You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'Uncategorized' category.
I know you’ve all been eagerly anticipating this year’s version of the lego creche. And it is much improved from last year’s, although I’ll always have a soft spot for the original Mary. Abel got his ginormous lego tub out of storage last June, and has benefitted from having a much wider variety to work from.
For example, Mary now has a girl’s face. She’s still rocking the brunette ponytail, and this year is modeling a sleek black futuristic look. The Virgin Mother also has a staff, just because you never know. It’s best to be prepared, even after giving birth in a stable.
Baby Jesus is without the claws this year, or indeed arms.
Joseph has a much more traditional look.
This year, there’s an entire auberge plus stable in the back, shaded by palm trees, complete with horses.
The reason there was no room at the inn is because this soldier was there, commandeering the whole place!
Here’s a closer view of the stable, with the wise men gathered outside.
And inside, where Jesus has his face turned against the wall because Abel wasn’t happy that the only face he could find had a scowl.
In addition to the auberge/stable, there is also Herod, with a troll’s sword, talking to some guards, about to send them off on a cruel mission. He deserves the troll sword!
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!
In which I pretend to be a food blog, but am shown up by the inadequacy of my photos. My friend Jill needs a good recipe for lamb tagine. So you all get to enjoy it since this is the easiest way to send it to her.
First, buy your lamb. For 6 people, I used half a kilo:
Next, arrange 3 onions and some garlic on the countertop:
Group all the spices you’ll need:
Note: you do not have to store your pepper and ginger in old jam jars. That is up to you. It is not necessary to the making of a good lamb tagine.
Now, chop one onion, the garlic, and a bunch of cilantro (not pictured above. Deal with it). Top with bit of preserved lemon.
Take a pan and add a staggering amount of oil. We use half olive and half sunflower. (Did I make it clear that my role here is photography and buying the ingredients? Khadija is doing the cooking) Add the lamb…
And the onions mix on the cutting board and this much ginger:
This much ground pepper:
And this much of an obscure spice blend called Pilau Seasoning, which someone gave me and Khadija unearthed from the back of the cupboard. She says it adds a nice flavour. I would suspect any sort of spice blend would work.
Add some saffron:
Don’t forget your bouillon cube, without which no African can cook!
Don’t forget some salt:
Now, turn on the burner fairly high, and brown the meat on all sides.
Meanwhile, chop up the other two onions:
And add them to the mix,
along with some water.
Meanwhile, take some prunes and put them in some water
Along with this much cinnamon
And two of the enormous sugar cubes that they sell at the hanut and that your 12 year old will come home with when you send him to get GRANULATED sugar, for pete’s sake, (I would suspect it’s about 1/4 cup of sugar)
And simmer away on the stovetop, like this
Now, get out some of your blue and white dishes to photograph for Jill, whose husband is coming to visit us and who has been instructed to return with blue and white dishes for her. Jill is very nice and she has a small daughter who is cute as a button, funny and articulate, named Elizabeth. Coincidence? I don’t think so!
These bowls are very small, good for serving olives or nuts in, or for putting sour cream in on Taco Tuesdays:
This pic was actually taken at the Potteries:
Add a picture of a vase, just to show Jill some more of what’s available here (good luck with that luggage requirement!):
When you have finished, make some salads:
Dress the carrots with mayonnaise and the greens (and reds) (and purples) with a simple vinaigrette–pour some oil and vinegar on it, add a little salt and pepper, and mix.
Boil a couple of eggs:
How’s that tagine coming? Check it. Your prunes should be all cooked down now and carmelized:
The lamb should be falling-apart tender and ready to be put into your tagine server, which is also blue, may I point out. Then put just the prunes on top:
Chop the eggs into quarters and decorate with them:
Serve it up. Your table should look like this (faded tie-dyed Mauritanian cloth with embedded glitter from twins 5th birthday optional):
Enjoy!
Wednesday morning Elliot woke up complaining of being really achy. He told me his temp was 96.9 though, so we had a small debate about whether or not he should stay home. I sensed he was really sick but just wasn’t sure, so I wanted to leave it up to him. “Please just tell me what to do,” he pled. That did it—I knew he was sick!
