Translation: "There go the lights!"
In the Dominican Republic, where I served my mission, the government doles out electricity on some sort of rotation basis. Every neighborhood is allotted a certain amount of electricity--with no discernible pattern that I could see. Except for one: the wealthiest neighborhoods rarely lost power, while the poorest rarely had it. We missionaries would typically live in neighborhoods that would lose electricity maybe three, four times a week. The proof of this can be found in the wax drippings all over my missionary journal. Sometimes the power would be gone for a couple of hours; sometimes the whole day.
Whenever the electricity went out, the children in the neighborhood would cry out, "Se fue la luz!" None of the windows had glass in them, and the children's united voices would carry over the barking dogs, crowing roosters, and blaring salsa music that we were so used to. I didn't like having our power go so often, but there was something oddly unifying about it. I used to love hearing the kids cheer when the lights came back on. I'd wait for that moment.
On my first day back from my mission, I was standing in the kitchen with my family when my mom leaned against the wall and accidentally flipped off the light switch. After a moment of utter panic, my first thought was, "Not here too!" But my mom realized what she had done, flicked the switch back on, and my world was righted.
Flash forward more years than I'd care to point out, and we live in a neighborhood with a faulty transformer. Granted, this is nothing like the government determining when and how often you can have electricity, but still. We lose our electricity an awful lot. Every time a little storm rolls in, we brace ourselves, and run and find the flashlights. We lost power umpteen times the winter Schmobie was born--once for three days. This winter alone (which officially started yesterday, but it feels like it's been here for awhile...) we've already lost power three times. Including today. When it was so very cold. Fortunately, it came back before the heat took a nosedive.
With our homes' glass windows and insulation, we can't hear the neighbor kids' cries or cheers--the unifying power of no power is stripped away. Except when we peek out the window and see a blanket of blackness where house lights used to be. But that's more depressing than unifying.
The unifying comes from within our walls, this time. When the lights go, we gather by the fireplace, each of us wrapped in blankets--and play games, or talk, or read. Gone is the T.V., the computer, the video games, as we are forced to...dadadum...interact. We light candles together and create shadows on the wall. We mull over dinner possibilities that don't require cooking.
And we know to be very, very grateful when the lights come back on. Maybe even enough to let out a cheer.
Bugman makes pudding by candlelight. Don't let my flash fool you--it's not this bright!
In the Dominican Republic, where I served my mission, the government doles out electricity on some sort of rotation basis. Every neighborhood is allotted a certain amount of electricity--with no discernible pattern that I could see. Except for one: the wealthiest neighborhoods rarely lost power, while the poorest rarely had it. We missionaries would typically live in neighborhoods that would lose electricity maybe three, four times a week. The proof of this can be found in the wax drippings all over my missionary journal. Sometimes the power would be gone for a couple of hours; sometimes the whole day.
Whenever the electricity went out, the children in the neighborhood would cry out, "Se fue la luz!" None of the windows had glass in them, and the children's united voices would carry over the barking dogs, crowing roosters, and blaring salsa music that we were so used to. I didn't like having our power go so often, but there was something oddly unifying about it. I used to love hearing the kids cheer when the lights came back on. I'd wait for that moment.
On my first day back from my mission, I was standing in the kitchen with my family when my mom leaned against the wall and accidentally flipped off the light switch. After a moment of utter panic, my first thought was, "Not here too!" But my mom realized what she had done, flicked the switch back on, and my world was righted.
Flash forward more years than I'd care to point out, and we live in a neighborhood with a faulty transformer. Granted, this is nothing like the government determining when and how often you can have electricity, but still. We lose our electricity an awful lot. Every time a little storm rolls in, we brace ourselves, and run and find the flashlights. We lost power umpteen times the winter Schmobie was born--once for three days. This winter alone (which officially started yesterday, but it feels like it's been here for awhile...) we've already lost power three times. Including today. When it was so very cold. Fortunately, it came back before the heat took a nosedive.
With our homes' glass windows and insulation, we can't hear the neighbor kids' cries or cheers--the unifying power of no power is stripped away. Except when we peek out the window and see a blanket of blackness where house lights used to be. But that's more depressing than unifying.
The unifying comes from within our walls, this time. When the lights go, we gather by the fireplace, each of us wrapped in blankets--and play games, or talk, or read. Gone is the T.V., the computer, the video games, as we are forced to...dadadum...interact. We light candles together and create shadows on the wall. We mull over dinner possibilities that don't require cooking.
And we know to be very, very grateful when the lights come back on. Maybe even enough to let out a cheer.
Bugman makes pudding by candlelight. Don't let my flash fool you--it's not this bright!
I used to really like The Schmoo, maybe it's the whole cute baby seal thing he's got going on...Anyway, I have no idea why Scratch's friend called him Schmoo, or why Scratch then started calling our second son Schmoo, or how that somehow morphed into Schmoe (with a long "o"), and finally Schmobie (again, with a long "o"). But it somehow stuck too.
And the most beautiful shot of them all:
A very bundled Cici:
Here comes Bugman:
The boys prepare snowballs. Bugman is right:
Scratch:
Schmobie lobs a snowball at me (with Scratch's encouraging, I might add):
He's got pretty good aim.
This neighbor girl was all about getting Bugman (next three pictures):
Cici and some neighborhood friends:
