THANKSGIVING BOXED DINNER

    OUR HOTEL NEAR TABA ON THE RED SEA

It was the eve before Thanksgiving, 2005. As we boarded the bus at our hotel near Taba, set on the shores of the Red Sea, and pulled into the black ink night, my thoughts swam through the surrounding darkness to my children at home in Idaho. I thought how they would be preparing for the next day’s feast. Sadly, I envied them just a little. Under my seat, a small box was tightly tucked that held my dinner for the next day. At the time, I did not consider it would be my Thanksgiving Dinner. I had forgotten in the excitement of the next adventure of our Holy Land trip. Our bus was taking us into the blackness of the Sinai desert, blackness akin to the khimar the Muslim woman wear as they quietly and mysteriously glide through the streets of Cairo, Jerusalem, and Amman. Our destination was Mt. Sinai and the climb to its summit for a view of the desert sunrise. 

As our bus hummed through the thickness of the night, the lights from Aqaba and small towns along the coastline of Saudi Arabia sparkled like amber jewels. Gradually they disappeared. Only the stars and their consequent constellations remained. They seemed to suck us up into an eternal black hole. Gradually, we succumbed to the lateness of the night and fell asleep with the gentle rocking motion of the bus.

Our slumber was short-lived. We had arrived at St. Catherine’s Monastery at the base of what traditionally is Mt. Sinai. It was 2 am and we sleepily stumbled our way to what was humorously referred to as “Camelot,” as it was the station where we were to mount our camels for half of the assent to the mountain’s top, truly an unforgettable experience. I did not say pleasant. I just said “unforgettable.” We were assigned a camel with its accompanying “camel boy.”  We mounted the camel with some difficulty and were maneuvered out into the heaviness of the moonless night. The camels lumbered up the rather steep trail passing Bedouins attempting to collect a dollar or two for anything they could sell, from the resident rocks to American candy and sodas. I pondered the scriptural exodus story of the Israelites and where their encampment might have been in the valleys below us, as well as how Lehi’s family probably felt as they left Jerusalem, never to return to their homes. The feelings were intense and moving as the camels made their way along a well-worn rocky trail. 

    CLIMBING MT. SINAI

Finally, after two and a half hours of an excruciating rocking on a saddle far too small, between two saddle horns, one stabbing sharply in the spine, and the other in the front, of which I will not describe or discuss, we arrived at the camel-dismounting station. It was the end of one of those “life sucks” moments. There was no death, however. The air was filled with what I referred to as “camel dung dust.” The assent, I quickly learned had only begun. The remainder was mandated to our feet that oddly enough had been stricken with numbness from the camel ride. With flashlights in hand, we began the grueling two-hour climb for what seemed like miles of switchbacks. We helped each other along the steep and demanding trail, climbing over boulders while attempting to keep our equilibrium in the darkness. Finally, we arrived at the peak of Mt. Sinai, along with 500 other curious tourists, and pilgrimage-seeking people of all nationalities. Oddly enough, we were the only Americans, and all were pushing to the edge of the rocky face vying for the prime photographer’s position. We waited. Gradually the luminescence of the dawn slowly chased the blackness of the night away to expose the low-lying fog softly blanketing layers of violet, blue and purple mountain ranges before us. Finally, the sun pierced the dawn sending a needle-like sliver of yellow across the horizon. 

 

     SUNRISE AT THE TOP OF MT. SINAI

At that point, the orange sun moved quickly upward splitting the single yellow sliver into multiple orange-red spikes of brilliant light. Breathtaking! It played a game of tag with the shadows among the desolate mountain peaks and crevices, chasing them and recreating our view from moment to moment. It was the reward for the extremely arduous and exhausting trek up what now was exposed as a rocky desolation that still held a breathless beauty in its grip. At that moment, it seemed like the pinnacle of events we had already experienced on our journey through the Holy Lands of Israel, Jordon and Egypt.

 

     MT. SINAI AS SUN MOVES SLOWLY DOWN THE RUGGED CANYONS

  

Our descent down the mountain was much faster, even though we were dependent only on our feet to do so.  We arrived at St. Catherine’s in good time, made our way through the various booths of vendors to our awaiting bus. It felt good to sit…on something other than a camel. Others in the bus were pulling out their boxed lunch and making comments on the dryness of the bread and cheese sandwiches. Someone noticed a young Arab boy standing outside of the bus longingly eyeing the Americans.  One of the men on board stepped outside and offered this young boy what was left of the boxed lunch we had all be complaining about. Eagerly, he grabbed it. Immediately, all of us in the bus began gathering up what we had thought was unacceptable food, and delivered it to this, what appeared as a starving little Arab. We watched as he hid his treasure, hording over it so that others boys would not find it. In our minds, we all wrote the ending to this experience. We had hoped that the little one had taken his treasure home to others who were hungry. I thought to myself that it was much like Thanksgivings across my country where people share with others the bounties of the earth. Perhaps this Arab boy was living a very real “life sucks and then you die” life, while I had plenty, even without my boxed lunch. Now, it became a very memorable Thanksgiving Dinner for someone else.

