One moment, I was carefully taking a step down the stairs, the next moment my head made a loud THUMP on the landing.
 
Yes, I’ve had knee surgery – to repair torn menisci and my bursitis was acting up. Going down stairs has been more difficult than going up stairs. So, as I stood at the top of the tile steps, the kind with the metal strip on the edge (to keep you from slipping), I looked over at the elevator. There were about six people waiting to get into the rather small conveyance, so I decided I could make it on the stairs.
 
In accordance with my training, bad foot went down. I held on to the handrail. Then I started to put my good foot down, and also to change my handhold. Maybe I caught my heel. I really can’t remember. But all of a sudden, I realized I was launched into the air toward the middle of the empty staircase. I desperately tried to catch myself, but my feet only landed on the edges of the steps as I tumbled forward, gaining momentum. My only conscious thought was, “Oh dear, here I go again!” I knew this wasn’t going to end well.
 
And yes, I’ve done this before – with a suitcase in the London Underground. On that unfortunate occasion I somersaulted over the suitcase and landed on my back on the landing. Those were cement stairs with metal strips embedded in the cement. HARD! SHARP! I knew I wouldn’t survive if I tensed up, so I tried to make like a rag doll. I think it helped.
 
This time, I didn’t have a suitcase. I’m not sure what happened to my coat, books and handbag. They ended up on the landing with me, but unfortunately not under me. As I landed on the stairs, I felt my shoulder hitting the last three or four, then my the top left side of my head went THUD on the landing and at last I was still and on solid ground – well the landing at least.  I had descended the 10 steps significantly more quickly than if I had walked!
 
You know the cartoon drawings where the unfortunate character gets hit in the head and the circles and stars go round and round. Well, that is pretty accurate. I had to lie still for a few seconds just to get through being stunned.
 
Immediately, a man rushed up the lower flight of stairs asking if I was all right and if I had been unconscious. I indicated “No” I hadn’t been unconscious. I was still trying to assess the state of my head, which had hit pretty hard. I may end up later in life with signs of traumatic brain injury! But for now, at least, I was thankful that I have a really hard head.
 
Suddenly another man was at my side, Dr. Kim. He is a Korean doctor who is known all over Knoxville for having set up a health clinic for the working poor. He also asked if I had been unconscious, and having determined I hadn’t been, they asked if I was hurt anywhere else. I ascertained that nothing was broken – another amazing fact. They helped me sit up and then to stand up. When I finally was on my feet I could see the face of the first man, so I said, “Hello!” They both helped me down the remaining steps, carrying my various items of clothing and books.
 
For some years now, I have bemoaned my large bone structure. Sometimes I feel like the Jolly Green Giant next to my very petite friends. I have the shoulders of a football player and very large, and apparently strong bones. For the first time in a long while, I was grateful for that.
 
They asked if someone was with me. I hesitantly said, “Yes”. Ben was waiting for me in the sanctuary, because all of this happened in church. I managed to walk down the hall and into the service, though my head was still swimming a bit and my eyes didn’t seem to focus quite right. However, after the service I felt well enough to drive home.
 
I took the rest of the day very easy with lots of ice bags and Ibuprofen. The bruising started to come out, but by Monday, I still didn’t have a black eye in spite of the bump on my head. After taking Ben to school and doing the grocery shopping, I called my chiropractor and got an appointment for later in the morning.
 
Dr. Chris, my chiropractor, as well as most of the staff were amazed that not more of me was injured. X-rays were taken, but nothing was broken. After unjamming my neck, I can turn my head more normally now. I have three huge bruises and the bump on my head, but not even any broken skin! Someone was protecting me, and I certainly am glad about that! Ben is too!
 
These events happened about a week ago, so I’ve had time to reflect on lessons learned.  First, when I have problems with my knee, take the elevator. Failing that option, go down the carpeted stairs. Second, explore the fashion options of bubble wrap. Third, remember that I’m a good Presbyterian and say, “I’m glad that’s over!”
 
(In case you don’t understand that last comment, Presbyterians believe in predestination. Many assume that is a fatalistic view of life, and that all things are predestined.)

In talking with an Iraqi refugee that is now a US citizen, we got on to the topic of honesty. I was startled to hear him say, “Americans want to hear lies, even when they know it’s a lie.  Americans would rather hear something ‘nice’ than to hear the truth.” So, when he moved to the US, he saw how people talked, and realized he would have to do the same thing to get what he wanted.
 
That statement, as I’ve reflected on it, has becoming increasingly disturbing. Is that why we only want to hear news that reflects our firmly held views? Is that why our politicians can no longer talk about compromise or even discuss issues with those of a different opinion? Do whites not want to hear about racial discrimination because they don’t believe it could be true, and don’t want to be confronted with an uncomfortable truth? Is that how we can ‘dehumanize’ others so we can abuse them without feeling guilty? And we do it all in the name of being ‘nice’.
 
It is dangerous to surround ourselves with those who are just like us. In that setting, we can continue to repeat what we think is the truth, even if it is a lie. Those who want to be acceptable to us just need to learn what lies to tell us. We get affirmation; they get on the inside. But what is the result?
 
We repress the truth, what is left? Lies, deceit, hate, discord. Is it worth it? Or should we love the truth, however it may hurt our feelings or challenge our assumptions and prejudices.

