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Staying Warm, Chinese Style

Staying Warm, Chinese Style     —by Jinny Batterson

Heating season officially started in northern China on November 15. When we lived during 2006-2007 in the area of China covered by central heating (roughly above 33 degrees north latitude along an irregular, government-decreed line), this official day for the onset of available heat was strictly adhered to, regardless of weather. In spring, heat was turned off on March 15, period.  We heard that during the 1950’s, shortly after the founding of the People’s Republic, the Chinese government, with Soviet help, began a practice of developing a single heating plant for each large area or population center.  At the time, this was a considerable improvement over the hit-or-miss heating available to most Chinese householders.  However, the policy has changed little since then, while increases in population and population density, advances in technology, and changes in fuel supplies and fuel use have made these centralized systems less and less efficient compared with other available options. Coal-generated winter heat is a substantial contributor to smog problems in major Chinese cities. Coal-fired power plants produce the majority of China’s greenhouse gas emissions, so there will need to be substantial changes to existing systems if China is to meet the ambitious emissions targets laid out in a recent U.S.-China climate change agreement.

Our faculty apartment in western Xinjiang was a recipient of central heat, as were all the other staff apartments, dormitories, offices and classrooms of our 10,000-student campus. The heat for everyone was produced by a coal-fired heating plant at the campus’s western edge, just beyond the athletic fields.  I’m not sure how the heat reached the various buildings, but once it arrived in a building, heat was delivered via hot water radiators. We had no thermostats in our apartment or our classrooms, and no valves to control the flow of hot water to the radiators, most of which were situated under south-facing windows. Heat arrived on an irregular basis, causing considerable clanking plus alternating periods of sweltering and chilly indoor temperatures. Sometimes we’d have the windows wide open on -5 degree C days; at other times, indoor temperatures would be as cold or colder than outdoors. We had no way to circulate the heat inside, either (except for drafts when the wind blew). The temperature sometimes varied by several degrees from one side of a large room to the other.

We never got totally toasty during any of our winters in China, but after a while we picked up tips from our Chinese colleagues that helped a lot:

1) Long underwear is your friend.  Nearly every Chinese friend had several pairs. Larger department stores even stocked sizes big enough for our sometimes larger Western frames. As soon as the weather got cold, everyone layered up.

2) Change your eating habits with the seasons—in most places, winter offered various flavors of “hot pot” (vaguely like Western fondues, eaten communally around a large table with a gas burner at its center—more about winter eating in next week’s installment.)

3) Huddle.  Although Chinese people we knew were generally shy about hugs and public displays of affection, they were not averse to having a lot of folks around the same table  or in the same room during cold weather, upping the temperature noticeably in the process.

4) Get and use inexpensive hand and foot warmers—the ones we were familiar with were electrically powered, filled with a sort of gel that would warm fairly quickly when the power was on, and then hold their heat for up to several hours unplugged.

5) Wear tip-less gloves for indoor work. Outside, wear many layers, including hats, mittens, and warm boots.

6) Invest in padded vests and down jackets, long enough to cover your entire abdomen, which can get chilled by wintry winds.

7) Get the best, warmest bedding you can afford or acquire (often previous foreigners or Chinese colleagues will leave theirs behind when they move to more temperate climates).

8) When you are awake during the day, stay physically active. Come evening, take advantage of the long winter nights to get plenty of sleep.

HIV/AIDS in China

HIV/AIDS in China        —by Jinny Batterson

Today is World AIDS Day.  Estimates of the number of HIV/AIDS sufferers in China vary widely, from about 600,000 to an order of magnitude larger than that. Though the infection rate in China as a whole remains relatively low, the sheer size of China’s population (about 1.4 billion) makes it important that any outbreak there be contained.

