Concha

Sometimes there is nothing better than a reconnection. Concha was a close friend of my mother's who, in 1996, hosted a three-generational trip to Ecuador for my daughter, my mother and me. It was wonderful in every respect. For me, It was a return to Ecuador, a country I love. For my mother, it was a trip with her daughter and granddaughter to see old friends while in remission from the cancer that would be her nemesis. For my daughter, it was her first, but not her last, exposure to another culture.

We have so many stories and so many ties. I still make the Ecuadorian recipes I collected that summer. Concha told me that her youngest son has three children now. He was a baby when we first met, and I have a little silver christening cup favor in my china cabinet to commemorate the day. My mother had a deep and abiding envy of Concha's ability to swing a scarf around her neck and have it look just right. On the other hand, they shared the need for tweezers always at the ready when they traveled by car together one summer. Neither could abide the molestia of a stray hair for even a minute. I also reminded Concha of the story I have told so often; when her children were young, they were all assigned to a piece of pre-Columbian art to shield in the event of an earthquake. They all survived and so did the Pre-Columbian art, now housed in a museum, presumably left to it's fate in the event of a tremor--no small children in pajamas to keep it whole.

I was sad to hear that the political situation has made it impossible for them to continue living in Ecuador. It is hard to imagine the country without them there to welcome me back. Nevertheless, I was so happy to talk to her again, as if no time had passed. A cliche, but like many, repeated for the truth it holds.

Conditioning

Oh how I hate it. I always have--even at my peak of physical prowess at age six or so. It seems unfair to put this much effort into building muscles and still not be able to run like a gazelle, or run at all, for that matter. Jesse, the trainer I work with, seems like an affable guy, but today he told us that he had experienced his first fatality in his training classes. Well, that gave me pause. Even after I realized that he had meant to say casualty, his description of the blood and facial swelling confirmed that this is not a benign activity, and that I was right to refuse to jump on the squishy ball.

Most weeks, my goal is to try to keep up with my fellow trainees, one of whom kickboxes in her spare time and does push ups on her toes instead of her knees. Last week I mentioned that I would like to have enough aerobic capacity to talk on the phone while working out. The group, while usually supportive of my efforts, turned on me as one to tell me that if a person can talk on the phone, that person is not actually "working out" and should pick up the pace. I took that as permission to be too breathless to talk while doing any kind of exercise.

Here is what I hate: crab walking, bear walking, imitating animal activity in general, doing 100 push ups right after lunch, and being unable to raise my arms above my shoulders for the next two days afterwards. Here is what I like: draping myself over a large exercise ball and letting my body go limp.

What keeps me coming back? The satisfaction I feel when it is all over and I don't have to feel guilty about exercising for at least two days. Pathetic, yes, but who knows? If I keep it up, someday I might be able to jump on the squishy ball while talking on the phone.

C-Rations

A couple of weeks ago, we ran into our neighbors at the local bakery. They were buying baguettes and handing out fliers for a charitable effort they were organizing for Haiti. I have a fair number of friends who volunteer for worthy organizations, put on events of various types, and I generally try to participate. This one, though, was on an alarming scale. The goal: a half million meals for Haiti in three days. It seemed too big to succeed, but I figured I would do my part so I could at least hold my head up at the Memorial Day block party.

It was a bit unusual in a genius sort of way. Participants had to make a donation AND volunteer time--90 minutes, to be exact. This ensured that the cost of material would be matched 1:1 to the effort to assemble said materials. To be sure, one could donate money or time independently and the two would be united by the organizers. Like most people, I chose to do both.

I showed up at the site at my appointed hour in some remote industrial park. The place looked like an airplane hanger. Once inside, I was relieved of my $25 donation and ushered to the glove and hairnet station. It is a look that is a great equalizer, trust me. Seconds later, I was assembled into a team of eight people and we were each handed a cardboard box into which meals would be packed. We were led to our very own trestle table and given our instructions. By virtue of where I happened to be standing, my job was to hold a bag under a funnel while four fellow volunteers added soy, dehydrated vegetables, a scoop of vitamin powder, and a dollop of rice to each bag. Then to the weigher who added or subtracted rice, the heat sealer, and finally the packer. We may not have been the fastest team in the building, but we were pretty good. We finished our allotted 1700 meals fifteen minutes early, due in large part to the fact that we had no children on the team. (We did have some seniors, one of whom, as he was prompted again for the rice, admitted he was daydreaming about fishing.) As we exited the building, I was tempted to circle back around for another shift.

Alas, I could not, as we were expecting dinner guests. So, on to Whole Foods, where I spent the equivalent of 1000 meals for Haiti on appetizers, salad, and dessert ingredients. The worst part is that I did not even appreciate the irony at the moment. It is all well and good to participate in charitable drives, and I am glad I did. The hard part in amending one's behavior and learning to think on a global scale every day. I'm still working on that one.

In the meantime, Meals for Haiti exceeded the goal of 500,000 meals. Each meal feeds six--dinner for over three million people. Bon Appetite Haiti.