The rainy season is slowly moving into the Central Valley. During April and May, there’s usually a few days where it rains, then it’s gorgeous because the winds aren’t as fierce. Then clouds gather - well you get the idea. Before the daily downpours begin, it’s a good idea to caulk windows that leak or repair roofs. It’s funny how easy it is to forget about the holes when the rain stops.

One of my storage rooms has a sun roof. And of course it leaks. Landlord management is a bit of an art here. Some landlords, I’d probably say the majority, follow more of the “laissez-faire” model of leadership. In other words, I have to take the lead. The window that leaks in one of my bathrooms really should be replaced. The termites in the roof need a better solution than spraying diesel on the area. (Diesel is a cure for an amazing amount of ills in this country.) The cockroaches…well…..no one knows what to do with the cockroaches.

After getting my garage back in order so I can get the car back inside (because loading children into cars in the rain is the pits!). I peaked inside the storage room. Ugh. Boxes were here and there and papers sat right under the leak. The landlord offered again caulk as the solution, which meant of course if I didn’t do it, no one would.

All my photos sit in this storage room. A tip if you are moving to Costa Rica: Put important papers, trinkets, CDs, and photos in those Rubbermaid boxes. It’s then best to store them stacked one upon the other to make a good seal. In ten years, everything I’ve kept in those boxes has survived mold and mildew. I’ve had pants and shoes turn green in one month of rain; whereas, all my photos have remained dry as a bone.

While tossing boxes aside to clear a path, I stumbled upon a few photo albums I must have been putting away one day and never got back to. This is doom. Photo albums have this magical power that draw me and make me stupid for an hour while I reminisce about the past. Who is this person in all these photos? The images are fading, but with one look I can remember the smells, if it was a windy day, and even those clothes. What did I do with those jeans anyway?

Over the life span of the craft of photo album”ing,” I’ve never really found great solutions to storing them. Although I’ve fought off the mold, the pictures are having a tough time surviving those sticky backed pages I so excitedly pasted them on years ago. Now we’ve got scanners, so I can spend hours scanning them all. I always wonder for whom? Why? No matter how much I write, I will never be able to capture all the senses a photo does, in such a short time. Sure if I spent hours and hours coming up with a short story or a novel, had it edited, a publisher liked it, printed it, and the reader then - maybe - got the gist of what I wanted to capture, I might come close to replicating that feeling.

I am going to come clean: I take photos and I catalog photos for me. Some incredible cathartic moments come when I brush my hands against the picture and remember who I was and how far I’ve come. And I find this genuine warmness for the person that took the photo. We had this connection. Even when I’m snapping away at photos of my kids, it’s for me. My daughter and son have just as much enthusiasm over the albums. In fact, Coco keeps a bunch in her room and can spend hours flipping through the pages. Looking back at her bald-headed little self amazes her, and it also strangely comforts her.

Maybe it’s a way of filling up our holes - or least forgetting about them for awhile - and remembering that we exist. And we always have.

I had this nice little piece I was going to post this morning about finding style in Costa Rica. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about this “comment” I received yesterday on a site called The Real Costa Rica. I’m not controversial, at least I didn’t think so. Until someone took issue with my “complaining” about the prolific use of plastic bags here. He was referring to a post I wrote about how I’m trying to use less plastic bags in Costa Rica.

He said he owns a home here, part-time, and then went on to say……” I love Costa Rica and if you (that’s me he’s talking about...) carry plastics bags back and forth in buses and public transportation and complain about it, then you are probably not the kind of American who should have moved to Costa Rica.”

I wondered if he actually read what I had written because in the next line I wrote how plastic bags were helpful, especially on buses and in the rainy season…..

“Then, I moved to Costa Rica. A plastic bag free-for-all. There’s no question these bags with handles are handy, and since it does rain in Costa Rica, paper bags aren’t always a good solution especially when one has to take the bus or walk home. But the other day when I came home, my AAA batteries (which are encased in plastic to begin with) were inside a plastic bag inside another plastic bag…….”