It’s thought that the first AIDS fatality in China was that of an infected tourist during the 1980’s. By the 1990’s, AIDS had gained a foothold in local populations, primarily among intravenous drug users in southern provinces adjacent to the “Golden Triangle,” Southeast Asia’s prime poppy-growing region. Then, in a scheme in which some levels of the Chinese government played an indirect but culpable role, peasants in several rural interior provinces were infected through unsafe blood donation procedures. China had stopped accepting blood components internationally during the 1980’s (ostensibly to avoid HIV contamination of the blood supply). Local entrepreneurs began to fill the supply gaps by recruiting rural donors to sell their blood for money. These “bloodhead” recruiters promised to minimize the impact of the loss of blood by extracting only plasma and returning donors’ red blood cells to them at the close of the donation process.  In some areas, safe blood handling practices were not followed—equipment was unsanitary, blood was pooled among donors before being returned. Soon whole villages were  afflicted with the “nameless fever.”  It took over a decade before the problem was acknowledged. It is estimated that 3-5% of current HIV/AIDS infections in China originated through unsafe donations—by 2010, Chinese government sources claimed that unsafe donation centers had been shut down and that all blood products were being tested for the virus before use.

A turning point in China’s official posture toward the AIDS epidemic may have come in 2003, when large parts of the country were essentially locked down during efforts to control a more short-term but also potentially lethal virus-caused infection, SARS (sudden acute respiratory syndrome). As the global reaction to SARS slowed international travel and domestic tourism in China to a trickle and seriously disrupted Chinese commerce, Chinese officials realized that having a large population of HIV-infected citizens could become an economic and human rights disaster.

My exposure to the AIDS epidemic and to efforts to contain it in China was extremely limited: the only time I saw any AIDS-related publicity was once during a 2006-2007 teaching assignment in rural Xinjiang—at the far end of the college campus, tucked away behind a line of trees, was a billboard cautioning of the dangers of unsafe sex, listing a telephone number someone could call for additional HIV/AIDS information.  A few of my Chinese teaching colleagues had heard vague stories of a young woman student who had become infected, subsequently forced out of school and shunned by her family. China’s infected population continues to grow, fueled by intravenous drug use and men having sex with men, but increasingly through unprotected heterosexual sex among sex workers and migrant laborers. The Chinese government has started promoting condom use as a safeguard against transmission, but the effectiveness of condom campaigns varies widely from region to region, and results are hard to verify. Among officially recognized victims of the disease, about a third are receiving antiretroviral drugs.

The year 2010 was the first in which AIDS was the leading cause of death from communicable diseases in China, passing tuberculosis and rabies, the former record holders. That year, over 7,700 Chinese died of AIDS. HIV/AIDS cases have been confirmed in all of China’s provinces, independent cities, and autonomous regions. As is the case in much of the rest of the world, China’s efforts to contain and reduce the HIV/AIDS epidemic can be spotty and inconsistent. Local customs, stigmatization of those infected, misinformation, some local governments’ reluctance to admit there is a problem, and the huge proportion of migrant, mostly male, laborers in the country, make developing effective overall strategies difficult.

One of the most visible spokespeople for HIV/AIDS awareness in China is James Chau, a young British-born journalist who has lived for the past decade in China. Chau became a U.N. AIDS goodwill ambassador in China in 2009. Since then, he has attended numerous international conferences on the disease, and has worked within China to educate the public about the disease and to reduce the stigma experienced by those infected with the virus.

If you have contacts in the HIV/AIDS community in China, perhaps you can use today as a reminder to provide monetary and moral support for ongoing efforts there to contain the disease and to treat its victims. Regardless of where any of us live or who we know, each can each contribute a small part to the multitude of solutions that will be needed to reduce the toll of this dreadful disease worldwide. Check the World AIDS Day website (http://www.worldaidsday.org) for ideas, or find your own way to contribute within your community.

Simple Gifts

Simple Gifts    —by Jinny Batterson

“Ruby” is a Chinese economic success story. Ruby grew up in poverty in a mountainous rural county about 5 hours’ drive across the mountains from the regional hospital in Ya’an, Sichuan, where she is now a doctor, a kidney disease specialist. Since her youth, she’s completed high school, university, and advanced training. She has earned enough to purchase an in-town apartment, one she shared with her aging parents when she wasn’t either on duty or catching a few hours’ sleep at the staff dormitory at the hospital between work shifts. She dresses well and enjoys travel, but has been somewhat limited in her leisure time because of work and family obligations.  I first met Ruby at an autumn evening’s “English corner” session, open to students, staff, and town residents in Ya’an where my husband and I were spending the 2008-2009 academic year as foreign teachers at a local university. For much of the year, when she could get time off, Ruby practiced her English with us while she showed us around many of the tourist sites and natural areas closest to our university town.

