America is a gun

On my walk this morning, I approached a tidy bungalow and heard a baby crying from the front porch. Even though I couldn’t see the child, I knew it was quite young. I’ve never been a mother, but even I know that the cry of a newborn is different – like the mewing of a kitten – fragile and needy.

I slowed down my pace for a bit and over the cries, heard the soft sound of a woman speaking Spanish to the baby. I don’t know Spanish (major regret that I took French instead) but I didn’t need to be fluent to translate that the words she was saying were gentle and comforting – almost like a spoken lullaby. The woman’s voice over the baby’s tiny cries produced a sweet harmony and I realized that my feet were no longer moving. And just like that, I was crying.

I thought about Jordan Anchondo – the 25-year-old mother of three who was shot and killed while shielding her two-month-old son from the gunfire at a Walmart in El Paso on Saturday. Her baby was treated for broken bones – likely caused by her falling to the floor while clutching him to her chest. She had gone shopping that morning for school supplies and party decorations for her six-year-old daughter’s upcoming birthday.

Her husband Andre, 23, was also killed in the massacre.

I stood there on a sidewalk in Pleasanton, CA, far away from my own home, crying for the harmonies that would never be heard.

America is a gun.

Those aren’t my words, but I wish they were. It’s the title of a poem I first ran across in 2016, after the deaths of 49 people in the mass shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. You remember that shooting? It was the largest mass shooting in US history – until the very next year when 58 people were killed in Las Vegas at an outdoor musical festival.

Brian Bilston, the author of the poem, said the idea for it was generated by this tweet from Jeb Bush:

Bush was a presidential candidate at the time and was apparently trying to bolster his weak standing in the polls by pandering to pro-gun voters. He was immediately eviscerated on social media and his tweet became an epic meme. Oh, and four days later he would drop out of the presidential race. Self-inflicted wounds suck.

Here’s the poem:

“America is a Gun”

England is a cup of tea.

France, a wheel of ripened brie.

Greece, a short, squat olive tree.

America is a gun.

Brazil is a football on the sand.

Argentina, Maradona’s hand.

Germany, an oompah band.

America is a gun.

Holland is a wooden shoe.

Hungary, a goulash stew.

Australia, a kangaroo.

America is a gun.

Japan is a thermal spring.

Scotland is a highland fling.

Oh, better to be anything

than America as a gun.

As I gathered myself on the sidewalk and made my feet start moving again, the sweet duet of that young woman and the baby was drowned out by a Rufus Wainwright song in my head –” Going to a Town”.

I’m going to a town that has already been burnt down

I’m going to a place that has already been disgraced

I’m gonna see some folks who have already been let down

I’m so tired of America

When did America become a gun?

America used to be a front porch.

Nice work if you can get it

I’m in California for the summer trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. It’s my grown-up version of summer camp only instead of swimming, lanyard making and s’mores, there’s a lot of existential angst and self-doubt with the occasional avocado toast. Damn, I wish I had appreciated Camp Massanetta more at the time. I guess youth – and summer camp – are wasted on the young.

Why California? Well, if you’re asking, you’ve never been here. If my spirit animal were a state, it would be California. Oh, and back in NC where I live my regular life, the temperatures last weekend were in the upper 90’s with heat indexes well over 100. This morning, when I took my walk, it was 56 degrees here in Pleasanton, with humidity of 28%. I feel like I got a Get out of Hell Free card for the summer. And we just won’t talk about that minor earthquake the other day.

The other bonus about being in California is that my baby sister lives here. We’ve spent most of our adult lives living a time zone or two away from each other – not on purpose mind you. She’s my best friend and having this much time with her really is like Christmas in July.

The west coast is the best coast when I’m with my sister.

She works in healthcare management and has a super big job at Stanford. She also works on average about 60 hours a week and is never really off. I would hate her job, but then again, so does she. Who wouldn’t? She’s devoted her professional life to providing optimal care for people living with cancer, but every day, literally, hour by hour, our healthcare system gets further away from patient care and ever closer to reducing treatment plans to spreadsheets.

I worry about her – she’s got a lot of years left to work – too many years to hate what she’s doing. The truth is a bunch of folks are in that situation and that just sucks, because I think there was a time when a lot of people liked their jobs.

