Treading through the petunias

Early January, 2010
Picard, Dominica

This semester break I took a little job
Greeting frightened students oft unruly mob
They had flown with Liat from a foreign gate
Wondered why their luggage arrived another date
Arriving by the busload causing quite a stir
In the stifled darkness it was all a blur
To rest my weary mind I wondered to the edge
Placed my tired ol feet on a concrete ledge
From the hazy darkness came a gruff voice
Informing me of my error in choice
Who was this scrawny little bit of a man?
Freeing verbal assault against my resting plan
Seems the churlish gardener took major offence
Too close to his petunias with my sole intents
I just gave him a scowl and moved on along
Contents of my thought this poem don't belong
There is another story, remarkable and true
Coulda given gardener spiteful payment due
Friday in Roseau after shopping trip
I stopped for coconut water bought a little sip
Across the road from where I parked waiting on a bus
Was the grumpy ol gardener what a growly cuss
Somewhere deep inside me my moral compass spoke
I offered a ride to this lowly bloke
Groceries were shuffled my boys scooted aside
Made room for the gardener for a Portsmouth ride
Inwardly I giggled, he'd assumed my job
My two little boys competing in the mob
Seems these little fellas when they are tired
Upper limits of voltage their nerves are wired
This controlled melee carried on for a while
But their tiredness waxed with the waning mile
I noted a difference in the back seat
Treading through petunias with their bare feet
Silently they floated through this dreamy land
Heads cradled carefully in the gardner's calloused hand

Lillian

There are situations described as mental war
Rattled to the bone and shaken to the core
I've seen the lady often on a careful walk
The demons in my head ceased their quiet talk
A dire situation, there's something I should do
Demons got the victory I couldn't lift a shoe
Why is it we struggle to do a worthy deed
A moment of victory to help another's need
Again today I saw her at the corner shack
Buying a few simple loaves to place in her sack
She had a friend with her who seemed to assist
Again demons got the victory ne'r e'en resist
As I climbed the steps my back to the scene
Again the mental drifting as if in a dream
But as I turned the corner heard on the street below
Was an audible ticking with no friend in tow


Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick


Then the sound shifted with a violent CLANG
Through my hollow skull as a shot that rang
I turned to face my demons and with a feeble yelp
I just simply muttered "Ma'am may I help?"
She paused on her journey, beautiful and straight
I hope I didn't startle her when I reached the gate
When I reached her side, she stretched forth her hand
Placed it on my elbow and walked the way she'd planned
What happened next has really left me shocked
Demons now silent knowing they've been mocked
Normal Dominican chatter is really quite chopped
Words abruptly ended and sentences are cropped
But this was really different, smooth as Oriental silk
Warm to the touch as freshly drawn milk
Seems an angel dropped from heaven walking dusty street
Slaying my demons and laying them at my feet
She made the process easy this act of being kind
You see my friend Lillian, beautiful.

And blind.

A Walk to Remember.

Date: Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Location: Douglass Bay beachfront, North of Portsmouth, Dominica

When you don’t have a calendar, the haunts of Halloween don’t necessarily occur on October 31st. They don’t always occur at night. There isn’t always a rickety house with creaky stairs involved. Your skin can still goose bump as the hair on the back of your neck stands up.

He didn’t have a calendar.

Tuesday started out about as normal as any day following a mini exam should. The boys had created a list of things to do with Dad the night before, anxious for time to do what little boys love. We started out by heading up to Douglass Bay. I had assumed that by getting further away from Portsmouth to “shell hunt” the pickings might be better. We parked the car along the side of the road and got out to start putting sunscreen on. We soon were met with some scowls from the white woman that lived across the road. She must not have been enamored by the idea of someone parking between her house and the beach while she was doing her yoga on her porch, but thankfully she refrained from any less than overt gesticulations of her feelings. I finally got the boys directed down the beach heading southwest towards Cabrits. The sea was churning fairly roughly that morning, throwing salty spray up on us as we traversed the beach covered with basketball size rocks. The boys enjoyed a lizard chase that ended with a catch and a present for Dad to carry around on his shoulder until the lizard decided to jump and run. Crab traps made of chicken wire and sticks sitting idly hearkened of other days. We squeezed through a narrow spot where a palm tree had fallen leaving a boy high root ball in the way. We finally reached a spot where a tree was growing out far enough toward the water to prevent us from passing without getting ourselves soaked, so we paused to explore. I had to call Ethan back from heading down a narrow trail toward a rusty junk pile. Logan showed him where to find small black snails attached to the rocks.

