I read Shane a story every evening entitled "Dog Party". It is a read-aloud story for pre-readers. If you're four years old, it's a spellbinder. Shane can't get enough of it. She lies beside me in bed with eyes wide and a big smile, anxiously awaiting the latest version of this tale. (I make up a new version of the story with each reading.)
If children weren't so cute and full of excitement for life - which we adults become out of touch with over the years - they would be abandoned early on. No right-minded adult could read this story night after night and keep a semblance of sanity. But we are nuts about our kids, as nature intended us to be.
So I read this stupid tale about a bunch of dogs climbing a ladder to have a party at the top of a tree. I read it over and over, each evening. I try to talk her into another story, one that has more appeal, in my opinion. But no, she is adamant about having "Dog Party" read one more time, each and every night.
It doesn't help that dogs have occupied way too much of my thinking lately. I see puppies being born every week and watch them turn to smashed meat on the highway. No one cares. I have become immune to their dismal destinies as road kill, objects for kicking, rock and knife throwing, neglect and worse: Clyde once threw a pot of boiling water on a dog that lived with us at the rental property about 2 years ago. He thought nothing of it. I had an instantaneous urge to inflict some pain upon Clyde. But then I thought about how Clyde was beaten by his father and decided "violence for violence" would not serve as a tool for positive change. I kicked a tire. Then we talked.
The dog that we have now, Toytoy, has a four inch trench on his back where Joseph hit the mark he intended when he threw his machete when the dog was still a pup.
A few days ago, Clyde and Joseph brought home a puppy. They treated it lovingly, as most people do to their young, cute dogs. They were both surprised and disappointed when I told them I didn't want another dog living with us.
A large percentage of the dogs that survive puppy-hood live half-starved and/or victims of mange, their fur falling out and the skin then exposed to severe sunburn. These and other throw-aways walk the streets from garbage can to garbage can after dark.Their bodies are often full of scars or bleeding wounds from fights with other dogs over scraps of food or mating rights.
Apparently, compassion for animals is not something inborn. Many otherwise-loving people are indifferent or cruel to their pets.
I can't help but think about the implications for how we humans treat each other, and justify it according to race, belief, perceived worthiness, or even something as simple as geographic location: It's over there. I'm not responsible for them.
Thanks guys!
November 03, 2013
It’s 1AM on Sunday. I’m
having coffee and choco-bread while I write at the kitchen table. The crickets are in concert in the jungle-of-a-yard beside ours.
Time slips by lazily when you
live by an ocean which attunes your life to its rhythms. Nothing hurries the
waves and the tides, nor slows them down. The pace is relaxed and persistent,
almost monotonous, save for the beauty of the moving water and the hypnotic
sound of the softly-crashing sea, from sunup to sundown.
It's a lesson in living: steady as you go. Don't be hurried and let your deeper waters be undisturbed.
Right now the two boys are
cooking the small fish that they caught from the seawall across the street.
Their catch will be made into inan onan: fish cooked in vinegar, salt, onions
and garlic. The two octopi Joseph yanked from under the rocks are in an
adjoining caldera (pot), on the other burner of the stove.
It has been a delight for me
to witness the excitement of these two boys, as they charge ahead in whatever
activity has captured their hearts for the moment: swimming, fishing, catching
octopus or resting - between bouts of energetic, water-related activities - on
the seawall or at the guardhouse that sits over the beach, a block away.
I feel like a teenager again
when I see Clyde bound out of his room in the morning and head for the brine.
Sometimes he doesn't stop for breakfast or even to relieve his bladder. Joseph is always right behind, but stays
around long enough to do some chores first, a responsibility which Clyde will jump over or run around with the combined,
practiced skills of a hurdler and a wide receiver.
Witnessing the exuberance of the two of them has taken me back to the long-forgotten experience of pure joy at being totally
involved in nature’s gifts and the spontaneity of living from the heart, in full appreciation for
life.
Tuko and Me
It is 9:45 PM and I am sitting in the kitchen with a
tuko lizard on the ceiling above my head. He’s about 8 inches long: shorter
than my foot. We’re not much afraid of each other. Just enough to induce a
mutual respect, I would say. I could stomp him to death; he could give me a
bite to remember. But hey, we’re not in competition here. I don’t eat bugs and
mice and he won’t eat anything which refuses to crawl, fly, slither or hop.
It’s a kind of unspoken
agreement. I give him a place to hang out - with family if he so desires - and
he helps keep the population down to 5 people, one dog, an occasional unwary
pest, and a horde of transient ants (not his cup of tea).
Emelie had a family of tukos
living in the tiny bedroom of her mountain home and she never had a run-in with
one of them. But she did get bit by one when she was young, while climbing to
the top of a coconut tree. He was on the other side of the tree when she
reached around to get a hand-hold.
The lizards, and any other
animal life that live at the top of the coconut tree (including rats and bats)
can bask in the relief of knowing that I will never be climbing a tree to greet
them.
Mr. Tuko here is just a young
one. He will grow a couple more inches and fatten up considerably. In the house
we rented before building this one, we had one living behind our dresser, where
he rested up during the day for his nighttime foraging. He lived there a year
and then disappeared for another year and finally came back to stay.
