Feeling the Love at a Government School in Kathmandu, Nepal

This is one of my all-time favorite photos of PK, taken in a situation we could not have imagined. That's the great thing about foreign travel. It is not unusual to end up in a "situation you could not have imagined."In this case, it was our second day in Nepal, and members of our small group were the guests of honor at a school's graduation ceremony, and PK had just been warmly introduced. The ceremony had, in fact, been POSTPONED for four months in anticipation of our visit. Well, not "our" visit, but the visit of one person. That would be Catherine Wood. Going to Nepal with Catherine was kinda like going to Mexico with the Pope. At every place she's touched in Nepal, she and her entourage are treated like royalty. How did this happen? I'll keep the story short, although it spans nearly 14 years. I will say that our most poignant and meaning-packed experiences in Nepal occurred because we were riding on her coattails, errrr, cape. I plan at least one more post about Catherine's work in Nepal.  More "graduation" photos below.

Catherine Wood being greeted at the Bhotechaur Health Clinic, 2014.

Catherine Wood may seem like a typical fun-loving blond with better than average smarts, but she's not at all your standard pretty woman. She's one of a handful of extraordinary people I know personally whose determination, diligence, leadership and love have profoundly changed lives for the better.

In 2002 I accompanied her to Nepal, expanding my world view, and stretching, at that time, my resources. For Catherine, the trip was key for cultivating cross-cultural relationships and laying the groundwork for longterm change. It was her third visit on behalf of the Rogue Gateway Rotary Club in Grants Pass, of which I was a member, to form an alliance with the Rotary Club of Kathmandu to rebuild, as a medical clinic, a crumbling building in a village called Bhotechaur. Our 2002 trip included hiking seven rigorous miles to the village with an architect to take measurements and confer with village leaders.

Catherine tearing up at sunrise atop the clinic this year, in what may be her last trip to Nepal.

In addition to the clinic, Catherine in 2002 was also at the front end of a separate project that began a year earlier when she was captivated by a bright 10-year-old boy named Samip, whose future she could not bear to contemplate if he, like too many Nepali children, didn't get an education. She founded the Bright Futures Foundation, which continued to support the clinic once Rotary funding ended, and also provides, through sponsorships, a top-notch private education to impoverished kids from Kathmandu and nearby villages. To date, six young people have graduated and another 12 are still enrolled at  the Galaxy School of Kathmandu. (More about this in a separate post.)

The year 2002 was also the occasion of a casual visit by Catherine, and incidentally, by me, to a "government school" in the neighborhood where we were staying with a Nepali family. Government schools are supposedly free, although families must purchase uniforms and school supplies. For most children, however, education stops after grade six, and many families can't afford even primary education.

The school principal showed us, with great pride, small dim classrooms with uniformed kids packed together at long tables with few books or other school supplies. At that time, an open trench carried waste from the school's toilets through a tiny playground. That feature is now absent, I was happy to note. This is the school where we attended, with great fanfare, the 2014 graduation.

What the school needed most, Mr. Nepal told us in 2002, was a computer for record keeping. Catherine and I put our heads and dollars together and delivered to Mr. Nepal the school's first computer.

Over the next 12 years, Catherine returned to Nepal annually (at her own expense) to shepherd along the clinic, oversee the sponsored kids in private school, and improve the public school presided over by Mr. Nepal. Through her foundation, the school was provided a computer lab, books and equipment for a science lab, a sound system for the auditorium, and scholarships for 50 girls for one year.

To say that Mr. Nepal and his school community are grateful to Catherine and the Bright Futures Foundation is an understatement. I'll let pictures tell the story.

That's me, overcome with emotion talking with Catherine, who knew what to expect but was still teary-eyed. The moment our small group entered the room, a thunderous roar issued from the students, staff, and parents. It went on and on. I got the seat-of-honor next to Catherine because I was with her the first time she visited the school. Other than that, I was completely unworthy. (Photo credit, PK.)

