Avulekile Amasango

The day that little Alekwa died Chila brought in water from outside to pour her a bath.  She had heard that the water would chase away the fever, and it was the only thing she hadn’t tried.

“There is no need for bathing,” her mother said.  “She was bathed yesterday morning and has not urinated or produced the bowel movement.”  Mama looked sternly into her young daughter’s vacant eyes.  “Chila, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama,” Chila said, filling the stainless steel tub. The baby tub had been a gift from a neighbor before the baby was born; a second-hand one that was perfect for a child.  In the township, the babies came fast and someone was always needing things for them.  Chila considered herself lucky to have this one.

“And the water is not heated,” mama said, when she realized what she was doing.  “Even the white doctors say you should heat the water.”  There was no use speaking to Chila.  Mama could see that her worry had stopped up her ears.   

Mama shook her head as she watched her daughter, slowly filling the tub with the water from the 25 liter bucket.  In all of her years helping the young mothers deliver their babies and nurse them afterward, she knew the look of death.  This shameless death would not go away with water.  This morning, death had silently entered their dwelling, a tin shed, and sat with them there now, as if he had come for tea.  There was nothing to be done, and it was sucking out the hope inside of Chila.  Here was her daughter, making a tub for death and the baby to get in together. 

“My daughter,” Mama said, touching her elbow. 

“Mama, let me do this,” Chila was stirring the oil in the water.  “Alekwa is like fire when I touch her.”

“Fire should not be put in cold water.  At least let us heat it, my child.”

“Yes mama,” and Chila sat back on the bed to cradle Alekwa again.  Chila looked into her baby’s face, swollen with fever; her little eyes closed.  

The hospital had let the baby come home, and the nurses told Chila that the child would continue to recover with the powders.  Instead, shortly after arriving home, Alekwa vomited the powders over and over again and the fever began to rage.   

Last night Chila had called for her mother, who brought the ancient herbs and mixed them dutifully as she had done for a thousand babies.

A thousand babies who were not her granddaughter. 

Chila was convinced it was her mother’s grief about the fever that made the herbs be undigested as well.  As the night went on, she crawled reluctantly in to bed.  The taxis would not run until the morning, and there was no one with a car that would take her back to the government hospital.  

No doctor would come.  

Mama also laid beside Chila and Alekwa, and they all didn’t sleep together.  

Dogs barked from outside; the men came home from the shebeens, stumbling into doors that partially welcomed them.  Fights.  Music.  Radios.  Dwelllings were so close together that every sound could be heard. 

Chila was filled with sorrow.  Her neighbors had come to earlier in the evening to pray, but they all saw the same thing: the thing that Chila was refusing to see.  The child was not getting better. 

Mama got out of bed and welcomed the early sun with a song:

Avulekile Amasango!

Ay, Ay, Ay

Ay, Ay, Ay

Yo ho, Amen!

“Mama,” Chila whispered.  “Don’t begin to sing.  There is still warmth in her body.”

Mama stopped singing, and saw in her daughter a dizziness that came with sleeplessness.  “When did you last sleep, child?”

“Mama, don’t sing yet.”

“Yes, my daughter, the time for song is now.  The child can still hear.  We must sing together.” Perhaps the baby would choose not to go to heaven.  Perhaps the song would break the fever.  Perhaps her daughter may praise God, no matter what. 

Perhaps...perhaps....

“Mama,” and Chila cradled the child, and wept again. 

Mama stared at both of them for most of the morning, and she did not sing, even to herself.  It was her daughter’s shack and she must respect her daughter here.  It wasn’t until and Chila went outside and came back with water that Mama had said anything. 

Now Chila was back on the bed, cradling the baby and not weeping.  There were no more tears left to weep, and even Chila could see death finishing his cup of tea at the table.  Mama stirred the hot water on the paraffin stove and when a song came up in her, she swallowed it back down.

“Now you can bring her,” Mama said.  Chila stood up, and Mama looked up at her daughter, just as the tiny arm dropped lifelessly from her bundle.