Maybe I watched too much TV growing up and it warped my idea of work. Back then, people, albeit mostly men, loved their jobs, but were we ever sure what they did for a living? Like what did Ward Cleaver, Beaver’s dad, do except come home to a perfectly coiffed June every evening with his briefcase in his hand? Not a bad gig, but still a bit sketchy.

Living the dream, but where was Ward during the day?

For a lot of us, Mary Tyler Moore was the first role model for a single working woman. Mary Richards was an associate producer for a news station in Minneapolis and she seemed to really love her job – except for the part about not being paid as much as her male colleagues and having to be careful not to intimidate them. Gosh, how times have changed. Said no one ever.

My girlfriends and I loved Mary and her cute clothes and groovy little apartment, and we always knew where we would be on Saturday nights. And if we were babysitting, you can bet those brats would be tucked in before that iconic MTM theme song started. Truth be told, I think I probably majored in Communication Arts because of Mary Richards.

Honestly, I blame my dad for giving me an idealized vision of job satisfaction. He was a sales manager for several companies throughout his career and he loved his job. I never once heard him complain about work. Not once. Sure, he might not have liked a boss or some stupid decision someone up the chain made, but he loved being on the road – a lot – and calling on his customers. He never had an office – except for the dingy basement one at home – but he worked in almost complete autonomy – and therein probably lies the secret to his job happiness. I think most folks would enjoy the work they do more if they didn’t have to do it with some of the assholes they work with. And damn if it’s not true about bad apples. I worked with a couple of rotten ones at my last job, but more on that later.

I’m at an age where several of my friends are retiring. Boy, that’s a word that has a whole new meaning to me now. Remember when you were young, and you heard about someone retiring – they had to be old and white haired and ready to sit in a recliner for the rest of their days. Thank God retirement isn’t wasted on the young. My retired friends are so busy they don’t know how they ever had time to work.

Well, I don’t have a recliner (I have a strong aversion to motion furniture) and I’m not retired. No, I was retired. Big difference. It’s a long story that has played out a bazillion times before me. Surely, you’ve heard it – a couple of weak men felt intimated by a strong woman who was their boss and decided to complain to an equally weak man who had a wee bit of power and, well, that never ends well for the strong woman. Or maybe it does.

A forced retirement gives one a lot of time for reflection, especially after the scars of betrayal have faded. Sometimes a sharp sting of disappointment will still surprise me – like a tooth that’s sensitive to ice cream, but time and validation have helped a lot. I’m profoundly grateful for all those folks who confirmed I got a raw deal, even a few – granted, a dishearteningly few – of the sheep who helped kick me to the curb. Validation doesn’t pay for health insurance, but it does improve your posture.

I’ve also had the gift of insight from unlikely sources, and not necessarily the people closest to me. We’re so reluctant to talk about hard things in our society – even with people we really care about. It’s just easier to assume that someone is doing okay after something bad happens. That’s a real shame because that’s when we really need to talk someone.

My friend Beyoncé, (not her real name), has been one of the wisest voices I’ve heard during my sabbatical from the work world. She is an incredibly private person and would be absolutely mortified if I used her real name. Funny – we weren’t really friends until I lost my job. She was a donor where I used to work and while we were certainly friendly, it was a professional relationship.

Coffee with Queen Bey has been a balm for me.

We have coffee every other month and we exchange emails fairly often. I love hearing from her – she’s a clever writer which I always appreciate, and she’s not afraid to talk about hard things. Sometimes I think she knows me – like really where I am these days – better than some of my dearest friends. She’s a bit of a Yoda figure in my life and I am thankful for her presence.

She sent me an email a few months ago that I still can’t get out of my head. She talked about the concept of losing face as it is understood in Chinese culture. It’s much more than being embarrassed. In Eastern society, you spend your life trying to build up your own relationships and reputation, while also trying to avoid causing anyone else to lose these things. You gain face more by being perceived as helpful and promoting others rather than individual achievement. To lose face means that your ability to function as a member of the social order has been diminished.

Beyoncé suggested to me that my struggles after losing a job that I dearly loved were more about losing my place in the world than my position. I had been a very public figure representing an important agency with people often seeking my counsel and opinion on things. Now, that was gone, and I felt invisible at times. She said I needed to find my face again. And she was right. I had attached too much of my identity to a job and when that was snatched away from me, I didn’t know who I was in the world.

