Planes Land on Us

We listen to the plane land in our living room. Not really, but it sounds like it. The Quito airport is difficult to fly in and out of, being located between the mountains. It is also located right in the middle of the city and about the size of a few football fields. While watching episodes of Gilmore Girls, we sometimes brace ourselves for being joined by a 747.

We’ve started a fire a couple times in our wood burning stove. Normally, during the day the temperature rises to 70 degrees and at night cools down to 50. Lately, it has been very cloudy and rainy, even causing me to whip out my Northface jacket. Though the mid 50s sounds perfect to a New Englander suffering through the pangs of snowstorm after snowstorm, when there is no electric heat anywhere, the air temperature in the evenings here is probably comparable to a New England house. The glass slated windows are shy of shutting, creating the chilly aura of camping, and it takes hours for my feet to eventually defrost inside my covers.

The water in our shower is either freezing cold or burning hot. Sponge baths have now become my morning regime, mixing the freezing cold water with the burning hot in a pot and then using a cup to pour it on my head. Every morning I am reminded of my Uganda study abroad experience. I’d rather have consistency than have to jump around in the shower to avoid the boiling or icy water.

Quito is the second highest capital in the world, at about 9,000 ft. This causes me to blame most headaches, fatigue and insomnia on the altitude. Climbing the stairs to our third floor hotel room the other night made us all incredibly out of breath. We’re not out of shape or anything, it’s just that dang altitude…. Right?

Juice has been one of the highlights of Ecuador. Their juice is very much unlike the watery sugary liquid that the States has to offer. This fruit juice is thick and sweet with nectar straight from a mango, tree tomato, pineapple, or mora. Mora is similar to blackberries, but a little bit bigger. They also serve papaya, jackfruit, guanabana, papaya, and apple juice, to name a few others. When mixed with milk or yogurt it’s a batido. I also give the ice cream here high praise, being similar to Italian gelato.

Our milk and eggs don’t need a refrigerator. Apparently the milk doesn’t because it’s loaded with so many preservatives that it’s hardly milk anymore (according to Sharon, who owns cows in Alberta). As for eggs, supposedly if they’re not refrigerated to begin with, they don’t need to be refrigerated. Why did the US start refrigerating eggs? That’s a question I’m sure Google can answer.

The alarm for our guest house is continually beeping much like a cell phone or computer with a dead battery. I’m about to shoot it. Jen thinks I'm ridiculous. I've found that when it decides to beep at night, if I put a pillow over my head it blocks the sound.

Those are a few things about the everyday here. Planes don’t really land on us, but they almost do.

Puzzle

Primero, queremos buscar esos…
(First we want to find these - I didn’t know the word for “edges” so I pointed to them)

Uno esquina… dos equinas… tres… y donde esta cuatro?
(One corner… 2 corners… three…. and where is the four? That's the word for corner on the street... don't know if it's the same for puzzles...)

Y segunda, ponga esos partes aquí…
(And second, put these parts here… meanwhile, I’m pointed to edges that I’ve assembled)

¡Mira Leslie! ¡Mira! ¡Están juntos!
(Look Leslie! Look! They’re together! I say excitedly as I have assembled various pieces of the puzzle. Leslie is the adorable little girl in the first picture on this blog.)

Y después, queremos poner esos partes juntos…
(And after, we want to put these parts together… I didn’t know the Word for “piece” so I used “part” instead...)

¡Mira Leslie! ¡Qué Perfecto!
(Look Leslie! Perfect!... I proclaim my excitement for having assembled the whole puzzle together.)

“Otra Vez!” says Leslie. (Again!)

That is an example of my broken Spanish as Leslie and I completed a puzzle together this morning.

“Tía y yo estamos trabajando.” Leslie told the other Tía.

(Tía and I are working… I am referred to as “Tía” just like they’re caretakers.)

"Acá.... acá, Tía….” said Leslie.

Acá means “there”, usually used with verbs of movement (“Lo ponga acá” – put it there!). Leslie was sitting in her seat that holds her legs in place. Her legs are small since they don’t get much use and her voice is lighter than a feather. She wanted me to move her closer to the table.

“Tía… tía… vamos afuera…” she says. (Tía, let’s go outside.)

