She's Got Worms

During the summer of 2013, I worked with a group of American doctors who ran a free medical clinic in Jacmel, Haiti.  Below is one case we handled.

August 8, 2013

A little girl comes in to the clinic by herself. She is nine, slight in build. She has a very quiet demeanor.  But she sits right now and tells the doctor that she is having some problems. Brett, the doctor, begins to interview her.  She tells him she has worms coming out of her rectum.

“Little ones or big ones?” Brett asks her.

“Big ones”, she tells him meekly, quietly.

Brett extends his fingers about 4 inches, “this big?” he asks to clarify.

She extends her fingers just a little longer. She doesn’t say a word.

“Wow” Brett responds, a little dumbfounded.

Brett begins to talk about an antibiotic plan for her.  The translator is repeating the instructions to her.  She leans forward to listen.

I step right up to then and interrupt this discussion. “Are you going to give these drugs to a child?”  I ask.

"There is no one else", he tells me defensively, "she says there are no parents.  She came in by herself".

It wasn’t my intention to make him defensive or to criticize his actions.  But I can’t believe what I heard as she described her condition.  I am standing in front of a tiny girl who is seeking her own medical treatment for such a gross, medical issue.  She is completely on her own and she is just a baby.

“Who takes care of you”, I ask her.  I am desperate to find a parent.

“My aunt, I live with my aunt”, she tells us.

“Where is she now?” I ask, hoping I can go get this woman and bring her here right now.

“I don’t know” she says with no further information. Brett tells me that she had indicated she hasn’t seen her aunt for a couple days.  The little girl smiles at me as Brett and I talk about her.  Her sweet little face glows with a mistaken perception of innocence.

Brett and I just look at each other and shake our heads.  “Now what?” he asks me.

And I don’t know.   In the US, we would never give a child this dosage of drugs without a parent or guardian.  But we aren’t in the US and this little girl needs medical help today, right now.    To complicate matters, we pack up the clinic tomorrow. So it’s now or never if we are going to help her.

So Brett gave her a bag of medicine and specific instructions.  He asks her to repeat the instructions so he can confirm her understanding.  She repeats the instructions perfectly.   She takes her bag and thanks us.  She walks out on her own.  We watch her and comment on how different our worlds are.

Peter Hall- China

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Peter Hall

Sias University

Henan Province, China

I am living in Peter Hall which is the housing dorm for foreign faculty (AKA: all the American faculty).  I don’t know how many there are of us because people come and go.  But there may be as many as 125 people at any one time.  Most of the faculty is young people in the middle of trying to figure out what they want to do when they grow up.  Then there are the married couples who just retired and want to try something different.  There is a growing group of middle aged people who got laid off and are now desperate to find any sort of work. Then there is the faculty who work for Fort Hayes University and are receiving a salary commensurate with US wages.  The young teachers who are hired directly by the SIAS University are making $500 a month.  And while that is a great salary here, these teachers are still paying off their student loans and paying health insurance and speak openly about their poverty lifestyle and they worry about missed opportunities to make better money in the US.

I have an apartment on the third floor.  It has a living room, a bathroom and a large bedroom.  My housing is better than I had anticipated. My bed is only the box spring with a foam mat on top of that.  My shower is huge and has six water jets that seem to be glued shut.  For a while, the water did not come out of the shower head but rather around the rim of this large shower head which made difficult to shower.  My shoulders got wet but my head stayed dry. The toilet has flooded the floor four times in two weeks and that does not seem to concern the maintenance crew.

I have a water fountain right outside my room where I can get clean, safe hot and cold drinking water.  I have a TV but I only get Chinese stations.  I have a coffee pot and I bought a blender.  So it is sort of just like home.

We all eat together and there are designated eating times but they seem to slide back and forth each day.  Breakfast starts around 7:00 AM and I never make that which is a shame because that is the only time coffee is served.  The lunch starts somewhere between noon and 12:30.  And every time I go to lunch at 12:45, lunch is over and the staff stands around and tolerates my lateness.  Dinner is advertised to start at 5:00 but it is never ready before 5:30. 

Breakfast has two kinds of eggs and very greasy bacon that isn’t really cooked.  There is some bread and oatmeal and the yogurt is served in a pouch which you drink.

Lunch and dinner are just about the same menu every day.  On one side of the serving area, there is a salad bar which the Chinese don’t understand.  They put out huge clumps of lettuce, some long carrot sticks, green raisins, peanuts, olives, cherry tomatoes and a few dolloped of seasoned mayonnaise and some oil.
On the entrée side, we have chicken, lots of chicken, usually four different varieties.  There are chicken wings, chicken balls rolled in sesame seed, chicken and green beans, curry chicken and a roasted chicken which is just dumped in a pot and people can pick away at it.  On Thursdays, we have baked potatoes. On Friday, we have microwave pizza. 

Last week, we had salmon which caused a little bit of a problem.  The chef only makes portions of food for 15 to 20 people.  That way there is very little waste.  When something is served and that portion is finished, that’s it for the night; there is no replenishing the food choice.  So last week, just the first 15 of us got the salmon.  I wasn’t aware of this practice of one portion and done.  So I mentioned to people, who arrived a few minutes after me and sat at my table, to try the salmon.  Well there was none left which irritated most people. So I discovered that there is an unwritten rule:  if you get something to eat that the others didn’t get, shut up about it.  Don’t rub it in. Ok, now I know the rules.

Pillow Case Dresses

I tell an acquaintance, Trudy, that I have plans to start a sewing school in Jacmel, Haiti.  We are going to bring ten sewing machines to a school there and we will select five women to teach how to sew.  In turn, they will receive a sewing machine and then we will hire them to teach others to sew. I am very excited about the idea and Trudy applauds me for this plan. 

"How will you get everything over there", she wants to know.

"Ten volunteers are coming with me and each of us will carry 50 pounds of supplies. It will be very tight but we should  have just enough people to carry what we need."

I see Trudy three weeks later and she has over 50 pillow case dresses that she made for my sewing school.  They fill a whole suitcase.  I don't know how to tell her that I don't have the resources to take her dresses with me.  But she tells me she has been sewing like crazy and this task has given her a new passion.

So I leave one bag of supplies home and take this new bag of dresses and when we distribute them, all of the girls shout in glee.  They look fresh and feminine and cool and I am so glad I brought the dresses.

Christmas 1975

Christmas 1975

Philadelphia, PA

December 25, 1975

No matter where we lived, my grandparents lived near us.  When we lived in north Philadelphia, they lived, two miles away in Cheltenham.  When we moved to West Philadelphia, they moved, two miles away to Wynnewood. Because of this proximity, we saw each other almost every day.  

They lived in an apartment but loved to play cards.  So my grandmother would frequently host multiple friends at my mother’s house and play bridge all day long.  Three tables full of white haired women in dresses and pearls would sit upright and intently in our living room.  I would come home from school and my grandmother would call out, “who just came in”.  After announcing myself, she would instruct me to come in and say hello.  And then I would be instructed to sit down to play Gladys’s hand while she ran to the bathroom.  So off she would run and I would find my seat at the table. As a ten year old, I nervously played her hand. Money was involved, a penny a card and the pressure was on.  When Gladys returned, I went and made myself scarce so that I would have to fill in for Phyllis or another else at the table.

Jack fixed everything for us.  He had been an engineer. My father was not good at this at all.  He couldn’t do anything mechanical.  So he surrendered this part of his manhood to his father in law. Jack painted the walls and fixed the toaster and unclogged the sinks.  He worried about our safety so he always seemed to be adding locks and bolts to our doors and windows.  The front door alone had four locks. He helped us with most of our science projects.  He showed us tricks and he always took our side, no matter what, when we got in trouble at school.

We loved to go to their apartment.  Sometimes we would shop at Wanamaker’s and then we would drop by their apartments, right across the street.  We came unannounced.  They were always gracious and glad to see us.  We were always welcomed.  And on great, rare occasions, we got to sleep over.  Ida would let us wear one of her satin nightgowns.  And Jack would make us milk shakes and we got to stay up and watch the Johnny Carson show with them.

When I was 19, Jack died in December, right before Christmas.  And we were devastated.  And Christmas was a very tough day for us and not just because of the holiday.  But Ida and jack were married on Christmas day.  They would have been married 49 years this year.  We could barely celebrate the day.

The year quickly came and went and now we are coming up to the first anniversary of Jack’s death.  And we were approaching what would been Ida and Jack’s 50 wedding anniversary. We didn’t speak of it.  But we worried about it.

Then Ida announced that she was going to Florida for Christmas.  Her friends, all widows, had invited her to join them.   We couldn’t believe it.  She said she thought the day would be too sad for her and she didn’t want to ruin the holiday for us.  We tried to talk her out of it.  But she was adamant.  So off she went and left us to fend for ourselves for our first Christmas without a grandparent.

Prior to this announcement, there was an undercurrent of unspoken sadness and now we spoke openly about how we worried about Ida.  She was going to miss us.  She was going to regret her decision.  She needed us.  Why did we let her go?  And one of us should have joined her.

The day arrived and as we gathered in the living room, we noticed an envelope in each of our stockings.  Ida had left all of us a note.  One by one, we opened our letters and privately read the note.  Also enclosed was a check, a generous check, a check to make up for not being with us.  We all sat in silence and read in silence and then sat deep within our loss.  I looked to my older brother.  He was 21, a junior in college. He sat on his pajamas, on the floor by the fireplace. And he cried.  Not a deep cry, just a sob of grief, for my grandfather and now for the absence of my grandmother.  And maybe, for the first time, realizing that someday we would lose our parents as well.  The harsh reality of life seeped in to all of us.  And so now, we all wept for a little bit.

And then the phone rang.  And it was Ida and we were thrilled.  We all seemed to jump into our ‘put on a happy face’ mode.  We didn’t want to upset her today.  We had to be strong for her.  We knew she was going to be sad so we had to be positive.  We all ran to different phones around the house and listened in as my mother asked her how she was doing.

“Just grand.  I’m having a marvelous time.” Her voice was light and joyful.  She gave the overview of the week and told us it felt as if she has been at a party all week.  And then she dropped the bomb. “And I think I want to move down here if it is ok with you.”

We were speechless.  We were startled.  We must  have heard wrong.  So my mother quickly clarified what was just said, “You want to move to Florida.”

“If it’s alright with you”, she added.

We spent the rest of the day in complete bewilderment.

It took me a long time before I understood Ida’s courage.  For the first time in her life, she was now going to stand on her own two feet.  At 75, she had the courage to start anew.  She was tired of her grief.  And she had the opportunity to move on.  She knew it and she grabbed it.

Thirty five years later, I still marvel at this act of courage.  At a time when she could have sat back and relied on us to take care of her, she didn’t.  She was a living lesson in resiliency.  We loved her and we loved our grandfather and we would have done anything for them.  But at what cost to her. She saw her move to Florida as a way to start over, to pick up and continue to live life rather than passively continue in a puddle of grief.  And I am forever grateful for a lesson well learned.

Honoring The Victims of 9-11

A DAY OF REMEMBRANCE

A Day of Resilience

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2001

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 was the most difficult day in my career as a high school principal. Our world was crumbling and shaken to the core and so was I and my high school was no different than any other high school in the country. I had to take care of 1200 students and 100 staff and hundreds of panicked parents. And still try to keep instruction going. We barely got through the day but we did. And fortunately, we did not suffer any direct loses. Thanks to the wonderful leadership of our social studies teachers, they helped the students stay focused on staying just and honorable. There were lots of productive discussions on maintaining the spirit of our constitution. But we still all walked on egg shells.

Then, two days later, President Bush asked for us to have a Day of Remembrance for our fallen citizens. So we spent the day on Friday in multiple events of honor. Four students were assigned to lead a moment of silence that would be broadcasted at various times throughout the day. Sam, who had recently lost her dad, started us off with a moment of silence for fallen family members. Ryan, who had just earned his Eagles badge, offered a moment to our fire fighters and police officers and all the other public servants who were helping us through this tragedy. Then Heather, our president of student council, offered a moment of silence to President Bush. We knew that the whole world was watching his leadership. A lot of responsibility rested on his shoulders. And then we ended the day with a reflection on tolerance. I asked a student who was of Indian decent to lead this thought. I didn’t know her religious background. She could have been Muslim. But we are from a predominately Christian school so the probability was greater that she was a Christian. Who knows what was her background and now was not the time to ask? But in the same vain, I worried that if she were Muslim, would this anger the other students and ruin the moment.

As we drew closer to the hour when she would step up to the microphone, I started to get cold feet. What if she is Muslim? Was I using this young woman at the wrong time? Was she too young to understand the complexity of the moment? Was this too much to ask of her, after all, she was only 17 years old. Should I have picked a Caucasian student to deliver the message of tolerance? So I called Noreen to my office just to check in with her.

She appeared out of nowhere at the door and the direct sunlight blinded her face. So I could only see her silhouette, devoid of race, gender, ethnic background. In the direct, bold sunlight, she was just a person, speaking to me with a trembling voice and an honesty that was bone chilling. “You will never understand what this moment has meant to me. I will never be able to thank you”. And then she vanished from my sight.

Later that day, she spoke to her classmates with a confidence and a sincerely that was admirable. She spoke without judgment or anger and her message received cheers from the students. It was a great moment.

A few months later, she gave me a very expensive Christmas gift and I knew she just wanted to somehow quantify the importance of the moment. A moment that I will never forget.

Jamaica

 I am in an all inclusive resort in Jamaica and even though it is November and cold at home, I would rather be there then here.  This environment is not healthy for me.  Like everyone else, I feel an obligation to drink my money's worth of alcohol "because after all, I paid for it."  I paid less than $1000 for air flight and four nights, five days of all I could eat, drink, snorkel, kayak or rumba.  But like everyone else, I spend the day plotting my drink menu.  With only lite beer on tap, I ration that I cant drink more because it is less filling.  I also take this time to fall back into my early twenties drinking preferences: tequila sunsrise, screwdrivers, Singapore slings and every other drink that gave me more of a sugar hangover than an alcohol hangover.  I have Bloody Mary's for breakfast just because it is offered.  Someone offers me red wine or white wine for dinner and I have both.

I order a banana daiquiri and the bartender makes me something completely difference.  When I call this to his attention, he tells me, "Madame, I made it special just for you. I make this for all the beautiful ladies.  It is called Sealed with A Kiss".  And for a fleeting moment, I am flattered. And that is when I realize that I should not take another trip to an all inclusive resort.

You Were All A Mistake

My mother had six kids in seven years and then 11 years later, she had another kid. One of us once referred to Brian as a mistake and my mother chimed in, “Six kids in 7 years, you think that was planned. You were all a big mistake.” 

Katmandu, Nepal 1999

KATMANDU 1999

Katmandu, Nepal- town square where the people go to bath and fetch water. A grandmother is bathing two young girls. Another woman is doing her laundry. It had just stopped raining and it was a little chilly for a June afternoon

Dinner with Doc

Dinner with Doc

Philadelphia, PA
1960

My grandfather, Doc, died when I was about five years old. I don’t remember him but I have heard enough stories about him that I have some sense of him. And I have one flickering image that I am not sure if it happened or I made it up. So I ran the story by my father and he told me he doesn’t remember it after 40 years but it is very plausible.

It’s evening, probably Sunday evening, just after a large meal, and Doc is getting up to go home. Neither he nor my father has a car. So Doc took the bus to our house. Doc, my father, my older brother and I walk together to the bus stop, just around the corner. And we wait with Doc until the bus comes along. The door opens up and Doc puts one foot on the step and then pauses. He turns around and wishes us good night. He speaks to us in a tone that is very formal. Then he hoists himself up the steps, the door closes and my brother and I wave frantically as Doc stumbles down the aisle to his seat. He waves back and then the bus takes off. When the bus is clearly out of our view, we stop waving and we head home.

