Tick, Tick, Tick…

…tick, tick, tick, tick…

“…four, months, four, months…”

“…are you ready? are you ready…?”

After ten days, my fabulous and (thanks to Jet Blue) extended on-island family vacation came to a close; my body readjusted to the cold showers, hot rooms, limited diet and overall lack of Beltrani’s- and dust seemed to settle. Through an opaque cloud of silt I heard a clock ticking, and my heart matched the sound: “four months left, are you ready?”, and as the dust cleared, (which took until this Tuesday) I saw the clock. Oh god there it is, that terrifying and oh so alluring countdown to a gigantic open ended question mark.

While January is hardly over, our Close of Service Conference is next week, I have more (planned) vacation the week after, and then I have 4 months to DO WORK and prove to myself, and my people, that I can finish my job well. During those same 4 months I also have to prove to America that I am qualified to be considered for graduate school or a job... the real world.

Yet business proceeds as usual here, slow and steady wins the race and all that. I’m assimilated, this shouldn’t phase me except why can’t anyone else hear that damn ticking???

The “are you ready?” is the worst one. Ready for what? What exactly is “ready”? Am I ready to go home? yes! Am I ready to leave Jamaica? No! What will my work amount to? What am I qualified for? Who is America Me again? She’s looking a little fuzzy from here…

I used to pride myself on my eloquence but now when interacting with Americans (such as the Beltrani clan), I trip over my words and shorten everything to a confusing mixture of English and patwa that’s more English than patwa but not enough patwa to sound like another language. It is SO much faster to say almost anything in patwa so I’m not surprised that my tongue has gotten lazy. Is that a valid excuse in an interview?

As an example of my plight, below are a few phrases I’d rather say in patwa.

Wa’apn- What happened? What’s happening?

Wa’apn to yuh- What happened to you? What’s wrong with you?

wuh yuh se – what did you say?

wuh do yuh- what’s wrong with you?

weh yuh go?- Where are you going?

eeeh?- Really?

gweh!- go away!

cho!- Whatever!

Keep in mind that jamaicans slur their soft sounds together so “wuh yuh se?” sounds more like “wuha se?”…

It’s much more work for one’s mouth to make words with consonants and spaces, and the Jamaican propensity for small talk means that I have far fewer intellectual conversations. As a disclaimer, I am terrible at small talk and I envy those who can pick out details of ones day and converse endlessly about them, which is why I practiced. Now I’m still not very good at small talk, but I’m not that great at big talk either.

So you see how the need to simultaneously consider ones life in a multitude of dimensions and cultures can make a woman a bit anxious.

I am nearing the end of my journey friends and I’m pumping the breaks while squinting my eyes to see what lies at the crossroads.

But I can’t see it. I won’t see it until I reach it.

Am I ready?…. It doesn’t matter, I’m not there yet.

Going With The Flow

A major motif of my Peace Corps experience thus far has been: She learns to “go with the flow”.

The ability to complete this action aids in some of the US Peace Corps’ favorite terms: integration, assimilation, adaptation… and so on. But often, I don’t realize that I’ve Gone with that Flow until I think back.

For example, that time that I was wedged in the back of a mini bus between a young, unkempt man and a young mother carrying her tiny infant and a diaper bag both on her lap. The ride was about 3 hours long and about halfway through it the woman handed me her baby and started rustling through her bag for the baby formula. The young man had already made his interest in the white girl clear and immediately began delving into the topic of my babies: Do I have any? Do I want any? He can give me one. I pleasantly cooed over the baby and warded him off, I can’t honestly remember how. I also held the baby after the mother finished feeding him so of course he spit up on my chest immediately.

Honestly, I was kind of thrilled to be cuddling a baby, it made the dude sitting next to me feel much further away. I must admit though, while the man hit on me, he was very supportive of the young mother, and showed her nothing but respect.

That’s also not the first time I’ve been handed other peoples babies. Babies are everywhere in Jamaica.

I’ve gotten much better at going with the flow in the past 3 months. There was a moment, when I entered the school yard and saw the 4H seedling nursery strewn around in the grass and carried away by yesterdays rain storm. I only thought, “well damn, I guess I can’t be surprised.” And it was a moment of growth, I believe.

