Josefina’s Niñas


As the only daughter of a Midwestern spendthrift shop keeper, Mom would have found it laughably ridiculous to be told as a teenager that she would one day command household staff. That she would do so in different languages thousands of miles from home would have added to the impossibility of such a notion. Sometimes it’s better not to know what lies ahead.

Funny how normal changes. When my sister, Susie, and I were told we were moving to the United States for the first time in our lives (after twelve years overseas), we fought about who was going to get the romantic assignments of doing the dishes, cleaning the house, and washing and ironing the clothes. I’m pretty sure the novelty wore off shortly after we moved into the split-level in the Washington suburbs, and it felt comfortable to return to normal life with a cook and a housekeeper when Dad got assigned to Madrid.

Anchoring my life as a Foreign Service Kid was Josefina Garcia Romaris. In 1955, Fina was, like us, a foreigner in Caracas; she had arrived from post-Civil War Spain to earn a living for her rural family, joining a post-WWII European servant class. Mom and Dad were brand new to the diplomacy business, with its evening and weekend requirements on both of them. In Minnesota, they’d never even had a sitter for new baby me, so having live-in help in the small Caracas garden apartment was a huge change. Fina was willing, putting away her dark mourning clothes, luto, at Mom’s request, and anxious to impress her new family: the day she put a box of cake mix on the breakfast table thinking it was cereal lived on in family lore. And Fina was ready to love: she created a warm, Spanish-speaking world in which I had her all to myself for nearly two years, and her heart grew even bigger when my sister was born. We blossomed into little girls.

When Dad received orders from the State Department moving us Italy in 1959, our Fina-world ended.

The bonds of love between her and us little girls were as strong as blood ties. She’d spoken of when she’d be with mis niñas, my girls, en Italia, but the State Department budget for transferring our family to the new post did not include her, and Mom made arrangements for Fina to go to work for a new family. Mom asked Fina to not make a scene when it came time to leave.

All Susie and I knew was that we were going on a “wonderful Santa Rosa Boat.” I was ready: as first-born, I’d spent nearly five years doing what my parents said to do, no questions asked. Susie was a different creature.

At dusk, the black station wagon from the Embassy pulled up past our mango tree and stopped at the gate. My mother walked to the car with me. Fina carried Susie, chattering to her about the wonderful Santa Rosa boat.

My sister must have picked up on Fina’s tension, because she suddenly burst into tears and buried her head into Fina’s broad shoulder.“No! No!” she blurted. “I don’t want to go!”

“Sure you do,” my mother said. “It’s that wonderful Santa Rosa Boat!”

“No, no, nooo!” Susie sobbed. She clung to Fina, who by now had lost control and was weeping openly. As Mom ushered me into the back seat, Dad pried Susie’s limbs from her beloved Fina and carried her into the car.
My sister cried all the way across Caracas and halfway down the mountain to the coast, and then fell into an exhausted nap. She groggily walked up the ramp to the boat and to our stateroom. Just before dropping off, Susie stated that she still did not want to go on that boat.

The next day, the boat docked off Nassau in the Bahamas, and the four of us took a tender into shore for a bit of sightseeing. Looking out over the bay, Susie noticed the cruise ship bobbing gently at anchor. “Oh, what’s that?”
“Why,” Mom said seizing the opportunity, “that’s the Santa Rosa boat.”

“Can we go on it now?”

“Great idea.” Classic Mom move.

We boarded the tender back to the Santa Rosa. America, and then Italy, lay ahead.

Mom stayed in touch, sending Fina the annual holiday card and snapshots of mis niñas as we moved from Milan to Bologna to Rome to Bogota, and then to the States. She never married. When we headed back overseas in 1971, this time to Madrid, Fina had retired and moved back to the family farm in La Coruña, a rural area in northwest Spain.

Two years later, I had graduated from high school and had a year of the University of Madrid under my belt, and it was time to head back to America to get my college studies seriously underway. After the usual Home Leave to see family in the Midwest, the rest of the family would be moving to Rome, Dad’s final post.

We made a detour to La Coruña on our way.

The road widened as we approached the largest of the rustic buildings. Hay tumbled out from a covered stable adjoining the house, what in Maryland would have been a carport. Dad pulled to a stop where a steep stone stoop jutted out of the dirt and we clambered out. The front door opened.

A stocky woman started down the steps. She was dressed in black with the sturdy stockings and footwear of country folk, her graying hair pulled into a bun of expedience, her brows thick, her mouth held self-consciously over an uneven set of teeth. “Geni…. Sussi… Señor y señora….”

It was Fina. Fifteen years stood awkwardly between us, the woman old, the babies grown, and the couple young no longer. Mom pushed the years aside. “Querida Fina,” dear Fina, she said, hugging our former maid.

Dad extended his hand as Mom disengaged Fina. “Hola, Josefina.”

“Bienvenido, Señor Amerson,” Fina said as she pumped his hand. She dipped her head in a noble nod. “Mi casa es su casa.” My home is your home. She looked over at Susie and me. “Mis señoritas,” she said, hiding her teeth behind one hand as she smiled.

Her strong arms pulled us to her dark padded bosom. She smelled of smoke and sweat. She released us with an extra squeeze and walked us up the high stone steps and into the house.

The morning sun glanced off the rough beige walls of the kitchen, where a tiny old woman swathed in black stood hunched over a bubbling vat. “Mi tia Maria.” My aunt, Fina said by way of introduction.

Aunt Maria gave us a shy gummy smile and kept stirring. “Conejo,” she said.

Rabbit. I hoped that what they said was true, that it tasted more like chicken than like bunny. Mom and Dad sat on one side of the large wooden table that took up most of the room. Susie and I eased into the chairs on the other side as Fina took some small glasses from the shelf above the sink. She placed them in a row on the table.

A man with a weathered face and a sturdy jacket came through the front door carrying a couple of jugs. “Muy buenos dias,” he said by way of greeting as he entered the kitchen. He put the jugs on the table and extended a clean but rough hand toward Dad.

Mi hermano Manuel,” Fina said, introducing her brother.

Mucho gusto,” Dad said. My pleasure.

Señora,” Manuel nodded and shook Mom’s hand. He uncorked one of the jugs and filled the small glasses with a sherry-colored liquid. “Vino para celebrar,” he said as he set a glass down in front of each of us. Wine for celebrating.

A familia,” Dad said, raising a glass toward Fina. To family.

A familia,” Fina echoed as we all lifted our glasses.

The wine was fruity and sweet and left an acidic tingle on my tongue. Fina brought two long baguettes to the table and cut each into chunks. I reached for a piece and bit in, feeling the crust poke at the roof of my mouth as the soft insides wiped clean the wine’s remnants. The chewy mouthful went down smoothly.

At the stove, Tia Maria ladled steaming spoonfuls of meat onto plates, the juices shiny with oil and tinged saffron orange. Fina brought the first plate to Dad. In Caracas, the men always ate first.

Gracias, Fina.” They exchanged a look.

Señor,” she said.

I watched my parents as the rest of us were served. Fifteen years before, Mom, Dad and Fina had stood in the little living room in Caracas in the pre-dawn hours, listening for the roar of Perez Jimenez’ airplane overhead as the dictator left the country. We’d logged a lot of Foreign Service miles since then, yet here we were under the same roof once again.

Te gusta, Geni?” Do you like it? To Josefina, I was not Juanita or Giovanna but her own version of little Jane. She set another loaf on the table.

Oh, sí,” I said, putting a forkful of meat into my mouth. It did taste like chicken. “Rico.” Tasty. I soaked a chunk of bread in the amber juices and packed my fork again.

Manuel poured more wine. Tia Maria ladled out more rabbit. Fina added more bread, until we slowed down and leaned away from the table, too full for more. Mom stood to help clear.

Fina protested. “Ay, no.” She moved our dishes to the sink and retrieved a small paper bundle from a drawer in a nearby cabinet. “Sus cartas,” she said, and lay fifteen years-worth of Christmas letters on the table. She pulled a photograph out from the bottom envelope, and there were Susie and me on the terrace in Milano. “Mis niñas.” We were still her girls.

Mom and Fina sorted through the envelopes, arranging Dad’s photographs that chronicled us girls: ice-cream lipped on the stony beaches of Capri; hugging our dog in our Bogota backyard; sitting at attention in five years’ of Maryland school pictures; Susie as a cheerleader at Torrejon Airbase outside Madrid and my Torrejon graduation picture.
Mucho tiempo,” Mom said at last. A whole life of time

We stood to go. A round of handshakes with Manuel. Stooped little hugs with Tia Maria. A last long hug with our Fina.

