Sylvia's Journal

I drove in with Cary from Ipswich to reduce the number of cars that would congregate in Lowell at the end of the day for Axel’s birthday surprise: Joan Baez in concert at the Lowell music festival. Edith picked me up from work in the middle of the afternoon so we could stake out a piece of the grass for the other members of our party: Axel, the girls and their mates, and Anne and Chuck.

By the time we arrived, 3.5 hours before the start of the concert, the park’s lawn looked like a patchwork quilt made of multi-colored square and rectangle picnic blankets, and rows of empty beach chairs stitching the pieces together. There were very few unclaimed spaces, especially for a party of nine. We found one on the front row, right off center from the stage, at most 45 feet from the central mike.

Defending the space with just the two of us, as more and more people came in, was a little stressful. There is something very primordial and animal about defending one’s small plot of grass at a concert from intruders. It reminded me of our days at the beach in Holland, when I was a child. If the Germans had not already done so, we would dig a deep round trench and line it with towels. Such territory was easy to defend because of the wall around it. For us in Lowell it was a little more difficult as we could not dig. I felt a little guilty and selfish when staking our piece with purses, backpacks, coolers and beach chairs.

In the meantime Tessa was chauffeuring Axel to a, for him, unknown destination. First he thought they were going to Boston and he guessed a harbor cruise. Then, when they turned north he thought a river cruise on the Merrimack (what’s with the cruises?). Then he gave up. When he and Tessa arrived at the park he still did not understand – there was no sign indicating who would be performing. A party of women who had peeled a strip from our territory (but with whom became friendly while waiting) sang happy birthday to Axel and inquired when he had last seen Joan. He still didn’t get it (“Who’s Joan?”). After guessing a few wrong Joans (Joan Armatrading, Joni Mitchell) we dropped a hint (Bob Dylan) and he finally got it, breaking out in a big grin. We had been entirely successful in our surprise party.

Next came Anne and Chuck who arrived with hundreds of others (coming 3.5 hours early is indeed a good idea). We plucked them out of the long line and provided them with the coveted wristband that indicated you had paid and allowed you to bypass the line and wander freely in and out of the park. It was a prize possession since the concert was sold out. Then came Steve with the most expensive and most heavenly quiche and birthday cake I have ever tasted, from the upscale bakery (Flour) near Tessa’s work. Sita and Jim arrived last, after working their way through a series of traffic jams.

Before the concert started a crew from NBC’s Today Show scouted around for people of a certain age who might have interesting memories and stories about Joan Baez and Woodstock. They picked three from our party: Edith, Anne and Axel. We are not sure who will survive the editing process but I have a feeling Axel might, he had a good story to tell. If he did, he will appear on the Today Show on August the 15th.

Today Axel completes the 63rd year of his life and enters his 64th. I was too pooped, after a 19 hour day, to decorate his chair and set up anything that would mark today as extra-ordinary. Luckily Sita and Tessa did. Seeing their display this morning made me smile. Something becomes a family ritual if it happens without you. The transfer of this particular birthday ritual is completed. I imagine years from now, great-great-great grand children wondering, where did this come from?

Yesterday morning I thought I had gotten up at 4:30 AM, my usual time, but somehow the automatic clock that sends signals from someplace in Colorado to my alarm got confused by its Daylight Savings time settings (as had I). I was fully dressed and ready to start the day before 4 AM. The ride into work was the fastest ever and I was at my desk long before 6 AM; hence the very long day.

The students from the BU course presented their final class projects to members of the MSH staff and invited guests. Everyone was dressed to the nines and nervous. Since I had been on the phone in Kabul with the Afghanistan team, I was considered part of the family. All the presentations were polished, focused and engaging. I was blown away by their backgrounds, diversity and by the way they presented themselves. I was sorry, once again, that I had not been able to teach the class last week. I seem to be teaching this class every other year.

In the middle of the presentation MP showed up with her new Afghan family, now disguised as Americans. Wafa, in his khaki pants and summer shirt, had gone through quite a transformation. His English is about the same level as my Dari and the poor fellow must feel overwhelmed with the rapid fire English spoken all around him. Said was beaming and so was MP. I was so happy to see them.