Chila stared at her kneeling mother, and the tears came again, for both of them.  They lay Alekwa in the tub anyway, and she floated like a puffy little ball, brown and perfect. 

Avulekile Amasango!

Ay, Ay, Ay

Ay, Ay, Ay

Yo ho, Amen!

Chila looked at Mama as they screamed the dirge, choking with sobs and emotion that finally came to recognize that death had actually taken little Alekwa.

Soon the neighbors would hear them and they would come to sing as well. 

Chila wrapped the clean, lifeless body in a towel and dressed her in the white Sunday dress for the trip to the morgue. 

Mama rose to fetch more water; there would be a need for more water for tea.

"Avulekile Amasango" is a Zulu song meaning "The gates of heaven have opened and there is an exchange between heaven and earth." It is sung at weddings, funerals, graduations... in celebration and in grief. It is a beautiful song. Click here to see the Soweto Gospel Choir sing it live.

liberty

The Liberty Bell’s Inscription:

Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof
Lev. XXV X

By Order of the ASSEMBLY of the Province of PENSYLVANIA [sic] for the State House in Philada

Pass and Stow

Philada

MDCCLIII (1753)

Fourth of July is an American birthright.  It was inherited by we Americans who have been fortunate enough to sing the victory of our founding fathers’ brave decision to declare us as a free nation in the face of a powerful sovereign.

It is in the peak of summer that we celebrate the original Declaration of Independence being finished and signed by a few of those founding fathers.  It is there, with bar-b-ques and pools and cold drinks that we celebrate, later watching fireworks that remind us of the wars that were fought for our independence. 

It was a gutsy move back then... thirteen colonies and their leaders (then at war with Great Britain) signing a formal document that said they regarded themselves as independent states, and no longer British Colonies.  It was as if they were saying that regardless of the outcome of the war, the states were independent.

 It was high treason.

After Congress approved the final wording of the Declaration on July 4, a handwritten copy was sent a few blocks away to the printing shop of John Dunlap. Through the night Dunlap and his two man staff printed about 200 (a small feat in those days) for distribution.

Four days after it was signed, the Declaration of Independence was taken to be read publically to all American citizens.   

In Philadelphia, a man named  John Nixon read it out loud (mainly because of the quality of his voice)  in the yard of Independence Hall on July 8 (not the fourth).  Although Philadelphia is the most renowned reading, other public readings also took place on that day in Trenton, New Jersey, and Easton, Pennsylvania.

Bells were rung to announce the reading of the document and to summon the town to come.  The most famous of which, called the Liberty Bell,  still hangs (cracked) at Independence Hall.

The truth about the Liberty Bell is that it was not made (or rung) correctly.  The bell itself was cracked the day that it arrived in Philadelphia, and was twice recast by local workmen John Pass and John Stow, who signed it for all the world to see.  But that day, as on all days since, the Liberty Bell was rung regardless of its defects, to call all citizens to come and hear...our version of liberty. 

I love the story of the Liberty Bell.  It shows that here, on earth, there is no such thing as perfect liberty.  Perfect liberty exists when freedom reigns without any contradictions.  The founding fathers owned slaves, denied women (and the poor) the right to vote, and regarded children as property.  Their version of liberty was that they be free from tyrannical reign.

Still, their leadership inspired a reaction that fueled Americans to win an un-winnable war against the best-equipped army in the world at the time.

After hearing the Declaration, crowds in many cities tore down and destroyed signs or statues representing British reign or royalty. An equestrian statue of King George in New York City was pulled down and the lead used to make musket balls.

That’s the way we roll.

Happy Fourth of July.  

immigration

Me and Mario in Sudan

My story of immigration is not about me coming to America – it is about me leaving America.

There can’t be an entry without an exit (in the realm of immigration) and that seems to be the greatest lesson I’ve learned in this area. 

To me, immigrants were sickly, thin people making their way from the old country on a ship and being processed on Ellis Island.  Quarantined for typhus or pneumonia or the flu.  I never thought the term would apply to me, an American girl, formerly content to stay in her home country near her family. 