The students and I had found a nice protected area under the eaves of the school where we placed our egg crate seedling trays, labeled with vegetable names. Only one teacher knew about it, and the kids found them first. *Shrug* Scenarios like this have happened in the past.

There was a time when these small failures would have made me feel ashamed, but sometimes there’s just nothing more you can do, so you improvise, and you go with the flow. Now our school garden is almost exclusively peanuts… because that’s what we got for free.

I go with the flow a lot on public transportation. I have a “likkle batti”: I fit everywhere. But public transportation in Jamaica defies a lot of American Norms, for instance- once you’re in the car, you’ve made a commitment, you can’t get out and take a different taxi. The driver will often go on alternative routes, run a quick errand for a community member and get gas with passengers in the car.

The other day I needed to buy bread, but there was one taxi waiting to leave for my community and I couldn’t take the time to walk to the bakers and then miss the only taxi so I just got in the car and we left immediately.

The driver mentioned that he needed to pick up his friend and the passengers nodded in ascent, so we took a side street towards the ocean front, slammed a few huge potholes and found that the lady wasn’t ready yet.

But we didn’t turn to leave for home, we drove back to Whitehouse square to pick up another passenger and when we arrived… it was full taxis waiting to go to my community.

Sometimes you just gotta skip the bakery and take a joy ride.

Goats!

It was a seasonably cold morning, a few weeks before Christmas 2011 and I am thawing my fingers as my oatmeal wirrs around in the microwave, still apprehensively unaware of my Peace Corps placement. It’s 9am at Sprout Creek Cheese Farm and the cows and goats are munching on their breakfast in the barn, their udders pleasantly relieved and our milk tank satisfyingly full.

Two tall black men crunch their way over frosted grass to the café entrance, their breath a translucent grey cloud preceding them and they look at my female coworkers and I curiously. In a strong Caribbean accent they ask if we have goat meat to sell. Confused and a tad horrified (as our dairy goats are our babies), we reply that we have dairy goats, which hardly have much meat, plus we only sell them in retirement as pets. The men shake their heads and say they are looking for a male goat to cook for Christmas dinner. No less horrified we respond that we use our bucks for breeding, we only have four of them anyway and they are not for sale. The men zipper back their jackets, resigned to continue their search.

We fell promptly into cheerful speculation, where does one get goat meat around here? How and where were they planning on butchering the thing? How could they possibly use all that meat? Were those men Jamaican? They must be cold…

*********************

It is December 2013, three weeks until Christmas; my dairy farming days are long over, but my meat goat farming days have just begun.

As with most developing countries, goats can be found just about everywhere in Jamaica. From a taxi in Kingston I once witnessed a mating pair nonchalantly going at it on a (sort of) grassy median. There are city goats that live on a 50-50 diet of grass and garbage, and country goats, which are much more prized in the meat industry. Goats in my community sun themselves in the road, keep the yard cut and get into the garden. Some are tied simply with a rope to a tree, some are followers, some don’t mind people and others have never left the bush (it should be noted that “bush” implies “out in the woods” or “jungle” but also can refer to farmed land far from home). Goats are rarely sheltered or fenced in Jamaica unless the herd is large or the property is near the road/other properties.

Goat meat is the pride and joy of Jamaicans. They love it curried, brown stewed and of course, in soup. The proper term for goat soup is “mannish water” but I’ve also heard “goat head soup”. It is still unclear to me exactly what parts of the goat are in the soup: I’ve heard everything from the head to the testicles, and if Jamaican meat eating habits are any indication, I’m sure it’s both and everything in between. Due to my stubborn vegetarianism I don’t have much first hand experience.

Now, all male goats, or bucks (mistakenly called “rams” by 99% of Jamaicans), are notorious for their very strong, distinct musk which Jamaicans describe as “rank”, as in “bwoi dat rammy deh smell renk!” This is not said in a tone of disgust but appreciation: a good cup of mannish water should smell (and taste) vaguely rank and musky, just like the goat itself.

While female goats are also sold for meat, this is more likely to be a poor breeder and will be processed and packaged in parts, sold at a grocery store or butcher. Ram goats are most often sold around the holidays and at parties and they are butchered and prepped specifically for the event.The value is in the size of the goat, and his musk. A good, fit and mature native male goat can sell for upwards of $20,000 JD (~$200 US) and I know a few in my community who are valued closer to $30 or 35,000 JD.