I like lizards and snakes,
which is, I suppose, on the outer fringe of the American-standard-attitude
toward such beasts.
Hopeful
I didn’t feel so good this
morning. I woke up wishing I hadn’t. My wife wrapped her body around me and
held me until …until Shane pried her way between us and nested there like a
worm in wet spaghetti. We laid motionless and all-huggy as if we were holding
out for something spectacular enough to give us a reason to disengage and start
the day.
For me, it didn’t happen. My
lungs were dragging along in ‘sorry ass’ mode most of the day. My recollection
of the rest of the day resides in that part of my brain where memories are
wrapped in a self-protective haze and labeled “Do Not Open sans ‘Fresh
Perspective’!”
I think the fresh perspective
might just be getting a foot-hold. Tonight I feel much better, and tomorrow
holds the possibility that there could be another jewel-of-a-moment for me when
my wife, the sun and daughter arise.
A Settled Routine of Enjoyment
Since I got back from Ohio, more than two months ago now, my days have been running consistently along the lines of the daily family life we've formed into a tradition: Up about 5:30. A quick snack. (Maybe a banana or two.) Fill the water bottle and we're off.
With Shane in the basket behind me, sitting on a folded towel for comfort, I hop on my bike and we ride north for 5 miles, through the small settlements that run along the road, close to the sea. Most of this part of the world is awake and getting ready for school or work or cleaning their yards and burning leaves. Almost everyone smiles and says "Maayong buntag!" Good morning!
There is something very satisfying about this regular and predictable lifestyle, like listening to my heartbeat.
Shane chatters excitedly the whole way, in English, and about everything she sees: the ocean (her ocean), the cows, pigs, goats, carabaw, birds, snakes, banana trees, coconut trees, people she sees and on and on. All belong to her.
"Where's my snake, hon hon?"
The snake has been dead and gone for weeks but she stills asks about it.
"Look hon, a cat! I want to pet the cat! That's my momma cat."
"Where's the kitten, hon?"
Every cat is either "momma", "poppa" or "kitten", and every adult has a baby.
"I want bread, hon hon."
This morning, as we approach the town of Malabuyoc, I see my friend Alejandro, who owns a herd of goats and takes them to feed where the grass is green and long, a short ways from his house and along the coastal road. We stop and chat for a while. I speak to Alejandro in a combination of Cebuano and English. He is patient with me as he listens and corrects when necessary, without condescension.
His largest goat is a young billy, and very friendly. Shane sits on his back while I hold her. Alejandro is 88. Shane calls him lolo: grandfather. When I am chatting comfortably with Alejandro, I always feel like I'm talking with someone I've known longer than I've been alive.
After saying goodbye, we ride back home but make several stops along the way so Shane can get a closer look at whatever grabs her attention. For me, bike riding with her is a great way to relax and connect with my little girl, giving her the attention she wants, and sharing in her delight as she moves from one small-but-enormous adventure to another.
A final stop at the mom-and-pop bakery for coconut bread, then home: about 6:45AM. There is still time for Shane to bathe, eat and get ready for her two hours of daycare at the barangay hall, just down the street.
I take her to school in the tricycle or the bike, or we walk. If walking, we stop for a few minutes in the cemetery. Shane has been talking - a lot lately - about death and the cemetery, and especially about her grandmother (lola), who died many years ago and who she has never known.
The residents are quiet. They listen respectfully to a little girl trying to work out a concept of life and death. I do the same kind of listening, keeping my ears tuned to a child whose questions may just be more enlightening than the stock answers I've been taught and have repeated as truth since I was a child.
These moments are precious, as I watch the blooming of this little flower and experience the irony of this moment, in this place of death.
It's just another day, filled with the golden nuggets of time that children catch and make meaningful, with their magic.
With Shane in the basket behind me, sitting on a folded towel for comfort, I hop on my bike and we ride north for 5 miles, through the small settlements that run along the road, close to the sea. Most of this part of the world is awake and getting ready for school or work or cleaning their yards and burning leaves. Almost everyone smiles and says "Maayong buntag!" Good morning!
There is something very satisfying about this regular and predictable lifestyle, like listening to my heartbeat.
Shane chatters excitedly the whole way, in English, and about everything she sees: the ocean (her ocean), the cows, pigs, goats, carabaw, birds, snakes, banana trees, coconut trees, people she sees and on and on. All belong to her.
"Where's my snake, hon hon?"
The snake has been dead and gone for weeks but she stills asks about it.
"Look hon, a cat! I want to pet the cat! That's my momma cat."
"Where's the kitten, hon?"
Every cat is either "momma", "poppa" or "kitten", and every adult has a baby.
"I want bread, hon hon."
This morning, as we approach the town of Malabuyoc, I see my friend Alejandro, who owns a herd of goats and takes them to feed where the grass is green and long, a short ways from his house and along the coastal road. We stop and chat for a while. I speak to Alejandro in a combination of Cebuano and English. He is patient with me as he listens and corrects when necessary, without condescension.