Basically he continued on and on how I should just ship out. He stopped short of calling me an “idiot” or a “gum-chewing-hussy” or you know - THAT word. But the the tone was clear: because I was such an ingrate, I didn’t deserve to live in the country where he lives a few months out of the year, and he so dearly loves. Although I never met this fellow, I could see him shaking his finger at me. He finished up with this:

“SO, stop complaining and if you dislike it there, then come back to the USA, we most certainly could use another complainer!!“

Well, I’m chewing on my napkin instead of giving power to all the negative - and quite clever - things I could say. Guess maybe he didn’t read a few more of my posts like the grateful column, or how I adore the organic food in Costa Rica, or how this great community of people rallies around my son and his special needs. Details I suppose. I would teach my children to use conscious consumption no matter where we lived. I happen to believe small acts, such as one or two less plastic bags, actually makes a difference in the world. Not only because maybe one less fish will tangle up in the handle of the plastic bag that happened to miss the garbage can, but also because these acts bring on an awareness. Our thinking changes from “Hey what’s in it for me” to “How am I affecting my family, my community, and my world with the decisions I make?” No we can’t analyze every decision all day long or we’d go mad. But with a little practice, it gets quite easy. Are my tires the correct air pressure so I am more fuel efficient? Could I eat more fruits and vegetables produced locally and thereby reduce fuel consumption? Could I walk instead of drive? Could I be kind instead of crabby?

What kind of American should move to Costa Rica? I’m the kind of American that lives in Costa Rica and will continue to examine lifestyle choices that lower have the potential to raise our planet’s health and consciousness or chip away at it’s delicate balance. When I accept the status quo, then you’ll see me moving back to the States to chum up with the group of complainers he asked me to join. Until then, I’ll continue to write about the things I adore about Costa Rica and the challenges we face as a developing country and the little things that can make a big difference. If my views get someone’s underwear in a bundle - welcome! Step right up. Though the line is long, you’ll be in good company.

*If you want to see his whole response, go to Tim’s site at The Real Costa Rica Blog. This is a great site with a lot of helpful information.

So one mask says to the other mask while hanging out at the park the other day:

My friend’s wife’s cooking is so bad, I broke a tooth on her coffee.

So the other mask says:

If a parsley farmer is sued can they garnish his wages?

Then the other mask says:

Say, so you know when you’ve drank too much coffee?

The other mask says: No, when?

When you forget to open candy bars before eating them.

The other mask says: Dude, you got to get out more often.

(The above text is clear evidence I spend way too much time with kids. Wait, wait, just one more! Click here to see one of my favorite cartoons - like ever!)

The mango trees in the Central Valley hang heavy with fruit. Clusters pull the branches down as each one ripens and sweetens. Green mangos - not yet ripe - could be much more popular with Ticos than the sweet, finished orange fruit.

Vendors sell slices of green mangos in bags with lime and salt. I’ve tried it. I don’t like it. Tasting other culture’s food takes a really open mind. I mean have you tried the Norwegian delicacy of white bread soaked in sugar and milk? Lutifisk? Lye-soaked cod? Marmite? Green mangos are mild in comparison.

But, I’ll give almost (I said almost) anything a try once. Octopus - can’t get over the texture part. Peeps - better art than sweets. The thing about green mangos is, well, they are a lot of work, a lot of chewing, and a LOT of puckering for almost no taste. The lime and salt are actually the flavor. I’m guessing they are actually pretty good for you as the sugar content in the fruit is still quite low.

Some foods you’ve just got to grow up liking. My mother liked to put salt on her apples, and she always told me some salt in the beer lessened the alcohol effect. I don’t put salt on my apples or pinch it into my beer. There is some imancipation that must happen to all of us as the world becomes a big stew of flavors and tastes. I’ll leave the green mangos to the Ticos so they can have more. Since leaving in a Latin American country, I can leave my worries behind about smelling or eating stinky cod. And, I’ll never have to pretend to swallow or enjoy that soggy white bread ever again.