Because goats are widely eaten, highly valued and very easy to feed when rain is falling, most families in my community have anywhere from 3 to 10. My supervisor probably wins the numbers game with a herd of 40 wandering her auntie’s property. Goats in my community are an insurance plan of sorts: just the other day my boyfriend commented that he might sell his 1 year old rammy because he needs the quick money. I talked him out of it since goats don’t reach full grown size for the first four years- he’ll sell for much more this time next year.

You may notice if you visit that all goats in Jamaica get to keep their horns! This is not a breed thing, it’s simply a matter of resources and purpose. Having horned animals living together in close quarters on a dairy farm is actually dangerous; burning horns off of a solitary goat in the backyard is a waste of money.

Native goats in Jamaica are a small, hardy goat with varying combinations of characteristics depending on how and when they were cross bred. They are highly efficient eaters, largely disease resistant and persistent breeders, but they are often small, which is a limiting factor in meat production.

This is where the farmers group Goat Breeding project will come into play. Since goat rearing is mostly a hobby in my community, the breeding process is not strongly emphasized, but if it were, even for a small backyard herd, the value of the goats would go up tremendously. As such, the CDC has set aside funding for the farmers group to buy a pedigree Boer buck and a few pedigree does (females) and run some workshops. The farmers in the group would be responsible for the daily care of these animals and in return they can use the buck to serve their does for free, or be eligible for one of the offspring. The community members can also breed their does to the pedigree buck for free, but must buy the offspring from the farmers group. Persons outside of the community can pay a service fee and breed their does to the ram or buy offspring as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Boer goat

In this way, we heighten the overall value of every goat in the community by cross breeding the hardy native goat with a large, persistent meat breed. This increases the backyard insurance plan significantly, and will teach people to take a proactive approach in maintaining their small herds to secure the highest value they can for their goats. Additionally, I plan to encourage best practices with workshops focused on breeding and feeding. While most farmers know the plants that goats like to eat, it’s important to point out the nutritional value of the forage, especially for does about to kid. While it’s not a common practice to plant out goat forage, I’d like to demonstrate this as a viable alternative to feeding bag feed during the dry time when grass doesn’t rebound as fast.

It should also be mentioned that there is not a single dairy goat farm in Jamaica.

I used to dislike goats due to their loud bawl and obstinate nature. I’ve also never been trampled by a horse or a cow, but I was trampled once by a herd of goats. Now I accept them as the most cost effective species of livestock on a small island, a valuable investment for people with little in their pockets, and ok, they are pretty cute.

Glossary

Persistent Breeder: A doe who gives birth to 2-3 kids every time

Kid: baby goat; kidding: the processes of giving birth to a baby goat

Buck: male goat (ram= male sheep, but Jamaicans use ram when referring to male goats)

Doe: female goat (ewe= female sheep, is also used interchangeably with doe)

Serve: To breed, the male serves the female

Forage: goats are “browsers” which means they will eat leaves, stems and even bark or twigs. Forage is food that the goat “finds”, anything that grows naturally without cultivation.

Craft Corner

To piggy back off of another PCV couples’ blog about creative ideas in the PC household, (www.simplyintentional.wordpress.com) I realize that I have done many activities with my students using simple, everyday ingredients.

Home Dyed Sand Art

Supplies: Sand, Medicine dropper, Sieve , Food Dye (at least the primary colors), old cups/bowls, Newspaper, cookie sheet/tray/wood board

This is super easy and the kids LOVE it. We all made sand art as kids either by gluing it to paper or stacking the colors in a clear bottle. It’s great for kids to learn colors, patterns, shapes or to just be creative.

The best thing about this activity is that you live on an ISLAND! You are literally surrounded by beautiful white sand! Next time you have a beach day, carry a scandal bag (double bagged) and fill ‘er up. That’s step one. done.

Step 2: Sift the sand to get out any organic matter, shells or stones.

Step 3: Decide what colors you want. Pour the amount of sand you want into your cup or bowl then add a few drops of the food dye. Stir the dye into the sand and add a few drops of water if the sand becomes clumpy. Don’t let the sand get too wet! 

Step 4: Lay the sand out on 3 or 4 pages of folded newspaper and lay the newspaper on something solid. Leave sand in the sun until dry. If your sand is too wet the color will leach out into the newspaper which is ok but may effect the intensity of your sand color.