It wasn’t until I visited Africa that I realized that my life and my future dreams were seriously altered.  It was in a Malawian village, sitting on a ground filled with ants, surrounded by village children, that I realized I was born for this.  I was trained from the day I was born until that day to get my American butt off its comfortable chair and give myself to the work that everyone here was doing. 

When we came to South Africa, it was because of Oliver Tambo.  Not the man, the airport.  Our friends, a  team of Christian missionaries (they’d kill me if they saw me use those words...but it is the best way I can make people understand what we do) invited us to be permanent part of the work they were doing into Africa.  The airport was the hub to get everywhere – in the South of Johannesburg.   Their invitation came after several trips we took in and out of Africa; and it made sense.  

It was already in our hearts.

Let that be the first part of my immigration story.  The second part is that once we decided to come, we were introduced to the un-welcome mat of a government bureaucracy that had taken on a stance that they loved visitors, but were careful with immigrants. 

The bureaucracy I am speaking of is the one that is responsible for processing all applications for residency, simply called “Home Affairs”.  It sounds like such a friendly place, doesn't it?  It even has the word "home" in it.  We were first welcomed as “Temporary Residents” once we submitted a ream of paperwork : chest x-rays (to prove we didn’t have active tb), blood tests (to prove we didn’t have HIV/AIDS, tb, or all the strains of hepititus) and inoculations (against yellow fever, tb and all the strains of hepititus).  This we had to do before we were welcomed as TEMPORARY residents into South Africa, with a visa that lasted four years.  After staying for three years (without getting paid by any agency here or at home) we had to declare whether we would be going home or staying – if the latter, we would have to apply for PERMANENT residency. 

Once we had permanent residency, we would be able to collect an income (a small one, but it would help to supplement  Mario’s retirement), get a bank checking account and obtain an I.D. number (similar to a social security number).  The desire to become permanent residents fought with the desire to go back home....

Both made sense.

On one hand, we were doing our life’s work in a country we loved and felt “planted in”; on the other hand, we had four kids, five grandchildren and siblings and parents in the States.  Ministry vs. Family.   Ask any foreign missionary and they will tell you that family is the greatest pull back home. 

Even more than Mexican food.

We  had to follow the whole application process all over again, complete with an interview.  We submitted the same paperwork twice in Pretoria and Johannesburg and it was refused at the counter.  Why?  Our American doctors signed off health checks on 8”x10” paper, rather than A5 (a slightly skinnier and taller piece of paper which is standard here). 

We submitted a package again in Bloemfontein (in the Free State – 4 hours away, but with greater efficiency in their employees) and found that our fingerprints had been returned by the F.B.I. as “unreadable”.  The man who took them in Johannesburg had smudged my thumb.  We had to re-submit, and I yearned for a digital fingerprint machine, just like the one we had back home....

By the time our second round of fingerprints came back from the F.B.I., our medical exams had expired by one week.  Another denial of paperwork. 

We had our South African doctors do the exams and the x-rays again (all at our own expense) and made ourselves ready for another trip to Bloemfontein. 

We were greeted by friendlier people, but still steeped in the same bureaucracy that was there for our first three applications.  We had to wait in line for three hours until someone took pity on us. 

I was seething by the time we got our interview. 

“Is this the way you treat applicants?” I wanted to say.  Mario threatened me not to say anything.  He’s usually right about these things. 

“So tell me,” the man (who drew the short straw to be our interviewer) said. “Why did you not apply in Johannesburg?”

“We did,” Mario said.  “They gave us an interview date three months away.”

“Ah,” he said.  “Yes, they are busy there.”  He leafed through all of our paperwork, held up our x-rays to the light.  “Ah, Janet has some scary lungs!”

My heart stopped, and I looked at him.

“I am joking!” he said, bursting into laughter.  “We don’t need these x-rays, just the report!”  He put the x-ray back into its sleeve, after giggling some more. 

