Grandpa’s Hands March 28, 2010

“I will never forget you my people.

I have carved you in the palm of my hand.”

-Isaiah 49: 14-16

I have always been oddly captivated by my grandpa Marvin’s hands.   To me, they were abnormally large and strong.  I distinctly remember a hand-shake I had with him when I was 7 years-old.  Maybe I remember because it’s peculiar to give your grandpa a handshake at that age.  My Toronto Blue Jays had just defeated grandpa’s beloved Phillies in the 1993 World Series.   I was quite nervous about our encounter because I didn’t want to make him rehash such painful memories.  But grandpa was even-keel as ever: “Congratulations,” his voice rumbled as his hand enveloped mine.   The handshake was more like Lenny Dykstra shagging a fly in center; grandpa’s worn leather mitt plucking my tiny ball of fist out of the air.  It felt as though my hand had traveled down to grandpa’s basement workshop at Hunsberger Lane and was stuck between the vice.

I quickly grew to realize the talent of those hands.  Neither of my parents were particularly “handy” at fixing anything around the house.   Luckily for them, Marvin and Beulah made the 10-hour trip up to Canada twice a year to make sure everything was in tip-top shape.   I remember sprinting home from school  one day so I could loiter as grandpa’s entourage as he built us a new back porch.  On the rare occasion, he would turn to me and ask, “Could you get me some more spikes?” Nothing made me happier.  Evidence of his hands’ labour littered my childhood landscape.  “Mom, where did you get this rocking chair?” “Grandpa made it.”  “Mom, where did you get this blanket?  Grandpa  sewed it.” “Mom, when did Grandma and Grandpa move into their house?” “After Grandpa built it.”

Those powerful hands were essential to Marvin’s career as a handyman, yet I was still mesmerized by them when he returned from a day’s work at the home.  I contend to this day that my Grandma makes the finest juiciest beef roast in the land.   But she would deflect my family’s praise to Marvin: “He cuts the beef properly,” she would say.  After one of these celestial feasts, I retired to their living room; stomach swimming in gravy, mashed potatoes and beef.  “You know what,” I said to myself.  “My grandpa is the best roast beef-cutter in Harleysville.  No, No, No, he is the best roast beef-cutter in Montgomery County.   Heck with Montgomery County, he’s gotta be top 5 in the state of Pennsylvania!”

And then there were the hundreds of Pinochle games we played after dinner.  Grandpa had such a distinct way of taking a trick you knew you were in trouble before he even played his card.  His right-hand would reach into his handful of cards with a certain arrogance as if to say “back-off kid, this trick is mine.”  It was like getting brushed-back from the plate by a Don Drysdale fastball.

It was only once the talent of those hands deteriorated along with Grandpa’s health that I began to understand their wisdom.   Grandpa’s hands were cerebral.  They worked at a slow steady pace until the problem was solved.   They knocked down jobs one by one for decades.  Of anyone I know, Grandpa took the saying idol hands are the devils workshop most literally.  He didn’t retire until he was 80 years-old.

Two days after retirement he suffered a torn aorta.  He survived a surgery that had quite low odds for success.  Doctors said he shouldn’t expect to live more than two years.  But Marv clung to life with the same vice-like grip that he swallowed my hand with years earlier.   It was tough to watch those hands in his final years as they struggled to conquer simple things like unwrapping a candy.  It hardly seemed fair that tools of such genius had been reduced to this.

In our language when things start spiraling out of control, we like to say they are out of hand.   When someone is not grounded in reality, we like to say they are out of touch.  Marvin’s hands were firmly in-touch and in control of his life.  What I would do for Grandpa’s hands.  I look down at my own and they seem so dainty and stupid in comparison.  I may as well be one of those Wall Street bankers who get a manicure weekly.   I hope the intelligence of our hands isn’t lost as we continue to evolve as a society.  As my grandpa showed me, you don’t have to use a computer to solve all your problems.

I always thought Grandpa to be a man of few words.  The only time I can remember him giving me advice was at Christmas one year.   He sidled up to me with a grin on his face and said, “Remember treat your woman properly.  She will keep you going.”  He unraveled his great big fist to reveal a necklace he would give grandma lying on his calloused palm.  I never forgot the advice or the image of his hand cupping something so delicate.   The action’s of Marvin’s hands spoke louder than his words.  He passed away Friday morning but he left countless real life monuments to remember those hands and the man in charge of them.