They stood in the dusty farmyard as we drove off, waving until we rounded the curve and hit the blacktop.

We were on our way again.


Making a (Little) Difference

I’d like to think that, as a kid, I would have been like the Parkland students leading the  march for gun control in Washington, DC: passionate about justice, and empowered by truth. Probably not: it’s a high bar. Still, Mom and Dad raised my sister and me with the belief  that people’s actions could make a difference. Here’s what happened in 1964, when I was in fifth grade in Bogota, Colombia.

There were lots of Colombian children wandering alone iimages-1n the streets of Bogota. They called them cochinos, filthy pigs. I’d seen them from the bus on our way home from school as they begged at the windows of cars stuck in traffic, but rarely in our tree-lined residential neighborhood of Teusaquillo.

One Sunday, I was doing my homework in my room when I heard a clanging coming from the street. I pulled aside the sheer drapes covering my window and saw a small group of cochinos in front of the closed candy and newspaper store across the street going through the contents of some garbage cans. One of the older kids handed a piece of something to a very small boy who put it in his mouth and sat down against the building, slumping like an old man. Garbage for lunch.

No one should have garbage for lunch. Not today.  I ran downstairs to look for Mom and found her reading in the living room.

I made my case. She listened, pressing her lips together, then took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s ask Rosanna to put some food together for these children.” She never called them cochinos.

Our cook, Rosanna, frowned and shook her head, but placed some leftover roasted lomito and yucca on one of our older plates.

Unknown“Y arequipe,” I said, reaching for the carmel syrup that we kept in the pantry. Rosanna pulled out a loaf of bread we’d started Friday night and sliced off three solid chunks. I poured a ribbon of carmel across each piece. “Y arequipe,” she said with a nod. I bet she was thinking “crazy Americans.”
I carried the plate down the hall to the front door and then down the driveway and through the iron gate, Mom following. As the gate clanged shut behind us, the children turned, ready to run.

Ninos,” I said, extending the plate. “Comida.” Food.

The four children looked at each other for a moment; then, the older boy gave a small nod and the younger children ran across the street to where I was standing, their leader following. As they approached, I saw for the first time up close why cochino was the right word. Their clothes were ragged and caked with grime. Their shoes were cardboard wrapped with some old string. Their faces were lined with dirt, their hands and legs filthy. You could smell them.

I handed the plate to the older boy and our eyes met: he was the tiredest person I’d ever seen, deep circles under his eyes, his lips cracked and dry, his cheeks hollow. He was about my age. He lowered his eyes and took the plate, our hands only inches away from each other. He turned and sat on the sidewalk, the other three huddled around him. He handed out the food, starting with the littlest boy, who couldn’t have been more than five. His nose was runny, as were his eyes, and his belly was bloated by hunger, protruding above pants that were way too big for him, held together by a safety pin. There were cuts on his right cheek, as if he’d fallen.

I looked at my mother, who was standing against our wall, hands clasped in front of her. “Mommy, he’s hurt.”

“Yes, honey,” she said, nodding. “Let’s do what we can.”

She stepped toward our gate. The children’s heads turned as the hinges squealed, their eyes wary.

Esperen,” she said to them, holding her hand up. Wait.

We brought out a basin of soapy water, an old washcloth, and band aids. The group was still there, but standing and looking nervous.
Senora,” the oldest boy said, lowering his eyes as he handed our empty plate to her. Mom took the plate as if it were a gift from a visiting dignitary.

I knelt next to the water and motioned to the little one. He approached as if he were in a trance, his eyes empty. He barely registered the feel of the washcloth on his face as I wiped at the dirt, the washcloth coming back brown. I patted at the scratches on his face and lay a band aid across his hot dry cheek.

“Okay,” I said, standing.

The leader looked at me directly for the first time.

Gracias,” he said.

I nodded. They wandered away down the sidewalk. I knew that we’d never see them again.

That night at dinner, Mom and I told Dad and Susie what had happened that afternoon while they were out: Susie, playing at an American friend’s house; and Dad, playing golf at the country club.

“I knew we needed to help,” I said, recounting how I’d wiped some of the dirt off the little boy’s face. “But I’m not even sure what difference it made.”

“Anything at all was a good thing to do,” Mom said, passing the mashed potatoes to Dad. “And you’re right: this tragic situation is somehow tolerated by society. I mean, that’s what the Y was all about in Winona: giving kids a place to belong, and that was important even when families were intact.”

“Making a difference is why we are here, after all,” Dad said, scooping potatoes onto his plate.  He looked at us, the platter paused in mid-air.  “No person is unimportant in a democracy.”

He nodded at his own pontification and lowered the potatoes into Susie’s waiting hand.  Dad looked across the table toward me, but not quite at me. I followed his gaze and passed him the peas.

“Isn’t that what the Embassy wives are working on, Nancy?” Dad said, adding a slab of butter to his peas. They put lots of butter and cream and milk on everything in South Dakota.

“Well, sort of. We’re modeling volunteerism. There’s a great group of Colombian women that are picking up on it.” She chewed on a piece of ham. “The March of Dimes,” she said.

“Who?” I said.

Unknown-2“The March of Dimes, that’s who is helping kids all over the world get a better start in life, including here in Bogota. Mrs. Dearborn is on the Board. Maybe we can’t help every street child, but maybe we can help the organization make a difference to kids. Kids like Henry.” Francesca’s son came with her on ironing days, sitting on a chair with his braces unlocked. “His polio could have been prevented with better education and better health care. That’s what the March of Dimes is all about.”

“Polio?” Susie said, looking at Dad. “Didn’t he get the sugar cubes like you brought home?”

“You got those because you are a very fortunate American child,” Daddy said. “We are all very fortunate. And, yes, I think that supporting the March of Dimes would be a fine thing to do, Janie.”

The school week left us with little time, so it wasn’t until the following Friday that I announced the project to our best friends, the four Cardenas kids, when we met up on top of the cement wall that separated their property from ours. We had created a neighborhood play together. Now, we were going to raise money for children. As the two oldest kids, Luis and I planned out our approach.

The next day, we went down the block, door to door. Mom waited on the sidewalk while the six of us climbed up and down the stoops, smiling at the baffled maids that answered the door as they looked around us, trying to figure out our scheme: why was this group of well-to-do children begging like cochinos? They all shook their heads no.

We needed another way to get money.  Luis came up with the idea.“Vendemos cosas viejas.”  Sell our old things.

Si!” I said. This was exactly the right thing, from what I’d read in American books: it was what Honey Bunch and Norman did when they helped the old farmer keep his farm. “A yard sale.”

Un llard esale,” Luis repeated, looking pleased.

The following Saturday, the front wall of our house was covered with items for sale: Dad donated an old electric razor and drawing pencils; Mom sorted through the pots and pans to find a few we could do without, and she gave us several scarves and some old jewelry she said was ‘paste’; Susie and I put in toys we had outgrown and hand-me-down dresses to be handed down again; and even Julia, our housekeeper, joined in, giving us some little figurines that she’d collected. Luis and his siblings added books, some sweaters and other things, including the fake flowers Mrs. Cardenas gave us from their dining room.


It was a good thing that Mr. Cardenas was away on business that weekend, because he would never have approved his children selling their household items like some street vendors.  I’m pretty sure proper Teusaquillo had never seen anything like it. Leave it to the Americans.

We raised $50, mostly in coins. I put it in a glass jar and proudly walked in into the March of Dimes office on Monday afternoon with Mom while Dad’s driver waited at the curb.

It was a good start in civic engagement.

Be a Citizen, Change the World

Dr. Benjamin Barber, an American political theorist, believed that communities could be built of trust, connection and cooperation, and that engaged citizens would change the world.


In 2013, he wrote: “…When democracy works, gun control legislation will pass. It’s that simple.”

Barely two weeks after 17 of their schoolmates and teachers were killed in yet another a school shooting just 40 miles south from me, the students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida have taken the moral high ground, demanding action on gun control. On the steps of the state house in Tallahassee,images

images-1at a CNN town hall, and in a televised meeting at the White House with the President, these kids and their supporters have refused to be satisfied with the standard political reaction: “hopes and prayers” followed by shrugs, excuses and inaction.

We can agree that there should never be another mass shooting. The Parkland students’ cry makes this a demand: #NeverAgain.