I looked at Mario, who was politely laughing with him.  Mario has a way of knowing what makes people feel respected.  I thought the guy was taking some poor guy’s job who had lost it just for being white. 

Typical government employee....

I do not love South Africa’s government.  The once strong, powerful and longsuffering ANC (African National Congress) is now an inefficient entity plagued by corruption. 

When Nelson Mandela became president in 1994, the ANC was strong.  Everyone expected a drastic change in the country; his most zealous supporters admitted that they wanted him to somehow avenge the deaths of all of the fallen soldiers who had fought against the evil Apartheid system  by firing every white person in government positions.   He was expected to replace the all-white cabinet with his cronies (all capable people).  Instead, he built a transition government where people kept their jobs regardless of their skin color.  It somehow encouraged competency in all areas, even though the transition was understandably rough. 

As things progressed, the presidency was handed over to Thabo Mbeki and eventually our new president, Jacob Zuma.  Black Economic Empowerment is a standard for hiring in all government positions now.  It is very similar to America’s Affirmative Action of the 1970’s and ‘80’s (a moral initiative to redress the wrongs of the past), but it is designed to help the majority of the people, rather than the minority.  It was created to bring the black majority into the economic mainstream, specifically government jobs. 

While a noble idea, BEE is not a pragmatic one.  It does no one any favors and makes the inside of South Africa crippled by a different kind of inequality and injustice.  Practically speaking, it means that simple processes, like immigration, become unnecessarily expensive and nearly too frustrating to complete. 

So, we were given permanent residency, almost two years after we first applied.  We had to renew our temporary residency before we received it, since it would have expired while our applications were being considered for review...and we would have been here illegally then. 

I love South Africa.  I love its people, its sights, its sounds and its dysfunctional family (there are 11 National languages here).   I feel called to be here, working alongside my beautiful husband, where we do work that is service-oriented, but we have been given grace to do.  For some reason, the people here love us back...and we have made a home here.

Now, when I meet an immigrant, I have a different kind of empathy for them.  They have left behind their home, not just moved here from nowhere.  They have left families, comfort foods, weather, music, and their culture. 

On the 4^th of July, I’ll be freezing my butt off in my new adopted homeland... and missing my family.

marriage

When I first fell in love with Mario, I believed that our love was so precious and sacred that no one that had lived before us had ever felt such passion and love.    We had both recently been involved in committed relationships that had failed, and we were not exactly relationship experts.  Seeing this, our family counselor suggested we attend a marriage conference. 

We weren’t even married yet. 

So, without even saying our vows we attended our first of many marriage conferences.  We didn’t have time, or the extra money, for a marriage conference.  Still, we were realistic about our chances of staying happy together without some kind of help.  It was obvious that the odds were stacked against us. 

We were parenting young children, who were around us constantly and rightly demanding our attention.  We had schedules and commitments and duties that were counter-romance, almost.  I could see in the distance, the possibility of life happily-ever-after, but the reality of our everyday life was different.  It was busy and stacked with stuff that wasn’t... fun.

 At church, we had friends who made their marriage unions look effortless, the same way that couples figure skaters sail across the ice together at the Olympics.  I wobbled around on my own marriage skates and got sore ankles from trying to keep myself from falling down.

Marriage is work.

It is also the closest thing on earth to heaven, if it’s working.  A few years ago, Dido had a hit song “Thank you”, where she sings about a terrible day she’s having, but it is all made perfect by seeing her beloved’s face when she comes home.  Who doesn’t dream of this?

In truth, a couple’s relationship can take a back seat in marriage many times.  It is replaced by work commitments, responsibility and duty.  Even after a few weeks of this, a healthy couple can feel drained or neglected.  I’ve talked with young mothers who tell me of their over-exposed nerves, raw from a lack of sleep and their breastfeeding schedule.  Later, the kids grow and school and schedules threaten to topple any normal family time, and that’s not including the demands of a normal work week.  