Over the course of the years when I’ve traveled in China, living standards have improved tremendously.  The “three most wanteds” list that in the 1950’s included such basics as a bicycle, a radio, and leather shoes, more recently moved up to washing machine, mobile phone, television, computer, air conditioner, and even car for China’s burgeoning urban middle class.  The poverty rate throughout China, measured as those surviving on less than $1.25 per day,  decreased from 81% in 1981 to only a third as high, 27%, by 2012. In many urban areas, the rate is even lower. Still, there are pockets in the countryside that the new affluence seems largely to have passed by. Ruby’s hometown was one of these. It was inaccessible via major road. We never had a chance to see it during our year in Ya’an. Its isolation, we heard, reinforced the largely agrarian, hardscrabble existence of its inhabitants, who grew subsistence food crops plus fruit for regional markets.

After our teaching year was over, we kept up with Ruby intermittently by email.  On a later China visit, we reconnected. We were excited when she was able to arrange a weekend in the area where she’d grown up.  During Ruby’s childhood, settlements in Hanyuan County were mostly located in a fertile alluvial plain, tucked between successive ranges of the mountains of western Sichuan. Then came the double whammy of the 2008 Sichuan earthquake plus the impending relocation of all low-lying settlements to make way for an impoundment lake that would soon flood the valley, backed up behind a hydroelectric dam being built downstream.

By the time we got to Hanyuan, most low-lying areas were abandoned. A steep, raw new city was taking shape higher along the mountain slopes. We had a hot pot dinner at one of the few remaining lowland restaurants, then went to visit one of Ruby’s friends in her new apartment block in the new city.  Not many foreigners came to this part of the country, so we were a novelty.  On Sunday, before starting the long trek back to Ya’an, Ruby took us for a walk along one of the major streets. Locals came up to her and asked her who we were and why we were in Hanyuan—she replied that we were her friends, and that she’d brought us from Ya’an on a short visit to her hometown. We were headed back uphill to the apartment block where her friend lived when still another group of locals approached us from behind.  Three little girls, dressed in warm colorful jackets against the chill, were out walking with their grandfather. The grandfather checked with Ruby to see who we were, then explained in local dialect to his granddaughters. After a block or so, the eldest girl walked up to Jim and took hold of his hand. A little later, the two younger girls, emboldened by their cousin’s example, came up beside me and each took one of my hands. Ruby used her cell phone to snap a low-resolution picture of the group of us—two foreigners, several local adults, and three adventuresome young Chinese girls, enjoying the simple gift of a weekend walk together.

Flickering Lights, Scary Stories, and Round Pumpkins

Flickering Lights, Scary Stories and Round Pumpkins: Halloweens in China

—by Jinny Batterson

Boo!  Holidays are one of the most potent vehicles for teaching about language and culture.  I spent two Halloweens teaching English and American culture in China, each in a different part of the country. In both places, students were intrigued by the customs surrounding this holiday of ancient Celtic origin. Many had seen some of the spooky movies that Hollywood typically churns out around Halloween. Some had heard of “trick or treating;” others had seen Internet images of lighted jack-o-lanterns.

To teach about Halloween, I boned up a bit myself—the original holiday, Samhain, celebrated the end of harvest and the start of winter in parts of Ireland and Scotland. The separation between the living and the dead was thought to be thinner at this time of year, so small gifts of food and wine were left on doorsteps in the evening to appease roaming spirits.  As Christianity spread in Europe, the holiday got a make-over with a Christian overlay—November 1 became “All Saints’ Day,” and the evening before, “All Hallows Eve,” became an excuse for various kinds of deviltry and trick-playing. The tradition of pumpkin carving arose from an Irish folk tale about a con man, “Stingy Jack,” whose bargain with the devil went sour. After death, Jack wound up roaming the earth as a spirit, his way lighted by a small hot coal carried inside a carved-out turnip (or “Jack’s lantern”). Irish immigrants brought the custom to America with them, abandoning turnips for larger, easier to carve local pumpkins.

