Puzzle Pieces

If you're anything like me, you don't see life as a linear path of goals, achievements, and a constantly upgraded CV.  It's a puzzle, and the pieces that fit right now might not be the pieces that fit tomorrow, or next year, and we have to continue to adapt to what life has given us to work with.  Familiarity is nice, and it's easy, but it doesn't help us to find the highest and best use for our lives.  Over the past couple of years, I've run away from familiarity like the plague, looking not for that which is easy, but that which is right.  There's a few friends I've met who would swear I'm crazy, and, honestly, I'm more scatter-brained than most anyone you'll ever meet, but I'll assure you I'm not crazy.  I just want to squeeze the sweet nectar out of this infinitesimal blink that we'll spend on earth. 


I took a risk recently and I zoomed out as far as I could and looked at my situation, and decided to take a gamble, and buy a house not where my work is, but at home, just up the road from the nursing home where my dad resides.  Granted, I do some long drives up and down the road a few days a week now, but I'm home, and I'm going to sit with my dad more now, as he looks at the end of life in a real way, and, unlike some of the other folks he lives with, his family won't forget him.  For the past few years, I've hopped up and down the road, spending weekends at home with family, and working weekdays near Washington D.C. Now, due to some very understanding people, and Grace, (with an uppercase G,) I've gotten the chance to be present during this time, and cling to these deep roots while still doing very consequential, satisfying work on Environmental Policy. 


This home where I'm at is perfect for me now, the right puzzle piece, but I accept that it might not fit in the future, at which point I'll find a new piece.  Only Grace could have afforded such a good fit at the right time, and my goal now is never to forget the fortune I've got in every breath, every superficial toil I encounter. 


With the Grace I've been given, I'm charged with continuing to live with as much integrity and strength as I can muster, so, again, I find myself questioning friends, work, and past times, to get rid of the excess.  A new chapter requires a new mindset in so many ways, so I feel it necessary to rework some things, and start things afresh.  Instead of talking about what I've done or been or experienced in the past, I want to start over, with a new resume, a clean slate, and not to rely on what I think I knew, but what I know now, and what these hands, not those hands, can create.  Imagine if there weren't any resumes or lists of credentials, or mindless diplomas, but just the fruits of our work and lives to show what we could accomplish. 


So, in the interest of moving into a new chapter, this will be the last of petespitstop.  I started this blog to document a wonderful Peace Corps adventure, and it's become much more, but, that experience is over, and this seems like a confusing venue to continue my writing on environmental and peace issues.  It's been a great resource for me to share in the past, and blogging will continue as a great resource in the future, but this particular blog was borne out of a puzzle piece that doesn't fit anymore.  This blog has captured some great experiences, but those experiences were then, and this time, this piece, is now.  Thanks to everybody who's checked the blog out in the past, and I encourage anyone who's interested to visit my more focused blog, Environmental Justice Junky.  As you'll see, I haven't posted there yet, but it will be where I go to share thoughts about current environmental public policy issues, sustainability issues, and concerns about those things most important to a healthy world. 

Thanksgiving with Dad

We sit, 

And all that space between us,

Has gone,

As if it never were, or never mattered, 

The air is as trivial as it is thick,

Trivial with the muffled muttering of Trebek on the absurd T.V.

And trivial with whispers of housemates, speaking their own confused riddles,

But thick with memories of harsh words and death and betrayal and disease,

Eating at heart, lung, and mind,

Until here, we sit, 

Watching our breath and calories ooze out and merge with every other little thing,

And we laugh at simple riddles, 

Not daring to speak,

Of that which is either trivial or thick. 

 

Because, at last,

We know that nothing and everything matters.

And soon, these memories, both the trivial and thick,

Will all be mine.  