“Quieres caminar?” I ask her. (Do you want to walk?)

“Sí, sí tía…” she smiles. (Yes, Tía)

A softness surrounds Leslie’s face, muffling any kind of frustration that may accompany her handicap. I would love to magically allow this one child to walk.

This would be my own miracle…

“Levante te y camina!” I said. (Stand up and walk!)

Leslie smiled, knowing what was happening in her bones. In that moment, earthly science was pushed aside and a miracle took place inside her joints. With vigor, she lifted her head erect, her back straightened and her thighs positioned themselves over her knees. Slowly they lifted her knees which commanded her calves to follow and her feet moved upward, over, and down, one at a time. She slowly realized what was happening and began to understand that she could in fact run towards the outdoors. More quickly she began to step into a jog and then a run, as she darted around the entire yard, between the play house, the swings, and the baby trampoline. She hadn’t understood how running felt before, and now she knew. It was as awesome as she had thought.

That is what I would hope for Leslie.

Come on, God… just one little miracle… just one…

Football

While America was watching the Superbowl,  I was caught in a downpour on the field of Liga vs. Barcelona. Barcelona is a soccer team based in Guayaquil, Liga from Quito. Thousand of fans in white and yellow cheered from the cement, white for Liga. Some climbed the wire fence and sat above the bleachers, others danced to the constant singing of Ecuadoran songs, and the rest held their beer in their hand waiting for a goal.

There are a few reasons why soccer is superior to other sports.

1) The game is constantly moving. There is so much to watch! The ball dribbles down the field, being passed from guy to guy, the crowd shouting “Ole!” with every pass.

2) The players themselves must be the most fit of any athlete. They are strong and lean, kicking the ball with incredible strength down the field. The only guts they have are made of adrenaline and emotional gusto.

3) The whole world watches soccer and loves it. America is mostly on the outs of the international energy that surrounds the game and especially the World Cup. They even give it a completely different name.

4) It’s hard to get a goal, requiring a whole field of teamwork and careful foot work. When one is actually scored, it is a feat worthy of cheering! Though other sports may be high scoring, it takes more skill to actually achieve that goal in soccer.

5) Time actually matters. 45 minutes is 45 minutes. If there are 3 minutes left in the game, it won’t take another hour. You know when it will start and when it will end. This helps when it’s raining outside yet you know that in 45 minutes exactly you will be drying off.

To sit in the rain and watch it must mean that I really care about it. Prior to actually getting into the stadium we literally ran around the entire place one and half times, at high altitude, through legions of police on motorcycles and horses, trying to find our group that held our tickets. From inside the stadium I could hear the resounding cheering of the first goal, yelling to Jen about the absurdness of the situation and lack of effective communication.

I believe in soccer. Leave your American football behind! Your padding, your helmets, your steroid muscles! You have four years to gather yourselves and get excited about the World Cup in Brazil. Yes, you can!

Field Trip to the Mall

There are certain times when I am reminded that direction in life is something that we impose on ourselves and others.  Art, play, or music has this curious ability to point to more layers of the world than we see.  I was listening to some jazz music today that immediately stretched out the time in front of me, making it seem like all I really have to do is try to dance beautifully in the space provided.   Sometimes there are moments with people where we are not really going anywhere, we’re just dancing.     

Today I accompanied the special needs kids (Jose, Rosa, Lisseth and Tatiana) on a field trip to the mall.  Jose Luiz experienced sensory overload immediately while walking around.  He lost track of his foot movements, his head bobbing and gazing at all of the sounds and colors. Taking the elevator made him squeal and whine in fear while Tatiana’s mouth dropped open and she smiled wider than ear to ear.  

To these children, the mall is the wonder of wonders.  Tatiana’s excitement brought her to her tiptoes as I held her hand trying to quell some of her energy.  She began banging her hands against the glass of the pet store, exhilarated by the cat, the mice and the two dogs, as if to say, “Animals!  I love cats!  I want a cat!” but all that came out was hand movement.

While having a snack at the food court, I checked off some of the items on the development assessment (a list of milestones I observe in the kids) and realized more clearly that Jose Luiz performs at the level of a 1 year old.  If it were up to him, he would lie and giggle in his bed all day.  His biggest talent is smiling, which he does spontaneously and responsively (check, check). 