And then I found out that his temp was 99.6. Apparently I am developing aural dyslexia! This ought to come in handy when I am bargaining for items in the medina!
His temperature didn’t go up much, but continued to hover round the 100 mark, and he was achy and listless. We cancelled afternoon plans (they have a half day on Wednesdays) and hunkered down for the day.
Yesterday he stayed home again, still running a low-grade fever. He offered to go to school anyway and infect other children in hopes of starting an epidemic which would close the school, but I wouldn’t let him.
In the afternoon, his temp crept up to 101.8. This had Elliot, normally disgusting healthy, a bit worried. “That’s an odd number to have, isn’t it?” he asked me. “No,” I said, reassuring. This led to a discussion of the Dread Swine Flu, and the chances that we had our very own case!
“I wonder if soon they’ll have a cart that goes through the street to collect the dead bodies?” he asked.
“Unlikely.”
Should I be worried that my 12 year old (Abel, that is) can’t hand me an envelope from his school without gasping “Message for you sir” and falling over? I’m not sure I’m succeeding at this parenting thing.
I was supposed to be in Casablanca all week for some training for my new job at the new Berlitz Language Center (opening in Rabat this week!), but it got postponed. I’ve been doing some online training though. No matter your previous experience/training, you’ve got to do theirs.
Yes, this Berlitz. I figure any organization that can come up with a classic like this has got to be a good place to work.
Although the training next week is from 10 to 12:30 every single day. That means I travel over an hour by train, attend classes for 2 ½ hours, and then travel back; in other words, my travel time equals my training time. Wouldn’t it be better to do, say, two full days of training and then be done? No?
In the meantime, Elliot is home for the third day in a row. He can’t remember ever being sick for 3 days in a row before, but I can. When he was 8 he had this weird bacterial infection and his whole face swelled up. With his typical grasp of perspective, he told me, “I’m just not having a very good life.” Poor kid.
He seems mostly better today, so I guess that once again we’ve managed to miss Pandemics for Our Times. We didn’t get SAARS, no AIDS, no weird allergies, not even malaria! Bo-ring, we are.
At the end of June, Donn went to the Mauritanian border and met a fruit truck with all the things we’d left in storage there 2 years ago. This is the final segment of his story of that journey. Read parts one, two, three, four and five here.
Yes, this is the truck
I’ve been meaning to ask Tim who drove from Nouakchott to the border. Saied 1 drove from the time we met, mid-day, until 2 AM when we stopped at a gas station that I think was in Layoune. Here we installed a massive gas tank on the left hand side of the truck and filled it with over 800 liters of diesel fuel. We had dropped our hitch-hiker somewhere along the way and S2 slept in the small bed behind the seats for 5 to 6 hours until he took the wheel in the wee hours of the morning.
He drove for an hour and a half and then pulled off the road where we slept for about 3 hours. When we woke, S1 took the wheel again and drove most of the day. S2 went back to lying down. Traveling with Saied 2 was like trying to row a boat with an anchor hanging off the back. At least that was the image that came to mind.
For breakfast we pulled into a small restaurant and had tea and fried eggs from a communal plate from which we pulled bits of egg off with our bread. At each café, S2 found a group of men to socialize with after the meal while S1 and I waited around the truck. This wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for his insistent wrist slapping at the border. I fought the urge to gesture towards my imaginary watch. Instead I waited by the truck and imagined pouring molasses on a cold day. The Saied Brothers apparently made up for lost time by keeping a stack of 20 dirham notes in a cubby-hole in the dash board and shaking hands with the officer on duty at every checkpoint. This seemed to save us bags of time which could be better spent loitering around truck stops.