“The noble art of losing face may some day save the human race and turn into eternal merit what weaker minds would call disgrace.” Piet Hein

Think about it. What’s the first question you usually ask someone when you meet them. What makes your heart sing? Probably not, unless you’re Oprah. Nope. What do you do? That’s the question and if you’re lucky, what you do does say a lot about you, but certainly not everything and perhaps not the most important things.

Ram Dass, the American spiritual leader and author, is the subject of a new documentary, Becoming Nobody, which explores the concept of identity. He says that we all want to be a somebody in order to keep our roles and identities safe and tidy. He explains that “we have so many protective shells, so many defensive patterns that only when we drop all of that can we begin to move from ego to soul – and then eventually all of our motives begin to come from a place of compassion.” Whoa, hold on, there! Ram Dass says that the questions we should be asking are, “What can I do for others?” and not “What do I need?”

Ram Dass is purported to be in failing health and that makes me very sad. His wisdom feels like a life raft in this Perfect Shit Storm we’ve been living in the past three years.

I’ve even turned to a few well-known self-help gurus in my search for what’s next for me. I usually avoid those types like Costco samples during flu season, but this life can humble you. I stumbled across a blog by author Mark Manson. He’s well known for his bestseller, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life. Catchy title, right? Anyway, the blog I read was “7 Strange Questions That Help You Find Your Life Purpose” and the question that really got my attention was number three: What makes you forget to eat and poop? Manson isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions. (Where is my eye roll emoji when I need it?)

I answered quickly and clearly – watching the US Women’s National Team play soccer. My answer was truthful, but completely unsustainable as a life purpose since the World Cup only rolls around every four years. My other answer, like Manson’s, was writing. I love words and I love storytelling – not in a “it was a dark and stormy night” sort of way, but more as a communal experience. Writing has long been how I process the world – the good, the bad and the in-between. I love converting my thoughts to words and putting them in some form in hopes of connecting with someone else. That’s what this blog has been about, and it has provided some lovely perks along those lines, but again, no 401K.

I answered 100 questions in an online strengths quiz. Survey says…

I know I’ll figure it all out eventually and storytelling in some fashion will have to be a part of it. Meanwhile, I take comfort in the infamous words of Lloyd Dobler, the underachieving yet endearing kick-boxer in Cameron Crowe’s 1989 classic movie Say Anything. Lloyd pursues the class valedictorian, the beautiful Diane Court, and during a tense dinner scene, is grilled by Diane’s father about his plans for the future. Lloyd knows exactly what he doesn’t want to do which he earnestly articulates in the often recited monologue below:

I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career. I don’t want to do that.

Like Lloyd Dobler, I’m looking for a dare to be great situation.

I believe in Lloyd Dobler and the value of knowing what you don’t want to do. After all, in the end, he got the pretty girl and a hopeful future. As for me, I guess I’ll have to write the rest of my story.

I might just make it after all.

Continue reading →

Let’s do lunch

I took myself out to lunch today. Okay, this doesn’t constitute BREAKING NEWS, but it is something I don’t do all that often. I never have. You see, in the lunch line of life, I’ve long been a packer.

Brown bagging became my lunch of choice early on, no doubt influenced by a traumatic experience in the 4^th grade. It was a warm afternoon and Sharon Shifflett, the girl who sat next to me in Social Studies, threw up on her desk. The cafeteria had served beef stew for lunch that day. Need I say more?

The smell of a cafeteria can still make me queasy. Steamy air, fluorescent lights that buzz, hair nets. Cue my nausea. There’s just nothing appealing about them. Now I do want to say that all those cafeteria ladies growing up seemed super nice, I just couldn’t take what they were dishing out. And so, I packed.

Early on, my mom packed my lunch. She was a wonderful cook, but I can’t say that skill carried over into my school lunches. They were basic, but she did always cut my sandwiches on the diagonal – a classy touch that made me feel a little superior to the other kids with the regular sandwiches – even though I was eating the same overly processed meats that they were.

I’m a vegetarian now, but I still always cut my sammies on the diagonal. Thanks, Mom.

