(Maybe) the Last Dispatch; or, l'll Be Loving You For Always

It's been a long time since I first wrote these words:

Sunday, October 21, 2012
First Dispatch; or, You Don't Get This in Texas 
Hola from Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, our new home!

And it kept rolling from there. 

I really didn't think after the first few months I would stick with it, but I'm glad because it made me get out of my comfort zone and write something publicly and on a semi-consistent basis.

It hopefully answered some questions people have about GTMO, gave some of you a glimpse into life at The World's Most Bizarre Military Base (or something like that), and helped you understand why someone would choose a crazy life overseas instead of a more comfy one in the U.S. For our many, many friends who have come and gone, I hope it gave you good memories. 

This is blog post #186, and you can scroll through the other 185 to catch up, if you are just getting here. I think a few posts are the best writing I've ever done; others are really rather wretched. However, I'm leaving it as-is, at least for now, to keep as a record of our time for almost 5 years. Overall, I'm happy we were able to share a little of our lives here. 

Four days and a wake up, and then we are en route to new adventures starting in late July in Spain. We are trying to take care of many last-minute things, so I'm staying offline much more until we are back in the U.S. 

Hasta la vista, and hopefully in a couple of months, I'll be back to posting pictures and stories about Spain.

In the meanwhile. . . I made this to commemorate our time here. There have been many celebrations here (sadly, many, many without a camera---maybe that's a good thing), and there have been MANY goodbyes. It's been tough on my kids to lose so many good friends. It's been tough for us adults, too. As they say in the military, "It's never goodbye, only see you later," and I really hope to see our GTMO friends who have become our GTMO family in the future. 

Crank up your sound, feel free to clap and sing, and behold the beauty of the people and places that have made this our home. As the song goes, "I'll be loving you for always." That goes for GTMO, as well as our many precious friends we've met on this adventure.

***for new adventures in Spain, check out Wanderlust. . . Again. 

(If you can't get the video to open on this page, go to: GTMO Memories) 

Connections; or, Finding Bliss

The end of any school year is difficult. 

Class of 2016, my son's class. I got to teach
every single one of them (including my son),
and I absolutely loved his class. 

I worked in eight schools (six as a teacher, two as a librarian) before moving to Cuba to do a little of both jobs. I have a bad habit of doing a "cut and run" when it's time to leave. I don't mean I leave my employers hanging at the last minute; I just usually don't tell students I'm not going to be back. 

Before you think, "you horrible, heartless wench," there is a reason. I found out early in my career that students sometimes take it personally when you leave. They get attached to you and vice versa. They guilt trip you (why are you leaving us??) or give you the cold shoulder, sometimes even flat-out refusing to talk to you the last weeks of school after you've announced you are leaving.  You can tell a teenager that you are doing what's best for you and your family, but many of them are still at the stage where it's all about them. 

I've taught at schools that primarily consisted of military students (even one on a military installation), so you would think at least those students would understand. But many times, they don't. They don't want you to leave, and sometimes, you don't want to leave them, either.

I have some very mixed feelings about leaving a handful of students here. I hope some specific students find teachers who get their quirky senses of humor, or see through their tough exteriors, or refuse to look at their school records and instead focus on the present, not their pasts.  I hope a few will make better choices and not follow the footsteps to some family members. I hope the kids who think they are just average will push themselves into taking Honors classes and will aim to be the first in their families to go to college---because they definitely have the brains to do it, even if nobody at home has ever told them that. 

Unlike most other places I've left, I told my students a while back that I was leaving. Actually, a co-worker burst in with a very enthusiastic, very audible, "I'm so happy you are moving!!!" as soon as the transfer gossip had made it her way, and all I had to do was look at my students' faces and say, uh-oh. Not cool, lady. She had no idea that many of my students have been here for years and have dealt with several teachers leaving in the middle of the year (and more often than not, never being replaced with a certified teacher). So I quickly explained that I'm leaving after school's out, and their demeanor quickly changed. Whew. Honestly, kids here also get the "I have to get out of here" feeling more than most kids in other places. It's understood. This place is tough. Leaving doesn't mean you're giving up; it just means it may not be for you. Or for your family. 

Knowing you live in a tough place connects me to my students. A collective eye roll at what we have to do without this week (food items, flights, working restaurants, THE MAIL) or the way small things seem to be larger than life, not helped at all at how gossip spreads like wildfire, makes it hard to live here for many people. That connects me in ways I've never connected to students before. 

 ********* 
This guilt of leaving students is one reason why the end of this year has been especially exhausting for me. Then there are other factors. 

There's what another colleague calls "survivor's guilt." I got the golden ticket out of GTMO. And by "golden ticket," I mean any way out. I feel guilty that some of my other colleagues who have wanted badly to get out of here will be here yet another year. 

Is it that horrible to teach here? 

No. Not at all. 

Is it an easy place to teach? 

NO. To work at the secondary campus here, be prepared to teach 5 completely different classes (and sometimes, multiple subjects). There are limited resources at the school or on base, so wait 2-3 weeks to get supplies or professional books you've been wanting to use. Yes, I may have 35 students---but I prepare for them a helluva lot more than I did for 160 kids for only 2 classes. It's HARD teaching here. Give me 160 students and 2 preps over 35 and 5 preps ANY DAY. I think most secondary teachers will agree. 

Plus teachers don't have an end-date here. We can be here 3 years, 5 years, 10 years, or more before we get a chance to transfer. The budget for transfers is shrinking (as well as the number of DoDDS schools world-wide), so knowing you got one of 120 transfers out of 800 or more applicants feels like you've won the lottery. 