In Xinjiang, where I first spent Halloween in China, I created a small evening Halloween celebration with students at our weekly “English corner,” chased indoors earlier that month because of rapidly chilling weather in this outpost not so far from Siberia. Several Chinese colleagues, also teachers of English, picked out spooky stories in simplified English to read to participants.  I crafted a scaled-down version of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Telltale Heart” as the final story of the night. A week or so earlier, a student had brought me two fairly decent pumpkins from one of the local markets.  We’d carved them into basic jack-o-lanterns to adorn the front of the meeting room. About ten minutes into the hour-long program, the celebration got spookier when the electricity suddenly went out. Power outages were not a rare occurrence in Xinjiang, but the timing of this particular outage was interesting.  We continued by the light of the jack-o-lanterns, a couple of candles, and students’ cell phone flashlights (becoming more common everywhere). Just as I finished “Telltale Heart,” the electricity came back on. I suspect I was not the only person on campus who checked behind doors, under the bed, and in closets before going to sleep that night.

Two years later, I approached Halloween in Ya’an, Sichuan, envisioning a group pumpkin carving bonanza. I thought pumpkins would be plentiful and easy to find in this rainier, more fruitful part of China.  However, my mid-October search of local vegetable markets failed to turn up a single pumpkin suitable for carving.  There were lots of tubular pumpkins in this province noted for its fiery cuisine and wealth of winter soups and stews. It turned out that the idea of growing a pumpkin for purely decorative purposes was almost sacrilege in this heavily populated area. Tubular pumpkins were thinner skinned and could easily be sliced, then sold in appropriate family-meal sized chunks. Local wisdom went that “everything in the pig got eaten except for the squeal.”  Likewise, pumpkins—skin, pulp, seeds and all—were meant for eating, not for making jack-o-lanterns.

Eventually I enlisted the help of my students in the round pumpkin search. A couple of days later, several of the young women returned triumphant with a large round pumpkin—the best one of only three in the whole town, they swore.  We carved it carefully, saving the seeds, later awarding it to the student who’d earned the highest score on their recent mid-term exam. Instead of using a wax candle for light, we opted for a cheap LED, which also put out light. More importantly,  it didn’t put soot or smoke into the pumpkin’s flesh. After a short interval as parts of dorm Halloween decor, this mutant “Westernized” pumpkin likely served its intended Chinese purpose: a nutritious part of someone’s November dinner.

Better City, Better Life

Better City, Better Life   —by Jinny Batterson

“Better city, better life” was the theme and mantra of Expo 2010 Shanghai China, held from May 1 through October 31 of that year in one of China’s preeminent urban areas. This international exposition, the first since 1992, was extravagant in every way. My brief visit was a drop in the bucket of the 73,000,000 visitors to the fair, a record since attendance has been tracked. On a single day in October, 2010, over a million people passed through the Expo entrance turnstiles. During the three days in which I had a chance to visit, I barely scratched the surface of the 246 national and organizational pavilions that made up this biggest of all global expositions so far (both in land area and in number of exhibitors).

Most of the time I’ve spent in China, I’ve avoided large metropolitan areas, where crowding and pollution can be detrimental to both mental and physical health.  However, increasingly in China, and globally, humans live in cities. According to the most recent update from the U.N.’s Department of Economic and Social Affairs, in 2014 about 54% of the world’s population lived in cities. This is a big change from the 34% of global population that inhabited cities as recently as 1960. Asia is one of the most rapidly urbanizing regions. The small-scale Chinese farmer plowing his rice paddy with a water buffalo is increasingly a thing of the past.

