The Spirit of Kind America: "Home from Haiti"

What Really Makes America Great

Where were you  on 9/11? I was in Haiti. Yes, Haiti. You may have heard of it recently. On that day, Haitians comforted me and the Peace Corps Volunteers I'd traveled there to train on HIV/AIDS intervention techniques. My story about that day and its aftermath appeared two years ago in Chicken Soup's The Spirit of America. Here it is:

Home from Haiti

 "God says do your part and I'll do mine."—Haitian Proverb

All I wanted in the aftermath of 9/11 was to get home to Ken. The United States Embassy assured me I'd remain safe in Haiti, where I'd finished staging an HIV/AIDS prevention seminar for Peace Corps Volunteers and their counterparts.

"Reagan National will remain closed indefinitely," the ambassador's aide explained. "You can get on your flight for Miami Sunday, but once there, you'll be stuck. All the rental cars are long gone. People will wait days to grab a seat for Dulles or BWI."

"I understand," I said, "but I'll risk getting delayed. If worse comes to worst, my daughter-in-law's parents live there, and might put me up for a while."

My husband still had been asleep in Silver Spring, Maryland, that Tuesday morning when, a dozen miles away, a hijacked jet had smashed into the Pentagon. He hadn't learned about the day's events until the early afternoon when a son phoned to see if he were all right.

I'd been 1500 miles away, in a rustic hotel in coastal Montrouis, two hours north of Port-au-Prince. Still newlyweds, we'd grown used to separations during our first year of marriage, since I traveled overseas frequently for my job. This, though, was different. I needed to be with Ken right now for mutual solace.

When the news reached us in our hotel conference room, we'd taken a break. We'd poured into the adjacent bar, where the manager had switched on a generator-operated black and white television. We stared in disbelief as CNN showed reruns of footage of the collapse of New York City's Twin Towers.

"We should cancel this training," a few Volunteers suggested through tears.

"No," others countered. "People are travelling here from all over the country. Some have to hike miles to catch a tap tap. We can't disappoint them."

Tap taps, the gaily painted vehicles that provide public transportation in this Caribbean country, follow fixed routes on rough roads. Some of the counterparts might walk for most of a day or more in torrid heat to reach the nearest pickup site.

The Haiti Peace Corps health programmer and I exchanged glances. There'd never been a question in our minds of cancellation. Though HIV/AIDS prevalence rates had diminished from horrendous highs in the '80s at the outbreak of the scourge, mother-to-child transmission rates remained shockingly high in this poorest country in the Western hemisphere. This long-planned event would be Peace Corps' first training effort here.

We somehow struggled through the conference. The Peace Corps nurse, an energetic Haitian woman, drove from the capital to counter the myths that had sprung up about the disease. In no uncertain Creole she set her superstitious countrymen straight that voodoo played no part in selecting victims. The Volunteers translated for their counterparts, and engaged them in the interactive skits and scenarios that are the hallmark of Peace Corps trainings worldwide.

Most Volunteers reported their counterparts now had increased levels of understanding and had agreed to spread the new information back in their villages. We were happy with this positive outcome.

The embassy escorted me Sunday morning to Toussaint L'Ouverture International where I trudged aboard an American Airline flight for Miami. The flight attendants all wore black armbands to honor their colleagues who had died in the line of duty on 9/11. They informed us we needed to remain seated for the entire flight. Everybody seemed uneasy at takeoff, some Haitians weeping. Air conditioning couldn't mask perspiration's acrid scent.

Once in Miami, I buzzed straight for the American Airline desk. I produced both my return ticket to Reagan National and my government passport.

"Sorry, we don't have any seats available on any flights right now," the check-in agent said. "Wish we did. We have one flight diverted to Dulles tonight at 11, but the last economy seat got taken about 10 minutes ago. All I can do is put you on a waiting list."

I went to a nearby pay phone and called Ken. I knew he'd be relieved that I'd at least made it back to the mainland.

"I'm here at Miami International," I said when he answered. "Might be here for days. Things don't look good."

"Call me again tonight, baby," he said. "I miss you so much. I've been on the phone with all of my sons today. We're all hoping you get home safe…and soon."

