. But eventually we have both come to realize we each work in order to live, not live in order to work.

Day 361 - Reflections on Mom's Autobiography

Mom at about 27

Since most of these pieces have been more autobiographical than literary, I thought I would end this project with some in that vein that I wrote before, but that needed editing.

While I was in Yemen, Mom completed an autobiography course through church. She shared the five assignments with us kids with the hope that we would also complete the same assignments. While I always intended to, I didn't complete them before it was too late for Mom to read mine. Instead, I chose to respond to Mom's assignments.

The first assignment was to describe life's most significant branching points. Mom began that assignment with these two paragraphs:

I like to think of my life as a tree. I love trees. I am sure my children got bored with my pointing out, as we traveled, that great oak, all by itself, standing so proud. Or that line of trees that were bent permanently from the wind.

Sometimes our lives show us to be straight and proud or at other times we are bowed down by trials, and tears.

I am an integrator. I don't always remember the details, but I know that I have integrated important impressions in such a way that they are now part of me, not a series of isolated memories or even in my conscious memory at all.

I don't remember Mom pointing out trees when I was a child. But I do know that I love trees, too. When I drove down the highways of Romania, I was struck by the arrangement of trees along both sides of all the roads. The bottoms of the trunks were always painted white. John used to insist that the prisoners had responsibility for painting the trees, to keep the rabbits from eating the bark.

I remember being in the park at the shore of Big Detroit Lake when I discovered how complex the patterns of the bark on the trees can be. I stared at the bark so long that my eyes started playing tricks -- it almost seemed that the bark was melting down the tree, like candle wax.

I love to look at the outline of the bare tree branches at dusk in the winter along Interstate 94 between Moorhead and Minneapolis. Those scenes always remind me of Charles Beck paintings. The landscape may be unimaginably boring in its flatness to Alex and others who did not grow up in our area, but the view of the finely woven netting of the tree limbs springing from trunks, evenly spaced and regimented in rows along the edges of fields, is enough to break up the monotony for me.

Mom's assignment continued:

The incident that affected my life dramatically happened when I was 27 years old. I was a mother of two children, Sandra age 5 and Wayne age 2. One evening, the children were in bed and their Dad was at work at the Power Plant, I was doing a correspondence Bible Study Lesson from Lutheran Bible Institute. You got each lesson, filled it out, sent it back, and it would be returned with comments and usually a word of encouragement.

The lesson was on Acts 9, the story of Saul on the road to Damascus. When I studied this story, I too, felt as if a "light bulb" went on in my head. I knew, then, that Jesus died "for me!" I felt like singing, I felt free! My life has never been the same since then. I did not instantly become a perfect person. I am still a sinner, I still found myself "grumpy" with the children when I was tired. Gradually I saw where my actions had to change, in order to be a loving wife and parent, a friend to my neighbors, as Jesus would be.

Since I was five when Mom completed the Lutheran Bible Institute lesson based on Acts 9, I may have some early memories of the Mom before Acts 9 as well as the Mom after Acts 9. But I don't have any memories of a time when I didn't think Mom had more self-confidence than the mothers of most of my friends. And I think it rubbed off. I don't think I ever thought there was something I couldn't do. I always got encouragement from both Mom and Dad to try whatever I wanted to do, whether it was to play the violin or go to camp. I never saw Mom or Dad try something that they couldn't do, or that they seemed unable to complete. As a result, it never occurred to me that I couldn't do something that an adult told me to do -- whether it was an assignment from a teacher or a task from a supervisor at work. I always figured the adult knew better than I.

Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad.

Day 360 - Mexican Interlude

The littlest child with her new shoes
Photo by Stuart Gardner

Earlier this month, I spent a Saturday in Mexico. I went with a group from my church to a children's home where the youth of the church have been volunteering each summer for the past several years. The trip two weeks after Christmas has become another annual event for the church, an opportunity for adult members of the church to make the trip to share a meal with the children, to bring presents for them, and to learn the story of the home.

My motivation was to learn about the relationship between the home and my church. In Africa, I was one of many Americans who had opportunities to drop in on groups such as Akany Avoko or Centre Fihavanana in Madagascar, but not much of an opportunity to develop an ongoing relationship. I hoped to see more at Rancho Milagro. I was not disappointed.