He currently has a huge bump on his head from Rosa pushing him into a wall, which he didn’t retaliate against.  The other day, Jen witnessed one of the kids, Adriana, biting his hand in the yard below our apartment and couldn’t do anything fast enough to help him, being on the second floor.  Jose whined for a few moments until Adriana stopped, then went back to hobbling around the yard and playing with his doll.  I imagine him wanting to yell, “Hey!!  Help!!” rather than whimper.

I was just informed today that Tatiana has fetal alcohol syndrome and epilepsy.  Her developmental level is around age 5, minus the language development.  Lisseth can speak some words, but she is probably at the level of a 6 or 7 year old, and Rosa may be around the same.  In actuality though, Tatiana is 16, Lisseth is 16, Rosa is 12 and Jose Luiz is 10.

If they could speak, I would love to know what they’re thinking. The more time I spend with them, the more I can tell that they recognize me.  Tatiana will bang her hand against the window as I walk by, or Jose Luiz will begin to gurgle in his throat.  Even Rosa, seems to be coming around and making efforts to play with me. 

In the little therapy pool today Tatiana and I took turns pouring water on each other’s heads, pretending we were giving each other showers.  Her mouth is the source of her expression.  When she gets excited it multiplies to ten times its size.  Meanwhile her hands move rapidly up and down and her feet extend to tiptoeing.  Without words she was saying, “This is so cool!!!!” as Jen put goggles over her face, allowing her to see under water.  As she moved above and underwater, she proclaimed with her face, “I love goggles!!!”

There’s a trampoline in our backyard where the special needs kids can play.  I took some time to jump on it as powerfully and as high as I could.  When I'm with the kids, we're often just playing, but there's moments where it's just pure human interaction, and even fun.  

The moment in the air is one I’d like to repeat my entire life.

Diga!

Speak!

Speak José! Speak!

I could see his mouth exercising, moving with so much power!

Speak!

Walk!

Walk Leslie! Walk!

I held her arms with my hands under her shoulders, while her feet stepped.

Walk!


Swallow!

Swallow Tati! Swallow!

As she came charging at me, I wiped her mouth with her bib, hugging.

Swallow!

I do so want to witness José’s first words. Sitting with him this morning, I would not relent, telling him, “Hola!” trying to show him how words were coming from my throat. I encouraged him to use his voice, pronouncing every word strongly, envisioning a breakthrough.

Prior to that I was helping little Leslie walk around the yard, up the wooden clubhouse ramp, over to the little wooden playhouse, and even down the slide covered in water droplets. I had a small desire to be a physical therapist in these moments.

With bravery, they move and try. Leslie quietly insisted she walk, happily stepping slowly and crookedly. José laughs instead of speaks and laughs the more that he tries, getting up and hobbling around the playground and inside the house. His fingers are bent and have calluses from him chewing on them instead of talking. But then I look at my bitten and destroyed nails and can hardly throw a stone at him.

It’s amazing to watch them try so much and so elegantly, without tears or anger, but with unassuming grace and having such a casual way about them. They’re becoming my favorite ones to see and work with, they’re smiles seem deeper knowing their disabilities.

The Tías show the same grace with the children, guiding them with understanding instruction and always telling the children how beautiful they are and how wonderful they’re doing. Words and support can grow such talented and intelligent children, despite the abilities they may not have been born with or the parents who have left them to themselves.

As Tati comes charging towards me, mouth hanging open, saliva dripping down in one long thin glob, I think,

Hug!

Hug, Sarah! Hug!

But it’s really not that hard to give hugs to kids with such wonderful smiles.

Orchids

The taxi driver hadn’t heard of the place, but after calling a couple other drivers, we eventually were able to find it. It was up a little dirt road and there was just a small sign saying “Orchidiaro” pointing us towards this group of ramshackle greenhouses. We walked into the courtyard area and to a small entranceway where a man was sitting at a desk. He said admission was a dollar and wanted to know if we had any US quarters with states on the backs of them, directing us towards a booklet that he had of the collection. I only had eagles, but he took them eagerly.

