La Familia...

I have been home for a week and as is the usual for me at this time of year, it all comes down to family. The annual Christmas tradition of wrapping gifts until 3:00 am was upheld by me, my sister Michelle and her husband Andy. The plans for New Year's Eve all point to yet another mass gathering and Andy's grandparent's house and last night's combo birthday party helped ensure I would see just about everyone there is to see while I am home.

This party has loomed large on the horizon for months now and was intended to celebrate the milestone birthdays of my dad and Andy. The former turned 60 this year and the latter turned 30. For what has felt like an eternity, friends and family have been in the know as have the two guests of honor; only they both thought the party was solely for the other person which made the opening moments of the party a real hoot when the jig was up.

Never at a loss for words and always eager to make friends with a microphone, I had the opportunity to toast our guests of honor and it went a little something like this:

For the last few months it as been a tricky dance around both Andy and Paul, keeping up the appearance that there was in fact a party but getting each man to believe that it was solely for the other person. But now the game is up – this party is in honor of both of you and I have the profound honor of toasting you both; two men who have impacted my life in great ways.

But how to toast two men separated by 30 years of age, 8 inches of height but who are united through a remarkable woman named Michelle? Separate toasts would be a solution but a poor one. After all, this is a combined party for two men in an extended family whose whole is greater that the sum of its parts, so why introduce an element of separation? It is obvious we have been blessed with abundance.

There is enough to go around.

So toasting them simultaneously is the only answer, but I will do it with a certain degree of order. 1946 before 1976.

My father has played many roles in my life and aside from the role of father, probably the most important role he has played, and continues to play, is that of teacher. Whether it has been through word or example, Paul has always tried to set before me a good example of how a man should live his life. Reflecting on this I came to the conclusion that much of what he displays flows from a core focused on faith, service, family, and humor. To speak on the importance of faith and service would almost be redundant as many of you were here four years ago at the celebration of his ordination as a permanent deacon, so I focus then on family and humor and still find that there is enough to go around.

It being Christmas and I being a product of pop culture, I am quick to find a fitting parallel from that most sacred of holiday movies, “National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.” In the movie a co-worker of our hero, Clark Griswold, laments, “ Clark , you're the last true family man.” And though “Christmas Vacation” may not be the most dignified metric from which I draw a parallel of Paul and Andy, the line is a perfect fit for them because they are among a rare breed of men for whom family is so paramount. This belief in the importance of family is so strong, it rings out in their actions; actions which speak much louder than words ever will. These actions recently caused my mother to say to me, “Andy doesn't treat you like you are Michelle's brother. He treats you like you are a Bonillo; like you are his brother.”

She was right – as usual – and with no fear of usurping any position Joe holds in Andy's heart because Andy's heart is so big when it comes to family, there is more than enough room for everyone. And since family is held so high, and because it is synonymous with inclusion, I feel I not only have Andy as a younger brother but I also have Joe in that capacity as well.

There is enough to go around.

In that same vein, there is always room for family in the heart of my father. To combat the effect of distance between our family in Connecticut and his ailing mother in Chicago, my father simply made room for her during Sunday night dinners by placing a tape recorder in the middle of the table, recording our weekly updates as if she were listening live, annotating the end with his own message to his mother and then sending it off to her in Chicago where she could be left alone with Paul and the family. This practice continued right up until her death in May of 1988.

And just as there is always room for family, there is always room for laughter; plenty of room, in fact, since the nature of family leaves ample room for an abundance of humor.

96 cubic feet of room, to be exact.

Many of you know in this room know Andy's Uncle Gene. For Andy, Gene has been that uncle who always gave the coolest presents while he was growing up, not the least of which was a disco ball which met its demise during one of Michelle's cleaning binges. This sparked somewhat of a war with respect to gift giving and this year: Andy and Michelle set the bar very high with an eight foot long, six foot high two foot deep inflatable Christmas train, driven by Santa and towing behind it a giant snow globe housing a snowman, a penguin and Styrofoam snow.

There is enough to go around.

No self-respecting Christmas display is complete without it. Its tackiness rates slightly below flamingos and it was so genius, my father and I eagerly jumped in the fray in helping to construct the means by which this gift was transported – it's amazing what you can do with an oversized moving box and duct tape.

My father appreciates good humor, he is after all a recipient of the famed Konold Sense of Humor - a delicate blend of awareness, intellect and timing and it ranges from the completely cerebral to just-shy-of toilet humor, although that lowest of categories is never fully out of the picture.

One of the most scarring moments of my youth came when I was thirteen and I had asked my dad what he and my mom did on dates before they had kids and became old. He responded in a very deadpan manner, “Well, your mother would sit in my lap and we would talk about the first thing that popped up.”

It grossed me out at 13 but it's something I laugh about at 31. For that is the nature of family. Individual and incremental moments that, when seen from a wider perspective, form an intimate portrait of meaningful relationships that help us to appreciate the abundance we have in these two men and the tremendous gifts they bring to our family.

What Language Barrier...?