When I was the age of the middle school children who were killed in Parkland on February 14, Dad was about halfway through a five-year assignment in Washington, DC. Terrorism hadn’t followed us to America from Colombia, where Bogota was living through La Violencia. My biggest school worry in the Maryland suburbs was Mrs. Meyers’ glare in math class.

While I worked on my A-line shift in Home Economics, the older brothers and sisters of my schoolmates on college campuses across the country created an anti-war movement protesting the Vietnam War. They made a movement, saying: “Hell, no, we won’t go.” These young people, the age of American soldiers, forced an end to the Vietnam War.

#NeverAgain. Hell, no. This is the cry we must all take up from now on.


These kids have made waves, and the waves are washing up more than platitudes. Many elected officials, including Trump, are going on the record for the first time with ideas that might actually reduce school shootings, and maybe even gun violence as a whole. While the talking heads debate the more radical proposals — like arming teachers on the one hand, or taking guns away from law-abiding citizens on the other — there are some middle-ground ideas that may stick.

One that should make sense to both gun-control advocates and Second Amendment advocates is the “gun violence restraining order” which removes guns from those who pose a danger to themselves or others. California, Connecticut, Indiana, Oregon, and Washington have such a law on the books. Another nineteen states are considering similar legislation. Florida is not among them.

Barber wrote: “Strong democracy … means citizenship as a way of living: an expected element of one’s life. It is a prominent and natural role, such as that of ‘parent’ or ‘neighbor.’”

My parents thought of themselves as ordinary Americans given the extraordinary opportunity of representing their country abroad with the US Information Service. Dad promoted democracy — freedom of the press, fair and open elections, the free exchange of ideas — in his daily dealings with newspaper editors, business leaders and government officials. Mom, whose father ran her small town’s hardware store, grew up as part of the town’s community: in the church, at the library, at the local YMCA. It’s what was expected, but it was not always easy to find opportunities in countries where social status defined behavior.

fullsizeoutput_57eBut in Colombia, volunteerism was at work, and she became part of a group of women engaged in supporting the YMCA and in running a nursery school. Her work was publicly praised by the Ambassador, a rarity for Foreign Service wives. More important to Mom, however, was her relationship to these remarkable Colombian women, who she would have considered friends in any country. Community participation is what a person did. When Dad retired to Boston, Mom volunteered at the United Way, and she was an engaged supporter of the Brewster Ladies Library when they moved to Cape Cod.

I continue to donate to the Library. We raised our daughter in the public schools, at public libraries, in church communities during our 30 years in upstate New York. She helped clean up after Katrina, painted housing in West Virginia, and fed the homeless in Washington, DC. Being with community is how this is all supposed to work.

The Parkland children have called us to March for Our Lives on March 24 in Washington and across the country. If we act like members of a community we value, we will not just march but also work to elect men and women who support gun-control. The November mid-term elections could be our country’s watershed moment, when we voted for our lives.



The Year We Forgot Birthday Breakfast

My mother, Nancy Robb Amerson, would have turned 90 last Sunday. Although it is now nearly 10 years since she passed away, there is not a February 4 that goes by without me remembering the year we all forgot her birthday.

It was a Friday in 1972. We’d been in Madrid just six months for Dad’s Embassy assignment running the US Information Service country-wide operation. I was doing my senior year at Torrejon Air Base High School, trying out for the production of Lil Abner without understanding that it had been picked for roles suited to the long-term “military brats.” Susie was in her sophomore year at Torrejon, a cheerleader and girlfriend of a senior on the football team. We rode the same Base bus each morning but lived in different strata. This doesn’t excuse our lapse but may be how we managed to be so individually-centered that year. Dad was immersed in the job. We were all up and out the door with scarely a bye, and without any of us giving Mom a single birthday hug.

In some families, the absence of celebration wouldn’t be noticed early in the day, and we might have recovered from the lapse by, say, a birthday dinner. But in our home, birthdays were celebrated at breakfast, a tradition born of Dad’s late working hours and our parents’ frequent evening engagements representing the Embassy.

Birthday Breakfast involved festooning the chosen one’s chair with streamers and balloons and piling cards and presents on the designated placemat and decorating the table with a fresh bouquet, and keeping the Birthday Girl (or Dad) away from the table until the candles on the coffee cake were lit. There was a Birthday Crown.

That Friday morning, Mom’s breakfast chair was bare, her plate was empty of home made cards, and the table wasn’t festooned with a birthday bouquet. We were clueless that we’d just broken Mom’s heart.

It still astonishes me.

And, worse, Mom said nothing. Her eventual “I’m disappointed” — the understated Norwegian version of yelling — still resonates.

There were no family or close friends to make up for our omission. Mom’s mother was 5,700 miles away in Sun City, California, where she had moved to live with her sister after Grandpa died. Mom’s brother, now running the family store in Minnesota, was unpredictable. Her circle of childhood friends would have surrounded her with laughter and cake, had she not left Winona more than two decades before for a different life, choosing, unknowingly, a life without the kind of friends who would call after the family left for their day to wish you happy birthday and be outraged with you at your selfish husband and children.

The life of the Foreign Service wife in the Cold War era was regulated by hierarchical relationships: your husband’s position and tenure in each short-term assignment dictated your position among the spouses. Upon arriving at a post, you “called on” the Ambassador’s wife and the spouses of the senior Embassy staff who, in turn, would pull you into activities designed to integrate you into the entire Mission team. You’d become well acquainted with your peers and even friendly with those you liked best, but it was all at arm’s length. These were short-term relationships with people in the business; even if you could establish more intimate friendships, it was business.

Mom was initiated in the role in the 1950s as the junior spouse in Caracas, recruited to make finger food for receptions at the Ambassador’s Residence. In that era, helping to hostess a party was a reasonable assignment that helped your husband do his job. Post by post, she and Dad became a team: accompanying visiting dignitaries to La Scala in Milan, to a papal audience in Rome; attending the Marine Ball in Madrid.

You would not be paid. You could not get a job that did pay.

But, mostly the role of the Foreign Service wife was to establish, and re-establish, and re-establish a serene home for her family. The State Department put it this way:

…the Foreign Service wife is instantly thrown into a strenuous intercultural situation requiring much energy and rapid accomplishment in establishing her household and family in a new situation…Hardly any wife has chosen this as her own way of life; most have accepted it gracefully as a by-product of their choice of mate….
Guidelines for Representational Responsibilities of Wives in our Posts Abroad, Management Reform Bulletin No. 20, June 3, 1971, US Department of State

So, the least “her household and family” could do was remember that 4th of February was The Foreign Service Wife’s birthday. But the weekend went by and nothing.

On Monday, the clue arrived in the Embassy Air Force Post Office box: the annual “astral twin” Snoopy birthday card from Mom’s college friend Dot Wortman. Dana, Dad’s secretary, lay it on the top of the pile. The envelope and Dot’s distinctive handwriting tipped Dad off. He composed a poem on his lunch hour, drafted it in his best calligraphy before he left the office, and stopped by the florists around the corner from the Embassy on his way home. My cheeks remember the hot flush of embarrassment when I saw the flowers in the center of the table, the cream-colored stationery of Dad’s poem propped up against the vase. I don’t remember what I said, or how I tried to make it up to Mom. Or Susie’s reaction.

What I do remember is Mom’s disappointment.

When I told my 25 year-old daughter about this incident the other day, she was appalled. She was raised in the Birthday Breakfast tradition. She had good reason to be appalled.

And on my own birthday the next year, when I had been set adrift at an American college while they went on to Dad’s next post, the Birthday Crown magically appeared at the foot of my dorm room bed. Mom and my roommate had conspired to transport Birthday Breakfast across the Atlantic from Italy to Ohio.

Which makes February 4, 1972 that much meaner.








Enough Trump Mierda

“Shithole” is now a printable and sayable vulgarism.

“A day after meeting with Norway’s prime minister in Washington, President Trump told members of Congress that the United States needed more immigrants from places like Norway …and fewer immigrants from countries like Haiti …which Trump called shitholes…” (The New York Times, January 12, 2018)


By calling Norway “good” and Haiti and African nations “shitholes,” Trump has once again put himself at the center of attention. This time he has played to a global audience and international consequences are mounting fast. Norwegians have called Trump out as a racist, venting their outrage and disgust not only at Mr. Trump’s vulgar language but at using their country to make a racially tinged insult. The African Union has called for an apology for a remark that “flies in the face of all accepted behavior and practice.” The UN High Commissioner for Human Rights calls Trump’s remarks “shocking and shameful … opening the door to humanity’s worst side … the single most damaging and dangerous consequence of this type of comment by a major political figure.”

And some countries understood the Trump quid pro quo: disagree with me, and I’ll come after you, whether it’s the press, or a judge, or a political foe. It’s a zero-sum game to him. Rather than risk being unfunded, a South Sudanese government official stated: “Unless it was specifically said about South Sudan, we have nothing to say.”

Trump has unleashed a … oh, hell, it’s a shitstorm, and we hear that he is delighted with the response.  His words and his response show Trump to be a bully and a bigot who cares not for the country he was elected to lead, but for himself alone.

And here’s some good news for the President: Norwegians are already here!  The bad news? They looked like “undesirables” to people like Trump when they got off the boat.


My parents were descendants of Norwegian farmers who had suffered through famine and had seen their livelihood erased by industrialization. They arrived at our shores poor, huddled, and yearning for a new life like millions of others who braved the dangerous voyage with no assurance of a future in this unknown place. The masses that teemed into Ellis Island at the end of the 1800s were the lucky ones who survived weeks at sea, poorly nourished and surrounded by disease.

We Norwegians had nothing to offer back then, except for the willingness to work hard. The Amundons made their way west to establish homesteads on the prairies of South Dakota. Michael Landon made this look like good family fun on the Little House television show, but it was a dangerous, exhausting and lonely life. Read Rolvaag’s Giants in the Earth.

Today, immigrants continue to risk the ocean journey in the pursuit of a better life, but now their skin is brown. Some of the skin is shit brown.

Haitians are marching on Mar-A-Lago a few miles from my home tomorrow morning, on Martin Luther King’s birthday, in protest of the slur. They will be risking their menial jobs cleaning hotel toilets in order to tell their story.  Around Palm Beach County, crews of Latino immigrants from Central America will fan out tomorrow to wrestle our gated community green spaces into shape, or to install roof tiles, or to pick strawberries. Men will stand on the corner by the Home Depot hoping some contractor needs an extra back. This is hard, hot, humiliating work – what we called “shit jobs” before getting “real jobs” – and it’s keeping their families alive back in El Salvador or Guatemala.

The Norsky’s efforts paid off, too. Two generations later, the Land of Opportunity and the post-World War II GI Bill opened college up to the grandsons and granddaughters of these pioneers, and college introduced the world.

My father left the Norwegian homesteaded farm in South Dakota for the War, then a liberal arts education, and finally an offer to join the United States Information Agency.  Eisenhower, the victorious general, saw USIA as the structure through which America could rebuff Communism, not by condemning and threatening — like Trump —  but by “winning hearts and minds.” Democracy was built on open elections, the freedom of assembly and the open exchange of ideas, and freedom of the press.  Telling America’s story through free public libraries, visiting artists, and educational exchanges built relationships for the United States would use to keep the USSR at bay.  Dad proudly represented the land that gave his Norwegian ancestors a new life during his 20-year Foreign Service career, serving under both Democrat and Republican administrations.

Dad retired before the end of the Cold War caused a paradigm shift away from the dual balance of power. The proliferation of nuclear arms and the emergence of radical terrorism around the world have created multiple players in the game of world domination. Putin is snaking Russia into the most sacred of American institutions, our elections. China is filling the space once held by the United States to fund initiatives in Latin America and Africa. It is exporting Artificial Intelligence systems designed to keep totalitarian governments in control. Democracy is no longer the obvious model.

But American values haven’t changed.  Today, more than 16,000 Americans — descendants of slaves, descendants of immigrants, sons and daughters of refugees  — represent our country in 270 Foreign Service posts throughout the world, promoting tolerance, fairness, equality, the rule of law, the freedom of the press. They do this despite a president who their foreign counterparts call ‘catastrophic,’ ‘terrifying,’ ‘incompetent’ and ‘dangerous.’

The Council on Foreign Relations concludes: “The president is not playing the leadership role the rest of the world has come to expect from the United States, and the consequences are piling up….when it comes to Trump and the world, it’s not better than you think; it’s worse.” And that was before Thursday.

Trump does not speak for me. He does not speak for my country.  Americans must call Trump out, loudly, consistently, and resoundingly now and all the way to the mid-term elections in November.

And “shithole” would be a contender for 2018 Word of the Year, except we know that the long months ahead of us will add competing crap.

Playing Presepio

I am not ready for Christmas until the manger scenes are unwrapped and assembled. It’s a tradition that began in the late 50’s in Dad’s first post, Caracas, the first of the three Catholic countries we called home in which the creche is the center of Christmas commemorations. During the early 60’s in Italy, our presepio collection grew to include shepherds, farm animals, bridges, elements of an entire diorama that took us hours to create: newspaper hills covered in moss, streams of tin foil, the place at the edge of the scene from which my sister and I would progress the Wise Men, clay step by clay step, until they arrived to give the baby their gifts on January 7.


My Nativity elements today are an amalgam of home-grown, handcrafted and mass produced pieces. My uncle Glenn Goodroad built the manger in South Dakota a quarter-century ago. The little black and white dog gazing at Baby Jesus is from Caracas and is IMG_5442nearly as old as I am. He’s down to two stumpy legs so I lean him up against the manger: he’s earned a place of honor, as do the Caraqueno standing angels whose glitter has all but worn off.

The clay pots are from the ‘60s in Bogota, as was a folk art manger made of a Fab detergent box that I treasured for 50 years, far longer than its useful life. The trees in clay are from Madrid’s Plaza Mayor in early 70’s, as are the Wise Men.

My dad brought me back the “manger in a box” from a visit to the Middle East before his retirement from the Foreign Service in the early ‘80s,

and somewhere along the way I found this Mexican version of the trinity, carved wise men and sheep. When my husband and I were in Sorrento two years ago, I added a shepherd and a new Jesus, bringing my total to three: as my Aunt Snooky said, we can all use more Jesuses.

Ray and I also visited Rome’s Piazza Navona. The Bernini statues are as iconic as the ristorante Tre Scalini, but none of the summer scene captured the intoxicating Christmas magic that eminates from Piazza Navona in December. DSCN3192DSCN3188

Here is how I recall one Sunday noon in December, 1961. I had just turned seven.

It was a cold four-block walk, even in the noonday sun. Everyone was home on Sunday, their cars parked on the sidewalk, so we went single file alongside the rough walls of the old palazzi. The smells of garlic and olive oil drifted out from behind the barred windows. A man scuttled by with panini for pranzo, pushing his way through a heavy wooden door; I got a glimpse of the stone courtyard and the broad stairway disappearing up into the gloom as the door slowly swung closed. A ribbon of bright blue sky ran between one side of the street and the other, interrupted only by laundry hung like flags.
My father wandered into the street with the movie camera on.
“Okay, Nancy, now you and the girls walk ahead. No, don’t look back at me. Just go ahead. Act natural.”
We heard this a lot.

The sticky sweet smell of fried dough and tangy sausages curled around the next corner, and there was Piazza Navona. A sea of canvass booths ran all along the inside track of the oval. People were everywhere. Bunches of balloons floated in the center of the crowd.
“Wow, it’s really full,” I said. “You can’t even see the Bernini.”
Dad asked me to repeat that for the camera.
Mom steered us into the crowd, with a kind of drawn out “Bob,” that meant please cut out the filming and take one of the girls. Susie reached back for his hand. We wandered from booth to booth, the four of us reflected in huge golden balls, pink balls, red balls. A bunch of grapes in silver glass shimmered in the sun, the light trapped inside like Tinkerbell. Birds with tails of spun glass were stopped mid-flight. Clear big glass bells hung quietly. Twirling stretches of green tinsel spiraled up endlessly. The sun danced in red and blue and green from booth to booth, marking the path like an airport runway at night.
As Mom paused to touch special pieces, the vendors would start in.
“Signora, un bell’ prezio.” The negotiation would begin with an opening price.
“Eh.” she’d answer.
The price would drop a bit.
“What would she offer?”
“I could pay…” she responded, loud enough for Dad to hear how good her Italian was now.
Done. The knotted string bag she’d stuffed into her purse began to take shape as it hung off her arm, round with bundles of newspaper protecting new ornaments for our tree.
“Prego, Signora, e buon’ natale.”
I knew these new pieces would be great additions to the ornaments Grandpa and Grandma had sent us from the Store in Winona, and to those Mom had packed up last Christmas when we lived in Bologna, along with the tinsel she had carefully peeled off the tree and wrapped in tin foil to be used again.

