Exiles, Wanderers, and Travelers; or, Boy 1 Escapes Guantánamo Bay

Oh, happy days! 

Oldest boy got to Spain without a hitch. The planes were on time, he was able to get through customs with his visa that (thank god) barely made it on time, and he has settled in with his host family. After a couple of days of orientation, he will officially be a college freshman this week! 

Friends keeps asking me if I am worried about him. Well, of course. I'm sure my parents worried about me going to college, and I was only about 25 miles from home my first year. 

There is, honestly, a lot about Madrid that is very appealing to me as a parent. Things you don't want to talk about but I'm just throwing it out there: the homicide rate in Madrid last year was 1 (yes, ONE) per 100,000 people. In San Antonio, Texas, his #2 choice for college, it was 104 per 100,000. And less scary: he can use public transportation that is reliable, cheap, and safe. There aren't many places he could live in the U.S. for four years of college and survive without a car. Madrid is a great location for travel, and he can be on a plane and back in the southern part of the U.S. in about 11 hours, with probably one layover thrown in there, for about $600. Getting to GTMO is a whole other story; it took us almost that long just to get from the airport in GTMO to our hotel in Jacksonville. But that's another blog for another time, and honestly, I'm sick of talking about the ridiculousness that is travel on and off of this place.

So travel is done. I wasn't obsessing or anything, but I did manage to stay awake for most of his trip to Europe. 

He was able to enjoy the Reina Sofía Museum today (it's free certain hours of certain days) and saw one of my very favorite pieces of art, Picasso's "Guernica." It was painted for the World's Fair as a war protest painting. It protests the bombing of the Basque town of Guernica that was destroyed by carpet bombers during Franco's regime. Picasso was already living in exile in Paris (he never returned to his home country of Spain in his lifetime). 

image source and more info found here: http://www.pablopicasso.org/guernica.jsp

So here's my connection to Book Challenge #2: G. Cabrera Infante's Three Trapped Tigers 

Again, if you are only here for my snark about life in GTMO, year five, or occasional stories about my kids and other diversions and don't want to read about books, adiós, muchacho. Otherwise, read on, reader: 

It's weird my first choice for the book challenge I chose for this year, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, was about someone feeling trapped in his body ("locked-in syndrome"), and my second book is named Three Trapped Tigers. Is there a subliminal theme going on here? Feeling a little trapped on La Isla Bonita, maybe? I swear it was completely coincidental. 

This selection is "a book that's been on your To Be Read list for way too long"---before there was a husband and children, and Cuba wasn't even on my radar, I was taking a ton of undergraduate and grad level Spanish courses  and this book came up over and over again in class discussions. G. Cabrera Infante, like Picasso, lived in exile. He moved from Cuba to London after Castro took over.  Although this story takes place before the revolution and he wrote it while exiled in Europe, there is interestingly no mention of an uprising on any page. 

This novel is often called  "the Spanish Ulysses." Well damn, now I have to finally read that book (it's on this year's list) to see if it's true. It's divided into several sections, with much being stream of consciousness----think Benjy, the "idiot" in The Sound and the Fury. (As Macbeth says, "A tale. Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.")  Much later in the book, a character explains Cuba as "an island of double or triple entendres, told by a drunk idiot signifying everything" (128). 

There are 3 main characters telling stories of the nightclub scene in Havana at the height of the tourist boom and pre-Castro. They are all artists of some sort---an actor, a writer, and a photographer. Are they the Three Trapped Tigers? 

I don't think so. . . it's just the weird translation from the original title, Tres Tristes Tigres, which if you've ever taken a Spanish class, you probably had to learn the trabalengua to help you roll your Rs: "Tres tristes tigres tragan trigo en un trigal." (Three sad tigers swallow wheat in a wheat field). The entire books is a tongue twister---Infante loves to play with words----one character calls an annoying guy who is always trying to hang out with his friends as they travel from nightclub to nightclub "peripathetic." And that's just one of 100s of examples and in a translation from Spanish---it's probably much funnier in the original language.

The book is split into several sections, and sometimes the characters are not directly connected to each other. There are nightclub singers, underaged heiresses, and lots of people scheming to get by. There are people of all classes, races, and sexual orientation. The backdrop is the cabaret/Jazz scene and most of the book takes place at night. You get the feeling that Havana was a never-ending party and wonder what it could have been, had the revolution not occurred. 

There's a travelogue from a husband, who is corrected by his wife, who then re corrects hers, and so forth and so on. In that section, the humor reminded me much of David Sedaris. There is a section called "Some Revelations" that are just blank pages. There are characters who make puns in literally every single sentence. It's smart and sarcastic, snarky and sometimes somnambulant (like that alliteration??)---there's a sleep-walking, half awake quality of the wanderings of the main characters from nightclub to nightclub all night long. 

Chapter title: "Some Revelations"

 

One of his narrators says this:  "Cuba. . . was not a fit hangout for man or beast. Nobody should live here except plants, insects and fungi or any other lower forms of life. The squalid fauna that Christopher Columbus found when he landed proved the point. All that remained now were birds and fish and tourists. All of these could leave the island when they wanted" (96). 