S1 and S2 at breakfast
S1 played Berber music intermittently throughout the trip. Not being musical at all, it really is beyond my ability to describe but I’ll give it a shot. Only know that you need to then find some Berber music and listen to it. Ok, so it’s repetitive. The rhythm, the melody, and the vocals are all repetitive. Everything in it repeats not twice or thrice but until you stop counting. There is a musical phrase that winds through a constant, dare I say repetitive, rhythm over and over again while the singer presumably tells a story with each verse ending with the same phrase. It was not entirely unpleasant. Traditional Mauritanian music has no reference point for western ears, but the Berber music Saied 1 played was ultimately kind of catchy. I mean it was no Bob Dylan but seemed a propos to the drone of the highway, the many Mohameds I’d met, the number of times America’s shortcomings were the topic of conversation, and the multiple goat tagines that blur in my memory. At one point, S1 scanned the radio for something western. We found the theme to Flashdance. It’s hard to feel stupider than driving through the desert with two men you can’t communicate with while listening to Flashdance. I think even S1 understood that because after one song it was back to the hypnotic strains of his cassette.
Before lunch I made contact with Elizabeth who informed me of Michael Jackson’s passing. I tried to communicate this news to S1 & 2 since in my experience, pop music icons seem to be one of the most common points of reference for North Africans on the subject of The West. That and America’s failings.
I pronounced his name the way I would say it. MY-kul JACKson. Then I tried the French, or at least the Peter Sellers way. Mee-shell Zhjackson. And then the incredulous way. “C’mon guys. Michele Jackson. [falsetto] ‘Just beat it!’” Nope, Nothing. In simple phrases, trying both Hassynia and French: Il est mort. No? Hua matt. No? Unbelievable. I gave up. Shortly after that we pulled into a truck stop, perused the menu and decided on the goat tagine. A television anchored to the ceiling was on showing….. Michael Jackson. “You know him?” I asked. Of course they knew him. What a stupid question. “He died today.” “Really?” All of the sudden S2 decided to understand a few words and related it to S1.
When we reached their home town of Agadir, we pulled off the highway onto a street lined with trucks. This was the kind of place one could find a truck to rent and I was a bit concerned they were going to try and off-load me. They had already broached that possibility with Tim and I was really wondering what was going on as we pulled into this truck mall with no explanation. Fortunately, we only changed the oil and were off again. As we left Agadir, we wound up behind an empty truck from Kenitra which is a city just north of Rabat. S2, now driving again, gestured at it repeatedly and spoke at length about it. I didn’t understand a word and yet I feel I know the jist. S1 occasionally replied to S2 and we kept driving northward.
Near Marrakech I was in regular contact with Elizabeth estimating the time of our arrival, planning who would be there to help unload, etc., when…. we turned around. What??? We spent half an hour driving up and down the same section of road lined with truck stops. Are we looking for a specific goat tagine? I imagined their conversation as something like, “You know, these guys drove the old Cup-o-Tagine guys right out of town.”
Apparently, we were looking for a friend of S2’s. He had been on the phone coming into Marrakech and had arranged to meet a friend, so back and forth we went, looking for him. (I had imaginary friends too, but I outgrew them) S1 explained it to me with a Berber word but I didn’t understand. I forget the word now but when we stopped, I looked for someone that spoke French (and presumably Berber). “Excuse me, do you speak French? What does this word mean?” “Friend.” Are you kidding me? Ohhh. I wanted to slap more than his imaginary watch. S1 and I waited round the truck for another ½ hour. I tried to exude annoyance and wondered if S1 would ever find a new partner. He is using you, Saied.
Eventually S2 sauntered over to the truck and we all piled back in. Language barriers can be a gift, I suppose, as we rolled on in silence.
On the other side of Marrakech, we had our final and best tagine. This was technically a michwi, not a tagine, michwi being grilled meat and tagine being more a stew. It was actually phenomenal. Grilled mutton chops with onions, tomatoes and salt. Soo good.