Are Ya Gonna Be Kobe or Vince? March 23, 2010

Riders on Chapman's Peak

I was amazed to find Vince Carter’s mug splashed across Botswana TV a few months ago. I couldn’t help but think what a useless waste of talent as he launched yet another fall-away jumper. “Take the ball to the freaking hole,” I chirped to the listening television. It’s sad when the pinnacle moments of your career are a dunk contest and jumping over a seven-foot French dude. But ragging on Vince was quite hollow coming from me, sitting there, reclined, on the couch in Lesotho . “Martin, you’re exactly like Vince. You settle for the fade away jumpers in life and never challenge yourself by taking the ball to the hoop,” I whispered to myself. “You’re Vince.”

The thought chilled every fiber of my being. Perhaps I do settle for the easy things in life. I’m too easily content and goal-setting has never been my forte. But please don’t call me Vince. And please not those awful nouns: faker, whiner, liar or pre-Madonna.

With this in mind, I signed up for the Cape Argus bicycle race. I needed a mountain to climb to prove I was not Vince settling for another fade-away jumper. The Argus is the largest participatory bike race in the world with over 35, 000 riders annually. The route is a breathtaking 109 kilometers that sees you slipstream your way down the False Bay coast from Cape Town and back up to mother city over the exquisite Chapman’s Peak and Atlantic seaboard.

Training was hard. I looked lustfully at the fat cakes and chips and cokes. At these moments, I had a refrain I uttered to myself: “Are you going to be Kobe or Vince?” I hate no athlete more than Kobe Bryant, but even I have to admit he has the most indefatigable will to conquer of any athlete post-Clinton Whitehouse. Call it a begrudging respect .

Cycling the hills of Lesotho had its advantages. I was training at altitude and the roads were rarely flat. There were several Kobe-Vince inner-dialogues ascending the steep slopes. I would bike from village to village on the weekends picking up bananas and water fueling myself through the oppressive African sun.

When the eve of the race arrived I was quite nervous. I carbo-loaded because I heard that’s what Stevie Y did before a big game. I was sleeping in a 20-person dorm at a backpackers. Not ideal for the 5:30 wake-up. I arose as my roommates returned from a wild night on Long Street.

The race was easier than I thought. The views were magical and my legs metronomical. Slipstream Sean had lent me a really nice bike. It made a huge difference because it was much lighter than what I had trained on. The wind was howling. Even the impregnable Lance Armstrong said the winds were something to behold. But reaching the summit of Champman’s peak it was hard to be bothered by the aching quads and the belligerent breeze. The Atlantic Ocean silenced the muscle spasms. It was hard for me to imagine there was a more beautiful road in the world. I crossed the finish line in 4 hours 51 minutes, somewhere in the middle of the pack of thousands of riders. I thought to myself: well you’re no Kobe Bryant, but at least you’re not Vince.

A Routine Entry Cont… March 9, 2010

I guess the second ogre to slaughter would be life outside of work.   I live with a family on a hill in the shadow of the Makhoarane mountain. It’s gorgeous and my family is so nice.  My father is the Morija town councillour and my mother works for the Ministry of Agriculture.   They have three authentic children (I’m the fake one) who have all moved out of the house.   But two house workers stay at the house along with a herd-boy who stays adjacent to my hut.  We have a massive garden that surrounds much of the house. It has produced: watermelons, peaches, carrots, tomatoes, green peppers, apricots, pumpkin, squash, green beans, chilies, maize, pees and cabbage.   It’s a powerhouse.   The amount of peaches we had was absurd.   I started a competition with my father to see who could eat more peaches in a day.   He destroyed me.  “Ntate, How many have you eaten today,”    “13.”  We also have an array of livestock.   There’s 8 dairy cows, 7 pigs, and numerous chickens.  It’s nice to experience “the farm life” even though it’s not quite a farm.  My parents devote an incredible amount of free-time to the garden and animals.