Later we had lunch with one of the Afghan students, a female doctor from high up in the ministry of health who, according to rumors when I left Afghanistan, was planning to stay in the US. She assured me this was not true; in fact she was just reconfirming her return trip on Saturday. Such rumors, she told me, are quite common and are sometimes used as ways to discredit people, especially women. It was a good reminder of the complexity of living in Afghanistan as a foreigner. I have a tendency to always assume good motives and intentions behind actions and to take people’s statements at face value. First I believed the rumor and now I believe her. We’ll see where the truth lies in less than a week.

In the afternoon it was office clean up time. Both Jennifer and I are leaving; between the two of us that is nearly 30 years of accumluated office debris. I threw out paper that dated back to 1990 and realized that I haven’t used paper files and folder for a long time. The first folder took me nearly 30 minutes to clean out; each page was a trip down memory lane. At that pace I would have needed days to complete the job. But then I got better at it and threw everything out, quickly filling up a large container. Morsi, Jennifer and Ashley joined in the fun and we made good progress. Now I have to do the same with my computer files, probably a bigger job and one that can be endlessly postponed without negative consequences.

In the evening I had my first goodbye party, 6 weeks ahead of departure time, with old and current colleagues, consisting of the subgroup of women-of-a-certain-age. We had bonded over the years as we went through major life changes together: having children, raising them, seeing them leave the nest, marrying and having babies themselves in some cases.

We made an exception to the women-only rule for Said and Wafa who showed up briefly. They were probably rather puzzled by these older women having fun like small kids. MP carted them away to their beds when their eyes started to glaze over.

The potluck was hosted by Ann, my squash partner for many years; showing up at her house brought back many fond memories of our twice a week early morning squash games at the YMCA (until my knees gave out) our dress-ups for Halloween and many other goodbyes like this.

It was a reunion of sorts of people with whom I have shared many years of those last 22 at MSH. Some of them have gone on to other organizations in the meantime, but in some ways they have never left. We sat around a dining room table laden with great food. Without any difficulty we fell back into old grooves, telling old stories and poking fun at the same people we have poked fun at for years; remembering things that now seem funny and nice, even though they were not at the time. I think I like this part of growing older, everything repackaged and full of glitter and warm smiles.

Organizational dynamics is the bread and butter of my professional life but sometimes I get caught in them myself. I had a run-in with our accounting chief about something that can cost me close to a thousand dollars. An invocation of unbendable rules set me off on the wrong foot. I do remember something in the department’s mission and vision that is about serving their customers but I found little of that in her dismissive attitude. I still need to count to 10 each time I relive the scene. I am gearing up for battle and am looking for allies.

On the positive side I had a long talk with my fellow crash survivor about what happened then and in the two years in between, the dynamics between the two of us and the wish to reset the relationship. We compared scars, physical and emotional, we talked about our new relationship now that I am physically moving away and we talked about matters of money and debt. It was a conversation I had wanted to have for a long time. Over time I had come to accept that it would not happen, especially not before moving to Kabul. And there we were, sitting on a bench overlooking the Charles River, talking frankly about all that had gone wrong. Now we can each resume our life without dark clouds hanging over our heads: one of permanent injury (no longer true) and the other of a lawsuit (also not true).

I left for the airport in the hope I could welcome Maria Pia, Said and Wafa to Boston. Little did I know that while I was waiting at Logan our very own Department of Homeland Security was giving them a last scare and hassle in Atlanta. They missed several flights and were held for 5 hours insisting that critical pieces of paper were missing, more of this unbendable rules stuff. As it turned out they were wrong (rules can be wrongly applied!) and the exhausted and worried party was finally released to continue the journey to Boston. An exhausted but happy Maria Pia called me last night, returning all 50 of my messages. I was able to greet Said over the phone in my best Dari. The ‘getting out of Afghanistan and into the US’ part of the long saga is completed and a new phase of surgery and rehabilitation is about to start. The latter may be just as difficult and agonizing as the first, and probably even longer, but there is hope, and that matters a lot.

Axel and I started our day fasting for the lab test portion of our physical. We need to have a certificate of good health for our new post. This is a good idea when you move to Kabul. For serious healthcare, if you can afford it, you fly to Dubai or Bangkok; for lesser ailments you go to India or Pakistan. You try not to get care in Kabul.