Is it an easy place to live? Um, no. I'll just leave you with this: my husband was left behind while a Cat 4 hurricane was coming this way. Am I bitter? Damn right I'm bitter. I wish I could say I am a better person, but I'm not. I blame a lot of people for incompetence, lack of communication, horrendous planning, and downright stupidity. (I have 5 days and a wake- up, as they say in the military---I really don't care who I offend at this point). Roll your eyes, but I am still dealing emotionally with thinking for 48 hours that my husband was going to die. I don't think I will ever get over it. 

During the "evacuation," they lined children up by height because they ran out of room on the last plane, and that's how they determined who got on it. They didn't get as far as the teenagers. This included several of "my kids," some students whom I've known for 3 or more years. I sobbed until the ferry turned around in the middle of the Bay and went back and got them. 

That event was the nail in the coffin. I HAD to get my family out of here. And seeing those kids today and knowing what we've been through---some have seen me sob inconsolably for hours---connects me to them in a way I have never connected to other students. Sadness, disappointment, a real, palpable fear, and yes, bitterness connects us, both colleagues and students. 

 **** 
Packing up the few things left in my room is also mentally exhausting. I've found notes from students, graduation announcements, and other things that make me wonder, again, what will happen to them. You never stop worrying about your students. Never.  I will miss them. And dare I say it? I will: I will miss them more than I will miss many adults here.  They are why I've stuck it out after being reassigned to a position I didn't want to do (teach English), which ended up working out sort of beautifully because I have relationships with students on a level you just don't get as a school librarian. I love my students and they know it. Even when they drive me crazy, they are my heart. I hope the knowledge that I want them to succeed in this crazy world is another thing that connects me to my students. 

*****
So onwards. My previous post was all about the wonderful relationships we've forged here, all the wonderful things that have connected us forever to GTMO. And those are the things that will stay with me more than others. But I do feel in fairness I have to explain why I am so ready to move on. I have friends who will probably leave here in a wooden box (crass, yes, but true). There are things to love. However, I don't want to paint this as the Most Perfect Place on Earth. Quality of life and basic safety issues aside, I've also written before---I am not a small town girl. And even in my small town of Monticello, Mississippi (1500 people---Sa-lute!), as a teen I spent many a breezy evening riding through the countryside, windows down, music turned up, smelling pine trees and dreaming of moving to bigger places, but always knowing I could come back any time to people and places I love there. 

You don't get that here---either the ability to ride around more than 10 minutes or so on this tiny, fenced off base, or the ability to come back any time you want. That part is what makes this move bittersweet. 

People have told me, "Oh, you are moving to an isolated area!" Rota, Spain has apx 29,000 people, and Puerto de Santa María, where we may possibly live, has apx 88,000 people. I've managed to keep busy on this small, VERY isolated base; I have a feeling we will be just fine, even if we don't venture far from home the first year.  One of my favorite novels, Joan Didion's Play It As It Lays, has a main character named Maria who aimlessly drives in the desert and on freeways to clear her head. I relate to that feeling of aimless travel (maybe it's even a metaphor for my life in general). To have to ability to get in a car, to get lost: that's bliss.  Even if it means I have to ride around, windows down, music up, and thinking back to people I've left behind, I will be HAPPY.  

Going, going, not quite gone; or, The time is nigh

We have been physically preparing for moving all of our earthly possessions for months now.

Every since I got the transfer notice in February, and even without official orders, we started downsizing even more. And this is something that has been ongoing since I arrived four years, seven months, and twenty three days ago. I landed on island on a Saturday, started work on Monday, and was told by one of my new colleagues, "You know, you are a little overdressed for what people here wear for work. You have to dress for the weather." Well. I immediately took some of my dresses to the thrift shop, and went to the NEX and got a few pieces of casual, warm weather clothes. It's the land of eternal summer and you dress accordingly. I had left Texas in a chilly October and a school that considered "dressing down" the occasional jeans and college shirt on Fridays; otherwise, we were told to dress "professionally"----no shorts, no tee shirts, nothing that looks like something you'd wear to a beach cookout, and never, ever sandals or flip flops.

Welcome to GTMO. Everything is different with island life and the downsizing and a new mentality started the week I got here.

At the end of my first year here, my colleague Brock and I celebrated every week's end with "Flip Flop Friday."™ If you're looking for something small to look forward to, I suggest this small celebration.  (Just give him credit if you try to make money off of it---I trademarked this phrase so you won't feel like you have to. LOL). 
*****

We are leaving with approximately five thousand pounds less than we brought. This is awesome because it is mostly small things that are now gone. I find it amazing because we've picked up a few pieces of furniture, but still managed to downsize. Our wardrobes are mainstreamed. We only have the toiletries we really need. We've gotten down to the pots and pans we really, really use. Same with kitchen gadgets. I had fourteen hair brushes. Have you seen my hair? I try, but even on a good day, it's not what you'd consider awesome or even good. How do you get so many hairbrushes? Especially when I've had days when students have asked me, "Did you forget to brush your hair today?" (true story)

It's so easy to accumulate stuff---sometimes it's gifts from well-meaning people who you have continuously told to PLEASE stop sending you things. If they don't listen, those things are re-gifted to people who need them. You want to give me something? Offer to watch my kids when I'm back in the US so my husband and I can go on a date. Take me out to a restaurant I haven't be to in over a year and offer to pay part of the bill. Sit with me on the back porch (or if it's too hot, indoors) and take the time to ask how I'm doing and LISTEN. Show me pictures of what you've been doing since I last saw you (especially if they are of your kids who have grown up while I've been away). These are the gifts I want.

Through two big moves in 5 years,  I've started thinking ahead to my children, and all the crap they will have to go through. I imagine the gift of my kids having only a few boxes of things to sort after I'm dead and gone instead of an entire house, garage, and attic. Wouldn't that be lovely? It is seriously my dream---that I leave my children wonderful memories and few possessions to choose to keep or give away.

amazing back porch---we will miss this!

waiting in the garage in the rain for the packout to complete

*****

The best part of GTMO, as anyone who likes living here will tell you, is the friendships we have made. Before we had our second child, my husband and I played in an adult recreation co-ed soccer league and made friends with many other couples. I think it's important in a marriage to have other friends who are couples, because it really helps you see that everyone is working hard---because marriage is hard work----and your struggles sometimes pale in comparison to other people's struggles. Plus hanging out with just your spouse isn't healthy. People need friends outside of their immediate family, and sometimes you need someone other than your spouse to tell your troubles to, to share laughs, to tell stories. After all, my husband (and my good friends) have heard my favorite stories 1000 times by now. But life happens;  we had baby #2 and were hermits for a while, and when we started to play soccer again, most of our married couple friends had either moved or divorced. Our circle of friends disintegrated in a period of 2 years, and we spent most of the remainder of our time in Texas isolated.

Living here has given us opportunities to be friends with all sort of folks. I've hung out with people I would have never, ever been friends with in the US---my supervisors, my children's teachers. People who come from very, very different backgrounds and sometimes values, but through a longtime, simmering friendship, I realize I do have much in common with them and will continue to be their friends after leaving. I found friends who felt like I've known my entire life. This is the beauty of a small community.

When you have to knock on a stranger's door in the middle of baking and ask for an egg or some butter, or you know the new neighbor probably needs board games and other toys to occupy their bored kids, you venture out of your comfort zone to help or ask for help. Every Thanksgiving, our little commissary seems to run out of Thanksgiving meal basics. You see people asking on our community fb page for everything from sour cream to sugar to cranberries to cheese. Several people step up. Some folks also offer up their homes to single servicemen and women who will spend a holiday alone. This is how people do things here---you never run out of what you need, because someone will give it to you. You don't have to be a hermit, because people will literally drag you out of your house to make you socialize. (That would be Karin---thanks for making me come out and play poker, even if I did christen your new poker table by spilling a drink on it).

Living here has been challenging and I've done my share of bitching (and itching---the bugs are out of control right now!). But I have learned in my 40s that I have the courage to march up to someone I've never met in my neighborhood and ask them if they need anything (and mean it). I have gotten over some of my anxiety of having people over to my house for dinner or social occasions. I'm not kidding when I say the thought anywhere else of having someone over for dinner gave me a major panic attack. I've kept my social circles very small over the years because I feel awkward with small talk. Here in GTMO, you sort of skip the small talk. It's all about "how can I help you in this rather difficult place?" I've had people flying back to the U.S. mail important documents for us. We've had people lend us everything from linens to a car. My wonderful and amazing neighbor Kim called me the day we were returning from several weeks in the US at the end of summer and said, "I know you are exhausted from traveling. I hope you don't mind, but we cooked dinner for you. You can come over to eat or I will deliver it to you." SERIOUSLY. This is what happens here. You meet generous people who realize that we are all in this hardship location together, and the best of the best make sure you have what you need to make life a little easier.

The Final Countdown; or, A Vagabond Heart

"WALKER PERCY ONCE wrote that at a certain point in his life a man draws strength from living in some authentic relationship with the principal events of his past. I have often pondered what it was that brought me back to stay [in the South]. I am forever drawn to the textures, the echoes, the way things look and feel, the bittersweet tug of certain phrases: 'We crossed the river at Natchez.' The South is a blend of the relentless and the abiding for me, and an accumulation of ironies so acute and impenetrable that my vagabond heart palpitates to make sense of them."   Willie Morris, from the essay "Is There a South Anymore?" Southern Magazine, October 1986. 

My favorite memoir is from fellow Mississippian Willie Morris. North Towards Home tells of Morris' childhood in Mississippi, college life in Texas, and life as a writer in New York City---and all in an attempt to find "home."  When I read his book in college, I couldn't help but feel it spoke to me. And I love his term "vagabond heart" in the above essay because it encapsulates how I feel. Morris did some wandering of his own before finally giving in to that tug to return to his native Mississippi, where he died in 1999. 

part of my heart---the Mighty Pearl River, MS

In one of my earliest blog posts, I wrote about not knowing where home is and my forever quest to find it. It's been a quandary as long as I can remember. I was a shy, strange child, and moving from the Delta to southern Mississippi was a rather traumatic experience. I didn't like having to meet new friends. I didn't like change. I didn't like people's prying questions, or having to deal with going to school (I had only attended kindergarten part time), and I remember thinking if I were quiet, I could make myself invisible. It's a trick I held on to for several years, until being part of a community over time made it impossible to do anymore. I was part of something. I had become part of the collective memory of my classmates with whom I attended 1-12 grade. My biggest pet peeve of life in that small town is when certain classmates would like to say, "Do you remember in kindergarten when. . . oh yeah, that's right, you didn't live here then." It was their not-so-subtle way of putting me in my place because I wasn't born there. Maybe this is why I never wanted to stay. Or maybe I just never took root and after reversing my original stance and working hard not to be invisible, realized that to some, I would always be. My hometown is not my birthplace, nor my sister's, nor my parents. Despite living there for twelve years of school and countless years of going back annually, I am in many ways still not "one of them." 

