Weeks Twelve and Thirteen plus Stateside Notes

Hello once again from bubblin’ hot Montego Bay! It is very warm!

Sorry it has been so long since my last post, I have no worthy excuse for the expansive time lapse. In lieu of a post for the last 5 weeks, I have written a ridiculously long post. I arrived back here in Jamaica on May 10 after spending an action-packed three weeks stateside.

During my first week back in the motherland, I stayed in bountiful Wheaton, Illinois. Though I vowed never to venture near Chicagoland again after my last freezing episode thereabouts, I broke this vow in order to spend a week with my brother, who is enrolled at Wheaton College. During my stay there, I played in a Wheaton College men’s soccer practice, two men’s intramural soccer games, three co-ed intramural soccer games, and the Wheaton College men’s soccer alumni game. Daniel Mesko (an actual Wheaton alum, who’s gettin’ hitched in October, hooray!) exclaimed, “Gunnar! You were almost the first Hope College alumni to score in a Wheaton alumni game!” I was so close, but ultimately failed. I guess it’s like my dad once told me, “Gunnar, some dreams just weren’t meant to come true.” My dad never actually said that, but wouldn’t it be funny if he did?

Aside from hanging with Koltar, I also got to spend some much relished time with two beautiful ladies (who also both follow my blog) by the names of Emily Scatterday (who’s moving to the D.R. in August [right?] for YoungLife, hooray!) and Tara Henderson (who’s getting hitched in June, hooray!). After leaving behind a few annoyed and confused Wheaton I.M. athletes, soccer alumnus, and residents of Kolt’s apartment, I arrived home to a partially cloudy Mason, Michigan for my last two weeks before heading back to the island.

While at home, I accomplished many objectives; I went to five (5) different movies, spent a weekend in Holland (the city, not the country), took two trips to my dad-ntist’s office and gots ma teef fixed-up, finished watching the final season of Arrested Development with my little sisters (Rane of which is going to GVSU in the fall, hooray! Everybody’s going to college, but you, Huntar), organized gobs of accumulated paperwork, bought my new backpack (which threw Kolt into a state of violent jealousy, see Figure A), took pictures for my little sisters before they took off for Prom, tried to get caught up on Lost (unsuccessfully), tried to figure out a website where I can watch Lost here in Jamaica (unsuccessfully), made some t-shirts for the Bakers (who celebrate their first wedding anniversary next week, hooray!), wrote this Excel macro [ http://docs.google.com/View?id=djspn8z_8ffhpz6wr ] (which consumed two days by itself), made a cloth and fleece case for my laptop (which consumed one day by itself, see Figure B), started to create a website for my Dad’s business, created my beach-nap glasses (patent pending, see Figure C), had an awesome visit to my grandparents (the spicy, fun, youthful dynamic duo more commonly referred to as Nonnie ‘n’ Bo), and celebrated Skye and Chelsea’s college graduation (hooray!) with a feast at Gantham Manor. Ironically, I was excited to get back here to Jamaica, not only to resume the relationships that have been developing here, but also to get some much needed rest.

Figure A: Jealousy is a perfectly normal human response.

TJ Maxx: $16.99

Figure B: Isn't that awesome. Six Hours of Frustration.

Figure C: Beach-Nap glasses. My greatest invention ever.

Yes, that's two layers of duct tape on the inside of the lenses.

A few people asked me if I experienced culture shock at all coming back into America. I definitely felt it when I arrived at the Dallas (DFW) airport and received a jolt of reality from being able to (really for the first time) understand how much wealth there is in the United States. The primary comparison that lead me to this realization was the condition of the Montego Bay Airport (MBJ) to the brand spanking new DFW. Now, MBJ had undergone some recent renovations and is noticeably nicer and more modern than what it was a few years ago. As an airport, it functions just fine. The ticket/security/customs/immigration lines can get a little ridiculous, being badgered by countless bag carriers and taxi drivers to use their service can get a little annoying, the A/C doesn’t exactly keep the place at room temperature on a regular basis, the employees (though some are very nice) can be very short/unfriendly with Americans and be very difficult to understand (with little sympathy for the fact that we speak and hear more slowly than them), and the whole place seems to run on “island time” quite often, but all in all the airport gets the job done and I have no material issues with it whatsoever. After leaving from MBJ, however, and arriving in the sparkling DFW international arrivals area, I experienced the most razor-sharp contrast I have observed between the two cultures to this point.

After getting off the plane, I followed the signs to immigration. I walked into an absolutely beautiful immigration center, with probably 40-some booths all decked out in clean glass and aluminum, the floors were spotlessly clean and shiny, a series of huge panes of glass with different Americans’ pictures rendered on them high above the booths, crisp, cool air without a hint of sticky humidity, and 40-inch flat-screen HDTVs every 30-feet or so (just in case you wanted to watch without having to stand still) playing close-ups different Americans saying, “Welcome to America!” in different languages on a loop over and over. I walk right up to the area of open booths, as my mind was prepared to play a game of “Pick the Shortest Line,” only to laugh out loud when I see that each line is only about 3 or 4 people deep. After an excruciating 45-second wait, I walk up to the immigration agent, who is dressed in his sharp, professional uniform, hand him my passport, he checks it, swipes it, hands it back, and says, (in clear English) “Welcome home.” As I arrive at the baggage claim, I scan my brain to try and figured out what I skipped in order to get this far after only minutes after stepping off the plane.

Waiting for my ride at the terminal, I found a seat in front of another flat-screen playing CNN, while watching the cars pick people up. Probably four out of every five cars was a 2005 model or newer. When I show the kids here a picture of my ’99 Ford Contour with the windshield smashed in and the hood all bent up (the hood flew up and smashed the windshield a few years ago. If I haven’t told you the story, you should ask me about it sometime), their first reaction isn’t always to laugh. Instead, it is quite often signed, “You have a CAR?! Wow!” as a majority of their parents do not. Not that all of them live in poverty here in Jamaica, but if you have enough money to buy your very own car, you are doing pretty darn well for yourself. And if you are buying something 2005 or newer, then, you are in-fact a very wealthy individual (especially if the paint is the same color all the way around!).