The excitement of the day was having our septic system pumped out for the umpteenth time this year; now we can go to the bathroom, take showers, and wash our clothes again without guilt. The system fills up with water from higher up neighbors which flows down to us. The horrendous rains this spring and summer don’t help. No one could have imagined this situation when some hundred years ago the pipes were laid on this estate. As it got cut up and increasingly large septic systems were installed the drainage system was damaged. Everyone is doing his own thing and things don’t add up anymore.

All through the day I was calculating time differences to try to pinpoint Maria Pia, Said and Wafa on the world map as they are making their way to her old and their new home in Cambridge. I am trying to imagine what it must be like for Wafa and Said to fly further and further away from everything they have always known to this fantasy world that is called America. I picture diminutive Wafa sitting in the wide business class seat, being served food that he cannot recognize, offered wine and treated like royalty by sollicitous flight attendants. About Said I have no doubt that he has stolen everyone’s heart. A few of us have already fallen for his charms.

Andrew came by in the evening to catch up on our news and press us to find a small opening in our busy schedule to come to Small Point before we leave. There is another request from San Diego. I am not making any commitments until I know how the shoulder surgery next week will turn out and once I know the dates for my trip to Ghana that has to happen before the end of August.

We showed our captive audience (Andrew, Tessa and some of her friends) pictures Axel had taken from a moving car with dirty windows, showing, quite literally, glimpses of Kabul. Everyone was quite patient with us. In the middle of the show our new neighbors Stephen and Isabella showed up, out for a late evening stroll from the other side of Masconomo Street. We met them at Quaker meeting on Sunday – imagine that, two couples from Masconomo Street in our tiny meeting.

Between the five of us there were only 1 or 2 degrees of separation with several other people with whom they share one connection or another. They are musicians and artists who moved up from Washington. Isabella teaches meditation, chanting and also happens to be a Reiki Master. She offered to accompany me to surgery for a pre- and post Reiki session to help jumpstart my recovery. I think I will take her up on that.

The contrast between Kabul and Manchester-by-the-Sea could not be bigger. It’s lush, green, and wet here. The only thing the two places have in common is the heat on those few days it is actually hot in Manchester.

Sunday is no longer the first work day of the week and we took advantage of that: sleeping in till 6 AM (!), Quaker meeting (Being of Service), a macchiato for Ethiopia’s sake at the Atomic Café in Beverly, a visit to a local farm stand in Gloucester and a stop by Manchester’s lobster pond.

I transformed our purchases into a huge loaf of whole wheat bread (for the Dutch cheese), an enormous pot of gazpacho to last us for the week, homemade strawberry yogurt and a lobster-corn dinner with Steve, Tessa and their friend Kara.

I between these domestic chores I completed my expense forms, followed Rory Stewart further on his walk from Herat to Kabul to the Minaret of Jam, and helped myself to peapods and raspberries from the garden in exchange for pulling a few weeds.

Early this morning I received word that I am now officially approved in my new role as Technical Director for Management and Leadership in the Tech-Serve Project. The only thing that could stand in the way now of our settling into our new life is if the elections go awry.

And now, back to work. It’s Monday and there is much to do this week.

Tessa and Steve picked us up at the airport and drove us along the scenic route 1A to Manchester under bright blue skies – something that is a bit of a novelty this year. The grass was mowed, the flowers in full bloom, the garden full of vegetables and the house spic and span. Tessa had filled a large vase with beautiful flowers from the garden, baked bread and prepared us a beautiful homecoming. So beautiful that it made us wonder for a moment about why we would want to leave this place and exchange it for a hot, dusty and dangerous one.

We checked out the garden, picking sweet peas from the vine; we swam in cool Lobster Cove and sat on the beach with a cold beer watching Chicha and other dogs romp around as the sun slowly sank down towards the trees.

Woody came to inquire about Kabul, driving up in his antique car with his dogs in the back and a drink in his hands, the kind of scene that goes with the song ‘Summertime, when the living is easy….’ For dinner we feasted on our own broccoli, fresh corn and grilled hotdogs and hamburgers. It was the best possible homecoming we could wish. We are very grateful for all the good people and things in our life.

This morning I sorted through one month of mail and surveyed my office. After living from a suitcase for several weeks I was struck by the amount of unnecessary stuff I have. There is very little I really need and that has to go with me to Kabul in the fall. I suppose this is a good time to clean things out, pack up, throw out or give away.