And I am totally okay with that. I love many people there. The adage goes, "Home is where the heart is," but truly, can you aimlessly travel from one place to another, holding those you love close, while knowing they live thousands of miles away and you'll be lucky to see them once a year? For me, yes. For others, not so much. 

These are the things I have tried to explain to many of my friends and even family members who have deep roots and love their towns. They have a sense of place I have never had. 

That brings me to this. We have a pack out date now, meaning that for three days in the beginning of June, a moving crew will invade our house and pack up practically every possession we have. We made the choice when we plunged into this peripatetic life to not put anything in long-term storage. Family valuables we left at home. Years of paperwork we finally shred. Many things---linens, furniture, pots and pans that we have had for the majority of our 24 year marriage---we have finally given away. 

Today we took the ferry over to the airport to pick up our son who is returning from college in Spain. The next time we take that same ferry will probably be when we leave here forever. As we left for the Leeward side and watched people jump off the dock to say goodbye to those leaving island, I wondered, who is left to jump for us? Will anyone come out? Teachers tend to leave the day school is out; we will stay another week, probably. So many dear, wonderful, close friends have already left GTMO forever. There's part of me that wants to sneak over to the other side the night before and stay at the hotel there so we don't have to say goodbye. I always get a little lump in my throat watching people jump and swim out to the ferry, even knowing they aren't there for me.

It's been a great four years, six months, and 22 days in many ways. Despite my whining and complaining at what are truly first world problems (no diet Coke, no eggs, the pool is closed---again), there have been rewards that we have reaped and will for years to come. I'm still a little freaked out when I look back and think that in 2012 we walked away from a house, two stable jobs, friends and family, and a community we lived in longer than anywhere else in our marriage (10 years---and for my husband, the longest he's lived anywhere). We took a leap of faith and I have no regrets. The big stuff for those of us here that adds up to low morale at times is still small stuff compared to some of the big challenges of our life living in Texas.

part of my heart, this crazy, crazy place

I'm hoping my wandering spirit and vagabond heart will find a place to call home once we get to Spain. With a son only a few hours away, and the ability to get on a commercial airplane and get to our families faster from Europe than from GTMO, it's already got some things going for it that we don't have here. I will miss those here who I hold in my heart---and I hope they will take me up on our offers to visit. I don't think we will ever come back here to visit, and knowing we don't really have that option, unlike other places we've called home all over the U.S., makes me a little sad. 

The possibility that we will spend the next 10 years or so in Spain make me very happy. Could this be the place? Or, like Willie Morris, will I one day find that pull to the South so strong that I will want to go back to live? 

It is very possible that in six weeks from today, if all goes as planned, we will leave GTMO forever. How will I feel? Relief? Grief? Sadness? Giddiness? 

Maybe a little of all above? 

In the same essay, Willie Morris also wrote, "To escape the South, however — all of what it was and is — I would have to escape from myself."

The South is my home, who I am. As much as I have worked to lose the accent (some find it charming, but it comes with its own set of detrimental stereotypes), I am a southern girl through and through. However, it is not where I live. A wanderer is what I am. That cliche "citizen of the world" is also me. 

And Spain is calling. Onwards to more purging and packing for the next great adventure of someone consumed with wanderlust. 

read all of Willie Morris' essay here.

Letting Go; or, Finding (or Losing) Joy

A couple of years ago, a friend turned me on to the book The Life=Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo. She has a whole method of basically stripping your house down to only things that "bring joy" into your life. 

You are supposed to look at each object and ask if it brings joy. If it doesn't, you let it go. 

I know, it's like a new age-y, touchy feely way to see things, but I really have taken it to heart, even if I didn't make my way through the entire house. 

In the last few weeks, I've managed to get rid of about 50 books. If you know me, you know this is sort of monumental. 

In attempts to get through about 20 books that I really don't want to drag to Spain but really don't want to get rid of yet, I'm doing the Popsugar Book Challenge where you read books from several categories. I'm zooming through books and then adding them to my give-away pile. I'm working on my third give-away haul now and making progress through the list---so far, I've read 6 out of the 40. I started a couple of books and knew immediately I just wasn't going to finish them, so that was easy---onto the stack they went. 



I have found dozens (probably more like hundreds now) of pictures I have mailed to high school and college friends. Pictures bring me joy, but they are also sitting in a huge Rubbermaid container in my garage, so I'm hoping they bring someone else even more joy where they can put them in frames, or an album, or even throw them away if they want. They are no longer mine, and I'm glad to be rid of them. They belong to people who can enjoy them now. The hardest has been sending photos of siblings, spouses, or parents to friends who have loved and lost them. I love when someone in my family posts pictures of family members who are gone (or even pictures from my childhood that I have never seen). 

I can't open a drawer, a cabinet, or a closet without throwing something away. It's sort of Marie Kondo, guerrilla style. I am taking great joy in taking out the garbage. 

I'm also working my way through the pantry. My husband did a fantastic job of cleaning out the fridge last week, and this is after we both had done a thorough cleaning out during the winter break. How many types of mustard can one family have, really? We are soon going to get to that really funky stage of a move where you have weird combinations of food just because you are getting rid of it. Pot stickers and salad and corn! Why not? Shrimp and black eyed peas and sauerkraut! Yum. I'm working my way through the pantry and hoping to move very little more than spices, because those are expensive to replace and because in my librarian/OCD way, I have alphabetized my spices and have them neatly spaced out in 2 drawers. (I take my spices seriously---even if I don't always cook with them). 

