Angels on Watch-Reno Fire
Shortly after 1:00 this morning, a soft voice in my ear woke me. It wasn’t a familiar I love you voice, or my conscience telling me I forgot something. It was the night aide at the Retirement Home where my mother lives. I squinted at her, trying to gain recognition. “Are you serious?”
Had she really sneaked into my room to check on me? Or ask for my credentials? Or why…
“Yes, I’m serious,” she whispered. “There is a fire…”
I was thinking “fire drill,” marveling that they could have scheduled a fire drill in the retirement home and incredulous that the drill could be scheduled for the one night—first night—I was in Reno, sleeping on the pull out love seat in my mom’s studio apartment.
The aide is obviously accustomed to having to repeat herself. “It’s a fire, across the freeway—“
“Fire?”
“In the buildings across the freeway. And we might have to evacuate everyone. I don’t want to wake your mom and scare you, but I wanted to let you know.”
“Oh my gosh, okay….okay….thank you…,” I stammered.
“See,” she pointed to the patio door.
The sky blazed orange. Flames roared, shooting into the blackness. On the highway, squad car lights flashed on the highway stopping traffic from both directions. On the other side of the highway, the fire crackled and roared like thunder and raging water. My eyes and thoughts were glued to the blaze. I peered into the darkness, into the bright billowing smoke, searching for glimpse of the fire fighters, of ambulances, of evidence of life.
The aide was watching from the neighboring balcony. I asked her what was burning.
"New apartments.”
“Is anyone living there?”
“Not yet,” she told me. “They just started leasing them.
We have had our home catch fire before—twice. I know what it’s like to dress in the middle of the night and rush out of the house, heart pounding, as the windows crack and pop behind me. I know what it’s like to take inventory in the charred remains afterwards. Thankfully I don't know what it is like to lose loved ones to fire. I was grateful to know that kind of horror was not happening across the freeway.
Security personnel from the retirement home and the adjoining hospital circled the parking lot, watching for burning ember. A super truck pulled into the lot. I assumed it was another employee until a woman in a tank-top and a guy in jeans and a t-shirt climbed down from the truck and stood swilling beer and watching the show. Security guards shooed them away.
Maureen, the director of the facility, and another aide came out of the lobby. “We are ready to evacuate,” Maureen explained in hush tones. “We’ll take everyone out through the double doors on the hospital side. The shuttle buses and ambulances are waiting there.”
The blaze devoured one apartment building and lept to another at the same time it spread north across a field lining the highway.
“The medication cart is by the door; the patient files are there, too…” Maureen was directing this to me, but she wasn’t actually talking to me. She was reciting her emergency check list of all she had to do if the fire wasn’t controllable, if the wind blew up, if instead of racing north through the scrub lining the highway, the fire spread south, if the glowing embers landed wrong…
Standing there, watching the blaze, I wondered what I would do, could do, if the fire did spread. In that moment the enormous weight of the load Maureen, the aides, security people, and the hospital personnel next door carried beared down on me. I had never before contemplated just how much responsibility they and others who work in hospitals and care facilities assume when they take on the job. I had a car, I was strong and healthy; I could get my mother out of the building and drive clear of harm. But what about all the others inside?
Fortunately, we didn’t have to experience an evacuation. As I watched, water arched up and onto the diminishing flames and the billowing smoke gradually turned from black to gray to white. The firefighters won this battle.
Around three, I crawled back into my cozy sleeper love seat. The fire wasn't completely out yet; across the highway, firefighters still battled. But I wasn't worried any more; the Angels of Monaco Ridge were standing guard. I joined my mother and the other sleeping residents.
Jakarta Bombing; Indonesia’s Children
Post bombing news is circulating quickly as authorities piece together events leading up to the suicide bombings of Friday morning, July 17th. In conversation, when the bombing is mentioned, the second or third question people ask me, as a resident of Jakarta, is “how do I feel about living there?” The question is asked in that cocked head, furrowed brow way meaning, “Aren’t you scared?” I am scared. Although not because I feel a sense of personal danger. I am scared for Indonesia, for its children—children who will suffer if the factions who plan, coordinate, finance these bombings get what they want. Especially scared for these children, so desperate or brainwashed, who willingly strap on bombs and blow themselves to bits.