Bright Futures board member and Michigan resident Polly Hudson reacts to being introduced. Polly is a longtime Bright Futures Foundation board member who has taken a crucial leadership role as Catherine, for family-related reasons, steps away from the helm.

Jeff Bossler, board member and former student sponsor, from the state of Washington, reacts to being introduced. Following our introductions, the graduation ceremony began, and PK and I were stunned to be called up to the stage! Everyone in our group was, in turn, to perform graduation tasks No photos of PK or me, but I was able to capture the emotions when others in our group were called upon so unexpectedly.

 Oregon resident, Kathy Krause, who sponsors a student at the Galaxy School, participates, as we all did, in the graduation ceremony. Her job—bedeck grads with scarves.

After a dozen or so diplomas were handed out, we were treated to
impressive student performances before the ceremony resumed.

Board member and student sponsor, Charla Rolph, left, prepares to apply a bindi, a red dot, to a student's forehead. The bindi is traditional mark in some Asian cultures applied to the middle of the forehead of both women and men . It has multiple meanings, all of them positive.

Another student performance. These two wowed the audience with a Nepalese version of hip-hop

Bonnie Bossler, Orcas Island, Washington,  helps with the scarf detail.

Catherine Wood applies a bindi.

In the audience, beautiful young girls.....

And a beautiful elder,  enjoy the moment.

And like parents and friends everywhere, the phones came out for graduation photos and videos.

Previous posts about Nepal:
Fear, and the Truth About Ziplines

Fear, and the Truth About Ziplines

PK and me getting ready to ride the zipline. Whoo hooo! Obligatory photo with Himalayan mountain background.  Photo credit: Jeff Bossler.

PK approaching the landing.

Me trying to take in the gorgeous scenery as the zipline ride is about to end.

They're inviting students? What about the old people?

I didn't travel all the way to Nepal to go on my first zipline adventure, but that's what happened. I had no interest in ziplines, and was, in fact, leery. Scared is what you'd call it. But what happened is I got sick. (More about this in a future post.) I had been down for a couple days and weakened. I'd missed a wonderful seven-mile hike in the terraced Himalayan foothills, about which I was ticked and disappointed, and still am. I didn't want to miss another thing. 

PK and me, Jeff and Bonnie Bossler, and Charla Rolph ready to take the plunge. Does it look like Charla has an attitude? She does! I love my new-found friends.

So, while our little band of travelers was in Pokhara, a pleasant city at the base of the Annapurna range of the Himalayas, and plans to ride the "world's longest, steepest, fastest" zipline were underway, I decided to go. This decision was easy, as I determined that riding a zipline requires little more than holding on and trusting the engineering.  Plus getting your hairdo ruined at speeds up to 75 mph.

But before you judge me brave, foolish, or otherwise, consider one of my companions, Bonnie Bossler, whose fear of heights is debilitating. Her husband reports, and she agrees, that she has trouble taking more than two steps up a ladder. She had NO intention of ziplining, but she came to say goodbye at the office where we paid, got weighed, and readied ourselves for the trip to where the zipline plunges across a deep valley.

While waiting, we watched a short video, during which I mentioned that it looked like all you had to do was hold tight for two minutes, the duration of the ride. Anybody could do it, even a sick person, I said with a touch of bravado. Then came the announcement that there was room for one more rider. To her husband's amazement and joy, Bonnie signed up. A few minutes later, we were en route to the zipline.

In truth, the hour-long ride up the mountain on a one-lane road with heavy two-way traffic including buses, chicken trucks, a funeral procession, stalled vehicles, impromptu traffic directors, blaring horns, meandering sacred cows, and skittish school children was more entertaining, not to mention harrowing, than the zipline itself.

Our driver pays heed to the road's edge and our hair's breadth proximity with a dump truck.

Bumper to bumper going up, and same thing coming down. How passing lanes of traffic headed in opposite directions manage without mishap is worthy of a study in human cooperation. And luck.

Once at the zipline take-off, we were greeted with views that make Nepal world famous. The Himalayas are an ever-present source of awe.

