Thursday, December 29, 2005

Sign Language for Dummies

Mona and I went downtown to run some errands today. Mona's been trying to get a haircut for a couple of months, and again today the salon was "tutup," closed. We were there at 10:30 a.m. At what time are they open? The woman in a mumbled Javanese-Indonesian dialect said to return on Saturday. Guess that's what we'll do.

We also got an Indonesian language (Bahasa Indonesia)lesson from Ibu Jimi, a local seamstress. She knew several English words dealing with her occupation, but not much else. As Mona is now down to two pair of pants, we signed our way through the process of ordering a few new pairs and some new shirts. Ever tried to mime "tight"? We bought some lovely fabric a month ago with some money from our parents for my birthday. And since our sizes are not on the common rack, the seamstress is a good route; especially as it's cheaper than buying from American department stores.

Tomorrow I need to go to the bank, and plan to take some time to capture some cultural snapshots en route. I've discovered that my fresh-off-the-boat eye has turned on me. I no longer notice the glaring differences between Indo and the states. "So there are 20 people in a mini-van or a family of 5 on a moped. Is there something wrong with that?" I'm hoping that seeing Javanese life through a camera lens will recultivate the norms of my mother culture.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

The Best Present

Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

Mona and I enjoyed the usual gift giving and ambitious eating of sweets. I say ambitious because my glutonous binge typically ends with overly adverse effects compared to the all-too-short enjoyment. The chocolate high takes a bow amidst a finale of mild shakes and late night rambling. Too many sweets always give me the gitters.

This week Mona caught a bug. She's been down for two days with a runny nose and an intermitent fever. Today she's much better. I think I'm finally getting the hang of this "mothering" thing. It doesn't take much work, just a little sacrifice of self. And that's not too much to give to someone who's constantly doing the same for me, even when I'm not ill.

But the real joy of Christmas came unexpectedly this year. We drove to Semarang, the large city to our north, for an evening with friends. While there we discovered that one of our friends is a "Stargate: SG1" fan. (It's a stateside TV drama.) And while she was on leave in the states last year, she purchased all eight seasons on DVD. We flipped out when we saw them. She let us borrow the most recent season, and for the next two days we endulged in a binge for the eyes. Thankfully this one doesn't leave me shaking, but the insatiable cravings for more are all too familiar. Season nine is showing stateside right now, but we'll have to wait another six months for that fix.

Now that the presents are all opened, the decorations put away, and the chocolate eaten, the best thing to do is to just sit back a take a nice, deep breath, and help my darling wife get back to full health while we play cards or Backgammon. Sometimes the best present afterall is something you already have.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Three-Toed Tree Toad

My 7th grade English class just finished a brief unit on poetry. Hearing their works or art evoked a desire to read some of my own poetry. Here's some of the lighter works from the Griffin Collection.

Three-Toed Tree Toad

A tree toad loved a she toad
That lived up in a tree.
She was a three-toad tree toad,
But a two-toed toad was he.
The two-toed toad tried to win
The she-toad’s friendly nod,
For the two-toed toad loved the ground
On which the three-toed toad trod.
But no matter how the two-toed tree toad tried,
He could not please her whim.
In her tree-toad bower,
With her three-toed power,
The she toad vetoed him.

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A Maid’s Bluster

A maid with a duster
Made a furious bluster
Dusting a bust in the hall.

When the bust it was dusted
The bust it was busted,
The bust it was dusted, that’s all.


Who said poetry had to be serious or boring? Seventh grade brings out my comical side.

Do you have any poems or other writings you'd like to share? Send 'em on over.

James

Saturday, December 10, 2005

Lessons from Cap'n Jack


When we arrived in 2004, one of Mona’s first desires was for a cat. We quickly received two young brothers whom we named Sweet Pete and Cap’n Jack. Both had the characteristically Indonesian kinked tails, but uncommonly sweet dispositions; they weren’t afraid of humans.

Growing up in Arkansas with a best friend who lost more pets than teeth, cats were always on our door step. However, my mother’s acute allergies kept me from ever cuddling them, let alone liking them. My aversion to cats turns out to have been a misperception on my part, because she loves cats despite her adverse reaction to their dander.

As Pete and Jack entered kitty puberty, their regular marking of our furniture and midnight piles in the kitchen or bathroom nearly put me over the edge. I threatened their extinction more than once, and may well have caused a temporary hibernation of Mona’s maternal instincts. Yet, despite my chiding and terse outbursts, Jack remained a loyal snuggler. His nightly hunting expeditions always ended in a chorus of meows at our bedroom window, demanding to be let in for pre-dawn snuggling. During the day, he’d regularly jump up in my lap while I read. He seemed to not be put out whatsoever by my irrational loathing of him.

One day last spring, just before my mother and sister flew out for a visit, I was asked why I disliked cats so much. I immediately sensed that this was more than a rhetorical question; thus, I personalized it: “What’s stopping me from loving completely?” It didn’t take long to conclude that the only block to loving holistically was a simple choice to do so. What a realization. I immediately began experiencing unfamiliar benefits of having pets. I welcomed Jack into my lap and stopped grumbling at his premature wake-up calls. After school I would look forward to his escort home on our “jungle path.” The entire house took on a renewed spirit of warmth and comfort. Naturally, this out pouring of love didn’t stop with Pete and Jack. I found myself embracing my junior high students more freely, and telling my accountability partners that I love them. This one simple decision added dimension upon dimension to my other relationships too. It even enabled me to release some grievances I had been holding on to for several years.

Earlier this month, Jack stopped eating. Within a couple of days he became lackadaisical and despondent. He would hide under the couch and refuse food and water entirely. The local vet said he was reacting to some sort of poison, probably from eating a bad bug. Mona would drag him out from under the couch, dim the lights, stroke him and tell him that we loved him. A week after he stopped eating, Jack died. I buried him in our front yard under a jeruk tree. I cried.

What separates us from those we love? What prohibits us from forgiving or receiving forgiveness from others? From God? Is there someone you “cannot” love? Why not? For me it was simply realizing that I had permission to love. Thank God for the gift of Jack. He has given me more than just a year of fond memories. He has given me hope for complete reconciliation.