These Here Mountains

Last Saturday, I got up at a crazy time for the weekend, and went to Augusta county, Virginia, to see members of the public, galvanized and angry, speak out about a natural gas pipeline, the largest of its kind (yet) that's proposed to go through hundreds of miles of pristine (long story) mountain forests in Western Virginia.  It'll go from Pocahontas County, West Virginia, through the incredible mountains of Highland County, Virginia, to Augusta, just south of Ramses Draft Wilderness Area, through Staunton, Waynesboro, and on until it meets the lucrative docks in Hampton Roads and Chesapeake, Virginia, where the plumes of gas, plundered from deep in the earth, are sold off to other nations.  Oh, there are shorter routes that the pipeline could take, other ways the gas could get to market, but, alas, it all comes down to money.  The pipeline will go through Salamander bogs and karst aquifers, cutting a 150-mile scar 300-ft wide in wilderness that has stayed intact since the Roosevelts and Pinchots set the land aside.  The scar could accompany exiting utility lines and roads, but some crony of cronies in a Dominion Power office somewhere drew a straight line from flattened West Virginia mountains to the seaport where gas will be sold, and decided that it would be the best route to get what is needed. 

At the end of the meeting, a smiling, friendly lady shook my hand and asked if we had met before.  Certain we hadn't, I said no, but we spoke for a while, I talked about my feelings and she told me about a song she was putting together to get everybody excited, and we were about to go our separate ways, when I asked the lady if she sang with a group or anything, so that I could one day hear the piece she was writing.  She smiled and said, "Yes, my husband and I sing together.  I'm Linda Williams, and the group's name is Robin and Linda Williams." 

I had no idea that this wonderfully friendly lady was my Mom and Dad's biggest idol, the one that they had made me listen to on scratchy tapes and CDs all my life, and, needless to say, I was embarrased and dumbfounded.  I fumbled with some words, and she walked away. 

Well, with Linda's inspiration, I wrote my own song on my long drive back from that meeting. The email I sent her failed, so she won't ever see it, but I thought I should post it somewhere, since I think it could work, and it helps me achieve my lifelong dream of being Woody Guthrie, if Woody hadn't sold out.

As I told Linda in the email that got stuck in the sphincter of cyberspace, the sound is scratchy, the guitar playing abhorrent, but the words, as always, are all that matters.

My Augusta

These gizzled scars are hard won,

Pushing cattle in these hills,

Sinews of old worn muscle,

Hot days I've had my fill,

And you'd think that God played marbles,

On these stubborn meadow fields,

Limestone's took more' my mufflers,

These streams aint got no creel,

But I love each low down locust,

And every mesic poplar grove,

The spirit is in these mountains,

I'm convinced it's God above,

And if you're hoping we just back down,

Watch this land become your spoil,

Don't underestimate our hearts,

Don't dare make our blood boil,

So take this 42" pipeline, and shove it where there aint no sunshine,

Cause I ain't giving up on my Augusta,

When McAuliffe and the cronies,

Playing god on E. Broad Street,

I bet they've never smelled these mornings,

Let cool water drown their feet,

If there ever was a reason,

To march the soles off all your shoes,

Ever to fight a battle,

They all said that you'd lose,

These hills are worth your footsteps,

worth all the toil and blows,

This Augusta's gonna make it,

Every hardened farmer knows,

So take this 42" pipeline, and shove it where there ain't no sunshine,

Cause I aint giving up on my Augusta..

These here mountains punky bedrock,

Hold a charm I can't explain,

Summers heavy harvest,

Or the winter's white-veiled dress,

Ain't walkin' away in silence,

Won't give it up with ease,

I'll hold this last bright thistle,

When I'm down upon my knees,

So take this 42" pipeline, and shove it where there ain't no sunshine,

Cause I ain't giving up on my Augusta...

In The Middle of Everywhere

A fire is crackling ferociously right now, right here beside me.  There’s an honor system here at Douthat State Park, where you pay for the firewood that you use at your campsite.  It’s the same at most state parks, I’m sure, but, I kindof feel that it should be included, free of charge, with the graveled campsite that I’m paying $30 for this evening.  I mean, really, the site has a 60-foot turning radius and electric hookup for free, as well as a picnic table, but I’m getting nickel-and-dimed for firewood. That’s crazy.  Anyhoo, let’s just keep that sentiment among us here in cyberspace, shall we?  If word gets out that I was the reason that lakeside campground took in underwhelming firewood revenue, I wouldn’t have but so many people on the ‘potential narc’ list. 

