Fish Sauce

I've been disappointed that I have not been able to blog as I had hoped, but I am too crashed to think clearly. I spent 5 hours at the doctor's yesterday and I have tumbled even deeper into crash-land, so I thought I would repost this story from many years ago, and I hope that you enjoy it! 

TO BE HONORED

Today's story gives an example of how we honor one another. Sometimes to do so requires we step out a bit from our comfort zone.

Back in the early 1980's, our church sponsored a family immigrating to the US from Laos. Several of us signed up to take turns orienting them to their new home, helping them learn English and the other myriad details it takes for someone adjusting to a culture  completely foreign to them. I was single at the time, and signed on to be one of several drivers to escort them to various locations - medical exams, customs, grocery store, various appointments and so forth. The family included  the parents, and I think 3 children (I'm not sure of the exact number 30 years later!). It was both fun and awkward, as only the father spoke the most rudimentary English and I understood nothing of what was said when they spoke among themselves. But we laughed a lot and I grew fond of them and could only imagine how it most have felt to have left everything they ever knew, and come to such a different place. They had only been allowed to bring a certain weight per person on the plane, so they valued all that they had brought with them from their homeland.

As I got to know the family better, and they were more comfortable around me, the mother invited me to stay for dinner at the end of one afternoon. I knew that this was a big honor and I agreed and while she prepared the meal, I played with the children. When the time came, I was seated and the food was passed to me to put on my plate first. Bits of meat and vegetables and a large bowl of noodles were passed around and we settled down to eat. As I raised my fork (they used chopsticks) I realized they were admonishing me - "No, no!" - and making motions for me to stop. As I did, the father handed me a bottle, motioning that I was supposed to sprinkle the contents all over my food before eating. As I took the bottle and opened the top a strong fish odor almost made me gag. It was fermented fish sauce, and I found out later that they eat it on almost everything. They had brought it with them from Laos and had brought a new bottle to the table just because I was there. I hesitatingly sprinkled a bit on one area of the noodles on my plate and they, thinking I was being polite, gestured laughingly "No, no! More!". The children joined in, everyone waving their arms and laughing until I had put enough on my food to suit them. Then they in turn applied it liberally to their food. 

Pungent. Extraordinarily pungent! That's the most polite way I can describe it. As I put a mouthful in, I had to literally will myself not to gag and insult them. They were delighted - "Oh, good, good! Ahh!" and I smiled and nodded, and continued to slowly eat, praying constantly that I would be able to swallow the next mouthful. Then the next, and the next, until at last I was finished. As they offered me more, I shook my head, smiling and patted my stomach and they just beamed. I felt like a house divided, smiling and nodding on the outside, wretched and churning on the inside. As the evening drew to a close, and I was making my way to the door, the father said "Wait, please.", turned, left the room and almost immediately returned carrying something carefully in his hands. Then he handed me, almost reverently, my very own bottle of fermented Fish Sauce! I was almost speechless (for several reasons) and all I could say was "Thank you" as they continued to beam and nod their heads.

I was so nauseated for the next 24 hours or so, and it was a combination of being tense as I ate, and eating something so unfamiliar. Of course the nausea passed, but what stayed with me was the lesson they taught me. That bottle they gave me was one of the precious few things they had been able to bring from their homeland and they only had a limited store. They were expressing their gratitude by giving something of great importance to them, and they were genuinely happy to do it. Although I never opened the bottle, it stood as a reminder that no matter how little you have, when you give from your heart, the gift becomes precious and both the giver and the receiver are honored. I laugh now about the story, but I am thankful I had the experience!

Live your life one day at a time!

The Art Of Life

Today, I go off in a side topic, but I promise to come back to art projects, but now I wish to discuss the Art of Life.

As some of you know, I have pursued genealogy for many years. Before I became ill, I visited old cemeteries, courthouses, and library rooms. I collected as much information as I could, along the way debunking a few dearly held family traditions, which had been based on assumptions instead of fact.  One of the constant stumbling blocks was the fact that some of the courthouses which bore directly on my father's family line had been burnt by Sherman during the Civil War. Because of this, some lines just stopped abruptly prior to the War. There were no records, or family histories, that could give me a clue to trace these lines any further.

Several years ago, I persuaded a brother to do a DNA swab for me to submit for genealogy matching. It has to be male DNA to be able to compare with others because the markers are only passed down through the male line. Once I submitted it to the genealogy bank, it was ready to be matched to anyone else whose DNA had the same markers. By doing this, I have been able to confirm that the Livingston family line was indeed German, and not Scot. It was very common for those who immigrated to this country to Anglicize their name to fit in with their new neighbors, and so the Liebensteins became the Livingstons.

