First Papaya

Since I was four and cultivated a bean sprout from a seed, I have loved the miracle that is plants. And not just flowers and vegetables, but all plants; whether trees, weeds, or wild flowers, I’m fascinated by them all.

When I travel to new places, usually, the first thing I notice are the trees and flowers, after that, maybe the architecture, and way after that, perhaps the people. (I'm not a people person). If I see something green and growing that I’ve never seen before, I definitely take note, and probably a picture if I have a camera; I can’t help myself.

My first time in the tropics to Equatorial West Africa over three decades ago, one of the first things I remember noticing there were the crazy looking papayas with their long straight stalks and crowns of foliage at the top. Now THAT is one unique plant to someone who has mostly lived in temperate zones, as I always had up to that time.

Look carefully at the base of the wall in the above photo. Those are my papayas from last March.

The papaya is common, it’s everywhere you look in this country, but MAN, to me, it is SO cool. From my experience I can’t even think of another single plant to compare it to; I can only compare it to several others, as if the papaya is some kind of strange amalgamation of many kinds of plants. They grow like crazy almost anywhere, or not so crazy, depending on the soil and moisture conditions I suppose.

Check out the little papayas in the photo above. We planted them in late February or so and by March they were as you see. They got a little stunted from the boys as they put up that bamboo fence behind them, but once my little green guys got their roots under them, BAM!, up they shot.

xxxxxxxxxx By June they looked like this, about five feet high.
The girls were going to try and do a jump-and-snatch, but I insisted they use the dang ladder!

As I post this it is now mid-January, only ten months since we planted them. It’s taken quite some time for my largest and most robust papaya to finally bare an edible fruit, but it was definitely worth the wait.
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But, before I talk about the fruit I have to confess that I’m not sure how to classify the plant. I mean, is it a bush, is it a tree, what IS it exactly? I guess it’s just a big fast growing plant. To me, it resembles a gigantic flower because of its over-sized flower-like center "stalk." My largest one of the four, at ten months has an honest-to-God trunk, exactly like a tree; but the huge long stemmed leaves all grow directly from this center “trunk,” which reminds me how leaves sprout from the main stalk of a flower plant.
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So, no, I don’t think it’s a tree, at least not like any tree I can think of. Then again, maybe its related to the much slower growing palms or the similarly fast growing banana-types, all of which grow from the center, but the papaya just doesn't resemble these other types of plants as far as the fruit and leaves go. So, go figure...


That's the ripe papaya, the one below with the yellowish color, the others above are still green.
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Then there’s the fruit itself… I’m trying to think of any other fruit that, depending on what stage it’s picked, or how it’s cooked, resembles either a fruit or a vegetable; and believe me, it CAN seem to be both.
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For example, my favorite Filipino dish is chicken tinola cooked in a broth of stewed green papaya, which is definitely a vegetable; but then again, one of my favorite fruits are orangish-yellow, fully-ripened, delicately-juicy papaya slices. Eating it one way will not bring to mind the taste of it the other way. It’s as if they have two completely different taste and texture identities. Like I said, the papaya is really something!

I cannot get enough of the leaves, especially the view of them from directly below. Check it out; is there a God or what?
This particular papaya is only ten months old and it stands well over 15 feet. We just came from a visit to Cebu where I saw individual papaya "trees" that must have been at least twice that. These are not annuals or even biennials; one plant can evidently live for many years, and they seem able to continue to grow in height for the entirety of their life span.
Janine received "the honor" of picking the first papaya; plus she's young and spry enough not to get hurt too much if she falls off the ladder while picking it. Just kidding. No, she volunteered, when asked.
I think by next year, if we are still living here, we will have to get a taller ladder, that is if we are going to be able to keep plucking papayas from its ever higher heights.
xxxxxxxx The "fruit version," freshly sliced papaya chunks. My favorite!

Go here to check out the complete flickr set of "Papaya Picking."

BVA & The Black Jesus Friday

(Currently, we are conducting a VA benefits advice outreach at The American Consulate in Cebu City. I haven't been able to do much blogging for the past week because of it. By next Monday I should be back in the saddle. In the meantime, I wrote the following post just before we left for Cebu. By the way, BVA stands for Board of Veterans Appeals).

I don’t know how many BVA hearings I’ve attended over the years, maybe 30 or so. I’ve done so representing other veterans in arguing their claims for benefits in front of various Board of Veterans Appeals judges.

