Christmas in April
Jennifer Miller sends a package via FedEx and here's the list where she describes what she lovingly shipped to children of Kisumu, Kenya:
"10 composition notebooks, 13 coloring books, 8 colored pencil packs, 7 Crayon packs,1 Yoyo for Paul (maybe you or Ian could teach him how to yo-yo), 9 pads, 1 box of pens, 1 box of pencils, 1 bag of sweetarts and 1 bag of nerdies – I hope this is something that will not melt."
The package arrives at TICH today, delivered by Securicor. I am standing out front when the truck comes through the gates and three young men climb out of the cab. I sign for the box, go to my office and open it. Jennifer has written a sweet note in a pretty card and it brightens the day and my desk. These niceties, these pretty, thoughtful things women give to each other are what I miss.
Walter comes by my office and I give him three coloring books and crayons for his son, Trevor, and two other children who live with them. I insist on Walter taking two composition books for Pamba Zuko. I set aside two for myself, along with two notepads from OfficeMax. After work, I balance the box on the back of the bike and walk it home. Paul and Mercy are in the yard playing. Next door, Jessie and Chris, 5 and 6-years-old, call out “Hey, Cindi.” Trevor, around 9 years old, is also in the neighbor's yard, along with a new girl I haven't seen before. Her name is Waambi. Now that we know all the children's names, I point to their German Shepherd and say, “What's his name?”
Chris says, “Scooby.”
“You named him after Scooby Doo?” I ask, totally surprised they have Scooby over here.
“Yes,” they all say.
I MUST sing, “Scooby, Scooby Doo, where are you? We've go some work to do now.” And the kids all laugh.
Mercy, an orphan, is 12 and attends boarding school sponsored by our landlady, Phoebe. Mercy is home this month for Easter break. There's a new guy, Modis, living at Phoebe's. He looks 15 but is actually 25 and seems to be employed to work in their house. And, of course, there's Joyce. After counting the children, I collect coloring and composition books, crayons and colored pencils and take them outside where the children are playing, divided by the fence between our yards. They brighten when they see the goodies and say “thank you, thank you.” The younger children get crayons and the older ones get colored pencils.
I take the Duncan yo-yo to Paul, who is in the back with Modis and Mercy, cooking over coal fires. I show him how to wind up the string and release the yo-yo using wrist action. He catches on immediately. A mini-CD comes with the yo-yo so I bring my laptop out back and we all sit around it and watch the yo-yo experts from California, two young, hip dudes, demonstrate the various tricks. Heavy metal music accompanies the video, which the kids seem to enjoy. We look at all the sections, including bios on the yo-yo experts and the musical bands included in the soundtrack. Not only does Paul catch onto yo-yoing quickly, he also takes a fancy to the laptop's touchpad. I show the kids photos of my family and the last weekend in Atlanta. Paul clicks the “mouse” to advance photos. They want to see more, so I show them Kilimanjaro pictures and they always laugh and point when they recognize me under layers of clothing and hats.
When Ian arrives home a little later, the children are in the neighbor's yard, coloring. They hold their books up and show him their artwork.
As I'm leaving for work the next morning, Trevor is sitting on his doorstep, coloring a kitty cat in a basket with his colored pencils. I comment on what a great job he is doing and push my bike toward the gate. He says, “Cindi.” I turn around and he's holding the book up next to the fence. “Can we do this?” and he shows me a page in the coloring book where children can write letters to Dalmatian Press, with suggestions on making the books better. When the children mail in their comments and suggestions, they become a member of the Dalmatian Press Puppy Pack (DPPP). Trevor can read and write English very well so I tell him to fill out the letter, including his name and age, and we'll mail it to Dalmation Press. They're in Franklin, TN, and I tell him I know exactly where that is because my cousin, Sonua, lives in Nashville and Franklin is a suburb of the Home of Country Music. Well, I don't tell him about country music and Nashville, just about Sonua and knowing Franklin's locale.
Trevor must be around 9, perhaps 10, and he's busily concentrating, coloring a kitten in a basket. I make a mental note: he should have crayons instead of those colored pencils. He's the same age as many of the street boys who approach me on Oginga Odinga Street, rubbing their bellies and holding their hand out saying, “bread.” Those boys should be home, in a yard with a gate, coloring kittens in baskets with crayons, dreaming of writing letters to Dalmatian Press in the United States. Jennifer writes in her thoughtful note that she and others are anxious to send more things for the children, once we determine the best way to get packages to Kisumu. A few books, pencil packs and two bags of candy are left. We're saving them for Pamba Zuko, to give to the children of Nyalenda when the shelter is built. Perhaps in the near future we will pull some of the children off the street and back to Nyalenda, where they will eat regularly, without begging. Is it too pie-in-the-sky to think they may one day join the Dalmatian Press Puppy Pack?