When America was industrializing in the early 20th century, a popular song of the time wondered about the preferences of U.S. World War I veterans returning from service in Europe:  “How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree (Paris)?” The same can now be said for Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, and numerous other Chinese metropolises. Especially for young men, the dislocations and changes in lifestyle that accompany moving to the city can be offset by increasing economic opportunities. Urbanization is happening much more quickly in modern China and India than it did in Europe and North America last century. Those of us with rural or small-town roots may bemoan the loss of the so-called bucolic lifestyle we imaginatively remember from long-ago childhoods. What we too easily forget is the amount of hard physical labor required to do small-scale farming, or the isolation that can stalk those whose nearest neighbors may be out of sight.

Both the content of Expo 2010 and the rapid transitions of Chinese and of global populations toward urban life highlight some of the opportunities and challenges that city life presents.  How do rural-to-urban migrants develop and adapt appropriate urban life skills? How do we maintain ties with neighbors when we have millions of them? How do we create transportation systems that are convenient but minimally polluting?  How do we provide safe and reliable supplies of food and water when much of the land surface is sparsely peopled, and close to 2/3 of all humans live in urban centers of 100,000 people or more?  How do we avoid pandemics? Are there keys to sustaining “megacities” (of over 10 million population)? Are there limits to the population size of a viable urban center?

No current city, not even Shanghai, is an ideal model.  Some of Shanghai’s features were hastily and temporarily improved for the period of the exposition—factories were shut down or moved, construction of new subway lines was expedited, neighborhoods at or near the Expo site were either demolished or spruced up. Since the end of Expo, the city has had at least one spell, in December 2013, in which particulate air pollution reached such dangerous levels that school children were cautioned to stay indoors.

A transition to cleaner energy and more climate-friendly living styles is a needed part of “better city better life,”  in Shanghai, and everywhere else.

Fall Foliage–“Huyang” Trees

Fall Foliage—“Huyang” Trees    –by Jinny Batterson

Vermont has its maples, Colorado its aspens. The Taklamakan region has its “variegated leaf poplars,” known in Chinese as “huyang” trees.  These trees are desert-hardy, and have been spotted even deep within the Taklamakan.  Their leaves at different stages and on different parts of the tree can mimic poplar, willow, and even maple leaves. In the autumn, they turn a golden yellow, lighting up the area around them. Until I went to Xinjiang, I had never heard of these trees (also called “Euphrates poplars,” though not so often in sometimes ethnically tense Xinjiang).

Recently, the trees have become increasingly endangered, and I worry they may follow the trajectory of the American chestnut trees which once formed an important part of the deciduous forests of the eastern United States. During the early 20th century, nearly all American chestnuts succumbed to a fungal blight accidentally introduced from Asia—only a few isolated stands remain.  So far, no biological blight is affecting the variegated leaf poplars, but the incursion of more and more people into the areas where they’ve grown has put increasing pressure on these “trees of the desert.”  Some of the characteristics that make them most adapted to their geographical region—deep, extensive roots and slow-decaying wood—have also made them most susceptible to human invasion.  Their harvested wood is popular for building materials; their intrusive roots make them anathema to those constructing housing or irrigation projects near stands of the trees, whose roots over time will invade foundations and pipes.

The Chinese national television network, CCTV, in 2009 broadcast a 12 part series titled in English, “The Last Stand of the Euphrates Poplars.”  Shortly afterward, in 2010, the P.R.C. applied for UNESCO World Heritage status for parts of the Taklamakan/Tarim Basin region, including the Euphrates poplar’s extensive stands there as part of the justification for a designation:

“The Tarim Basin is the world’s core area of these poplar trees which cover 352,200 ha, accounting for 90% of their total area in China and 54.29% of the global distribution. The largest natural poplar trees in the world occur in the Tarim River drainage area and large areas of undisturbed poplar forests have been preserved in this region.”

The application is still under review.

As a town resident in the Tarim River oasis settlement at Ala’er, Xinjiang, I got few initial chances to see these poplars up close. That changed one autumn weekend when a work colleague arranged a group day trip out into the desert. We packed up a small van with tarps, water, and a picnic lunch, then set out from town.  We stopped first at a fairly high set of sand dunes, took some pictures, and took turns horsing around and rolling down the sides of the dunes. A large trash heap near the dunes only slightly marred the idyllic scene. (Why bother with landfills when the desert winds will sooner or later cover your trash for you?) Even here there were a few poplars, their roots burrowing deep under the dunes.