The malls cometh to Costa Rica. Big ones and a few even bigger ones. Most have movie theaters. When I first arrived in paradise, new releases from Hollywood had this time lapse. See the new Batman? Wait six months. See a film other than something from the tanks of tinsel town? Forget about it.

There’s a theater called Sala Garbo where “artsy” films play. It’s downtown and not all that hard to get to. But I shy away from the films made in Spanish because my language skills are more on par with a seven year old rather than a spurned lover out for revenge. I’d never get it.

Now, new movies come out pretty close to when they are released in the States. Someone figured out that it’s easier to sell plastic, useless toys to children at fast food chains if the commercials - many on cable television - lined up with film’s release ALL OVER THE WORLD. In fact, Horton Hears a Who came and went so fast, we missed it.

Unfortunately, the theater close to my home takes no risks in showing films that are anything less than super-duper commercial. Big stars - you know - the formula that brings them in. If I watch closely, I can catch something that is either good Hollywood or a tad bit on the controversial side. The great thing is: it’s cheap. Half of less of what it costs to go to movies in the States.

My friend and I were the only ones in the theater for Charlie Wilson’s War. We had the best seats. Oh, how we giggled, like girlfriends do. Then, like the true mothers we are, instead of mulling over coffee or a drink, we went grocery shopping. The kids still got to get up in the morning. That means so do I.

Don’t worry, be hoppy! Please don’t throw any tomatoes. Just watch. You’ll get it. I did.

PS. The missing sound was an operator’s mistake. But it’s kind of nice like this.

I consider the bathroom a small torture chamber - a place I want to get in and out as quickly as possible. After years of “toilet training,” puking, and bath after bath after bath, I prefer the other side of the bathroom door. Yesterday, my daughter dutifully washed her hands after using the servicio but left the door ajar, just a “titch.” Most homes in Costa Rica have loads of bathrooms. They’re easy to install during construction since no ventilation piping is needed. For example, my little condo has five bathrooms. All of them have a shower, except one. One has a shower and bathtub. The bathroom Coco uses frequently is the guest bathroom on the main floor.

I walked by and - as they say in Spanish - oooffffa! It’s amazing how grown up kids can be about some things. For a seven year old, she can pack a might punch when it comes to the delicate subject of elimination.

Man girl! I said as I waved the all natural air cleaner through the air, pumping the liquid wildly toward the ceiling.

Mommy you smell too! she said.

Are you kidding? I emit only the smell of fresh spring roses, I said.

Really? she said. No you don’t. Really?

Next she’ll discover they took gullible out of the dictionary.

Retarded.

There’s THAT word. Remember the jokes about being “retarded?” The word has become a bit taboo, but it still floats around. We’ve all gotten more politically correct and switch to words like: cognitive disabilities, mental disabilities, and learning disabilities. But THAT word is still out there.

I found most definitions in my research to include the term in some form or the word retardation, which according to an on-line dictionary is listed as follows:

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) - Cite This Source - Share This

re·tard·ed

–adjective

1.	characterized by retardation: a retarded child.

–noun

2.	(used with a plural verb) mentally retarded persons collectively (usually prec. by the): new schools for the retarded.

—Synonyms backward, disabled, handicapped.

And according to associations and books, the definitions usually are something like this:

• Most individuals with Down syndrome have mental retardation in the mild (IQ 50–70) to moderate (IQ 35–50) range,^[4] with individuals having Mosaic Down syndrome (explained below) typically 10–30 points higher.^[5] In addition, individuals with Down syndrome can have serious abnormalities affecting any body system. They also may have a broad head and a very round face.

• Down syndrome (DS) is a condition in which extra genetic material causes delays in the way a child develops, and often leads to mental retardation. It affects 1 in every 800 babies bornDown syndrome is set of mental and physical symptoms that result from having an extra copy of chromosome 21. Even though people with Down syndrome may have some physical and mental features in common, symptoms of Down syndrome can range from mild to severe. Usually, mental development and physical development are slower in people with Down syndrome than in those without it.

