When I started writing this blog four years ago I first “mastered” the software used behind the screen and leased server space from a provider. I learned enough to layout and organize the pages and the internal links, and to move and organize files on the server–but nothing fancy. And I didn’t keep updating the software with each new version; the old version worked just fine, thankyouverymuch.
Recently, I returned to the “other Washington,” DC, where I have a very robust Internet connection. And so I thought to do some maintenance work on the El Otro WA website. Nothing major; I just wanted to backup the site, update the software, make a couple of small changes, and then backup the result. And so I looked into the files and discovered that I REMEMBERED NOTHING!
I wasn’t too thrilled with the prospect of re-learning everything, either. In fact, in a real display of character–one that reveals the new me, I decided that, for the first time in my life it wasn’t really necessary for me to comprehend the internals of the system. And so I decided to hire the project out.
If I didn’t remember the names of the files or how to manipulate them to achieve my ends, I did have a full understanding of the fact that this was not a difficult project for someone who DID know the system. Six people responded to the note I put up in the “Gigs” section of Craig’s list, offering $100 to someone to do the work. It should have been rewarding gig, if not exactly a lucrative one.
Enter Samantha, who shall otherwise remain nameless, but only because I imagine myself a kind man.
Samantha is a “community organizer and peace activist” in my home area and she asserted that she could get this work done and “”help me be more comfortable using the software…and she could use a little extra money.”
Eventually, we met in the Silver Spring library. I booted up my laptop and Samantha started in. A little more than an hour into the project and I began to recognize some of the sounds emanating from Samantha: “hmmm,” followed by “uh,” and then “ooh.” Samantha suggested that we telephone the support desk at the server farm that hosted my site. She seemed to speak the same language as the support person on the other end, even if the very fact of the call was not reassuring.
Twenty minutes after hanging up, Samantha was beginning to perspire. I recognized this as a not good sign, and took the opportunity to remark that the El Otro Site, for all that it is, is also sort of a memory of my last three years with my now-departed wife.
Samantha continued to sweat and appeared to have difficulty in focusing. Eventually, she turned to me and said: ” I am SO sorry.” (pause) “I messed up your website.” (pause) “I don’t know how I did it.” (more rapidly now) “I don’t know what I did. I don’t know how to fix it. I am SO sorry.” and with that she gathered her things and FLED FROM THE LIBRARY!
The last I saw of Samantha was her back disappearing around the stacks, heading for the door.
I was not devastated. I did not think that all was lost. I was pretty sure that I could get everything back, somehow. But I was certainly surprised by her solution.
The following day I contacted the service provider (1and1.com) and asked them to place a current backup of my site in my space, which they were able to do. I contacted the guy that I should have used to begin with (thefreelanceguy.com) and proceeded to re-install the old site, update the software, Install a new “skin” or “theme” over the El Otro WA content and make a few changes to the new theme. We made provision for regular backups within my own control.
Thefreelanceguy was swift and sure. No sweat, but…
For some reason, much of the content was systematically modified: all of the quotation marks, the apostrophes, the ellipses and the dashes had been replaced by the code that html uses to indicate those symbols, and so I’ve had to go through and manually replace that code with the correct punctuation in nearly every post on the site. If you’ve been receiving these e-mails for awhile, you have a full understanding of the effort needed to address my punctuation.
But that’s OK. This has forced me to read all of the posts again, something I might not have done, otherwise.
And so I’ve re-lived my travels with Denise over the past few years, and especially last summer’s tour across the US and Canada, taken shortly before she died. I’ve corrected most of the punctuation, and arranged the web site in a much better way–see what you think. (www.elotrowa.com) So I’m very grateful to thefreelanceguy.
And THANKS, Samantha!
A few of you have asked about the cats, as in “What’s up with the cats?”
Well, I’ll tell you…
For much of my adult life I have lived with cats. This is not because I have a particular affinity for felines, although I like them well enough. Rather, it is because many of the women in my life have been partial to cats. It’s not quite been “love me, love my cats,” but close enough.