I don’t really recall the details of what happened next. He was just. There. Like the clouds that settle in over Morne Diablotin, harbingers of an Atlantic storm. Not a definable moment, not a beginning, not an end. Just. There. Unassuming. Present, but somehow empty at the same time. Just. There. A few brief pleasantries were exchanged and he tried to engage the boys in conversation. They didn’t notice, as if he wasn’t. There. He soon settled on a basket sized stone and gazed into the distant breeze as though substance had no meaning and void was tangible. His kempt graying hair was lightly billowing in the Caribbean morning. I looked around to find another stone to sit on, but it’s as if the beach had been cleared of stones. Except for his. And he was. There. So I stooped nearby and looked intently at him. Who is this man, I wondered, that has emerged from the shadows of the rain forest to settle himself in our tranquil morning? The boys bring a hand full of snails to show me, walking right past. Him. Again, he gently spoke to them. Again, ignored as if the voice wasn’t there. He spoke of a simple life of fishing the sea and catching crabs. Delicious crabs. Very delicious. Very delicious. I turned to look and see what he was looking at across the bay. I don’t know if what he saw was in the mist or through the mountain, but I haven’t been blessed with the ability to see it. I know it was there because I trusted that he saw it. Trusted a simple graying man dressed only in underwear and carrying a tattered pair of shorts. I spoke a few more times then gathered the boys to leave. “Come here” he said, and turned to walk into the damp overgrown trail. Not a demand, nor a command, but more of a shared insight into where we would be standing a few seconds hence. Spoken as if the control of the strings of our life’s puppet had suddenly but gently been wrought from our grasp and were being gently directed by his calloused hands. We pensively followed and he began to explain the various flora and fauna in terms of their food value or healing power. A slow unhurried pace of speech that measured with his step. It wasn’t long that we arrived at his “fishing camp” as I would later describe it to the boys. “This isn’t where I live” he said. Was my demeanor judgmental such that he felt the need to defend this point? We followed him “in” and sat down. We were enveloped in a small hut made of heavy gauge plastic draped over carefully placed sticks and propped in the middle to shed the rain. The floor was similarly constructed with the plastic laying directly on the ground. Small stones were carefully lined up side-by-side along the edges of the plastic to hold it down. A car rim with a grate on top sat on a stump just outside. On the grate was a cooking pot. He offered us a place to sit. A broken seat situated on a coffee can. A stump. A plank bench. I sat on the floor and looked around some more. Several plastic spoons and forks neatly placed on a broken piece of plywood. A machete lying near an old coffee can containing heavy fishing line. “Do you sell the fish you catch?” I ask. “No, I eat them.” He answers. We linger for a few more moments, and then excuse ourselves. “Thank you for showing us around.” I tell him. “God bless.” He says. We return down the short trail to the beach. “Dad, he should totally live there” were the words spoken by my six year old son. Somewhere, Logan had begun to see him. Just before turning the corner, I turn to look again at where we had come from. He wasn’t. There.

To this day, I cannot believe what happened that morning. As quickly as he had appeared in our lives, he had disappeared again. Leaving me with a feeling of debt and a sense of emptiness. Empty for not seeing what he saw as he gazed across the bay. Empty for not understanding the plight of mankind. Empty for feeling that so many things I hold close are really just a mist to be seen through. Empty for seeing that one man’s earthly possessions consisted of a few old coffee cans, a machete and some fishing string. Indebted to those who, while suffering in obscure poverty, cannot be paid with minted coin or pressed bill for their contributions of simplicity that rattle the very foundations of who I am and whom I desire to become.