Since walking away from studying sign language and interpreting in May of ’05, I have hardly used what I have learned and never entertained the idea that it might be of some use to me here in Jamaica. But, as I’m learning more and more with each passing moment, I should not be surprised by anything that happens and must learn to just go with it. So when the opportunity came to visit a town on the North side of the island yesterday, I naturally jumped at the chance to see something I had yet to see. The fact that some of the day was going to be spent at a school for the deaf was a surprise only because work with the deaf had never been mentioned as a part of the ministry of the Diocese of Mandeville. In a strange piece of coincidence, it has less to do with it being part of the ministry of the Diocese and more to do with the fact that Fr. Anthony sits on the board of directors for this school.

I was both excited and scared to check out St. Christopher’s; excited at the opportunity to brush up on my skills, scared because it meant I would have to brush up on my skills. I didn’t even know if the people here used American Sign Language (ASL) or if they had their own signs, thereby rendering the chance of communication almost moot. I was pleased to find that they use ASL and without really thinking about it too much, immediately began conversing with a group of female students at the school. As was the case with my lessons in Patwois, there were equal moments of success and embarrassment and just when I thought I was safe from the question I had been asked on a daily basis since I have arrived, it came to me in sign language.

“Are you planning on becoming a priest?”

I kid you not. I have been asked that question at least once a day for the last week and on this particular day, I was asked three times. Once by the deaf students of St. Christopher’s and twice while visiting the Anglican parish of which Fr. Anthony was once a part. After concluding our business at the former we spent the remainder of our time at a Christmas lunch hosted at the latter. There, surrounded by people who came to know Fr. Anthony very well before he “crossed the Tiber,” (a phrase used to describe someone who has converted to Catholicism from a Protestant faith.) I had a chance to meet one of the most memorable people of my trip so far.

Her name is Norma and to be honest, I don’t think I was ever told her last name but after watching her in action, it is clear that she is a pillar in this community who really does not require one. She is a remarkable woman who is a native of this particular city we were visiting, Brownstown, and has had quite a prolific life in local politics, education and in the overall life of this neck of the island. She is an older woman, in her 60’s I think, but her intensity is that of someone in their prime. She didn’t say much at first; instead choosing to quietly observe all that was going on among this group of 12 people about to enjoy each other’s company. However, when she spoke, she held court and everyone paid absolute attention to every word that came from her mouth. A matriarchal sort of figure, it felt as though my acceptance or rejection on this island hinged on her approval. She is a woman whose one liners are as intelligent as her expanded thoughts.

Throughout this Christmas lunch conversation and jokes flowed freely, as did a local holiday drink called Sorrel. A sweet and dark red drink made from a local annual, it is the staple holiday drink here – think Egg Nogg only it looks more like a thick fruit punch. And similarly to our staple holiday drink, it can be made “proper” with the addition of your favorite spirit. While I had mine without such additions at this lunch, I decided to make mine “proper” when having it with dinner tonight; a sort of farewell drink before I take off tomorrow. Tonight I added Extra Proof Jamaican Rum to it; a step that in retrospect may have had a bit too healthy a measure to it. I may have to proof read this tomorrow morning before I post it just to be safe. Everyone has their own recipe for Sorrel and since the priests of St. Vincent Strabmi are popular in these parts, many in the local community wanted to fill a pitcher for them to take home and keep in their refrigerator. It’s really quite good and I hope they have a little left when I come back.

Yes, it looks like I am coming back which has been my plan all along and after talking with the Monsignor earlier today, I may be staying a little longer than I had originally planned. This two week period went well and I feel I have had a chance to get to know these men here and have clicked well with them. I honestly think I have skills to contribute and feel I have an equal amount to gain from this experience. For now however, I am heading back to the states and I am very happy about that. Ever since arriving I have had conflicting feelings: one moment I am absolutely joyful about being here and in other moments of the same day, I cannot wait to be state-side. It has been a constant tug of war that I have yet to make heads or tails of, but never have I considered cutting any of this adventure short because of it.

And for those of you wondering about the answer to the fore mentioned question: No.

You Look Mahvelous...

For Jamaicans, Sunday is a special day of the week. They fully embrace the practice of putting on their Sunday best and ride the wave of a beautiful appearance as long as they can into the day. Yesterday being the Lord’s Day and all, many of the locals came to 9:00 am Mass and the first thing that struck me was how community oriented their experience is. Everybody knows each other because they see each other on a very regular basis. They live around each other, know everything about each other’s lives, have helped raise each other’s kids – they have many of the traits that have quickly diminished in the individualized, have-it-your-way iPod life of the North. It was strange for me to see all of these people arrive early just to socialize some more before Mass began.

The next element that took me by surprise was their participation in Mass. It is almost safe for me to say that I have not seen that much energy in a Catholic Mass in my life. And to boot, there was yet another power outage just before Mass began so the keyboard they typically use for music was useless. The problem was promptly solved as one of the priests, Fr. Samuel, took out his viola and began to play. Combine that with someone playing a conga drum, someone else on a tambourine and an involved congregation, and the music portion of the morning was soaring. I was impressed.