However, you know better. They love the nightlife, the sketchy characters involved, and even all these things they complain about. They also love the music, the dancing, the food, the many, many beautiful and complicated women, and even the tourist traps. It makes me sad for a place I never got to experience, and for what could have been for Cuba. If we ever visit, I seriously doubt it will be from this base. Instead, we will see a version of Cuba that's much different than what's explained in the book. But then again, are NYC or Miami or Paris the same cities 60 years later, either?

I wouldn't necessarily recommend this to most people just because of all the references to Cuban writers (there is one section where Infante parodies famous Cuban writers telling the story of Trotsky's assassination in Mexico---random, I know, but hilarious at the same time).  It can be tedious and it almost needs footnotes for anyone who isn't familiar with Latin American literature and history. Parts of the book are in Spanglish. I'm glad I finally got around to reading it 25 years (!!!) after my last Spanish class, and I'm happy that somewhere in my brain is a part that gets many of the cultural references and understands the language. Book 2 is down, only 30 or so to go. 

Next up: Nigeria and the amazingly titled book, Blackass.

Definitely maybes; or, Dang, I'm forty seven?

So I just turned forty-seven years old this week.

Crazy how time just creeps up on you, and next thing you know, you are looking towards 50. Seriously, how did it go by so fast?

And sometimes I try to remember something significant from every single year of my life---and the scary fact is, sometimes I can't come up with anything. Does this just happen to me?

I am blessed with an amazing memory and I have vivid memories from very, very early in my life. My sister and cousins always marvel at what I can remember from when I was a toddler. I can describe my grandparents' house in Crystal Springs that they moved from when I was three. I probably only visited it a handful of times, but I have specific memories. (And there are no pictures from the interior, so it's all from somewhere in my brain).

I know the perfume my preschool teacher wore (Yves San Laurent's Vie Gauche). I remember the first time I saw a cow (and someone---maybe my Granny---was holding me). I remember snippets of my early years in Mississippi---how my first grade classroom smelled (like that sawdust stuff they put on vomit) and the series of boxes Mrs. Fortenberry kept which held objects for every letter of the alphabet. N was for Nest, and there were tiny robin's eggs in the nest. Were they real? I don't know.

I remember my kid's first words (G---"daddy", H---"brother"), but I don't remember when they sat up or started walking. I wasn't great at keeping records, either, so hopefully it's not a developmental thing they'll ever be asked again. I remember lots of lots of faces, but I don't remember the names of several former students. I've taught well over a thousand kids, after all. But if one friends me on facebook, I can tell you at least 2-3 things about them---what sort of music they liked, if they liked poetry, if they were artists, if they were kind to the kids most kids aren't kind to, or if they were awkward looking but I knew they would end up being beautiful and handsome and all their former classmates would wish they had paid them more attention in high school (all teachers can tell you which kids have "peaked" in h school and which ones are going to blossom when they become young adults).

So why can't I remember where I put my purse or my keys? Or remember to pick things up at the grocery store, even when I have a list in front of me? I guess the mundane goes into another part of my memory, and it's something I struggle with every day.

I do remember this: the fear, apprehension, and excitement of moving here alone. I'll never forget seeing the runway and thinking, "this place looks like a desert." Or the absolutely ugly, hideous, rusted out and termite eaten buildings you pass right when you leave Ferry landing and start your way up Sherman to the housing area. It's really not a great way to start life on base; the ugliest and most worn-down part of the base is also the very first impression you get when you arrive. I remember the shock of finding out the prisoners were only a few miles from my house---I thought they'd be on a remote area of the base. I looked at the barren yard and thought, I can do something with this.  And in the 11 days between the time I arrived and my children got here,  I worried about what I had done to them. Is this the best place for them? My oldest gave up a lot of opportunities and experiences of living in a metropolitan area and attending a 5A school. I still have some guilt over that, even though I think some of the good---and bad---of living here has prepared him for the real world.

my first week in GTMO---this view still makes me pause and love life here

To put it bluntly, disappointment is something you deal with when you live here. This is especially true if you are coming from the civilian world and have not had to deal with the maddening life of bureaucratic hell. You go through 10 levels to get one answer, and there is a chain of command that has to be followed. People get back to you when it's convenient to them, not when you necessarily need an answer. It's taught me patience (and how to bite my tongue). Isolation is something else you deal with here. Sometimes this is a good thing; I love the safety as a female of being able to run alone at night, or for my child to be able to wander around the neighborhood with the relative safety I had as a kid growing up in small town Mississippi in the 1970s. But when you have a hurricane headed your way and can't evacuate, that isolation is terrifying. As a teacher, you deal with very small classes. I've had classes as small as four students. This is wonderful because all kids learn at his or her own pace, and you can truly individualize instruction. It's also horrible when half the kids don't do their homework and you are stuck in limbo, deciding if you want to drive on and leave half the class behind, or punish those who did their work by letting the slackers catch up. This is one of my biggest disappointments as a teacher---you can't instill a sense of responsibility in students, no matter if they know they are holding the rest of the class back. It's frustrating and selfish on their part, but it's also part of working with teens.

But then. . . isn't this life every where? Maybe your disappointments and frustrations are different, but at 47, if you haven't really encountered any of them, you just aren't living life.

Forty seven is my year of definite-maybes. I may be able to transfer. I may find ways to let the bureaucracy not drive me crazy. I may find more things and people to love here. I definitely will miss my oldest as he goes to college, and maybe (hopefully definitely) he will thrive. I am looking at the possibility of six years here, something I definitely never dreamt possible, but I am maybe looking at new adventures and a new location starting next summer.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like. . . Xmas in Summer; or, Santa Baby, Bring Me a Transfer

December is here!

December does bring a little milder weather, compared to the humid, sweaty, bug-ridden months of July and August. As I'm writing this, it's 88º outside, and with humidity and low cloud cover, at least according to The Weather Channel online, it "feels like 97º."

Ah, well. At least it doesn't feel like it's 107º, right?

Monty Python gives me my mantra for many a day in GTMO.

December brings the annual Christmas parade and Christmas tree lighting. We have a huge Christmas tree on (where else?) Christmas Tree Hill that is ceremoniously lit, as well as one in the atrium of the NEX/Commissary (only shopping in town!). 

The elementary kids always sing during the lighting, which means December also brings me trying to find our youngest kid a pair of long pants to wear for the occasion. He will also need these for the Holiday show right before school is out. (Christmas, Hanukkah, and winter-themed music---it's always my favorite show of the year). 

So December means lots of kids on base will be wearing "high water" pants, because at about $45 a pop, we aren't buying our kids pants they will wear 2-3 times in a year. I usually buy a pair in the summer if/when we go back to the States in a size or two too large, but somehow, miraculously, that kid grows and they don't fit, come December. 

December means decorations at home, too. It's a weird and strange thing getting into the holiday spirit when it's basically summer. Last year was the first year we put up the Christmas Palm Tree. We promised the youngest kid that if we were here for four years in GTMO (yeah, right, how many people are here for 4 years, right?), we would break down and buy the Christmas Palm Tree. 

Well, folks, we are at year five and we are enjoying another Christmas with the Christmas Palm Tree. 

The best part of the Christmas Palm Tree? It uses less ornaments. Easy clean-up. It fits neatly in a box. And it's strange and weird, just like GTMO. 

December also brings transfer season.

This is the one thing I don't want to talk too much about. I feel like I will somehow jinx myself, which is really silly, because if you've been following this for a while, you know transferring from here has been at times a frustrating, upsetting, depressing topic. Other times, I feel at peace with being here---I'm not necessarily a "I'm here because I'm supposed to be here at this time" sort of person, but it has allowed us some rewards, as well, which I also have talked about. (I usually talk about these things 2-3 months after finding out the transfer season is over and I didn't get my lucky ticket). I won't get into the whole "why do you want to leave GTMO" bit; just look over posts from the last 4 years, and you'll see the things I love and despise about here. Sometimes the balance is more in one way than the other; I usually am balanced in the middle. 

So I am, for the third year in a row, officially an "A+" candidate for transfers. In the "good ole days" (boy, I ALWAYS seem to get into districts once those supposed days are over), A+ guaranteed you a ticket out and to one of your top 3-4 spots on your list. Now, with a tight budget, a smaller military, and less resources put towards moving teachers around (it's cheaper to hire stateside than move those of us already in the system), I'm in this weird limbo.

In 2014, I put in considerable time researching countries, schools, activities in the 10-15 areas on my "wish list" for my family, the prices of tickets to and from the US, local celebrations and festivals, food, housing, etc. I had spreadsheets and the OCD thing. I was the ONLY A+ in my entire school. But alas, with only 3 years in the system, a very limited number of transfers, and a system that chooses the "best" candidate for a vacant position solely on number of years that person has in the system, I didn't get out. 

I was crushed. 

I sort of rebounded and found hope again in 2015, but with much less zeal (and much less choosiness---I really put almost every place down on my list), I tried again. And no transfer. 

So this year, I'm sort of like, meh. If it happens, yay. If not, I am even more convinced I work for a bureaucracy that cares less about its employees and more about cutting corners. 

I hope that doesn't sound too bitter. I am bitter sometimes, but most of the time, just frustrated. I did not become an overseas teacher to spend it on a 45 square mile piece of land that has no connection to the culture or people of the country it inhabits. 

So December brings that, and I can honestly say I took less than 3 minutes to fill out my application this year. I refuse to build it up and put so much time and energy into the transfer season ever again. It's like when you break up with a loser boyfriend, and then get back with him thinking he's going to change. But nope. . . he's not. 

In the meanwhile. . . some more good. December brings my oldest son preparing for college. This includes a trip to the Spanish Consulate in Houston this week to get his visa so he can study in Madrid. He will be leaving in January. 

December brings a super-quick trip back to the US (Jacksonville, OF COURSE) so we can take him to the airport to say goodbye. Don't know if I'm quite prepared for that one. 

December brings my birthday, which is always an anti-climatic event, since 99% of the time, all my friends are out of town for vacation. This year will be no different. But it also means I get to celebrate a small gathering with my family, and if we are lucky, a couple of friends who will hopefully still be in the area. 

I do like closure, and I have a lot of open doors at the end of December---the transfer round, my son leaving the country. But I do think it's also a sign that 2017 is going to be a year of big changes. How big is yet to be seen. 

Home Again, Home Again; or, Guten Morgen, Prüm

Prüm, Germany 

July 18, 2016

We bid Köln and its gorgeous Dom goodbye early in the morning, and by mid-day, we had made our way to Prüm, Germany, my husband's home for a few years in his early childhood.

Why Prüm? 
Prüm is where my husband spent a few years in the early to mid 1970s as an Air Force Brat. He has some great memories of his childhood there, but has never managed to make the trip back to Europe after leaving his 4th grade year, so while in Germany, why not visit, right?

When we first married, I was excited to be working on a military base where I taught students from all over the world. We had staff members and students who had lived in Germany. Many of my students were half-German, and this was a conversation I repeated several times those two years:

"Oh, you've lived [or were raised] in Germany! My husband has wonderful memories of his childhood from there."
"Where did he live?"
"In Prüm."
"Where??"
"Prüm." Then I'd spell it out, umlaut and all.

"Never heard of it."

Then I'd go into where it's located (in Western Germany, close to Luxembourg and Belgium), and again, "Never heard of it."
Then I'd talk about how it is close to Bitburg.
"Never heard of it."


I had the same with my next door neighbor, who was German.  And then the same with students in Washington and Texas. Also with my friends who spent semesters abroad in Germany, several foreign exchange students from Germany, and my friend's husband who is German.

Dear god, has ANYONE heard of Prüm? And this went on and on since 1993. I knew he hadn't made it up, but I couldn't believe that NOBODY German or who had spent years in Germany had heard of the town.

Then I found ONE person who knew exactly where I was talking about. A lady I worked with briefly in GTMO lived for a while on the Prüm river. She didn't actually live in the town of Prüm, but she had passed through it a few times.

It only took 20+ years and a move to Cuba, but I finally have found someone (an American, incidentally) who has heard of Prüm!

Showing the trip from Vilseck to Prüm.
Our morning trip from Cologne to Prüm was only 1 1/2 hours.

Getting there
Your best bet (at least from the Köln area) is the Autobahn. This section of the Autobahn was MUCH slower. Because of the cold and snowy winters, Germany does most of its road work in the summer, creating Staus, or traffic jams. So you think it's great driving on the Autobahn until you realize that you're going to go through 4-5 one-lane traffic construction areas. Once we got out of Bavaria, we didn't get to enjoy 220 kph (about 140 mph) speeds (while Porsches whizzed by like we were standing still).

The Air Station at Prüm closed in the 90s, and shortly after that, all train service to the area ceased. There are some buses that can travel from nearby towns to Prüm, but car travel is your best bet.


What to do and see
Prüm is a small down---there are only about 5500 people living there---and you exit the Autobahn and go down a twisty road in the forest to get to the town. You go down what seems to be a mini-mountain to reach Prüm in a valley.

sign outside the church

The main attraction and landmark in the town is the beautiful church. You can't miss it, with its unusual salmon color and location right in the middle of town.  The Abbey was built in 720 in the time of Charlemagne, and the church was completed in 1721.

outside the church

In 1801, Prüm and the surrounding area become part of France and the Abbey was secularized and given to the town. Today, the Abbey serves as a school.

Parts of the building complex have been torn down and restored, renovated, and during WWII, destroyed and rebuilt. It is is beautiful condition. The grounds are small but immaculately manicured.

entrance to church

Once inside, you don't find the ornate wood and stone structures like the Medieval marvel of the Dom, or jaw dropping stained glass windows or religious artifacts (even though Jesus' supposed sandals are there somewhere----I read they were there, but we somehow missed them). Instead, you find simple, clean lines, with a small alter at the front, a gorgeous and immense pipe organ in the back, and a very inviting place to sit and rest your weary traveler's feet. 

You can also light a candle, go to confession, and do all those other Catholic things that really confuse me. There are saints, but not as prominent as the Köln Dom. For all that the Dom is in opulence and visual overload, the Prüm church was a nice diversion, with its simple elegance and quiet interior. 

the chapel, a beautiful tapestry in the alter area, and the massive pipe organ in the rear of the building

The other attraction we had to hit was Hotel Zum Goldenen Stern, my husband's family's temporary home for 2 months when they first moved to Germany. My military friends understand the whole "temporary housing" issue when you first PCS to a new location. They were lucky enough to stay in a hotel right in the middle of town with a bar and restaurant downstairs. We sat under an umbrella and ate spaghettieis (of course) while people watching, my all-time favorite European diversion. 