When I graduated from college and started working, I usually packed my lunch for one simple reason – it was cheap. I lived in the DC area and going out to lunch was just not in my vocabulary or budget. Occasionally, when I was feeling reckless, I would treat myself to a bagel sandwich at the mall near my office. Oh, and there were always the occasional girls’ lunch out for someone’s birthday or something. You know the one – where everyone gets separate checks and tries to figure out how to split the cheese sticks that were shared. Good times.

After a couple of years in the big city, I moved to Charlottesville, VA and worked as a department store buyer for several years. Retail schedules make for weird meals and never enough time to go out anywhere, except, of course, the mall. I ate a lot of Sbarro’s pizza during the 80’s – and I’m not going to lie – I liked it.

When I changed careers and became a development officer for a national veteran’s organization, I traveled a lot and had to take donors out to lunch. A lot of my donors were older, widowed women living in Florida. I always let them choose where to go and I know for a fact that Red Lobster is the preferred lunch spot for women over 70 living in the Sunshine State. Those cheese biscuits are really good, I’ll grant you that, but after a week out on the road, this seafood lover would be getting crabby.

cheese biscuit — The catch of the day: Cheddar Bay Biscuits.

I ran a local non-profit in my last job and most days I ate lunch at my desk. It’s not a good idea – especially for your keyboard. And invariably someone would walk into my office and say, “Oh, are you eating lunch?” What was your first clue? The fork in my mouth?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve developed a greater appreciation for the midday meal, and I think travel has helped me broaden my lunch menu. Maybe everything seems more interesting in Europe, but some of my most memorable lunches have been in foreign lands. The Europeans think nothing of a two- or three-hour lunch, with wine, of course. Day drinking definitely upgrades a lunch.

seville glam selfie 106 — Lunch loves. Seville, Spain.

My dear wife and I recently returned from a trip to Spain and Portugal where we had several extended rosé filled lunches. Dining al fresco in the middle of the day and never looking at your watch is its own form of intoxication.

Continue reading →

Walking my way home

My version of the Park and Walk. Bucket hat optional.

I drive to a lovely historic neighborhood near my condo to walk almost every day because where I live doesn’t have sidewalks. Today, I was halfway there when I realized that I had forgotten to put my Fitbit on my wrist. I almost turned around to go home and get it until that tiny voice of reason in my head said, “Fuhgeddaboudit.”

Bad attitude.

I started my current walking practice – and that’s what it is for me – about a year into Trump’s presidency. Prior to the electoral apocalypse, I would mostly get my exercise at the gym near my home. I would listen to a playlist on my iPhone while I did the cross trainer for 45 minutes or so, but even with my ear buds on, I could not avoid the sea of televisions hanging above me like Mission Control. Almost all the sets were turned to cable news and invariably, I would see the BREAKING NEWS crawl on every screen and even though I couldn’t hear what the announcers were saying, it made me anxious – even MSNBC – my propaganda of choice. I would leave the gym filled with sweaty angst. Trust me, not a good look.

Must Not See TV.

I just couldn’t take it anymore and decided that I needed a more nurturing venue for exercise. So, I started walking. I mean seriously walking because, well, it’s not like I haven’t been walking for several decades. Now I don’t mean power walking. I certainly respect your choice if this is your deal, but power walking is just too portentous for me. And besides, it makes me flat-out giggle.

My sister-in-law got a Fitbit a few Christmases ago and crushed her step goal every day and got into great shape. I was still not convinced I wanted or needed another device to keep charged and updated, but when I made a break from the Television Zone at the gym, I decided I might as well measure my efforts each day.

If only it were that easy.

At first, I really liked the Fitbit. It was kind of fun to see how far I could go without collapsing and it is certainly a very encouraging and friendly device. It shoots off a display of fireworks and vibrates when you reach the all important 10,000 steps and sends you fun badges each time you hit a milestone. I was a Girl Scout, so the badge incentive really appealed to me. The Fitbit also gently nudges you to get up and walk every hour. And it keeps track of things like your resting heart rate and how you slept. I don’t really enjoy that feature because I don’t need empirical data to tell me that I don’t sleep well so I usually take it off when I go to bed.

I count sheep, but still see red.

