FMM 12 22 2023 My First Love

“I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December” ~ Claude McKay.

My parents came of age in a country at war.  Britain was mobilized against the threat of a fascist, one whose dream was to take over the world.  My mother was only 16 when war broke out, my father was 19.  There were lessons to be learned, but the one that stayed with them (especially my mother) was to be frugal.  Frugal with money, frugal with resources.  When they got married, my father was a college student, studying for the ministry, a profession (at that time, and particularly in the UK) not known for its earning capability.  And so they started out married life having to live very carefully, in a country subjected to rationing scarce goods (her wedding dress was made with donations from friends; the cake similarly required donations of eggs).

As children we would laugh at the care she took with paper, string, anything which could be reused would be carefully folded, secured, tucked away for another day.  Items were ‘stretched’ – a little tip of milk in an almost empty bottle of tomato sauce (ketchup) made it last a few days longer.  When we ate cereal for breakfast, we usually had a choice of two: one fancy, one plain.  Not to be chosen from, but to be combined, so that the more expensive one lasted longer.  At Christmas time, presents had to be unwrapped carefully (and this even twenty years after the end of World War II), selotape torn off with extreme care, the gift wrapping again carefully folded for future use.  Part out of necessity, part out of habit, the saving, recycling, reusing, was ingrained, and to the end of her life she avoided discarding whenever possible.

This week saw my return to the land of my rebirth (a UK transplant to Jamaica at the age of almost 8) after a break of about 6 years.  I cannot possibly convey all of my impressions as I walked out of the airport (this time in Montego Bay, not the usual side of the island that I arrive) and soaked in the views, the smells, the warmth of Jamaica.  The security guard said ‘Welcome home’ and so we were.

The first time I returned to Jamaica as an adult, it was after a gap of some fourteen years.  I remember the onslaught to the senses then, aromas were stronger such as fresh skellion (green onions) and thyme – so different from the refrigerated prepackaged stuff found in US supermarkets.  Sounds were louder: car horns; conversations; dogs barking; sound systems blaring; greetings.  Colors were bolder (and still are!): houses in shades not yet named; flowers; clothes; fruits.  Naturally, especially as a result of aromatic spices, the food tasted better too.

But oh the mountains.  How I love the mountains.  To be nestled in their organic embrace is to be held tight to the breast of mother earth.  It helped set the tone this time that we landed during a cool front.  The famous Christmas breeze (cold air channeled down from Canada) was present from the chilly early hours, through to the midday and beyond.  Rain washed away the dirt.  The drive up to an area of Jamaica that I have never visited before had the familiarity of any drive through rural Jamaica: winding, pot-holed roads; small shops and houses at the roadside; trees in abundance, with my favorite breadfruit trees waving their big stately leaves at me in welcome.  Pops of orange dotted the views as the African tulip tree illustrated the scenery. Climbing up I felt my ears pop as we reached higher into the grooves and dips of Cockpit Country.

My school days flashed back to me on that drive.  In Geology class we learnt about the Karst topography that gave rise to the bumpy hills and valleys, where rain-water dissolved the soft limestone, eroding the rock and then disappearing underground to form countless caves and springs.  There is a history there, of escaped enslaved Africans successfully evading (and at times killing) the British soldiers sent to find them.  The terrain is on the side of those hiding, especially those used to living off and on the land.  Many of those stories are lost to history.  But on the misty, cool, twisty turns of the drive up, a girl can imagine.

We stayed with a friend who practices the art of efficiency just as well as my mother ever did (frugality has such negative connotations).  I kept hearing my father quoting Mother Theresa: ‘Live simply, so others may simply live’.  There were no paper towels, no store-bought garbage bags in the house.  And yet we survived! In a fertile community the yard is a productive place, but even if it is not, the food items (ground provisions as they are known) come with the ground still attached, fresh earth clinging to the yellow yam, tucked in the folds of the skellion.  And again, the aroma of skellion and thyme took me back to my first visit home, many years ago.

Each day this week has given me a host of impressions to keep my Friday morning messages fresh and aromatic.  On the first full day on the island we destressed and decompressed, no particular place to go, nothing that had to be done.  A power cut confirmed that yes, we are in Jamaica.  On our walk around town (with each corner providing another photo op) we greeted or were greeted by the walking population; we stood back to let cars pass (the roads are narrow, and it is better to be safe than sorry!).  In some senses (in the country at least), you can pretend the island has stood still.  There were handcarts abundant in Mo Bay market.  But then the drivers also had cell phones in their hands. Young kids are still walking younger kids on the street as they go to the shop for their parents.  Now many of the cops are missing the original red stripe (down the side seam of their pants, not the beer!), dressed instead in sleek blue outfits.

I could tell you of the feeling of love to be felt in heartfelt greetings.  The simplicity of living off the land and leaving as small a footprint as possible.  The common courtesies that are the hallmark of civilized people.  I could also find reams of stories that are not so pleasant, but where in the world can you go today without injustice, without crime, without social issues?

Yesterday evening I had the pleasure of spending time with a child who has a hearing impairment. Communication was limited.  But we communicated. By the end of the evening (after I had shown her I was trying to find the sunset to take a photo), she had taught me signs for sun, moon, rainbow, night and morning. I can now spell eye, nose (except for the s) and mouth (or have I forgotten most of the letters?).  In a week full of sensations I was reminded to be grateful for every one of them, for there are those who are not so richly blessed.

This Friday morning, I plan to go out walking in the hilly terrain (nothing like flat Florida!) and soak in the morning sensations.  I am looking forward to more opportunities to revisit other aspects of my first love, and ‘buck up’ (meet up with) friends and family who will no doubt fatten me with drinks of sorrel and slices of the famous Christmas ‘black cake’.  It may not feel like any of the Christmases I have had for the last almost 50 years since I left Jamaica, but it will feel good. 

Have a wonderful weekend, Family, and may your Holidays be filled with happy memories and calorie-free treats! And may you get a chance to revisit your first love.

One Love!

Namaste.