We did attempt to get more information from the Prüm tourism center, which was right across the street from the hotel. There were lots of nice brochures and booklets, but alas, the lady didn't speak a word of English and I've mentioned countless times now that I definitely don't speak German. We didn't get directions to the old base, but you cannot access it, anyway---it's been abandoned and sadly left with derelict buildings. 

Instead, we walked around and noticed that for a small town and for a Monday morning, there were quite a few tourists and people walking about. It was a beautiful day and some people come in the summer as part of a religious pilgrimage to visit the church.

I am sure there are probably other things to do in Prüm; I was just along for the ride while my husband took a walk down memory lane. It is a pretty little village and has been maintained beautifully---there were flowers and parks, with every store on the main drag open for business. If you speak German, I'm sure the tourist enter can tell you even more; otherwise, just a little drive through the town (and a stop at the Goldenen Stern for ice cream) isn't a bad way to spend an hour or so. 

We spent a few hours walking around and reminiscing, and then headed to Metz, France for the evening.

What I learned
I learned that you never forget places you consider home, no matter how small a part of your life you live there, and you never forget the things you love. My husband was telling the kids stories and showing them places he remembered---it's like stories were coming back to him as we were walking the streets. Over there is the park I lost a tooth (ironically, H lost a tooth in the car a few hours later). They found an unexploded WWII bomb under the road right here and had to dig it up and divert traffic for several weeks. 

But this was the best---and my favorite----story of Prüm. I came here in 2012 with my friends---we just drove up and down the main street and stopped to eat ice cream at the Goldenen Stern---and it just didn't feel right being in my husband's town without him. I wanted him there next to me telling me these sorts of stories, so I wasn't really up for walking around. It was just another anonymous village to me. With his narration, it came alive. The funniest thing he did when I returned from Europe in 2012 was ask if I saw his favorite toy store in Prüm. Seriously, dude, we just drove through town, ate ice cream, and spent less than an hour there. I didn't know where to look or to even look for it.

But walking down the streets again, he's telling our sons the story about his favorite toy store. We actually still have legos and little matchbox type cars from there. Our youngest spoke up and said, "Dad, can you show me where it used to be?" And that thing happened---you've probably had this experience before----where your internal radar turns on and you find yourself walking exactly to somewhere you haven't been in many years (40, in his case).

And guess what?

It was still there, although closed for the day, and looked exactly as he remembered it.

Silver Linings and Happiness; or, Transfers 2016

Time heals all wounds. Or something like that.

I've been trying to find silver linings lately, and it's been hard. Really difficult. I found out that---again---there is no transfer for us out of GTMO. I'm not alone, which I guess gives me some solace. At least it's not me, right? But I never thought I'd be here 5 years, and I never planned on homesteading here, so living life in limbo is rather exhausting. Other times it's depressing.

And sometimes, it's comforting, too. The thought of leaving and going to somewhere else is a little scary, as are all big moves. At first, I didn't like that I'm getting too comfortable, because I was only planning on being here a few years. But then I did find things to love.

Some are people---many who have left, but others who are our surrogate family here. We've spent many holidays, including some we don't celebrate ourselves---Hanukkah, Orthodox Easter, Orthodox Christmas---with our GTMO friends. Every weekend it seems like it's another birthday or going away or "just because" party. Some weekends there are multiple. I am never short of people who can give me a ride when the oldest is using my car or can pick up or drop off the youngest at his activities when I'm having difficulties juggling work, life, and motherhood.

I love not spending money. I am a tightwad and love having money in my savings account. No shopping choices means you pay too much for what you can get, true, but you also do without what you really want here sometimes. That sounds negative, but it basically means you learn to only buy what you really need,  so the occasional splurge on an overpriced item you want at the NEX feels like a real treat.  I get excited over a new brand of coffee or toothpaste, a produce item we've never bought here, or my latest extravagance, Pellegrino flavored water. If you are thinking, "wow, that's sort of sad," this life obviously is not for you. The payoff is I can plan to travel in the summer with the money I've saved (and put a kid through college, too) because I am more aware of every single dollar I spend here.

So that's a silver lining---I can still find happiness with the people I've met here and with the money I've saved here. Those are the 2 best things about here, in my opinion.

I've pouted and cried and thrown temper tantrums about the transfer, and I am completely over it now. Seriously. It is what it is, and I do feel better for venting and screaming and letting out my anger and frustration.

My happiness has been in small things, too. Those are the small silver linings of living in such a weird place.

For instance:

Haitian radio. I love trying to understand French---the first language I fell in love with (as a small child, as my mom read me Babar stories in French and told and re-told the story about my parents' first trip to Paris and Versailles). I can sing "Sur le pont D'Avinon" with the best of them, thanks to Mom. Quite accidentally I found that most days, I can get Haitian radio within a 3-4 mile radius from home.

Gardening. This includes digging up palm trees on the side of the cliff behind my house and finding a really old Cuban bottle. It's probably from the 1930s. I also found some old bricks, and closer to the water, tons of urchin shells and a conch. I love finding weird Cuban and ocean treasures.

