The smell of home

Before safety was on the front burner of adventure companies, a traveler could bike down Haleakala volcano on Maui right after sunrise.  During our first visit, that sounded like a grand adventure, and so one morning a guide picked us up at 3 am, and off we went into the dark night, bicycles in tow.  After a frosty and foggy ride for the first part of the trek, the sun burst through, and the trek down the mountain gifted us with spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean and surrounding countryside.

That would be expected.

But what was unexpected  was the symphony of smells.  Pineapple fields assaulted the air with the smell of ripe fruit.  Breezes carried the salt air across the road. And then, rounding a corner, the road turned through a large grove of eucalyptus trees lining each side.  In an instant, the air was soaked with their singular scent, filling up my lungs with a thick, damp, rich smell of my childhood.

I was home.

I thought about that eucalyptus grove today. Almost two years in the desert now, I am beginning to realize that perhaps it is not the desert landscape itself that engenders a feeling of home for me here.  It is the nostalgic smells that permeate the air.

I walk through the birding trail along Patagonia Lake, and beneath my feet scrub oak leaves litter the ground.  Stepping on them releases the pungent smell of my childhood in Salinas - the scent of San Benancio Canyon, of hikes on the Monterey Peninsula, of the newly developed park my brother tended to in its infancy.

I drive through the foothills of Rio Rico, windows rolled down, and the air is soaked in that leaf smell, and the smell of occasional evergreen, and the smell of dried autumn grasses which catch the wind and are carried across mesquite dotted meadows.

And I walk the frost dusted fairways of a golf course this and every morning, noting the solitary eucalyptus tree, its size indicative of longevity, and I find myself moving to stand at its base, hungry for the smell of my childhood.

Here in this desert, I have recently learned that the smell of home might be even more important for those who are far removed from its comfort. You see, recently when the little town of Sasabe, Sonora in Mexico was caught up in the violence of a cartel war, many of its citizens fled the town, forsaking their homes and all their belongings in order to protect themselves and their families.

They did not just wake up one day and decide to “make a change”.  They were living their lives in a beautiful sleepy little border town, raising their families, sending their children to school, sharing meals with each other around simple tables. And then gunfire erupted in the streets, and kidnappings started, and the school was closed.  And so, they fled.

Christmas Eve day we help moved a family of seven who had fled that violence into a two bedroom trailer.  Because they came with almost nothing, Tim and I set about thinking about what they might need to set up a new home.  After all, what good are donations of canned food if you don’t have a can opener.

But then I began to wonder about what might feel most like home on this holiest of holidays beyond just basic needs. So, we got a little tree and some presents, and I wanted to prepare a Christmas meal with all the trimmings, some small gesture of welcome to lighten the load. But I only knew American traditions, so I began to research what meal might be part of a Mexican Christmas celebration.

My research led me to the tradition of having pozole, a celebtratory Mexican stew,  which I had never heard of.  One thing you may not know about me is that I am not a recipe follower…I make things up as I go. But I searched high and low for all of the very specific ingredients, and I followed the recipe meticulously and let the stew simmer for almost a day.

The next day, with the warmed pozole in a crockpot safely plugged in their new kitchen, a group of us moved in their scant belongings and supplies. When we had finished unloading the car, I called mama over to the crockpot. Dad and the children stood with us in the postage sized kitchen, curious what was in the pot.  Mama came to stand next to me to peer in, and I lifted the lid releasing the aroma.

One whiff, and her face exploded into joy.

Her whole family began laughing, and for one moment, we were all filled with joy with her.  There were no beds, few personal belongings,and not really enough room for such a large family.  But they were together.  They were safe.

And the smell of pozole made this trailer a home.

When we arrived back at our own home, I opened the refrigerator and realized I had not done any shopping for our own family, and all the stores were closed.  But we had a few frozen Stouffer’s spaghetti dinners, and we cobbled together a meal not fit for a king, but fit for two people who had just experienced where true joy comes from.

The next morning, Christmas came.  In the pre dawn hours we walked our dog on the frosty fairway once again.  I stood beneath the solitary eucalyptus tree on the side of the fairway and stared upward into its enormous canopy.  The smell drifted down.

I was home again.

And I hoped this immigrant family was experiencing the same thing, in a new land, in a new dwelling, but with the aroma of home still in the air to comfort them.