Another bomb was found in a guest room at the Marriott. Purportedly, those who orchestrated these bombings checked in on Wednesday and “check out” was that day, Friday July 17th. No reports have said whether a room had similarly been rented at the Ritz as no unexploded bombs or bomb-making equipment has been found there. This Wednesday-Friday stay means these bombers spent time in the hotel; it wasn’t just a walk by. What went through their minds as they walked through the opulent lobby outfitted with plush carpet, mirrored and gilded walls and ceilings? Did they flop into the middle of the bed and sigh as they sank into the cushy down comforter and mound of pillows the way my daughter does when we check into a hotel? Did they luxuriate in a warm, scented bath? Slather themselves with lotions? Try on the terry robes and slippers? Did staying in that room—large enough to fit 2 of their mean family homes, and costing more rupiah per night than they may have ever seen—delight or sicken them? Did watching the wealthy toss back coffee and cocktails costing more than they might have earned in a week of manual labor fuel their zealotry?
What must the circumstances of these childrens’ lives be that they would willingly blow themselves to bits? A few days before the bombings an armored car was robbed. Something like a million and a half in US dollars was stolen. The belief is that at least a portion of the stolen money was given to the families of the suicide bombers. A reward for given their child to the cause. Their child detonates a bomb, murders him or herself and countless others and they move uptown with the proceeds. Is their status in the community elevated because they gave—sold—their children for the cause?
What about that other bomb? The unspent bomb left behind in the luxury suite. It may have been brought along just in case…or maybe there was supposed to be three children sacrificed that day. Three bombs detonated. More humans murdered and maimed. More destruction. Did that third child back out? Did he or she balk at murder—of him or herself or others? Maybe a tiny hopeful feeling, an inkling of desire for a future, still smoldered within that third child. I hope so.
Bombings in Jakarta
Shortly before 8:00 the morning of Friday, July 17th, 2009, bombs exploded in two of Jakarta’s luxury Hotels, the Ritz-Carlton and the Marriott Hotel. The hotels are across the street from each other, in central Jakarta. They are hotels where visiting expats often stay and where local expats--Curtis, me, our friends--gather for charity events and balls, bazaars, and meals. Sunday brunch at both of these hotels is a popular. We enjoyed Mother’s Day brunch at the Ritz this year. One man with whom Curtis works was staying at the hotel, but was not near the blast. Here is an excerpt from the first security company report I received:
Up to nine people were killed in nearly simultaneous explosions at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and the Marriott Hotel in central Jakarta today, Friday 17 July 2009. Police sealed off the area... Police report the use of a high explosive. Damage to the Ritz Carlton, especially to the Airlangga Restaurant, is reported to be extensive. Damage to the JW Marriot to is at the car park entrance area with extensive blast damage to glazing in the interior lobbies of the hotel. The majority of fatalities had been at the Ritz Carlton and include foreign nationals among them. Sources at the scene report the possibility of more bodies inside the hotels. Witnesses reported that one of the explosions also damaged the lobby of the nearby Plaza Mutiara building.
Victims have reported seeing a very bright white flash at the point of the explosion at the Marriott hotel, with burns reported and a fog-like smoke. One of the explosions reportedly occurred on the third floor of Ritz Carlton, where a restaurant is located.
Indonesia police have subsequently reported that they found an unexploded bomb in a room of the JW Marriott hotel in Jakarta today. It was found in what police said was the “control centre” for the attacks. It was defused as police searched the hotel.
Later in the day the report was updated:
This morning's attacks appear to have been sophisticated, well planned and coordinated in order to carry out almost simultaneous attacks on two separate, well guarded and iconically named targets. Both locations deploy extensive security personnel.
So far no group appears to have taken credit; but the level of sophistication, the obvious amount of pre-planning that would be necessary for such an attack and the targets and timings would tend to indicate the implication of the Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) terrorist network in the attack. This supposition is supported by the fact that at least one of the attacks is believed to have been a suicide bomber, and this was the method of attack used by JI in the 2002 Bali bombings. Expert sources have suggested that the JI’s Noordin M. Top maybe behind the blasts.
Police sources at the scene have indicated that the Ritz Carlton attack was the work of a female suicide bomber (the first of its kind in Indonesia) as traces of a suicide vest have been found with her head separated from her body (indicative of a suicide attack). It is not yet clear as to what the delivery mechanism was at the Marriott Hotel, but the apparent size of the blast could also be that of a suicide/motor cyclist bomber.