Casa Hogar Rancho Milagro is the only children's home in Baja California that is not sponsored by a church organization. Situated on 120 acres just outside of Tecate, Mexico, the ranch is home to 22 children between the ages of 18 months and 18 years or even older. Cesar and Cheryl, the couple who have made the ranch their home for the 27 years it has existed, work through the Baja California Child Protective Services to accept children who need a place to live, but if a child isn't ready to move on to live independently when Child Protective Services support ends, Cesar and Cheryl allow the child to remain.

One of the church members holding
the "ten" year old with Alma in the
background.
Photo by Stuart Gardner

Half of the acreage is not being used at this point, but Cesar hopes to expand the olive grove that covers most of the remaining land. The olive trees provide income for the home. When picked green, the olives are processed on the ranch and are sold to a number of Mexican food companies. Barrels holding one ton of olives each nearly surround the building where the olives are soaked in lye before being thoroughly washed and eventually packed in brine. Olives that are left to ripen on the trees are picked later in the year when they are then shipped to Ensenada to be pressed to extract the oil which the home sells independently to earn income. The older boys at the home who are interested in learning more about agriculture take part in operating the ranch, the only vocational training opportunity the home has been able to develop thus far. But Cesar has plans to expand the vocational training to include woodworking in the future.

The children were doing their chores when we arrived which gave Cesar and Cheryl time to tell us their story. As the children began arriving at the main building, one girl, Alma, came up to me and put her arms around my waist and gave me a big hug. Cesar told them to tell us their names and ages. I was of course curious about the three-year-old boy whose name we had drawn to purchase gifts for. All the boys looked too big. Finally a boy about the right size for the 4T clothes we bought appeared. He told us his name and then announced that he was ten. Cesar chimed in with "in your dreams, little one."

Cheryl and Cesar, Photo by Stuart Gardner

Cesar and Cheryl are following a calling they felt when they met in Mexico City where Cesar is from and Cheryl traveled for a semester while she was a student at Augsburg College. They have lived in Mexico City and in Minneapolis, but in neither place did they find a way to start on the road they knew was theirs. But while in Minneapolis, they met the man who owned the land in Mexico who also had a dream. Their dream fit his and within a couple of years, they and their son headed for Tecate, equidistance from the two cities that had been their homes. Twenty-seven years later, they are still there.

Cesar and Cheryl have so many amazing stories of the joys and the challenges that have crossed their lives. More than once as they showed us the ranch and grounds, Cheryl referred to which chapter that story will go into when she finally writes her book. Before we left, I offered to help Cheryl in whatever way she would welcome - encouragement, editing, whatever. I look forward to hearing back from her.

Two girls from St. Andrews Lutheran Church and two girls from Casa Hogar, Rancho Milagro
Photo by Stuart Gardner

Day 259 - Good Guys vs Bad Guys

Logo for Hostages TV series

I just finished watching the last episode of the TV series Hostages.

I watched the beginning of the first episode when it was broadcast last fall, and I decided then I didn't want to watch the rest. I found the premise of good guys, or at least those who claimed to be good guys, acting out plans with clearly bad consequences reprehensible, so I planned not to watch it.

But then one of the cable networks ran the first 13 episodes back-to-back in a marathon session at the beginning of the year and my sweetheart thought I might want to watch them, so he recorded them all. One day when there was nothing else on the DVR to watch, I watched the first episode all the way to the end. And still I didn't want to watch any more. I still found the plot disgusting. It wasn't just a case of the tragic hero having a flaw. It was the case of many people - I'll leave good or bad out of my description - making choices to do bad things, each for their own personal and selfish reasons. So I decided not to watch the rest.

But then Alex mentioned that his brother in England was watching the series and found several similarities with the series Homeland, another series I watched but always with a question in the back of my mind - just what message were the producers trying to convey? So I watched another episode of Hostages. And I noticed a non-plot-line similarity: both programs are based on Israeli TV series. Again, I wondered, what messages are the producers trying to convey? That government is corrupt? That politicians are corrupt? That you never really know who to trust? That the ends justify the means? That redemption can come to even those who have done terrible things? That promises only mean something until it is inconvenient to have to follow-through?

The two lines that seem to find there way into every episode are "I didn't have a choice," and "I am very sorry."