At some point during my eye-opening re-entry into the wealthiest country that has ever existed, my mind diverted from the realization of the absurdly lucrative economic vitality of our country to the fact that with the simple flash of my 3x5-inch authentic U.S. passport, I strolled right in unquestioned. The unbelievable fortune of being born a U.S. citizen is an idea that I, initially and continually, struggle with. Perhaps I would feel differently if I had joined the armed forces. Maybe if I would have put my life in real danger for this country, I would feel that I have earned the right to carry around this go-wherever-I-darn-well-please 3x5-inch document that billions of people around the world would give everything to have. Maybe if I took a bullet in my shoulder, I would have no qualm with the fact that I have had enough education and resources available to me, that I could have done whatever profession I wished… and still can. Now, I’m not saying that I haven’t worked hard to earn my diploma, my degree, my professional licence and I’m not saying that I haven’t been driven to become educated, to develop myself and my abilities, to earn a living and contribute (at least a little) to society in the States, but the fact remains that all I have done to earn the unlimited opportunity of being a legal U.S. citizen is successfully navigate out from my momma’s belly while being on American soil with my heartbeat in-tact (although that was actually a close call, as I was actually born 6-weeks early).

This train of thought, juxtaposed against the information that some of the Jamaicans I have met here have unsuccessfully tried to (some on multiple occasions) simply visit the United States, while many more dream of going there some day, definitely amplifies my struggles with the unearned advantage of being born a Yankee. Every time I direct this train of thought into the station (good metaphor, eh?), I can only come to the conclusion to try and realistically do what I can to help who I can, wherever I am. My only chance for peace of mind is to accept that there are inequalities in this world that I will never understand and that my role is not to figure everything out, but try and make the most of the opportunities given to me, both justly and unjustly.

Sorry that commentary got a bit heavy, but it was something I had thought about a lot and I am grateful that I finally had a chance to get it down on paper, er…uh, blaper? On a lighter note, we have been losing power intermittently since I got back two weeks ago. My head lamp has come up huge a few times now. Last trip, however, it did not come up so huge, as it got turned on inside my backpack, drinking every bit of juice out of all three brand-new AAA batteries, effectively turning my newly purchased head lamp into a paper-weight (with elastic headband!) before ever being used once in Jamaica.

Last week when the power was out, I (using my freshly-batteried head lamp) rummaged through my apartment here at night to find some candles to take to the team staying here in the dorms across campus so they could have some light. After locating and lighting two candles, I headed out of my apartment and toward the dorms. Walking past some of the teaching staff seated on the porch on my way down to the field, I quickly explained what I was doing and bid them good evening. Since I was low on matches, I did not take any with me on my way to the dorm.

About 60 yards (of probably 250) into my walk to the dorm, I started to notice a weather phenomena that I somehow failed to anticipate before walking across a huge open field with candles; wind. A sharp gust flickered and the killed the candle in my left hand. I quickly maneuvered the other candle to re-light the left candle. After successful re-ignition, the right one went out. Knowing that this act wouldn’t keep flames lit all the way to the dorm (especially since my walked had slowed to a side shuffle as I attempted to protect my fragile flames from the wind), I reached into my stash of emergency birthday candles I intended to give the team for when the big candles went out. I found that by lighting a birthday candle, dripping its wax on top of one of the big candles, and then jamming the bottom into the fresh wax, I could stand up multiple, burning candles on each big candle and minimize my risk of having to walk all the way back up to my apartment to get the matches.

Now that my walk has come to a complete halt with complete focus on lighting, setting up, and maintaining candles, I can hear some of the staff on the balcony laughing at my efforts (and rightfully so, as it was probably pretty funny to watch). So as I am standing up these birthday candles, I reason that if I can tilt multiple candles into each other, they achieve a stronger flame. So, after minutes of intensely focused effort (a much longer amount of time than it would have taken me to go get the matches), I successfully have three birthday candles on each side titled into each other and all my candles are lit and ready for the long, windy journey. Immediately after this success, I hear one of the staff on the balcony exclaim, “Hallelujah!” in acknowledgement of my hard-earned victory. As I turned to thank her, I realized that the power had come back on and they were already inside watching television. I said, “Dodge Ram it!”, blew out my candles, went back up to my apartment, and snuggled up with Excel 2007: Power Programming with VBA, before going to bed.

Though the candle story is my only purely humorous story I have to share since coming back, I have one other story and train of thought I think may inspire some laughter.

There was time at some point before I came here that I thought I would never spank my children. At one point, I reasoned that spanking was only what parents did when they were too lazy to talk out a problem, too frustrated use logic, or too tired to be patient and merciful. I still believe that spanking should only be used as a last resort of communicating a lesson, but I now have a more robust understanding for how quickly all other communication tools can become exhausted, and for how often other methods of teaching can become utterly ineffective.

I think this revelation falls on the heels of the fact that it has been a long time since I had lived around toddlers to any extent. My youngest sister is 16 now after all, and acts like a mature 12-year-old, well beyond the age of a toddler. My approximately 10-year void without any exposure to toddlers has given me the false impression that all ages of children posses the reasoning ability, moral understanding, and capacity for guilt, compassion, and selflessness, that high-schoolers have. Hence, I have forgotten that to successfully coexist with and help develop younger children, the methods of communication sometimes need to be a bit more… primitive. Spending copious amounts of time around the younger deaf children here at the school and the hearing children of deaf adults at the village has afforded me ample experience to see examples of this “primitive” communication play out beautifully.

In this discussion of striking children, I would like to point out that I was spanked quite regularly as a child. And I will admit that while long ago, my dad’s NFL-sized hand inspired tears as it repeatedly smacked my bare bottom, I can say that my punishment was always deserved, as I had a knack for disobeying him. I will also point out, however, that I was usually spanked for making everybody laugh at the dinner table; an offense that I vow will go unpunished in my future household. Take that, Dad. I say this only to illustrate that I don’t believe striking children whom you love, under fair circumstances, produces any negative effects.

On to my short story. A little boy named Dante is one of the youngest and most adorable kids here at the school. He is 6 years old, has a head that is too big for his body, big ole’ eyes and lips, and a constant look of wonder and excitement on his face. He is so much fun to be around. I love the kid. I absolutely do.

All that being said, Dante, like all 6-year-olds, can be a little punk and a swindler, too. When the Hope College team came and brought soccer shoes for all of the kids, I caught Dante repeatedly trying to get another pair of shoes, even though he was one the the first to receive his. He would go up to team member after team member with that I’m-about-to-cry look on his face and then give the sign for “shoes.” Then, the team member would come up to me and be like, “Hey Gunnar. Ummm, I really don’t think Dante got any shoes yet… Is there any way we can let him in the team room so I can help him pick out a pair?” And everytime I would have to shut down operation Greedy Shoes and sign to him, “Stop. No. You already got shoes. Other students have not yet gotten shoes.” He would always know exactly what was up, flail his arms in frusteration, and run away looking for a new victim.