The hearings are always interesting for me. Most I’ve attended have been like the ones we did last Friday, called video conference hearings where the judge hears the case real time from Washington D.C. via satellite conferencing. We sit in a small room in the embassy with basically a webcam and a microphone aimed at us, while the judge has the same setup on the other side of the world in D.C. It’s an incredibly good system with no lag at all—pretty high tech.

There were a total of 6 hearings, but only two of them were ours. The VA hearing scheduler tells all the claimants to show up at the same time, in this case all six at 9 am, and then makes them wait while the judge listens to each argument one at a time.

The messed up scheduling system reminds me of the way many physician specialists make their appointments in this country. They do it in gaggle fashion, just as VARO Manila lines up its BVA hearing appointments, where everyone shows up at once and then are told to wait their turn. I once showed up for a gastroscopy at the time I was told to show up and ended up waiting for four hours because 5 or 6 other people had arrived just before me. I suppose they get away with that ridiculous setup because hardly anyone has a job here, so I guess the idea is that no one is supposed to feel bothered (and evidently, the only people who ARE bothered by it are the whiny Americans, like me). Well, the VA has evidently adopted this same kind of maddening appointment arrangement. I suppose it’s a case of “when in the Philippines, do as they do.”

What made last Friday particularly “interesting” for everyone who had to show up for the hearings was that it also happened to be the same day as “The Procession of the Black Nazarene,” or more precisely, “Let’s take the Black Jesus for a Walk Day.” It already takes us about two plus hours to get to the embassy from Angeles City, so instead of leaving at 0’dark thirty, we had to leave about 30 or 40 minutes even before that. Five hours in a car, boy is that fun, and just wonderful on my bad back. Oh well, as long as it does some good, what the heck.

If you have never gone through a BVA Hearing, here’s the drill. Before turning on the recorder, and yes, the hearing is recorded, the judge introduces herself (last Friday I was fortunate to experience my first woman BVA judge), and then she asks everyone on the other side of the camera who they are. She also wants to know who will be doing the questioning and answering (the service rep, me, will usually lead the claimant through the questioning). Once that is all established, she turns on the recorder and announces all the participants and the issue under appeal.

I like to see my veteran claimant at least twice to prepare for the hearing. The first meeting is to discuss out loud one more time why WE KNOW that the VA was wrong in denying the claim. By this time we’ve already advanced the argument on the substantive appeal form called the Form 9, but sometimes it’s been almost a year since it was turned in, so it’s important that we get it straight in our minds again. And sometimes, more evidence has come into existence that could help buttress our case. It’s important to know that we can actually turn in new evidence like that during the hearing, as long as a waiver of local determination is also turned in. If the waiver is not done, then the regional office is supposed to readjudicate using the fresh evidence. Needless to say, we usually sign the waiver, since not doing it could possibly add another year to the process!

I like to know exactly what I’m going to say to the judge, every word. There’s nothing worse than trying to “wing it.” Try to do that and two bad things can happen: one, things are said that can hurt the claim, and two, things aren’t said that could have helped the claim. I don’t want to leave the hearings chamber in a daze due to poor planning (and lack of practice) and have the thought come to mind on the drive home, ‘Oh man, we forgot to bring up…!’ or, ‘Why did we say that; what the heck were we thinking!”

The Substantive Appeal is written by the claimant’s representative to address the Reasons & Bases for the VA decision, all included in a VA document to the claimant called “The Statement of the Case,” and often, there is an addendum to the “SOC” called, “The Supplemental Statement of the Case.” At the first meeting with the veteran, in getting ready for the BVA hearing, I like to break down each bit of denial R&B rationale, and specifically answer each on paper.

We ask “Why is the rater or Decision Review Officer wrong in making these assertions?” “What code was violated or not complied with by the VA?” With the answers to those questions in mind, everything and anything is written that we might eventually incorporate into our final appeal argument to the judge at the hearing. No stone should be left unturned. The fact that I might have missed something is what makes me lose sleep the night before the hearing, or I should say that’s one of many reasons I lose sleep.

Two important points that I always seek to drive home to my vets long before we show up at the hearing is that the judge’s time is important, so keep to the script, and on that same note, do not wander off into issues that are not listed in the SOC. Usually, the judge will politely listen when a veteran does this foolishness, but in effect it takes emphasis away from the only thing that the judge is going to address anyway, and that’s the issue at hand.