When any of the kidnapped family members declared they didn't have a choice, the kidnappers predictably responded along the lines of "you always have a choice." But then the kidnappers rely on that same line themselves when justifying their actions. "I didn't have a choice," the rogue FBI agent says to his sick wife to explain why he got involved with people in their plot to assassinate the President by kidnapping the family of the surgeon scheduled to operate on him the next day and forcing her to kill the President in order to save her own family. That's when "I am very sorry" is the predictable next line from the kidnapper. But the frequency of that utterance made the words meaningless.

The motivators for all the characters varied widely: desire to save a dying woman, money, trust, love, fear of threats to loved ones, guilt, and political differences. The alignments shifted as one motivator replaced another. Ambiguity. Ethical questions. The series had both of those in every episode.

I admit that the fact that the series is based on a series written for an Israeli audience was a major factor in my watching the series all the way to the end. I wondered if an Israeli audience is more tolerant of the ambiguity portrayed in the characters actions. On a more sinister level, I wondered if the reason was to influence the American audience to accept greater ambiguity, to accept that good people may choose to do bad things for good reasons. I can't verify either of those thoughts, of course.

I understand life cannot be divided into either black or white. There are shades of gray as well. Actions are not always good or bad on their own. Context is also important. But the notion that good people can do bad things for good reasons seems an attempt to escape the consequences or to avoid looking for another choice. When none of the choices in front of me seem good, I hope I keep looking for another one instead of settling for a poor one.

by  roberthuffstutter  Lies are perhaps the best example of the many shades of gray in life. There are lies intending to deceive, and there are white lies. Are they both equally bad? Lying seemed to come easily to the surgeon once she was sucked into the kidnappers' plans, once she concluded she didn't have any other choice. The first couple of times, I actually felt some tension as she was confronted by someone who seemed on the verge of unraveling the mystery, but she always came through with a convincing explanation. After a few episodes, there wasn't even any tension. It was clear she wouldn't get caught; she would just march forward with another lie. And as she slid down the hill of lying, she moved closer to the conviction that killing the President was the right thing to do. She convinced herself that he was a bad man, bad enough to justify killing him just because someone asked her to do so. Life is not black and white. But we each need to be sure we don't accept that all of life is just shades of gray.

Day 258 - Secrets and Lies

by  val.pearl 

I don't like secrets. I firmly believe that a secret is only a secret when only one person knows it. As soon as a second person knows, it isn't a secret. But that doesn't absolve me of the responsibility to keep secrets when they are shared with me.

In the work I did for the State Department, I needed to know some secrets, even when I didn't want to know them. I think I do a good job of compartmentalizing what I know so I can keep secrets, but I don't like to have the responsibility. If I can't remember what is a secret, I consider everything about it secret. 

Government secrets are only shared on a need-to-know basis. Fortunately, most of the work I did for State could be better described as need-to-share. And now I work for an office at State that promotes knowledge management, knowledge sharing, knowledge transfer. It is a good fit for me.

People whose work, perhaps even their lives, depend on keeping secrets seem to think others, even those who have no need to, are keeping secrets from them. I have met many people while working at State who thought I wasn't telling them everything. Perhaps I wasn't. As I mentioned before, I choose not to say some of what I think if I think the result will be hurtful to someone else. But if only they would ask me about their thoughts and conclusions. If I knew what they were thinking, what they were telling others about what they believed I was planning to do, I would have told them the truth.

The truth. That seems like such a simple concept. Either a statement is true or it is not true, right? And what is not true is a lie, right? And when a statement that hasn't been verified is shared with someone else, that is a rumor, right? And spreading rumors is wrong, right?

If only it were so simple.

Let me tell you a story about someone I knew at one of my overseas posts, someone who tried to keep his private and professional life separate, to keep some things secret from everyone else, but I kept being dragged into the middle.

This someone, Jack*, had a position of responsibility at the embassy with many people reporting to him. Some liked him. Some did not. I liked him, so I had a hard time understanding why anyone didn't. But I couldn't change the facts. A fact is like truth; it just is.

As Jack's assignment was coming to and end, we expected him and his family to begin planning to leave. It was summer, the usual transfer season. But instead of making plane reservations and requesting their things to be packed up, Jack did nothing. 

Summer brings with it the embassy's annual July 4th event. When I asked Jack if he would be in the country for that event, he answered that he didn't know. He said he had some personal things to take care of and he would let me know later what his plans were.