So there we have the word I wrestle with - retarded. The other day I was talking to a friend and we were sharing a funny story about learning, specifically crochet, which neither one of us can do. My daughter Coco has taken up the craft. My friend and I were talking about how reading the instructions from a book about learning how to crochet was like reading hyroglypihcs. I agreed. In the middle of our chatting, she used the example that at one point she felt retarded. There was no awkward silence, but an odd air fell about us. But the thing is, I think it’s me that brings in this air. I didn’t get angry or sensitive or indignant, I just felt the awkward moment. I felt uncomfortable that for even a moment my friend would have to feel uncomfortable.

The power of words. Our labels. Look back up at that definition. At the very end it says - backward. There’s the big problem with retarded. Over the years, it’s become a word to tease and judge others who didn’t do things the “right” way (whatever the heck that is).

In Costa Rica, I cringe when people say you are negro after a day in the sun. Yet it just means you are tan. But after growing up in the dawning of Civil Rights in the States, I find I am super-sensitive to terms surrounding that era. When my daughter speaks of the world and skin colors it means nothing to her about suffering, oppression, discrimination or cruelty. It’s just a way for her to tell me a story about a person she’s met or a character in a book. I’m the one with the label problem. I’m the one with the issue.

My son has this extra chromosome. I do have to find out a way to identify a learning strategy to assist him. Yes, part of THAT word is in his library. When I work with educators or talk with my friends, the idea that Addison needs extra time and understanding to do thing, hangs around us like a tag cloud. Its the history of the word and or intent that gives it power to destroy and hurt, or the ability to empower and move on.

I’ll never be able to crochet more than a string. Coco will probably learn to crochet, and then knit, and then, well…that’s the point. I would never limit my daughter, and I would never limit my son even though he has THAT thing. That EXTRA thing.

On Saturday we walked back to the International Art Festival. The crowds were a little thinner than last weekend, but thick enough. Coco ate a few spoonfuls of rice just to satisfy her mother so that she could gulp down another bag of those greasy, sugar sticks.

The art, I gotta say with the utmost respect for my adopted place of residency, is well…well let’s just say it’s not cutting edge. But that’s o.k. my daughter thought it was out of this world: horses, huts, pueblos, forests, mostly acrylics, and most nice to look at. An art critic could waltz down the pathways, look into the tents and easily dismiss the work as pretty average. But for Costa Rica, this is still a big deal. I’ve been here for ten years and even getting to the arts has been a struggle. The first International Art Festival I went to was scattered all over the city. The public wasn’t allowed into some of the performances as they reserved them for school groups (I snuck in with my daughter anyway) and there was no gathering place, where the celebration all centered from like the last few years at la sabana.

Coco waited patiently for me to finish my espresso so she could get her hands on that bag of sugar and batter. On our way to the trailer of treats, we spotted these swings. Really cool swings. This was some cool stuff. Huge wooden swings hung from branches. Everyone was drawn to them. I marked this exhibition as the coolest art at the show.

We walked the isles of the craft tents as Coco pondered which trinket to buy. She was determined to spend a bit of the 5000 colones she had saved up. We had to stop for a bathroom break, (which I will spare you the torrid details of because we had to use one of those blue, temporary sanitary boxes that had not been cleaned, it seemed, ever).

She settled on a dinosaur and a squirrel.

They are going to best friends mommy, she said.

Makes sense, I said.

The woman who made the tiny creatures sat in the tent with her clay, paints, and pointy, little brushes - the artist at work. And no, she wouldn’t draw crowds in Soho or Paris, but she’s throwing her hat in the ring every day. To that I say: Bravo! Each time we create it gives us the potential to make something even grander than the day before. I bought a tiny little tiger for Addison, who was home with a cold, and cow for his nanny. When I took the clay figure out of the bag, Addison roared his tiger growl and put up his claws like he does when he sees a big cat. He ooohed at the cow and gently set it on the table next to the tiger. The cow’s head then fell off.

Makes sense, I thought as I got up to look for the glue.

The Kids in the Hall are back. Thank goodness. I needed that.