I also don’t wear it out like a regular watch. It’s not at all pretty and I enjoy wearing a nice watch when I’m not exercising. Yes, I know Fitbits come in pretty colors now, but at the end of the day it’s still a device and not a fashionable accessory. This is not negotiable.

Wonder Woman kicks Fitbit’s ass.

The Fitbit does reinforce discipline which has never been my strong suit – so I do appreciate that, or I did, until today. Today, I just walked – naked if you will. Just me and my podcast. And it was delightful. I wasn’t checking my wrist every so often to see how far I had gone – or how far I had to go. I just walked like in the olden days before Fitbit.

It was a gorgeous spring day – finally – warm and sunny and bursting with colors. I passed the tennis courts on my usual route and saw a tennis ball on the sidewalk in front of me. There were several folks playing doubles on the courts near me and someone must have lobbed one over the fence. I thought I should be a nice person and toss the errant ball back closer to the courts, but I guess I’m not that nice and I decided to pick it up and keep walking. And then I did something I haven’t done in years – I started bouncing the ball while I walked. And gosh darn, it was fun.

Multi-tasking.

So, I kept walking and bouncing my way along and I felt like a 12-year-old – only 12-year-olds don’t really bounce anymore unless it’s on an app. I finished one podcast and started another and saw the time on my phone. I had been walking about an hour and twenty minutes – pretty much my usual trek, but somehow, I had enjoyed it more.

I got back to my car and pondered what to do with the contraband tennis ball. Yep, I’m keeping it – right there in one of the cup holders. I definitely see more bouncing in my future.

I’m also going to try and be more mindful of why I started walking in the first place. There’s a rhythm to distance walking that I find very settling and peaceful. And I often feel connected to the other folks I pass along the way – strangers mostly, but we almost always acknowledge each other with a smile or hello. It makes me feel happy and I don’t have a clue what cable news they watch.

I just hope ya’ll are way better with directions than I am.

The spiritual teacher and author Ram Dass says that on our good days we’re all just walking each other home. I like to think this is true. And I love being outside with the birds and trees and so many delightful discoveries. I started taking pictures on my walks and posting them on Instagram with the tag #walkinginardmore. I often write in my head when I walk, and I love getting lost in the words and images. My intention is for these posts to convey hope and kindness and maybe even a smidge of joy – so many of those precious things that have been stifled for what feels like a very long time.

Here are a few gems that caught my eye over the past several months and they are all way better than BREAKING NEWS:

I love finding these treasures on my walks and most days when I finish, I feel more grounded than when I started. That said, I have no plans to kick my Fitbit to the curb any time soon. It helps keep me honest about regular exercise and no harm can come from that. No, I’m just going to try to remember today’s lesson: Walk like no one’s counting.

Just do it.

The Last Eden

“The only man I envy is the man who has not yet been to Africa – for he has so much to look forward to.” Richard Mullin

Africa in winter smells like spearmint and I hope that I never forget that sweet scent. I want to carry Africa with me for the rest of my life.

I’ve been home from my safari for almost eight months now, but I’ve been reluctant to write about my experience. I suppose in part because I don’t think I possess the words to translate the images in my head into sentences, but also for a surprisingly selfish reason. I just haven’t felt like sharing. I feel oddly protective of these memories – they feel rather sacred to me and I have wanted to keep them close in a secret place – like old love letters in a box.

You see, Africa was a cliché come true. It really was the trip of a lifetime – one I didn’t know I needed until I traveled 7,843 miles to Arusha, Tanzania. I’ve never been a bucket list kind of person, but thankfully my dear wife is, and Africa was at the top of her list.

Dear wife was so happy in Africa. Bucket Lists rock!

But let’s get back to my selfishness. Africa was so magnificent, and I want you to love Africa, too, and I’m certain I’m not a good enough writer to adequately convey its magic and mystery. So, I will borrow generously from some authors who did find the right words. Like Ernest Hemingway who said, “I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke up that I was not happy.”

That’s how I felt every morning in Africa and that’s saying a lot because my luggage for the two-week trip never arrived. Two weeks. No luggage. I went on safari and my bag, thanks to a careless man in the Amsterdam airport, went on a boondoggle to a conference in the Netherlands and then on to London for several days before returning to the United States. My bag – and the small stack of brand new Columbia safari shirts which have no place in my real life – were waiting for me when I returned home.