The other side of the coin…

Many of us grew up with the family truism, “Garbage in, garbage out.” Though it could be used as a way to encourage us to not eat so much junk food, it worked in a multitude of areas. If a sketchy friend came into our lives, if we read too many comic books, if we watched too many cartoons…garbage in, garbage out.

I had not thought about it much until recently on Facebook, I read a poster that caused me to reconsider that truism in light of how I look at my past childhood trauma:

While you are healing from generational trauma,

do not forget to acknowledge generational strengths.

Let’s face it. Both my parents were dealing with unhealed trauma and probably PTSD long before there was a label for it. My dad was a WWII veteran with a flash temper and an addiction to pornography which probably contributed to my abuse.

Garbage in.

My mom was a WWII survivor from a war torn country who probably had never herself been mothered, as the birth of her sister caused the ruination of her mother’s health and gave mom the task of parenting a sibling at five years of age. Thus, mom, when mom ended up raising, sort of, four children in a foreign country whose customs she never fully embraced or even understood, she practiced all she knew: benign neglect.

Garbage in.

But here’s the thing.

Garbage in did not result in garbage out.

More trauma, yes. Bad decisions, yes. A complicated life, perhaps. But somehow, the four children of that upbringing all grew up to be fairly successful human beings. Why? What were the generational strengths that have gone unspoken under the weight of the trauma?

My dad’s first field trip anytime we moved to a new location was to take his children to get library cards. He valued reading, and though he had only acquired a high school education, I hardly remember a time when he did not have a book he was finishing. I heard he wrote poetry, which my mom discarded as unnecessary, so it remains unknown to me.

He also loved all music, especially classical, and his proudest possession was a console hi-fi which held a prominent place in the living room on which he softly played classical music any time he was home.

My dad loved to cook and taught me how to make homemade bread, always leaving the kitchen a disaster. He was constantly starting new hobbies, like jewelry making, that cluttered our small home with gadgets. And he loved the outdoors and was always taking us out to experience a hike or a swim or a drive in the country, which usually ended up with some small disaster.

But what actually endeared him to my mom was the fact that he had a generous heart towards others. While stationed in Japan, he somehow connected with Father Damien’s work and became involved with helping lepers. In the military he worked hard to bring a library to those who were incarcerated, and he booked musical acts and other entertainment for soldiers to bring a little relief to their lives.

And his laugh was so loud that Jimmy Durante used him as “bait” for his jokes at a concert we once went to.

Mom, on the other hand, did not learn to laugh until her later years. We often joked that the shortest book in the world was “Four Hundred Years of German Humor.” But her joy could not be contained when she was adventuring in the woods. She loved camping and hiking and seeing unexplored places for the first time. And she hand typed a manuscript of her life of adventures which I still have today.

Her love of literature and poetry knew no bounds, and she too was an avid reader. Her near photographic memory allowed her to retain the many of works of Goethe, which even in her nineties she could recite at our early morning coffee. And her generosity of spirit led her to open an employment agency in downtown Salinas where she tried with every ounce of energy to employ the “unemployable.” There was no one she ever met that was beneath her attention, and though she often had a cruel comment in private, in public she welcomed the stranger and the outcast with open arms.

As I have been writing this, it has dawned on me that it is past time to shift my focus to those gifts they passed on to me in my young years. Was my life made more difficult by the unhealed trauma from their lives? Absolutely. But I did not leave that trauma unhealed in myself, and some of that process may have been facilitated by the strengths they passed on.

I’ll be honest. It has been hard to turn that coin over. I would so much rather cling to an old story that is no longer mine. But in truth, the ashes have turned to beauty. The past is forgiven. The plot took a fortuitous twist.

So today, after working so hard to never be like my parents, I would declare this:

I am a poet like my dad, and I am a writer like my mom.

I am spontaneous like my dad, and I love to adventure like my mom.

I love music and literature, just like my father. Just like my mother.

And I am moved to acts of compassion by the example of them both.

And for that, I am grateful.

The perfect storm

Mom was in her nineties when she decided she needed to see Maligne Canyon in Alberta “one last time”.  She had been making those “one last time” requests for at least a decade, but even so, it seemed like a good plan to go adventuring again.

Somehow, I managed to get her on a plane to Calgary, not an easy feat since boarding meant climbing a steep set of stairs into the plane.  But as we began our descent, she looked at me with her eyes sparking and announced, “I can still fly," and I was flooded with optimism.