I have given away some items from my garage and closet that I haven't used since I got here. I am accumulating clothes to give away. Most things we are going to give away because the sheer pain of having to have a garage sale for 50 cents here, 1 dollar there, outweighs the chump change we'll get for it. I'll give it away and spend that Saturday at the beach, thankyouverymuch. 

When Son 1 went to college, he did go through several pieces of clothing and we sorted into throw away, give away, and save for brother piles. Good thing, too, since brother just went through a hellacious growth spurt in the last couple of weeks and hardly has any clothes that fit. And our one and only store does not carry any shorts for boys in sizes 12, 14, or 16. Yes, you read that right. You cannot buy shorts in a tropical climate where it's hotter than seven hells half the year, and hot as one hell the rest of the year. I'm going to scour the thrift store this weekend in hopes of getting him through until the few pairs I bought online get here. (It's now taking about 3 weeks to get mail. I will not miss a) the inefficient mail service or b) the slim pickings for clothing in our little tropical paradise). 

My husband always has said this isn't a bad place to live if you aren't into material things, but dang, somethings "things" are pants. One thing you really can't go without is pants. 

Calm Before the Storm; or, Life in Limbo

So we are going to Spain. . . 

but we don't know when 

because we don't have orders

because the government needs to pass a budget to fund our travel

and without orders we can't arrange for a pack out of our house hold goods

or make travel arrangements to see friends and family in the US before our big move

and we can't make arrangements for temporary housing while we are waiting to find the right place for us. 

And this is life when you work for the government. 

So I am very excited about our move, but I guess it will get real once we have actual orders and can get this great big ball rolling. 

In the meanwhile. . . 

I am purging starting with my books (hardest thing for me to weed)

and going through clothes to give away (who needs 7 pairs of flip flops or 10 swimsuits in Spain?) 

or thinking about what I need to do for a new life with new electrical currents. 

Yes, I am thinking about electricity. Obsessing over it, actually.

None of our electrical appliances and gadgets will work if they are 110V without a transformer, which is this obnoxious little box you have to keep around to plug said electrical gadgets into. 

I know I want to keep my Vitamix and my stand up mixer because I use both of them more than any other appliances, but what about everything else? 

Is is worth dragging a waffle maker and toaster, an electric razor and hair dryer, hair straighteners and curling irons, and my beloved Clarisonic (that thing takes 5 years off your face, I swear---and no, I'm not getting a kickback to endorse it)?

I can live without an iron because, well, I don't iron. About 3 years ago, I pulled out the ironing board and the iron, filled it with distilled water and waited for it to get good and steamy, and my bewildered then-8 year old said, "Mom, WHAT are you doing?" I explained I was ironing. He said he had never seen an iron. 

True story.

There's the coffee pot. The stand up fan. There are lamps. Clock radios. Cordless telephones (do people even have phones in their homes in Spain?). 

So much to think about, and it's mostly electricity. 


Most of the rest is easy. I'll get the youngest in on clearing out books, toys, and clothes, and will probably have to bribe him with promises of iTunes cards or graphic novels to keep him motivated. 

Because I can't focus on realty listings (we will live off base, thank you sweetbabyJesus) and buying a car (because our GTMO specials just won't get it in Spain), I am focusing on minutia. The minutia of the week is electrical voltage. I've become obsessed with flipping over everything in the house and seeing what voltage it has. So far, we will be selling and giving away a lot of things. But that's okay. 

One of my first posts about life here was about digging up plants out of a random stranger's yard. His words of wisdom to me were this: 
"You come here with nothing, you leave with nothing. Make sure you give everything you can away when you leave the island. It's the GTMO way. And it's just stuff---you can't take it with you when you die."

When we evacuated (and I really thought my husband, who was left behind, was going to die---but that's a whole other story I will probably never write), I took the following in a small carry-on: two almost 100 year old pictures of my grandfather and my husband's grandfather, both wrapped in my favorite scarf from my first trip to France; my (first! signed! Canadian!) edition of Margaret Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale and a copy of a book written from a man from my home town, Mr. Thomas Jefferson Young, which I gave to my parents; the Morgan dollar my grandfather gave me as a little girl that I brought with me on my maiden voyage to GTMO as a good luck charm; a small envelope of baby pictures of our oldest, which were all from film, and a handful of pictures of my grandparents, mostly in b & w and from years and years before I entered this world; a canister of every SD card and jump drive I could find in the house; the diamond drop necklace my grandparents gave me when I graduated college---the stone had been an earring my grandfather gave my grandmother for their 25th anniversary---my sister has the other one that she, too, got when she graduated college; a small picture I painted of my youngest kid on the beach and the only thing I've painted that I've truly, really liked; my stuffed rabbit named Elizabeth (after my sister---it's her middle name) that I've had since I was 4 and has been to camps, college, and even Mexico; my husband's grandfather Harvey's bible; and other than my computer/iPad, a few days worth of clothes. I didn't come close to the 40 lb limit.

Everything else was replaceable. It made me realize---it's all stuff.  

My Papaw George's gift to me---and his handwriting---
makes this worth much more than face value.
It's become a good luck charm over the years.
I will carry it with me on our trip to Spain. 

If we get to Spain with useless electrical devices or too many flip flops, we'll figure it out. That being said---I'm looking forward to a smaller load than our arrival here (all those crates!) and can't wait to tread lighter and trade in more things for life experiences. 