In the valley below, country/mountain life goes on as it has for centuries with herding and tasks of everyday living. I wonder what they think of crazy tourists flying overhead paying $65 each for a couple minutes of fun, intruding on their peace and privacy. I wonder if they have been compensated for the blow to their quality of life. A bungee jumping base is also located here. 

It was all worth it for Bonnie, who had confronted one of her deepest fears, and traded heartfelt "namastes" with zipline staff.

Yes! She did it! Jeff and Bonnie Bossler.

To return to this post's title, we all fear something—heights, strangers, water, the unknown. Especially the unknown. I was more afraid of missing something than of the zipline itself, so I am not to be congratulated. But a shout out to Bonnie the Brave for stepping way outside her comfort zone to ride the "world's longest, fastest, steepest" zipline. (Not the first or last zipline to claim this, by the way.) 

The truth about ziplines? I don't know about the rest of them, but this one was not scary and safety precautions seemed more than adequate. It's true that if you fit the weight requirement to be between 85 and 235 pounds, you could do it. Maybe you should. Especially if you're afraid. 

Note: This is the first in a series of posts about 18 wonder-filled days in Nepal with Catherine Wood and sponsors of the Bright Futures Foundation.  Many of those days were spent with Nepali people in their homes, schools, and a very special clinic.  Lots of stories to come.

Applesauce or Apple Butter? Butter is Better.

Golden delicious apples make outstanding sauce. This year we mixed Jonathon and red delicious types with golden.  No sugar. No salt or cinnamon. Just apples. Easy. Delicious. 

Then there's apple butter, beyond delicious, alongside late season (October  27!) super sweet cantaloupe. I know, I know. Toast! All slathered up with peanut and apple butters. Sometimes we low-carbers just gotta go for it. The bread is sorta virtuous though, Dave's Killer Bread, thin-sliced, only 9 carbs and 60 calories.  Apple butter is too carb dense to count. It's a special treat. And a pint tied with a bow makes a great hostess gift. Perfect apple butter is richly fragrant and deep brown.

I am relieved and refreshed to be back to sweet and simple stuff after an excruciating six weeks of nitpicking a post about my mom's passing and the magical people who helped ease her into the beyond. It felt good to get it out, but I am so done with the topic. At least for now.

Maybe something later about who the hell wants to live to 100? And how accumulating stuff throughout a lifetime makes no sense. And all the  people I know who are dealing with a parent's decline and are asking questions like, Why doesn't mom act like an adult? and  Can dad keep driving? But for now, I'm headed to the orchard! Happy talk!

We have apples in ridiculous abundance. We bought this triangular 3.5 acre property about 40 years ago when it was  a young orchard of 375 red and golden delicious trees with a burned out ratty old mobile home squatting near the road. The mobile home was marginally livable, and the property was only $17,000 when we moved in. After seven years, when the mortgage was paid, we built a stick house. We've never left, except for when we rented it out and relocated to Grants Pass for four years so the youngest kid could benefit from a "big town" high school. Good decision, it turns out. But living in the same place for more than 40 years? Who does that any more!? Around here, it's not that unusual.

The orchard in the 1970s. The trees were young. We were young. You can see they're bowed with apples. They're old now and not as productive. And they're not bowed either. But us? Well.....

Click here for One of several posts dipping into our history on the land.

We've made tons of applesauce through the years. It requires most of an afternoon. But apple butter, due to its lengthy cooking-down time, is a relative newcomer to our preserving repertoire. It requires a few days.

How to make applesauce and apple butter guides are below. It's all about the process.

Move the operation outside. It's messy. When it's over, clean-up can be done with a garden hose. You can see what we use. One of the buckets is full of water as the apples must be rinsed. The other must-haves are a camp stove and a large pot to boil the apples. 

It really helps to have a Victorio Stainer, that unit on the left with the white funnel. It saves hours of work by separating the apple flesh from the cores and peels. We used a mix of apples this year, but goldens alone make a great sauce. Our apples are unsprayed so require serious sorting.

