Thinking about Ebola

I am glued every day to page sixteen of the NTY because of their stellar coverage of Ebola as it plays out in west Africa and the fallout in first world countries.

With the exception of one case, Mr. Duncan, our first - and so botched- everyone who has been treated here has recovered so far. Today I learned in specifics how these Ebola cases are treated in such dire circumstances in Africa. Just the simple hydration of patients, the monitoring of electrolytes, the tending of other disease issues such as malaria, can make such a huge difference in outcomes. There is such a need for the basic medicine we can do so well here! There is such a need for more health care workers on the ground in west Africa! There is such a need for ambulances and ultra sound machines and all the small things our medical institutions take for granted. I read today in the NYT how the health care workers are constantly figuring out new ways to make their practices better. The recoveries will increase as these afflicted places get more resources.

We cannot imagine how hard it is to be doing this in the extreme heat and humidity of equatorial Africa, covered in heavy personal protection garments. We cannot imagine (in our comfortable lives) how it can be that so many Americans and other people have gone there to the Ebola region of west Africa because they have the mission to care for each person in the world. These people are our heroes.

It saddens me that a few politicians have made hay with this for their own benefit and drum up panic. Glad to note that our Florida governor has stepped back from this.

Several times I have made trips to west Africa: Ghana, Ivory Coast and with stops in other countries.
The images and emotions that stick with me are all positive. I loved the colorful cloth worn by everyone, the warmth of the people, and the feeling of safety I had everywhere. (Yes! Yes! I know how dire and cruel some of the civil uprisings have been). I loved the markets and the unending tracts of dreadful slums with their red earth slurry after a rain. Most of all I loved those people. I loved being in a tent with a head man of some tribe. As we talked I was fascinated with his elephantiasis of his leg, and I politely declined his offer of palm wine.

Even though the poverty and differences were so cuttingly clear, I understood, in some of those encounters, that we were in this world together. I loved being in an intimate colonial dining room with the university chancellor and I loved watching huge geckos climbing the walls, and I wondered if the spectacularly colorful wrap of our host would ever fall to the floor.

Instead of the panic, we need to understand. This epidemic will be quelled, but we need to help.
Especially here in the U.S. where a fifth of our population has African roots and provides us all with the traditions and warmth of African conscience, we need to get over the initial panic. It's going to be O.K.

Plain Sunday

There are very few weekend days when I am free to do non purposeful things. But today we had no guests, no obligations beyond the usual care taking of the gardens and the house.

So, here is the new doll house I am making from a kit. It looked so cute on line, and I thought of my granddaughter who will be visiting here in a couple of weeks.

The directions are totally incomprehensible, requiring tiny nimble fingers and much flapping of pages. When we first opened the box, Andy, Quincy and I organized all the many pages of balsa wood and set to work. Quincy who is now ten and an expert Lego model builder was very helpful and his spacial sense is awesome. Andy, the grandpa who is a talented and experienced woodworker took the lead in constructing the basics 'by the book". None of us had fun doing it. I was just hanging back, biting my tongue, wanting everyone to enjoy the activity. After a number of burns from the hot glue, we abandoned the project.

I had remembered the wonderful doll house I had made from a kit years ago when our youngest was about eight. That project was one I looked forward to working on when I had a moment after the work day. When it was finally finished down to the roof shingles and the lights inside, we were all happy with it. It was a fixture of our playroom for years and finally just fell apart from the hard play it endured.

But this one is smaller and I am in a different place. As this one (The Buttercup) sat on the craft table waiting for more work, I began to think of how one of my sons approached model building. Chris was a maniacal model builder of airplanes and cars. They were plastic and required glueing that was probably really bad for his health. When he approached the task of completing a model, he just went for it the way he thought it should be. If there were pieces left over, that was O.K. And the completed models were perfect.

So, I thought of Chris and today started in again on the Buttercup. Who cares whether the door jams or the window sashes are inside or outside? Just decorate the roof how I want. Put the doors where they look good. Use lots of hot glue to keep everything together. Abandon those pieces I can't figure out. Think about how much fun granddaughter Caroline and I will have painting and decorating the inside and making furniture from the stray pieces of wood from the kit.