He then led us, cane in hand, glasses pushed down, to one of his crowded greenhouses, towards a wall of little orchids. Resting on his cane, he began guiding us through the tiny ones growing vertically along the wall and then beyond into the other greenhouses. Rare little baby orchids had been growing for 6 years, while others about twice the size had been growing for 15! When opened, some resembled a monkey’s face inside or a tongue. Others had leopard designs, white or fuschia, and there was one that was called “Medusa” that had a really thick twisted stem. There were tiny ones, the size of a fly, and then larger ones, the size of my fist. Apparently there are about 4,000 different kinds in all. He had most of them growing in pots on tables, but many were also along the walls or hanging from the ceiling. He took us around and treated himself to a cigarette in the middle of the greenhouse towards the end.

I’ve never smelled a flower so aromatic.

I attempted conversation:

“Conoces la película, ‘Adaptation’?”

“Ah, no.”

“El tópico es Orchids… con Meryl Streep.”

“Ah, esa actriz es muy bonita.”

“Si.”

I can see how the obsession with Orchids could arise: the challenge of growing them, the smell, the different sizes, colors, and monkey faces. Harvesting Orchids is like raising children, their demise being the destruction of years of watering and nurturing. The Orchid man seemed an expert in his Orchid creations, I admired his knowledge and it almost inspired me to focus on something as specific as that. To know so much about such a tiny part of life seemed not only quirky but absolutely brilliant.

El Sol Sonrie Radiante

The sun smiles brightly
Las nubes muevan lentamente
The clouds move slowly
Las montañas son más grandes que los árboles
The mountains are greater than the trees
Hoy es más bello que ayer
Today is more beautiful than yesterday
José Luís es muy cariñoso
José Luís is very affectionate
Hoy aprendí adjetivos lo mismo
Today I learned about adjectives myself

Besides my accelerated language acquisition, I have also been playing with little kids and babies.

The toddlers walk around like little philosophers of the swings and the outdoor toys. Mateo wears a yellow knitted vest and grayish green corduroys, his eyes deep brown crevices atop his cheekbones. Lucas’s cheeks weigh down both sides of his face and he easily moves the white metal crib and climbs up the sides. Aissiata wears a watermelon jacket and neon pink sneakers protect her feet. Felipe is bundled in an aqua cotton jacket, his hoodie covering his head tightly, a cartoon character stitched on the front.

I know at night, while contemplating human nature, their squealing and laughter bonds them even closer.

If there were a child that I would adopt, I’d be tempted to take home Jose Luís. Even when Rosa rushes to push him over, he never cries. Slowly he rises again, and grins. This extends to open his mouth for a contained squeal and then a bit of gurgling from the back of his throat. I would love to witness his first words.

Necesito que uses tus piernas, José…

I need you to use your legs, José…

Vamos a subir! Sube sube!

We are going to go up! Go up! Go up!

Only a year ago was relying on a wheel chair, now he can run around the yard. His knee and elbow pads that he was given for Christmas are comical to me, along with his baby blue glasses that he constantly yanks off his head. When I see him running towards me, grinning madly and gearing up his throat for words which never come, endearment floods me. Sometimes he quietly curls up next to me, or sits on his knees staring at me as he slowly loses his balance and falls back. I had him hold a baby doll the other day, which he so sweetly and thoughtfully stroked and kissed in his arms.

All of the children here are taken care of so well. Their caretakers (“Tías” = Aunts) switch off duty every few days in their color coded teams (green, blue and red). They provide a healthy diet and take notes on each child’s development, which are filed by the Social Worker. Some children were picked up at hospitals, others were found wandering. In order for a child to stay here, they must be parent-less for at least a year. This means that the parents have proven that they cannot take care of them, are missing, or have given up.

Orphanages no longer exist in the US. They were replaced by the Foster Care system a few decades ago. I must say though, these children are blooming within these walls. Moreover, when adopted they will come with thick files of their growing up, along with a scrapbook of pictures from along the way. They will have been educated by some of the best teachers, and been taken care of by the best doctors… not to mention the volunteers that have helped along the way.