My ONE shirt at the end of each day.

I will admit to being a lifelong over-packer. I like choices – it’s as simple as that. And I loathe people who brag about traveling light like it is some sort of virtue. But guess what? Africa was so amazing that after my initial breakdown after learning that I would be wearing the clothes on my back for two weeks, I got over it. I’m not going to lie – the breakdown wasn’t pretty – yes, there were tears – but I ran through the stages of grief quickly and landed on acceptance after our first day on safari when I looked way up into a giraffe’s eyes so close that I could almost count her eyelashes. Choices are overrated. Giraffes are not.

Best. Selfie. Ever.

My good attitude was tested on the second day on a long game ride. We stopped at a spot that had restrooms and a safe space to stretch our legs. Throughout the day we had seen navy and black flags tied onto trees like a target. Someone in our group asked our guide what they meant. He explained, “Those colors attract the tsetse flies and help keep them off of us.”

From the Tsetse Fly Collection.

Any guesses on the colors of my one outfit? Yep. Navy shirt, black pants. What could go wrong?

Here’s the other problem about writing about Africa. It’s like going to IKEA for the first time. You have a list of things you’re looking for – say a duvet cover and a shower curtain – and you leave the store four hours later with a basketful of whimsical dessert plates, five picture frames, two vases and a jar of lingonberry jam because, what the hell, you’re at IKEA. The store is so vast that you are completely overwhelmed as you hunt for that perfect bedding and you wind up dizzy from walking around in circles while coveting dozens of other tchotchkes you never even imagined existed.

Me wandering through IKEA be like…

Africa is just like that only without the baby strollers. I arrived with my list – the Big Five – lion, leopard, elephant, rhino and water buffalo. Well, I got them all – four of the five on the very first day! But I also got dozens of other “finds” that I never knew I needed – like a dik-dik. Don’t even. A dik-dik looks like a miniature deer but it’s actually a small antelope and is the cutest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. They hang out near the lodges for safety – they’re so tiny that the locals refer to them as “cheetah snacks”. The circle of life can be cruel, my friends.

Two dik-diks are better than one.

The British travel writer A. A. Gill observed, “You either get the point of Africa or you don’t. What draws me back is that it’s like seeing the world with the lid off.” I think I got it or more accurately, it got me. Big time.

I love Gill’s analogy of the lid off. Viewing Africa up close is a rush of amazement and awe. You see it, but you also feel it – down to your spine. If you ever saw the stage version of The Lion King, you might have an inkling of what I’m talking about. Remember the stunning first ten minutes of the show when the giraffes and zebras and company parade onto the great plains of the stage against the backdrop of a burning African sun? The music swells and you feel your heart expanding. Being on safari in Africa feels like that on steroids – with a lot of dust thrown in.

Mufasa! Yeah, he’s definitely the boss of you.

I cried almost every day – not in a boo hoo way, but gentle tears of joy and wonder and a good dose of gratitude. And I wasn’t the only one. On one of our first days out, we came across a huge migration of zebras and wildebeests – they often travel together because zebras can see very well while wildebeests have a keen sense of hearing. Together, they have a better chance of warding off predators. On this day, the chorus line of animals went on for miles at a noisy but peaceful pace. Our driver, the marvelous Edwin, had the wisdom to just turn off our Land Cruiser and let us watch in silence. It was a reverent interlude and needed no narration.

Karen Blixen, author of Out of Africa, captured the glee one feels in Africa when she wrote, “There is something about safari life that makes you forget all of your sorrows and feel as if you had drunk half a bottle of champagne – bubbling over with heartfelt gratitude for being alive.” All these months later, I’m still nursing an Africa hangover.

This is where I get stuck – trying to describe how big Africa is. We spent most of our time in three areas –Tarangire National Park (an area of 1,100 square miles), the Ngorongoro Conversation Area (3,202 square miles) and Serengeti National Park (12,000 square miles). The name “Serengeti” is translated from the word the Maasai used to describe the area, siringet, meaning “the place where the land runs on forever”.

On a clear day you really can see forever.