In my experience, Denise always had cats. And she made good cats, affectionate and responsive insofar as it’s possible to raise a responsive cat. For their part, the cats seemed to think I was a bit better than OK, and that feeling was mutual. But their true affection was unmistakably for Denise.
At the time of her death, Denise and I had two cats, Lizzie (honoring Elisabeth “Catty” Stanton) and Duffy (after a Seattle Blues Rocker.) The two girls share only an approximate age– more or less nine years old–and not a lot more in size, shape or personality. Raised indoors, they had finally joined us in the Caribbean outdoors where they adapted nicely and had four glorious months lounging about in the sunshine and eventually assuming a laissez-faire attitude with the geckos.
They seemed to really enjoy their new circumstances, so much so that on the day of our scheduled return to the other Washington they elected to remain on holiday, rather than making themselves available for the flight to the US. As it was, that journey turned into a three-day solo trial by snowstorm for Denise, while the girls and I held the Dominican fort.
Soon thereafter, I sped to Denise, leaving the girls in the care of friends and–by curious coincidence, Christin, our regular house sitter in the US who happened to be visiting her mom, vacationing in Las Galeras.
Over the course of several weeks following, in an effort facilitated electronically by a friend in DC and carried out on the ground by a substantial cross-section of the village of Las Galeras and ultimately and nimbly executed by our friend Christin who, bending regulations and violating rules with aplomb, ultimately delivered both cats safely to our home in Takoma Park.
There I quickly and completely became the primary, if not the sole object of their considerable affection. This was gratifying and comforting in any number of ways as I faced my own changed circumstances, the foremost being the circumstance of “No Denise.”
It anthropomorphizes and probably overstates the case to say that the girls and I consoled each other, but it’s entirely accurate to say that we three were a mutual comfort in this time.
Like you, I’m aware of the commonplace advice to make no major changes in the first year after the death of a spouse. Perhaps like you, I never imagined myself in a position to experience this first-hand. We both figured that I would go first, but only after many more fine years. Making no immediate changes always seemed to make abstract sense and now I understand the wisdom of the idea and intend to make no significant changes in my life in this first year or so.
As a rule, it is pretty easy enough to do nothing.
I have had some experience with this in my life, and certainly millions of people demonstrate the possibility of accomplishing nothing every day. Some, I know, succeed in this for many, many days running.
And so I thought to continue my own life as before, more or less splitting time between the United States and the Dominican Republic, learning how to go on and wondering “what next?”
But what of my cats?
You may already know that traveling with a cat is not difficult, only a bit inconvenient.
One person traveling with two cats, and traveling in a Caribbean climate and with connecting flights is an entirely different kettle of fish. In fact, it is not possible for most of the year. It quickly became apparent that the girls could not commute and to continue with me, their new best friend, they would have to live in one place or another and that the best I could manage would be to pass in and then out of their lives every 6 months or so.
This seemed hardly fair, and so it was with a sense of gratitude and welcome relief that I acceded to the wish of one of Denise’s oldest and dearest friends who volunteered the news that her family needed cats, that in fact her sons had been asking if maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to “surprise Poppa on Father’s Day” with a kitty.
This appeared to be karma working in everyone’s favor, even if jumping the gun on the “no changes in 12 months” idea, and so we set about making the considerable necessary arrangements.
Mary, Poppa, and the boys live in the village of Herzogenbuchsee, about one hour and a half from Zurich, Switzerland. Moving the girls to Switzerland was not a simple thing. It is nothing like a drive to Baltimore, or even a flight to Austin. In fact, it proved to be a remarkably complex undertaking filled with detailed and officious requirements.