Last week, during one of the evenings, I found Dante repeatedly stealing and throwing other students’ hackey-sacks that the team had brought for the kids. I politely asked him to stop once, and then sternly asked him to stop a second time when he did not heed my first request. After the second time, I saw no change in his behavior, and sought to ask him one more time. Seeing my approach, he proceeded to run away and back into the team room and took another hackey-sack and threw it, though I had asked him not to. I knew what had to be done. And I was a little bit excited to do it, as I had a hunch that my parents always got a secret enjoyment from striking me.

With the help of a team member, I finally apprehended the smiling and giggling little boy, grabbed him by his left wrist, and smacked him with considerable force on the back of left hand. The always giggling, unfocused, trouble-making Dante went stone-faced and met me completely eye to eye like I had just told him his dog had died. He didn’t cry, he didn’t run for one of the teachers, he didn’t struggle or fall on the floor, he just stopped and I had his undivided attention. I then reiterrated, “Stop. You stop getting the balls [hacky-sacks] and throwing them. Understand?” He signed that he understood and that he was sorry and then I let him go. For Dante, I think maybe the fact that I had my serious face on was just a powerful to him as the physical pain from having his hand slapped. As he and the other kids know, I’m just not a very serious person. I routinely will push, poke, prod, headlock, mock wrestle, or mock box every boy here on a daily basis.

Much to my dismay, it didn’t feel all that good to hit Dante. I love more then anything to see kids smiling and laughing, but just not at the expense of other kids or me walking around campus picking up hacky-sacks. I thought that maybe the victory of getting my message across so clearly would feel good, but my first physical disciplining of a (non-sibling) child didn’t really feel good at all. The next day, the team remarked on how well-behaved Dante was that entire evening after I struck him (in comparison to other nights). Perhaps Dante’s good behavior had nothing to do with getting punished, but I think the reality is that the smack was simply effective.

This experience opened my eyes to the fact that maybe some parents don’t enjoy hitting their children, even though they know it is what is best for civil coexistence and the development of the young human. And for those parents, I feel remorse for what they must do. I will retain the opinion, however, that my dad LOVED to spank us, almost as much as he loves watching Westerns. And he loves himself some Westerns. My dad will retain his statement, “I don’t ever remember spanking you guys. Nope. I don’t think it ever happened.” After informing him that countless crystal-clear eyewitness (and buttwitness) accounts from five sepereate fully-sane adults disagree with that statement, I chalk his memory up to enjoying it so much, that he forget it even happened. I can only hope that my future children get through their primitive stage quickly, or else I may have to outsource spankings to someone who enjoys it more (keep your phone on, Dad).

My first two weeks back on the island have been pretty slow as far as the work being done around the MoBay school here. Since we have had any teams come to work on the school, I have mostly been working on odds and ends maintence projects.

I have spent about 4 days weed-wipping, which isn’t my absolute favorite activity, but can be fun when you get in a rhythm. My main issue with weed-wipping is wasps. Have I mentioned I hate wasps? Wasps and bees. And hornets for that matter. I think I hate wasps the most though, because you can’t hear them and they think they’re better than me because they can fly. They say that, “Wasps are more afraid of you than you are of them,” but that just not true. On two separate occations I have watched a wasp taunt me in mid-flight while I was on my back in the grass, with my hands clasped together, pleading for my life. The only thing that has keep me from getting stung on this island where wasps outnumber people 1,500 to 1 (Did you know that 75% of statistics are made up on the spot?) is my contast, twitchy heightened paranoia of wasps. That, along with my agreement with the wasp mafia kingpin Tony Stingeretti to give him half of my summer wages as long as no wasps sting me (the sucker doesn’t know I’m a volunteer. Haha, stupid wasp). I never let my guard down, though. I jumped out of my couch here just a minute ago, no worries though, it was just the tag of my shirt again.

When I was weed wipping the other day though, I really did accidently send some debris in to an area that must have had a wasps nest near the ground under a bush, because I first noticed one, then I noticed about 25, and then I was running away. As I stopped running 30 yards away, I checked to make sure that I was still alive, that my skin was intact, and that the wasps hadn’t followed me. I was safe. I looked back at the bush and there was the small swarm of wasps, all laughing their stingers off at me. I said, “Laugh it up, ya jerks. Yeah, that’s hilarious. Real funny, har, har, har.” I didn’t actually say those things out loud, but Mrs. Mitchell, one of the teachers here, watched this episode and emphatically advised me to lay down on the ground if wasps were chasing me. “We did this as kids. If you lay down the wasps will fly all around you and not sting you,” she advised. Mrs. Mitchell, if you are reading this, there is no way, in this life or the next, that I will ever try that idea. Thanks for trying to help, though.

The team that came and stayed the last couple weeks include some students/graduates who are studying/studied speech pathology from West Virgina, which I believe is not actually a state in and of itself, but refers to the western portion of Virginia, a bonefide member of the Union. During their time here, they helped the students develop their voicing ability, that is, their ability to speak words. As anyone who visits here will quickly realize, though the deaf cannot explicity communicate using their voices, they are quite aware voices and can be very, very loud. Some of the students who have limited hearing have been voicing for years and can say a great deal of words. Other students whether by shyness, choice, or ability rarely every use their voices or try to say words. During the last two weeks nearly every student here has had a chance to work with once of the young pathologists here. They first start going through the alphabet and try to get the kids basic sounds down. Once the kids are able to associate each letter with the sound well enough, then they move on to simple words. Watching them teach sounds makes you think a lot more about them and how we say all of our words effortlessly without thinking about them, since we have our hearing to self-correct us if a word comes out funny. Many sounds in the alphabet are very similar, only differing whether your voice makes a sound or is silent. For example the “s” and “z” sounds are the same, only “s” is voice off and “z” is voice on. Now please turn to the other person in the room and let them know there are no bees in the room. I appreciate it.

Along with all their hard work with the kids after school, the team also worked with a few other ministries in and near MoBay during the day. A few of the team members even helped me do some maintence work around campus. Some of the stuff was pretty gross, but they were tough, and did not hit me with their handbags, for which I was most grateful.

In fact, I got a feeling that the team kinda wanted to do some other work around campus, but they couldn’t muster up the strength… to ask me. It was like they had this huge burden they they just couldn’t quite push out. I told them to loosen up and relax, but it kept feeling like they had all this stuff inside… that they wanted to say and that was causing a lot of pressure and making things uncomfortable everywhere. You know what I mean? It was like there was all this buildup and anticipation for something that just wouldn’t… happen. You know? They even went for a walk around the dining room one day to see if that would help relax things, but I don’t really believe it worked, even though they said it did. Twice.