Next we stopped at a construction site where several tributaries that flow out of the surrounding mountains meet the Tarim River. Since it was autumn, flow from the glacier-fed tributaries was minimal or nonexistent, but there was a lot of piping and several dams—trying to capture as much of the water as possible. For our picnic site, we went downstream about a third of a mile to a large grove of poplars, golden and just starting to shed their leaves. There was a slight breeze, and the trees murmured in a way I associate with aspen groves in the American West.

It is possible that ancestors of the current trees developed as much as 65 million years ago. It is my hope that, despite our busy efforts to “conquer” the desert, these beautiful trees will continue to thrive where little else can for millions of years more.

Music and Friendship

Music and Friendship  —by Jinny Batterson

Poets and writers have long proclaimed music a universal language.  Whenever I’ve taught in China, I’ve incorporated music into my English lessons and programs.  But learning goes both ways—some of the first Chinese words I learned, beyond the very basic “ni hao,” “zai jian,” and “xie xie,” (hello, goodbye, and thank you), came through a song.

In 2002, during a short teaching stint in Zhengzhou, Henan, I was presenting a lesson about Chinese immigration to the United States. The first large-scale Chinese settlement in America came in the wake of the 1848 discovery of gold in California. Several thousand Chinese young men, mostly from the coastal provinces of Guangdong and Fujian, crossed the Pacific then in search of “gold mountain.” China was undergoing hardship and turmoil—it seemed a good time to leave in search of a better life. I used simple tools to supplement my lecture and to connect the students to these adventuresome ancestors of theirs. First I drew a rough outline map of the U.S., pointing out where California was. Then I wrote on the chalk board some lyrics of the folk song “Clementine,” honing in on vocabulary about “miners” and “49ers.”  After more explanation and a couple of solos of the lyric, I tried to get the students to sing along—many did.

At that time, most Chinese students were still shy about asking questions in class, especially outside major cities like Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou. The school where I taught this lesson was a large public junior middle school (roughly equivalent to U.S. grades 7-9) in a mid-sized provincial capital. At the end of our singing, I saw several students looking puzzled. I was resigned to not knowing what had intrigued them. I expected them just to sit quietly, waiting to see what the strange foreign teacher would do next. They surprised me. One of the bolder students raised his hand.

“Excuse me, teacher,” he began.  “We all know that tune, but it has different words.”

He and several of his cohorts then proceeded to teach me the Chinese “Happy New Year” song—“Xinnian Hao,” whose tune seems to have crossed the Pacific, possibly in both directions.

A bit later in my China travels, I was exposed to a classical Chinese lyric that has haunted me ever since:  “Dan Yuan Ren Chang Jiu,” loosely translatable as “Wishing We Last Forever.”  In the year 1076, Song dynasty poet Su Shi  composed the verse. At Mid-Autumn Festival (honoring the harvest moon, plus family and lovers’ reunions, occurring in September or early October by the Chinese lunar calendar), he spent the night drinking wine, looking at the full moon, and missing his long-lost brother. Toward morning, he wrote the characters of one of his best-known poems. With a modernized tune, the lyric was recorded in 1983 by Taiwanese singer Theresa Teng (Deng LiJun).  I first heard the song in 2007. At the end of my year’s teaching in 2009, my students sang me the song karaoke-style in farewell.  I’ve tried an Americanized adaptation below about long-distance friendships.  Click here for a link to the Theresa Teng Chinese version.

(To Friendship   —adapted by Jinny Batterson)

How bright the round moon shines—
Wine soaks this sorrow of mine,
How I long to see you,
Friends, just one more time.

The moon first waxes, then wanes,
‘Til just a sliver remains,
Riding high, cold, distant,
In the pre-dawn sky, just as lonesome as I.

Oceans may divide us,
Mountain ranges hide us,
Friendship’s still there.
Whether by pale moonlight
Or by noonday sunlight
We stay aware
Of others who care.

People have joys, sorrows, fears,
Journeys range both far and near.
Though we stay continents apart
And never meet again, treasured memories remain.