It’s been 5 years since I last drove out Douthat Road after quitting work here to go to the Peace Corps.  It’s been five years of ups and downs, change, growth, you name it, and I have to admit, it’s great to be back.  Some faces have changed, but I still have some great friends here who I worked with and haven’t kept up with very well.  People have had babies, gotten married, divorced, gotten fat and thin, gotten promoted, fired, and rehired.  I guess it’s just good to come back to a place where some things have stayed the same, to remind you that faces will change, and processes may be different, and the lakeside restaurant might be allowing for unlimited returns to the salad bar at the same bargain price of $6.99, but, the trails still roll aimlessly through the same hollows, black rat snakes still haunt the same laurel thickets, and bluegill are still frenetically swimming the same holes, around the same punky corpses of locust and longleaf pine trees. 

I admit that I feel foolish having left this place and these mountains when I did, given all the changes and where I am now, but I don’t think I would have ever seen the true beauty of this place and life here had I not gotten away from it.  Certainly hindsight a rosy picture without all of the negative parts of a place, but time, and distance show me that this little chunk of the mountains is a true gem.  If you live within driving distance of Douthat, or any other remote Appalachian park or public area, take the time to go out, set up a tent on an absurdly large patch of gravel, light a ridiculously large fire with (arguably) stolen firewood, and sit, listen to your neighbors talk passionately about absolutely nothing, and fall asleep with the sound of cicadas and treefrogs in your ears.

Techno Peeps 1, Luddites 0

I am a self-proclaimed luddite, as I have often admitted.  Technology lumbers on ever farther towards obliterating a way of life that I think is important to have, or at least to remember.  All of the real life skills that we used to have are being overrun, mowed down like tall green cornstalks by a combine, it seems.  I like knowing how to load film and sew buttons and split wood and sand the grains of wood to a clean finish and smell the dust on callouses and know that I did something, that it wasn't automated, to look at a wooden frame on the wall for years, no, decades, and remember how splintered fingers felt after bark and rough and scruff was cleared away and I found beauty, that I didn't leave it up to a robot.  Robot's just don't get what's so good about a hard day's work, and they'll never understand what's so good about the whimsical flow of Cherry grain and the smell of Walnut wood shavings, but enough about wood.   So, I just don't like modern conveniences.  No T.V., no microwave, no dishwasher, just the basics.  Yeah, crazy, I know you're thinking it, but hey, that's what I believe, and why believe something if you're not going to try and live it.

But, this evening, while sitting at Charbucks, (Starbucks), I sat across from a lady reading a worthless romance novel who screeched, breathed deeply all of a sudden, and sat up.  Her little pink shorts were way too short for a lady of her years, but hey, good for her I guess, but she sat there, and looked awefully put out.  I looked over "The Robin Williams thing?"  Her face crumpled and she nodded the nod of a toddler who just skinned their knee and you ask if they want a band-aid.  "You saw?!  What a horrible thing.  I wonder what must have happened."
 I wasn't very soft with the news.
 "Looks like he strangled himself with something.  Sherriff said asphyxiation."

 Her emotive outburst wasn't affected in the least though.  "Oh, what talent to be lost.  And look, his wife is heartbroken.  Oh my, so sad, I didn't know he was depressed.  Oh my."

Well, I was a little cynical at first at such remorse for the loss of just a figure, someone she had never met, a piece of art, for all we know, like a destroyed symphony.

But then, I realized that the little stupid radio-transmitting tangle of fine earths in her hand was bridging hearts and letting the entire world grieve with a family that had been the origin of great laughter and incredible art through the years.  As she grieved the loss of Robin Williams, that old lady with skimpy pink shorts across from me was grieving the loss of afternoon matinees with her children watching Mrs. Doubtfire, or her tears as she watched Dead Poets Society, Good Morning Vietnam, or Mork and Mindy (ugh) or enjoyed any of the other pieces of art that he brought us.  That little stupid smart phone was what brought the world together, and for that reason, I have given technology a win for the day.

These things, we hold..