I don’t really realistically believe anyone is left reading at this point of the book (I’m on page 8 of the Word Doc I’m writing this in. Single spaced.), so I will leave you with this: The kids love Popeye. We watched Iron Man 2 on DVD four days after it came out (behold the power of bootlegging), but it didn’t get nearly the response that a few 1953 black and white popeye cartoons got. I told the team here I think Popeye should have a feature-length live-action film. I’m thinking Will Smith. Can you say “Automatic Summer Blockbuster?” Sounds like a cash register to me. Take it easy, mon!

Much Love.

Weeks Ten and Eleven plus Bonus Commentary

Greetings once again from MoBay!

This will be my last on-island post for a while, as I am flying home today for my 3-week break before coming back here for the summer. I came back from JDV last Friday here to MoBay and I have been taking it pretty easy ever since. In the absence of work teams and kids here (the kids just now got back form their 2-week spring break), I have been reading, doing laundry, cleaning (very lightly, at least), playing soccer, and playing on my computer (I cannot beat the computer in chess, I am 0-15). Now that the kids have arrived back, I have spent most of my time hanging out with them.

My last week at JDV was quite an adventure as a very strange young woman from Indiana named Tamara R. (sorry, Tamara, I will get your last name later, I think it starts with an "R", though) came to visit Erin Davis (a full-time missionary who works at the CCCD school at Knockpatrick) and Blake (see previous post for info on this turkey). Tamara was here last summer doing what I am doing now and came for a week to visit all the friends she made during her time here. Though I had not met Tamara before last week, the three of them allowed me to tag along with them on their excursions, let me ride in the front seat, fed me M&M's, let me ride in the back seat, questioned my intelligence, laughed at my bad jokes, laughed at my good jokes, and did not hit me with their handbags, for which I was most grateful. As we all have very, uhhhhh, dynamic personalities it definitely made for an, ummmm, interesting week. But beyond all of the thinly veiled (and thickly applied) sarcarsm and insults, a good time was had by all.

During the week, I had my first visit to Knockpatrick (only about a half hour from JDV), my second visit to YS Falls (though I got too lazy to actually get in the waterfalls this time), my first visit to Little Ochi (a delicious seafood restaurant on the south side of the island), and my first visit to the city of Kingston (and the CCCD school therein).

Though the entire week was filled with copious amounts of new stimuli, my moment of paramount astonishment occurred while driving to Kingston. I believe it is about an hour and half drive from JDV (though that may be off, I'm not the most observant person). About 40 minutes into our drive Erin and Blake kept saying, “We're coming up to the highway soon.” In my mind, this mean a road with 2 lanes on either side, with minimal stops, side roads accessing the highway perpendicularly, and a speed limit around 55 m.p.h. Much to my amazement, the road that we were on eventually transformed into a bona-fide Yankee-style freeway, complete with on-ramps, over-passes, smooth asphalt, and speed limits similar to those on I-75. In discussion of the highway, someone at JDV had quipped, “That is a part of Jamaica we don't tell teams about”, as the ride from MBJ airport to JDV is akin to riding the Mean Streak roller coaster at Cedar Point, for two and a half hours.

Although most of my final week at the village was spent on leisurely endeavors, I did actually do a little bit of work. Just before Easter, Chad asked me to start working on a new logo for the Jamaica Deaf Village (substantially modify the existing logo, rather). The idea is that this logo will be printed onto the labels that will be sewn into the sewing products that are made at the village. JDV employs a few of the residents to work in the sewing building, where they make beach bags, among other neat items. I took on the job with great enthusiasm, as I love working on graphic design projects, though I am by no means a professional.

After about sixteen hours of creating a basic design, adjusting fonts, learning and relearning aspects of Adobe Illustrator, adjusting the design shape, adjusting the design elements, adjusting the colors, and formatting, I finally settled on a design. Well, two designs. The hand shape means "I Love You" and was Chad's idea.

Version A: I really like how this came out.

My only concern is that is might be too busy and

colorful for a small fabric label.

Version B: This version will be easier

to modify into designs with fewer colors and detail.

Though I told Chad I will absolutely adjust the design in any way that he sees fit, I was pretty happy with the final product. If you like the logo and want to congratulate me, feel free to send a Snickers bar to Mason, where will pick it up next week and eat it with a cold glass of milk. If you do not like the logo, please send me an email with the subject line: “What (Your Name) Thinks About the JDV Logo”. This will help me immensely, as I will be able to delete your email without having to read it, saving precious moments that can and will be used to eat Snickers bars. Thanks!

The stories and ideas I have shared about in my blog thus far have all been in chronological order, but there has inevitably been a buildup of stories that I forgot to share, events that were totally unrelated to stories in previous blog posts, ideas that have spanned multiple weeks, and thoughts that I have only now been able to verbalize, but have existed in my subconscious for quite some time. Since I cannot conjure an eloquent transition into nor between any of these stories and thoughts, I am just going to dive right in like a pool of jello.

Just over a month ago, a boat called the Logos Hope Book Ship was at port here in MoBay. The ship was here for two or three weeks, allowing anybody to come on board and look at the massive Christian bookstore inside, after paying a small fee. During my first trip to the beach here, I met Liam and Kara, two of the Logos' younger passengers/residents. Liam, age 9, along with his little sister, Kara, age 7, have both lived onboard the ship for the last THREE YEARS. The told me all about how they travel around the world from port to port to share their books and the gospel message. They are from Scotland, and have a very distinct, and awesome, Scottish accent.”Wee frome Glahzgo in Scote-lin,” I believe is what Kara said to me. Liam told me that his accent had changed since spending so much time with children from all over the world who all lived on the boat with him. Though I still thought he sounded very Scottish, I could definitely see how something like that could happen. Though notable happened during my visit with them, I just thought that living on a boat for three years would be a very interesting experience, and different from anything I have ever know. In my last short conversation with Kara, she asked me, “Aahh you a Christian?” and I said, “Yes I am,” and then she asked, “Did you become a Christian on the Logos Hope Book Ship?” and I replied, “Haha, no, no I didn't.” It was adorable.