One unanticipated and quite complicated aspect of the process was contending with the changed nature of our respective relationships. Both cats behaved more affectionately with me, and I with them. They also appeared to be more affectionate and more forgiving of each other. Really, we were quite the cozy little trio, even as I set in motion all of the steps leading to our eventual divorce. This included the purchase of three different sets of carriers (don’t ask), separate veterinary certifications, shots, certified health records, chip implants, official document review and stamps obtainable only in an obscure federal office in a strip mall in Annapolis, Maryland and two separate dry runs (without the cats) to the cargo terminal at Dulles International Airport.
The dry runs proved to be an exceptionally good idea since both revealed different and correctable but shipment-stalling flaws in the plan.
And at each step of the way I felt as though I was betraying the girls and also letting go of Denise, yet one more time. Through this I remained certain that a loving and stable life with Mary’s family was in the cat’s best interest and mine. It was not easy.
Thomas and Mary were looking forward to the girl’s arrival and I was confident that much love was bubbling up, like yeast swelling bread dough in a warm corner of the kitchen. For their part, Lizzie and Duffy seemed only moderately suspicious when the cat crates materialized in their living room.
I scrubbed the new carriers thoroughly to remove all traces of the injection mold release agent, firmly fastened the water and food trays to the doors in conformance with the regulations, and collected a whole sheaf of particularly garish stickers to apply to the boxes with abandon (Live Animal! Caution!!! This Side Up!)
The girls were slated to depart on a Friday afternoon and scheduled to arrive in Zurich at 8:05 the following morning. Because it was a Saturday, Mary and Thomas intended to travel to the airport as a family to “pick up some friends of Denise,” with the idea of making a wonderful surprise for the boys.
This was before we fell afoul of yet one more requirement: the four hour rule.
The cargo facility in Zurich closes at noon on Saturday. With the girl’s flight scheduled to arrive at 8:05 AM that left three hours and fifty-five minutes before closing. We all understand that three hours and fifty-five minutes is not four hours, not by a long shot, as it turns out. This discrepancy was not in conformance with the rules, this discrepancy was not at all Swiss. And it certainly was not easy to resolve.
It took one particularly dedicated woman from United Airlines International Cargo Services a full day and a half, including one day that began specially at 4:00 AM specifically to reach an authority in Hamburg, Germany before he in turn got very, very busy with his own European workday and persuading him to modify the rule, thus permitting the girls to be loaded on the flight.
And so I plastered the crates with stickers, fed and watered the girls and spent one final night in their affectionate company. Around noon I slipped them some anti-anxiety medication (that the airline didn’t know about) and noticed that all of the brightly-colored stickers had fallen off the crates during the night.
At that point I could have used a little anti-anxiety medicine myself, but settled instead for lunch and a roll of clear packing tape. It was relatively easy for me to capture the cats and they didn’t protest very much. I knew a moment of fear in the cargo facility when the handler wanted me to take the cats out so she could inspect the inside of the carriers. I could just imagine a spirited and time-sensitive game of hide-and-seek in the cavernous cargo facility. I’d already had that experience in a tropical garden and didn’t relish the prospect of a repeat performance. Fortunately we were able to work that situation out to everyone’s satisfaction.
Duffy looked over her shoulder and through the bars at me as they both were carried away and into the air conditioned office to await loading of the aircraft. Perhaps I only imagined bewilderment and betrayal on her furry little face, but I don’t think so.
Even then, at the eleventh hour I came close to calling the whole thing off but I kept hearing Denise’s voice “They’re CATS, for God’s sake–they’ll be fine!” and I was still sure that the stability and security of family life was their best bet.
And so I let them go, and with them Denise, one more time.
They arrived safely. The boys were surprised. The whole family was delighted. The girls adjusted almost immediately. Love blossomed in the Family Kalau. And I recovered before too long.
Yet, off in the distance we could hear the faint but threatening murmur of an oscillating fan swiveling at an idle, searching for its next load of crap, which was not long in coming.
Regrettably, one of the boys had a serious and negative response to the cats, not really allergic but a response more viral in nature: fever, swollen glands, rheumy and red eyes and an uncharacteristically irritable little disposition. Over the course of several weeks many physicians were consulted, tests were done and remedies were tried without success. Even the final remedy–placement with an alternate family–proved impossible for two adult cats in the middle of kitten season in Herzogenbuchsee.
My metaphorical crap-splattering fan inexholerably came up to full speed just as the developing mess rose to meet its spinning blades with the consequence that the girls–who of course were unconditionally guaranteed and seem to lead charmed lives–returned to Washington with nary a spatter. This is more than we people can claim.
Mary, Thomas, and the boys were distraught and I was discomfited. Christin, staying in my home during my absence, was very sympathetic and yet quietly pleased–an ideal combination, when you think of it. She does love the cats.
And so we have cats.
At this time in our respective lives Christin has cats when she’s living in our house, and I have cats when I am. The Family Kalau regrettably has these cats only when they visit, but only in the US.
As for the girls, they are reportedly quite content for the moment and the foreseeable future–supposing that nothing further will change for me, or for Christin, or with them, for that matter.
So perhaps there is another river for them to cross in the future. Perhaps not–but what do they care: They’re CATS, for God’s sake, and they know nothing of life’s oscillating karmic splatter-fan.
And so now they are home, happy and apparently none the worse for wear. And I wouldn’t mind having their frequent flier miles.
This photo hardly does the girls justice, although they DO seem to be enjoying a warm step.
Tags: Denise E. Hanna, Denise Ellen Hanna, Denise Hanna, Denise Yourtz, Las Galeras, Shipping Cats
Here on the northeast coast of Hispaniola everything grows, and for most of the year it grows furiously. It’s growing furiously right now and it will grow furiously right up until my return flight to the US lifts off in mid-September or early October. It will certainly grow furiously during my absence and it is likely to be growing furiously still when I return.
Here in Las Galeras and over the course of a year there are about ten chances in twelve that the garden’s growth will be furious. I don’t mind this for any number of reasons, not the least of which is because it is simply beyond my control.
Fortunately, I enjoy pruning.
This is a good thing because simply keeping the magnificent view from the porch open and the lovely one from the guest bungalow is close to a full-time job. Toss in the idea of keeping the garden paths relatively walkable and you’re ready to launch into a full-time career.
This is particularly the case if you’re at all interested in shaping plants as opposed to simply whacking them. Since I am not at present looking for a full-time occupation in the garden, but I AM looking for shapely plants this presents something of a dilemma. As a possible and partial solution I am trying to diminish the overall size of each plant. Wish me luck with this.
So far this year I have diminished several good-sized bushes right into the ground. I’m pretty sure that it will require chemicals to keep them at ground level for any length of time. This is no problem since I can buy actual Agent Orange here in the RD. Many of you will recall–and some from personal experience–that Agent Orange is a ferocious herbicide. Exactly what one needs to take on a furious tropical garden.
And just like in Viet Nam in the 70’s, the use of Agent Orange here requires no license, no respirator, no gloves, and no special garb. It doesn’t take much of the product to be effective, which is good, because the stuff is apparently persistent. With my Windex spray bottle I’m a veritable grim reaper in the plant kingdom.
But I do prefer to prune.
As for actually cutting the plants, my friend and former neighbor, a retired Italian butcher in Seattle showed me years ago everything that I know. There are really just three or four simple points to proper pruning: you look for the structure of the plant and work from that, no matter how far from ideal the existing structure may be. You work from the inside out, removing growth that clutters the plant and hinders air circulation. You can force length by clipping off side branching growth and force “bushiness” by clipping the branch ends. In either case, you clip at a node. Often you can put the clippings in water, nodes down, and begin new plants.
Put in these terms, pruning is a lot like most of the work that I have done in other settings, some of which paid better.
Here in the Dominican I would add to my friend George’s points the following: Insofar as possible, avoid the use of the machete. This is also true with other types of work, I suppose.