For instance, I’ve had claimants go off on tangents like, “Your honor, I just want to use this opportunity to talk about how poorly I’ve been treated at the clinic here. They won’t give me the meds or treatment I need… blah blah blah.” The judge will nod for a minute or so, but all that’s really been accomplished, if anything, is to piss her off. The judge’s job is to listen to all the evidence of THE ISSUES and to make a decision on ONLY those issues. Many times the decisions are subjective anyway, to the point that they could go either way, so why in the world would you want to alienate the one person that could make or break your case?

The point is, stay on point, and make all responses complete but as brief as possible; and by all means, be as respectful as you possibly can. That’s what I tell my guys anyway.

Within a week of the actual hearing day I like to have a practice hearing. This is where I walk my client claimant through each step of what will happen. I will have already written down all the questions that I might ask the veteran during the hearing, and I’ll also have asked him to write the answers down for me to go over on paper. Once we’ve done this, usually by email, we are ready to do a face-to-face practice hearing.

Judges hate to have things read to them, so I prefer to write all the questions and responses as point-by-point talking papers. I ask the vet to read from it ONLY if they absolutely have to. It’s rare, but some are so anxious that they need to read their answers, but I try to discourage them from doing it.

Inevitably, as we run through our practice sessions I am able to pick up on some things that either need to be emphasized at the actual hearing or completely left out. The idea is to make sure that there are NO surprises in front of the judge.

And speaking of the judges, all are different, but all have much in common in the way they run their hearings as well. They go by their own generic script I’ve noticed. They all utter the same welcoming and ending phrases, especially at the end, where they all say, “I want to thank you for coming here today. I think that the opportunity to actually hear your arguments is very beneficial… and finally, I’d like to thank you for your service. And if that’s all, I’ll bring these proceedings to a close.”

VA raters, decision review officers and judges, all attempt to be judicious and noncommittal in their reactions. Aside from their body language though, even if you come out and ask them, slyly or not, what they think will happen, they will merely say that they will consider all the evidence available and make the very best decision possible.

There ARE times though, such as last Friday, where it’s possible to figure out what direction they are swaying decision wise. Of course, I’ve been fooled by raters and DROs before, where they seem to express strong empathy and understanding for the argument, and yet, STILL come up with a decision completely counter to that apparent compassion.

At the end of the hearing, all my vets ask the same question: “How do you think it went?” Because I’ve seen what I’ve seen, I always shrug and answer, “We’ll just have to wait and see...”

Take a Chill Pill Phil

Its moments like what just happened that remind me, and everyone around me, that I have a problem.

I don't like to use my clinical depressive state as an excuse for bad behavior, but "its all I got," so to speak. I say that half jokingly, but it's true that once my "trigger is tripped," that's all she wrote. I am officially "out of control," and it is an ugly thing to behold. Once I have entered slippery slope territory, it's figurative ass-over-tea kettle time, and down I go.

Well, ...a little while ago, ...down I went.

My current marriage, which is my second, is now ending because of it," the "it" being "my condition." And yes, I know it's all my fault. I KNOW I can make people feel pretty bad when I get going on them, and try as I might to stem the meanness, it still manages to come out.

I tried to explain to her what was going on, about the demons in my head, but there are only so many apologies and so many explanations before it becomes too much for anyone to bear. I don't blame her at all. I only hope my "next" will be more understanding than my "ex,"and be willing to stick it out. I am not hopeful.

Anyway, my neighbors on the other side of my back wall got a new puppy the other day. It looks to be about 3 or 4 months old, a cockerspaniel. I began to notice an incessant yapping the other night coming from somewhere over the fence, but couldn't be sure from exactly where. We called subdivision security and asked them to intervene so we could get some sleep. That seemed to work, but evidently only for the short term.

This afternoon, about an hour ago it started up again. Yap! Yap! YAP! YAP! ... ad nauseum... I went up to the second level of the tower to have a look. There it was, the cutest little cockerspaniel, but it was tied up by itself to a backdoor with about 6 feet of leash. The way it was acting, obviously, it was lonely. Dogs like that need people, its bred into them. Leave them alone, especially an untrained puppy, and they will yap and yap until they get what they want, which is attention. Well, it got attention all right, but too bad for its owner, the attention it attracted was from me.

I had warned Divine that I should not be the one to confront our neighbors about this "problem;" I just don't do well with social interchange anymore, especially when it involves "drama-drama," as they say here. I'm not sure if folks who know me understand what a trial it is for me to meet and advise the hand full of veterans and dependents that I try to help for a couple hours a day, four days a week. When I get home I am so tense with anxiety that it takes me hours to unwind. The meds do help though. I thank the VA for that.