Tuesday morning, October 6, 2009

Out the door at 6:30 am. Slow walk to school..shouldn't have eaten that second cinnamon roll...tummy ache. Started working on Problem Based Learning activity for this afternoons session. Cranberries "Dreams" playing in my ear. "Then I open up and see. The person fumbling here is me. A different way to be." Sad to realize how much better me I can be. Project is "Prognosis and Management of Systemic Lupus Erythmatosis" Improvements in 5 year mortality rates in the 40% range in the 1950's to >90% now. Patients still die at a rate 2-3 times that of unaffected people. The body attacking itself. Wow, doesn't that have implications? Dan Edwards came by my desk at 9 am and told me Magda's fried chicken is especially good this morning, so I head up the hill to get some for breakfast. Walk toward the guard shack wondering if the grouchy guard is on duty and will make me walk around the end of the fence or if I can "cowboy" over it. I cowboy over it. Magda's recognizes me now...usually eat breakfast from there. Fried biscuit with fresh tuna salad stuffed into it is my normal breakfast. Today, it was 3 fried chicken legs. Day after Mini 1. Not much stress, so decide to walk to Portsmouth Beach Hotel beach to eat my breakfast on the pier. Quiet walk down the faded concrete drive under the whispering palm fronds. Dodge falling almond. Dominican man sweeping the sidewalk with a bundle of fine twigs...a native broom. Lady carrying out a sack of trash. Beer bottle by road...remnants of last nights "Post Mini Party". I wonder how many people will actually remember last night through the beer haze. I remember last night. My two boys and me down at the Glanvillia beach. Labrador Retriever chasing ball into water. Fading sunset over Prince Rupert Bay behind thick gray clouds. Single minded purpose of Retriever aiming at the ball floating 30 yards offshore. Up to his neck. Wow, doesn't that have implications? Back to breakfast. Walk out on new pier. Wood, as yet to be salt water stained, flexing under foot. Light chop on the waves. Walk to the end and sit down. Entered another world as an observer from above. Wow, doesn't that have implications? Bottom of ocean is how deep here? Mundane. Gray. A fish swims by and catches my attention. About 2 inches long...yellow and black...not mundane...not gray...now another...this time neon blue. How do I stand out from the mundane and gray? I remember the Cranberries. "Then I open up and see. The person fumbling here is me. A different way to be." Chicken legs slowly disappear. One life given for another. Wow,....? A rustle on the concrete pillar that holds the end of the pier. Before I can grab it, a Gatorade bottle, remnants of someone else's indiscretion, scuttles off the pillar and into the ocean. So out of place. So....marring...."impairing the soundness, perfection, integrity". Waves washing ashore on the black sand beach. Gentle whispers. A diesel truck revs in the distance...lumbering with it's load up the steep, potholed road. So out of place...so marring. I get up, careful to pack my trash. I realize I'm walking delicately now...don't disturb the deep...try to move without a sound...sand at the end of the pier crunches like angry thunder. Twist my way through the housing units of the University...up past the pool...empty of people...full of water. I raise my head and look at the ocean. Something inside me laughs at the scene before me. Grab a piece of it...try to contain it...define it...control it. The laughter suddenly stops. Wow,....? Walk up the hill past the pile of gravel being used for tiling the water away from the soccer field. Think of tile installation in Iowa....thousands of horsepower pulling the tile plows....trying to make the land more suitable for use. This time only a giggle escapes me. The scene before me is quite different from that. Maybe 10 men...a few with picks...some with shovels...a couple of wheelbarrows...manual labor tiling here. But they're on break now...in the shade of the Barn. Calm. Quiet. I stop to visit. I've come to realize that the more I learn about you, the more I learn about me. Wow,...? "I love my county." No, I haven't suddenly been taken with a spate of patriotism. I'm listening to a graying, 50-ish Dominican manual laboring man reflecting on his break. "You have money. You have problems with your money. It's quiet, peaceful here. I have this....". He gestures down the path that I just walked up, toward the ocean. Da Vinci, Michelangelo couldn't immortalize his gaze and gesture. I come back in the Barn, wash the chicken grease off my hands, sit down and write. Thank you for walking with me.

Minor "inconvenience"

Of my recent interlude my poetics are compelled
When my wife received the call her jaw was suddenly felled
From the bar at Purple Turtle in a thick Carrib accent
The caller broke the news of thievery repent
Seems the seas have still been plied and pirates come ashore
Neath the sand there's buried treasure I tell you galore
Musta been a starry night and diggin' done with booze
Cause the treasure that they found was my glasses, keys and shoes
Twas a glorious moment to be relieved of sin
Left a poem for me to write of the lurch I's in.
Blindly each day I'd get all dressed in a shirt that says I'm Sooner
Unfortunately for me my britches are Nelle's bloomers
I'd swagger out the door hair that looked disheveled
Tiptoe down the cobbled streets cause her heels are beveled
Now reclothed in my own digs I begin to act burly
Believe I'll take an evening stroll to go visit Fort Shirley.
A little muscle on the cannon and some powder in the barrel
The wideness of the pirate's eyes will certainly look all scleral
Light'r up and let'r fly I'll be giggling with glee
Yellin' at the fleeing pirates "You don't steal from me!"

Roosevelt Roberts Farm

Thursday, April 30, 2009

I've been telling our landlord that I would come visit his farm on break sometime, but today was the first day that it worked out to go....had to give up a beach trip, but it was well worth it! It is quite interesting how Dominica changes just a few blocks off the beaten trail. Roosevelt and Leona Roberts, our landlords here in Glanvillia, own a piece of property inland from the main campus of Ross University. You leave the main paved road onto a dirt/gravel trail, pass the supply barns that Ross has, then into the jungle on the trail. Just a few hundred feet into the jungle and you can feel the difference. Sounds of buses on the main road fade and your just left with the dull roar of the river as it races over the rocks. It's flat walking at first and unfortunately people use this trail side as an illegal dump. Further in, the trail becomes much steeper and is cut into the side of the mountain. In some places, the river rages nearly 200 feet below the trail. The trail side is strewn with ferns, palms, flowers, citrus, lemon grass, dasheen, and the like. The lemon grass exudes a rich, almost sickenly sweet scent in the damp, cool jungle breeze. Roosevelt's first cousin, Felix I believe he said, is building a guest house/bar/restaurant about a half mile in. The scenery is beautiful there; it overlooks the Caribbean some 2 miles distance down the valley. The structure is being built on concrete stilts about 5 feet off the ground. Below, the valley levels into a banana plantation before falling into the rocky river. The timber, 6 inch by 6 inch by maybe 12 feet long is rough hewn from trees harvested higher up the mountain above the estate. Felix was telling me that they sell some of their bananas to the Shacks at Ross, but most go for export to Montserrat and Antigua.

Further up the mountain trail is the Roberts Farm. There are only 2 buildings there. One has "current" (electricity) and is used for storage of fertilizer and tools. The other is the livestock barn which houses approximately 300 laying hens in 4 pens and further in, 12 pigs that he is growing out for slaughter. These are the last pigs he's planning to raise, but is keeping the layers active. He gets 2 day old peeps from Trinidad, keeps them through their laying life then sells the old hens and starts over again. I looked at the feed bags he had there and wondered if some of that corn may have come from Iowa, too! Nutrimix Feeds out of Catana, Puerto Rico was the label on the bag.

We hiked a short distance up a small valley into Roosevelt's vegetable farm. This area is so steep that you barely have to bend over to do the work! There are green beans, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, carrots, celery, yams, dasheen and a few other vegetables that I'd barely heard of. The stream at the base of the farm formed the boundary with the neighbor and served as a water source for the livestock below. Roosevelt had dammed the stream and piped water to the livestock. Above the dam was where he took his water can to get water for the vegetables when the rain didn't provide enough. Lizards scurried everywhere...help in keeping the bugs under control. There is quite a bit of land, higher up the side of the mountain, that has been cleared but not used for farming now. High overhead, Jaco parrots circle on the mountain updrafts. They apparently do some damage to the grapefruit, so not entirely a welcome guest.

Roosevelt drove me in his little 4x4 Nissan pickup higher up beyond his brothers farm to the water supply reservoir. This structure supplies water to Picard, Glanvillia, and Portsmouth. He told me that sometimes the river is much higher and roars over the top of the dam!! The road ends at the dam and miles of steep jungle lie inland from there. It's amazing the feeling there. At 4:30 in the afternoon, it is dark in the jungle. It's not pitch black, but it is a darkness you feel. The air weighs damp and heavy which contributes to the feeling.

We wiggled the pickup around and headed back down the trail. I thanked him for the tour and walked further down the trail to the bustle of the streets below, thankful to see another piece of lifes puzzle.

Don't Miss The Boat!

Photos associated with this blog entry are at http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=ShelbyFamilyOK&target=ALBUM&id=5332717114230203969&authkey=Gv1sRgCMuh-ZOhvJ6J1gE&authkey=Gv1sRgCMuh-ZOhvJ6J1gE&feat=email


Anticipation is a wonderful thing isn't it? We'd heard back early in the semester that Kendell and Brenda Henderson would be coming to visit us via cruise ship on the Tuesday right after Mini 2...perfect timing for a little break from studying. Just as exciting was the fact that several other couples were coming too: Craig and Noreen McConnell, whom we've known for a long time, and 2 other couples we'd never met -- Tim and Myrna Johnson along with Steve and Joann Blank.