His largest goat is a young billy, and very friendly. Shane sits on his back while I hold her. Alejandro is 88. Shane calls him lolo: grandfather. When I am chatting comfortably with Alejandro, I always feel like I'm talking with someone I've known longer than I've been alive.
After saying goodbye, we ride back home but make several stops along the way so Shane can get a closer look at whatever grabs her attention. For me, bike riding with her is a great way to relax and connect with my little girl, giving her the attention she wants, and sharing in her delight as she moves from one small-but-enormous adventure to another.
A final stop at the mom-and-pop bakery for coconut bread, then home: about 6:45AM. There is still time for Shane to bathe, eat and get ready for her two hours of daycare at the barangay hall, just down the street.
I take her to school in the tricycle or the bike, or we walk. If walking, we stop for a few minutes in the cemetery. Shane has been talking - a lot lately - about death and the cemetery, and especially about her grandmother (lola), who died many years ago and who she has never known.
The residents are quiet. They listen respectfully to a little girl trying to work out a concept of life and death. I do the same kind of listening, keeping my ears tuned to a child whose questions may just be more enlightening than the stock answers I've been taught and have repeated as truth since I was a child.
These moments are precious, as I watch the blooming of this little flower and experience the irony of this moment, in this place of death.
It's just another day, filled with the golden nuggets of time that children catch and make meaningful, with their magic.
Don't Forget the Legs. Mmmmmm...!
I was watching our teenage boys play, while toying lazily with my
food.
"So, the winner eats the loser?” I asked.
“Yes” replied Clyde.
“Sounds delicious!” I exclaimed.
Clyde chuckled.
It was after dark, on another peaceful evening, following a relaxing
day without event. I could hear the playful splashing of the ocean against the
seawall, across the street.
We were sitting around the kitchen table. Clyde and Joseph were
teasing their fighting spiders into a frenzy; readying them for battle. One
dropped from the broom-straw Clyde held in his hand. It hit the table and
sprinted in front of my plate of sardines and rice. I blocked it with my hand
and Clyde reclaimed it.
Each boy had a straw with two live spiders on it and one dead
spider dangling from the straw and ensconced in a cocoon of spider silk. These
dead ones were the losers from the previous fights. The victors will eat them
at their leisure. The live spiders were bungee-jumping on their silk, to get
away from each other on the straws. The boys caught them before they hit the
table (most of the time), wrapped their silk around the straw and encouraged
the spiders to fight.
I finished my food, had a few sips of coconut wine, and fell into
a reverie about my life here in the Philippines. It really isn't much different
than life in the United States, I thought. I eat, I sleep; do a little work now
and then. We go for rides in the tricycle, take trips to the island across from
us and trips to Cebu City sometimes.
Yup! Just an ordinary life... once you get used to it.
Shane's Eye - Update
September 24, 2013
Shane needs her lens replaced
and her cornea sutured, in her right eye, ASAP. The doctor said time is of essence because the
cornea has a tear and the contents of her eyeball could burst through the tear,
and she would lose her eye.
I’m going to get up early
tomorrow morning and start my search for a sack of money along the roadside.
And after I find it, I’m going to call up that doctor and say “Schedule the
surgery doc! We found a sack of money by the road and we’re ready!”
I've always been a fan of
good fortune. Clean living, pure thoughts and prayer never did me much good.
And my hard-work ethic has always been profitable for the company that employed
me. But when Lady Luck smiles my way, I recognize it for what it is, and an
inner smile of gratitude pervades the very soul of me and gives me comfort.
When trouble comes, I know
that good luck is just around the corner. Religion works pretty much the same
way. It soothes and comforts, but for the price of selling your soul to the
devil in the white collar, who has a plan all laid out for your life which
includes a profit for his company, the church. Someone once said that a sucker
is born every minute, but the religions of the world know for a fact that the
frequency is much higher.
Shane can’t see anything with
her right eye. When the left one is covered, the right just rolls
Shane will be fine. Emelie and I will make sure she is.
It’s 4 AM . She just got up to pee and see what Hon Hon
is doing. She’s sitting right beside me at the kitchen table, drawing monsters
on paper while I type. Heads are circles, half circles, triangles and squares
(she likes sponge bob). It’s a joint project. I’m assigned the task of putting
on the hands and arms. She does the body, legs and feet. I don’t have to do a
perfect job. She’s no critic.
It’s hard to keep her voice
at a whisper while everyone else sleeps. Just that excitement in her that is so
familiar to all of us. It can’t be contained or quieted. When I go back to
sleep in a little while, she will do her best to keep me awake until I ask her
to leave me alone, for the umpteenth time. And then she’ll nod off until dawn.
When she wakes up, I need to be fresh and ready for a full day of questions,
suggestions and an invitation to join in whatever activity she has in mind.
Didn't know I could do this
childhood thing again, but the second time is all the fun without the scraped
knees, disappointments and bewilderments of being a 4 year-old in a world of
insane adults who can’t seem to remember what it’s like to make enjoyment a
priority.
I’m learning.
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