Choosing our michwi, pre-cooking
Back on the road, I calculated our time to Rabat and called Elizabeth. Looks like we’ll be there around 3 AM, assuming Saied doesn’t have any “friends” in this neck of the woods, I told her. Earlier I had realized we wouldn’t be there at a time when anyone would want to help so Elizabeth suggested we stop somewhere and sleep. “You want me to prolong this?” I asked. If I was scheduled to be released from prison, would she say, “Boy, tomorrow’s not a good time. See if you can stay another week.” I suggested to Elizabeth that she let Elliot have a sleepover. The more the merrier! “Have fun, watch a movie and at 3 am boys, we’re going to unload a truck!” It’s amazing what sounds fun to young boys if pitched the right way. I felt a bit like Tom Sawyer but hey, it worked. We rolled in at 3 AM, woke everyone up and unloaded. The guard on our street, who was awake (!), also pitched in and it took us about 2 ½ hours.
We’ve discovered we’re missing a few small items including Elliot’s Louisville Slugger baseball bat, which Elizabeth saw in the truck as we were unloading, but all in all, it was a successful trip. I made it home alive and we have our STUFF. Was it worth it? I don’t like to think about it. Would I do it again? Not without putting something about “friends” in the contract. Does Elliot miss his Louisville Slugger? Yes. I only hope S1 uses it to keep S2 in line.
FIN
Tuesday was a long day. We were up at 6:30 Spanish time, which is 5:30 Moroccan time for those of you playing along at home, and I was actually up even earlier as I had one of those “wake up to pee and then stay awake worrying about things” moments, so I was actually up at 5 Spanish time, 4 Moroccan time. Yawn! I heard people heading home as I lay there, desperately trying to relax.
We had quite a time finding breakfast in Tarifa at 8 a.m. Nothing is open! We eventually found a little café-bar, very much a workingman’s sort of place, which provided us strong bitter coffee and toast with jam.
Our trip was uneventful if long. We caught the ferry no problem, had a good crossing, had bags of time to wait at the Tangiers train station, where we bought some delicious curry chicken flaky pastries for about $1 each. The train sat for an extra half hour in a little beachfront town called Assilah, which was mildly annoying, but we really didn’t care. We watched the waves breaking on the shore through the window. We had an entire compartment again, so we were sprawled out and relaxed.
Now we’re back and vacation is over. We’re officially homeless, camped out in the basement of some amazingly generous people that we’ve known for only 2 months now. Supposedly we’ll move into our own place next week, but we have to wait for the current occupants to vacate. They are also waiting, for the work to be done on their new place, which is proceeding at exactly the rate you’d expect in a developing country with a somewhat weak work ethic. In other words, we are not exactly sure when we get to move in. So we’re in a basement, dealing with the fact that most of our suitcases are over at the new place, and Ilsa had the suffer the deep embarrassment this morning of taking her sports exam in board shorts, since we couldn’t find her sweats.
I had this post ready to go a couple of days ago but my battery died before I actually got it online. I don’t really have internet access these days, until we move, so you will hear from me sporadically. My google reader is piling up. Sigh…this had to happen when everyone else is doing NoMoPoWhatever, and posting prolifically. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I’m fine; stressed and grumpy and just fine.
In the meantime, here are some random photos from our last couple of days in Spain:
Sunday afternoon’s picnic at the beach. It was cool and very windy, alternating sun and shade. The kids had a blast making sand forts and having a full-out sand-ball fight. Of course my camera’s batteries had just died, so I didn’t get any pictures after this lone sandball.
It was wonderful to feel the sand between our toes again! When we lived in Mauritania, we went every Saturday, but this was our first beach trip since we left in July 2007.
Tarifa is the “southest” point of mainland Europe.
The water to the left of the causeway is the Mediterranean; to the right, the Atlantic Ocean.
I told you the streets were narrow!
You’ve seen lots of pictures of the ancient city; here are a couple of modern-day Tarifa, along the busy main street which is lined with shops catering to wind and kite surfers.
There are plenty of places for old men to sit and warm their bones in the sun, or catch up on the day‘s news.
One place even had a bench made from a surfboard!
This is some wall art outside of our favorite bakery, showing where to tie up your dog since he wasn’t allowed in.
Every evening, these people roasted and sold chestnuts. They are delicious and warm your hands as well as your stomach. They saw me take their picture and were laughing, thinking it wouldn’t turn out. I showed it to them and they said, “Muy Bueno!” We walked away with a bag of warm, freshly roasted nuts.