During the week, I usually do nothing in the morning except wash and eat.  After work, I like to exercise.  I bought a bike and am cycling the rolling hills of Morija and the surrounding area while the sun sets.  It’s incredible scenery.  I also have trained with the local soccer team quite a bit which has been a good way to get to know the guys my age.  There is something authentic about playing the game on the dirt fields of Africa.   I have probably lost between 15 to 20 pounds.   I don’t have a scale, but that’s my guess.

At dinner my family congregates around the TV and we watch the news and a soapie called “Generations.”  The food is quite repetitive, but oddly comforting.  The staple is what  they call papa, which is cornmeal in congealed slabs.   I try to cook once a week.  Tacos are the clear favourite.  They think it’s fantastic.   And really who doesn’t like tacos?  I try to retire to my room to read or write before I go to bed.   I have read quite a few books.  Currently I’m reading The Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen.   But have plowed through several of my books.  I have to admit the Robertson Davies trilogy was great and the Idiot by Dostoyevsky caused me to eliminate all other priorities in life until it was finished.  I go to bed listening to the BBC World Service on my shortwave radio.

I think I have crushed the monster.  Finally.

A Routine Entry . . . March 9, 2010

It has come to my attention that I have been abysmal at describing what my Lesotho life is actually like to you ardent readers. I have to admit that life has settled into a routine and I have never been good at describing routine. My sister and I were experts at stone-walling our parents “How were your day at school questions.” We usually just grunted in-between bites of stir-fry and hoped the conversation would move towards something else. Perhaps, it was because we knew any answer would only lead to more questions from our mother.

So I’ll do my best to tackle the monster that is the banality of routine in attempts to bring you closer to me. Work of course is the first ogre to slay. Morija Printing Works is my home five days a week. At least it’s not your stereo-typical 9-5 shift, rather 8-5. I work in what is called room “Number 1”. We are in charge of getting our customer’s documents (books, calendars, pamphlets, newspapers, programmes etc.) into the proper layout so we can print them to film. We develop the film in the dark room and then transfer the film to plate. The plate heads to printing press to get printed. Most North American printers now run on computer to plate technology, which cuts out the film step and a whole lot of time. Morija Printing Works is set to acquire computer to plate technology in May. I find myself getting quite excited about this; almost Sidney Crosby overtime golden-goal excitement. Speaking of which, it’s going to be a bit embarrassing in the future when people ask me where I was when Crosby scored. Ummm I was following the game in my thatched hut in Lesotho via espn.com chat. I did a victory lap in just boxers at 1 a.m. after reading: “Crosby!!!!!!!!!”

But back to the ogre at hand. I do various things in room number 1. I have designed book covers and calendars, been a typist, taken-up the role of resident IT guy, taught Microsoft Excel and am in the process of making a website. I work with two others in my office. Ntate Bataung has been with me the whole year and he is a joy to work with. We share a lot of good laughs together. He tricked me into thinking he had three wives. I haven’t been able to top that yet. I’m the over-protective mother of the computers in our office. I don’t trust any of the kids they play with. So when a customer comes in with their project on a Flash drive I lock eyes with Ntate Bataung so he knows to scan for viruses before using. When I first arrived there was no anti-virus software and I was asked why their main computer wasn’t functioning properly. “It has viruses,” I state emphatically. Bataung, of course chimed in, “It’s got H1N1 and HIV AIDS man. It’s the outhouse of Lesotho.” Upon installing free anti-virus software, the first scan revealed 4,500 infections. The nickname outhouse has stuck. “Bataung, where is the Auditor’s report?” “It’s in the outhouse.” About 95 percent of flash drives in Lesotho have viruses. The problem is pretty rampant worldwide with the Flash Drive or memory stick or USB.

It’s tough working with computers in Africa. They are a terrible investment because things get out of date so quickly. But at a printer you have to be running the same software as your clientele. It seems rather unjust to me that in Lesotho we have to pay the same price for an Adobe program as Toronto. We don’t have the same budget to drop money on technology year after year. So a lot of the problems we encounter in room number 1 revolve around not having the right program. Business, for the most part, is done in person because the internet is far from universal. People don’t just email us a PDF, rather they make an hour drive to drop off the PDF. So jobs often get prolonged while we drive the document to and fro down the tarred road instead of the information super highway. South Africa is far more developed in terms of internet access then we are here in the geographically rugged Lesotho.