We All Sail On; or, Closing Out the Year

December is a landmark month in many ways. 

December is a month of reflection on what I could have done better these past 12 months. How I could have handled situations (and people) with more grace, how I could have been more patient, less reactionary, more organized. Maybe the main question is, how could I more safely handle kitchen cutlery? Should I really cook ever again? 

I also think of ways I have accomplished goals and I'm proud of many things that have happened this past year. I managed to spend a month in Germany and traveled all over Europe, some of that trip with just my youngest son, and in countries where I didn't really speak any of the language. I got a lot of new stamps in my passport, and although I didn't always have my camera out, I have images indelibly stamped in my mind. Some I will carry in my heart and don't want to share---most of these involve my two boys, who are constantly growing and changing. I sometimes find myself startled at photographs from just a few months back. I selfishly want to keep these memories for myself, because time is moving too fast. 

Our summer in Europe was sometimes exhausting and even frustrating (and I really did get my fill of churches for the next few years), but I loved the adventure and history and watching my children's faces as they took in Europe for the first time. I loved watching my husband navigate the streets of his childhood town in Germany and somehow meander through small streets right up to the door of his favorite toy shop from when he was 7 or 8 years old---and 40 years later, it's still there. 

Then in early August, I had to get on a train to board a plane back to the U.S., leaving my 18 year old son knowing that he was going to travel alone to destinations unknown for 6 weeks or more. He went where his heart (or wallet) led him, traveling to places like Bulgaria and Italy, where he has friends, and to Hungary, Poland, Austria, Egypt, Israel, and the West Bank. He saw pyramids, museums, and a famous Banksy. He argued with vendors and shopkeepers, he negotiated taxi prices, he learned how not to get ripped off, sometimes learning these things the hard way. He learned that you can't always hide you are an American, even if you don't always dress like one. If you've lived or worked or traveled outside the U.S., you understand why you don't want to always be known as an American. 

He stayed in hostels and nice hotels. He rode on trains, in planes, and used Über, too. He navigated this on this own, sometimes making mistakes, and never once was I completely at ease until he was back home in Cuba. But I was excited and at awe at how brave he was, how creative he could be when it came to problem solving (and it wasn't all smooth sailing), and how thrifty he was most of the time (since he spent mostly his own money). At 18, I never knew you could take off alone on a train with a backpack and a few hundred dollars and see the world. I am happy he got this opportunity. 

Many people (some to my face, some to other people behind my back who, naturally, told me) have questioned why I would "let" my 18 year old son travel so many places alone. Wasn't I scared? Was that really a responsible thing to do as a parent? How could I allow him to do such a dangerous thing? Yet most people who have asked these questions have rarely, if ever, left the United States, and if so, not any time in recent history. Or they don't understand that you really can't stop an 18 year old stubborn kid (he got a good dose from both parents) who is determined to see the world. Do you "let" an 18 year old do anything? Especially when he's spending his own money and making his own plans?  In Europe, he could rent a hotel room and order a beer with no trouble. He was treated more like an adult there than in the U.S.  It was sort of trial by fire, and in less than a month, he will be going back to Europe again, but this time to live---in Spain, going to college in Madrid.   

So this is a year of letting go of the child who, when I was 25, was told I would probably never have (boy, that doctor was wrong), and who, at 4 years old, drove me absolutely crazy and made me question my parenting abilities every single day of my life. The child who went from an only child and center of our world to a big brother at 7 1/2, and never once showed anything but love and acceptance and pride in that role. He's a kid I would have wanted to be my friend in high school, and now I'm sending him to college and feeling those crazy feelings all parents have---and maybe even more, since we will be on two completely separate continents, and just getting to see each other will take a major act of persistence and coordination, especially for us living in GTMO, the Hardest Place to Leave on Earth. 

2016 meant seeing GTMO friend Erika (with Kim) at St. Simon's Island; saying goodbye to Ana (and later Elena and Uliana) at Ferry Landing; seeing Leslee (with Michelle) in Jacksonville; seeing my high school buddy Michelle in Pensacola; getting a long, wonderful stay with Anna in Germany; going to my first GTMO formal with Uliana; and seeing Ana again in Macedonia. 

As it marks the end of the year, I think of the many, many people I've met because of living here that I am thankful are part of my life, and I desperately hope that I've shown each of them the gratitude they deserve. 

We've made new friends and had some dear, wonderful friends leave island in 2016. Living in a community that is constantly in flux many times allows us to become fast friends with people for an intense 1, 2, or 3 years. As a result, we have friends from all over the world who, like our friends in Macedonia, give us reasons to visit places we've never even considered going before now. It also means that with every goodbye, you have to be willing to open your heart again to opportunities for friendships. I'll be the first to admit that sometimes I shy away from warming up to new people because it really does hurt losing people you really trust and enjoy spending time with. So many people I've clicked with have moved on and we lost touch. Others I talk to every week. It's the struggle of living overseas, but it is also the beauty of living overseas---you have friends all over the world who understand your need to not call one place "home." 

I also did not get good news about the transfer round that I was hoping this week. It's out of my hands and there is no special consideration for our hardship area, so I figure the chips will fall where they may. Another year here or a new adventure elsewhere in the world will not change the facts in 2017 that I am a mom who is going to worry about her son living alone abroad, or a mom who is going to worry about her "baby" becoming a middle schooler, or a teacher who is always tired (and my feet---I really can't wait to retire so I'm not on my feet 8 hours a day). In April, the two campuses will combine to one, so I will be back on campus with my youngest again. I will lose one of my very best GTMO friends (the best) in early 2017. 