Be that as it may, the machete is quite effective and on occasion there is no substitute.
Here in the state of Samana machetes are available in a variety of sizes and shapes, all of which are savage in the using. The novice would be well-advised to seek an experienced opinion before attempting to match knife with purpose. Counting the one that I bought Denise for her 59th birthday, I have three machetes, only one of which is rusty from disuse. The rusty machete is a monster that I brought from the States. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
In addition to the machetes I have particularly good Swiss pruning tools and a very effective Japanese pruning saw that contends WAY above its weight class. Around here we refer to the saw as my “Japanese machete” although I suppose that maybe a Samurai sword would be closer in actual concept, if not in intended use.
I keep these tools sharp. They are oiled and they are clean–except for that one outsized machete, which is clean and sharp, if rusty.
Good tools are necessary because I am the custodian of more or less fifteen hundred square meters of trees, shrubs, bushes, flowers, vines and sundry other vegetation that is beyond my ability to classify, even though my personal taxonomy of plant life has expanded considerably from the days when I worked with the tools as a professional painter. Back then plants fell into two categories. On the one hand you had your “fucking bushes” and on the other you had your “fucking sticker bushes.” This purely functional classification system served me well for ten or twelve year’s worth of work reports and pre-job mobilizations. Back then, for me, plants were more of an impediment whereas now, as I said, they border on an occupation.
To this taxonomy I’d add a third category that is handy here in the Dominican Republic, where we have an attractive, twining, plant with shiny dark green leaves and a pretty enough purplish-pink flower. The thing can grow quite tall and spread and choke the living bejeezus out of anything in its path. This bush produces a river of milky sap from even the tiniest cut, any drop of which will produce a blistering, oozing, festering and persisting burn. The wound is difficult to treat and takes quite a while to heal. For consistency’s sake we may as well call this viscious plant the ” fucking biter plant,” although I rather like “the burning bush.”
Play your cards wrong and I might show you scars the next time I see you.
Anyway, I’ve decided that life is too short, and these three plants have got to go–thus the potent herbicide. Even if I manage to exterminate these guys I’ll still have hundreds of specimens in dozens of varieties, some of which are more than thirty feet tall. There’s certainly no danger that I’ll lack things to prune.
Even so, I suspect that a friend and neighbor sneaks into the garden here when I am in the States and plants things without my knowledge. At first I thought he might be doing this in the belief that perhaps I would enjoy a colorful bush smack in the middle of the path to the burn pile or that I might find it fun to casually mention to my friends in the US that “our banana harvest was particularly good this season.”
Now I think that perhaps he just can’t stand the thought of choking the life out of the prunings from his own garden, and he so shoves clippings into the soil in my garden as a way to assuage his own feelings of gardening guilt. It is a subject I must address before next decamping Las Galeras.
By whatever means these plants find their way into my garden, they do grow–and furiously. Even the fence posts require periodic sculpting with a machete here in the RD. I’ll put a photo up on the webpage, but even if you never look you do get the picture, don’t you?
I’ll grant that pruning fence posts may best be done with a machete, but generally I am of the opinion that shaping plants over time requires a degree of finesse. To make a lasting change in the shape of a plant–or anything or anyone for that matter, is usually the result of diligence and persistence. Good parents, like good gardeners, have always known this, or at any rate they seem to figure it out sooner or later.
I think that I’ve always grasped the requirement for diligence, even if the need for patience has sometimes escaped me. Perhaps you share this experience, which I suspect is a common one.
Regardless, when the garden is growing furiously and even the fence posts require pruning, patience takes a back seat and full-on diligence is required.
The alternative is savage whacking with the appropriate machete, and you can bet that George wouldn’t approve of that.
Notice the fence posts sprouting?
