Redemption in Panama... Is Oprah The New Jesus?

It's election day in the USA but  here in Panama, it's raining so when the phone rings, I'm nestled snugly  into my sofa.  It's my brother Nicholas in California, calling to make sure we  sent in our absentee ballots on time.

UH oh.
OH Boy.
Ummm . Okay.  It seems we kind of screwed that one up this year.
Sorr-reee.

Without actually scolding, my responsible brother gently and firmly lets me know we have committed the unforgivable by giving away our precious votes to the Tea Party.   But, practically in the same breath, all is not lost.   He brightly explains (as he hits ENTER on his keyboard ) there is still time for me to single-handedly redeem my family from spending eternity in Hades by picking up the phone to  make some "Get Out and  Vote"  calls using, of course,  the link that now and already awaits me via his email.

My brother is, of course, is correct.  Although I'm an Independent, left on some issues, surprisingly right on others, I am still registered as a Democrat,  something I did in order to vote in the primaries -- which of course never counted since I was voting in Florida, where your votes magically disappear like socks in the dryer.  I am, after all, a Ballard.

And Ballards vote. Ballards come from a long line of active Democrats -- that's "active" with a capital "A."  My  internalized parental and grand-parental values were rapidly surfacing, taking on the form of  painful contrition.  And guilt will kill you.

Also,  I'm pretty sure I felt the earth moving under my house as my ancestors began to squirm in their graves.

So, while I definitely wanted to remain in my now form fitting  spot on the couch, that wasn't going to happen; the guilt was now gnawing away at my lazy, easy day.

But was it the guilt alone that propelled me out of my comfort zone? Loyalty to my brother and our family ideals?  Maybe it was my good old higher power calling me into action -- that faint  voice of right and reason that I sometimes refer to as Uncle Jesus' Holy Spirit.

Or, perhaps, just maybe it was the voice of Oprah Winfrey herself!

Let's face it. Haven't most of us over the past 25 years been minding the messages of Oprah?  Oprah leading us to meditate, eat /pray/love;  dump the dieting; follow the mother ship (whatever that is); dive into the vortex (whatever that is); and oh yeah, above all, Vote!

Maybe it was Oprah herself calling to me all the way from Chicago. Chicago, city of my birth; home of Hull House and the great Jane Addams, alongside whom my grandparents worked and where they became directors after her death.  Chicago...place of my parents' alma mater, the then matchless University of Chicago, and home of the progressive Hyde Park area, where my grandparents, and later Barack Obama himself resided, before he moved to the White House.

Whatever it was that pulled me into action, it worked.
I did the good deed.
I dialed. I persuaded. I left creative and cajoling messages, forgoing of course the provided internet Script.
And ... I began to feel better.  I felt redeemed.
I had single-handedly brought the future of my children (and their children) away from the arms of hell and closer to heaven's embrace by my earnest campaigning efforts.

All this got me to thinking:
It's probably forgivable to disobey Jesus once in a while because, you know,  Jesus is a pretty forgiving guy.
But it's not okay to go against Oprah.
Let's face it. If you cross Oprah, you probably go straight to hell.
So.
Is Oprah the new Jesus?
I don't know.
As of this writing, the ballots haven't been counted.

Moving On... Maybe

I've been waiting to write a post, hoping for just the right inspiration to hold your interest. So here's the thing. My wit and sass have gone right out the window, along with the hormones. I'm just fresh out of clever.

I'm also, for once, fresh out of drama. There was one promising day, about a month ago, when we had a few small earthquakes ... 5 point something, I believe. My chair started swaying and I felt as if I were riding a wave. Naturally, Larry and the kids hanging around didn't feel a thing. I, on the other hand, figured I was either having a mini-stroke, or a new symptom of menopause. A second, stronger quake occurred later on and Larry did feel that one, but William and his friend were nonplussed. We're dry as a desert and windy enough only for a daily dose of dust in the house. It's annoying, but nothing like the floods of last year!

Our life in this cloud forest has become what life becomes once your nest is built ... usual. After a full 14 months, we now tap out the hum drum rhythm of the day-to-day... or should I say dia-tras-dia?

We've sold the beautiful house we built and are waiting to close. I'm mildly tickled by the notion that we'll be allowed to stay on through most of the summer ... as caretakers. And that works for us for now.