I sat down near the gate and began to read Herbert Gold's "Haiti: Best Nightmare on Earth." This was a newly revised paperback edition. I'd met Gold decades earlier and knew of his lifelong love for the country.

I'd only finished a chapter or two when a young man sat down beside me. He looked exhausted and angry. I realized that nearly everybody in the waiting area wore similar expressions of anxiety and defeat. It had been a terrible week for us all.

"Haiti?" the man said, peering at the book in my hands. "Why bother to read that? That country's done for."

"Not quite," I replied. "I work for Peace Corps and our philosophy is a positive one. I've just come from conducting a health training there."

His scowl faded. He blinked. He shifted his gaze to my face.

"Tell me more," he said. "I'm in pharmaceuticals and we're always looking for new markets."

I explained a little about how HIV/AIDS and devastated the country, and what efforts had been made to counter the disease. Soon he was telling me about his family in Virginia, and how lucky he'd been to get on the 11 p.m. flight there.

"I got the last seat," he crowed.

"Oh, it's you. I came ten minutes later." I fished in my purse and hauled out my wallet.

"Here's a photo of my husband. We've been married a little over a year. He's alone in Silver Spring, and I've been yearning to get back to give him a hug. I've never missed anybody more."

He studied the photo. "Looks a lot like my dad. He died a few years back. I always could go to him for honest encouragement. Your husband has the same kindness in his eyes."

I nodded, and smiled. I love seeing how we can find similarities to bond over despite all of our differences.

Soon the man arose and walked to the check-in desk. I returned to my book. First class had already boarded for that last Dulles flight. I pictured my companion soon settling into his seat.

M

The loudspeaker crackled. "Will passenger Elders come to the check-in desk?"

I approached, steeled for bad news about how many hours or days I'd have to wait until another flight could be diverted.

"Here's your boarding pass. You're in the last row, but you'll be home tonight."

"But…"

The clerk smiled. "The guy who had this seat upgraded. He was traveling on business with an expense account. He said to tell the lady who had been trying to do some good in Haiti to give her husband a hug."

Finally I released the tears I'd held back all week.

I phoned Ken from Dulles. "Not everything is a nightmare. Prepare to be hugged in about an hour, thanks to a stranger's kindness."

"I'm ready," my husband replied.

###

Chicken Soup followed this book up last summer with a second one,  My Kind (of) America. My sweetheart, Frank Stern, had a story in that volume. Here we are together at a book signing in San Bernardino last August.

Celebrating the True Spirit of America

Aglow Are We

Celebrating Frank's 81st Birthday, December 2017

Earlier this week an acquaintance asked if I were still seeing my gentleman friend.
"Sure am," I replied. "We're planning a couple of trips for later this year."
She smiled. "Isn't it nice that you have somebody in your life at your age?"

My age is not a secret...never has been. Yes, I'm old. But I've always thought it nice to have somebody in your life at ANY age. Here's a story I wrote a few months ago about one of the reasons why. I'd finished it a few weeks before our "fail safe" arrangement  played a part in rescuing my friend after he lost consciousness from smoke inhalation related to the Canyon 2 wildfire that swept the neighborhoods surrounding his condominium. When he didn't respond to my calls from his doorstep, I called 911. Just as we'd always agreed we would do.

Aglow are We

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.” --~Helen Keller

Frank and I serve as one another’s “fail-safes.”  Octogenarians who live alone, we prize our twice-a-day assurances of knowing we’re still alert and alive. We agreed when we first met and fell in love, a little over a year ago, to take turns calling one another every morning at 7:30 and every night at 10.

So, though it’s a joy to hear the phone jingle at these anticipated times, when it rang close to midnight a few weeks ago, I rushed to my desk to snatch up the receiver. My free left hand flew to cover my suddenly thudding heart.

Did he need a ride to the ER? Was there another leaky water pipe? Had something happened to a grandchild?

I’d been on a bad luck streak the past several days. It had started when I’d taken my car in for what I thought would be a minor adjustment to the air conditioner. Instead, I’d learned that the engine needed major repairs. The following day, when I recovered it from the shop, my lunchtime tryst with Frank had been spoiled when I backed into a yellow safety stanchion in the restaurant parking lot, denting the back fender.