In my memory, there is a willow tree that shades the bus stop corner. That tree is so pronounced in my memory, and now, fifty years later, all willow tress remind me of Doc.

The Great Gatsby

The Great Gatsby

Newport, Rhode Island

Summer 1973

I never really liked to read.  Reading was such a struggle for me.  I am dyslexic and I didn’t comprehend what I read.  And what I was reading just didn’t interest me.  Shakespeare, Canterbury tales, Beowulf, Chaucer.  Blah, blah, blah.  I couldn’t relate to any of these books or authors.  I couldn’t see any of these characters.  Who cared about them?

Then I was a senior in high school and for the first time, we were reading modern American literature. And I loved everything I read.  Our Town,  Catcher in the Rye and my favorite,  The Great Gatsby.  This book spoke to me.  And for the first time, I had to admit that I liked to read.  And then I started to read other books on my own time.

My parents were elated. I was finally cracking through my defeating academic behaviors.  They bought me books and magazines.  They encouraged me.  They told me that they were proud of me.  And when I came home with the first edition of People Magazine, which featured a cover story of Mia Farrow as Daisy, my dad’s eyes lit up.  I told him that the movie of The Great Gatsby was being filmed in Rhode Island.  My dad had a conference in Rhode Island and he suggested that I come along so that we could scout out the film location.

The offer of the beach, The Great Gatsby and Robert Redford was just too much.  This was my lucky, lucky moment.  I could hardly wait.

My parents, sister and I packed the car and made the eight hour trip north.  I couldn’t contain myself.  Maybe I could get a small bit part in one of the crowd scenes.  If I did, I would brag about this for the rest of my life.

Knowing how excited I was, my father had us check in to the hotel first.  And then we were off in search of Jay Gatsby’s magnificent mansion.  As we drove up and down streets, looking for the location, I recanted the favorite parts of the novel.  And I retold the story with a conviction that I was enhancing the lives of my fellow passengers.  And they listened with the appearance of appreciation.

We couldn’t find any indication of the movie set.  So we stopped at a diner for a meal somewhere.  The waitress told us that they had wrapped up the filming last week.  She said it was all very exciting.  My parents were so disappointed. While I was disappointed, it wasn’t the end of the world.  For me, the thrill was having the first academic adventure with my parents.  They had validated something important to me and that’s what I remember today.

To read more stories, check out:   bkmemoirs.blogspot.com

 or  bkmemoirs.wordpress.com

George H. Bush

President Bush

Oviedo, Spain

Spring 1997

Sharon, my sister, lived in Spain for 1 ½ years and I visited her on three occasions.  She lived in Oviedo, northern Spain, a small town filled with people who quickly embraced Sharon and her family.

On one of my occasions, Sharon announced that former President Bush was coming to town. I was surprised to hear this bit of information.  He had been out of office for six years now and had kept a low profile in the United States.  So what was he doing in Spain and would the Spaniards have any interest in what he had to say, a has been, one term president;  A dull president whose career was sandwiched in between two presidents who presented themselves as larger than life.

Who would want to come listen to his speech?  And I knew the auditorium where he would be speaking held over 1000 people.  I imagined Bush at the podium,talking to a near empty audience.  This image filled me with patriotic shame.  Even though I did not vote for him, he was still my president at one time. So Sharon and I both decided to go to this lecture as our patriotic duty to our country.  We were going to go and honor the office of the president.

We changed out of our jeans for something a bit more presentable, and we set out to the auditorium in the middle of the town square.  The heart of Oviedo was about ½ mile from Sharon’s apartments.   Like her European neighbors, we walked uphill to town, which for me, was filled with wonderful cafes,  tappas bars, clothing boutiques and jewelry stores.  It was a place where we would spend the afternoon, drinking sangrias and eating tappas, or spending time with the local artist who made beautiful leather bags and, one time, made leather sandals for the pope.  (Everyone who comes in to his store heard this proud story again and again).

We would often find a café at night and sit back and share glass after glass of cidra, a fermented cider, while engaging in conversations with the local people. They would patiently tolerate our broken Spanish.  