Cuban radio. This week's random American treat: Boston's "Don't Look Back." I was doing some serious jamming whilst driving at a breakneck 25 mph on Sherman Ave.

Home decor. Or Rodney decor. The Only Squirrel in Cuba got bunny ears for Easter. Sadly, no bonnets for squirrels here or online, so we had to improvise.

Painting. One of my favorite pictures from the Yucatan, where we spent a couple of weeks last summer, is now one of my favorite paintings. Also Boy 2 has found out that he loves painting (and he's good at it, too). We enjoy sitting side by side in silence, creating, even if it's for our eyes only.

Friends and celebrations. Birthday parties and mimosas at the Bayview for breakfast, visiting a returning friend and Jamaican food on Rasta Hill (my favorite GTMO eatery), and lots of card games with friends and neighbors.

My dinner is looking at me!!

Writing. I've been in a creative writing group for a few months now, and it's become a highlight of my week. I doubt I share anything I've written here, but I've been really happy with seeing where this crazy brain of mine takes me.

Vacation. That's my focus now---getting off this rock for a much-needed weekend break (it's been almost 9 months and TIME FOR A GETAWAY) and even better, summer vacation. I love this part about my job. It's worth 10 months of stress and worries to get 2 (unpaid) months of summer vacation. We haven't finalized plans yet, but it's going to be a-ma-zing.

Graduation.  It's June 10 and it's coming soon! Boy 2 got into George Mason, UT's CAP program, Texas State, UNT, and UT San Antonio. Yes, I am bragging (since he did the work, I just did the nagging). He still isn't 100% sure on which one he's going to pick, but he is taking a gap semester before taking the plunge.  It's going to include time overseas (in actual overseas countries, not just closed bases overseas). He's still working out those plans. I'm so excited for what his future holds---to be 17 again when the world is wide open. . .

And that's what I'm focusing on---what I can control (or try---the yard will never be completely under my control) and what makes me feel happy.

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. . . 

Slug Bug Fail; or, Las Vacaciones, Parte Uno

What do you get when you combine 11 flights on four airlines through eight airports? You get summer vacation. It's RAT time, and in case you haven't noticed, I've been on a hiatus of sorts while we've been enjoying a relaxing break from school and work the last five weeks.

Five weeks of togetherness. . . and believe it or not, we are all still talking to each other.

What did we do during that time? We visited family in Texas and Mississippi. We ate out. A lot. We got our fill of lots of food we simply can't buy in a restaurant here (and don't have the ingredients to cook).

We had teeth cleaned and hair cut. We bought books. It was so nice to be back where there are book stores---I can't stand having to buy a book online without the opportunity to flip through the pages first.

We shopped for items that are limited or hard to find here: cheap school supplies, kids' shoes that don't cost $50, OTC medicines we don't get here for some reason, and school clothes that were on sale. Every time I go back, however, I find that I end up buying less and less things.

It's funny how much you realize, with the passing of time, that you can do without almost anything. Case in point: donuts. I have always been a die-hard donut addict. Living here, where we get donuts but they are previously frozen and taste horrible, has been a great way to break me from that bad habit. I ate donuts once in five weeks. It had been 6 months since the last time I had them. With many things you wean yourself off of, they just aren't as amazing as I as remembered; I can't believe I'm saying this, but I can now live without them. Those of you who have known me a long time are probably thinking, Wow. Yeah, me, too.

We also went to a country I adore: Mexico. Mexico is the first country I visited outside of the US and my desire to travel the world and live overseas started there. I had never been on an airplane until I was 16 years old and traveled with a school group to Mexico City and Teotihuacan, Villahermosa and Palenque, and Cancun. Twenty five years ago this summer, I got my wish of living overseas while studying Spanish in Cuernavaca and living with a local family. Oh, and I also met the guy who would eventually become my husband on that same trip. So the birth of my wanderlust and the beginning of what would be a lifetime relationship all took place in Mexico. I've been all over and enthusiastically recommend visiting there if you haven't. We've been back three times now, always during our anniversary, once with our oldest child, and this time with both kids.

It's crazy that a family who lives in the Caribbean would chose another Caribbean location for a vacation, but that's exactly what we did. We stayed near Akumal this time. Why Mexico? For one, you can't beat the food. If anyone reading this is willing to cook me chilaquiles every morning for breakfast, I'll put you up for free. (I'll also make the mimosas). We ate nopales and tamales, dozens of types of salsas, fresh fruit, and ceviche. Those were just my favorites. My somewhat-picky kids managed to eat traditional Mexican food for almost every meal, three times a day, for almost two weeks. I was proud of them.

nice, small sand (unlike my nice, big sand) in the Yucatan

In addition, I love mariachi music, handcrafts and folkart, and in the Yucatan, the Mayan culture. The highlight was probably visiting Chichen Itza. I totally got my geek on at the Mayan ruins. The kids enjoyed it, too.  We also ventured into a Chedraui supermarket (clothes, food, and major appliances) and swam in a cenote. We visited a Mayan village and walked around Playa del Carmen. But mostly, we just relaxed and read, took naps, swam, and relaxed some more.