In the years between 2002 and 2005 there were other similar bombings: The 2002 Bali bombings which killed 202 people; the previous Marriott Hotel was badly damaged by a car bomb attack in 2003, which killed 12 people; in 2004, the Australian Embassy in Jakarta was bombed, killing 10 people and wounding 161; and in 2005, Bali was bombed again and more people were wasted.
Nine humans—daughters, mothers, fathers, sons, friends—were murdered by these July 17th bombings; 40 others were physically wounded. And all of us—all of Indonesia, all of humanity—was injured.
Time Management
Today, I was trying so hard not to waste time that I almost lost it. As I do before every trip, I spent the time before my flight busily taking care of business. My bags were packed. My travel bag with travel documents was sitting by the door along with my travel shoes. The plan was for Curtis to come home at 3:30 so I could leave for the airport at 4:00.
Leaving at 4:00 was not my idea. It is only an hour’s drive to the airport (45 minutes on a good day) which meant that I would arrive at the airport by 5 pm for my 7:15 flight. Why should I get their so early? I didn’t want to “waste my time” waiting at the airport when I could be using it “wisely” here at home.
I have a good friend who likewise doesn’t like wasting time. And so she fills every second—over fills them. She is usually so busy getting things done that she is late to everything. And so while she “uses” her time, those of us she has arranged to meet wait—some might call it “waste” our time waiting. My mother calls the “Hurry Up and Wait Syndrome,” we hurry up to be on time and then wait and wait and wait…
This notion of time—wasting it, spending it wisely, using or losing it—baffles me. We start with a set amount of time: minutes in an hour, in a day, days in a week and so on. So how can we waste it? No matter what we do, time will pass, we will use it. If we pass time doing what we want to do rather than what we should do, are we “wasting it”? Conversely, if we spend our time always doing what we are “supposed to do” or “need to do” when the tally is taken at the end of our days of time, will we better for it? Do we get a prize?
What does it mean to spend time “wisely”? If I watch out the window while Jakarta passes outside rather than read or text message or talk on the phone am I spending time wisely or wasting it? If I pass that car ride “doing something productive” at the end of the ride, I’ll have stuff done, however I will have missed the glimpse of life whizzing past; the jamu lady pouring green elixir for an old man, the baso seller stirring up a bowl of soup, the toddlers sitting on the bench, the beggars strumming guitar on the street corner, the trees sprouting from a wall…
Today, I chose to use my time getting everything that I wanted done before traveling done. As a result, I left at 4:20 rather than at 4:00. And in the car on the way to the airport, I spent the first hour wisely—reading. I spent the next hour of what should have been no more than an hour’s ride watching out the window. The scenery was wasted on me though because I spent it glaring at the heavy traffic, willing cars to move, worrying, fretting, hoping I’d get to the airport before the gate closed, because if I didn’t get to the airport on time I’d miss my flight, and so my connection and then I’d miss the Vermont College Alumni workshop I planned to attend.
In the end, who decides what exactly using our time “wisely” means?
Every moment we need to weigh how best to use the time we have, to determine what is wasting time and what is using it wisely. But that takes time…
Velveteen Rabbitish
A clay wok sits on top of my kitchen cupboard. I bought it in the Mount Ijen region of East Java. It was during a Remote Destinations trip. It had taken a full day of travel over a long, curious route— by air to Bali, by bus to the far tip of Bali, and back across to Java by Ferry, then a long, bumpy ride inland, up windy, narrow roads to reach Mount Ijen. The area is lush and beautiful, sharply graded, deep terraces planted with rice, potatoes and other crops. Fields are plowed and furrowed by water buffalo and hand planted by wizened women in sarongs. We visited during Chinese New Years', February 2008. It was still the rainy season so the hills, roads, fields were slippy, sloshy, muddy. The air was heavy and hot. but bright blue.
We were at the beginning of a walk through the terraces when I bought the wok. All five of the “girls” on the trip bought one. We also bought clay placenta pots—pots in which the after birth and placenta are buried after a birth. The toko, "shop" where we made our purchases was in the tiny village lining the road to our hotel. Aside from individual packets of laundry soap or shampoo, instant coffee, chips, cookies and individual wrapped candies, these clay items were pretty much all there was to buy in that slap-board, grass-roofed toko. Definitely the most interesting items, well made and decorative. Delighted to make those sales (at a rich profit, I am sure) the shopkeeper cheerfully wrapped each wok and pot and delivered them to our hotel.
On the way home from Ijen, the round, clay ring made to steady my wok, crumbled. But the wok came through fine. A happy reminder of that trip, that day, that toko.
On a more recent trip to the island of Flores, Curtis bought a big bag of coffee beans. Once home, I put them into the refrigerator. Rusnati and I had chatted about them: about how the beans needed to be cooked; about how Curtis loved his coffee.
Last night we arrived home from a long weekend in Lombok. A spicy coffee deliciousness greeted us. I went into the kitchen to see Rusnati. Smiling wide, she pointed out the bag of coffee resting, waiting on the counter.
“I cooked Mister’s coffee,” Rusnati offered. She pointed up to the cupboard, to the wok.
The wok rested in its usual spot on the cupboard. But something wasn’t right. Its lovely terra cotta color looked dirty, the design blackened, faded. It took me a minute to comprehend what had happened.
“You used the wok?” I asked.
“Yes,” Rusnati smiled and nodded. She opened the bag so I could smell the coffee beans. Gleaming with roasted oils the beans roasted richness filled my head.
“Oohh,” I sniffed. “So good,” I said, to make Rusnati happy. But inside leaden weight dampened my spirits. Sure, it was nice that she cooked the beans, but why did she have to use my wok? Why would she even think to use it? Now my lovely terra cotta wok, my Ijen souvenir, was ruined. How long will I have to leave it up there on the cupboard, all grayed and dirty-looking, before I could hide it in a cupboard or toss it out back to a shelf in the servant’s area? Why hadn’t Rusnati used her big old metal wok? The one she used to cook everything else?
Hours later, after Rusnati left, I went back into the kitchen where the scent of roasted coffee lingered, thick, rich, warm and a long ago memory of Rusnati and I talking about how her parents grew coffee back in their village wafted up. How her mother picked coffee berries off the bushes and dried them in the sun, then stored them in baskets until she had enough to roast. How she only picked the ripest berries, so at most collected a handful or so at a time. How her mother roasted the dried beans in a terra cotta wok over a wood fire, stirring slowly, tending them until the beans released their oils. How good her coffee tasted.
A sense of shame washed over me, then, mixed with a sense of being loved and cared for richer than any roasted coffee. To think that one day, while we were off lazing at the beach, leaving Rusnati to mind our home, she had looked up at that wok and remembered. And so, short, little Rusnati had climbed up onto the cupboard, carried down that wok—so like those back in her village—taken out that bag of Flores coffee beans, and lovingly stirred and tended and roasted those beans as a welcome home gift.
I had been so wrong. The wok wasn’t less beautiful now that its terra cotta coloring was grayed from use. It was velveteen rabbitish: grayed and burnished, worn from being well-used by loving hands.
That wok is going to stay right were it is, on top of the cupboard— unless Rusnati needs it to roast Curtis more beans—the first thing I see each time I walk in the kitchen.
Remembering Nanny born July 6, 1906.
My grandmother, Nanny, was born today--103 years ago. She was the 3rd child of Manuel and Ellen Balthazar. She was named Ellen Kathryn, but everyone called her "Nellie." My brother named her Nanny and my grandfather, Poppy. (My uncle, called "Tex" because his last name was Texiera, hated that name; he said his mother was neither a goat nor a nursemaid.) Respecting him, and begin teens, my brother Joe and I shortened my grandmother's name to "Nan"—when we weren't calling her "Smelly Nelly”, “Stinky Dupes" or "Stinky Meeks," (all names referring to female parts) All names she threw back her head and laughed at. When I remember Nanny, I remember her laughing. My mother went to the hospital 3 times to have me. On the last trip, the doctor sent her out to walk until the contractions were closer together. Nanny and her younger sister, Aunt Evelyn, were with her. Nanny and Aunt Evelyn got "tickled" at mom waddling along, mad and miserable which made her madder, which made them laugh harder. They laughed so hard they couldn't stand up anymore, so they sat down on the curb—with mom glaring--and wet their pants laughing. When the nurse came out to check on Mom, they were embarrassed to stand up and let her see the wet spot, so Mom had to go in alone.
Nanny's kitchen was our family's favorite gathering spot. There was always a pot of coffee waiting, cookies in the cookie jar (usually peanut butter or oatmeal) and cards at hand. Many evenings passed with all of us, including the cousins, packed around the table playing Liverpool rummy for a quarter game-5 cents a hand and low score takes the pot. Nanny was a ruthless card player, and sometimes she won. She'd gloat when she was about to go out. "Oh my," or "would you look at this?" she'd say. Then one by one she'd lay down her cards. It would be our turn to laugh when the hand she gleefully laid down was the wrong one.