The place where we’re staying has a lemon tree just as you walk in. Several times now, we’ve been served lemonade made from freshly-squeezed lemons. It’s delicious.
Sorry I haven’t been around much. Got some horrible news about a tragedy in the lives of some good friends, and haven’t felt like posting. I’ll be back later.
My title today says “We’re on strike!” but it’s not really true, at least not for me. Sadly, I really have nothing to go on strike about just yet, except possibly laundry. And even if I did go on strike from the laundry, I‘m not sure anyone would notice–I‘m behind as it is.
You might think that you need a job in order to go on strike, but the year that we were in France, the unemployed went on strike to protest a cut in their benefits, and they marched in the streets. So I could go on strike if I wanted to. Just for a day.
No, it’s the teachers at the kids’ school who are on strike. Not all of them, of course. Teachers join individual unions, so on any given day your kid may or may not have school. Strikes usually last just one day, for teachers at least. (The unemployed struck for much longer, bringing France to its knees…no just kidding) Now that the kids are in junior high, they of course have several teachers, and today they came home for lunch announcing that they’d only had 1 or 2 classes this morning. Elliot’s parent-teacher meeting for tonight has been moved to next week. French-style strikes being what they are, this was announced last week.
I’m glad, because I am still recovering from the twins’ parent-teachers meetings last night. These are done en masse; all the parents meet the teacher or teachers. The meeting was supposed to start at 5:30, but the kids didn’t get out of school until 5:15. We put them in a taxi, handed them money and keys, sent them home, then headed back onto the school grounds. (Yes, having older kids is great)
We joined the file going into the school. We saw the principal, and received the good news that the twins get a locker! (There are more students than lockers available, so we had to request it.) We missed what room we were supposed to go to, since Donn was worrying that instead of casier (locker), the principal had said caissier (cashier), and that we owed money again, and I was thinking about how long it takes my brain to switch into French after just an hour at home, blogging and speaking in English. So when a friendly mom asked me which sixieme (Grade 6) class I would be visiting, and then which room that was in, I had no idea. We had to go back up to the principal.
That formed a bond. It turned out that she has a son in Ilsa’s class. I left Donn to visit Abel’s class, and went off with my new friend. Turned out we had plenty of time to get to know each other, since the meeting was nearly half an hour late getting started. I thought that was a bit thick, considering that our children risk detention if they arrive even one minute after the gates have closed.
This woman earned my undying friendship for chatting away with me for 20 minutes before suddenly saying, “Wait–are you American?” Usually people say that within 20 seconds. We went into the classroom, and Ilsa’s professeur principal (homeroom teacher) came and nattered on and on about classroom behaviour and not being late and report cards after each trimester and other things. Then, he left, and we were treated to a parade of teachers. They pranced in, announced who they were, what they taught, what our children in general were doing wrong, and called for questions. It was most illuminating.
I know that Ilsa is a little afraid of her technology teacher and her French teacher, and after seeing these formidable women, and hearing their high standards for perfection of every tiny accent mark and every tiny square grid on the graph paper, I could understand it. In fact, I ducked my head reflexively every time they glanced in my direction. I didn’t want to be called on!
I don’t ask questions during these parent-teacher meetings. Donn told me later he asked just one, about half-way through: “Is this all going to be in FRENCH?” It’s like they have a different word for EVERYTHING, he told me later. (That’s a Steve Martin quote.)
There’s always one parent who asks questions non-stop. In Mauritania, it was always either a tall man in a suit or a large woman in African print. This year, conversely, it was a small-boned woman who had just spent a couple of years in Italy and needed reassuring. We were all relieved to learn that her son participates just fine in English class.
It dragged on and on. The math teacher was unintelligible; he ducked his head and mumbled, like we scared him. For me, at least, the opposite is true. One thing about adulthood that I was looking forward to was not being scared of teachers anymore but I find that, sadly, I still am, a bit.
We were eventually released at 7:35, 2 hours after starting time. I left in a hurry and didn’t get my new friend’s phone number, but I’ll look for her outside the school.