                                                                                                                                                         

      ARAB BOY RECEIVING BOXED LUNCHES FROM ONE OF OUR GROUP

                                                                          

                                                                                                                               

SILENCING THE LAMBS

 

My grandfather was a government trapper for the State of California. He interlaced my childhood years with his colorful stories of trapping coyotes in the sheep country of Northern California. I would listen, mesmerized hour after hour, usually gathered around a dining table after one of my grandmother’s amazing meals made from whatever she could discover in the cupboards. That is how meals were invented then, with what ingredients were available. Grandpa had an amazing meter to his words, not as an educated poet, but as a spellbinding storyteller. As he sat with the smoke from his cigarette encircling his bald head, he spun his tales of nature from his own firsthand experiences. I would visualize the ruthless coyotes’ vicious teeth exhibited through their snarling curled lips as they circled the herds of sheep. They would swiftly pull down a lamb or a ewe defending her young, and tear at its nose until the sheep would lie defenseless and dying in the dirt. Once the nasty task was accomplished, the wolf-like wild dog would walk away, not even touching the meat of its dying prey. In essence, the sheep were invisible to the dogs. It was merely a game wild dogs would play, a silencing of the lambs, a game not worthy of an animal playing its part in the natural food chain. And, that is why my grandfather was a government-employed trapper. Sheep ranchers could have their herds decimated by these ruthless coyotes. For the sheep, it was very much a “life sucks” terror, and they did always end up dying.  Tough being a sheep.

Humans, too, are interesting creatures. Sometimes it would seem that they play the part of the coyote. Individuals with whom I am familiar do not tear the noses off of other human beings, nevertheless, they rip and tear at their victim’s self-esteem, destroying the person’s spirit, dissolving and changing who they are, until they lie crushed, and often dead in spirit. Another memory, a few years following the vivid stories of my grandfather, pounds in my ears like the constant beating of my pulsating tinnitus.  It is of a young boy attending seventh grade. One would imagine him to be like any other boy his age with two arms, legs, hair, two eyes, you know, the general appearance of normalcy. Yet, other coyote kids his age saw him as a weakened lamb. They would circle. They would taunt and tear at his self-esteem, calling him a sissy, making cutting remarks about his clothes, his actions; destroying with words. Like the sharp teeth of the wild dogs of the prairie, words, too, can slash and tear.

 Amazingly, some adolescent children seemingly carry the genes of wild dogs. They will go so far as to physically push, pull and strike another young human until their nose bleeds, and their coat is torn. These injuries heal. The torn spirit does not heal as easily. It most definitely is a life defining moment. It is a life sucks and then you want to die horrendous moment. Haunted by a ravaged spirit, often these sheep stagger through life with the terror of past secrets. No one wants to ever admit that they were youthful victims of insensitive and unfeeling packs of coyotes. They just want to belong. In defense, they either dissolve into the shadows of the past, becoming invisible, or they become obnoxious in order to defend their shredded spirits. Some have the spirit of survival, while others do eventually give up, shrinking into invisibility. It is though Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak was permanently thrown over them. They just disappear for all intents and purposes. The stronger coyotes survive to tear at yet another victim. Not all coyotes are adolescent. Perhaps, it would be easier to be a sheep than a human.

It is never easy to rid a soul of sharp words once shot into one’s heart and mind like piercing arrows. That pain echoes inside as a forever reminder of the person’s uselessness. There is one, however, who would tend the sheep and protect them from ravenous wolves. He who heals all wounds will eventually encircle the sheep, much like the wild dogs, but with a different result in mind. Life’s experiences happen, and they can suck, and we will all die, but perhaps being aware of others can aid in the mending of ravaged souls. Perhaps then, the Cloak of Invisibility can be lifted to reveal the potential that was always there, totally unaware to the coldblooded coyotes.

BOTTOMS UP!

Time for a colonoscopy, old man!