Last night, Jen and I found ourselves dancing in a nursery with four little philosophers, not to mention playing hide and seek as they ran around the room. These kids are some of the cutest, most seriously playful little persons that I have ever been around. Their photographs alone make me grin almost as wide as Jose Luís.

Los niños juegan feliz y cariñosamente.

The children play happily and affectionately.

Maybe I’ll just have to pack some when I leave….

Babies

Michael can’t speak, talk or walk. His head is too big for his body which makes it difficult for him to support himself. Only liquids can be given to him because his stomach can’t process solid food. He spends most of the day relying on the nurse to feed him, help him fall asleep, and even dispense of his waste. When working with him I had to hold him steady.

He is also 6 months old.

Babies are cute - with they’re little smiling faces, especially after baths all dressed in their fuzzy pastel pajamas, with footsies. They smell new and their faces make me laugh.

However, today I was given Michael and a bottle. Between squirming, gurgling and feigned vomiting during the next rounds of feeding I lost interest in whether he was getting any of it actually down his esophagus. As I stood Michael up on my lap, ready to lay him on my shoulder and reluctantly burp him he turned his head with mouth open wide, saliva protruding, inhaling …

“Not on me!” I told him.

He wobbled his head over to the other side, mouth still hanging open, moving his legs up and down – trying to jump or something. I rotated him between my arms and my shoulders, even leaving him in the ball pit at one point, watching him slowly sink into the colors. I could feel myself getting strangely combative as he continued to defy the bottle, splashing the milk around and out of his mouth with his tongue. I eventually sat him down in a tiny blue seat in front of some dangling plastic shapes.

“So, you’re going to try to eat those but not you’re formula?”

When I bear children and master feeding them, I’m sure I will love them more than most things in the world because they will be mine. However, the challenge at an orphanage or with adoption is that you need to learn how to love ones who are not yours and who can’t take care of themselves.

There are no older kids here because they all get adopted. An American family may even be adopting one of our special needs kids, which is practically unheard of. Today a family from the Upper West Side of Manhatten, came to adopt Juan.

You can imagine the cultural differences.

Each family that adopts is required to spend two months in Quito with their new child. Two months of hotel expenses, transportation, speaking Spanish, braving different food, taking off from work, and pulling two little kids out of school. At ages 6 and 9, the daughter and son of this family are accepting this pleasantly plump toddler as their brother. Even more, these two parents are calling him their son.

For Juan, he is stepping into a life filled with more opportunity than most of the American population.

I asked the mother, “What made you want to adopt?”

“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do!” she said, beaming. She resembled Sandra Bullock quite a bit in both mannerisms and appearance. She continued, “We wanted to have a third and we thought, ‘Let’s just do it all at once!’.”

She began pulling Juan and another toddler in a little green wagon around the yard. Meanwhile her two kids were jumping on the trampoline with the other children.

The shadows embraced the trees around me as I watched this little boy begin his first day as theirs.

Special Needs

“Do you mind if I wash these things here?” I think in my head…

…meanwhile, in reality, I slowly move the plastic bowl and signal with my eyes and hands as kindly as possible, smiling to gain approval. The Tia (“Aunt” = Caretaker/Nanny) says, “Si, quieres lavar los platos?”

…to which I respond with the two words I feel most confident saying…

“Si! Gracias.”

“Sorry I’m taking up space in the sink while you peel and wash your potatoes. You may end up with chocolate potatoes!” I think as I wash the chocolate covered bowl.

I smile broadly, invasively, attempting to communicate gratitude. She smiles back. After the dish is cleaned, I walk towards a child passing his empty bowl between his hands and hitting it on the table.

“Hey, are you finished? Can I have your bowl?”

I stand and hold out my hand, silent.

Estas terminada…. Terminanda… terminando…termine?

I stand there some more, hoping he will see me and recognize the signal. Eventually, I walk away and continue to observe my friend dominate her cooking class, raise her voice, her hands, gesture verbs, sing occasionally, elaborately communicate surprise, laughter, excitement, praise and commands. Only dynamite could possibly challenge her energy.

I smile. I laugh. I nod my head. I take the dishes.

“Puedes…. Lavar…. Mmm,” I say as I point to the plastic bowls. “Como se dice?”