Yesterday, I asked Elliot to make a batch of his justly-famous chocolate chip cookies. (And really, just why are they always so perfect? It’s my recipe. But his are excellent, while mine are just good. Must be that teenager spit–you know he samples batter freely!) This was to sweeten an errand I’ve been putting off, because I remain non-confrontative in spite of my goals to the contrary.
A few months ago, a new family arrived in the cul-de-sac where we live. I met them and their tiny boys one freakishly warm spring afternoon. Their boys were 3 and 5 then; now 4 and 6.
And the rains returned and I didn’t see them for a while.
But when we got back from California, it was summer. The sun shone, the street filled with the sounds of children playing, running, bickering, sword fighting, water fighting, lemonade selling, etc. And we noticed that now, those 2 adorable little boys were out in the street, but the mom was staying inside.
I will mention that I do that too. I don’t hang out watching my kids play. But then, my kids are 11 and 13. Also, this family has a one year old and, as of 5 days ago, a brand new baby. I understand that the mother may need to rest, and need a break. But.
I really am not uptight. I really don’t like to tell other people how to parent, and I resent it when people tell me how to parent. But these boys, in protective helmets on their tiny bikes, have the habit of whizzing behind our car when it’s backing up. I am pretty sure even those super helmets would be a poor match for my back tires. I have nearly killed them both several times. They are too young to be out on the street unsupervised, even such a safe street as ours where cars are rare.
So today I wrapped up the cookies and went over, first taking time to talk to the small boys about their new baby brother. I rang the doorbell. The dad came to the door; he was on his way to work, the mom and new baby were taking a nap. The grandma was sitting on the couch.
I explained who I was, gave him the cookies, congratulated him on his newborn son. Casually brought up the cars. “Yeah, that’s something we’ve been working on,” he said. He told me to let him know of any other problems.
I’m still worried though. I watch for these boys, make sure I can see them when I start backing my mini-van out, but they move. Of course it would be my fault, if I hit their 4 year old. Just yesterday, they nearly ran in FRONT of my van, which is of course a whole new worry.
So, what happens if I hit a four-year-old in America? I imagine the worst; my picture in the paper, interviews on the news, everyone hating me while I explain, pathetically, over and over, “I was only going 2 miles an hour! I looked! Honest!” I would feel horrible. I would never get over it. The parents would never get over it.
Ironically, this wasn’t a stress I was expecting to deal with this year. I figured that American parents, being more uptight than your average Mauritanian, would never let this be much of an issue. It was a problem at our last house, in Nouakchott, where an adorable toddler was fascinated by our big 4WD, and always wanted to run up and touch it while I was backing out onto the sand. It was really scary. His babysitter was his 5 year old sister. I know the worst there; a taxi driver of my acquaintance did run over a child. You pay $4000 “blood-money” and the family mourns, but fatalistically accepts that life is uncertain. I would never get over it.
So I am very thankful that I have not committed any vehicular homicide.
I posted several weeks (months?) ago about uptight parenting, and got some great comments. It seems that we are all relaxed in some areas and uptight in others, and that we are all worried about what those around us are thinking of our parenting. In a world of uncertainty, we watch each other sideways, constantly comparing ourselves. I don’t wish this upon my neighbour. I don’t think she should rein in her boys just because of what I think. But while I feel parenting is and should be personal, I do feel there are some basic rules of the road, some basic common sense. I may hanker back to a more relaxed time when kids could be kids, could have a real childhood in addition to their virtual one in front of electronic stimulus. (Although overall, I’m not one to idealize the past) But even then, in those helmet-less, tree climbing halcyon days, I don’t think tiny ones played unsupervised.
So I watch. Donn watches. Our kids watch. We’re our neighbours’ keepers, and that’s something that has carried down through the ages.
I’m sure many of you noticed that today was unusually long, that the day just dragged on and on, the hands of a watch barely managing to advance microscopic tick by microscopic tick to mark the passage of time. However, you may not have known why.
I do. Today, I had to show myself by 7:30 at the Courthouse downtown (a 45-minute drive in morning traffic) for jury duty.
