Camping

This summer we hosted a batch of extended family from Norway for their first ever trip to America.  We decided a short trip around our beautiful state in our motorhome was just the ticket. 

I knew they were coming months before they arrived. We’d met with them several times in Norway to talk about their big adventure.  I formulated the perfect itinerary, according to their desires and wishes, but when I went on-line to make reservations in campgrounds around the state, I ended up in tears.  I sat at my computer for at least four hours, checking and rechecking and there were no camping spots available.  Apparently, reservations are best made nine months in advance.  After much prayer and a fresh start, I was able to find campsites for each night of our journey that appeared to be the only ones available, probably from someone canceling.  Whew.

When the Norwegians arrived and we were on our road trip, I apologized for some of the campsites we got, explaining how difficult it was to find a spot on “such short notice” – just two months in advance, not nine.  They were completely baffled.  In Norway, RVs are allowed to park anywhere – even on someone’s private property.  No reservations required.  It’s all part of the “right to roam” laws that dominate Norway and filter into other European countries as well.  If there is a grassy patch and someone has a tent, they are welcome to plop it down and sleep for the night.  If there is a wide spot in the road, RVs are free to pull over and sleep away.  The stinginess of American property is a very foreign concept to Norwegians and Europeans alike.

A friend of ours was at Bay View State Park a few weeks ago and overheard a French couple, with limited English skills, trying to comprehend the park ranger as he explained the park was full.  They didn’t understand him because there was a big grassy spot in the middle of the park that looked like a tent site to them.

My friend called every other park in the area only to discover they too, were full.  She shrugged her shoulders and tried to explain there was no place for them to camp.  They somehow conveyed they just needed one night and the next morning they’d be flying home out of Vancouver.

Being the big-hearted person she is, she offered them her field for the night.  She used big gestures to tell them to follow her home where they could pitch their tent. They were elated.  The spot by her pond was better than any state park could have mustered and it didn’t cost them a thing.

I asked her was she did about a toilet and she told me her farmer husband had a port-a-potty he delivered to them.

I so wish I could hear the stories these tourists tell back home about us Americans who have no place to camp, but apparently tote around portable toilets.

Heritage Day

A beloved friend of ours grew up in the South, the descendant of a slave woman and a plantation owner.  Janet had it better than most, since her great grandfather loved her great grandmother and when he died, he broke all the rules and gave quite an inheritance to Janet’s grandmother.  She not only was given a house, but she was given the rare opportunity for higher education.  Their family has much to be thankful for, having been given such a leg up when the days of slavery were over. Janet, her mother, and grandmother all attended private colleges and Janet’s sister even went to Julliard School of Music.

Janet’s only descendants are three grandchildren now in their 20s.  Her only child died of cancer a few years ago.  Since these “Grands,” have been raised in the Pacific Northwest, they have no clue of the world Janet or their mother grew up in, where segregation was the norm and blacks were considered so much less than whites.  They live with modern day prejudices here, but they’ve been spared the culture of the deep South from decades ago. They’ve never even seen a southern plantation and even though Janet’s told them her great grandfather was a wealthy cotton farmer and a three term Georgia State Legislator, it hadn’t registered as anything meaningful for their lives today.

Because Janet is pushing 80, she’s worried that by the time her grandchildren are old enough to care about their family’s unique history, she might not be around to share it with them.  She’s been documenting as many details as she can find as she figures, if it’s not written down, it will certainly be forgotten.  I couldn’t agree more.

In the midst of her documenting, she came up with the idea to host a “Family Heritage Day” on a quarterly basis.  She started with just one set of great grandparents - Priamus Jones, her Cotton King great grandfather and his slave, Moriah.   

Her first “event” for the grandkids and a niece was this past week and she big dealed it.  She fed them foods from Georgia. They watched snippets of “Gone With the Wind,” so they’d know what a plantation looked like.  She had them feel the prick of cotton still on the stem and gave them small remembrances of their roots.  She passed out copies of documents and showed them photos they’d never seen.  She unfolded the family stories, one more time, but with more purpose. She hung names of the generations on a “family tree” and answered their many questions. 

This new, younger generation, was finally awakened to their unique family’s story.  Their personal history was made relevant.  And they realized too, maybe for the first time, that they will leave a legacy someday.  Perhaps in taking a quick glimpse back into how far their family has come, it will help them strive just a little more to take the next generation even further.

