Old Shoes and New Work

Someone asked me, "How does it feel to be back in the newspaper business?" I said, "It feels like finding an old pair of comfortable shoes in the back of the closet and when putting them on, wondering why you ever stopped wearing them."

Old shoes...

But old shoes have their limitations, too. Styles change (although AP doesn't, much) and the impact of computers and the social networks have changed how the news is delivered. When I worked for the St. Augustine Record in St. Augustine, FL, digital cameras were just getting a toehold on the door jamb, and today everyone has multiple megapixels in cameras, phones and tablets.

My daughter works in upper level management for a digital photo storage company, something that was unimaginable 20 years ago. Almost everyone writes a blog about their lives or the lives of others, so when doing research one word can bring up digital pages of information, not all of it factual or truthful.

Part of my job this time is going back into microfilm archives and pulling up what happened 100, 50 and 25 years ago. We are coming into the period 50 years ago when John F. Kennedy was shot in Texas.

For most of my peers, that was a defining historical moment for our generation. We can, most of us, recall exactly where we were and what we were doing when we heard the news.

The next generation has September 11, 2001 to recall how their world changed. Perhaps every generation has a shocking event to mark the passage of time.

Still, it seems incredible to me that it has been over ten years since the twin towers fell and that there are people living and working today who have no memory of the Kennedy era.

Wearing old shoes and listening to old music can serve as reminders of days past, but they do not protect us from the deviousness of individuals seeking to destroy. And there seems to be a lot of activity aimed at tearing down the foundations of freedom that this country once stood for.

Nancy Sinatra once sang, "These boots were made for walking..." but no one makes boots or shoes today that have a purpose of protecting us from those groups who have an agenda of fear to keep us from moving and taking action.

Socorro - the seat of independence in Colombia

The cathedral here is lovely with Italian
terrazzo throughout, Italian artisans did the
beautiful stained glass windows, and it has
an Old World feel in the design.

The Andes are the backdrop for Socorro's cathedral.

There are so many villages and cities that have long histories in Colombia often it is hard to choose which one to visit first. Since I live in one of them, Barichara, unfortunately I tend to overlook many of its historical aspects as I amble off to the weekly market or a ceramics class. So one of these days I will do a more complete story.

But this week I went with my doctor friend to Socorro, where Colombian revolutionaries began their fight for liberty. I guess I could equate it to the Boston Tea Party or the secret meetings that took place in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, or other early fights for the liberty in the United States. Founded in 1681, Socorro was given the title of "Noble and Loyal Village" in 1711 by the King of Spain, I think. However, he got rather annoyed when the populace wanted to ignore his royal decrees and he rescinded his beneficience once the fighting began over  taxes... quite similar to the tea party, you see.

Sextant of the church shows
us one of the underground
rivers... yikes!

Manuela Beltran, one of the guys who fought and died for the liberty he so badly wanted, is honored with a building called the Teatro Beltran. Sr. Galan has a village named after him as well as a statue in the park, a small tribute for literally getting drawn and quartered for his commitment to the fight. As I stood and looked down at the relatively new cathedral (180 years old) perched on a mountainside across from even higher mountains, I tried to imagine what it must have been like for these men to be resisting authority in what was then almost a virtual jungle in the Andes.

The beautiful church in Socorro was designed after European churches, but the architect(s) failed to properly site the location and it was built on three subterranean rivers. The problem is that after 180 years, the church has become unstable, with the front portion cracking and leaning downhill. It is rumored that the church will be decommissioned soon and possibly disassembled and rebuilt on firmer ground. That is, in itself, an interesting challenge, since all of Santander is lying right on a huge fault line and there are lots more rivers to contend with, both above and below the ground.

The stained glass windows were done by
Italian artisans over 180 years ago.

The trees that grew back then have since been used for firewood, a problem all over the country as they now try to promote planting and saving old growth trees. One that survived is shown here. It is over 400 years old and reminded me of the Old Senator in St. Augustine, Florida. The Old Senator is reputed to be over 600 years in age, supposedly a 'silent witness' to Spaniard Ponce De Leon finding the Fountain of Youth. These trees are even similar in overall shape, although the one here in Colombia is considerably taller and I rather doubt it is a live oak.

400 yr-old tree in Socorro, Colombia

Today there are paved roads, modern buildings alongside the antiquated ones, people making arepas the same way they did over 300 years ago while others are making new things to be used by their compatriots, but the issues of liberty seem submerged by the demands of daily living. The statues are in the park but the purpose seems to be more for pigeons resting on them than for the reminder of what the sacrifice was.

Heading for a home

There is a lot of talk these days about "home" and news of foreclosures and people not having homes is distressing, but a call from a very dear friend brought the word "home" into a different perspective of stress. At the other end of a teary phone call was someone I met over a decade ago in Florida, someone who has sheltered me in her home, and who has listened to my tears of rage or anguish or grief just as I was listening to hers today.

"He needs to be supervised, 24 hours a day now," she cried out to me. Her beloved husband has been afflicted with a brain wasting disease similar to Alzheimer's, but still different. Frontotemporal Dementia begins with the loss of being able to identify certain well-known items and gradually the loss extends to all aspects of speech and identification. The ability of each individual so afflicted to manage day-to-day activities varies. At first it was annoying to his wife that he would go to the Dollar Store and buy lots of trashy foods and be proud he was "saving money." Gradually she came to see that it was part of a more serious evolution of his ability to make good decisions. His situation has evolved over at least seven of the ten years we have been friends, and possibly it was beginning its erosion before that, subtly - excused as part of the aging process.

We were able to have some joy together when we visited in Utah last summer because his wife was glad he was able to count the number of deer that visit in a park near their home, he was still able to drive (although sometimes she felt as if she was his hostage as he drove for hours without listening to her pleas to stop) and he enjoyed being able to walk alone to the Church of Latter Day Saints temple nearby. A few months ago he tried to force his way into the Police department to demand that he be given his license back; and his wife's quick thinking diverted him from getting into more trouble with the law.

We cried together today when she said now he cannot be allowed to be off on his own for fear he will get lost "and since no one would suspect his condition, and they will most assuredly be offended by his four-year old behaviors and blunt speech, it's too risky." she worried aloud.

The life she imagined of getting older together as a couple and walking on the beach is over. She knows that in order to get him the full benefits from the VA, she has to become legally separated and commit him to the care of their services. She has to give up her life of full-time caregiving for being a part-time visitor. She has no other choices because there are none. The disease will continue its ravage of his brain and his capability to reason and react. The dangers are many. The expert medical team has cautioned her that there is no more time left and he will have to be sent to a "home."

We wept together today because even seven years ago we both had hopes for the future with no sense of it; how could we imagine this outcome back then? Now today we can see the sad reality. In the beginning when I still lived in Florida, I listened to my friend's complaints of his strange behavior and observations about his language skills; but I didn't know what was troubling him. Five years ago they went to the VA and got the diagnosis which explained many previously "peculiar" things.

Each time I have visited them I have seen the changes... at first he made excuses for not being able to find certain words, then he couldn't remember all the real estate deals we had worked on together, and then he asked me last year, "Do I know you? It feels like I do." I said, "Yes, our boys went to high school together. We used to live in Florida near each other." He smiled, but I could feel that it was confusing for him. He moved over and whispered to his wife, "What is Florida?"

A lovely gentle man who cared deeply for his wife when they married over two decades ago is now more like the child they never had, although she helped to raise several of his children from a former marriage. My friend is in wretched torment on so many levels and I grieve with her for the man I once knew, who did so much to help me, and now I cannot do more than listen.

Disease takes its toll on families and friends. Now the word "home" has lost its appeal; the sense of comfort is gone. The assurance of the vows of commitment have been stripped away by the government' s demand for payment, protection and shelter for a loved one which can only be guaranteed by a legal maneuver - and what about a home for his wife when all his benefits go for his care? Is it any wonder that we wept?

A First Look at -- Colombia!

As I write this, I am sitting outside looking across a deep valley at cloud-covered mountains and the workers at our finca (farm) are busy putting cane on the roof of a little casita to the music from their native radio station. At 4:30 this morning I couldn't sleep and took a short walk to the banos to the accompaniment of roosters crowing from several counties.

I thought about the day before and our arrival in Colombia...

The hotel where we stayed overnight was as expensive as any in the U.S. or Panama, but the accomodations were considerably less lavish. But the breakfast was better than average.

Our drive from Bucaramanga to San Gil took longer than usual since we stopped to overlook the Chickamocha Canyon and the newly opened national park with a gondola ride over the gorge carved by the River Fonce seen above.

The drivers all fight to pass as if they are on the racetrack, the problem is they are on a mountain pass and in some cases, a mistake will mean a fall down thousands of feet... but they still pass on the curves.

And our driver, our host, gives no quarter whether it's a bus or car - only to large trucks. Jey-hu sat in front and I tried to keep my gasping and sudden intakes of breath to a minimum in the back.

Then we were in San Gil, a really sweet little town where we found some truly amazing ice cream, except they were out of coffee flavor because it was a holiday country-wide. What I loved about it is that I didn't have any kind of lactose-negative response to it.

The population of 18th century San Gil is growing due to its increasing popularity as the "extreme adventure" sports capital of Colombia. If white water rafting or bungee jumping or thrills of similar nature appeal to you, make the trip here.

Very similar in feeling to the central plaza in St. Augustine, Florida, the Parque La Libertad in San Gil across from this cathedral is a reminder of the influence of the Spanish Conquistadors and the Catholic Church's conversion of the natives. In fact, some of the buildings are so much like those in St. Augustine that I felt curiously "at home" here.

We headed on to Barichara and after a quick stop we were at the campo/finca.... more on that another day. This is the countryside where I am now situated... more pictures and stories to come. And that includes a few horse shots for Jey-hu's daughter to prove they have them here!