The only left-hander in the family, Nanny taught herself to knit, crochet, tat, and embroider by watching yarn sales people. In those days, yarn companies would send employees out to stores to give handicraft lessons and demonstrations to increase sales. Nanny would watch the reflection of the demonstrations in the store window and learn in reverse. My mother and I are also left-handed, and Nanny was always happy to teach us what she knew, and fix our mistakes, and finish our projects. Her motto: "make the back as pretty as the front."
Joe and I spent summers in Watsonville at my grandparent's 2-bedroom house. He'd sleep in the front bedroom with Poppy, who went to sleep early and snored. Nanny and I slept in the back room were we'd whisper sleep meditations—"toes relax, feet relax, shins relax. knees relax"—which never worked. Bored and lonely in the front room, Joe would creepy crawl down the hall and try to sneak under our bed without us catching him. Then suddenly, he'd lunge up and POUNCE! I'd scream and Nanny would laugh.
My son Max was a beautiful baby with blond curls, big eyes, and a really big, round Charlie Brown head. One day Nanny and Mom decided to see just how big his head was so they took him to the store and tried hats on him. None of the boy hats fit, so they decided to try the ruffled girlie hats on him, the fussier the better and laughed until they cried.
A meticulous housekeeper, Nanny dust mopped her kitchen daily, sometimes more often. When my daughter Lexi was about 2, she'd race to the dust mop, stand on top and wrap her arms around the handle. Nanny would shake the handle and holler at her to "get off, Lexi...get off right this instant." Lexi just looked up at her scolding and giggled—it was all part of the dust mop ride.
We laughed at Nanny's funeral. I was sitting in the front pew with Mom, Max and Alexis, Aunt Evelyn and her husband, Uncle Joe. Alexis, just old enough to pay attention to the happenings at her first Catholic mass, got the giggles when she noticed "the old people sticking their tongues out" at the priests giving communion. Lexi has a laugh that rolls up from her belly, the contagious kind, and before long we were all laughing. Mom kept trying to shush us, which made us all, especially Aunt Evelyn, laugh louder. "Nellie would have loved this," she said. And we all knew it was true.
Pour a "hot" cup of coffee—"milk and 2 sugars, please"—pass around the cookie jar and break out the cards for one more game of Liverpool. Deal Nanny in!
Swirly-Whirly Skirt Takes a Wrong Turn
Remember my swirly-whirly skirt? The one that disappeared into the dark hole of Rusnati’s ironing pile because it is linen and so difficult? The one that was never supposed to be ironed in the first place? Well, after Rusnati finally stopped messing with it and let it be all crinkly and wrinkly, bouncy and twirly, it really was cute! So cute, in fact, that a friend asked to borrow it so she could have it copied. This friend is smaller than I am and shorter—much shorter. But that wasn’t a problem; our seamstress, Ibu Nana is a wiz. She can copy anything. And she can alter anything. So I handed over my favorite skirt. And, I have to admit, did so eagerly—greedily--anticipating how I could capitalize on the loan. Once Ibu made a pattern, she could make me another swirly, whirly, too, after all, couldn’t she? (Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have two? In different colors!) However, although I never voiced them, I had doubts about whether my friend’s copy could ever be as wonderful as my original precisely because the fabric mine was cut from is divine. Would anyone ever be able to find the same type of crinkly, bouncy linen? I decided to wait and see how the copy turned out.
In good time my swirly-whirly skirt was returned. It caught my eye while I was dressing this morning. It bounced, beckoning while I pawed through my rack. I pulled it down from the hanger and pulled up—to my knees…
Have I gained that much weight? Ok, so I haven’t been working out as much as I should…And I did go on that vacation… I weighted myself yesterday and sure, I was a few pounds on the plump side, but just a few...
I squeezed my legs closer together and tugged. The skirt streeeeeeetched up to my thighs and stuck. Then it hit me--hard--below the belt. Not only had Ibu Nana copied my skirt—she’d altered the original—expertly tailored it to fit that scrawny shrimp.
Now my friend will have two wonderful, crinkly, bouncy, adorable swirly-whirly skirts—in different colors—and I have none.
Why am I being punished? Is it so wrong for me to love a crinkly-wrinkly skirt? Am I not allowed to be bouncy, twirly-whirly?