On the other side of the piazza, in the deep cool shadows under the canvas, was a whole new Christmas universe: the presepio. Hills of spongy green moss, sandy paths, rocky ledges, gnarly clumps of wood stuck in clay bases, tin foil waterfalls springing from cork mountain walls and wooden bridges crossing rivers of glass. An entire village with a winding street of little stones and houses and even some laundry hanging, and then down in the valley shepherds with their lambs slung across their shoulders, and a farm with pottery mules and oxen and white chickens and little yellow chicks, and the three Wise Men climbing a far hill in brilliant robes all gold and ruby and emerald, and silver angels spreading their wings to protect the little straw covered hut, the Madonna seated on her invisible chair and Joseph standing in the hay gripping his staff, both gazing at the empty cradle. No one puts Jesus out until he is born Christmas Eve.
“Well, girls, it may not be South Dakota but how about a little farm of your own?” Dad said.
Susie helped me choose the best pieces for our own presepio and soon Mommy’s bag was bursting with moss and bark and figurines, and I had figured out the best way to build. Susie had other ideas.
“Let’s make it under the tree,” she said.
“No, no, it needs to be up high,” I said. “On the trunk.”
My father had brought home from the office a big square of cardboard for art projects. It would fit right on top of the big trunk from Winona, ready for newspaper hills under a draped sheet.
“No,” Susie said.
My sister needed a lot of explanations, it seemed to me.
“Look,” I began, but my analysis was cut short by a squealing sound at the far end of the piazza.
“Bagpipes!” Mom smiled at us. “Just like your Robb ancestors in Scotland.” She took us each by the hand and strode off in the direction of the noise. My father followed. I bet he had the camera running again.

The squealing dimmed to a long whine that reeled us in. A wavering tune balanced on top of the hum. Scotland. I wondered if the musicians would be wearing the plaid skirts like the ones Mommy showed us in Winona.
The crowd had encircled the players.
“Look, Bob,” Mom said. “Farmers?”
“Shepherds, actually,” Daddy said authoritatively.
Shepherds. What were they doing in the middle of Rome? Someone made room for us blonde ragazze. The green loden wool of strangers’ coats scratched gently at my cheeks as we squeezed through.
We popped out of the crowd in front of two men in woolen hats and leather vests, their legs wrapped in sheepskin bound by leather ropes. Their boots drooped around their ankles. No skirts here.
They each carried a pouch from which they were squeezing music with their elbows. Their bulging cheeks pushed air into through a long instrument like one of our recorders, and the shepherds modulated the sound by covering the holes with thei fingers protruding from their tipless gloves.
The gentle tune was repeating now, the notes flowing simply into each other, the melody floating up into the air with winter’s breath. I turned to look for Dad. When he lowered the movie camera, I tugged at his sleeve.
“Can we learn this song?”
“Yes, please?” Susie said.
“Well, sure,” he said, smiling at Susie and me. Mom was beaming.
“That would be very nice, girls.”
The bagpipes whined to a stop and the last note hung in the still cold air. One of the men pulled off his hat and carried it around the gathered crowd.
“Grazie, grazie, buon natale, grazie signora, buon natale.”
Dad dropped a few lire into the hat while Susie and I hung back next to Mom. The melody of the shepherds’ song rang in my ears as we walked slowly back to the car.IMG_5445

Twenty-two years later, our Italian friend Roberto Lucic gifted my husband and me the lyrics to the song we heard that day in Piazza Navona,“Tu scendi da le stelle”,


Listen to it here sung by very dear Italian children in 2011.






Christmas Eve: Part Two


[Tonight, my husband, my daughter and I continue a tradition begun in 1959 of having tacos for Christmas Eve dinner. For years I didn’t make the connection between the meal and our Foreign Service journey: after all, we’d never lived in Mexico. It was not until I started reading my mother’s letters home that I understood that tacos were her attempt at normalizing a tradition begun during Dad’s first post in Caracas….]
Christmas Eve, Milan, 1959 (from Inventing Myself: A Memoir, draft)

I had memorized all the doors on the block down to our pensione. The paper store, the shoe store, the cigarette store. Halfway down the block we passed the Rinascente, where my mother had bought our Christmas ornaments, since our real ones were on a boat somewhere, along with our furniture and toys and clothes. I caught a whiff of the perfume counter as we passed the door.

The doorman stood in front of the pensione looking like a toy soldier in his gold braided red uniform. His brass buttons sparkled as he tipped his hat and opened the glass door.
“Buona sera, signora.”
“Buona sera.”
My mother let go our hands and Susie and I skipped into the hotel, our leather soles slapping at the white and black marble floor. The lady behind the desk looked up. Her eyes were ringed in heavy black that matched her dark, high-necked dress.
“Buona sera, signora, ragazze.”
I loved that word. It was much jazzier than niñas.
“Buona sera,” my mother answered as she caught up with us.
The sounds of our shoes were muffled by the red runner that led to the elevator. My mother pushed the button, and the elevator came chugging down, settling behind the brass gate. She pulled the gate aside and grabbed the door handle, then quickly steered us into the cage. She leaned in on us as the gate clanged shut behind her, the two sides reaching for each other like fingers interlacing. I tightened my legs; still, the back of my head thumped against my mother’s coat as the elevator whined and bumped to a start, like a slow hiccup. We slowly climbed, the broad marble stairs zig zagging around us. Side. Back. Side. Front. The primo piano slid down from my forehead to my belly button to my feet and gone. Side. Back. Side. Front. The secondo slid past us. I looked up, letting my head fall way back against my wooly collar and stared through the lacy metal ceiling, following the quivering cables way, way up. I squinted shut the outsides of my eyes and the stairs became a soft ring of pale light. If I looked down, it was like falling.
The elevator jerked to a stop and Mom tugged the gate open. I jumped over the space where you could see all the way down and followed my mother and sister down the hall to our little hotel apartment. Mom unlocked the door and we walked into the dark. It felt strange to be alone there.

IMG_5463My mother turned on the lamp next to the couch and drew the drapes, stopping next to the bay window to adjust one of the decorations on the little dresser-top tree that My father had brought home a few nights ago. She clicked on the tree lights. The decorations from Rinascente sparkled and glinted off the wrapped gifts huddled under the fake branches. Susie’s little white felt angel dangled next to my lavender one.
“OK, girls, time to get ready for Christmas Eve,” My mother said. “Your father will be home soon.”
Susie and I shared the smaller of the two bedrooms. As I hung my coat up, I looked at the wool skirts and jumpers the cousins had given us last month. I missed my pink cotton shirt and the rest of my real clothes that were somewhere on the ocean. My mother said that they’d be here in time for the hot weather. I couldn’t imagine Milan ever being warm. My bones felt tight.
I tossed my sweater on my twin bed. Susie followed me out. I reached back inside to turn off the ceiling light.
Mo15726845_10206240197842377_8330204807525676085_nm was at the single counter in the small kitchen opening wax paper bundles.

“Hallacas?” Susie said. The banana leaf-wrapped cornmeal meat pie was the traditional Christmas meal in Caracas.safe_image.php
“Well, almost,” my mother said. “I thought we might try a little variation this year.”I guessed Italians didn’t have hallacas. “We’re having tacos. It’ll be like making your own hallaca right at the table.”She handed me a bowl of grated yellow cheese and another one of chopped tomatoes.

The tangy smell of browning hamburger warmed the apartment with wonderful familiarity.
“As soon as your father comes home,” Mom began.
The apartment door clicked open. I looked down the hallway as Dad walked in.

“Do I smell Christmas Eve?”

He lowered his briefcase to the floor and swung the door shut behind him. The four of us were together. Something inside of me relaxed.
“Daddy!” Susie ran into his arms.
“Did you bring us anything from office?” I said.
“For my girls? Of course.”