Step 5: Repeat steps 2-3 for all of your colors. If you mix your prime colors to make green, orange or purple start with a few drops of each and mix sand in between drops. Purple was the hardest color to get right and I’d be lying if I said I’ve ever had a successful purple.

I used my sand for a nametag activity during my summer program. The kids wrote their name, an adult came around with glue and the kids added the sand. We used the name tags every day to collect “good behavior” stickers on.

 

Upcycled Paper Crafts

I broke my blender trying to make paper. As such I have not made any since that fateful day so I have very few pictures, my apologies for that.

Supplies: Blender or Food Processor, Newspaper, Warm water, Pot or bucket, Flour, Glue

Step 1: Break up newspaper into strips or chunks or whatever other way you like and let it soak in a pot or a bucket overnight.

Step 2: In your blender add half water and half or 1/3 newspaper. Blend slowly at first, then enough that you get a smooth pulp. STOP if your blender gets over heated or slows down. Add more water and remove some paper if this happens. Continue until your newspaper is used up.

PAPER BEADS

Additional Supplies: something long and straight-  wire clothes hanger, chopstick, toothpick or knitting needle

Step 1: Remove and strain the pulp from the water, add a bit of glue and press into shape around your long flat tool. Squeeze out the excess water while you shape your bead. Remove from tool and dry in the sun.

Note: I’ve also made some pretty flat flower beads that could serve more as a button. Do this activity outside or over a LOT of newspaper with kids.

 

UPCYCLED PAPER

Additional Supplies: Old picture frame, old panty hoes, pot or shallow pan bigger than frame

Step 1: Fit a pair of old panty hoes or a piece of screen around the old frame.

Step 2: Fill the pot or pan with the paper pulp and add enough water to submerge the frame. Add some glue for a better hold.

Step 3: Submerge the frame in the pulp water and sift it back and forth as you raise it out of the water (like you’re prospecting for gold in a river). The smaller the pulp particles are that settle on the panty hoes, the finer grain your paper will have. Finer grains float better than the big pieces.

note: Since my blender broke, my paper was a chunky grain, so after I shaped my paper I added decoration to make it look intentionally crafty. I’ve seen this done with leaves and flowers and a little glue/ mod podge as well. I also accidentally dripped some yellow food dye on my example… so I dripped a few more drops to make it seem intentional. I’m not a naturally crafty person, I admit.

Step 4: Set your frame and paper in the sun to dry

PAPER MACHE SHAKERS

I did this activity for a cultural music lesson and I actually ran out of paint for it but I had plenty of glue, so I cut up some soda bottles, filled them with glue and added food dye. The paint job turned out quite pretty but it’s certainly not an easy medium to work with.

Additional supplies: Seeds or John crow beads plastic bottle, torn up newspaper, paint

Step 1: Tear up newspaper and soak in warm water

Step 2: Make the mache- Mix two parts water to one part flour and add some glue if you have it

Step 3: Teach kids how to paper mache… it’s very messy so it will require a demonstration

Step 4: Cover the surface of a soda bottle (any size) with paper mache. Leave the cap alone though. Let dry in the sun.

Step 5: Put some John crow beads, sunflower seeds or pebbles (I find that seeds work best) inside the bottle until the desired shake sound is achieved.

Step 6: Paint!

Beer Bottle Cups

*This activity is a fire hazard, do NOT try it alone for the first time*

Supplies: 100% acetone, cotton string, ice, bucket/sink, lighter, coarse sand paper

Step 1: Fill your bucket or sink with cold water (if you have a water tank like me, you’ll need ice)

Step 2: Loop a long piece of string (friendship bracelet string/ cotton twine) approximately 6-12 times around the wide part of the bottle, where you want it to break. You don’t need to tie the end, just smooth it against the rest of the string

note: I find it easiest to measure my arm length, then half the string, put the loose end through the loop and encircle the bottle counter to the loop…

Step 3: Carefully remove the circle of string and submerge it in acetone briefly, so that the string is soaked through.

Step 4: Return the string to the bottle so that it fits tightly around the glass. Try not to let it drip. Hold it horizontally over your bucket or sink, light it with your lighter and immediately twist the bottle around and around until the fire goes out. Immediately drop the bottle (gently) into your cold water and voila! Your glass has broken. BE CAREFUL grabbing the bottle from the water, there will be shards and sharp edges waiting for you.