And believe me, it does. There were times when I could look in both directions and not see anything but the plains and a single tree. Oh, the trees of Africa! I didn’t realize how smitten I was with them until I got home and started editing my photo roll. So many tree snaps and it pained me to delete any of them. The trees are so distinctive: the iconic baobab, favorite high fiber snack of elephants; the sausage tree that looks like, well, a tree with big rolls of salami hanging from it and attracts baboons and many birds because of the sweet blooms it drops when it flowers; and my favorite, the lovely acacia tree, which sometimes whistles when the wind blows.

Behold the baobab! World’s largest protein bar.

One feels very tiny on safari – especially when you’re around so many elephants. Even the baby elephants seemed ginormous. Sweet factoid – mama elephants are some of the best mothers in the animal kingdom. And you see this every day on safari. They are very affectionate with their babies and terribly protective – which we witnessed one day when our vehicle got what Mama thought was too close to the herd and she gave us a “fake” rush and a loud chorus of trumpeting. We all leaned back in the cruiser – as if that would save us. Mama don’t play.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

One of my most favorite things on safari was learning the names of different groupings of animals. I don’t know who gets credit for this clever nomenclature, but it absolutely delighted me. Here are some of the best:

A flamboyance of flamingos.

Tickled pink. Photo credit: Marge Hester

A crash of rhinos.

A cackle of hyenas.

A business of mongooses.

Their work is never done.

A bloat of hippos.

They definitely pee in the pool.

A leap of leopards.

Perusing the lunch menu. Photo credit: Fred Brown

A dazzle of zebras.

Not everyone can pull off stripes.

A confusion of wildebeests.

It’s so hard to get a good group photo.

An obstinacy of buffaloes.

And my absolute favorite – a tower of giraffes.

Neck with a view.

Hi-tech alarm system outside our door.

We saw them all and so much more – birds, crocodiles and lizards, too. We even saw animals post-safari when we were back in the safe confines of our lodge. As we arrived at each destination, our greeter would review important information including the admonition to not go down to dinner without an escort from someone on the staff. I thought that was a little much until I opened our lodge door on one of our first evenings to find two warthogs darting across the path. And one night while dining outside on a terrace overlooking the pool, we saw two Cape Buffaloes stroll by. None of the locals ever got too excited because they know the bottom line – the animals were here first.

Care to guess who has the right of way?

And here’s perhaps the most wonderful part of all – the animals know that, too. All the areas we were in have been protected for years and years, so none of these animals have ever been hunted or harmed by humans. I can’t tell you what they were thinking when they looked at us – sometimes curiosity, often a blasé whatever, but never fear. And that’s why those interactions were so sacred. We weren’t enemies. I was just a guest with orchestra seating at the Great Migration – a spectacular show that has been running even longer than The Lion King.

“To witness that calm rhythm of life revives our worn souls and recaptures a feeling of belonging to the natural world. No one can return from the Serengeti unchanged, for tawny lions will forever prowl our memory and great herds throng our imagination.” G. Schaller

The sign on the door to the Visitor Center at Serengeti National Park reads, “Welcome to the Serengeti, the Last Eden”. And that’s exactly what it feels like – you are at ground zero of creation and it simply stands you still at times. On so many of our game drives, I would just gaze out at the beautiful, untouched land and the cacophony of all those exquisite creatures and wonder two things. One, how can this really exist and secondly, how did we screw it up so badly? I’m certain God is somewhere in the answer to the first question, but I don’t have a clue as to the second one.

The Last Eden.

We were sad when it was time to leave Africa. We would have been even sadder had we known it was going to take us 52 hours to get home, but on the bright side, I didn’t have any laundry to do the next day.

I’m trying to be cheeky because I still get a big lump in my throat when I think of never seeing Africa again. It is an expensive and expansive journey and most folks never get to go – and there are so many other places to see. But Africa puts its mark on you in an utterly transcendent way that I will never be able to convey with words.

For once I followed the rules.

There is an African proverb that says, “The eye never forgets what the heart has seen.”

May it be so.

“If there was one more thing I could do, it would be to go on safari once again.” Karen Blixen

I had the good sense to marry my bucket list.

“I have found out there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. ” Mark Twain We loved our group!

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Author: addisono

America is a gun

Nice work if you can get it

Let’s do lunch

Walking my way home

The Last Eden