Even the check I’d requested from my credit union to cover these unexpected repair bills hadn’t arrived when I expected it, apparently lost in the mail. I’d even phoned my son, whose name is on all my financial accounts, and he hadn’t received it either.

I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to expect good news. Earlier that day I’d closed an email to my closest friend with the words “woe is me.”

 Frank’s voice seemed reassuringly calm. “Sorry to call you so late, sweetheart, but you’d said earlier you were going to be reading for a while.”

“What’s happened?” I asked, raking my fingers through my bangs. I hoped whatever it was wouldn’t require me to get dressed and drive to his condominium a dozen miles away. But of course, I’d do it, I thought. After all, he’d do it for me.

Before he could answer, I continued, “Are you all right? Do you need to go to the ER?”

“Calm down, honey. It’s wonderful news,” he said.

“It better be at this hour,” I said. “My heart’s pounding. I’d expected the worst.”

“Remember that story you helped me edit? The one about the fire at my synagogue?”

A retired university professor, Frank had published several scholarly articles and even a textbook. For the past year, though, he’d been working on some personal pieces, and a historical novel.   I’d been helping him adopt a more informal style. He’d worked on a piece about how members of two completely different religious faiths had banded together. I’d helped him shape it and revise it. Finally, we decided it was time to submit it for consideration to an anthology.

I waited impatiently for Frank to continue. “Well?” I barked.

“I got an email from the editor that it’s under consideration for publication.”

A tingle started at my toes and worked its way up to my scalp. I flushed, and my fingers felt shaky.

“That’s wonderful news, sweetheart. Wonderful. I can’t believe how happy that makes me feel.”

Frank laughed. “I knew you’d be delighted. I so much appreciate all the suggestions you made. I didn’t check my email today until I got home from a meeting…and even though I knew how late it was, I couldn’t resist phoning.”

“You’ve given me a lovely way to close the day,” I said. “This is my second piece of good news. You remember I told you once that my Grandma Gertie insisted that good things come in three?”

“Why threes? Why good things? After all, it’s three strikes and you’re out.”

I grinned. Frank and I both love research. I’m always consulting the Oxford English Dictionery and he’s constantly checking his Encyclopedia of Judaica. Once when I’d complained that while I knew that “schadenfreude” was the German word for pleasure derived from the misfortune of others, I didn’t know what its antonym was, the opposite that meant taking joy in others’ good fortune.

Frank had looked it up. “Mudita,” he’d told me. “It’s Sanskrit. It means unselfish joy in the good fortune of others.”

Even though it was the witching hour (and I planned to look up the origin of that phrase the next day), I couldn’t resist explaining how Grandma had arrived at her conclusion.

“Well, she explained that here on the third planet from the sun, three wise men once traveled to a faraway manger to greet a newborn baby. But a few years ago, I’d looked up ‘third time’s a charm,’ in the Oxford English Dictionery, and it apparently traces back to Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor.”

I could hear Frank’s grandfather clock begin to toll twelve in the background. I needed to say goodnight. Once we got started on etymology, Frank and I could go on for hours.

“Honey, it’s midnight. Thanks so much for letting me know your good news. I’m all aglow for you.”

“Wait! What are the other two good things that happened to you today?”

“Only two so far. While we’ve been talking, I’ve been checking my email. I have one from my son who says that the credit union sent my check to his address. It’s not lost after all. But I’m certain a third will come along. Maybe I’ll have sweet dreams about you.”

I crawled back into bed, assured that Frank would be calling me at 7:30 to make certain I was safe. I felt aglow with vicarious joy, thrilled for Frank and his news that his story had a chance at publication, and that I’d been able to help him. Happy we had found each other. Delighted that we took such pleasure in each other’s good fortune.

Before I drifted off to sleep, I realized that our fail-safe calls should count automatically as two good things that we share every single day. Then it struck me. Alive, alert, and able at our age to be in love…that’s a third good thing right there.

Intoxicated with joy, I could hardly wait to call Frank the next morning with the news.

Celebrating my 80th birthday, June, 2017