Lanelle went to work lining up things to do, people to see and places to go for the 6 or 7 hours that they'd be here. We knew Travis Carlile had a driver that he worked with in Roseau, known as "Uncle Ash" to their kids (and ours too, now!) and "Mr. Sweetness" to the rest of us. Not sure Henderson's believe the relation to be from their side of the family, but it's all good! Uncle Ash did end up setting me straight on my terminology that day: "You're a resident...you ain't a native!" Gotcha!


The Tuesday morning they arrived was beautiful! We got up and bustled around getting ready to head to Roseau, 30 miles and an hour drive south of Portsmouth. A call to Andrew Palmer let us know he'd be riding his new motorcycle to Roseau that morning to register it with the Dept. of Inland Revenue, the equivalent of the DMV only slightly less efficient (didn't know that was possible, but it, in fact, is). He'd meet up with us when the business was taken care of. We left here around 8 to make sure to allow for enough time to find a parking spot in Roseau. That is quite the task especially when there are 3 cruise ships in town! At some point that morning there must have been a veritable landslide of natives heading into Roseau from the surrounding hillsides. By the time we arrived, we had to park across town from the dock near the corner of Cork and Great George streets due to the amount of people already in town.


About half way to Roseau, we could see a cruise ship off to the west and wondered if it might be them! They had told us the name of the cruise line, but the ship was too far away to see any writing and we were unfamiliar with the logo so that didn't help either. Nevertheless, it was exciting to speculate that it might be them and it had a couple of little boys straining their necks to check and see if we'd win the race to Roseau! Considering the roughness of the road, the ship stayed in the race pretty good! We parked then walked over to the pier and up on to the sea wall. We strained our necks and eyes to see the faces looking over the railing of the ship. What we were looking at was a cruise ship sized equivalent of a human purple martin house reminiscent of a hot August afternoon on the Hart Valley Ranch in Stratford, Oklahoma at Grandpa and Grandma Shelby's. We never picked our visitors out of the crowd, but some of them saw us. Not too hard considering we were the blobs of white against the dark gray of the sea wall and the only ones on the wall as well. That fact came much to the consternation of the two Port Authority guards, whom on more than one occasion chastised us for our horrible parenting in allowing our kids to run the wall, certain they would fall and dash themselves against the rocks below. We appreciated their concern...then moved further down the wall away from them. Horrible parenting to live for another day thank you very much!

Tim and Myrna, whom we didn't know before, were the first ones off the ship. We recognized each other pretty quickly, though. It is quite a scene at the gates when the ship is birthing forth her fare. Locals plying their wares from t-shirts, purses, and other trinkets under colorful canopies along the sea wall. Musicians provide the local beat and melody hoping for a kind hearted tourist to reward them. Over the din of horns tooting, bus drivers cry their tours to various points of interest. Among the wafting scents of sea water and diesel smoke, the smell of local fare of rice, plantain, dasheen and fish drifts through the sun soaked air. Craig and Noreen soon followed, then Kendell and Brenda. I wonder if the Port Authority was wondering if they were moving in? They had brought us lots of goodies, so were weighted down with a couple of over sized bags. "Never mind that your new shoes are wet, Lyndle, but Craig wanted to go water skiing!" Steve and Joann soon followed and away we went looking for Uncle Ash and his bus. Sweetness had the funniest lop-eared light tan hat on, so was easy to find. Trevin Carlile had come down to the pier to coordinate the process, and soon directed us to the right bus in the lineup. Quite the task to fit in 14 people, and the ladies seemed quiet pleased to be in close quarters with Craig...like discrete elbow throwing close quarters! On the way out of town, we passed Travis awaiting a bus ride home, so slammed on the brakes and leaned out the window to holler at him...now 15 on the bus. Remember, these buses are the size of a large minivan! Away we went heading toward Trafalgar Falls, across Roseau River and a right turn at Palm Grove. Cross the river again and begin the drive into the rain forest heading toward Woten Waven...just follow the Screw's Spa signs! Just past Woten Waven is an extremely steep downgrade, past the steaming cave, cross a creek, then the steep climb back up the other side. Just at the top of the hill, we stopped to get out and go see the boiling springs. There are several bamboo walled, tin roofed huts where locals sell trinkets. One of the locals parted with a couple of bamboo flutes to the ladies for a small fee, then we hiked a short distance back into the boiling springs. I believe Craig's ribs appreciated the lull, but it didn't last long. Back in the bus and away across the river again and a right turn at the "Obama for President" billboard. Once we arrived at the entrance gate of Trafalgar Falls, again we spilled out, bought the tickets and headed for the hike back into the river below the falls. Quite the pilgrimage of humanity moving, sometimes single file, over the log supported steps and large boulders. A few arrangements of photo op's later and the hike begins back out to the bus for the short ride to Carlile's. Poor Sasha probably felt terrified of the influx of tourists looking for a potty stop, but soon we were on our way again...this time with Sasha and their other 4 kiddo's making for a total of 20 on the bus.