All of my occasions in this little town square had been pleasant and a step away from reality.  They were filled with enjoyable conversations and outgoing, gracious Spaniards, wonderful food and memories of good times. So we set out on foot with the thought of hearing a dull speech, followed by a nice dinner at a local café.

When we arrived at the square, we encountered lots of commotion, lots of noise.  There were barricades and lots of police, both on foot and on horseback. We had anticipated that we would walk right up to the theater, buy a ticket and get a seat somewhere near the front row.

But we were stopped along the way by a police officer.  We quickly and confidentially explained to him that we were Americans.  That didn’t impress him.   He indicated that we needed an invitation. “An invitation”, we both laughed out loud. “Who would want to be invited to this event?”   

Then we quickly had our answer.  We noticed limo after limo dropping off the high society of Oviedo.  One couple after another stepped out, dressed in black tie and gowns, and appearing to be excited about going to meet the former president.

We laughed at our own naiveté and at our thoughts that no one would want to hear this man speak.  And then the police officer came over and pulled on my arm.  We had to move on.  As we turned, we now saw and heard a second crowd who had come to see Bush: the protesters.  There must have been 200 or more angry people who were there with signs in both English and Spanish.  They were chanting and shouting and the police stood by in defensive positions, ready to take action if any protesters stepped out of line.

As I read their signs, I stepped back in to my own thoughts.  These people knew Bush; they knew his policies.  They were holding him accountable for his actions as the president of a foreign country.  I am standing in Spain, unaware of who was their political leader.  I had never thought of their government. I knew nothing about Spain’s foreign policy.  And at that moment, I also could not recall Bush’s foreign policy.  His time in office did not leave any indelible ink marks in my mind.  He just filled in the gap between Reagan and Clinton.  But he enraged these gentle Spaniards. He had bombed too much of the world during his regime.  He had not taken care of the environment and he had been too greedy about oil.  These Spaniards were not forgiving him.

And now Sharon and I were standing in between these two crowds.  To our right were the rich, conservatives going to meet our retired statesman.  To the left were hundreds of angry Spaniards, disgusted with our government. Where do we stand now?  If we were pushed off the proverbial fence, which way would we fall?  And then, Sharon did fall. I thought someone had pushed her.  But she missed the curb and fell straight down.  And then it dawned on us: head straight home.  And that’s what we did.  Sharon picked herself up.  We made our way straight through the crowds; we went straight home.

Election 2012

POLL WATCING 2012

The past several days around here have been drop dead gorgeous.  Sunny, blue skies, warm.  The kind of days when you just look around you and say, “I can’t believe this is November and the days are still so beautiful.  How lucky am I!

Well, at least the last couple of days were like that.  But not today, Election Day.  Today when I got up, it was cold and windy.  It was now winter, as it is supported to be.  Bone chilling and unpleasant.  And what made it worse was the fact that I had volunteered to watch the polls for the entire day, from 7AM to 8PM.  It was so beautiful when I had volunteered two weeks ago.  At that time, I thought, wouldn’t it be a fun day to talk to my neighbors all day?  To run on the mouth about politics and my point of view with all of my like-minded friends.  To see democracy at work. To be proud to be an American.  To do my small part to give people a voice.

All of those lofty ideas are so motivating when all is right with the world.  But when it goes from 60F to 42F in 24 hours, all those lofty ideas suck.  Who cares about the integrity of the democratic process?  Why did I volunteer to spend the whole damn day in the cold, greeting people who do not want to be bothered by pesty poll watchers?

When you are a poll watcher, you really have to find things to keep yourself entertained so that the day doesn’t seem any longer than it already is.  For the first hour, my partner and I complained about the injustice of how far away we had to be from the voting polls.  The 100 feet boundary should start from the voting polls, not the building, we complained to each other repeatedly.  We were too far away.  No one could see us and we just had to make sure we were able to make eye contact with each and every voter.  