After a week of below freezing temperatures, I had occasionally run water at night to keep the pipes from freezing. I put insulated covers over my outside faucets. But then it happened. On Saturday morning, I got up and when I flushed the commode, I heard, well nothing. After the departure of the water, nothing came in. I knew I was in trouble. Sure enough, I turned on the tap and only a drizzle came out.
 
I never had this problem when I lived in Africa. In Sudan, we were lucky to get water at all and in Kenya, the compound had invested in huge water tanks to protect from water cuts. In no place that I’ve lived did it ever freeze, so frozen taps were not a consideration. Now, I had to think what to do.
 
First, I contacted my neighbors to find out if they had water. Perhaps I was not the only one, and misery loves company. However, they all had water. I alone was without.
 
Next I tried to find the number of the water company, but I needed the emergency number, and that was nowhere to be found. So, I got online, and sure enough, there was a place to report an outage. I reported.
 
My neighbor suggested that I get some old towels or blankets and put around the meter and pipes to warm them up. It was about 15°F out there, and I couldn’t really see that blankets were going to help. But, I found some old sheets and after throwing on some warm clothes, headed out to put them down the hole where the meter was. Much to my amazement, within 15 minutes of my reporting the outage, the water repair people were on the job. They had the lid off and were studying the situation.
 
Their solution was interesting to say the least. They took a “sacrificial” rag, put alcohol on it and set it alight in the hole. One had a fireproof glove, so he moved the burning rag around to warm up the pipes. He sent me in to turn on the water and then report when water started flowing. It didn’t take long. I asked if this was one of those “don’t try this at home” tricks, and they assured me it was.
 
They explained the freeze up should never have happened. Apparently the connection on the water company’s side of the meter was poorly done. He said he would report it because it should be repaired properly. I don’t think he used that term, however. I asked what I should do until then, and he said, “Run water”.
 
So, I’ve washed clothes, washed dishes, washed me and left the tap running at night until the temperatures rose. Ben and I are even more grateful than ever for warmer weather in the forecast!

China doesn’t want our recycles anymore! Why? There’s too much “dirt” (non-recyclables) mixed in. China was our biggest receiver of stuff we no longer want nor use, and if they don’t take it, likely it will end up in a landfill.
 
This item of news on NPR radio got me thinking about how recycles are handled in the various places I’ve lived.
 
In Sudan, recycling was not an issue. If you had food scraps, throw them out in the road and the local goats would eat them. If you had tin cans, throw them out in the road and the local boys would pick them up and turn them into toys. If you had paper, throw it into the road and the local goats would eat that too. However, if you had anything important written on it, you might want to shred and burn it as the local children might take it home for writing practice. Cardboard boxes were never thrown away because you can always find a use for them, and besides, you or someone you know might be moving soon. Plastic bags were the greatest nuisance, but if they blew around in the road long enough they would find a barbed wire fence and attach themselves to it, creating a bag farm. We also referred to the white plastic bags as the national bird (the white-breasted Sudanese kiis). “Kiis” is the Arabic word for plastic bag.
 
In Mogran, a small part of Khartoum, we did have garbage pick up once or twice a week. There wasn’t generally a lot for them to pick up at our house because if we threw something away, someone would likely see it in the trash and think of some use for it and take it home with them. What the house help didn’t get, the guys from the garbage truck did. I’ve seen them sorting through what they picked up to find useful things to take home. How much actually got to the dump, I don’t know. We kept our rubbish in various containers near the gate to make it easy to put our when the truck showed up. In this photo, I came home to find a water hose leaking because someone had set the rubbish on fire and burned through the hose!
 
In Kenya, the center where I lived didn’t recycle anything. It seemed a shame, but food scraps attracted unsavory elements like rats, Maribou Storks, Ibis and other unwelcomed wild life. Keeping up with plastic and tin cans and glass containers took up too much space. So, I was delighted to find that Nakumaat had set up a recycle center. When I finally remembered to put my recycles in the car and went to drop them off, I was disappointed to find only garbage there and no recycles at all. Sometimes enterprising young people would come by the homes of some of my colleagues and collect their recycles, so I often passed mine along to them to give to these needy kids who were making a small living out of our rubbish.  It was all rather unsatisfactory.
 
In England, recycling is a requirement and each county has a different set of rules about it. There is usually a sizable card describing the type of waste to be recycled, what color bin to put it in and when each thing will be collected. It takes quite a bit of studying to get it right, and woe betide you if you get it wrong! By comparison with Sudanese or American houses, English houses are quite small and compact. However, no matter how small your kitchen, you must make room for three or four recycle containers.  Food waste gets put in one, paper in another, plastic in another and metal in yet another one or two. Glass must be separated and so should the newspapers! Pick up schedules vary greatly, so it helps to have a space outside to keep some of it while waiting for it to be collected.
 
So, when I arrived in the US and was offered a recycle bin, I said “Yes”. When I got one huge brown bin and instructions to put all recycles in there (except food), I was delighted. How kind of the company to separate it for me. They collect it every two weeks, and it fits quite nicely in my garage. For the multitude of plastic bags that accumulate, the grocery stores often have a bin to shove those into. I can bury my food scraps in the garden and fertilize my plants. I actually got some volunteer tomatoes that way. It is all so easy by comparison to England. Of course, it is hard to beat the “throw it in the road” of Sudan, but it certainly is better than the “we don’t do that” of Kenya.
 
Yes, Americans are truly spoiled and just don’t know it. So, let’s join together and clean up our act so that China will actually take our rubbish. Maybe they will find a wonderful use for it and sell it back to us in another form.