Recently, however, I had the privilege to be part of another positive experience resulting from our DNA being on file. Several months ago, I was contacted by a nice woman from England, saying that her husband's DNA matched 12 markers of what I had submitted, meaning that it was definite that he and I were of the same family line. It turned out that he was in his late sixties, and had just found out that the man he thought was his father had adopted him when he married his mother. His adopted father, and his mother had both passed on, and the only information he had was that his birth father was an American GI, who had been stationed in that area of England during WW II. Could I give them any help?

We sent emails back and forth, I did as much research as I could from the information I had, and encouraged him to get the full numbers of markers registered (67), which is a higher price, but gives a more thorough reading and comparison. I determined that we had an ancestor in common not too many years back, and filled him in on family history and family tree lines. I have a family tree registered with Ancestry.com and they began filling in their own information, but his father still eluded him. By checking records and narrowing down facts, we did have a good idea who he was though. My English cousin's face compared very favorably with a picture of a serviceman in an old publication honoring local men from an area in South Carolina. He was given names to contact about military service, and also the name of a woman who had done a great deal of genealogy research in that same area of South Carolina. I had met her a few times and told him that if anyone could help him, she could.

To sum up the story, this lady knew one of the daughters of the serviceman. My cousin had been a little unsure of just how to contact the family and tell them who he was, and how he felt they were related. But that all worked out - he was put in touch with them, and they are excited at having a brother they never knew about. Sadly, his father had passed away in 1991, and they are going to have some more DNA tests done for hard evidence, but all of them are sure that they belong together. His father never knew that he had a son, he shipped off to France a month or so after his time with my cousin's mother. Now, he and his new family are filling the air with emails, sharing what the years have been like from both sides of "the Pond".

I am so happy and touched that I could be part of this saga! By being willing to share information about my paternal family, it was instrumental in uniting these family members. And with the advancement in science and technology, he was able, within a few months, to find out who he was and connect with his family. It's a wonderful Christmas present to have, don't you think? Life is Art, and God is the Master Painter.

Story From Guest Author

Story Day again - yes, I know I said I may have to give it up, but so far......... and we will see.

So this one is from my sister; she is four and a half years younger than I and it is one of her memories of the trip to Pennsylvania which I wrote about on 2 Feb 2011(story). Her memories differ from mine, since we all experience things differently, especially as children. I was twelve that summer, and she was seven and a half.

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Grandmom And The Outhouse

58th in the Tuesday Story Series

Here is the story of when I first met Grandmom Alice.  

She was smart, independent, tough, resourceful, and a fun loving Grandmother.  

Her name was Alice and I loved her totally.

I finally met her when I was in grammar school.  She was my mother's mom and she lived in Pennsylvania which is where my Mom grew up.  There are 6 kids in my family, I am number 3, and each one was named after someone except me.  That used to bother me until my Mom explained that she and Pop had let Grandmom Alice pick out my name.  Now that made me special.  I was really looking forward to meeting this woman who had picked out my name.

We left our home in Charleston, South Carolina early in the morning when it was still dark.  Mom and Pop piled all 6 of us into the station wagon and tied down the luggage to the top of the car.

Off we went and it took forever, it seemed, to get there.  We played all the usual car games that we knew, count the cows and then burying them in the graveyards, the alphabet game, the license tag game, we sang, we bickered, slept and ate, and kept asking Pop how many more miles to go, and the answer was always the same; "Oh about 85 or 30".  We finally arrived in the dark at a huge farmhouse and straggled out of the car sleepy but excited.  There were more people there than I expected.  I had thought since we were going to meet Grandmom Alice then that was the only person who should be there.  Being the shy type I kinda hid behind everyone else until I finally realized which one of this crowd was my Grandmom.  She gave me a huge hug and I was ok then.

We were scattered off to bed in different rooms and I ended up being in the same room with her.  What fun, I felt so special to be the only one in the room with her.  She tucked me in and I apparently went straight to sleep, because the next thing I know is waking up in total darkness and was about to bust to get to the bathroom.  I woke her up and asked her where the bathroom was and I was slightly puzzled when she pulled this elaborately decorated pot from under the bed.  No, Grandmom, the bathroom is what I want, thinking she was not fully awake.  She said it was this, pointing to the pot (which I later found out was called a chamber pot) or a trip outside to the outhouse.  Outhouse?  What???  Outhouse?!  I think not!  I can wait until morning.  I'm not about to venture outside in the dark to an outhouse!  And no way was I using the pot!  She laughed and said well you will either go now or wait.  So I waited.  Needless to say I did not sleep another wink and finally the sun started to come up.  As soon as it was enough light she got up and took me to the dreaded outhouse.  It was not as bad as my imagination had blown it up to be while I had been waiting for the morning light.  I was relieved, in more ways than one, that I had survived the whole experience.

The rest of the visit was much calmer for me than that first night.  Except for the visit and 

stay over at my Mom's cousin's dairy farm.  But that's another story.

Judith Marie Livingston

 Thank you Judy!!

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