Then I heard from someone else that Jack's wife had said she wasn't leaving that summer. The next question, of course, was had I heard anything about problems between Jack and his wife. I hadn't and I was not about to continue speculating without asking Jack. So I did.

Jack's answer was that since his wife had only started working for her employer within the past year, she did not want it known in the office that she would be leaving soon. It was for that reason that she had not answered the question someone asked her while she was at work with the truth. She had replied with an answer that she wanted her employer to believe. It was also in some way a statement that asserted her independence from the State Department assignment system that assumes all family members will move as a unit from place to place, that spouses (most of them wives) will settle for whatever employment options are available in each place, regardless of the spouse's education, skills, knowledge, and abilities. I could understand those thought, but I wanted to be sure that Jack understood that people would come up with their own explanations for his reluctance to share his departure plans. I predicted that the explanations others would come up with would be much less complimentary than whatever the truth was. Once again, Jack told me it was his business, not mine, so I dropped the subject.

The next time I heard anything about Jack's departure plans, it was from a local employee in another country where Jack had previously served. Alex and I made a quick weekend trip to that country where I also had served. The local employee told me Jack and his wife were adopting a baby from a neighboring country. I corrected him and told him that Jack and his wife had already adopted a baby from that country, a little boy. But the local employee then told us he already knew about the boy. Now Jack and his wife were planning to adopt a little girl, too. They hoped all the arrangements could be completed before they had to return to the U.S. because it would be far more costly if they had to return from Washington.

The curtain rose on Jack's private matter. Now I understood. When I next met with Jack, I told him what I had heard. I congratulated him, and asked him why he was keeping the plans a secret. Again, he said it was a private matter that was no one else's business, especially since it wasn't certain the adoption would go through. He asked me to say nothing to anyone else, and I agreed.

But the next day, one of those people who didn't like Jack told me that she, too, had heard about their plans to adopt a baby girl. I told her that Jack and his wife didn't want people to know and I asked her not to tell anyone else. Her response surprised me. She told me that Jack's maid is the person who told her about the adoption when they ran into one another at the grocery store. Her conclusion was that if Jack's maid was telling people, then there was no reason for her not to do the same.

Jack despised rumors. Now that one of the people who wasn't one of his fans knew about their adoption hopes, I knew there would be rumors. And although I was convinced that no one would think any unkind thoughts about the news, I knew Jack needed to know that others would be talking about his private business. So I told him. I also told him I had told no one, but I don't know that he believed me. 

I really hate secrets.

*not his real name

Day 257 - Please Say What You Mean

by  Brisbane City Council  I work four days a week these days. It was the arrangement I made with the office at the State Department that my company supports when I explained that we would be moving to San Diego, but that I hoped I could continue working for them from a distance. I thought the reduction in my hours was what the office wanted. I recently learned that they thought the reduction in hours is what I wanted. If only we had all just said what we meant. I think I speak directly. That doesn't mean I say everything that I think. I admit that I have many politically incorrect, even unkind thoughts and opinions which if spoken aloud might anger or hurt someone or even change someone's good opinion of me. I keep those thoughts to myself if I think the words will hurt someone. I hope that my actions speak louder than my unspoken words. But when I say something, I intend it to be unambiguous and direct.

I had difficulty speaking or writing this way when I lived in Romania. Or more precisely, I had difficulty being understood when I spoke or wrote this way. My colleague, Chris, the British lecturer, would tell me when our colleagues in the English Department would ask what I meant by what I wrote in the Department book. Over and over again, I would declare that I meant what I wrote, nothing else. Still, they asked again.

This desire to say what I mean, nothing more and nothing less, has impeded by fluency in foreign languages. I love to learn languages, but until I know I can say exactly what I mean, I hold back. I spend my time listening instead of speaking. It took me some time to learn this about myself. I knew I hesitated to speak, and I knew this was a possible disadvantage to my developing fluency. But nothing could overcome my hesitency to speak until I knew I was saying everything right - using the right words and correct grammar. And now that I know a little bit of several languages but none of them completely, I dare not speak at all because the languages are all mixed up. I speak Foreign Language, not any particular foreign language, and I'm the only one who speaks that particular variant of Foreign Language. I'm the only one who understands me.

My first foreign language was German. In ninth grade, my junior high offered German in addition to Latin, the dead foreign language that I would have had on my schedule because everyone told me it would be good to study Latin. No one could tell me why. But when German was added, I knew that was for me. I didn't know anyone I could speak Latin with, but I knew I could try speaking German with my grandfather. That is, if I ever felt comfortable speaking with him at all. I wasn't convinced Grandpa like kids.

The approach of the German teacher involved memorization of dialogs which we took turns speaking to classmates in pairs until we could repeat the both halves of the entire dialog without referring to the book. I can still repeat some of those dialogs.

Speaker 1: Ich kann nicht meine Gummischuhe finden. (I can't find my rubbers.)

Speaker 2: Ach, hier sind sie, hinter der Tür. (Oh, here they are, behind the door.)

Very useful in an emergency.

These days, the language I end up having to translate is a technological one. It is a good experience for me because it is a reminder that not everyone says what they mean. Because not everyone knows the words or grammar to convey what they mean.

As an example, my colleagues frequently ask me to give them a SharePoint site. But that isn't always what they need. They don't know the right words to ask for what they need. So I don't give them what they ask for. I ask what they are planning to do, what problems they hope to solve. With that information, I then suggest what I believe they need, not a site, but a library or a list or a page or some combination of those options.

So I will continue to speak directly, with a bit of diplomacy now and then when holding my tongue isn't possible. 

Day 356 - Thank God for Garrison Keillor

by  Anirudh Koul  I recently finished reading a memoir by Susie Kelly. I didn't know anything about her before I picked the book up. I had been reading mysteries, not very good ones at that, but most of them were free, so I couldn't complain of being robbed. But since I had an equal opportunity to get other genres, also free, from BookBub, I chose to add memoirs and historical novels. Susie Kelly's memoir, I Wish I Could Say I Was Sorry, was the one of the first memoirs among my new selections. And her story was exactly like what I thought an author's life was supposed to be like. All of Kelly's earlier books, eight of them, involved her adventures either on her own or with her husband and one or more of their numerous pets on travels through France or getting themselves settled in a new home in France. But the memoir I read was the prequel, her childhood story leading through her first marriage and the birth of her two children.

 by  Mister_Jack 

That may not sound like much of a story, but it took place on two continents. Kelly was born in London. When she was about 8, her family moved to Kenya where, after two years, her parents divorced and she had to choose whether to stay with her father or go with her mother. Because what she really wanted was for her mother to stay, too, she told her father she wanted to stay. Her mother left anyway. Almost immediately her father sent her to school in England where she spent school holidays with his parents who made it clear they didn't want her around. Several years later, her grandparents told her she would be going back to Kenya to be with her father. They also told her he had remarried. By the time she rejoined her father in Kenya, she had a half-sister and a plain-jane step-mother who associated Kelly with her father's first and more glamorous wife, the adulteress. The step-mother also didn't want her around. When she finally was able to see her mother again several more years later, she had hope that she could escape by moving in with her mother and her new husband, but her mother died a week before they were to be reunited. In desperation, she married an unsuitable Italian man whose mother couldn't utter an approving statement about her. They moved back to England and after several years of trying to make things work, he kidnapped the children and returned with them to Kenya. In the end, she was able to get the children back and later remarried, the husband in her other books.

The story is full of all those details that I thought an author needed to be successful: international travel, dysfunctional relationships, drama, and more travel. When I thought about my story, my childhood where we moved across the street when we needed a larger house, where the six of us kids had both our loving parents around us to provide us with both discipline and support, I could almost turn my story into one of woe-is-me, I am so unlucky. I was born into my family in a place and at a time that robbed me of all that I needed to be able to write.

by  TechnoHippyBiker  But then yesterday I read a piece in the most recent National Geographic magazine by Garrison Keillor, There is No Place Like Home. Keillor is the best antidote to my woe-is-me blues. For thirty years I have been enjoying his writing about the ordinary, the everyday, his story growing up and still continuing to grow in Minnesota. And his writing is wonderful, beautifully crafted. His stories make me laugh and make me cry. His stories make me feel good about where I come from, about all the people I left behind, about all the people who are still there. The laughter his stories provoke is not laughter at anyone; it is laughter with others about our common condition.

Thank God for Garrison Keillor.  His stories make me realize I have stories worth telling, too. And his mastery of writing sets the bar high.