Well, in case you thought a blade of grass was in danger of sprouting under Larry's feet, we are thinking about purchasing a downtown fixer-upper. This, of course, will make Larry happier than William in a candy store, and I'll be a tool belt widow... again.

I mentioned the location we are looking at in an email to a friend in Connecticut, another Elizabeth, explaining that the property we are looking at is a real dump (trust me when I tell you it puts the "U" in ugly) ... to which she remarked. "So you're buying a crack house! Good for you!" So here is my promise: if we close on the crack house, I'll be sure to post before and after photos.

William is finishing up 4th grade Home School in the mornings and still attending local school in the afternoons. I hope to have him fully matriculated by the end of June. His Spanish is kicking in after spending the Panama school break (December - mid March) with the neighborhood kids, which likely means he is fully bilingual on a WII, X-Box and D.S. He continues to entertain us daily with his own version of Spanglish. But, now that he is really speaking, I have to concentrate on improving my own skills, driven by the horrible notion that by the time William is a teenager, he will be verbal steps ahead of me. Oh God, I can't let that happen.

The Orphanage -- Casa Hogar Trisker

We spend Saturday mornings at a local orphanage where Larry knocks himself out (with William's help) teaching soccer to a group of boys, while my friend, Johnnie Fernandez and I spend teach the girls (and a few boys) crafts. It's a daunting task to come up with projects and materials each week and my gal Johnnie shines in this area. I think I'm mostly there as chaos control.

Altogether, there are roughly 50 children in all. The kids are chock full of mischief, curiosity, need and lice. It's easy to feel frustrated when we see obvious ways we could improve their living conditions and quality of life, but have to struggle in a system that isn't ours.

I confess that I approach each Saturday with with feelings of dread, but I leave with a sense of reward. Every little bit counts, I hope.

By law I am not allowed to take or post pictures of the children. Perhaps I will take one of the outside to give you an idea. Suffice it to say we have grown to love them and are committed to our Saturdays. Don't be surprised if I set up a donation site for school scholarships, supplies, etc. I tell you these children are utterly deserving, and your dollars, which go a long way here, will be well spent.


Wrapping Up The Year

All in all, I'm glad we made the enormous effort to move here. Truth be told, I'm not madly in love with Panama, but it's growing on me. And the benefits of the move are obvious. We have undoubtedly extended William's childhood and given him a broader perspective of the world. While it isn't easy to miss friends and family (especially Dylan who is now in college), we've made new friends, too.

The most positive aspect this move has had on our family is that it has given Larry and me time to get to know one another. Whether we liked it or not! In Sarasota, with Larry working nights, we never saw one another. Here, we are together all the time. I'll admit this kind of intense restructuring was forced and never could have happened under the circumstances of our lives back in the States. Ultimately, we have surfaced from the move as a much changed and definitively better family. The irony is clear: what initially seemed to be costing us so much in the way of stress, effort and money turned out to be our family's priceless gain.

Larry at the Oscars

Here I am in Panama at Oscar time and the big surprise is … Who ever would have thought Larry would become that new best gay friend who stays up and watches the whole thing with me?

And not just THE Oscars, but, unarguably, the most boring Oscar show ever.

By the time it was ended I promise you, I was clear on the other side of menopause. (All those montages… half the time I wasn’t sure if we were still on commercial.)

Thank goodness for Ben Stiller who gave us a laugh doing a timely version of Joaquin Phoenix, whom the world had just last week seen go all the way to Crazy Town and back on Letterman.

Oh, and for a bit more entertainment, there was that enormous, squirrely crew of Slum Dog Millionaire who, collectively, look (honest-to-God) like the entire Lonely Hearts Club wall from those Junior High school dance days. Sorry, but somebody has to be the bitch and just say it.

And, through it all theer, was Our Larry. Our good ol' Michigan, cut-to-the-chase, meat & potatoes, tell it like it is Larry who finally got up and, strolling toward the bedroom in his boxers, commented in his usual Slagle way ... with a manner he has that channels parts of my dad and other grumpy old men … “Boy, I wish they’d just put that end stuff up first. I could have gone to bed hours ago!”

See you next year!