Over the past few months, and years for that matter, I have found it hard to keep perspective on the world and all of the horrible sadness that is happening all the time to all sorts of people, in all sorts of places.  That's partly because I've been caught up thinking about loss of my own, sunk heavily into my own despair at times, doubtful that I am objective enough to understand the complexity of the situations around the globe.  I can't fathom premature loss, death, or disease in my own life, much less fathom that in another land and culture, so who am I to form an opinion to pontificate on the struggles somewhere far, far away.  Syria's troubles, as well as those of Iraq, Nigeria, Israel and Gaza, the Sudan, and many more seem like 3-demensional spider webs of connections between factions and ethnic groups, like the tangled mesh of ganglion, complex and tangled beyond understanding.


Although I would like to understand the age-old animosities between Sunnis and Shiites, North and South Sudanese, and the underpinnings of so many conflicts, I never will.  Factions will continue to strike cease-fires and peace accords, and many conflicts will ebb on for centuries after our pundits are gone.  Nevertheless, we should try to fight aggression and misunderstandings, because the most important things in life are life, love, and liberty.  I believe that, and in my naivite, I think everyone yearns for those ideals in their heart of hearts.


In a tiny country of 1.8 million, already 1100 people, mostly civilians have been killed in the last 21 days.  For what?  I'm not sure even Benjamin Netanyahu could say.  In Sudan, a civil war rages on, as well as in Syria, Ukraine, and many other places.  It just makes me realize that the loss that I have felt for family and friends lost in these past few years, that despair, unflinching fire, rages in other hearts every day, their entire lives.  So when we question diplomacy, peace talks, negotiations with other nations, we are questioning the noblest of pursuits.  Nothing is more important than improving lives, ending conflict, satisfying need, ending loss and despair.  Nothing. 


I am unapologetic in my disdain for war, and our nation's emphasis on defense rather than poverty alleviation and peace.  We cannot solve the problems of disease, population control, polluted water, soil, and climate change without first addressing poverty and conflict.  Arsenals will never alleviate those problems.  There are more persons employed to operate 1 aircraft carrier than the US has diplomats around the globe.  Don't tell me we're a peaceful nation.  Don't tell me we're a democratic nation.  Don't tell me we're a Christian nation. 


So, on this warm July evening with soft breeze blowing in, I ask you to advocate real peace and understanding, and be fearless in your support of what matters.  Remember the unnecessary loss and hopelessness that so many are feeling, and be an advocate for change. 

That Good Ol' Petrodollar

On March 24, 1989, a huge oil tanker spilled about 120,000 cubic meters of oil in Prince William Sound, inundating wildlife and coastline, refuge and tribal ground, spawning waters and fishing grounds for thousands of square miles within the vast sound.  In the wake of the disaster, we saw image after image of devastated wildlife, congressional testimony droned, and passions flared.  People got really mad, bad mouthing Exxon and the government, and everybody assured the public that vindication would be sought and found against the inept perpetrators. 

So, what happened?

Well, dispersant agents and surfactants, even really hot water was thrown at the disaster area.  Birds were treated, few were saved, and many lessons were learned throughout all the efforts on ways of cleaning up inevitable future spills, but, in the end, only about 10% of the oil was ever actually cleaned up, and the environment in the area is forever changed.  Biologists in the area agree that most of the affected wildlife populations will never recover from the spill, and those indigenous peoples whose livelihoods were lost will never be the same.  This all happened in one of the last places on earth that was untainted by the greed and suffocation of mankind and our impervious need for 'progress.'  As one person testifying in front of congress in the wake of the 25th anniversary of the event said, speaking of this part of Alaska, "It is the majestic Eden in the minds of children, a masterpiece."

In the past 25 years, with the knowledge of the potentially devastating effects of such disasters, and in light of all of the knowledge we have gained about carbon in the environment and the atmosphere, we haven't done much.  Prior to the spill, in the whole history of mankind, we had burned an estimated 300 million barrels of crude, and in just the 25 years since, we've burned a whopping 700 million more, more than twice!  Atmospheric carbon dioxide has increased dramatically, and, among other regions that are feeling the brunt of climate change, over 50% of the polar ice cap area is gone.  No scientists with any credentials worth their spit will argue that catastrophic climate change and ensuing disasters are born out of our obsession for crude. 