The young dog was in full yap. I couldn't help myself, I called out: "Hello! Excuse me!"

Nothing. I called again, and again, and again, louder each time, and finally boomed out a full marine-voiced "HEY!" and I did so four or five times. I could feel the blood pounding in my carotids as my heart began to explode with anger. There was the slippery slope and down I went.

Finally, the lady of the house came out to see what I wanted.

"Maam, can you please control your animal? Its barking right outside my bedroom window and where I'm trying to watch TV on my porch. I can't even hear myself think, much less my TV."

I could feel my eyes bulging and my face betraying my steamed condition.

The answer she gave REALLY set me off, "The dog is here inside my yard. I don't have to do anything."

That enraged me beyond repair. I was now practically out of my head mad and yelled at her, "Are you aware of the subdivsion rules on barking dogs?"

"What rules?"

"You are supposed to control your dog so that it doesn't disturb your neighbors!" I didn't say it, I practically screamed it, I kind of had to over the yapping of her puppy, plus I was red-faced livid at her nonchalant in-your-face response.

I said a few other choice things as well, nothing profane, but full of venom and choked with intensity. Her teenage son came out of the house, or burst out, took a look at me, listened for a moment and went back inside. I began to realize that what was happening wasn't going to accomplish anything. I did have that much control, but it was too late, I was shaking with emotion.

What should have happened in the first place took place at that point. Divine went to the subdivision office and chatted up the lady who works there, as well as to the head of security. She brought them to our house where the lady confirmed that I am indeed correct about the "barking dog policy" and she informed me that she and security would go next to our neighbors and inform them of the rules. I was only beginning to calm down. Geez, what's wrong with me?

I took another "chill pill," which is what I call my psychotropics, and listened as the security guard and subdivision lady arrived at the yapping puppy house and explained to my angry neighbor that the dog had to be kept quiet as per the rules.

As we used to say in the old days, payback is a bitch, and I'm sure she'll be trying to exact some from me. I'm gone for the next week to Cebu, so she'll have a week to either get rid of the puppy or figure out how to keep it quiet. We'll see...

Anyway, where's my pills?

Snail Mulching

Every leaf that falls from my trees, all the grass clippings, and every bit of vegetable kitchen waste goes into the ground of my yard. I make sure of that. I learned to do that when I was a kid in Michigan, to mulch and compost all plant-type biodegradable material that happens to get generated in my immediate surroundings.

I learned to do that in school, in my Earth Science and Biology classes, as well as from the magazines my dad bought, especially one called Organic Gardening. Burning leaves or tossing out grass clippings with the regular garbage was unthinkable. Why would anyone do such a thing when they can easily let it break down naturally into its basic elements and thus re-nourish the soil?

I’m reminded every evening that there are unfortunates here who never heard of such environmental endeavors when I watch the ugly effects of scores of little raked up piles of twigs and leaves as each pile is lit up. From up in the tower I can see each burn spot from the telltale white smoke clouds. Up they go where they join together into one massive pall of hazy air pollution. Its dry season now so there's no cleansing by daily rainstorms and the drier it gets the more people want to burn stuff. As much as I would like it to be otherwise, it's what they do in places like this.

In fact, from my travels I’ve learned to equate the smell of smoke with the Third World. Whether Africa, South America or here in Asia, one thing all underdeveloped countries have in common is the acrid odor of burning, whether it is brush, garbage, or just from cooking fires; take a whiff, and for sure something will be alit nearby.

The poor here really seem to have this ingrained firebug penchant. Not long after I first moved into this house, I watched as one of my newly hired maids raked up a small pile of fallen leaves and a candy wrapper or two and then nonchalantly lit it up. She did this even though I pay to have my garbage picked up, notwithstanding that my desire to compost was not yet known to her. Rather than take the effort to pick it up and place it in the can, she opted to burn it. I wasn’t very happy with her, and the funny thing as I look back on it now is she could not figure out why I was so worked up over such a trivial thing, and trivial it was to her. She didn’t last here very long, and while she WAS here I don’t think she ever “got me.”

On that note, last week I was out mulching into the soil a few days worth of biodegradables. I don’t have a compost pile because they are a bit unsightly and odiferous, and with my yard being so compact I decided long ago to just bury the stuff, although I have developed a composting process.