Actually, I take it back, there was a notable story that involved Liam and Kara that day. At the beach that we go to here in MoBay, there are a few trampolines within what look like giant inner tubes, all anchored down about 60 ft away from the shore. Liam and Kara the vast majority of their time at the beach playing on one of these trampolines. Probably about 45 minutes before I headed out to their trampoline with a few team members (and would eventually start talking to the kids) I was lying on the sand peacefully when I heard the lifeguard begin to yell. As I looked up, along with the rest of visitors within 50 feet of the lifeguard, I saw that Kara had pulled up the ladder on to the trampoline and left her brother to tread water below, unable to get onto the trampoline. Though the water was only about seven feet deep at that point, it was still obviously well above Liam's head. So we all set their on the beach, listening to this lifeguard yelling, without leaving the dryness of his beach tower, at Kara to put the ladder back down, even though she either could not hear or understand him. Though I don't think anybody seriously thought that this kid was really going to drown in front of all of us (though some were more concerned than others), it started to become increasingly clear that the lifeguard was absolutely not going in the water to help. The fact that our lifeguard was too lazy to get in the water was a little discomforting. Eventually, Kara put the ladder down and Liam was fine. He does, after all live on a ship year-round and is quite a skilled swimmer.

One aspect of my Jamaican experience that I have not yet shared in this blog is living in the city of Montego Bay (and the neighborhood of Grandville). I became very aware of sounds of the city on my first night her back in January. That night, along with many nights, very loud music started playing, seemingly just outside the campus walls around 1 AM and continued through maybe about 4 AM. The music itself is challenging to sleep through, however, I was most awakened by the sound of about six gunshots in the midst of the music. After I woke up the next morning, it occurred to me that the gunshots were probably just part of a song.

Kids these days and their loud rap music, baggy shorts all hangin' down, and Nintendo gizmos, I tell you what! They need to stay off my property before I call the cops! Back when I was young we used to used to respect our elders and our community. They just don't make 'em like they used to, that's for sure.

Although we get front row benefits to all-night concerts maybe once every few weeks or so, a performance that is recited more frequently is called, “The Barking of the Dogs in C Minor.” It's really quite beautiful. The three dogs that live here on campus, along with dozens of dogs that live outside the campus walls will, almost every night, bark. Bark, bark, bark, bark.... Bark, bark bark, pant, pant, pant, bark bark, bark. Wait, wait, they here something more! Better bark at it! Bark, bark, bark, bark, and then finally stop. Wait no, wait, bark, bark.... bark, barking, bark, bark, Bob Barker, bark, bark, and then a bark, bark, bark.. And I could continue to describe it to you, but I wouldn't want to give away the multiple plot twists and surprise ending. You'd never guess happens.

About two weeks after I thought I heard gunshots, I really did hear clear gunshots, making me think that maybe the ones before weren't just part of the song. I would later hear gunshots at night here on a number of occasions. Hearing gunshots here is a weird experience. Your first reaction is to assess whether or not you are in immediate danger. Since the campus is surrounded by 8-foot tall cinderblock walls and the windows of all the buildings here are not that big, the chance of a bullet coming over the wall and actually hitting anybody on campus are virtually impossible. So then the next thoughts you have are, “Who is shooting?” and, “Who are they shooting at?” and, “Did he hit his target?” I have to believe that some of the shots I have heard over the last few months were warning shots, but I also have to believe that some were not warning shots, which is an eerie realization. It is quite an abrupt transition of gears psychologically to be reading about spreadsheets one moment, hearing 3 or 4 loud cracks no less than a half-mile away, and then thinking, “Did somebody's life just come to an end?” I just raise my eyebrows, say a quick prayer for them, recognize there is nothing more I can do, and move on. Sorry to touch on this morbid subject, but I has been an eye-opening component of my experience here.

I have a smattering of other mini-stories and thoughts that I have not yet shared, but by this point in this blog post, most of you have stopped reading, so I will continued the bonus commentary in another post. If you have made it this far, I am very impressed, you have a greater attention span than I do. Take it easy!

Much Love.

Week Sixish through Nineish

FIRE! FIRE! THE FLAMES ARE GOING TO CONSUME EVERYTHING!! EVERYTHING!!!

These were the thoughts racing through my mind as the massive fire ripped a path of destruction through the Jamaican hillside toward JDV last Sunday (March 28).

Okay so it wasn't quite that big or dangerous of a fire, but rational thinking wasn't exactly at the top of my priority list as I vigorously hacked branches off of trees for usage in beating the flames into submission. I reason that since nobody got hurt and nothing got substantially damaged, I can safely say that the story of the JDV fire has been my most exciting experience since arriving here in Jamaica.

As I have mentioned before, JDV is located up in the hills of Manchester parish. During the dry seasons here, water becomes very scarce and much of the vegetation on the hillsides dries up to a crunchy yellow. At this dry state, though the land here is mostly fields of knee-high grass and is littered with rocky patches, it becomes dangerously susceptible to fire. Since the land does not have a thick density of trees, fires here tend not to get overwhelmingly hot (compared to a full-scale California forest fire), nor do they sustain flames much higher than 5 or 6 feet. Though I had seen smoke from neighboring patches of land, and seen the charred remains of already-burn vegetation up-close, I had yet to experience any of these brush fires up close.

The chain of events leading from my awareness of the brush fire to my transformation into a full-on volunteer fire fighter was alarmingly short. Last Sunday, I attended the the 11 A.M. service at the New Life Church for the Deaf. The service ended around 12:30 P.M. and I headed over, with the team (from Lake Placid, FL), to tour the furniture factory right after the service.

After our 20 minute tour, I found myself walking back up the hill toward my apartment next to Chad Huber, the missionary boss-man here at JDV. Immediately after locking up the factory and starting our trek upwards, we both noticed the smoke rising from about 300 yards away from us. Unable to see the base of the fire, Chad asked out loud, "I wonder if that fire is on our side of the road...". After quickening our walking pace and gaining enough elevation to confirm the alarming proximity of the fire to our position and the village, Chad says, "Looks like we're about to have a weenie-roast here this afternoon," as breaks he into a run and lifts his phone to call the fire department and police (this Chad quote has become my favorite during my time here).

By the time Chad and I made it up the hill (neither one of us are stellar long distance runners, and our adrenaline-induced run eventually broke into panting hobble) the fire had already made it up the hillside from the road and was within 100 feet of Pastor Damian's house (and my current apartment). Though the flames in the fire weren't that high, the abundance of smoke makes it difficult to tell what is going on, how big the flames are, or in which direction the fire is spreading most quickly. As I get up to the top of the hill, I see Pastor Damian, along with many members of the work team, in their church clothes, rushing to fill up buckets with water behind the pastor's house. After acquiring some tree branches and distributing them to some team members, I began wailing away at the flames myself.