So my partner ran home and got his measuring tape and came back and measured the distance. And just as you probably expected, the barrier was placed at 110 feet.  We knew it.  They were trying to keep us away from the voters.  So we moved our table ten feet closer and felt smug that justice had been remedied.  

Then we spent the next hour talking about the ridiculous clowns who were watching the table for the other side.  “Look at that idiot, would you. He’s nothing but a loud mouth”, my poll partner told me. The loud mouth knew everyone in town and shouted to every voter who tried to get in and out inconspicuously.  “Hey Joe,” he would shout in a volume that would startle a lion, “Don’t forget to vote for Mitt, that is unless you want to live like a communist.”  And then he would laugh a big belly laugh and look right at us with an obnoxious grin on his stupid face.

Then we talked about everything we think we needed to do to make America just right and that included only our way of thinking. And then there was the discussion on why everyone just couldn’t see things our way and why were they such idiots.  Why couldn’t they see the truth? And then we sort of ran out of everything we needed to say since we were now three hours in to the day and we had just meet and the only thing we had in common was our politics.  

So my partner went home to get a few more warm layers and I was left to manage the table all by myself.  The responsibility would not have been too bad had it not been for the wind and our brochures which flew all over the place.  And then trying to pick up a piece of paper with mittens is a challenge in and of itself.  But I managed because I did not want to do anything to damage the environment.  I am not a litterer.  I care and take care of the world.

So now, I am sitting on my cold metal folding chair, minding my own business and beginning to dread the thought of sitting on this cold, hard chair tonight at 6PM when my back is sore and it is dark and windier and colder and even more miserable.  My thoughts are distracted by a large SUV which pulls into the handicapped parking stop right in front of me.  I watch with interest because it is the only thing to watch at the moment.  

The door flings open.  A large, beaten up purse is thrown to the ground.  An aluminum walker comes out next, handled by fingers that look like sausages. Then out comes one large, beefy, bare leg with a cankle and a plastic, grey Kmart shoe and then the other beefy leg comes out.  And then the rest of the body begins to slide off the front seat.  I now get up from my chair and go over with the intent to help this person.  This person, like all of the other people with handicaps who have come by today to vote, receives my unconditional admiration. They could have stayed home and felt sorry for themselves what with their disabilities but no, they came out at great cost and effort to themselves and voted.  And every person who struggled to get themselves in to the polling station won my admiration; this woman was no exception.

“May I help you? Do you need any assistance”, I ask her in my most pleasant voice?

“Let me ask you something” she says right away, as she is struggling to get her skirt loosened from her seat belt.  Her upper thigh is exposed to me. “Democrat or Republican?” she asked gruffly.

“Democrat”, I tell her.

“Then no, I don’t want any help from you. Get away.”  She turns her back to me.

I am taken aback, “No”, I tell her, “I am not here to get you to vote.  I just thought you needed some help.  May I get your purse for you?”

“NO. I don’t want any help from your type. Get away I said”.  I step back in disbelief and now damaged pride.

“Let me ask you something”, she says in a mean spirited tone, “Why you are voting for that idiot.  What’s wrong with you?”

Now, I am angry with her and I want to kick her in her ass but I don’t. “I feel hopeful with Obama.  I think he’s a great leader,” I tell her with pride and to annoy her.

“Hopeful”, she mockingly repeats.  She looks at me as if that is the stupidest thing she has ever heard. “I hope he doesn’t get reelected.  He gets in again; we are all in trouble, you too.  You’re in trouble.  We are all going to be committed to one bedroom apartments where we will be left to die.”  She speaks with a tone of authority, similar to the tones used by the nuns who educated me years ago.   A tone that would not tolerate any challenge.  But now I was annoyed with her.

“I think you have a few facts that are off a little bit.  Someone has been giving you wrong information,” I tell her smugly.

“No I don’t”.  She says and offers no more explanation than that. She walks away with gait that is slow but very dismissive.  She has heard enough from me.

I have an urge to yell something hurtful and ridiculous, something to make her feel stupid and small,  but decided to quit now because neither of us were going to sway the other.

She wanders in to the building and I think to myself, “I wish I knew this woman’s name, I would send it to that death panel.”