My mulching process is to dig a two foot wide trench about three feet long along my bamboo fence and then lay down a layer of organic detritus. I mash it into the earth with the sharp end of a shovel, wet it down, shovel a thin deposit of earth over that, and then lay down another layer of detritus, and so on until I get 5 or 6 layers built up.

So I’m doing my composting thing last week when I notice a round object fall caked with a crust of dried mud roll out from under my bamboo fence. At first I thought it was a rock or a nasty old rubber ball. But once I washed the mud off it I discovered it to be a pretty hefty sized land snail.

I found that strange since I’ve been in this place for more than a year now, and I spend a lot of time in the yard, and yet, this is the first time I’ve seen any snails at all. In fact, I’ve lived in the area since 2002 and have never seen a snail anywhere around here.

I took a break to examine it. I love nature, so it’s what I do, what I’ve always done since I can remember. I much prefer natural things to things of man. I avoid the latter if I can and indulge in the former like an addict.

I went in the house for my Cybershot digital cam and took a few shots of my new snail friend as it enjoyed its newly dampened surroundings. When I first picked it up it had been dried up and dusty. I had the hose out and had wetted everything down as part of the mulching process. I’m pretty sure snails like it moist, and presently, during the midst of dry season, it had probably been in a dormant state waiting for it to start to rain again. Of course, all that is conjecture.

This particular gastropod, once washed off and cleaned up, I thought to be particularly photogenic. I turned on the macro function and clicked away. I really enjoy pictures like this, particularly when I watch them back on the computer screen on a slideshow when each shot fills the entire screen. Wow, the detail!

Snails can be tough on plant life, so I was considering releasing it outside the confines of my walls, but I figured what the heck, it’s only one. How much harm could it do? So, after the photo session I put it back where I had found it and wished it well.

Papa Juicy?

Yesterday morning in the mall, trapped in the salon chair, hair color cream burning my scalp to the bone, I watched as a pretty young lady excitedly entered after spotting my girlfriend. I figured they must be pretty close the way they greeted each other like two long lost buddies.

They talked and laughed boisterously for a good ten minutes. As the hairdresser painted additional goop into my tortured mane I soon realized that I had evidently become the topic of the girl’s conversation. Both looked at me like someone checking out a puppy in a pet shop window. To let them know I was onto them I grinned and waved from under my protective sheet which set off even more giggles and even an understated high five.

Later on that day I asked Divine what all the fuss was about between her and the girl in the salon. She explained laughing (she loves to laugh!): “Oh, that’s my friend from the hotel across the bridge. She works in the restaurant. I haven’t seen her in a long time, and when she saw you she wanted to know if you were my boyfriend.”

“Okay, so why all the laughing while you guys were looking at me? Making fun of my ugly new hair color, weren’t ya?”

“No way!” she protested. "She said you looked like a papa juicy."

"Papa Juicy? What's that?" I asked, already having mostly figured it out.

My girl nodded and elaborated, "I know, I asked her what it means too and she said, “You know, a daddy masarap!” Divine really emphasized the masarap part.

She continued telling her story: And then I said, “Oh yeah, of course he is! Very VERY masarap!””

“Really? And that’s when you guys did that little high five?” I asked.

“You got it!”
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"Dang," I said, amazed at their brazeness, "You girls are WORSE than dudes!"
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I shook my head, totally flattered, completely pleased with myself, and utterly baffled. xxxxx

"Well, for the life of me I have no idea how you guys can think that way, but I have to admit that I LIKE it!”
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Just to confirm, I opened the bathroom door, turned on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. 'Nope, still ugly old me,' I thought.
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I made a wry face remarking, “Geez, are you sure I’m the one you guys were looking at? I mean, look…”
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Turning around I pointed back at the mirror, “That is a pudgy 51 year old face attached to an equally pudgy body. What the heck is wrong with you girls? Are ya blind? I’m old and I’m fat!” I slapped my gut to make my point.
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She laughed (her favorite response) and objected, “No way, you’re guapo, and you’re not fat, you’re macho! I love the way you look! If you get skinny I’m gonna trade you!”
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I chuckled along with her, “Back home, I’m old and ugly; here, I’m a sex object! God bless the Philippines, where the women are half blind or just have completely poor taste in men. No wonder I live here…”
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Here’s a coincidence: Throughout most of my military career I went by the nickname PJ, aka “Papa Juicy?” You know, I just might go back to that, now that I know what it REALLY stands for. (Hmmm.... There's a thought... stroking chin, looking up and to the right.)