It was my first time ever reporting for jury duty. I’ve only gotten one other summons, and I was excused because I was nursing infant twins and I threatened to bring them with me. Then I weaned them, moved to Africa, never did get around to registering at the embassy so that I could vote by proxy two months before everyone else and then have it not even counted till after everyone else’s, and forgot about jury duty. Until the summons came.
I read a fair amount of fiction (to put it mildly), including mysteries, and I’ve both read and watched Runaway Jury, so I was kind of excited to be on a jury and get to bring down a big multi-billion-dollar soul-less corporation. On the other hand, we have to be out of the house by August 5th (which includes leaving it clean) and naturally we haven’t started packing yet. I mean, we’ve got DAYS. But I need those days in which to pack, and so this isn’t actually the ideal time to be faced with making life and death decisions for someone else, when I really do need all my energy to persuade Donn that yes, we should fill all our suitcases with books if that’s the only way to get them to Morocco.
Also, I would be a lot more happy about jury duty if it started at a reasonable hour. Surely the criminal underclass are not at their best at 7:30 in the morning either, even if they did get used to it in law school (sorry; I know cheap lawyer jokes are so 80s). Talk about cruel and unusual punishment!
I was actually 10 minutes early. Traffic was quite light. Who knew? Given how it gets by 2 p.m. round here, I assumed that everyone would be on the road by 7. I checked into the jury room and was given my badge, and then I settled down in a comfortable chair with a book. And there I sat, and sat, and sat.
I checked my watch. 8 a.m.! I’d served ½ an hour of my 8 ½ hour day.
Around 9, I was awakened from a doze by an announcement. A list of names was read off, some people trooped off, and I went back to sleep. I read my book. At 9:15, I got up and got a drink of water. I read some more. The day dragged.
I was summoned at one point. I was the 21st name, which meant there was little chance of me actually making it onto the jury, so I made it easy. When the judge asked if any of us had any problem with being there for the next 3 days, I mentioned that I needed to pack. He informed me that that wasn’t a valid reason for being dismissed, but then dismissed me anyways.
Back to the room.
We had a 2 hour lunch break, in which I bought myself a new sweater (the weather was suddenly freezing, and I was dressed for stuffy, overheated public rooms, apparently believing that Strong Poison had come to life and I was on the jury for Harriet Vane‘s trial), and then back to the room. I half-watched a very odd show called “The Deadliest Catch” or something like that, about fishermen in Alaska. Really, you’d think I’d be happy to have a day in which to do nothing but read, but somehow comfortable couches in sunlit rooms seem to play a role in that particular fantasy.
Finally, the day dragged to a close. We were released, free for at least another two years! Suddenly, the hands on my watch sprang to life and time started working normally again. Donn admired my new sweater and we went for coffee, ran into an old friend, got home late.
I have had several posts I wanted to write over the past several days, but no time in which to do so.
On Friday, Elliot turned 13. This was momentous, as he has felt 13 for about 2 years now, so it was nice to make it official at last.
I was tempted to write a sentimental account of the day he entered our lives, of how I woke up that morning about 6:15, uncertain of what was going on, but by 6:45 was able to tell Donn, “I wouldn’t bother going in to work today.” Of how that turned my normally mild-mannered husband into a sort of Ricky Ricardo, who rushed about dropping suitcases (it was empty. Of course I didn’t pack in advance) and calling everyone we knew. I stood next to my bookcase, trying to decide what book to bring (my plan was to read through labour but it didn’t work out quite like that), while he whirled about me, Captain Stress, the Superhero of Impending Paternity. But really, I assumed I had hours. I’d taken the classes, watched the videos. The smiling lady in the video, rocking gently with a wistful smile on her face while her husband brought her juice, waited all day before it was time to go to the hospital. No one was more surprised than I when Elliot arrived 5 hours later, apparently very angry. Donn and I gazed down in some bemusement at our son, to all appearances just an enormous mouth topped by a tiny, wrinkled forehead. “Maybe we should call him Mick (after Mick Jagger),” I suggested. Donn’s comment was, “He looks a lot like your brother.” By then, Captain Stress had departed (off to where he‘s needed next!), and our inherent snideness was reasserting itself.