We headed toward Champagne Bay, presumably so named for the volcanic origin bubbles that pervade the water there. Apparently, the water is some warmer there for the same reason, and schools of interesting colored fish are abundant. This draws divers, snorkelers and the like to the area and we soon joined them. Before we got to the Bay, we stopped at a roadside/seaside cafe for lunch of turkey (or that seemed to be the majority vote of identity anyway), rice, plantain, cabbage, lentils, and dasheen. Meat and provisions as it is called locally. Someone caught the perfect picture of me about to be drenched by a wave. I had crawled through the banister and down to some rocks to attempt to catch some crabs for the kiddos. After several attempts and near misses of waves, one finally caught me, drenching me head to toe. I did manage to catch a small crab, and after a small theatrical protestation of the pain being inflicted by it's claws on my pinched finger, I tried to pass it off to the kiddos, sending them screeching in the other direction! Andrew had caught up with us on his motorcycle and joined us for lunch and the following swim.


We had to get the travelers back to the boat by 5pm, so the swim was cut shorter than most of us would have liked. We soon learned of their rush...some "real" food to be served on "formal night": prime rib!! They wanted time to get cleaned up from the days bustle and presentable for the elegant affair. We gathered around for some group photos, and pair by pair they again walked through the Port Authority gate down the long wooden dock and aboard their ship. We waved our sad goodbyes before they disappeared into the depths of their ride for an evening that we could only imagine.

As we turned to leave, I noticed that the activities of the day along the sea wall were drawing to a close as well. Canvas was coming down and being folded. Unsold trinkets were being stowed away in boxes for the next visitors. Guitars and drums were quiet. Buses no longer tooted their horns and revved their engines. We slowly walked down the streets of Roseau, a town now veiled in relative silence. We got in our car and pulled onto the empty street to return home. That's when I saw them. That's where the story begins.

"They" are three little ol' Dominican ladies. Based on what I've observed since that time on different visits to Roseau, I don't think they actively participated in the days bustle of activities. "They" probably are more likely to fall into a group that I've observed, weathered faces full of Dominican life peaking out the broken window in their front door. An unaccustomed bystander would never see them...I barely have. When you wave, they shyly wave back and disappear into the darkness of their little homes. Little homes made of weathered lumber with a rusty tin roof, built up on stilts with front doors accessed by weathered, broken, old concrete steps. That's where they were...sitting in the calm of the late afternoon on the old concrete steps. My vision seems to go to slow motion, my thoughts storming with the scene in front of me. Three little old ladies. A different story begins to unfold in my mind. A story of the ages; one of pairs of people coming from afar. A story of pairs of people, having tasted of the fine things of Heaven, walking the wooden planks to the bustle of the world around them. Seeking those, who in the despair of the broken stoops of their life, long for something, a ticket of sorts, to partake of the elegance of shores beyond this life. A pair, leaving homes and earthly possessions for a calling beyond themselves, describing the taste, the fullness of Jesus. I got a taste that day. Not a taste of what this special message brings, I've tasted that and I love it. The taste I got that day was written on the faces of those three little old weathered Dominican ladies. I got a taste of the absence of that fullness. A taste of a time when the whistle will blow. A taste of the sound of an iron gate clinking shut, finding me on the wrong side. A taste of streets hushed in a quietened realization that something happened. I can now speak firmly from experience: don't miss the boat.