Tags: Dominican Republic, Las Galeras, Living in the Dominican Republic, Retire, Retirement, Samana, Tropical Gardening
Hi,
These past three months have found me not entirely bereft of thoughts worthy of attention, but the idea of sitting down at a computer to give voice to these ideas has felt somehow pointless in the face of the enormity of living without Denise. Actually, much of my best thinking recently has centered on themes of absence, grief, and loss and I’ve thought to spare you that which might seem maudlin. So, consider yourself spared and trust me when I say that you are, even as you may wince and prepare for such as may materialize in your in-box in the months that follow.
I do consider your vantage and will try to be both interesting and kind. Certainly I don’t want to wallow in self-pity, nor do I wish to flaunt my seeming freedom from labor, any more than you might find the spectacle of the former or the arrogance of the latter unworthy of the price of your time in admission.
So, vamos a ver. We shall see.
It is fair to say that I was daunted by the idea of talking about Denise’s death in these pages, when words in any language are such poor transport for the rich and varied freight of our marriage. And so that was another rationale for not writing–where in the Hell would I begin? But, finally, some weeks ago I did address both Denise’s death and my own loss. I imagine that you missed that, if only because I posted that short missive directly to the El Otro WA website (www.elotrowa.com) and did not send it as an e-mail.
(With all due respect, I suppose that the majority of those of you who receive these missives from me have drawn some sort of personal Luddite line at the point of a RSS feed, and so might never come across these musings if they didn’t materialize in your in-box, unbidden–which come to think of it is really the whole point of a RSS feed, isn’t it?)
If I underestimate your technical mastery please drop a note back in response and I will delete your address from this manual list and we can allow the Really Simple Syndication technology to do its work for us both. Or perhaps you’ve just had enough and wish to gracefully exit this list: here you go.
In any event, I will recommend to you all the recent photo and posting to the El Otro WA website: “…and after Denise.”
As for me, I have returned to Las Galeras for the time being. Here, at least, no one wonders when I absently stare off into space for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. At this moment I’m thinking to stay here until sometime in September or October and then return to the US for a few months at least.
Of course at some point I’ll begin to think about what to do with the rest of my life, but not just as yet.
Even so, there are lots to tell you. I have news of the north coast aqueduct, an update on the state of Dominican roads, news of the Capital and the community here and of the recent work of the medio ambiante on la loma. Also, you may be surprised to hear that I have adopted a new philosophy regarding frog–and the tale of the cats alone is worth three or four postings. It’s all fascinating stuff rife with direct impacts to our individual and collective lives, I’m sure. So let’s face forward, shall we?
If you’ve stumbled across this page in a search for information about Las Galeras or living here, click the link to review the archives. Everything and nothing has changed in the time since the archived stories were first written.
I’ll be in touch soon. Until then, all the best,
Bill
Tags: Dominican Republic, Las Galeras, Living in the Dominican Republic, Retire, Retirement, Samana
For those of you as may not know, my best friend, my partner–my love, my wife died on the 29th of March of this year.
I am such a better man for having been her partner, if not her equal. At times, still, I cannot imagine a future without her, even as she so generously and graciously imagined one for me in the waning weeks of her own life.
Until those final weeks, Denise lived in ignorance of the melanoma that had returned to her body after a hiatus of 18 years. If you know a bit about this disease, you know that her ignorance was a boon. So much better to have spent her final months as she did rather than under the murky cloud of certain death or, worse, enduring a futile barrage of debilitating chemicals.
On learning of her fate Denise made several pronouncements, the first being (finger waggling) “We aren’t going to do dreary.” And so we didn’t. And I work to maintain the course each day since.
I am forever grateful to her colleagues and friends who showed me that if I knew her nature and her life better than anyone, there were depths to her that I did not sound and a breadth to her character beyond what I knew. I am especially grateful to Sydney, who inadvertently showed me the way to my “inner Denise,” thereby providing Denise with cause for one final smile on earth, and me with the means to continue.
Tags: Denise E. Hanna, Denise Hanna