On his 13th birthday, things were a little less eventful. For one, we slept a lot later. (A plus side of adolescence that they don’t tell you about–they sleep late in the morning! At last, my genes are asserting themselves!) Our friend Michelle, whom we worked with in Mauritania, was due to arrive early afternoon at the airport, and we were nearly on time to pick her up.
So far, I am liking the teenage years. Of course, we’ve only had 4 days of them so far, but I feel it’s an auspicious beginning. For one, the party. No more frantic days of planning, goodie bags to buy for, games to supervise, tears to dry, cliques to navigate, etc etc. He invited 3 friends over, we fed them pizza and Doritos, they watched movies and played GameCube and grunted and looked things up on YouTube. Michelle, Donn and I sat out on the balcony in the mellow evening light and chatted and sipped cool drinks.
They spent the night, these 3 extra boys, and in the morning I got up to make them pancakes. “We’re not hungry,” they told me. “We just ate pizza and Doritos.” For breakfast? Oh for the cast-iron stomach of youth again!
We spent the weekend proudly showing off our state (Oregon) to Michelle, since it was her first visit. We took her to Saturday Market, where we found henna booth after henna booth, all stocked by Americans painting “authentic Moroccan designs” in places I’m fairly sure weren’t authentic. (I.e. lower back, pregnant belly, etc) Michelle and I were amused. In Mauritania at least, henna is just for women, and men aren’t supposed to even see it being done; it is part of the mystery and wonder that is femininity. (Although I did see it offered to tourists in the marketplaces in Morocco, which I suppose is where they got the idea). But Michelle and I were comforted; if we’re ever starving, at least we’ve got a money-making idea. We could open a henna booth.
We took Michelle to Powells (City of Books), where I gave her a map and a walking tour. (For those of you poor people who have never been here, Powells is a bookstore that is an entire city block and 3 storeys tall. They sell new and used books, and they have pretty much everything. It’s a marvellous place, and when we were in Mauritania, I used to have dreams that I was back in Portland and shopping at Powells) It was a very fun way to pass an evening. I had to let the kids be on their own in the kids section because otherwise, they were making me miserable, nagging at me to go to the kids’ section. I proudly showed Michelle entire sections on, for example, Artic Exploration; not something that most bookstores can afford to devote much shelf space to.
We took her berry picking (her first time ever! She’s from Kansas), and to the Rose Garden, which is full of roses of all colours and sizes, all in bloom now, an olfactory delight on a warm, breezy summer day under the blue sky.
We took her down the Columbia River Gorge.
Actual quote from Michelle: I thought Kansas was green! (She’s just come from Mauritania so we can understand her)
The Columbia River Gorge is full of waterfalls, and must be one of the greenest places on earth. The modern highway runs alongside the river, the high cliffs echoing to the roar of constant trucks and trains, but a little further up the scenic highway winds its way through forests of fir and maple and oak. Silvery water cascades over mossy rocks; huge waterfalls thunder hundreds of feet to pound on brown rocks; myriad trails head up and up, switchbacking back and forth alongside streams, along cliffs, along steep drop-offs leading to more waterfalls.
The children claim to hate hate hate going on hikes. They whine, they complain, they gripe. Then, once we actually start walking, they scamper on ahead, often still whining. I don’t know why, but it sure is annoying.
But it is all worth it for the views.
Also, we now have two photographers in the family. I gave Abel my old camera, the one with sand in its sensitive bits so that it only works intermittently, and he loves it.
We hiked up to Fairy Falls, past many beautiful falls that have no names. In many ways, I thought this was as Fairy Falls should be, all mossy and cushiony green.
Don’t you think? But instead, Fairy Falls cascades over hundreds of rather pointy brown rocks.
We had a discussion and decided that the fairies aren’t the tiny kind, or they’d be crushed to bits by the force of the water. They must be the bigger kind that sit and comb their hair with silver combs under the fall of water, luring unwary passers-by to a doomed life of unhappiness and discontentment, like Angus in the Yeats poem.