Some couples struggle through years of infertility and would love to have such scheduling problems; instead, a wall of silence goes up between them.  Most couples will be confronted with money problems of some kind that threaten to topple them.  Some survive the inexplicable and searing pain of losing a child, a parent, or a sibling.   

Life is filled with unpredictable tragedy.  By the time you sit down to dinner, you may glance at the one you married, under a cloud of love and roses....and not recognize them. 

In truth, this is why marriage conferences exist in the first place.   They are here for a reason- to take time out for the most important commitment that you have ever made.  You literally schedule time to spend on your relationship, which may help with the things that are challenging you.  Some couples (like us) realize the need for help through difficult issues, but see marriage conferences the same way they see visits to the dentist for oral surgery.  Many conferences open wounds that are too deep to be resolved in one week, let alone one night. 

The Marriage Course, in our opinion, is a good course for any couple.  It begins with a meal for two (we provide the ambience, you provide the conversation), followed by a private evening that focuses on a couple’s life together.  Sex, family and spending are just a sampling of topics.  The exercises are fun and light, but give opportunity for deeper discussion (if the couple wants) later. 

Mario and Janet - 25 years later.

The last time that Mario and did The Marriage Course, we had our first exercise be a runaway disaster.  We couldn’t agree on anything!  Guess what?  We were leading the class.  When the time was up and we had to move on, we confessed to everyone who was there that we “failed” our first assignment.  They laughed, in relief.  It brought an instant bond to the whole class, and we felt like we didn’t have to be “perfect leaders”. 

As a wife, I am more than a business partner or a life-mate to my husband.  I am the bay who he come home to and rests in.   I am the one who sparkles at the very thought of him.  I am his best friend, his dream partner and his girlfriend.    

These are what dreams are made of.

Mario

Mario with his police dog, Dux, around the time we met.

I met him when I was nineteen years old, working with my friend, Lisa Beutler, the inaugural celebration of Leo McCarthy, California’s new Lieutenant Governor.  He doesn’t remember meeting me, since we were in a group of friends, and we were unknown to each other before. 

It was two years later, after my life hit a new rock-bottom, when I went to beg for my old job back at a local State Park.  He was the supervising ranger, and had just hit rock bottom himself: his marriage had fallen apart and his wife and kids had moved to Kansas.  He was in Kansas, trying to reconcile with Cathy, when I was re-hired, out of a nostalgic mercy by another Ranger who felt sorry for me and knew I could do the job.  I had just had a baby: Vince.  I was determined to get my life back on track for him.

By the time Mario came back to work, I had been on the job for a whole week.  I was insecure and wobbly, and (as it turns out) so was he.  The reconciliation didn’t work and he and Cathy had decided to divorce and share custody of the boys.  He drove up to the kiosk in a state vehicle: a GMC 4x4 with nubby tires and light bar on top.  He couldn’t have been more intimidating.  He looked like a caricature of a police officer: like Chuck Norris but taller and handsome. 

“You’ve been hired illegally,” he told me, his thumbs hooked into his heavy black belt (between the mace and his gun).  “It’s a shame, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Please let me keep my job,” I said.  “I have a baby and I need to work.”

“I”ll see what I can do,” he said, flippantly.  “By the way, you need a black belt.  You’re out of uniform.” 

“%&^# ing   +@(#ard!!!”  I thought...

Later, in the office, I saw a softer side of him.  While all of the staff were approaching quitting time, I cleaned up and listened to them yucking it up with their cop jokes. 

“Hey, Janet,” he smiled.  “You can keep your job.  I’ve pulled some strings.” Everyone laughed at his joke, and then clapped.

“Yea!!  Janet can stay!!” they all cheered. 

I smiled and said thank you.  

Then I went back to cleaning. 

This new boss had two sides: the rough and tough cop and a fun, happy guy.  I’d have to be careful.

I respected him, admired him, and eventually fell in love with him. 

It was only after all of these emotions that we hugged (as friends) and then I felt the explosion of every great force in the universe.  This is what poets call chemical attraction. 