In those moments prior to my full comprehension of the situation's not-so-fatal severity, the reactions of the villagers and team members were quite varied. Some were on their knees praying for a change in the winds, some were fighting the fire with enraged ferocity, some, like me, were fighting and praying, some were sitting down because they were exhausted from fighting, and others were making sure all of the women and children were safe. Though I would grin about these moments later, during them, it felt like I was in a movie. A movie with an awesome soundtrack. And incorporates a good love story where the stumpy hero with big thighs and patchy facial hair wins the heart of the girl in the end. Perhaps I am foreshadowing my own fate.......? Brilliant.

The primary safety mechanism that kept all of the building at JDV from suffering substantial smoke damage and possibly catching on fire (keep in mind only the roofs here are made of the wood, everything else is concrete) was the shortness of the grass. Around every building is at least a 40-foot zone of shortly mowed grass. When the fire makes it to the shorter grass, the flames are smaller, the fire burns slower and the fire can be smothered out with a tree branch. Upon realizing that we could actually put the fire out with the leafy tree branches, I became much more confident that the fire would not consume everything and everybody, and bring my young life here to an epic, flaming conclusion.

About halfway through our battle with the inferno, Chad informed me that the fire station's only fire truck was out of commission and that another fire truck from another station was going to come eventually. "Soon Come," is the phrase used down here when something is going to take a long time, or may not ever actually happen at all.

As we stamped out the fire successfully up the hill from the pastor's house about 200 yards, we started to find ourselves in much deeper grass and beyond the point where the fire would threaten any JDV buildings if simply let it burn. The primary area I started to watch at this point was the road that ran between the fire and the large apartment building here. I figured that if we just made sure the fire did not jump the road, it would burn itself out on the other side. It was while watching this road that I saw the first Jamaican fireman arrive. As anybody would, I first had a positive reaction upon seeing a fireman decked out in a black and yellow fire-proof suit, complete with helmet, boots, and gloves. All comfort and relief that I had attained in that split second was immediately lost, however, when I noticed that the fireman WAS FIGHTING THE FIRE WITH A BRANCH SLIGHTLY SMALLER THAN MINE. I just wanted to rush up to him and ask, "Hey mon! Shouldn't you have like, ummm... WATER?!" But to be fair to the firemen, they did hook up the hose to the firetruck and help put out the fire that was burning up next to some of the buildings down the hill.

In the aftermath, other than some smoke-filled lungs and a few rooms scattered with ash from the smoke, there were no serious injuries or damage at JDV, other than a number of fence posts that we will likely replace this week. I did find out the next day that one of the neighbor's cows died in the fire, as it pinned itself in a corner of tall grass and inhaled too much smoke. All-in-all the fire consumed approximately 20 acres of brush, one cow, 60 fence posts, and one afternoon me playing of Heroes of Might and Magic V (It's a computer game). Though I never found out if there was a confirmed source of the fire, many said that a neighboring Jamaican was burning tires and lost control of the flames. Though I did not take all these pictures, I did take more after the fire than at any other point on this trip [Patting myself on the back].

Before: Some team members watch with uncertainty of the fire's intentions,

not knowing that they are in the way of DESTRUCTION.

After: A burnt wasteland.

Well, actually the grass will grow back pretty fast.

I fell in to a burning ring of fire.

I went down, down, down, but the flames went higher.

Here, you can see were the fire burnt out the fields

across from the road that runs above the apartment.

Winds pushed these flames up the hill away from JDV.

Some of the little ones were almost as scared as I was.

Here, you can see the divide between good and evil.

Some Snickers bars sent to me by Leigh Austin.

As you can see by the bottom empty wrapper,

I snarfed one really quick to give me fire-fighting energy.

Why wait?

Silhouette of the the fire fighting, machete-wielding, gladiator.

Moments later, I would be yelled at for taking pictures

during a 20-acre brush fire, instead of helping.

Some fence posts that will need replacing.

The wall on the left is the back of Chad's house.

That fire was all up in our grill.

Aftermath of fence posts looking down toward the maintenance shed.

A shift in the wind was all that kept this brush

in the foreground here from going up in flames.

Here is the road I helped watch that kept the

fire away from the apartment.

Some volunteers finishing off the last

flames on the hill above JDV.

Hooray! The fire truck finally arrives!

Notice the fire is out in the background.

Hillside above some of the buildings.

All the fire in the picture was put out with branches.

This is just a cool picture.

We stopped the fire here - about 30 feet from

Pastor Damian's house.

In previous posts, I have worked harder to integrate pictures into the body of the text, so I apologize for not doing that on this post. Hopefully, my ratings will not suffer because of my laziness.

Prior to my arrival at JDV last Sunday and the great fire, I was at MoBay for three weeks, none of which have I mentioned yet in my blog. Although I take primary credit for my groundbreaking procrastination in waiting over a month between posts, I would like to also give credit to my spotty internet connections and my faithful followers, who have barely said anything about my long posting break, leading me to believe nobody is reading so I could put this post off for a longer period of time.

Back in early March, my brothers were here for a week. It would've been an awesome week, but unfortunately, as I mentioned earlier, my brothers were there. Haha, we had a grand ole' time! There were many things the I experience here that will be difficult to explain when I get home, and I am excited to have them help me give more life to my Jamaica stories. For example, they had the opportunity to work it Dayveeeed Mon all week and the fun of trying to understand his Patwa over and over and over. They also had to meet and work with Glenford and gain an understanding of why he is my hero. They met many of the children that have made my time here so awesome. Working with us that week was a group from Pennsylvania called Hands and Feet Ministries. At some point in the week, one of the high-school students in the group pointed out that I am a harder worker than Kolt and Chase (which is not that difficult, as they set the bar pretty low), a comment that made good for many jokes as the week went on. But all in all, I was proud of them and the work they did for the ministry and kids. I was happy to have part of what I missed back home come and visit me here.

After Kolt, Chase and Pennsylvania group left, we had a short break before Hope College showed up the next Friday! Among that group stepping off the plane were: my former soccer coach, his wife and kids, my former college roommate and his wife, two players that I helped coach when they were high schoolers at West Ottawa, a former hockey teammate, and a smattering of other familiar faces. Catching up with all of my established relationships and making new ones made that week awesome. As Hope does not stay on the school campus, I was able to join them for dinner off-campus at their place of lodging: Chattham Cottages, 200 yards from the beach. Every night Warren and I would head over to join the group, they welcomed us with open arms, and did not hit us with their hand bags, for which I was most grateful!