Use the largest pot you have to boil the quartered apples until soft enough to process. This stainless steel pot is from a set of nesting pots that we take on river trips. The pot on top of the white bucket is catching the sauce from the strainer. That pot holds seven quarts and goes directly from the outside stove to the inside stove to begin the canning process.

The fruit must be soft enough to press through the strainer's funnel to separate skins and cores from apple flesh. I'm too old to ever make sauce again without this tool. 

We keep a steady flow going from stove to strainer.

As you can see, the sauce goes one way and the cores and peels go another. Love it!

In all we processed around 60 pounds (guessing) and canned 14 quarts in a boiling water bath. We had lots of sauce left so decided to make apple butter. You'll need a crockpot or two.

Apple Butter Recipe
5 to 6 quarts of homemade applesauce. (Don't waste your time using commercial applesauce.) Increase spices accordingly if your crockpot holds 6 quarts. We roughly tripled this recipe.
2 tablespoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon all spice
2 cups sugar. May also use equivalent amount of Splenda or  one 12 oz. can of frozen concentrated apple juice.

This crockpot holds five quarts of applesauce. We had enough sauce to use two crockpots this size and one that holds three quarts. Use wooden or metal thingies to keep the lid from being a tight fit. The moisture needs to escape. 

We turned our pots off at night out of paranoia, but kept them on LOW for three full days until the desired consistency was achieved. PK used the grinder to pulverize whole cloves. 

A few days later, we're getting close to canning pints in a boiling water bath.

Pints filled carefully with hot apple butter leaving room to expand.

PARTING SHOT: Here's a young  PK, still in his twenties, pruning trees after eight hours at his paying job. He always wanted to be a farmer, and  here he was. We started with 375 trees and now have around 30. Still too many apples.

PARTING SHOT 2. The miniature horses across the road head to the fence when I come outside because they want apples. I happily oblige them. Here they are, begging, knickering, jockeying for position. They continue this behavior for several months after the apples are gone. Don't worry. They're happy little horses, well looked after by their owner, with whom we trade apples for eggs.

Caregivers—Angels at the End of Life

It is not easy when your mother dies, as mine did in early September.
I've been paralyzed in the writing department ever since. Even though she was almost 99 and I knew she would die soon, I'm sad. She wanted release, and I wanted it for her, but death is cold and difficult to fathom. I can't get over that she no longer exists. And I also can't get over that how, near the end of her life, amazing people appeared with palliative care and great big generous loving hearts, and eased her passing. 

Angel in chief at Rose Cottage Adult Foster Care, Kimber Vaccher, transferring my mom from her wheelchair to a recliner. Transfers always involved  hugs and talk and the warmth of human hearts beating inches from one another. We all need that, don't we? Right here is the essence of excellence in end-of-life care: human touch and genuine caring. What you don't see is all the difficult and emotionally draining "dirty work". Sore backs, sleepless nights, and the grief that inevitably comes when the people you've cared for die.

Aside from the grieving part, I've been muddled about what aspects of my mom's last six years—ages 92 to 98,  2008 to the present, to write about. Those were the years that she lived near me for the first time since I left  my parent's home as a young adult in the 1960s.

Here in Oregon, she became part of my every day life. I discovered how funny she was, and what a great spirit she possessed. Despite being nearly deaf and with ever-worsening vision, she was game for almost anything. It was only during her last nine months that she started to act like someone who was nearly 100 years old.

Her progression from a lively 92-year-old who ripped  through bridge and cribbage games, relished country drives, even when we got lost, and enjoyed a bloody Mary before dinner, to a sad and weary 98-year-old hospice patient, was bittersweet. It was heartbreaking to see her through so many losses. She'd been hard of hearing for years, but that worsened and she was essentially deaf and terribly isolated. Her vision also declined and she couldn't see to play cards let alone read or watch TV.