And finally there was little to do. Since school is out for the Christmas holiday, there was no planning for the week and the morning proceedings were over. All we were left with was a sunny Jamaican day. Where else to head but the beach? As I’ve mentioned before, I am in close proximity to the South coast of the island and a short drive down a steep and winding mountain road will land you at a small man made beach; a byproduct of a bauxite mining company’s installation of a shipping facility to help with their exports.

A quick note about bauxite mining: Bauxite is one of the main ores that comprise aluminum. There is a large deposit of it here on the island so the mining industry is quite prevalent and from what I can tell, the ecological impact of the industry is a hot topic of debate. Back to the beach.

Me and some of the folks I’ve been staying with headed down to this man made playground and it occurred to me that if anyone had told me at the beginning of this year that I would be spending a portion of the Christmas season body surfing in the Caribbean Sea, I would not have totally dismissed the idea but I would have thought it highly unlikely. Yet I found myself in just such a scenario on this beautiful Sunday of December and as I mentioned in an earlier post, I’m somewhat of a sun worshiper so this opportunity to bring some much needed UV rays to my otherwise pale skin was most welcome.

I spent a good chunk of today (Monday) correcting English exams and since it was yet another cloudless day here, what better way to tackle such a task than in the sun? Something that has surprised me about locals is their surprise when it comes to my desire to bask in the presence of the fiery center of the universe. I get the obvious concern about someone like me getting sunburn and I’m careful to put on some sunscreen (SPF 2) and not stay out too long, but the fact that I desire to be in the sun and enjoy it seems to catch them off guard. I assume it’s because they live here year round and experience some extremely caustic heat which leaves them with a reflex of seeking cooler, more shaded environs. I tried to explain to them the high value Caucasians place on a well-earned tan but they looked at me with the same confused stare I get whenever I drop the word “wicked,” as any self respecting New Englander would.

Correcting these English exams has helped to pull into sharper focus just how much of a task teachers have here. Without getting into too many specifics for fear of any breech in confidentiality, one student answered a question by quoting a song from the 1980’s which was older than she is. Shortly thereafter, however, I came across an exam which was written with such a firm grasp of the English language and the material, I almost did not want to continue on because I knew that was to be the high water mark of them all. I wish I could have saved it for last and ended on such a great note but as things stood, the most mileage I could get out of it was to use it as a sort of answer key for the rest of them. As I said to the priest whom I was helping, “It’s like you have Good Will Hunting here. This child is a genius.”

In the time I have been here I have come to understand the almost impossible odds children face in becoming educated and the similarly daunting odds this small but determined society of priests faces in keeping this ship afloat. Through the goodness of God and the benevolence of others, they manage to take in a decent number of scholarships which they award to local students who otherwise cannot afford to attend this high school; sometimes bartering can be involved and some students are sponsored by folks in far off lands. And as though money weren’t a big enough obstacle, some of these students face the equally difficult hurdle of distance.

Most students walk to the school while others are fortunate to have rides that drop them off and pick them up. Others, however, are at a real loss to get here and so it is not uncommon for the priests to step in and make arrangements with people in the community to house someone else’s child in the hopes of giving said child a shot at something better. Being so steeped in poverty, folks in this part of the world understand the importance of educating their children and also pin a great deal of hope on the idea that one of these kids may be one who rises through the ranks, finds success and comes back to help improve the local community, if not help turn the entire country around.

“There is a common idea in Jamaica,” Monsignor Mike told me. “No child goes without a home here.” If a random child were found in a community, it would not be strange for an elder to take that child in and raise it as his or her own. In a small way it’s a throwback to the whole “It takes a village to raise a child” mantra; which I am told was exactly how life used to be before outside influences started to really take hold of the culture. It still exists but it’s more of a watered down version.

Mosquitoes:21 Mark:4...

That is the score of bites vs. how many little buggers I’ve actually killed so far. These bastards are relentless and I am definitely learning a hard lesson in self control. It is amazing how a mosquito bite disappears as long as you don’t scratch it. But when I have three of them in a very concentrated area, it’s hard not to let my fingernails run loose. The pests are most prevalent in the cool hours of the morning and the evening. In the middle of the day when the sun is at full force and the temperature is a hardy 83 degrees, Fahrenheit, of course, they are nowhere to be found.

The remainder of my first week here was spent on the campus of St. Vincent Strambi. In addition to a church and a house in which the priests live, they have a school which serves the local children. They are as young as six and as old as 18 and I was given the opportunity to spend some time with them this week, both in and out of the classroom.

My first encounter was with the Fifth Form, our equivalent of high school juniors. Our time together comprised answering their questions about my educational experience in America, various careers in the states and the schooling that goes into making them happen. They asked about what it takes to become a doctor, lawyer, actor, nurse, or engineer. They wanted to know how someone makes a career in the military, how long one has to be in school for anything and of course, how much money can be made in the various fields. I learned very quickly how the idea of American dollars can catch their interest and how quickly that interest is dashed when the thought of prolonged schooling enters the picture; a situation not entirely dissimilar to ours.