My father walked us into the small living room and lowered Susie to the couch. “Just reach into that there briefcase and you’ll see a letter or two that came in through the Embassy. Hi, honey.”
My mother had joined us. They kissed, her dark head tilted up to his fair one.
“Buon Natale,” she said.
“That’s the spirit!” my father said, unbuttoning his coat. “What did I tell you, Nan? You’re going to take to this place in no time.”
My mother just smiled and took his coat.
“Any apartment finds?”
“Oh, that’ll come, right after New Year’s,” Dad said.
“Tacos, My father. Tacos!” Susie said, hopping off the couch.
“Some new tradition, huh?” he said, scooping her up again. “And what do you think our Midwestern relatives would think about that, my little bambinas? Sure beats lutefisk.”
“Lutefisk and lefse and Copenhagen snoose…” I began.
“… Brandt High School will loose loose loose!” He finished with me.
I wasn’t sure what any of that meant, but they were sounds from the farm in South Dakota.The rhyme was part of our private language, like Spanish was too.
“Did you really say that out on the farm?” I said.
“You bet! Dem South Dakota boys…”
“Okay, you guys,” my mother warned as she lay the last of the small dishes on the small dinner table. She disappeared back into the kitchen. “We’re ready to sit down.”IMG_5462
My father lifted Susie into her chair at the table. I climbed into mine as he went down the short hall to the bathroom. Mom carried in a platter of steaming fried tortillas.
My father reappeared. “I don’t know how you did this, Nan,” he said. “Tortillas in Milano?”
“Found these when we were in Washington last month,” my mother said, tossing two crisp tortillas onto each of our plates. She spooned some cheese, hamburger and tomato onto Susie’s plate. I piled some of each onto my plate and began building my own taco, anticipating the first crisp tangy chewy bite.

My father smiled at my mother across the table as they sat down. Her eyes smiled back.
“Shall we say a few words?” he said, reaching for our hands. “Like how very lucky we are to be here celebrating our first Christmas in Italy.”
He looked at me.
“Feliz Navidad father,” I said.
“Buon Natale,” My father corrected.
I knew I was using the old words, but they just felt so much more comfortable.
“Buon Natale,” I said.
My father nodded.
“Natale,” Susie said.
“And we’re thinking about our families in Minnesota and South Dakota,” Mom added.
My father gave my hand a squeeze. We dug in.
After dinner, Susie and I had our bath while Mom finished dishes and Dad read through papers from his briefcase.
I stepped out of the steamy tub. The cold of the white tiles sucked the soft warmth from the bottom of my feet as I remembered what I was going to tell Susie this afternoon. I helped her out of the tub.
“Susie, remember what tomorrow is?”
“Christmas,” she said, balancing on one foot as she aimed the other one toward her pajama leg.
She dropped to the little bath mat to continue wriggling her feet all the way down into the booties. I zipped up my matching one-piece pajamas and reached for the comb on the sink.
“And what do we get on Christmas?”
“Presents?” she said, looking up.
“And you know what?” I said, stopping the comb halfway down my head. “Some of the presents are already under the tree, cause they’re from My mother and My father and Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Jim.”
“I know,” Susie said. She reached for the tub edge and pulled herself up to standing.
“Okay, and then there’re other presents,” I said, looking her in the eyes, “Other presents that we don’t even see until tomorrow, until Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Susie said. She pulled at the zipper on her pajamas. “From Santa.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right! From Santa,” I said.
“Santa Claus.” She reached for the comb.
I held it over my head.
“Santa Claus. Santa Claus,” I said, lowering my face toward hers. “Don’t you remember? He came to our house. He was there.  He walks right in and he knows we are here now. He is coming. Right here while we are sleeping.”
Susie’s mouth was starting to quiver. I couldn’t stop.
“And he’s going to see our tree lights and come right here and we will be sleeping and Mommy and Daddy will be sleeping and he’ll be here.” I realized I was almost shouting.santa-tracker-891395.jpg
“No!” Susie wailed and burst into tears.
The bathroom door flew open.
“What’s going on here?”
My mother dropped to her knees. Susie let out a louder howl and flopped into her arms. Tears spilled from my eyes.
My mother reached one hand to my shoulder.
“What is it, honey?”
“I don’t want Santa to come in here,” I said, dropping to her lap.
“I’m scared,” Susie whimpered.
My mother stroked our wet heads.
“Okay, now,” she said quietly, rocking on her knees. “Okay. It’s okay.”
I felt her calmness seeping into me.
“How about if we turn off the Christmas tree lights? I think that might just do it,” she said. “You know we’re all together now. My father’s here and I’m here.”
We rocked together for a minute. Susie stopped crying. I took a deep breath.
“There, that’s better,” My mother said, lifting us onto our pajama feet and standing up. “Now, how about a goodnight song from your Daddy? What would you like, Jane?”
I knew right away. “Feliz Cumpleaños.”
“Sure, that’s one that Susie knows too, don’t you honey?” my mother said as we walked out into the living room.
“Bob, the girls will say goodnight.”
“G’night, Daddy,” Susie said, reaching up to kiss him.
My father put his papers into his open briefcase and leaned over to hug my sister.
“Good night, Daddy,” I said.
“Good night, signorina,” he said, kissing my cheek.
My mother switched off the Christmas lights.
“And they’d like to hear you play Happy Birthday on the guitar.”
“No, no,” Susie said. “Feliz Años.”
“That’s the same thing,” I said as Mom walked us to our bedroom.
We got into our beds. My mother tucked Susie in and then came over to my bed. She pulled the sheet up to my chin.
“Now, sweet dreams,” she said.
“Good night, Mommy,” I said, and gave her a kiss.
She turned off the light between our beds.
“Buon Natale,” she said and swung our door almost closed.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. As I let it slowly out, I heard the first strums of my father’s guitar. The chords hung in the dark bedroom air like a hammock, swinging us steady and safe.
I swayed in the dark and listened for Fina.

Christmas Eve, 1959: Part One

[From Inventing Myself: A Memoir, Jane Kelly Amerson Lopez (draft)]

Christmas Eve, 1959

Unknown-2My breath hung like a puff of steam, the droplets just beginning to tickle my nose. I leaned back in the metal café chair and followed my breath up toward the foggy ceiling that looked like a big glass spider web. I shivered despite the Christmas-festooned Galleria shop windows, glittering with red and gold cellophane and silver-and-blue foiled chocolates.

On Christmas Eve fifty-eight years ago next week, I was sitting in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, Italy, trying to piece together what had happened to the life I’d known, and wondering how I would navigate this new world.

Dad’s two-year adventure with the United States Information Agency in Caracas, Venezuela had evolved into four years. Caracas was the only home my sister and I knew: I’d been a baby when we’d left Minnesota in 1955 and Susie was a real Caraquena, having been born in Venezuela. Washington inquired into Dad’s preference for his second post, assuming, of course, that they wished to continue. He and Mom agreed they’d found a career niche — returning to his General Mills’s PR job wasn’t nearly as interesting as continuing to do work they both found meaningful — so he tossed out Italy: his appetite for Europe had been whetted by a motorcycle trip shortly after the war, and he’d been working on his Italian with owner of the corner barbershop by the Embassy.  Dad wrote: “No one ever expected these expressed preferences to bring results, but in this case, it clicked: Personnel sent word that our next assignment would be as Assistant Branch Public Affairs Office in Milan.”

The September transfer came with the required five days of briefings in Washington and the statutory Home Leave. We traveled by boat from the tropics to the bracing fall of New England and then by car to real winter in Minnesota, where we celebrated my fifth birthday and our first American Thanksgiving at with Mom and Dad’s families. Susie and I had never seen snow: we made our first snow angels in our grandparent’s backyard in Winona and loaded up on sweaters and winter coats before taking our first jet airplane flight to Italy.

After nearly three months of being on the road, it was good to be in one spot, even though Milan was nothing like our real home in Venezuela. The December days were short, damp and cold, and the austere business-like city had little of Caracas’ color. There was no mosaic art to break up the grey city corridors, no flamboyan or bougainvillea or palm trees, no fruity perfume in the air.

And there was no Josefina, our beloved maid, who had created a domestic refuge for my sister and me. We played in Spanish, switching to English when Mom or Dad entered into our world.

“Finish your milk, girls.”
My mother held a finger up and looked over Susie’s shoulder toward the waiter’s black jacket as he disappeared through the café doors. Her long red nails clicked against the tabletop as she picked her up her coffee cup and sipped from where her lipstick had left its kiss. Her skin looked as white as the cold air.
The collar of her new dark coat tugged at the wisps of brown hair that had broken free of the French twist.
“All set, Jane?” she said, smiling over her cup at me.
“Why didn’t Fina come with us?” I said.
“Oh, wouldn’t that have been nice,” she said, stealing a glance at my sister. Susie was working on her elephant ear and calmly looking off toward the rest of the arcade. “But she had to stay with her life in Venezuela.” She raised a finger as the waiter whizzed by.
“You understand?”