Time marches on, and even slow island life goes on, as well. Many big changes are around the corner, and finding ways to deal with the trials, tribulations, and celebrations of GTMO will still be here. 

White Trash R Us; or, This Week in Pictures

A couple of weeks ago, we bought a new couch. Now we have our old sofa on the back porch.

To complete the total White Trash Decor, we now have this: 

Nothing screams "classy" like a toilet on your front stoop. Except a toilet with flowers in it. (I'm working on it, give me a day or so. . . )

We also have a now-broken tub jazzing up the sparsely landscaped front yard. I know, we move in, property values go UP. 

This is now my guest/children's bathroom: 

About 2 weeks ago, Son 1 was showering. He took a step back, and CRACK. The new(ish) tub split. After 5-6 phone calls and visits from housing to verify that yes, really, the new(ish) bathtub is indeed broken, we have 1 day and counting of sawing, hammering, and all sorts of fun noises coming from the house.  We will hopefully have a bathtub/shower that will work (as well as a toilet that they have to re-install). 

Plus: it's a free house and we don't own it

Minus: we don't own it, so we are at the mercy of the government to fix it (and hopefully fix it right). Historically, we've had some rather, um, interesting government contractor repairs the first time around (French doors installed backwards, A/C unit that flooded the house three times and warped the new-ish hardwood floors), so I'm hoping they'll do it right the first time. 

Hope springs eternal here in GTMO! 

Also today in pictures: goodbyes at Ferry Landing.  This time it's a wonderful family with whom we've shared lots of laughs. We spent holidays together, and our kids spent many a sleepover at each other's houses. We will hopefully be saying "see you later" instead of "goodbye." 

Another plus: they are moving to Macedonia, somewhere none of us has traveled. It's yet to be seen as to when we'll be released from our indefinite detainee status at GTMO, but if we ever get out of here, living somewhere in Europe is always a possibility.  A plus: it's cheaper to travel ANYWHERE within Europe than it costs to travel from GTMO to exotic Florida (our closest US option). I know some people would rather go to Florida, but I'm saving my pennies to go somewhere else. 

And on to creative ventures---this summer, both Boy 1 and I were taken with this colorful hotel in downtown Playa del Carmen, Mexico. We took pictures of various angles. This is my favorite: 

Saturday night, I asked Boy 1 about his exciting plans, and he said that he wanted to paint. So we sat side by side for a few hours and this is my not-quite-finished product: 

And that, 12 hours after beginning of this download of pictures, is my past week or so. It's only Monday so who knows what other (mis)adventures await. . . 

Leap of Faith; or, Jump (Go Ahead and Jump)

This summer has started with another set of goodbyes. After almost three years here, we are saying farewell to our 2nd round of friends whom we have known from the start to finish of their tours of duty here. I counted earlier this week, and when our youngest son starts 4th grade in the fall, he will have only one classmate he has known since we moved here in 2012.

Constant goodbyes are not easy for my kids, who had a very steady (and mostly uneventful) life until we moved here. It's also hard for those of us who are stuck here indefinitely. How many more sets of people will we meet and bid farewell while here? It never gets easier.

Jumping off the pier at Ferry Landing---all part of our goodbye rituals here. 

Yet this is the life of a military child, and as the child of a parent who serves the military, this is now my children's lives, too.

I occasionally have a hard time explaining to people that we are stuck here indefinitely. When you accept a job here as a DoD civilian, you generally have to go by the "five year rule." You can only work five years overseas, and then you have to go back to the States for two years before you can take another overseas job.

If you are military, you are typically here for two years. JTF people are almost always here for 9 months on an unaccompanied tour.

There are always exceptions to the rules, of course.

But teachers? We don't fit in any of these categories.

info from: http://www.dodea.edu/Offices/HR/employment/benefits/

The info above is from the DoDEA website and it is pitiful in its outdatedness and uselessness. There hasn't been a post in Iceland since 2008. Not only that, but you would think that Cuba is a one-year tour from this info. This is what many of us have to go by when we get here. The info above just means that after one year, we get a free ticket back to our Home of Record (HOR). I'm not well-versed in government talk, but I definitely didn't get that from the above when I read it the first, second, or tenth time. 

Bottom line: come to Cuba as a teacher and  you have to prepare to stay indefinitely. 

The entire DoDDS system is built on uncertainty. It can either build patience or breed impatience, depending your disposition. I would love to say that I have become more patient, more introspective in the last almost-three years, but there are days that I would give anything to be the one on that ferry leaving and waving goodbye, instead of the one standing on the dock. 

Our GTMO tradition is to jump off the pier for friends departing. As the ferry turns in front of the pier and picks up speed towards the airport, friends, coworkers, and neighbors jump and swim out towards the ferry. The first time I saw this, I was surprised that I teared up---it is a rather moving experience. Sometimes people decide last minute to jump and leap in the Bay wearing their work clothes. Other times, people wear funny outfits. I've jumped, waved, and even worn funny hats and sang songs in Spanish. Every goodbye is a little different. 

Once the plane schedule was changed this past year from Saturday to Friday flights, that sadly left us with fewer opportunities to say goodbye (thanks to my J-O-B, I can't just walk out of the building and take 30 minutes to go to Ferry Landing) and even less opportunities to jump. Just making it to Ferry Landing to wave is now a big event for me. 

Another part of the GTMO tradition is that if you jump off the pier, you will be the next one to leave. 