Step 5: Sand down the lip of your new cup until it is no longer a danger to yourself and others.

It didn’t break? There could be a few reasons why. I’ve learned that red stripe bottles are not universally thick, it may not break along a tidy line or at all. Don’t give up! Wrap your bottle with a bit more string, soak in the acetone and make sure that you spin that bottle nice and fast so that the heat covers the bottle evenly. Sometimes the bottle needs to bump against the bucket/sink bottom to jolt the pieces apart.

Wine, Gin and other alcohol bottles break the same way! Just use a bit of extra string and spin it quick!

Also, I turn my cut off tops into candle holders!

A Post In Real Time

There's a famous episode of Seinfeld during which the plot consists of the gang waiting for a table at a restaurant in real time, for an entire 30 minute episode. This is my restaurant episode.

I have been sitting on a bus in Kingston for an hour and a half waiting for it to load and there are still 6-8 seats available depending on the size of the person who takes them. I'm writing this entry on my phone; a large wheezy old woman on my left, the window to my right. Men and women are wandering around the park loaded with things to sell. The typical phrase is shouted: " juice an wata! Wata an juice! Banana chips, phone cyaad!" There is a man wandering around selling burned CDs and playing  it on a boombox. Some sell bootleg DVDs, donuts, electronic accessories, newspapers, souvenirs... and then there are the soup and patty men: balancing a vat of soup on a hubcap filled with hot coals on top of a pushcart. Their customers are the passengers, passing money along to the door or through the windows.

The country bus park is one of several bus parks in Kingston but the only one that sends passengers into "country" ie: west of Kingston. It's location is by default quite grimey as it sits on the edge of Town, behind Coronation Market, nestled between empty lots full of market trash: plastic refuse, coconut husks, sugar cane trash, old tarps, wood crates, pallets and I imagine quite a lot of urine. Even though the bus park is walled and lined with colorfully painted food shacks, the breeze carries the scent of sewage into the bus. Having arrived very early this morning, the place is rather clean and not filled with vehicles or shouting loada men-  but I've seen it brimming with tumbleweeds of garbage in the past, along with a loud tangle of ductas, drivas, loada men, vendors and a colorful array of busses.

I've counted 5 empty seats. The driver has closed the windows and turned on the radio and the AC, a perk of getting a coaster and not a mini bus. But coasters are much bigger and take longer to load. The newspaper man has come onto the bus singing his headlines and asked if I can take him with me-a very common demand Jamaicans make of white people and pretty girls. I responded " mi nuh go noweh Yuh cyaan go." and to his assertion that he doesn't care where I go if he can come: "mi boyfrien a go vex wi dat."

I'm getting quite tired of this wait. I wish I had a better view for a picture or two. My phone battery soon finish as well. It's now been almost two hours. It takes 4 to reach Westmoreland. A rasta man with a cart full of cell phone covers and ear buds has stopped by my window to repair  a wheel. The cart keeps flopping against the side of the bus.

Because I didn't do laundry before I came to Kingston, I had no clean jeans. I'm regretting the choice  to wear shorts over a skirt as my thighs predictably stick to the hot seat. 

FINALLY! We're off! Two hours and 20 minutes later. See ya in Westmoreland kids!

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Jamaicans are an egocentric people when it comes to their beloved Island paradise. Often when I tell people how long I’ve been here, the response is “Yuh LOVE Jamaica, don’t?” and who could say no to that bright eyed face beaming with pride? Of course because I’m American I must love the sun and the food and the music, and how lucky am I to be visiting for so long!?

Well, I decidedly do NOT love the sun and the heat, and I am very open about that, proclaiming proudly that I am a creature of the North! I love temperatures below 70! I love snow! I love scarves and boots and mittens; fireplaces, down comforters and sledding! I really hate sweating when I’ve done nothing but walk from here to there.

The food I’ll miss when I’m gone. Same with the repetitive reggae beats and the aggressive dancehall lyrics.

As a PCV, you learn quickly what makes you inherently happy and you learn to exploit these things for everything you've got. For me those things are music and nature.