I nodded. Being the oldest meant doing what grownups expected from me.  While he was revving up to the new job, finding us an apartment, and testing his Italian, Dad expected us to make this new place home. And Mom counted on me to be her pal; this was all new to her too.

I reached the parfait spoon down the tall glass to scoop up a few unmelted grains of sugar where they stood in the cooling milk. They crunched between my teeth like guava paste. I nibbled at the sticky golden flakes of the elephant ear that clung to my fingers.

The waiter scurried over.
“Si, signora,” he said, pulling a pad of paper from behind his waistband.
I knew what that meant. Some of Italian was almost like Spanish. He said something else and laid a slip of paper on the marble tabletop before whirring away again. My mother smiled at us as she placed big silver coins on the paper.
“Due cento, girls. Doesn’t that sound like Spanish? Remember? Dos cientos. Due cento. They mean the same thing: two hundred. Two hundred lire.”
“Due cento,” I repeated, enjoying the new sounds. I only wished I knew more of them. I didn’t like not understanding Italian.
“Susie, remember when I taught you Feliz Cumpleanos?”
I swung my foot into hers.
I hit her a little harder.
“Ow,” she said, swinging her gaze and her heel at me. The wrought iron table lurched to one side.
“That’s enough, girls,” Mom said. “Here, Susie, let’s wrap up your elephant ear for tomorrow. Button up those coats. Time to get back to the pensione for Christmas Eve.”

I tugged at the collar of my new blue coat, my fingers slipping off the velveteen buttons as I pushed them into the tight holes. Susie had her new coat on, too; they were both hand-me-downs from Betsy and Annie Marsden in St. Paul. My arms felt tight and itchy where the yellow Winona Knitting Mill sweater had bunched up in my sleeves.

Mom reached under the table, retrieving the straps of her purse from around her feet. Only tourists hung their purses on the backs of their chairs. She tucked the pastry into her purse, took Susie in her left hand and me in the other, and steered us into the crowd heading through the Galleria toward the Piazza. Her heels clicked sharply on the cloudy glass tiled floor.

As we emerged to the Piazza del Duomo, we passed a Gypsy sitting on the pavement, her dirty skirts splayed out. A dull-eyed child, maybe Susie’s age, sat listlessly on the woman’s lap, and the mother’s filthy outstretched hand was accompanied by a pitiful voice saying something about the “povero bambino.” Mom said they drugged their children. She looked straight ahead. I tugged on her arm.
“Can’t we give her money?”
“No,” she said, but she slowed down and stepped us out of the crowd. The beggar’s voice grew louder. “But how about food? Susie, shall we give your elephant ear to the baby?”
My mother reached into her purse for the napkin-full of leftover pastry. Susie frowned.
“It’s mine.”
“And you will be doing a very nice thing by giving it to this little girl who doesn’t have anything else on Christmas.”
Susie nodded.
“Here, Jane.”
My mother handed the package to me.
I placed it in the Gypsy’s hand. “Buon Natale.”
The woman snatched it out of my hand with a sneer.
“Did I say that wrong?”
“You said it just right. And it was the right thing to do.”
“Like when you took the beggar to a café for breakfast in New York before you met Daddy?”
My mother laughed.
“When of course he really wanted some wine. And wasn’t he surprised?”


My mother walked us onto the dark Piazza del Duomo. La Scala opera house was at the far end of the wide town square. The Duomo sat heavily at our end, its lit spires sculpted yellow and grey against the evening sky. Couples had gathered here and there on the steps. I twisted to walk backwards so I could keep my eye on them.
“Jane.” My mother gave me a little tug.
The constant flock of pigeons rose like rippling smoke as people walked through. I stamped at bird, watching it lift off its corn kernels just a bit before settling back down. We passed the red kiosk as we left the Piazza. I wondered if Santa would give me a lira so I could buy some corn. Even pigeons need to eat on Christmas.


Letting Go

Few relationships survive the transient life of a Foreign Service family. We were always leaving. Even when we were arriving, it was to replace someone else who was on their way to another post, just as it would sooner or later be our turn to go. Our apartment, our school, our friends were all temporary. So, too, were pets.

“So, how’d you like to have a dog?” That’s how my sister and I found out we were moving from Italy to Colombia in 1963.

I didn’t need a dog: in fact, I was terrorized by a longhaired daschund puppy someone had in our Rome apartment complex. Perhaps, Susie and I had asked if we could have a dog to be like kids in the exotic world of America, where Mom and Dad were from. Mom’s stories of growing up in Minnesota included Jack, the wire-haired terrier who followed her down the block when she walked to school with her friends (we couldn’t image walking to school, much less going out without an adult). The Little House books Mom read to us about Laura and Mary on the prairie had another Jack; and then there were Snap, the Bobbsey Twins’ retired circus dog, and Waggo, their energetic puppy. Spot was the dog in the Dick- and-Jane books Susie’s class was reading at the International School of Rome.

At any rate, we took the bait, and in January 1964 we were at a farm outside Bogota holding a cuddly black and brown brindle boxer puppy that we named Caesar Augustus, Italian nerds that we were. My fear of dogs evaporated, and Caesar took over our walled-in back yard. brindle boxer puppiesHe was too aggressive to be walked, and we only played at training him when we paid him much attention at all. His birth home, the Finca La Perla, became a headline in family lore for blowing up a couple of months later, killing members of the dissident student underground that were building bombs. Explosions punctuated our two-and-a-half years in Bogota. Having a mean-looking guard dog was a good idea.

Like all things in every post, Caesar stayed behind when we moved to the States in 1966. If there was conversation about bringing him with us, I don’t recall it. He went to Dad’s Embassy chauffeur and died of a heart attack a few years later. I received that information with little emotion.



We were savvy teenagers when we moved back overseas in 1971, resisting the notion of going to Spain until a dog was again offered. Susie and I found an English cocker in a pet shop while Dad’s Embassy chauffeur idled the sedan curbside. She was as passive as Caesar had been aggressive. We named her Tori, and we didn’t walk her either, although the Franco’s Guardia Civil and night time serenos kept the streets secure. Two years later, Tori moved to Rome with my family when I left for college. There, she managed to break Dad’s finger, or rather he slammed his finger onto the marble floor when swatting her for peeing in the foyer, to the muffled
amusement of Mom, Susie and me. When Dad was re-assigned to the Foreign Service chair at Tufts, Tori stayed behind with another Embassy family whose children adoring children had tea parties with her. I don’t recall ever learning about the rest of her life, nor having any curiosity.

So it would be safe to say that, apart from the initial excitement about the idea of a dog, I had never invested much emotion in the actual owning of a dog, much less caring. My husband, however, had once deeply loved a dog. The youngest child in a large family, Ray found a playmate and loyal companion in Bullet, a black-and-white dog he raised from a puppy in Brooklyn; he was heartbroken when his family moved to the Bronx, leaving Bullet behind. The fantasy of finding a new Bullet had lurked in his heart for years, and we tried and failed three times to adopt shelter dogs when we lived in upstate New York.

Baby Django_2Twelve years ago, Ray retired and our daughter was in Middle School: they convinced me that they were ready to raise a dog we knew “from scratch.” And so, another farm puppy, a Nestle’s-colored Labrador Retriever, made his way into our home and into our hearts. We named him Django. Bullet’s soul found a new body. And I learned how to love a dog.

Django!! - 03_2

Django!! - 10_2


Django did not disappoint. He graduated at the top of his training class, learning the good behavior he would follow for the rest of his life: wait for the “okay” before eating; sit, stay, wait; no jumping on people or pulling on leash; and no stealing food from humans. He was fluent in English. He jogged with me every morning and sauntered along with us on slow Sunday afternoon walks.
He hurled himself across empty school fields in the pursuit of a thrown tennis ball and leapt into Ray’s SUV like a hobo riding the rails, whether it was a trip to the hardware store or the 2,800 mile trek to and from our part-time home in Florida, where he discovered his Happy Place: Dog Beach, a two-and-a-half-mile stretch of leash-free canine heaven.
He bounded down the dune stairs and across the wide beach to stand in the surf, ears blown back and hair ruffled by the wind, ready to race for the tennis ball. When we made Florida our permanent home, the salt water and sun turned Django’s hair a surfer-dude burnished auburn.IMG_0966_2

Django grew into a strong and handsome 80 pounds of polished mahogany, the picture of calm and self-assurance.