Right now, since we've pulled all the easy stuff out of the ground, we're going back with explosives and high pressure to push every last little bit out of all of the porous rock we can find.  Fayetteville, Marcellus, Bakken, Utica, Devonian, all names of huge shale 'plays' around the U.S. that are being busted up and wrung dry so that we don't have to change our way of life one bit. 

All the while, our geopolitical stage is set with players that are balancing on a slick of oil.  Politicians posture on the Senate floor using Russia's bad behavior as an opening to hopefully start selling U.S. natural gas reserves to the Ukraine and Britain.  And no one, not even this bleeding heart liberal wants to imagine the possible effects if OPEC were ever to base their black gold on any currency but the almighty dollar.  That's right folks, one of the big things that's keeping the dollar so stable in this multi-faceted world is the fact that oil is its base commodity. 

Basically, if Saudi Arabia and Qatar want to sell their oil abroad, the value is based on the U.S. Dollar, and it benefits us greatly to have that privilege, because OPEC represents the big players.  Somebody should fact check me, but I think FDR set the system up back in the 1930s.  If, however, that system were to fall apart, and places like Iran and Syria got their way with basing oil prices on some other currency, it would greatly devalue the U.S. currency, our bonds, you name it, and that, everyone, leads one to wonder if we'll ever be rid of all the murky hydrocarbons floating around.

Ofcourse, we'll be rid of oil one day just by depleting every nook and cranny, but at what expense? 

A Living Wage

Rice and fish are the lifeblood of Leytenons, or the proud people from the island of Leyte, Philippines.  Groups of thin, sun-dried men and women stand in muddy fields all day, pulling single stalks of rice from wet clumps, replanting them at sufficient intervals to ensure a hearty return on their toil.  Or, fishermen mend nets in the sand, under hot sun, and endlessly ready their boats for daily fishing, trusting the ocean to give them another sufficient helping of fish, prawns and fat shells to keep their families fed and pockets jingling.  These staples keep bellies full and muscles lean with sinew.  All the while, shade is provided by tall gangly coconut trees, and a backdrop of mountains full of the fruit trees is always on the horizon. 

I speak with a village captain who
just wants to know how he can help his
community get better after the storm's wrath

Recently, however, with the devastating wind and rain of typhoon Haiyan, wind tore at leaves and flicked the tall trees down upon the steep slopes of Leyte mountains.  So shade gave way to sunlight and the thick green backdrop became a scattered mess of brown leaves, broken coconuts, and strewn trunks of downed trees.  In some areas, every coconut tree for miles is barren or has fallen to the ground.  Men and women who would have been gathering mature coconuts for the copra industry to be converted into coconut oil now sit on stoops and have  no livelihood, no way to achieve new skills.  The coconuts are gone, fields have been washed clean of tender rice stalks, and fishermen fear the ocean since the bodies of so many loved ones still lie upon its sandy bottom.

A dangerous and slow process, men
cut lumber with large, unwieldy chain saws

Men stock their shelves with
coco lumber from recently fallen trees     

This is the story behind the typhoon relief effort.  Short-term food relief and housing is difficult, but simple to achieve.  However, long term recovery, including relief from psychological trauma or a return to the livelihoods that so many have known, is not a future reality, but a distant hope.  Coconut trees take between 7 and 10 years to mature, and even in those areas where the trees still grow, collection of their fruit is futile since mills and refineries lay in ruin along the tropical highway.  Some villagers have taken to make the best of the situation, and cut the trees into lumber for new houses.  However, with 1 chainsaw usually shared between hundreds of families, the strong trees rot on damp soil before they’re cut. 

A municipal employee calls off names
 of recipient families who will each get
 a 50-kilo sack of rice, donated through a
 Norwegian organization

Most of the coastal communities visited by Brethren Disaster Ministries reported that it would be about 5 months until they felt safe to go fishing again.  These people would rather starve than desecrate the bodies of their countrymen that may still lie on the 0cean floor. 