You hit sixty-plus years old and it seems that your body senses that you should no longer be able to do what you have previously done. Prior to that morphing intrusion of the body due to an unwelcomed aging factor, that non-magical time in your life, everything seemed to be in order. However, the body starts playing games with you. The game involves parts of your body that did work at one time without thought, and then parts that suddenly do not work. Before you know it, you are on a constant diet of doctors. Doctor Numero Uno assigns you to take a “spit and pooh” test to check how your digestive track is surviving the attack of the “golden years.” Frankly, it is just another “life sucks and then you die” slap in the face. Actually, the result is not quite a slap in the face, if you don’t count the double chin, and the bags under your eyes that appear to be packed for a vacation to an exotic foreign country. It is more like “time for another colonoscopy,” my favorite medical pastime, and a result of the “spit and pooh” test. Do these tests all work together to humiliate you as much as is emotionally possible?

A diagram of my colon. "X" locates the polyp.

So, I report for hospital duty early in the morning. Does no one work in the afternoon at these places? This is following a harrowing day of drinking what seems like 42 gallons of a fluid that makes you want to puke, even though, it does not have a recognizable flavor. However, regurgitating is NOT part of the planned result. You just have to plan the previous day around the little white stool that has a permanent location in your bathroom. Do not dare to venture farther than about 15 feet from it, or…well, just make certain that you have a washer and dryer handy if you do manage to pass the point of no return. Back to the hospital. I report, and I am led down a hall like a dumb sheep. “Take off all of your clothes and put on this gown,” someone commands who should be taking off whatever they are wearing, considering that the blue uniform is in no way flattering…on anyone! By the way, I do not think that anyone connected with the fashion industry has ever been in a hospital, or they would have noticed that those blue sagging uniforms and the sheer cotton “gowns” make everyone look like something from a horror movie. But, that is beside the point, although, it is a good point.

Pumpkin polyps hiding in your colon!

So, I put on the gown, which I might add, is nothing close to what I would be caught wearing to bed. And, why are the ties to these “handsome print wraps” always in the back where one cannot reach them? A person appears to be a contortionist walking around in a circle, like a cat deciding where and when it will flop in a comfortable position. Attempting to catch the strings and tie them, thus controlling how much ventilation one will receive through the back of this amazing garment is nothing short of a test in agility. Is it not enough to realize that my derriere will be where “X marks the spot,” that it will be transmitted on a screen where several individuals in saggy blue uniforms will be following the play by play action, and that never once will I really know what jokes are being conjured during this event? Still, I would feel more comfortable if I knew it were covered for the time I am still in consciousness.

Eventually, you climb aboard the bed that is going to take you on that trip down so many hallways to the “port of authority.” The doctor follows shortly and he is Mr. Happy-go-Lucky Man. Of course he is. Nothing is happening to him. It is HE who is going to climb inside of ME. Terrific! Laugh it up fuzz ball. Then I notice that the men in the blue baggy “scrubs” commense attaching tubes into the needles that took them three or four attempts to insert in the veins at the top of my hands. I notice that the anesthesiologist ever so slightly nods his head to the doctor. It suddenly becomes apparent that there is a secret code being passed from one individual to another. I realize that I am being taken out of the world of consciousness before I can protest or make another snide remark to anyone.

Suddenly, I am awake and my stomach feels like a truck just drove through me, which may be close to the truth. I was just awake, and now I am awake again, but in a different room. The nice nurse is telling me that everything went well, the doctor found a polyp that he removed, and now it is time to leave. When did this all happen and where was I? Man! Where does the time go? So I slither out of the afore mentioned “printed wonder gown,” manage to get my clothes back on while still in a stupor, everything in the right direction, and the nice nurse plants me in a wheelchair and trolleys me out to the curb into cool, crip autumn air. “So long, thanks for coming, and we will see you again soon.” "Not if I can help it," I think. Something about the whole affair makes me feel slightly violated and uncomfortable.

A week later I return to the doctor where I learn about polyps, diverticulitis, not eating berries with those tiny seeds from my favorite raspberry bushes along the north side of my house, and a whole new way of eating that does not include some of my favorite junk food like popcorn. I learn about fiber, fiber, and more fiber. It all sounds so boring. Two days later, the lab calls me while I am walking down the hall at work and informs me that my polyp was cancerous, a rather cold and shocking bit of unexpected information about my body. However, they inform me that it was removed during the colonoscopy and they are sure they got it all. I am supposed to feel relief. Suddenly, my life takes on a different meaning, and I wonder what other secrets my body is harboring. Thanks to the “life sucks and then you die” encounter with the men in the saggy blue costumes, I learn that life could come to an ugly end without the miracle of modern medical technology. And, I have not even mentioned the carpal tunnel and trigger thumb surgery yet. Another story for another blog. Remember...bottoms up!

Meat...not the best fiber-filled food.

A great fiber-filled summer salad.

Tomato, motzerella, and basil salad, sprinkled with olive oil. Healthy.