We married, and couldn’t believe how well suited we were to each other.  I couldn’t believe I had scored such a hunk for a husband.  I didn’t even have to be in the mood for sex to acquiesce!

We faced a myriad of challenges. 

Kids. 

Blending our family.

Making room in our hearts for everyone....  It was not an easy road those for those first few years.

Addiction.

Depression. 

Custody battle.

Teenage rebellion.

Death.

I type this, twenty seven years after that first meeting.  I am still in awe of him. 

In the years I have known him he has been marked by  goodness and calm and mercy and friendship. He is, without a shadow of a doubt, the greatest gift God has ever given me.  I can never be worthy of living next to this man, this man who loves sincerely, tries his best in everything he does, maintains friendships and focuses on loving people with respect and compassion.  Everywhere we go he makes me proud.

It is not easy to say, after 25 years of marriage that your husband is your best friend.  There has to be oceans of forgiveness and starting over constantly – from both sides. 

I woke up this morning and realized that I hadn’t gotten him a gift.  I hadn’t even bought him a card.  I stretched and remembered that the night before we fought and he went to bed early and I stayed up and had a martini. 

Sometimes life isn’t  as good as you need it to be.  In my heart, I pray desperately that God would help me love him especially for today.  Love that would make him feel special and miraculous. 

“Good morning, babe,” he says as I emerged from our room.  He was at his desk.  He will be teaching a class tonight. 

“Good morning, Happy Birthday, babe!” I say, and I can smell my own morning breath.

“Thanks,” he says. 

Preaching in Mozambique

I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, then go to hug him.  He is in work mode, and he has a chart of all of the Biblical Foundation stones spread out on the table.  Still, he is receptive to affection, and I prepare myself to be the best wife I can be today. 

I kiss him good morning, and we begin our day. 

Tonight for his class, he’ll be well-prepared and he’ll have great love and authority in his subject matter.  I’ll be proud and serve chocolate cupcakes to everyone who comes, but he doesn’t much care for his birthday.

 

Later, we’ll come home, and I’ll give him the surprise gift of passion that cannot be wrapped. 

A chocolate cake that I've baked just for him.  

Tonys

The Antoinette Perry Award for Excellence in Theatre 

                  

                  

It was 1987 and I weighed 135 pounds.  Those were the days...

I was also an insecure girlfriend of the hunkiest guy I had ever met in my life, and was now in New York City meeting his family, a collective Broadway genius pack, and we were sitting in front of the TV watching the Tony Awards.  I had never watched them before.

My (soon to be)father-in-law had been in several productions of Man of La Mancha and Sound of Music, my (soon to be) “step-mother-in-law” had been in several productions of Sweet Charity and Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris, and I was in their living room with another friend who I recognized from television.

“Oh!  Get a hook!” they shouted at one ingénue as she lagged her way through an acceptance speech.  I giggled, star struck by my future in laws and their friend. 

“Get off the stage!” they continued, saying that the girl was someone’s neice who had invested big money in the show. 

Today, my internet newspaper had news of the Tony’s:  a bittersweet romantic musical “Once” was the unexpectedly dominant winner at the 66th annual award show,  held to recognize achievement in live Broadway theatre.   It made me remember the day I watched the Tony's in New York... and I smiled.

I was refreshed to see that I had to look carefully to see the unknown stars of this year's winning shows.  I thanked God for the roles for these guys. 

Broadway is becoming more and more dominated (like Hollywood) with “names” rather than actors.  This year the trend went the other way:  “Once” and “Peter and the Starcatcher,” seemed risky but brilliant in the end, with their ensembles of little-known theater actors, instead of the big-budget or star-driven productions that often prevail on Tony night. 

While Philip Seymour Hoffman played Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman this year, and Andrew Garfield, who took on the part of his son, Biff, just after shooting the title role in the forthcoming “Amazing Spider-Man” movie, neither of them won a Tony for their performance. 

It made me smile to see that the winners were solid stage actors, James  Corden won best actor for One Man, Two Guvnors and Christian Borle, for Peter and the Starcatcher, as best supporting actor in a play. Both were unexpected upsets.