Her arthritic hands refused to perform simple tasks. The handiwork she'd done most of her life was beyond her. She had nothing to do, a torment. What is life without purpose or at least activity and entertainment? Boredom and lack of purpose is a double whammy for elderly people who were accustomed to enjoying full lives.

I visited her most days, and often found her here, alone in the dining room staring out the window. 

Enter the Caregiver Angels

Before moving into assisted living, my mom resided in an independent living "retirement home." It became clear that the activities offered were not enough to keep her occupied. I  hired caregivers to spend a few hours a day to relieve her boredom and loneliness and help her with exercise.

Our elders are so often drowning in a toxic sea of boredom, inactivity, and isolation.  It is terribly sad.  Even though I spent time with her most days, she had countless unfilled hours. I can't listen to John Prine's brilliant song "Hello In There" without tearing up. Don't listen unless you feel like having a cry.

First Angel on the Scene.  Her name was Doris. She was 80 years old. 

Doris had spent her working life as a nursing-home aide. Now caring for an aged and sick spouse, she still needed to make money. Plus she needed out of her house. She was skilled  and incredibly kind, patient, and loving. She cared for LaVone a few hours a day for about six months.

After a series of falls left my mom pretty much confined to a wheelchair, we relocated her to assisted living, Doris showed up , off and on, for THREE YEARS unbidden, with homemade goodies and to hold her hand and just be present. Did my mom care that Doris wasn't "family" and that she'd known her for  just a short time? Not at all. 

Then there were the Morrow Heights angels
in Rogue River, just a mile from my home.  Assisted living provided 24-hour care, so my days of hiring caregivers were over. Morrow Heights caregivers weren't all stellar,  but the majority was great and several stand out.

The truly caring ones recognized her boredom and agonized. Yes. they suffered as I did, seeing her staring out the window with nothing to do. Assisted living caregivers have too many "patients" and too little time.  Caregiver Gail took LaVone under her wing by wheeling her along as she traveled the halls caring for other residents. She also wheeled her to a small garden to smell  the roses on warm sunny days. Such small acts of kindness, but so meaningful.

Others followed Gail's example, and for a time, my mom was no longer consigned to spending hours alone each day.

When my mom  took to excessive napping and had trouble feeding herself, it was time to kick up the care level. She'd lost interest in most activities and seemed terribly weary.  She'd became someone who was busy dying, although I didn't recognize that on a conscious level.

So away we went, to a remarkable refuge called Rose Cottage. 

It is so odd, and I've heard this from others, that strangers appear at the interface of life and death to ease the transition. They showed up big time at Rose Cottage.

Husband PK tells the story of his father, broken and longing to die, in a New Jersey nursing home. PK's father died the day after PK flew back to Oregon,  cradled in the arms of a caregiver who came to be with him on her DAY OFF.

So little respect is afforded the people who care for our young children and our elders. Care giving compensation at both ends of life is abysmal. Most places, caregivers start at the minimum hourly wage, which, in Oregon, will be $9.25 in 2015,  a 15 cent increase.  That comes to about $1,480 a month. Try living on that after you get home from eight hours of back-breaking and emotionally taxing work. (Rose Cottage wages start higher and compensation increases more quickly.  Not sure if this is true with all foster care homes, as each is independently operated.) The cost for my mom's care at Rose Cottage was basically the same as in assisted living. Do you really want to know? $4,200 a month. (Price at both places based on level of care. My mom was at the highest level.)

The biggest difference? Unhurried personal skilled compassionate care. 

The caregiver-to-resident ratio at Rose Cottage is one to four, and often, two to four. I'm not sure what it is in assisted living facilities, but my guess is somewhere around 1 to 15 or more.

Rose Cottage is a regular house in the country that accommodates up to five  residents who need a high level of care.  The owners live on site, as do a flock of chickens and a couple sweet dogs.  It's a home, not an institution. 

But let's get real. Foster care aides may have time to sit and chat with their patients, give them manicures and read to them. But, like caregivers at all levels, they also wipe butts,  clean up smelly messes, transfer what amounts to "dead weight" from one chair to another, turn immobilized patients over in bed several times a night, clean false teeth, and feed people who can no longer feed themselves (my mom) a slurry of  Ensure, oatmeal and bananas with a spoon. 