Hammocks make you sleepy. True story. 

We were in an area that doesn't have as many American tourists as other parts of the Yucatan, and thus, less English speakers---and it felt great remembering how to carry a conversation in Spanish. We all got to speak Spanish, including our 2 boys who have each been in Spanish classes for 3 years (elementary language classes is one of many advantages DoDDS kids get over the majority of American kids). As son 2 said to me, "We aren't in Cuba anymore, mom! We have to speak Spanish now!" Oh, the irony. My GTMO friends will totally understand the lack of Spanish in Cuba (at least in US-Cuba).

Chichen Itza

One more thing: if you take kids to Mexico, whatever you do, don't get suckered into playing "slug bug." Seriously. If you have ever traveled or lived in Mexico, you'll understand why. OUCH.

photo source: https://insanitysauce.files.wordpress.com

More on vacation, including going through a cow pasture down a dirt road off a gravel road that was off a country road, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Mississippi, all in search of my great-great-great-great grandparents, next time.

Parenting Fails; or, Story Time for the Win

Parenting.

The hardest job in the world. The best job in the world. The most rewarding. . . the most frustrating. . . 

You get the gist. 

You work 18 or so years to garner independence and have kids move out, and hopefully they will take some of the life lessons you've taught and modeled, and will build on them. 

But dang, sometimes it's hard. 

The beauty of living in GTMO is children here have infinitesimally more freedom than almost anywhere else they could live in the U.S. 

There's the base bus to cart them to and from the free outdoor movie theater; there is a bowling alley that's very inexpensive; there are huge play areas and large playground sets everywhere (and even better---huge banyans with tire swings). 

But even with freedom, kids push buttons. 

My youngest can sometimes be a hardhead (he comes by it real honestly, a gift from both of his parents).  He doesn't always want to go to bed at his bedtime or in his own bed and he has figured out how to manipulate this mom so he gets his way. 

I love how he uses my love of reading to get extra cuddle time and an extended bedtime. 

I know he is manipulating me----"Just one more story! Just read five more pages! You haven't listened to me read today---please let me read to you!"---and I fall for it EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. 

It's the one thing I can't say "no" to---seriously, you want to read? And it's past 9 o'clock on a school night? And I know that I'm going to have to haul 76 pounds of dead weight back to his bedroom? 

Alrighty then, let's start another book! 

My very best parenting fail doesn't involve books but what I thought was tough love. It involves a puppy, rain, and a very temperamental four year old. 

When we first moved to Texas, we were mourning the loss of our two fur babies, a greyhound named Gizmo we rescued from a track in Colorado, and a mutt named Lacey I got while a grad student in MS. They died within a year of each other, with the greyhound dying less than 6 months before we moved across the country. We swore we were never going to open our hearts to another pet---if you haven't been through the death of a pet, it's one of the most heart-wrenching experiences ever. 

Yet the words, "Mommy, can we have another dog? Please??" was all it took and we were off to the pound, soon enchanted by a goofy chocolate Lab we adopted and named Katie. 

Katie was a sweet, patient dog, which made watching our four year old having a temper tantrum, refusing to get in the car and standing in the rain while kicking at the dog in the middle of the backyard even more infuriating. 

My husband begged, cajoled, and raised his voice, all with no luck. 

I suddenly had a brilliant idea, motivated by the one time my mom made my sister and me, who were bickering non-stop during the long, three hour trip to my grandparents' house, get out of the car and run around it several times while she sat in air conditioned comfort, radio cranked up and ignoring our pleas of, "Can we please come back in the car! We'll quit fighting!" I should also mention this was beside a cotton field in the Mississippi Delta. It was hotter than seven hells and a very effective way to make bad kids behave. Out-of-the-box discipline sometimes is the best discipline.

http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/get-along-shirt

I thought my out-of-the-box idea of taking off while he had his tantrum and driving around the block once---the house was in the middle of a block and we could see the backyard the entire time due to the chain-link fence---was an absolutely brilliant idea. 

Before I continue, if you are sitting there horrified that I would actually leave my child, you either a) have no children; b) have the world's only perfect kid and/or never experienced your own child having a world-class meltdown; or c) have no faith that I am really not that bad a mom.    

It does have a happy ending. Well, sort of. . . .  

What I didn't bank on was our little genius going to our new neighbor's house and telling her, "My parents drove off and left me." 

Oops. Oh boy. 

We got a good cursing from the neighbor and walked on eggshells around her for months. We were terrified to raise our voices at him for fear that she had CPS on speed-dial, waiting to drop the dime on the negligent neighbors. 

Boy, did we really show him who was boss. 

Not. 

Just like number 2 really shows me who is in charge of bed time. 

So as I'm sitting here looking at Stuart Little on one side of me and a child I'm going to have to hoist like a 76 lb bag of potatoes over my shoulder to get to his own bed on the other side, I'm thinking that it was just 10 short years ago that our oldest (who thankfully never had another temper tantrum in the rain while kicking at the dog again) was pulling the same bed-time stunt. 