Back in Chev and Alice’s day, there were no microphones, and the art of projecting your voice and getting a line across to touch the back row or the standing room was a challenge.  Their voice excercizes and warm-ups were so state-of-the-art and successful that Alice was known for her “training tape” where voices were prepared for shows.  Nowadays, lighting, staging and sound are part of the new stage, and actors are not required to be the voice giants that they used to be. 

As the stage becomes less of what it used to be, the Tony’s are still the gauge of what kind of a year it was – and this year was big, fat musicals with stage actors and voices. 

It makes me happy to see. 

In my back pocket of my identity is my relationship to Broadway.  I would roll my eyes as my parents played the soundtracks to the original Broadway Cast of Man of La Mancha while we were in our car driving around town.  It used to embarrass me, being so “show-tunes” loving.  I had no idea that much later, when they played the same record during dinner when they first met Mario, he would say,

“You’re probably not going to believe me, but that’s my dad singing.”

All of those years of not appreciating Broadway melted away and I realized that I had been prepared, in a secret and special way, to understand the beauty and majesty of Broadway.  I suddenly became a fan.

The day I saw the Tony Awards with my in-laws was one of the most memorable days of my life.  I got to hear their perspectives on theatres, stages, actors, directors and “what’s being put on” these days.  It made me an insider to the vigor and joy; the flattening rejection; the dark and the glorious life of the New York stage. 

My beloved father-in-law is no longer with us, after making his final curtain call a few years back.  Alice, my beautiful larger-than-life- mother-in-law, still sings on stage, and delights clubs in upstate New York when she goes back home....  I will call her later to see what she thought of the awards. 

I can guarantee that I will giggle, still star-struck at her reactions.  

My brother-in-law, Stephen with Chev Rogers, and Alice Evans, my Broadway in-laws 

                      

 Chev, Me, Hechter Ubarry, and Mario after a La Mancha cast party

               

   

Alice and Chev, after a Sweet Charity cast party

                   

                     

 Me and Alice, just after Christmas last year 

                      

                        

rough

Yesterday, my Aunt Emmy and my Uncle Walt left South Africa after a two week visit.  It is the first family who have made the trek out here from the States, besides our two children, Vince and Alicia who lived briefly with us here. 

The visit revived me, bringing in the much needed injection of family life into our house – our own little Johannesburg cottage hosted my Aunt and Uncle!  I made a lemon meringue pie one night with my Auntie in my own kitchen, and while I made it, she snacked on small pretzels like she does in Tracy, and we chatted about family events casually as I cooked.   It struck me that she was snacking in my kitchen, and I became happy in a way that was incredibly satisfying.  My Auntie was eating small South African pretzels, and walking around my counter like all of the other counters she walks around “back home”.

I loved the fact that they hung out with us on our back porch and we chatted over chicken and salad and had to watch for mosquitoes together.  I love the fact that they saw the silliness of the neighboring geese who squawk for nothing.  I loved how they met our friends and witnessed part of our life’s work here.   Most of all, I loved my Aunties random hugs, which she gave me constantly.  

It reminded me of my own mom....

Just before they arrived here, an interesting thing happened.  One of my “heroes” (an American editor I admire) accepted the project of editing my first novel, which was almost finished.  Since she’s rather old school, she asked to have a hard-copy manuscript (double-spaced, bound) that she could mark up and read at her leisure.  It occurred to me that the novel had to be finished, bound and sent back with my auntie and uncle before they left, and I rose to the challenge. 

A view of Joburg from the Carlton Building 

The greatest challenge was that I was 4 chapters short of perfection – I knew the chapters, they just ...weren’t...written...down.

Writing involves time and a certain amount of concentration.  My “office” is in the center of the house, a barstool on the kitchen nook that overlooks the kitchen and dining room.  Besides, my Aunt and Uncle were here!!  They were well-deserving of all of my attention!!

Weren’t they?