So even though I just dissed Jamaican music a little, my favorite thing about Jamaicans is the freedom with which they sing, dance or do both. I suspect that from birth, Jamaicans are brought up around music. The typical church experience involves about 2 hours of joyous singing and one hour of loud preaching. My boyfriend’s 8 month old niece carries a rattle that resembles a tambourine to church every sunday and will soon learn to shake it in rhythm like the adults. The gospel songs sung in church are also simple and easy to harmonize to, and members of the congregation often do so on their own accord. The offbeat is always emphasized by clapping, tambourine (that people carry with them) one keyboard and a drum set. For a child to grow up surrounded by that chorus is certainly a gift.

In Jamaica it is common to see people walking down the road singing out loud, it is normal to sing gospel songs at the top of your lungs in the morning and nothing makes me happier on a long bus ride than when a well known song comes on the radio and half the bus starts to sing.

Singing for me has always been a form of release and a point of pride, so it’s no surprise that I have embraced this part of Jamaica wholeheartedly. I can often be caught singing along to the radio in a taxi, out loud with my headphones in or just walking down the road, giving form to that melody stuck in my head. Seeing others do the same brings a smile to my face and likewise, a song to my heart.

My nex' favorite thing about Jamaica: Nature, is actually related to my least favorite thing: Weather.

My pride and joy this past year has been my compost heap, a pile that was once vegetable scraps and is now a towering testament of beautiful and rich soil.

Granted, it doesn’t look like much on the outside… but take a closer look…

The combination of the rain season and the constant heat in Jamaica allows even the coolest compost pile to decompose quickly and efficiently, and my pile would probably not have broken down as well in America
.
My favorite byproduct of my compost pile, besides the compost, is all of the seedlings I've dug out of it in the last few months. Now, a real, quality compost SHOULD NOT have seeds in it, obviously. If you plant a sweet pepper plant using your compost and you get a pumpkin instead you’ll understand why. But I have a decidedly UN-green thumb for an ag volunteer and when I turned my compost to find ackee, mango, pumpkin, pear (avocado) and even passion fruit seeds all germinating so beautifully, I couldn't deny new life; so I collected a few winners and replanted them in containers closer to my house.

(L-R, top-bottom: passion fruit, avocado (2), mango, ackee (2))

If I were a farmer, I've decided that I’d grow dairy animals or fruit trees...or both. Unfortunately, 100% of my favorite fruits and trees in Jamaica are tropical in nature and could never prosper in Northern America.

The ecosystem is what matters the most to me and compost is a concentrated study on ecology as well as the basis of a healthy man-made ecosystem. My pile has inspired and supported several school lessons, and countless home projects. So, when I’m feeling homesick and sad, you’ll find me with my fork and my bucket, turning my pile, saving some seedlings and singing a song.

In Loving Memory

In Loving Memory,

Poppy

September 2012- October 2013

When Evrick first met Poppy, she was a pudgy ball of puppy skin laying in my arms as we swung in my hammock, and his reaction was a mixture of confusion and disgust. “A wuh dat dutty daag deh?”

 

 

But who can say no to either of these faces?

 

 

 

 

 

 

It didn’t take long for her to grow on him. And I taught him how to teach her “sit” and “lay”. No one could romp with Poppy like Evrick, and no one, not even me, was happier to see him walk up the hill to our gate at the end of the day.

 

 

 

 

She was my family, and she was the most entertaining member of our yard.

  

She was my princess, the first dog I raised on my own from a puppy.

She proved to my community that the white girl knows how to pick a good breed.

She kept herself immaculately clean and never once refused a meal of vegetarian leftovers.

And she’s still the only dog in Jamaica I’ve ever seen eat mangos.

Inside of Poppy was a creature grown of affection
Not indifference
And it showed in every joyous footstep
Every ecstatic OW-ROO ROO ROO!
And manic tail wag that screamed
I'M SO GLAD YOU CAME HOME TO ME!

After 15 hours of fighting the brutal sickness that is parvo virus, Poppy found her peace and let go. We are devastated by her departure, but grateful that her suffering has come to an end.

My beautiful Poppy flower, you were taken too soon, and too gracelessly.

For that, for the pain you endured, I am truly and forever sorry.

I will always remember you hunting for lizards in the brush, galloping across the yard like a racehorse, the sound of your voice and the feeling of your head on my knee.

You pounced into my life and left paw prints in my heart, and while I may leave you, laying peacefully under the grapefruit tree, you, my flawless companion, will never leave me.