"Please don't throw trash here" reads a sign in town.
A feeble attempt to curb illegal dumping of the
 copious amounts of waste from the storm.

There are other crops, and other waters where these people could work.  Coffee and cacao will bear fruit in the same soils as rice and coconut.  Seaweed and cargo vessels are carried on the same currents as Tilapia and Mud Crabs.  But, here, to tell a copra farmer to sow coffee, or a fisherman to grow seaweed is like asking a banker to bind books, or a teacher to raise cattle.  Generations have carried these traditions and skills, and change is hard.  Without a home, or the money for education, helping Leyenons to change their way of life in Haiyan’s wake will be difficult.  Time will clean the waters here, and replace brown hilltops with lush green, but in the meantime, help is necessary, vital, help is everything.  

Pictures of Philippine Typhoon Recovery, 10 weeks later

This past Friday, I returned from 2 weeks back in Leyte, Philippines, visiting with the Church of the Brethren Disaster Ministries to determine good partner organizations to work with in order to implement funds donated by church members and friends.  The pictures below are just a few of those we took of the destruction in Yolanda's wake.  Every picture is a story in and of itself, from the people we met cleaning around the stranded cargo ships, to the children jumping a rope next to shallow graves of family and friends.  

The man in the center of this picture is Roy Winter, director of Disaster Ministries, who was my traveling companion and is in charge of where all of the funds will go.  Roy is a really good guy, dedicated to helping as many people as possible, efficiently implementing every cent of those funds that friends have generously given to the effort.  In this picture, Roy survey's the damage in the coastal village of Magcasuang, Babangon, with a cohort of the cutest security guards around.

These are pictures of Grace Ann and Roussini, the cousins who braved the storm together and are featured in a recent post.

Below, you can see the tent city in the interior of the running track at Tanauan National High School, a site of some of the more severe destruction I saw while in Leyte.

Department of Labor and Employment personnel like those shown below are working to determine how to put people to work now that livelihoods like coconut gathering and fishing have been greatly diminished by the fierce storm surge and wind from the typhoon.

Cross-Cultural Sharing on the Back of a Jeepney

“Hello”

“Maupay”

“And who are you, edoi?”

“My name is Peter.  I like your place.  Babatngon is very beautiful.”

“Ay, Salamat.  Are you German?”

“No, Americano ako.  I lived here for two years, and just came back.”

“You married Filipina? What is your work?”

“No.  I was a Peace Corps volunteer.  I came back with the Church of the Brethren Disaster ministries.  A relief organization.”

“Oy, you’re military.”

“No, Peace Corps is not military.”

“You carry gun?”

“Yes, big gun.”

“Are you catholic?”

“No, the Church of the Brethren is a protestant denomination.”

“Ay, you are Mormon.”

“No, iba (different) church.”

“Ay, many foreigners like you come to marry Filipinas.  They are very good caregivers, as you know.”

“No, I said I didn’t marry a Filipina and I’m here for a different reason.”

“Ha, ha, oy!”

“Okay.”

“Did your church build the simbahan there across the road?”

“Yes, my Filipina wife and I built the Catholic Church there across the road.  We put many guns there.”

“Ay, Salamat.”

“You’re welcome.”

Starting Life Over

Grace Anne stood on a colorful tiled foundation, the only indication that a house once stood were a few broken cinderblocks with jagged rebar emanating, and my memories of standing within these walls, sleeping, eating with this wonderful family as they hosted me just a few years ago. 

"Ha!, we are rico na!" Grace Anne's mother, Tita Grace had said to me one day, as she proudly showed me her newly tiled floor, designed off of pictures she had seen in a re-gifted Good Housekeeping magazine.  She stood with a large smile, pointing at the fragments of tile and drying grout in between.  Without funds to buy proper tile, she had found a pallet of broken shards in town, so the floor was a colorful mix of blues, reds, greens, and all mixes in between.  In many ways, it looked better than if she had just gotten a standard set of tile, all alike, with similar patterns and shapes. 