Another similarity I have noticed between America and Jamaica is an ingrained apathy around the idea that ‘the problem is so much bigger than anything I can fix, I’ll just wait for someone else to do it.’ One of the largest differences I can see between the two countries, though, is the fact that America has a middle class. It has that cross section of people who are willing to roll up their sleeves and handle their business which in turn keeps things progressing. That, in addition to a serious lack of resources (it truly pales in comparison to the states) leads me to think teachers in Jamaica have a slightly harder time than those in America.

I met up with Fifth Form again later in the week. Their English studies have them reading Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie” and given my experience with acting, their teacher, Fr. Anthony, asked me to come in and talk about the play from a staging perspective as well as how an actor might approach the script. I was anxious about this simply because I had not touched The Glass Menagerie in ages and have never really stood in front of a group of people and talked about approaching a script from an actor’s standpoint. It was difficult to put into words techniques I have used time and again.

An eye opener came my way when I was asked to describe the history of the play’s setting of the 1930’s. They didn’t know anything g about the Great Depression so a lot Williams’ references made no sense to them. As far as they knew, America has always been a rich and prosperous country so the idea that there was that much economic hardship was foreign to them. As I dropped some knowledge with respect to that dreadful decade, they quickly drew parallels between our country and theirs and the effects an economic depression can have on a people.

With respect to Fr. Anthony, he is the pastor of St. Vincent Strambi. He is a very well read, articulate man and a Jamaican native who spent many years as an Anglican priest but was recently ordained a Catholic one. Why he changed teams I have yet to find out. His sense of humor is dry, heavily intelligent and while he pretends to be taken aback at the suggestion that someone might feel intimidated by his intellect (which I was when I first met him), I think deep down he enjoys the advantage it affords him. “As pastor of St. Vincent,” he told me, “I have taken upon myself the responsibility of your spiritual formation while you are here.” Hence my awareness of their morning and evening prayers of which I am taking part. Once, after clearing his dinner plate from the table and taking it to the kitchen for him, he said, “Thank you, Brother Mark. I mean, Mr. Konold. I will sing at your ordination. Or your wedding.”

“What if I ask you to sing at both?”

“Ah. Brother Deacon Mark!”

Being in this small of a town on the Southern coast of the island has exposed me to some truly authentic culture, providing some of the best experiences thus far. It being Christmas and all, the school is closing for the holiday and the church hosted their annual Christmas dinner; an all day picnic style event complete with a talent show and a raffle drawing. People from the area filtered in and out of the parish compound, some people arriving early to check it out then leaving to go home and get pimped out for the evening half.

Part of what I found so amazing about this event was the fact that food preparation began the night before and was orchestrated by a small handful of women from the parish who perform this task every year. As if it were an everyday occurrence, I saw them dismantling and seasoning 500 pounds of chicken, ham and goat. The next day, before I even got out of bed they were cooking it all over three fires as well as preparing a local soup called Mannish Water which I sampled and absolutely love. Going into that experience was an adventure in and of itself simply because the priests had informed me of the soup’s ingredients when I first arrived. It’s not completely unlike the moment one discovers what escargot is.

Goat for them is like steak for us, the biggest difference being that when they pick out their goat meat, the goat is still alive. It’s slaughtered shortly thereafter and picked up closer to the date at which it will be used. (By the way, much of the left over slaughtered goat comprises many of the ingredients in Mannish Water. Let your imagination take it from there.)

Probably my biggest exposure to the culture here has been the introduction to their local language, Patois (Pa-twah). There are arguments as to whether it is a language or a dialect, similar to the ones that raged in the 90’s over Ebonics. When spoken as the locals speak it, there is no chance in hell an outsider is going to follow. If you were to write it out it would look like a mangled form of English; ‘faddah’ is their word for ‘father’ and since the school is run by a group of ‘faddahs,’ it is not high school but faddahskoo. What’s more they drop their h’s the way a Bostonian drops her r’s. (‘im nat go dung deh = He didn’t go down there.)

During the week some of the students spent some time teaching me words and phrases like, “Kiss me neck,” which is an expression of surprise along the lines of us saying, “No way!” Of course when I say something like, “Wow, the weather is wicked nice here,” they look at me as if I have lobster crawling out of my ears, so it goes both ways. I am trying my best to incorporate that which I have learned and finding mixed results of success and embarrassment along the way.

The final item of note from this first week is the weather. It is perpetually summer here. As I write this, the air temperature is a comfortable 78 degrees, there is a constant breeze off the ocean and there is a warm sun shower taking place. From what I have been told, this constitutes a cold front.

You read that correctly; a cold front.

Yes, the rain is interfering with my attempts to dry my clothes (there is no dryer here, only a washer) but I think I’ll get over it.

Jamaica sits around 17 degrees latitude, just north of the equator, so their amount of daylight doesn’t change as drastically as it does for those of us up north. They get an almost even split of 12 hours for day and night and those of you who know how much of a sun lover I am can imagine how much I am trying to take advantage of an opportunity to add some much needed color to my skin. Throw in the fact that the Santa Cruz mountains are directly east, the Caribbean Sea is directly south and there are practically no lights to diminish one’s view of the stars at night; one might conclude that this climate is almost too perfect.