In that time-honored tradition and in hopes that that legend has some element of truth, I'm encouraging my youngest to jump until his heart is content this summer. I have the flight schedule in hand and we will become part of the (un)official goodbye committee, jumping for EVERY SINGLE FLIGHT, if that is what it takes to bring us some good juju. I'm resolved that we are here indefinitely, but I'm not one for turning down good juju. 

You Can(t) Go Home Again (Texas version); or, Au revoir, les Texans

Ah, vacation. There are relaxing vacations. You know the sort---books on the beach, sleeping late every morning, eating whatever, whenever you want.

Then there is the "travel vacation," where you attempt to visit every family member, friend, and favorite spot in one or more locations during a tight schedule.

This summer brought my Renewal Agreement Travel (RAT), which is our free trip back to our Home of Record (HOR). Our trip to Texas fell more into the 2nd category than the first.

The adage "you can't go home again" is a theme in countless songs and poems. It's the wistful end to a movie. It's the bittersweet epiphany of a novel.

Before we left to go back to our HOR, we heard this from several GTMO friends, too.

"It's your first trip back to Texas in two years?" 

"Yes, yes it is." 

(tsk tsk) "Well, you know what they say." 

"Who? What?" 

"You can't go home again." 

And to all of you who like to tell me, "I told you so"---it is true. 

Texas---my "home of record"---was never home to me. I wasn't born there. I had only visited it a handful of times before moving there in 2002. My great-great grandfather is buried in San Antonio, yet in ten years of living there,  I never made the two hour trip to see his grave. He got to Texas for work and eventually died there, but it wasn't really home for him, either. His life work (managing national cemeteries) took him all over the country, and I think I inherited his peripatetic nature.

As much as I tried in 10 years, I don't connect with stories of cowboys and the Mexican War and the homesteaders and the outlaws. I learned to appreciate Keeping Austin Weird, although it has nothing on Olympia, Washington, or Portland, Oregon (but good try!). I love the town of Georgetown with its marvelous town square and beautiful, historical buildings, and Texans truly warrant the positive reputation for being friendly, outgoing, and gracious. 

I have a son who is a Texan by birth, but left after six years. My oldest lived in Texas more years than his birth state, yet he is just as likely to tell you he's from Washington than there.  Maybe he has the same identity problem I have---just because you live somewhere for a long time does not mean it's home. 

Welcome to Texas, y'all! ABIA

This doesn't mean that I didn't hope to feel like I was back where I belonged when we finally returned after two years. I really wanted to have that connection to place that comes with "home."  As the plane taxied into the Austin airport, I thought about how I would feel seeing our home we sold while living in Cuba. Would I get choked up? Would I cry? Would I feel a profound homesickness? 

I finally mustered up enough courage to drive by---alone, as I wanted the moment to myself---and I felt, well, nothing. Zip, nada. The house was purchased by investors and flipped. It's now mid-century modern style, which isn't my thing. Parking in front of what had been our home,  I didn't feel the expected emotional tug on my heartstrings. I didn't want to ring the doorbell and tell the owners that "this used to be my house!" or take pictures. Instead, it is someone else's house, someone else's home. 

It felt good to let go and not have that attachment. 

I felt the same way about the few favorite food places we got to visit. I've missed Tex-Mex food and Texas BBQ terribly. I envisioned myself eating pounds of brisket, migas tacos, my favorite Jägerschnitzel from Walburg, and enough homemade tortilla chips to feed a small army. 

In my mind, every meal was going to be an "event," a homecoming of sorts or celebration of what we've missed. 

Instead, it was just food. In many cases, we just didn't have enough time to go where we wanted.

Texas' perfect food: the Breakfast Taco.
Make mine a Migas from El Charrito in Georgetown, Texas

Many places are smaller and quainter than I remembered about our town; others are much more beautiful than I remembered.

When you build up a time and place in your mind for two years, your imagination sometimes runs out of control. You always imagine perfect weather and everyone you encounter along the way will be accommodating, kind, and thoughtful. There is never out of control traffic. People you want to see will not be out of town on vacation. It's easy to plan around what you want to do.  You aren't bleeding money for meals and rental cars.

Reality is much less glamorous.

Texas will always be my core set of friends who helped us for ten years. It's the friends who dropped everything and rushed to entertain our second grader as he waited for his baby brother to enter the world. It's the friends who offered to babysit so we could have "date night." It's the colleagues who became family, and we shared everything---marriages and divorces, childbirth and miscarriages, the joys and heartbreaks of raising kids. I attended their weddings, cried when they lost parents and grandparents, celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, and helped them move into new houses.

I am sorry I didn't get to see some of my friends who made Texas a wonderful temporary home, but because they are who they are---more family than friends in many cases----they understood that I needed to say goodbye and move on down the road after a week and a half. There are times that you just need to close one chapter so you can continue. This trip made it crystal clear that Texas is not my home. 

Texas is in the rear-view mirror, and will probably remain there much longer until my next visit. There was some bittersweetness, some joys over how some things have changed, frustrations over others, and I felt some closure on unfinished business (such as the house) at the time of our hasty departure when we suddenly picked up roots and moved to Cuba .

Welcome to Mississippi: MS River Bridge in Vicksburg

Now that I am back in Mississippi, I am finally relaxed and experiencing a real vacation from fast-paced life. I may have to drive 20 miles or more from my parents' small town to find things that were readily available in Texas, but I also find that island life in GTMO has taught me to be more patient (and to realize that food and shopping aren't the most important things in life---or in a vacation).