Doing this, I am not thinking of ebola or Syria or ISIS or fan issues. It is just a plain Sunday, a beautiful fall day. A gift.

Hobos from Mexico!

"Molly, I am worried!" Mikela is wrapped around my middle and then other kids gather around connecting to any piece of me they can. "So am I! The hobos are coming from Mexico!", says little eight year old Eli. (The names are changed to protect the innocent.) Other kids look at me with wide eyes. Seems they are all scared of these 'hobos'.

I am thinking fast. What are these 'hobos'? It's unusual for kids these days to even know about hobos.
I ask them to tell me more about hobos. "It's something very bad and it comes from Mexico and it can kill you."

O. K. We're talking about ebola and these third grade kids I read to every day are reflecting the fear whipped up by talk radio and Fox News. They just hear it vaguely and respond to their parents' fears and the media frenzy and panic. In the three minutes allotted to me I gently tell them that they have nothing to worry about here. Ebola is still in West Africa, far from here. (I wish there were handy maps in this classroom so I could show them, but not..)

I am so old I can recall practically anything. I vaguely recall my parents' fear of polio, but it didn't affect me. My husband recalls that sometime during that summer polio epidemic in the fifties he had a high fever and his parents took him to the hospital. Maybe he had polio and maybe he didn't. In any case, he's fine. But that dreaded disease was on everyone's mind at the time.

During the eighties when AIDS appeared, we were all so fearful! I often contacted my grown sons (who are not gay) to instruct them about using condoms and washing their hands. Now, I cringe at those memories.

Yes, ebola is one horrific disease, a terrible way to die, and something to be feared.

Of course, we are all on edge. But rationally, we know that ebola will not be a real threat here.

We need to tell kids on their level that they should not be afraid. We need to tell them in a gentle way that nothing is certain or uncertain but they shouldn't fear. And we have to have facts or at least the latest scientific thinking on this.

We'll be O.K.

Keeping on with the reading

What is really closest to my heart these days is the time I spend reading with the third graders in our local school. I promised that since I believe in the huge boost it gives kids to read aloud to them, I would commit to doing it every day except Friday.

So, we are well into October and we have read a Roald Dahl novel, "The trumpet of the Swam". "Mr. Popper's Penguins", some of Shel Silverstein's poems, some snake facts from the wonderful Florida series on nature.

When I peep around the doorway into their class I hear, "Ms Molly! Ms.Molly!" And I know they are eager. So am I!

I sit in a rocking chair and the kids get as close as they can, actually way too close! They constantly touch me on my toes and on my arms and tweak my earrings. One little girl, who has hearing issues, always sits very close on a chair and she hears my voice through the microphone I wear.  A few times in the reading session I must tell the kids they are WAY too close, I need air!

Sometimes it seems that the little deaf girl is pulled out of our reading circle for some kind of 'intervention'. I think that if they just left her to hear the story from beginning to end it would be better. She tells me this by constructing and writing me fan letters. She is telling me that the reading I do is important to her. I want to tell those well meaning folks to just stop! Let her scrunch up to me and listen to the story!

I read with great expression and drama and I constantly make eye contact with this kid or that. When I get to a word they might not understand, I ask them what they think it means. This is where the most advanced kids shine. They have a vague idea and sometimes they are right on.

Some kids are hard to reach but they take their cues from the others who are eagerly settling down to hear the story. They see that this is something desirable, but I don't know if they have ever given themselves permission to just enjoy the story.

One of my favorite kids, a chubby hispanic kid who is clearly new to English often sidles up to me to ask for library books that he knows I will be getting in the local library.

These kids are starved for experiences and conversation!

Fortunately, this third grade has a wonderful, warm, and organized teacher. She took a flier to include me as an everyday volunteer. She may not be a voracious reader herself, but she gets it about reading.

These kids, eight and nine, are not yet the kind of readers who devour a book a night, but I am thinking I can nudge them along on this trajectory.

In this school, one of many in our county, they have no dedicated librarian, and it shows! So, I check out many books from our town library for this class. The school library is pretty sparse and there is no one there like Michelle Martinez who knew the wants of every student.  Ah, well..

More to come.