Which quickly faded.

Arriving at our cabin in Jasper, we were soaked in the smell of early season bug spray, which both of us are allergic to.  We managed our famous “on the bridge” picture, but decided after a night of misery that leaving early and heading towards Calvary would be best.

At the ranger station entry, my frustration grew as the person ahead of me engaged in a long conversation.  Arriving at the gate, I asked what was going on.  The ranger explained that a rock slide had occurred outside of Banff, but the road was being cleared.  She explained I could turn around or go forward in hopes the road would be cleared. In my frustration, and with a less than healthy mom in the car, I chose to proceed, as our flight in Calgary waited for us the next day.

My anticipation of the beautiful drive through the Canadian Rockies was ruined by a relentless rain that began to fall.  Nearing the half way point, we encountered a newly released rock and mudslide just finishing its journey across the road.  Knowing that more might soon follow and with Calgary in my sights, I did what no one should ever do…. I drove through the fresh slide praying no more was on the way.

I had to get my mom back to Calgary and to safety.

Once arriving in Canmore, finding lodging was hard.  Only one hotel outside of town had a room.  We quickly found out why.  A storm cell was trapped in the valley of these mountains and had been swirling relentlessly for hours, dropping so much water that the swollen waters of the Bow River and its tributaries had not only engulfed the city of Canmore,but also had destroyed the Transcanadian Highway, the only east/west route across Canada.

We were trapped.  And mom’s medication had run out.

A frantic run to a pharmacy solved the first problem.  Later, when we asked about a good place to eat, the hotel clerk told us that if we left the hotel, we would likely not be able to get back.  The waters were continuing to rise.  The road back to Jasper was closed by rock and mudslides.  A worry filled night awaited.

That next morning, the clerk announced that a back route out to Vancouver was momentarily open.  I went back to the hotel room and as calmly as I could, suggested we hit the road.  Canmore could likely be shut in for weeks.  We had few options.  Mom cheerfully packed her bags, and we left in the pouring rain.

Mom’s macular degeneration limited her vision of the disaster.   Mine was clear.

We were the only car on the road.  Driving next to the swollen river, I could see the debris of homes and belongings being carried downstream along with enormous trees.  I knew that the hillsides on either side of the road could tumble at any moment in the continuing deluge.  But I held my panic inside, and I kept the spirit in the car light because mom did not need that worry.

There is not enough space to tell the tale in its entirety.  Suffice it to say we made it to a Canadian border town where our family awaited and mom, given the preferential front row seat, chatted on and on about her now “greatest adventure” escaping the flood.

I did not share her enthusiasm.

Seated in the back of the van, I looked out the window and began to weep.  My soul was exhausted by the constant prayer, the spontaneous problem solving, the concern for her health and safety.  I honestly wondered at times if we would be trapped somewhere or buried in a slide.

I thought about that journey today as I accompanied a woman who has been helping traumatized citizens of a small border town who had escaped cartel violence.  None of these townspeople were prepared for the flood of violence that overtook their town.  None of them were prepared for the roar of the gun battles or the kidnappings in their streets.  None of them had been thinking of ripping up their lives and fleeing their homes.

And yet they did.

As we went from place to place helping her deliver supplies to their temporary housing, I couldn’t not help but think about my “privilege”. When disaster struck my little world, I had the luxury of credit cards and cell phones, and a car. I was in a foreign country whose language mimicked my own. I knew the security of my home awaited.

I had every resource at my fingertips.

As I looked into the eyes of these families, I couldn’t not help but think of what this disaster had done to their lives.  No belongings.  No transportation. No money for emergencies.  And now displaced in a land where, except for the helpers, they were soaked in a foreign landscape.

I know how desperate I was, even with all of my resources, to keep my mom safe.  For these families, without resources, their only path to safety was through the mountains… children, elders, infirm, new mothers…families who woke up one day to a shattered world and had only one goal.

Survival.

When it was my mom whose life was in danger, I would have moved mountains to keep her safe.  I would have forsaken my own life to protect her.  I would have risked anything and everything for even the tiniest glimmer of hope that escape from disaster was a possibility.

And somehow, I imagine you would do the same.

Just like the person fleeing the bombs in Palestine or Ukraine.

Just like the person fleeing on a flimsy boat across a dangerous expanse of sea.

Just like the person illegally crossing the desert to escape cartel violence.

You would do the same.