Even in slow-paced GTMO, I'm reminded daily through my two boys how life is still zooming by. 

And we read four chapters tonight instead of two, just in case you are wondering. 

Babymamas; or Mama's Babies

Mama Hummingbird in her tiny nest, in a hibiscus at the elementary campus

Unless you are a teacher's child, you don't understand.

When your mom starts a story about "her kids," you know you are not included in that bunch. Her kids are her students, of course.  

And in many ways, you have to share your mother with the world. 

There is something to be said about having your mom known by the majority of children in a school. In the case of the one elementary school town where I grew up, ALL the kids EVERYWHERE in town knew my mom. They would follow her and call her name no matter where we were or what we were doing. She never really could escape her work.

If all the kids know you, so do most of the parents. I know people are well-meaning, but unless you are a teacher's kid, you don't know the agony of grocery shopping while someone insists on talking (and talking, and talking) about his or her kid's behavior or progress or whatever when all your mom wants to do it just get her shopping done and start dinner.  She wants to ask her own children how their day went and help with homework. She wants to get off her feet. Teachers never let on to parents, but more than once, I tried to use my telepathic skills (or at least bore a hole through their back by staring)  because as a daughter of a teacher in a small town, I was sometimes a little resentful of parents and students who hogged all my mother's time. 

Although I am still a teacher, I am in a somewhat different position than my mother because I'm not confined to the classroom and get to work with all the kids (pre-K through 12), all while teaching something different every day (and even every hour). I do get the hugs (sometimes, without any warning and without seeing the kid before they attack), and I do get little love offerings---bracelets from pipe cleaners, homemade book marks, and sketches of me (at least I think it's me) that I have kept and displayed on my desk.  I don't get the discussions about grades (just lost library books). I am grateful for this and I have yet another reason to love my job.

What got me thinking all about moms and teachers (and teacher moms) was my oldest son's birthday, then Mother's Day, and then a belated Mother/s Day luncheon for my youngest son's class all came within a week of each other. I've just seemed to have motherhood on my mind even more than usual lately.

The luncheon was great---moms (and a few dads) showed up to a nice mishmash of food---turkey, corn pudding, pigs in a blanket, fruit, salad, cupcakes, etc. And it's funny because the students are also "my kids," and therefore I got more hugs than any mom there (not that anyone was counting). Seeing the huge smile on my son's face when I walked in for the party was priceless---but he has the same smile if we pass in the breezeway, or if I happen to see him in the cafeteria, or when he comes into the library. I remember running to my mom's 1st grade classroom when I was in the 3rd and 4th grade to get milk money (maybe a dime?), and the great pride I felt when I walked in and her younger students said, "Is that your daughter?" Silly question, of course---our town was tiny, so everyone knew she was my mother. I loved when I'd pass her in the hall and she'd give me a little wave or wink or made a funny face. She was my mom, and even though she had lots of kids, I was her daughter. 

I will be honest and say I was very afraid taking this job of what would happen with my children if I worked in the same district, same small community. Until October, for all of my almost-20 years in education, I had the luxury of living in communities large enough to support multiple schools (or districts), and I made the conscious choice to never work where I live---I don't want to give up as much of my privacy as my own mother gave up.

I also wanted to give my teenager privacy---it's so valuable at any age, but especially at his age. I know what it's like to have teachers come and tattle to your mom about small, seemingly insignificant things you've done that they wouldn't bother telling a non-colleague parent. I haven't encountered any of that here, luckily. It sometimes is a difficult balance between being a colleague and a parent. As in any school workplace, I have become friends with some of my coworkers, which makes that balance even more precarious at times. 

So as I am in the one and only grocery store on this tiny base, I hear my name being called---it's that unmistakable high pitched call of my last name that tells me it's one of my kids and not my own children---I realize that, as I am in line buying 10 or so bottles of wine for a party, right behind me is one of my elementary students. And his parents, of course. I did panic for a split second---what if the parent goes and tells everyone that I'm buying out the wine section? What if the kid says something in class (and he is my son's classmate, on top of everything else?) You learn this paranoia as a teacher, because society as a whole holds teachers at a different standard---what other occupation can you lose your job for simply posting a picture on facebook of yourself holding a glass of wine?

I now have a greater appreciation for my mom and all the years she gave up just being a mom and had to always be a mom AND a teacher when she'd run into inquisitive parents in town (and their children). I appreciate that she gave up so much of her privacy, and I finally see what it's like to give up your own privacy as an adult living in a small town.

Best part of any week? It's when I see my first grader for his scheduled class once a week, and he slips out of line to give me a huge hug. He still wants hugs! What's not to love about that? And it's every few weeks when my high schooler, who eats out every day off campus because our small school doesn't have a cafeteria,  says to me, "Hey, you want to go out to lunch today?" The fact I haven't managed to completely and totally embarrass them (yet) makes me a happy mama.