I Don't Want To Be A Tourist...

The good news is I’m alive. I am three days into this initial trek and have seen a ton in just 72 hours. My first three days were spent being shown around Mandeville as well as the communities the missionaries aim to serve.

My first day was a dizzying attempt to get a lay of the land and make heads or tails of what goes on here. The simple fact that I am not actually staying in Mandeville still has me somewhat disjointed. No one had mentioned anything about Bull Savannah to me prior to my arrival but that just makes the adventure that much more fun, right?

Monsignor Michael was in meetings for the duration the day so he put my care in the hands of Ranny; a man in his 40’s who has a mischievous twinkle in both his eyes. Part of what he does for the diocese is work out of their distribution center which is in charge of making sure all donated goods reach their proper destinations and so as we traveled to such exotic locales as Hatfield, Balaclava, Braes River and Magotty, he gave me the lowdown on how things work here. From what I have gathered, the Diocese of Mandeville serves the parishes of St. Elizabeth, Manchester and Clarendon. Bull Savannah rests in St. Elizabeth while the actual town of Mandeville is in Manchester.

Eager to jump right in, I spent some time at the distribution center helping the people there sort the multitude of boxes they had received into groups which would be delivered to orphanages, churches, and clinics. Once we had that done, Ranny and I set out for a four hour expedition delivering furniture to a boy’s home, a washer and dryer to the equivalent of a nursing home, and medical supplies and other goods to a clinic. We then rounded out the day by moving a dozen beds from one church to another.

Having contributed some of my amassed ‘stuff’ to charity causes, I have often wondered what happened to all of the collected things once they were shipped to a poverty stricken area that I could easily find on a map. I was now being acquainted with that last piece of the puzzle. I have no idea whether or not anyone in these remote parts of Jamaica will put to use the sun stained plastic chairs, tattered brown briefcases or random purses I saw lying around the warehouse but there was much in said warehouse that I know will go to immediate use. For example, I came across a box bursting with empty prescription bottles and it immediately dawned on me how something which litters a medicine cabinet well beyond the date of the medicine’s expiration is something people here feel fortunate to have a supply of so local residents can take with them something as simple as Tylenol. Wow.

Our job done, Ranny and I returned to Mandeville and along the way he asked, “You hungry?”

“Yep.”

“You want Burger King?”

“Ranny, I didn’t come here to be a tourist. I want some real Jamaican food.”

“Don worry ‘bout dat, mon. You spend time on dis part of de island, you not a tourist!”

I had my first jerk pork lunch and it was amazing! I could have used a warning that they keep parts of the bone in the meat; a lesson I quickly absorbed on my very first bite. After that it was smooth sailing and I devoured the rest in no time. Soon after my meal and a stop in at Monsignor Michael’s office, he and I were on our way back to Bull Savannah.

Now would be a good time to elaborate on the motor vehicle culture of Jamaica. This is the only arena of Jamaican life that I have seen so far in which they demonstrate any form of being in a hurry. Like many other aspects of their culture, there are those drivers who take their time – really take their time. Simultaneously there are those who understand the idea of ‘having some place to be.’ When those two ideas collide (no pun intended) it can make for a harrowing experience.

As I noted in my last post, some roads are no wider than some of the side streets of Chicago which can lead to a slightly raised heartbeat when there is oncoming traffic. Couple that with the fact that they drive on the left side of the road (which really only matters if you are not used to it) and the fact that the posted speed limit carries as much weight as a casual suggestion, and it is bound to elevate one’s heart rate just a little. Where it gets downright scary is when it comes to passing someone who happens to be creeping along. If there is no oncoming traffic it’s not really a big deal. But often there is either someone heading straight towards you (kind of like a game of Chicken), there is a blind curve or the crest of a hill over which you cannot see looms in the distance. Any one of these scenarios, seasoned with the descriptors at the start of this paragraph makes for all the thrills of a theme park rollercoaster, but without the feeling that everything will be alright once things slow down.

My second day was not entirely different from my first in that it was spent in Mandeville and was meant to give me a broader picture of the work that goes on here. I spent the day at the cathedral which is part of a larger compound which houses two schools. The Brother with whom I was spending my day, Brother Philippe, and I were given a tour of the schools by Sister Maureen, a Irish woman who came to Jamaica in 1952. A lovely and knowledgeable woman, she took us by classrooms full of kids who were not the least bit shy when it came to a camera. We were even given our own private concert; “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” sung by a chorus of 5 year olds.

Education is a weighty issue here in Jamaica. The majority of the population is poorly educated so if you can learn to read and write properly, you have a leg up. There was a huge brain drain in the 70’s as the country came within an inch of becoming a Communist state. The middle to upper-middle class packed up and took off for friendlier environs and in their wake was left a lofty and thin upper class and a lowly and plentiful poor class. At least that is how it was explained to me in a nutshell, and a large part of the ministry that goes on here is simply education; get them to learn how to read, write and think and improve the situation here one child at a time, one day at a time. Of course being work that is Catholic-based there is also a huge emphasis on spreading the faith. 80 percent of the island is Christian and a dwindling number of that 80 percent is Catholic.