But they do it all with patience. With supreme compassion. With the belief and knowledge that this is what the cared-for person needs and wants.

Plus they also  manage to love and speak in the ways that perhaps matter most when you're ancient and vulnerable and clinging  to what remains of your dignity and you are at their mercy. Mercy they have in abundance. They are not afraid to touch and hug and kiss. They show no revulsion at dealing with body fluids and solids, no shirking from cleaning teeth or trimming toenails.

Perhaps they're the lucky ones, to be present in the most elemental ways, as dying people transition over months or weeks or days to take the last breath and slip, finally, into whatever lies ahead. 

Pet therapy at work in Rose Cottage. My mom wasn't much of a pet person, but this resident poodle, one of three pooches, and my mom seemed a comfort to one another. Disabled and elderly herself, the dog often snuggled up on mom's chair or bed.

Death with Dignity

At Rose Cottage, the owner took a special role. She made it her mission to make my mother's last months, and especially her death, free of pain, fear, and anxiety. Despite an extremity infection, pressure sores, and mental and emotional agitation—all of which Kimber Vaccher, Rose Cottage owner, mitigated—my mother died peacefully in her sleep. It was the die-in-your-sleep death I hoped for her.

My mom had been sleeping 20 to 23 hours a day for weeks. I went for visits, but she'd be sound asleep. The day before she died, Kimber, called around 8 a.m. to say that my mom was awake and this might be my opportunity. I was there within 30 minutes and am so grateful to have had a wakeful hour to speak into her good ear.

She was unresponsive, but I hope she could hear me say that I loved her and that she was the best mother ever. What's the best mother? It's one who loves unconditionally and never leaves her child wondering if she's good enough. Really. I think that's the key.

I tried to be a good daughter and return the favor as our roles reversed at end of life.  During her last hours I stroked her papery hand and spoke love into her best ear, hoping that on some level, she'd hear and know her life had meaning.

As for the caregiver angels, their wings were pushing sweet air into the  room where death was visiting to take my mother away.

Early the next morning I got "the call." My mother was gone. Did I want to come out before the funeral home people arrived to collect the body? The body.

My mother was gone but her body remained on her death bed. I steeled myself and drove out.  It was a beautiful September morning. Rose Cottage looked like it always did, except that I knew my mother's body was in there. We're so shielded from death and dying, and seeing only the bodies that have been all fixed up at the mortuary. But my mom's body looked, well, like she was asleep. She looked just like she did the day before, the day I whispered into her ear when she was still "in there."

I spoke into her ear again, but her cheek was cool. She wasn't there. Imagine that. She'd escaped! 

Kind Kimber Vaccher with my mom's body. My mom's spirit? Gone someplace, to the heaven she believed would welcome her, or to an otherworldly ether that accommodates peaceful spirits freed at last from their wrecked bodies. Wherever you are, I am grateful that you were my mother. I thought a lot about whether to use this photo. But I think the look on Kimber's face conveys a lot about who she is. And my mother's shell? Just a shell. Empty of her. Not offensive, just real. 

This photo was taken a few months before my mom started her precipitous slide. I'm interpreting her wave  and thumbs up as hello and goodbye to all the wonderful people who loved and cared for her. Especially the angels who appeared at the end to validate her existence and ease her passage. May you rest in peace, dear mother. And say hello to Dad, aunt Mick, Uncle Ken, and all the others . I'll be seeing you soon enough. 

NOTE: My mother's long life was mostly happy and productive. For more cheerful posts, here are a couple most posts:

Turning the Tables on Elderly Mom

Bragging about her as she used to brag about me, and coming to know and appreciate her even more in her nineties.

Headed for Africa! Sorry Mom

About the decision to leave the country for a few weeks of adventure travel with my husband. Dealing with being torn, at times, between  my  mom and my marriage.