“Los platos! Lavar los platos. Si, si!” the friendly Tia exclaims, moving over.

“Ah, lavo los platos. Si. Gracias.” I respond, the deflated companion of dynamite.

This began the game of point and translate.

“Como se dice?” I said, pointing to a pot….

…the stove

…the oven

....the gas

…the small spoon

…the large spoon

This game is still in progress, and although I feel like a loser, I consider myself a learner. In fact, Jen suggested I work with the special needs kids, since the Spanish is slow with them….

…so she says…

But it is slow, as is their development. I spent four hours with four of them today: Rosa, Jose Luiz, Tatiana and Lessith. Tatiana wears a bib to catch the saliva continuously dripping from her lips; Jose Luiz wears elbow pads, knee pads and baby blue glasses; Rosa has bruises and a few small cuts on her arms and face, products of her powerful defiance; Lisseth screams or yells when we least expect it. When I walked in Tatiana immediately hobbled over, falling towards me, arms outstretched, while Rosa ran out the door. I spent 20 minutes trying to get Jose to grab the soft colorful ball and 30 minutes watching Tatiana eat some raison bread terrified that she would choke and I would not know how to save her.

What if these kids are like me. What if they know what is going on, but can’t express or change their behavior… similar to my malfunctioning Spanish. They’re fascinating to watch because they’re entirely unpredictable. Rosa’s mood may change suddenly and she’ll throw the bowl of popcorn kernals over, or Jose Luiz will suddenly turn on that big bright smile, or Tatiana may decide to give Jose a hug when he begins to cry.

I sang a song in broken Spanish to Jose Luiz while I pushed him in a swing. He can't speak so he just smiled and laughed. I understood perfectly.

Take Off

(January 7, posted belatedly)

Through the airplane window I watch snow lap up over the airport, covering car and airplane etchings on the white ground. After being taxied to the de-icing station and sprayed with Christmas colored solutions over the steel airplane frame, my plane roars and breaks into the sky.

AWEsome. These incredibly heavy machines fly thousands of feet above the earth, to new places so comfortably and quickly. Here I am with my snacks, cushioned seat, movie, and stewardesses pulling snacks and drinks down the aisle. In less than 24 hours I will be thousands of miles away. How could such a heavy object have lifted itself into the air and brought me from here to there?

My grandfather says that this time is magic. His curiosity reminds me of how little the common man (myself) knows about the devices used these days, being limited to user interface, buttons, or wheels (unless you’re Tron and you’re actually IN the COMPUTER). He was curious about my digital camera and computer, asking how they work, to which I replied…

“Pixels.”

…not to be confused with Pixies. What about airplanes? Aerodynamics/Pixy Dust. Computers? Microchips/Special Lava. Cars? Combustion/Prayer. The Internet? CSS/ Html/001110101110/It’s-a-mystery.

Technology has cut/stripped distance between people; connection is absolutely instant; we can have it NOW (5 seconds is too slow). Nowadays, we have Internet Explorer. Google provides pictures and tours of areas all over the world. Famous architecture, cities, and terrain can be seen by each and every one of us through the inter-web!

But an entire profession has been lost: a true explorer. As said to Truman (The Truman Show) when desperately wanting to leave the island, “Actually, everything has already been explored.”

What must have it felt like to unlock the treasures of the Louisiana Purchase for the first time? Or, to saddle up and drag your family out west? Or, to hop on a boat and end up in the cold winters of New England? To go to the jungles of Africa? These people were CRAZY and willing to risk their lives to see something new and live a different life. People drew beautiful maps speculating how the world must look. Now we have views from the (freaking) moon.

You don’t have to be insane anymore, or crazy. If you save up some money and get some time off, you can go. You can do it.

Between airplanes and the Internet alone, it’s amazing how much of a genius man can be.

***Airport Interlude ***

On a very different note, one knows they are in the Houston airport when one spots a Fox News themed gift store not far from middle aged adults grouped with youth and carrying backpacks (a.k.a. MISSIONS TRIP). At this very moment I’m watching their Jansported backs walk away from me. Earlier I was searching for kiosks and stores at which to break down my $20 bills into smaller bills and was asked by a friendly kiosk-man,

“You must be going out of the country. Where are you going?”