Every family has a story.  We all could benefit from such an experience.

Good News Lunch Club

I used to work in the computer department of a hospital in Seattle.  I was the first one hired in what would become a staff of 45.  There were a lot of changes going on in healthcare and tensions were high. Daily changes in technology were enough to push a sane person over the edge, so the combination felt deadly. 

Our department gathered daily in the cafeteria for lunch. It was supposed to be a break from work, but it turned out to be just a time where everyone unloaded and complained about all that was going on in the hospital. I however, wanted to talk about anything BUT work. It seemed no one else had a life; except for our recruiter, Nannette.  She was the bright spot in my day.  Even though she had her reasons to complain, she stayed positive, so we got to talking. 

One day, she agreed with me, that everyone else was just too depressing to be around, so we broke off from the group and sat at our own table.  We just talked about good things and what was going “right.”  After lunch we both felt so much better, we decided we should do that again. The idea emerged, as we walked back to our office, that we should have a “Good News Lunch Club,” and if anyone from the department wanted to sit at our table, we would insist they only talk about good news.  We decided Monday’s would be best, since everyone seemed depressed about returning to work after the weekend.

The following Monday we sat alone at a table. A few people stopped by to ask if they could sit with us, so we told them our rules.  One walked away and the other sat down.  I acted as moderator and got them to say only good things happening in their life.  Nannette and I also shared our good news and afterwards we all felt much better.  The next day more people joined us, but we didn’t say anything because it was Tuesday.  By the following Monday we had several people come to our table, but we laid down the law and told them about our special “Club.”  Most laughed and joined us anyway, but I enforced the rules and wouldn’t allow any negative conversations.  Each person was asked to report on their good news - some were silent, but most had something good to say.

Our table grew to be five or six tables all pushed together every Monday.  We ate silently as we listened to each person report their good news for the week.  We grew as a department and as a team and always left encouraged by the words from our “Monday Good News Lunch Club.” 

I can still hear the voice of one co-worker as she got up from the table on a Tuesday, after everyone was complaining about work,  “Boy, I wish this were Monday,” she said, “so I could hear some good news.” 

Mexico

Our family spent last week volunteering again at a large orphanage in Mexico.  It was an especially humbling experience for me, as I had the opportunity to serve in the Soup Kitchen one day.   All the leftovers from the cafeteria that are not eaten by the orphans and staff are sent there.  

The kitchen is modern and very clean.  Two tables and about 20 chairs sit in the middle of the room.  About 30 more chairs line the perimeter. There was a slight smell of cinnamon hanging in the air when I walked in.

My job was to scoop a few cups of leftovers into small plastic bags.  When I was done, there were a few bags containing refried beans, some had cooked rice, two had mashed potatoes and most held veggie rice soup.  Local people come each day and line up for hours before the doors open, waiting for a chance to get what other people didn’t eat.

The day I worked there, the only thing they were guaranteed was a glass of warm milk with rice and a little cinnamon and sugar.  Sometimes they do get soup, but not on that day.  We had 58 glasses ready when the doors opened, but there were a total of 65 people crowding into that room, hoping for something to fill their empty stomachs.  When we realized we were short, we hurried to heat up more powdered milk and quickly mixed in some coco, so no one would be left out.  It was better than nothing, but I couldn’t help but cry.  Many people had children with them.

When everyone had returned their empty cups to the kitchen, the bags of food were placed on the counter.  Each adult was allowed to take one bag.  When the bags ran out, but the line remained, the freezer was opened to reveal just enough bags of frozen leftovers to supply those who stood in line.  Some days they aren’t so lucky, and many go away with empty hands.  I continued to cry as I washed up all their cups.

Elizabeth, a friend of mine, worked at that orphanage for nearly 20 years.  She always wrinkled up her nose at the thought of the Soup Kitchen, where dirty people come to eat scraps from her table, but she too has been humbled by it’s existence.  She now lives in America and works as a medical translator for the Spanish speaking population. 

Waiting for the doctor to arrive one day, Elizabeth began to chit-chat with a woman who needed medical help.  She asked the woman where she was from and was surprised to learn she had lived near the orphanage.  The woman went on to say she was raised by her grandmother and they walked miles daily to get food from the very place I had volunteered.  Elizabeth teared up as the woman described the wonderful feelings she had as a child when she breathed in the delicious smells coming from that kitchen. 

Perspective is everything.