"10 composition notebooks, 13 coloring books, 8 colored pencil packs, 7 Crayon packs,1 Yoyo for Paul (maybe you or Ian could teach him how to yo-yo), 9 pads, 1 box of pens, 1 box of pencils, 1 bag of sweetarts and 1 bag of nerdies – I hope this is something that will not melt."
The package arrives at TICH today, delivered by Securicor. I am standing out front when the truck comes through the gates and three young men climb out of the cab. I sign for the box, go to my office and open it. Jennifer has written a sweet note in a pretty card and it brightens the day and my desk. These niceties, these pretty, thoughtful things women give to each other are what I miss.
Walter comes by my office and I give him three coloring books and crayons for his son, Trevor, and two other children who live with them. I insist on Walter taking two composition books for Pamba Zuko. I set aside two for myself, along with two notepads from OfficeMax. After work, I balance the box on the back of the bike and walk it home. Paul and Mercy are in the yard playing. Next door, Jessie and Chris, 5 and 6-years-old, call out “Hey, Cindi.” Trevor, around 9 years old, is also in the neighbor's yard, along with a new girl I haven't seen before. Her name is Waambi. Now that we know all the children's names, I point to their German Shepherd and say, “What's his name?”
Chris says, “Scooby.”
“You named him after Scooby Doo?” I ask, totally surprised they have Scooby over here.
“Yes,” they all say.
I MUST sing, “Scooby, Scooby Doo, where are you? We've go some work to do now.” And the kids all laugh.
Mercy, an orphan, is 12 and attends boarding school sponsored by our landlady, Phoebe. Mercy is home this month for Easter break. There's a new guy, Modis, living at Phoebe's. He looks 15 but is actually 25 and seems to be employed to work in their house. And, of course, there's Joyce. After counting the children, I collect coloring and composition books, crayons and colored pencils and take them outside where the children are playing, divided by the fence between our yards. They brighten when they see the goodies and say “thank you, thank you.” The younger children get crayons and the older ones get colored pencils.
I take the Duncan yo-yo to Paul, who is in the back with Modis and Mercy, cooking over coal fires. I show him how to wind up the string and release the yo-yo using wrist action. He catches on immediately. A mini-CD comes with the yo-yo so I bring my laptop out back and we all sit around it and watch the yo-yo experts from California, two young, hip dudes, demonstrate the various tricks. Heavy metal music accompanies the video, which the kids seem to enjoy. We look at all the sections, including bios on the yo-yo experts and the musical bands included in the soundtrack. Not only does Paul catch onto yo-yoing quickly, he also takes a fancy to the laptop's touchpad. I show the kids photos of my family and the last weekend in Atlanta. Paul clicks the “mouse” to advance photos. They want to see more, so I show them Kilimanjaro pictures and they always laugh and point when they recognize me under layers of clothing and hats.
When Ian arrives home a little later, the children are in the neighbor's yard, coloring. They hold their books up and show him their artwork.
As I'm leaving for work the next morning, Trevor is sitting on his doorstep, coloring a kitty cat in a basket with his colored pencils. I comment on what a great job he is doing and push my bike toward the gate. He says, “Cindi.” I turn around and he's holding the book up next to the fence. “Can we do this?” and he shows me a page in the coloring book where children can write letters to Dalmatian Press, with suggestions on making the books better. When the children mail in their comments and suggestions, they become a member of the Dalmatian Press Puppy Pack (DPPP). Trevor can read and write English very well so I tell him to fill out the letter, including his name and age, and we'll mail it to Dalmation Press. They're in Franklin, TN, and I tell him I know exactly where that is because my cousin, Sonua, lives in Nashville and Franklin is a suburb of the Home of Country Music. Well, I don't tell him about country music and Nashville, just about Sonua and knowing Franklin's locale.
Trevor must be around 9, perhaps 10, and he's busily concentrating, coloring a kitten in a basket. I make a mental note: he should have crayons instead of those colored pencils. He's the same age as many of the street boys who approach me on Oginga Odinga Street, rubbing their bellies and holding their hand out saying, “bread.” Those boys should be home, in a yard with a gate, coloring kittens in baskets with crayons, dreaming of writing letters to Dalmatian Press in the United States. Jennifer writes in her thoughtful note that she and others are anxious to send more things for the children, once we determine the best way to get packages to Kisumu. A few books, pencil packs and two bags of candy are left. We're saving them for Pamba Zuko, to give to the children of Nyalenda when the shelter is built. Perhaps in the near future we will pull some of the children off the street and back to Nyalenda, where they will eat regularly, without begging. Is it too pie-in-the-sky to think they may one day join the Dalmatian Press Puppy Pack?
posted by Cindi at 10:40 PM
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