About year ago, when he was eleven, Django began sliding onto his left hip occasionally when chasing the ball on grass. We thought it was arthritis. Ray threw the ball less frequently and closer, then not at all, but the slipping slowly escalated. I cut the distance of our walks by half, and then by half again, until we were barely getting down the block, Django’s back feet scuffing on the sidewalk. Ray tried one more trip to Dog Beach, but Django could no longer negotiate the sand, and it took the help of kind strangers to carry our dog up across the dune. He needed help standing, and walking on grass was easier on his feet but harder on his balance. He lost weight, all in the hips, though we were feeding him more than ever.

Two months ago, the vet updated her diagnosis: Django had a progressive and incurable neuropathy, something similar to Lou Gehrig’s disease. Steroids might extend his life, but could lead to other problems. Pain medication might help. Nothing was going to avoid making a very difficult decision: letting our dog go in order to end his suffering.

Still, we were not ready to have him gone.

By mid-November, Django had lost nearly a quarter of his weight. He was completely dependent on us, unable to get to his feet, and, once standing, his hind legs slid out from under him. The pain meds weren’t working; the once calm boy was agitated and barking every few minutes to signal his misery. We made the appointment to euthanize Django on the day after Thanksgiving, but when we got home, my husband was overcome by despair: he couldn’t imagine life without Django, and he wanted to do anything that would keep his puppy with him.

Over the Thanksgiving table, our daughter helped us through our sorrow and into compassion for our dear dog whose suffering had overcome his life. We stroked Django, crying, telling him how grateful we were that he’d come into our lives and how sorry we were that we had to let him go. We fed him turkey morsels. We took lots of pictures. We cried some more.

Never has a day moved so slowly as that Friday.

fullsizeoutput_4fdFinally, it was time. I put Django’s collar on him for the first time in weeks: it slipped right over his big bony head. I buckled it three holes smaller. The skin around his neck was as soft as a grandma’s upper arm. We clipped on the leash and helped him to his feet and toward the front door. Django uncharacteristically pulled away. We hadn’t had him on a leash in weeks.

We waited in the examination room while a tech inserted a port into Django’s front left leg for the sedative that would end Django’s life. When he brought the dog back and lowered him to a blanket, I knelt next to Django and took his face in my hands. Those soulful eyes were dim and dark. Ray passed me the box of Kleenex on the examination table. We blew our noses.

The vet came in, spoke with us for a few minutes, and then asked if we were ready. We nodded and gave Django some room. She depressed the plunger.
For a second, nothing. Then Django’s face swiveled slightly to the right, his mouth opened for two quick breaths, and his head dropped gently onto his right paw.
In that moment, the tension and exhaustion that had ravaged Django’s body and mind disappeared. He was at rest.

It was so fast. Ray and I sat on our knees, our hands on our puppy’s head, and wept.After a while, the vet and tech gently lifted Django’s body up by the corners of the blanket and carried him away. They closed the door.

We sat alone in the room for a while. At some point, Ray asked for my phone. I turned it on and handed it to him; Victoria would be waiting for our call. They spoke without the speaker. He paused several times. I knew our daughter was crying. We were all crying.

Somehow, we made it home. Waves of grief washed over me, the chemicals of the emotion making the insides of my wrists tingle like I hadn’t felt since the death of my father. Victoria texted that she’d made an homage to Django on Facebook. I thanked her. I didn’t have words yet.

Ray sat. I wandered around the house. We went to bed. We talked quietly in the dark, both of us blowing our noses. Tears dripped into my ears. Periodically, shocks of sorrow flowed into my wrists. Eventually, we went to sleep.

If you are lucky enough to have loved, you will grieve. It took me a year of living to begin the fill the emptiness left by my father’s sudden death 11 years ago, and my mother lived in sorrow another two years before a stroke took her life. My sister and I are the remaining Foreign Service family.

We have both been fortunate, though: two men worked their way into the tight family circle, becoming our husbands and our children’s fathers, and those children are flourishing as young adults. Our extended family surrounds us with love. We cherish them.

I am grateful to have left the nomadic life behind and to have allowed in permanence, even though letting in love means letting go before you’re ready.

You’re never ready.

Where I’m From

Some Foreign Service kids feel disconnected from the country of their parents’ birth. Not me. Long before I ever lived in the United States, I was a Midwesterner, tethered to family and ancestry by virtue of my parents’ efforts to stay connected to what would always be their home.

My mother and father identified first as Midwesterners.


Mom, Nancy Robb, was from Winona, Minnesota, a Mississippi River town about two hours south of the Twin Cities where her father was his generation’s owner of the the family business, Robb Brothers General Store. She expected to live out her life in the shadow of Sugarloaf, raising a family with a summer cottage above Lake Winona, shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, and supporting the YWCA.

Dad, Bob Amerson, was the eldest son on a hardscrabble South Dakota farm a few miles west of the Minnesota border.

Education was the way out for him — and the GI Bill gave him Macalester College, where he met my mother — but his love for the land, the people and the history of the prairie ran deep in him. He wasn’t going to be a farmer, but he was always going to be the son of pioneers. His memoir, From the Hidewood ( on Amazon at includes his sketches of scenes that still resonate.


Dad designated the Twin Cities as his “home address of record,” in the parlance of the Foreign Service, the place to which the State Department would send us for a summer month every few years to “undergo reorientation and re-exposure in the United States” (Foreign Affairs Manual and Handbook). For Mom and Dad, Home Leave that meant connecting with family and college friends. For my sister Susie and me, Home Leave meant experiencing an exotic world in which butter was salty; children could play alone on the grass; and people lived in the same house forever. Our Robb cousins and us could walk around the block for ice cream without grownups. The Robbs, Amersons,and Marsdens (Macalester family) were perpetually assembled to eat, laugh and sing.

These people anchored us. They still do.

In August, my sister and brother-in-law (who were married by Dave Marsden), my daughter (god daughter of Betsy Marsden) and I spent some time with Mary, Brian and Annie Marsden. The next day, we spent the morning with cousin Becky Robb. That afternoon, Amerson cousins from Arizona, California, Colorado, Iowa, Florida, Massachusetts, Oregon and Wisconsin (and the Twin Cities) gathered for a reunion on the “new” farm on the bluffs of the St. Croix.

IMG_5324 We hope next year’s reunion will be with all four Robb cousins. It’s been a while since we posed in Grandma’s dress-up clothes!


Mom and Dad also identified as the descendants of immigrants. Mom’s ancestors wereIMG_5311 the Robbs from Scotland — a clan of poets whose notebooks line my study — and the Kilis from Norway, a name changed to Kelly at Ellis Island. Dad’s family were the Norwegian Amundsons –who became the Amersons– and the Casjens from Holland/Germany.

Like hundreds of thousands of others who crossed into America through Ellis Island, these brave souls traveled for “seven weeks in a sailing vessel” without hope of ever seeing home again. My parents reconnected the American-born and Norwegian-born branches of our families. Dad found cousins for his two older sisters who had lost their Norwegian mother, and their extended family, to scarlet fever when they were toddlers. Mom traced family way back, including a glass factory in Jevnaker, where a dish she’d inherited was created by an ancestor in the 1800’s.

So it was no wonder that I felt at home during the Scandinavian portion of my husband’s and mine Baltic Sea cruise last summer. After the dreariness of St. Petersburg, the ease with which my husband and I blended into the ports of call across the Baltic was heaven.

We wandered unescorted through Helsinki, enjoying lingonberries (served by an Amerson look–alike) and reindeer antler crafts (I did confirm that they shed their antlers every few years).DSCN4232



We floated down the waterways of Stockholm past greenways filled with energetic walkers.

We sat in Copenhagen’s Tivoli Gardens enjoying the laughter of children on the gentle summer wind. DSCN4603







Although our ship plied the waters on which my brave ancestors traveled all those years ago, Norway was not on the itinerary.  We hope to visit Oslo another time to see cousin Erling Odegarden, a Facebook friend.

Travel abroad connects me with my past. It’s nostaglic to revisit the venues of my Foreign Service childhood as we did a year ago in Venice, Naples and Rome. This year’s Baltic cruise included crossing paths in Berlin with my father’s visit to that city some 55 years before. Stopping in Russia meant entering the Communist realm against which Dad fought by holding high the banner of democracy.

But spending time with my extended family reminds me that although I was raised in the Foreign Service, I always had an American home, the place where, every few years, they let us in as easily as if we’d come from around the corner.

This is where I’m from.