Though it was socially awesome to have some people in my age group to interact with during the Chase/Kolt and Hope weeks, they were the two hottest weeks I have yet experienced here in Jamaica. It was vvvvery hot, mon! Up through that point in my trip here, I had been able to work pretty hard throughout the day and, providing I took enough water breaks, I was able to keep a good work rate going. These two weeks were different. Whether it was my body hitting the physical wall of being here for two months or the heat simply draining the energy from me, I found myself really digging deep to find the energy to keep working every day.

Unashamedly contributing to my exhaustion is the vocational building waste pit. During the PA's group's time at MoBay, we finished putting the cap on the soak away pit I showed in earlier pictures. Before liquid waste goes into the soak away pit, it must first gather in the waste pit, which is located about 40 feet uphill from the soak away. Prior to PA group, the waste pit hadn't been worked on in over a year. As it stood, it was only about 10 feet wide and 10 feet deep. We need it to be 15 feet wide and 13 feet deep. Though getting started on the project was smooth, it became apparrent it would be quite a difficult project as we started pick-axing and shoveling the rocky soil. Ten hot work days of teams hammering on that pit for 7 hours a day and we still have not hit our mark. Toward the end of the Hope team, I found myself avoiding the pit altogether, knowing that I could, in fact, die in that hole, which the Hope team came to call "The Pit of Despair." In my head, I also called it the Pit of Eternal Peril, the Hole of the Undead, the Lion's Den, the Octagon, the Dungeon, Gravedigger, the Widowmaker, Tears of Darkness, Summon the Kraken, Luke I am Your Father, and Icky, Icky, Icky, Kahpungow. Picture to come in next post.

Now that I have caught up with things at MoBay, I can say that my time here at JDV since the fire has been rather uneventful. I have done lots of work mixing concrete, pouring concrete, and setting blocks. After my last day of work last week, I threw down a three-hour nap on my tile floor, in my work clothes. It is my proudest nap since I've been here. I didn't even take my shoes off. It was that serious.

As I wrap up my last two weeks here (I come home for a 3-week break on April 17), I grow very excited to go to the cinema when I get back into the States. I have watched a few movies here (I just watched Pride and Prejudice, the greatest love story of all times), but have not been out to the movies since I left home and I'm missing it! I am going to see if Celebration Cinema can just rent me out a few seats in the back of a theater so I can just live there for a few weeks. Keep your fingers crossed!

I hope to get a blog in before I get home, but I make no promises!

Take it easy. Much Love!

Week Fourish and Fiveish (Somewhat)

Greetings friends! For all of you who thought that I would not have the discipline to keep a blog up and running during my time here, I say, "Ha!" as I am now writing my third post and I have only been here seven weeks! I should probably get a job at a newspaper, since I am so timely in my updates.

In defense of my slowness, my internet accessibility has not been exactly stable over the last four weeks. Even as I write these words right now, though I am using my own computer (that was brought to me last week), I am sitting in a hot laundry room to pick up a decent wireless signal. I would just go into Warren's apartment, but he is out right now. I would like to send a special shout-out to Emily Baker, who is the only one to harp on me for being so far behind on my blogs. Without her encouragement, I would be up in my apartment right now. Napping. And then eating peanut butter. And then napping some more while eating peanut butter.

Check out this crown I made from clothespins.

I had actually started to write a blog post three weeks ago, but never finished it. Since I already had a number of paragraphs done, with verb tenses and relative times established, I am going to just add to it before coming back to my present situation here. Does that sound good? Too bad, I'm doing it anyways.

{Travel back in time three weeks. WHOOOOOOOSH!!}

Greetings from the rolling hills of Manchester Parish, Jamaica!

Pretty, huh? View from top of the village

From L to R: Maintenance Shed, Furniture Factory,

Sewing Shop, New Life Church for the Deaf

From L to R: Pastor's House, Team Dining Area,

Chad's House

Last week (and this week) I am helping out at the Jamaica Deaf Village (JDV), which is located in Mandeville, about a 2.5 hour drive (if I remember correctly) across the island from Montego Bay. Please see a Jamaica map if you want to know the exact relative location. You can find one at a map superstore or even a simple map outlet store might have one. Maps 'R' Us usually has them in stock. Also Maps, Maps, and Beyond would probably be a good place to look. T.J. Mapps is probably my favorite place to go, because you can usually get them a bit cheaper there, but they might not have the exact map you are looking for (so be careful!).

In keeping with tradition, I have a story before I actually describe any of the work I am doing here.

The day was last Wednesday. I had gone to sleep quite comfortably after a long days work running the hammer-drill busting up concrete. I had fallen asleep immediately as I always tend to do here. I started having a dream that I was talking to Chad, my boss here at JDV. Chad had, on multiple occasions, voiced his concern that he did not want me working too hard and get burnt out before my time here was over. My conversation with Chad in my dream had mirrored this concern. We were out front of the dining hall and I had assured him that I would be fine and that if anyone was good at taking breaks, it was me. As I was walking away from him and from our conversation, a number of startling events occurred nearly simultaneously. First, I hear what sounds like a helicopter operating at full power right in my eardrum. Only after hearing about three (BOOM, BOOM, BOOM) of the helicopter's rapid and intense rotations, did I, all in a split second 1) realize this was not a dream, 2) sit up in my bed faster than I ever have, 3) see a HUGE flash of green light illuminating my entire bedroom, 4) say, "OMAHGAWD" 5) swing my right arm at full force within millimeters of my face 6) look over the left side of my bed, panting heavily with eyes open wide, staring at the largest lighting bug I had ever seen in my life writhing near-death on my floor. After finishing him off with my sandal, laughing for a good fifteen minutes, snapping a pic of the beast, checking the time (5:25 am), I attempted to go back to sleep. With the light on. Unsuccessfully.

Figure 1. Scardemeh Shetaless

Sorry for the bad picture. That's about an 1.25-inch

long lightning bug. AKA Yoda.

Mandeville is up the hills of Jamaica. With the elevation change comes much beauty, but also many discrepancies from life in Montego Bay. First, the temperature is much cooler. Earlier this week, for the first time, I wished that I had a blanket to supplement my sheet during my slumber. Also, it is much foggier in the mornings here here then on the coastal regions of the island. Though the cooler temperature and fog have been slight adjustments for me, they have, in the realm of new stimuli vying for my attention, been upstaged by my arch-nemesis here in Mandeville; bugs.

During my first week at JDV I had, in all, five major showdowns with creepy crawlers of the rather-large variety. The first I have already told you the story. I called him Yoda. During my time here I have also killed (in my apartment): a cock roach with a plunger, a beetle with a sandal, a millipede with a plunger, and a cock roach with a chair. As you can see my weapon of choice is the toilet plunger, but my favorite kill was with the chair. Sorry I did not get it on video.