 

 

Bristlecone Pine

Bristlecone Pine —by Jinny Batterson

(This poem was written in the late 1990’s when I attended a conference in western Colorado founded by one of my data processing mentors, Jerry Weinberg, with his wife Dani. Jerry, during the time that I knew him best, was beset by physical ailments of one kind or another, also jettisoning non-essential body parts to keep going. Though he hasn’t yet reached the millennial mark, he’s past 80, still writing, still distilling wisdom and sharing it with anyone who has time to pay attention. Jerry’s website is at www.geraldmweinberg.com. Check out some of his poetry, too.)

Solitary, silhouetted
Against a desert sky,
Its trunk twisted,
Its branches out of symmetry,
A mute testament
To the
Will to survive.
In dry years or decades,
It jettisons limbs, even trunk, to keep
Remaining life
Concentrated, capable of
Regeneration. In wet years
Or decades,
It bursts forth
In luxurious lopsided
Growth.
This is how it
Endures
For
Millennia.

Popcorn Snow

Popcorn Snow   —by Jinny Batterson

(This weather commentary was written in late winter 2010, a previous cold and snowy winter in this part of North Carolina. It was originally published, without picture, in an edition of the magazine Carolina Woman. That year, spring eventually came, as it will this year…)

p2010popcornsnowSaturday morning.
Sister safely aloft on the next leg
of her winter off-the-farm vacation.
Larder well-stocked.
Tummy full of pancakes and hot chocolate.
No immediate chores.
A welcome window of time to explore
the whiteness that coated our yards and trees overnight.
Not heavy and dense, like the late January storm and chill
that trapped us indoors for days.
Barely noticeable on roads and sidewalks,
But wrapping itself around branches and bushes and
twigs and leaves and pinecones,
Making miniature moguls so insubstantial they’ll be gone
as soon as the sun comes out.
No need just yet for Olympic vistas of snow-majestic peaks–
Enough to have a morning amble in popcorn snow.

Born After the War

Born After the War

(“Hiroshima Day”, August 6, is not much celebrated in the U.S., though  I’ve been told that in Japan it is the occasion for solemn remembrances. In 2000, I had a chance to visit Hiroshima and see the A-Bomb dome, the Peace Museum, and the millions of paper cranes, symbols of peace and hope, sent there by school children from around the world. This musing was prompted by that visit.)

On its anniversary a decade ago, I gave a short commemorative presentation about the atomic bombing of Hiroshima–the first use of atomic weapons–on August 6, 1945.  My audience was attentive.  We all squirmed uncomfortably. After the subsequent silence, people began sharing their stories. Some older attendees had known A-bomb survivors personally.  Most remembered exactly what they were doing when they got news of the bombing–like those of my generation remember the JFK and MLK assassinations, or my children remember the Challenger spaceship disaster.

I’ve sometimes felt both gifted and cheated by the timing of my appearance in 1947, when the worst of  World War II damage was starting to be hidden beneath sprouting weeds and aid programs, although the aftershocks were felt in the growing belligerence among former allies that later came to be called the “Cold War.”  During a 1950’s period of postwar U.S. uneasiness,  hunts were carried out for Communists, domestic and foreign. Perhaps their existence would help explain why, after our recent great resounding victories, so many felt so empty.

One of my grandfathers, the Rebel one, was also born not long after a war, in 1869. His early childhood was spent in a house occupied by Union troops who’d temporarily expropriated a Southern landscape almost as desolate as postwar Hiroshima.  As his brain softened with age, he sometimes relived that childhood, becoming again the scared white boy who dreaded the “n— down the road who carried a pistol for me.”

Sometimes I wonder about the wisdom of those of us born after wars.  We are often the pampered progeny of parents determined to keep us out of harm’s way. They don’t want us to suffer through what they did.  Laudable as their efforts were and are, there are downside risks. Absent at least some suffering, we are all too apt to blunder through life, expecting all obstacles to be removed, planting the seeds of the next wars by blaming each other when stubborn boulders of prejudice, ego and ideology refuse to budge without great effort.