For me, that has been one of the greatest blessings of this trip so far. I am staying with a group of priests who begin and end their days with a prescribed set of prayers. In the morning they say Mass after the prayers and in the evening they say the rosary. I am not required to attend any of this but I do for a few reasons. First of all, it is Advent and it is difficult for me to get in the Christmas spirit in a tropical environment. Palm trees look markedly different than pine. Secondly, my curiosity wants to know what it is like to be part of a daily practice like that. Third, and most important, is the fact that I believe it will help reinforce a faith I have let decline in small but significant ways during recent months. And from what I am seeing, that can be remedied with some help from daily Mass at sunrise and a cool breeze coming in off the ocean to fill the church in which I am sitting.

Everyt'ing Irie...

I arrived today in Jamaica, having no idea what awaits me. I almost didn’t want to get on the plane this morning – probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was getting very comfortable at home. And if that’s the case then it’s a good thing I left when I did for fear of settling too much into a comfort zone.

The trip down here was relatively long considering I spent half of it on airplanes, but the experience was bearable thanks to Lindsey; a woman traveling on business from Chicago to Jamaica. Given our shared city of residence conversation ensued for the duration of our flight as well as our time going through customs. As the man responsible for keeping the flow of traffic moving directed Lindsey to her counter, he stared at me with a confused look and asked, “Why ya don’t wanta go tru customs wit yer wife?”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Watcha mean she not yer wife? In ya come labba labba.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Ya come in de room talkin’ de ‘ol time. Ya look like de married people.”

“No, we just met on the plane.”

“Buck on de plane? Well don cool yu foot, boss. Gwan and ketch’er den ‘for she getway.”

And that was my introduction to local language, but more on that topic later. For now I was simply trying to get my luggage, get through all checkpoints and see if anyone had been sent to pick me up. There had been a slight misstep in communication so I had no real guarantee anyone had been sent to get me or if my hosts were assuming I would find my own way to them. I was going to find out very soon.

Outside the doors a multitude of cab drivers waited like vultures, spotting fresh meat from afar and quickly moving in to feast on the unassuming. Every one of them offered a cab ride to wherever I was headed and after a polite, “No thank you,” they quickly offered to call the person who was meeting me, provided I had a number. Both the cab rides and the phone calls were blatant ripoffs, but that is to be expected. It’s the game and you gotta play it. I quickly learned that the way to make them go away immediately was to simply say, “I’m cool, boss.”

For the next 40 minutes the immediate area outside the airport exit was my safe haven of sorts. It was the only place I knew and I barely knew it at that. I took a few minutes to simply observe what was going on in front of me and try to get a feel of how things worked. It was easy to tell the regulars from the fish out of water which solidified exactly how much of a painted target I was to swindlers but I had managed alright so far. I spotted no one carrying a sign with my name on it so I started to wonder if I was, in fact, on my own. I flirted with the thought of renting a car and striking out into the land beyond the fences of the airport but decided first to enlist the help of a taxi stand worker and his cell phone. After a quick lesson in, “Nothing Here Is Free,” ($5 American, or $325 Jamaican, for him to make a call for me) my situation was ironed out over the phone and I met up with the priest who had been sent to collect me, Fr. Rowland. He had with him a local boy, Edgarton, from an orphanage at which we would later stop and after brief introductions we started our three hour drive to Bull Savannah, the place where I am staying for the next couple of weeks.

You may be thinking, “Three hours? I didn’t realize Jamaica was that big.” It’s not, it’s about as big as Connecticut, but the roads are no wider than some Chicago side streets and the average speed limit was around 50 km/h. (For those of you struggling to do the math, just know that it ain’t that fast.) But what it cost us in time it made up for in beautiful country. In any given moment we were rolling through populated towns; remote, shack filled areas; through mountains; next to orange groves and finally right up against the south coast of the island at sunset. The Caribbean Sea was a vast pool of orange and red light and behind us a rainbow spanned a small mountain range where a brief rainfall had just given way to drier skies.

I could easily get used to this.

As this Hollywood scripted sunset took place to my right, we continued to wind through the fishing villages of the southwestern coast finally stopping at the fore mentioned orphanage to pick up a few people and to check in on a situation regarding the cutest 3 year old boy I have ever seen. The requisite, “It puts everything in perspective,” or “It makes you appreciate everything you have,” and “You realize what’s really important” could be tagged on here. They’re true. Every once in a while these moments come along (more frequently for some than others) and if you play the law of averages enough, it will happen to you at some time, in some fashion and it had just happened to me again.

I saw an incredible mix of unbridled joy – the kind that only exists in kids who haven’t tasted maturity yet – balanced with a knowing that sat at the back of their eyes; a knowing that something wasn’t how it was supposed to be and that they were living it. As I walked in the house I was met by at least 15 little boys who all looked at me as if to say, “Are you here to give us more of the love we need and deserve but have been denied?

I don’t know.

After our brief stop we continued to ‘Bull Sav,’ as the locals call it, and I met the man with whom I have been in contact these last few weeks, Monsignor Michael. I also met the other men who comprise the Mission Society of Mandeville. From what I understand, these men are all dedicated to missionary work here in Jamaica but are not necessarily Diocesan priests and not necessarily any particular order of priests (think Jesuit, Dominican, Franciscan, etc.) although they are closely aligned with the Passionists; an order founded by St. Paul of the Cross and the church they are running here in Bull Savannah is St. Vincent Strambi, named for a Passionist priest whose history I do not yet know.

Everyone had already eaten dinner by the time I had arrived but made sure to save some for those of us who had come late and as we ate, I tried to keep up with who was who, where they were from, and which languages they spoke. I soon found myself speaking Spanish to a priest from France who had started speaking to me in Italian once I had made my ethnicity public knowledge. I quickly answered him in Spanish figuring it was close enough to Italian that he and I would be on somewhat of a similar page; but the overall issue was quickly resolved when he switched gears to Spanish which allowed us to see that part of our conversation to its logical conclusion.

The night came to a close and I was taken to my quarters; a dilapidated trailer like the ones you find in disaster areas. Quite a different scenario than the luxurious digs I have occupied for the last few months but it only took me 20 minutes to settle in and make it my home. There is duct tape at the bottom of the screen to keep bugs out and I have been told not to drink the water that comes out of the tap for fear of what the locals call, “Leaky Belly.”

Armed with information like that, I am sure to be just fine.

We Don't Go Up...

As is customary for me, I have been reflecting on my recent post, "Sometimes Nothing Is The Hardest Thing To Do." In the days following that last post I looked back on my first three weeks here and tried to remember what I had done each day. The days where I was painting my dad’s office were easy to chalk up; the other days were not so quick to return to memory. The conclusion I came to is that my days have comprised sleeping soundly, exercising, reading, writing on this blog and in my own diary, eating great food that I did not have to prepare, ending my night drinking whiskey I did not buy, and watching sporting events on cable stations for which I do not pay the bill.

After further review, the call on the field is being reversed: I have improved when it comes to just accepting good things and not having ‘to do’ anything to warrant them.

And it was with this eye-opening revelation, as well as an 8:00am phone call, that I hopped out of bed and accepted yet another piece of generosity that found its way to my doorstep. There are few reasons my close friend and financial advisor would call me at 8:00am on a Sunday morning. Either tragedy had struck the family or he had an extra ticket to the Patriots game. Fortunately it was the latter.

“Mark. Bob. Did I wake you?”

“I completely slept through the first time you called. I kinda heard the second one. The third one I uttered a lot of profanity before picking up. But yes, you did wake me.”

“I’d say I’m sorry but I’m not. We have an extra ticket for the game and we are about 30 minutes away from your exit on the highway. Can you meet us?”

“Absolutely! What do I have to bring?”

“Yourself. We got everything else covered. Food, drink, everything. Meet us at the exit. See you in 30.”

An opportunity to just accept something good and take in a joyful day could not have been presented more beautifully. Actually, the abrupt awakening could have been re-scripted but I’m not about to split hairs. The fact was this: I was going to my first Patriots game at Gillette Stadium; my first Patriots game since winning their first Super Bowl. That right there was enough to make it a great day but it got so much better.

I met up with Bob and his friends and after a routine 40 minute drive to Foxboro, we were tailgating and it was only 9:45am. I have not tailgated that early since a Michigan/Northwestern football game in the fall of ’98. It rained. A lot.

On this cloudless December day, we still had three hours until game time and I figured we would spend the time with some burgers, chips and beer – the usual tailgate fare. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a fired up grill complete with pulled pork, frozen clams and stuffies. (For those of you not versed in sea food, let me drop some 'stuffie' knowledge on you.) Bob takes his cooking seriously. He also takes his tailgating seriously. Combine the two and you are in for a feast.

And there was parking lot entertainment to boot. Local cheerleading squads were canvassing the parking to raise money to help pay for their trips to competitions; causes we were only happy to support financially upon the successful completion of a well organized cheer. (Whether it is trust, stupidity or naïveté to let others throw you into the air above the cold asphalt of a parking lot is a discussion for another time)

Three hours and one feast later, we made our way to this behemoth arena which was a complete 180 degree shift from the old Foxboro; a stadium that most college football venues could have put to shame. The influx of dropped r’s (How ah ya? Where’s ya fahthuh?) was music to my ears. And the fact that we were playing the Lions meant an almost certain victory.

As we walked through the gates I stopped just to take it all in and make sense of the new digs. Bob turns to me and says, “My buddies and I had season tickets to the old Foxboro. We were about 45 rows up and those were still good seats because it wasn’t a huge stadium. Now, 45 rows up and you can’t see a damn thing. Now, as you can see, there are two options for getting to your seats. You either go up, or you go down.”

Pause.

“We don’t go up.”

Bob led me to the section where we would be spending the next three hours and sure enough, in order to get to our seats we had to walk down some stairs. A lot of them, actually. When we finally came to a stop, we were a mere 22 rows off the field and looking at the 5 yard line.