Figure 2. Nomatchforous Plungerous

For size reference, remember that my big toes are

about 5 inches long and 4 inches across.

Bugs make good stories, but they do not really help at all describe the entirety of my time here. Though creeeeeepy craaaaawlers make me uneasy, my time here at JDV has been awesome. My boss's (is that right grammar?) name here is Chad Huber. He lives here at the village with his wife and their seven children. Coming from a large family, I can appreciate the excitement that so much youth creates. The children range in age from 17 to 1-ish (sorry Elise, I forgot how old you are. In a few years, when you can read this, please forgive me). In addition to Chad and his family, there are four other families, and about seven single adults that live at JDV. To call it a village I guess is a bit misleading, it is more of a small community, but it is a great place with awesome people!

My experience at JDV has been quite different from being at the school in MoBay. Here at JDV, there are no deaf children, only deaf adults. Though many of the deaf couples at JDV have small children, the children are all hearing. Though I thoroughly enjoyed getting to meet and build relationships with the adults at the village, I am definitely more reluctant to ask deaf adults to teach me sign language than deaf children. In part, it's because many of the children are still learning JSL as well, so for them to teach is very helpful for their abilities. Another part of it is that I do not feel bad asking a child to take time out of their life to show me signs. But the adults at the village have jobs, social lives, and many other things they can do besides teach another slow-thinking American their language. Though I am reluctant to ask for help from the deaf adults, they have always been more than happy to teach me every chance they have gotten. They did not hit me with their handbags, for which I was most grateful!

In term of construction here at JDV, there is only one building we have been working on. The building will be used for work teams to stay in during their stays at JDV. The building also has a large dining room, large commercial kitchen, and a few apartments for residents. The building is about three years from being finished {Keep in mind that all CCCD campus construction is funded and built 100% by work teams that come in each spring and summer, so progress is very... gradual :) }.

My primary role during my time here was to make holes in the cinder block walls for water, electrical, and plumbing pipes to go. My weapon of mass destruction is the demolition tool. It looks like a giant drill and can use different bits to either jack hammer or drill through concrete. I have also heard it called the Hi-Lie, the Hil-Tee, the Hammer Drill, and the Jack Hammer. Since everyone was throwing names into the hat, I came up with a few myself: Big Poppa, the Haymaker, Jeff, Thugnificent, the Power Bomb, and Icky-Icky-Icky Kah-Bungo. I ultimately settled on calling it the Rain Maker, a reference to the conclave of concrete and mortar it rains down from the Heavens above when you use it.

The Rain Maker and I. Inseparable. Especially when my fingers

can no longer release from squeezing the trigger for too long.

Formally: Cinder block wall

Currently: Rain Maker food and an area for 3-in. pipe

The groups that have been here at the village are a group from Charlotte, Michigan (isn't that crazy?) last week and the group from Francisville, Indiana this week. In addition to meeting and spending time with these two groups, I have also got to spend a lot of time with Chad and his family (the let me watch a movie with them last week. Hooray!) and also with a strange young man by the name of Blake Widmer, (my current roommate) who is the Missionary at the CCCD school in Kingston. Blake (and Chad) are both from Francisville and have many friends and relatives on the team this week. Since Blake did not have any work team in Kingston this week, he is helping out here. Blake graduated college a year before I did, so it has been fun to get to spend time with somebody in my similar life situation, sense of humor, and age-range. Not that I don't love hanging out with the toddlers and teenagers at the school, nor the high-schoolers or adults that come down on the teams, but I feel that much of my humor and many of my references are lost on people outside of a specific age range, and it is refreshing to experience that again every once in a while.

Thank you for reading about my time here at JDV! Since the Gold Medal game has not yet taken place for hockey, I hereby predict that USA beats Canada in overtime as Sidney Crosby accidentally scores on his own goal in OT to let down his country right before he twists both ankles and develops a rash from being Canadian. You heard it here first!

{Jump back to the present. WHOOOOOOOOOSH!!}

So now that I have you all caught up with my two weeks at the village, I can tell you that upon completion of those two weeks, I rode back here to MoBay, to meet a new team from Pennsylvania, and my brothers! That's right. Kolt Martin and Chase Parker actually got off their lazy, Call-Of-Duty-playing asses (can I say "ass" in this blog?), got on the plane, and flew to Jamaica! And remembered their passports to boot!

So stay tuned for my next blog post, where I describe what happened last week. Sooner or later I will get this blog caught up and laugh at all of you who said it could not be done. Now that I have more easily accessible internet, I plan to blog again yet this week.

But before I go, one more JDV bug story...

So one night during my second week at JDV, I left the team dining room (where people often hang out, play games, and talk until the wee hours of the morning) a bit early to get some extra sleep. Since Blake and my apartment had internet (via Blake's computer) one of the high-school-age work team members (we'll call him "Boone," to protect the innocent) accompanied me back to the apartment so he could use the internet real quick before going to bed. After arriving back at the apartment, I realized that the gate one must pass through to gain access to our door was locked. I looked around the side of the apartment to see that our light was on and that Blake must be inside with the key. Now, the widows on the side of the apartments each have awnings, and under each awning hangs about five clementine-sized wasp nests. Keep in mind, it was nighttime, and very cool at that hour, and the chances of wasps coming out of their nests, as long as you didn't straight-up punch their homes, were very small. So I, being very afraid of things with stingers, and not wanting to venture anywhere near said nests, asked Boone to peep in the window and ask Blake to let us in (without telling him of the nests, of course). So Boone goes over to the window, makes the request of Blake, and then walks back around front, without any snags. After we get inside the apartment, Boone, wearing a hooded-sweatshirt with the hood up, makes an off-hand complaint about a beetle flying in front of his face. As Blake and I look up at his face, we both simultaneously notice one of the largest spiders I have ever seen DANGLING FROM HIS HOOD, almost kicking him in the nose. Though Blake and I were both freaking out and screaming and flailing our arms, Boone remained amazingly calm as Blake batted our eight-legged friend out of our door and into the garage before ending the episode with a sneaker. I laughed even harder upon the realization that Boone had run into a spider's web beneath the wasp's nests in front of our window. Though it happened very fast, I can describe the spiders body size as just under "dime" and his legs probably extending slightly beyond "Ritz cracker." As I said that night, "YAAHHAHHYAAGEEEEZ Get itta wayyy from me!"

That it all. Take it easy. Much Love!