A first draft is like a first coat of paint.  Very few paint jobs look good after one coat, but you can tell what the color of the room is going to look like.  In writing the first draft, I was happy with it until I realized that my aforementioned hero was going to read it.  It was so raw, so amateurish that she may laugh...or not want to keep reading. 

A Hoopoe just outside my window at Sun City

Already planned into the visit was a trip to Sun City, our mecca of rest that we wanted to show to my Aunt and Uncle.  

A one-week stay there meant a trip to the Pilanesburg, one of the most rewarding game parks in South Africa, where my Auntie and Uncle would be treated to the Big Five sightings they looked forward to.

During the trip there, I fit in to minimal (gorgeous) activity with everyone, holing myself up in my room and finishing two and a half chapters.  

While my Aunt and Uncle braved a second day at the game reserve, I hung back with my laptop.  Later Mario worked out at the fitness center (alone) and I typed a frenzied finish. 

Mario and I at Sun City

Once back home, we all relaxed, and I felt a little more content with finishing.  The second week with us, we dutifully put Auntie Emmy and Uncle Walt on a plane bound for Cape Town.  Our friends here said that we would be doing them a disservice  if we did not force the west coast and the beauty of the Cape into their trip.  Of course they were right. 

I found out wonderful things about my Aunt and Uncle during the trip: they think of most things as “on purpose” – as an adventure unfolding piece by piece in front of them.  Getting lost didn’t make them angry, having a trip all planned out for them seemed fun... and they did Cape Town right.  Not just Cape Town, but the whole peninsula that is the great Cape, including the Southern tip, the Cape of Good Hope.  Every day we heard updates of new adventures and we laughed at their friendly, adventurous spirit. 

Also while they were touring the Cape, I was making last minute adjustments on the manuscript.  I rewrote a whole chapter, since it didn’t gel with the rest of the novel.  I went through the last minute changes that my South African editor, and friend, Kgaugelo, had said to fix.  She has yet to see the last four chapters.   

The day before my Aunt and Uncle came home from Cape Town we bound the first and rough draft at our printers, who admired the concept.  One copy was double spaced and bound for the editor.  Another copy was single spaced and bound for my parents.  Both would travel home with my Auntie. 

Auntie Emmy at the Cape of Good Hope

When I picked my Aunt and Uncle up from the airport, I heard their stories of the Cape.  We came and downloaded their pictures.  My Auntie has a magnificent eye, and a sense of humor as a photographer, and I “borrowed” some of her shots for potential wallpaper on my computer.  We had a relaxed time, and people over for dinner (more of our friends that loved them). 

The following day, our church leadership team had a night meeting and we left them to pack as we socialized (and were richly blessed) with Wally and Shirley, our friends from the Cape.  The following day, our church had a morning meeting with them as well, and we all were again...richly blessed.  Especially me. 

I was overwhelmed with thankfulness to God, and so grateful for his love and grace for me.  I was able to receive a rich blessing from Him during a time of an incredible rich blessing... I was so blessed.

When we got home, my Aunt and Uncle had strategically packed their bags and even impressed Mario, the international packing champion of our team.  My Auntie was in a hurry to get near the airport.  There was a mood of satisfaction and gratitude that we had such a wonderful trip together, despite the “distraction” of finishing the first draft of my book.

“Hey! I got an idea!” Uncle Walt said, after they weighed the suit cases.  “Let’s all go out to lunch...someplace really South African!”

A flash of delight ran through my head.  Should we go to Moyo at Zoo lake before they leave?  The place was so touristy and South African cliché...it was irresistible. 

At Moyo, our table was outside and we were given steel menus and complementary bread and a beautiful lady painted my face like a Xhosa.  Her name was Faith, and it turned out she was a twin (like my Auntie) and they bonded and took pictures together.  It was the most beautiful farewell to them, and for them to our country.  The perfect ending.

When we came back from the airport, Mario looked around and said, “We’re going to miss them.”  It made my heart ache.

He was right.

Elvis has left the building....