We don’t go up.

The game itself was not pretty, especially when you consider that the Patriots were being embarrassed by Lions (records of 9-3 and 2-10, respectively). We trailed for most of it and the crowd was utterly deflated. I did my part to get them fired up even resorting to a certain level of disrobing because I was breaking a sweat doing so. I’m not saying that those of us in Section 127 turned the tide of the game or anything, but we rarely sat down in the later parts of the match and as the Patriots sealed the victory we were among the rowdiest of spectators. Not too many other sections could say that.

After that, I was pretty much ready to call it a day. Throw in the obligatory gridlock of getting out of a parking lot and the experience would be a done deal. But I was wrong. Upon returning to our parking space, the grill was lit a second time, the portable fire place was soon roaring and we enjoyed some of the best marinated chicken sandwiches this writer has had in a long time.

Eventually we tore down our little oasis and made our way home. I was spent, completely drained and riding high on a great day. I hadn’t planned it, I hadn’t expected it. I did nothing to warrant it except show up.

And now if you'll excuse me, I think I need the following week to recover.

Time and Time Again...

We often hear the saying, “Time waits for no man.” Like death and taxes, time offers a certainty but it also offers ambiguity. The certainty is that it will march forward and will come to an end for each of us. The uncertainty is when. Just as a child playing Hide N’ Seek calls out, “Ready or not, here I come,” so too does the end of our allotted time on earth. Time is one of life’s few constants and we, as an enlightened species, have learned how to measure its pace and have framed our existence within its constructs.

We all know this. It is one of the truths that hovers in the background of the heart and mind but does not clamor for priority the way other things do. The tragedy then is that a very important truth gets lost in the proverbial shuffle and only comes center stage when an event or realization leaves us scratching our heads and asking, “Where did the time go?”

Once again I visit one of the underpinnings of this blog: I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know and I sure as heckfire am not presenting it as eloquently as most have before me. (Bonus points to anyone who can get the ‘sure as heckfire’ reference.) This is simply a thought born out of recent experiences which have presented me with opportunities to reflect on the passing of time. Couple that with all of the “Year In Review” TV specials that litter the airwaves right about now and I have no choice but to let my mind wander on this one.

The truth of a finite life was recently hammered home for me when we visited my grandmother at Thanksgiving. In the last couple of years my trips home have become increasingly brief and infrequent and I have not been present for the quick and declining effects dementia and Alzheimer’s have had on her. In an effort to provide her with the daily care she needed, the family placed her in an assisted living facility in 2005 and given that I have not seen her since my sister’s wedding in ’04, the woman I encountered this time was not the Nana I remember; a feisty Italian woman who took not an ounce of crap from anyone. I always pitied the poor sap who invoked the Italian barrage that came out of her mouth; no doubt peppered with enough F-bombs and hexes to last for generations. A master seamstress and craftswoman, she walked a fine line creating works both impressive and downright awful. (Yes, the Malocchio will rest on me and my descendants for generations to come for speaking of my Nana in such ways but it’s true.)

Now here she was at 81, talking in what sounded like slow motion and repeatedly asking me my age and my height. (For the record I am 31 years old and 6’1” tall) Had I not been with my parents and my uncle, she probably would not have known who I was. Catching her up on my life was an exercise in futility because she remembered none of it for more than the time it took the words to come out of my mouth.

I don’t know that any of us truly saw this coming, but then again, who really does? These days I simply assume I will deteriorate in old age and I try to plan for the worst – a hedging of bets, so to speak. If I make it to death at an old age with all of my physical and mental faculties in tact, it’s gravy. If not, well at least I planned for it. And for as quickly as those thoughts come to me, they are quickly usurped by more pressing matters at hand leaving the initial concern for later because, well, I’ve got time to think about that in the future. I lose sight of the arc and my current place on it and the milestones embedded in life’s arc continually sneak up on me while I am not looking.

The fact that the milestones are a corollary to life’s finality came to me last week while at dinner with some of my close friends from high school. If my recent rummage in the attic was time’s not-so-subtle way of keeping me grounded with respect to my very humble beginnings, this dinner was its way of putting it into better context. My contemporaries shared their experiences of parenthood, being homeowners, employment, marriage, etc. They have welcomed their first or second child into the world. One couple is expecting their fourth! Over the years I have watched these events unfold and have always been moderately aware of our shared journey: the days of high school, the years of college, time spent in the mythical ‘real world’ and these early days in long trek towards an increasingly fabled land called retirement. Everything has always been ‘the next logical step.” Where I feel I have fallen short was in not viewing it all within the context I mentioned above: the arc that will someday come to an end. And since that is the case, how do I ensure I live it fully and get the most out of it?

Mix these eye-openers together and the larger picture comes into clearer focus for me: my beginnings, my eventual end, milestones realized, and the fact that other milestones lie in wait. My time on this earth, being but a breath in the span of eternity, is best spent when the choices I make are made in light of an expanded awareness of the larger picture. Does this mean I have anything more concretely figured out than when I started? Hardly.

But I will. I just need a little more time.