When we first drove through the little village of Cabuynan, Tanauan, Leyte,  on January 22, I recognized only the big Copra Mill where sweating bodies had milled coconut oil, all of the huge containers overturned and leaking sludge.  Everything else was a burned, spoiled palette of the town and houses that had once been.  We drove by the house the first time, since I was looking for the sturdy little home that I had known, but then we lurched the creaking jeepney to a stop and turned around, slowly creeping along the National Highway, and finally, we saw a bright tiled floor out in the open, and chain-link remnants of the fence that once guarded the hacienda.   Roy and I exited the jeep and walked across the road carrying a few new folding chairs and provisional clothes as Grace Anne stood in a light drizzle in front of her makeshift home of donated plywood, paper-thin roofing, and a soiled Unicef tent. 

Her smile was huge, and as she talked, Grace Anne's pride shone through a strong composure.  Only when asked of her experience during those minutes and hours of Typhoon Haiyan's fierce winds and surge did the corners of her beautiful big eyes puddle with anguish.   

Grace Anne, her cousin Roussini, her mother and father, and her grandmother were all at her house when they began to hear the first rains from Yolanda hit the metal roof of their home during the evening of November 8, 2013. 

Within an hour, winds were deafening, and their coastal community knew that this storm was unlike the others they had known.  The first salty pacific wave shattered through a thin wall of cinderblocks and mortar, and tore away the thin metal roof, and, at about 5 o'clock PM, Grace Anne held onto Roussini as they were carried on a wave, white and ferocious, some 50-feet high over to the steep mountain that flanks their little town.  The other family members were unable to stay with them, and were forced in other directions.   Grace Anne pointed to the places where she and Roussini clung for about 3 hours as wave after wave of storm surge wiped away homes and lives and futures of so many.  A boulder outcrop jutting out from the mountain where they found shelter at last stands as memorial to their horrible experience.

As they told their story, we stood under a tarp in the small cooking area listening intently, incredulously, to their memories of that night.  Finally I asked about her mother, the woman I had known as Tita Grace.  Before Grace Anne could answer, we heard a motor slow outside, and Terry, Grace Anne’s father came around the corner, much leaner than I remember, with a large smile on his face, outstretched arms. 

Rain subsided and we walked on the colorful tile floor in hot Philippine sun as Terry recounted his experience during the storm.  Despite some new scars on his upper arms, and a tighter gait to protect some broken ribs, he was the same Terry as always.  His voice was tired though, and one can only imagine the pain that he had experienced in the past couple months since the storm.  That morning, as waves had swept them towards the same steep slope where Grace Anne and Roussini were clinging for their lives, Terry and Grace held onto each other, grasping for tree tops as the torrent tossed them around.  Finally, Terry said they lost their grasp on each other and he clung to a tall coconut tree as floating debris battered his arms and back.  A giant white swell carried Tita Grace away into the early morning

Students in Tanauan jump rope and live next to the shallow graves of many friends and family

darkness. 

Friends meeting to help decide where to put local funds in Babatngon

The day after the Typhoon, light drizzle fell as Grace Anne, Roussini and Terry were reunited.  Their home was gone, and all that remained were some pieces of rubble and bright tile, washed by ferocious winds and rain.  They would find Tita Grace’s torn body a half mile away amongst fallen Mahogany branches and a bramble of Balukawi vines, and eventually discover Tita Grace’s mother, a cousin, Terry’s mother and father, and many friends who had been lost to the Typhoon as well. 

All the Soggy Books that remain for the nearby Tanauan National High School that services 1600 students, where 52 of 58 school buildings were completely obliterated

For one family to feel this kind of pain is devastating, but unfortunately, it is similar to tens of thousands of stories of families in this jovial, welcoming corner of the world called Leyte, Philippines.

Grace Anne told me of her struggle to stay afloat, and her reliance on leaves and wood in those 3 hours.  Neither she nor Roussini could swim, adding to their panic.  She stretched her arms wide to show me the size of the snakes and lizards that floated in the white froth with her, and, when I asked her how, despite the waters and odds against them, she had managed to remain alive, Roussini and her clutched one another again, as I imagine they had that evening, and Grace Anne shook her head, motioning to the sky.