“Ecuador.”

“Is it a mission?”

To botch up a quote from Elf, “What’s a mission? I want one!”

***Airport Interlude: End; Enter Airplane Thoughts ***

The sky just pulled back to reveal the blue Mediterranean sea below my plane. I hadn’t been expecting it so soon. There was a tiny opening act of Texas farmland followed by smog before our cloud floor dropped out. It’s beautiful up here. Our captain is rotating between Spanish and English. There is a Chinese couple sitting next to me and they were asking how to count in Spanish. I’m worried for them, looks they they’re in for a rougher language ride than I.

There’s only four hours between me and America del Sur. I never purchase wine alone when traveling through airports or on airplanes, but I just did.

Scotlandia

I am now enclosed inside a time warp with my grandparents in Scotland. They’re talking in the living room while I’m in the kitchen here, dwelling. I can hear my grandfather commenting negatively here and there, hollering about this and that. When he came in to grab something he asked me if I had a hair dryer and informed me I would get head rheumatics with wet hair. At the moment I can hear him going on about when people used to have their fires inside the houses and that they were often not very careful. This is a common theme for him, as most people never seem to have their heads on straight. I certainly don’t, for I left my camera on the living room coffee table the other night and someone could’ve broken in to get.

My Gran has a lovely way of telling a story, capped with a little giggle at the end. At the moment she’s recollecting how birds would build nests in the chimney causing the smoke to come inside. Granda compliments the story by talking about the unbelievable amount of tree parts and papers that the birds would manage to find and create their homes with, followed by Gran being reminiscent of how cozy the fire was. She has been making our stomachs feel quite cozy, inundating us with her apple tart, ice cream, meat, mashed potatoes, overcooked vegetables and toast loaded with butter and homemade marmalade. It’s a wonder how her blood pressure can be so healthy, I wonder if her veins are actually strengthened by all the strengthening fat that they receive.

In the way of food, Granda is now asking about the meal that we went out for last night. Apparently, they’ve been forever advertising about eating places in Glasgow. However, trying to explain Persian food is like trying to tell a fish about trees. My mom pursues it, trying to explain Naan, rice and the “creamy sauces” that they use.

“Get away!” says my Granda as my Grandma’s giggle pops the ceiling, “Did you like it?” he asks. His curiosity reminds me of all the things of the outside world that we should try to describe for them. The world has changed so much since they’ve walked around in it.

“Persian….” he says under his breath, allowing the words to slowing melt into his mind.

This is only a brief window of contemplation before the conversation meanders back to other depressing current events, including how people on the internet misuse information and you should certainly never give your personal information over the phone, as they’ve been told.

“The things they’re up to is terrible.” Gran almost gasps.

“Aye, and we don’t know the half of it Sarah… we don’t know the half of it…” Granda solemnly notes.

My grandparents really look stunning for their age, in their thick knitted sweaters always dressed properly for the day. My Gran still wears nylons under her woolen navy pants, though she has to cut them at the knee because half her leg is wrapped in gauze due to a cellulitis infection. She also makes sure to wear her little nylon socks over her wrapped feet. My Grandfather sits regally in his red Celtic suspenders with golden clasps, complementing the striped purple and navy polo t-shirt underneath and thick navy sweater overtop. He wears thick brown slippers, put up on a small soft green footstool as he does his crosswords and reads his books. Both have just the right amount of frailty and health that somehow bring a wise and happy presence. Though their bodies fail them a bit at times, their minds couldn’t be better, hanging on to the stubborn independent thinking that has carried them on for so many years. As a perfect example of this, I can hear my mother yell in the kitchen:

“WE’RE NOT TALKING LOW. YOU’RE GOING DEAF.”

We all can endure their independence with a little humor, satisfied that they are the same as they always have been though accumulated years that are more than twice my lifetime. They continue to exercise their minds with much reading and when we are stumped about some piece of history we can certainly ask my grandfather, who will give us a wonderful explanation of the particulars of the situation.

Now I see that the snowflakes have arrived after much speculation. Here they come, softly drifting down from the cloudy sky. Although we may feel a bit enclosed at times, there is a magical quality that exists between the constant commentary and storytelling that I like very much.