Sad News: My grandfather on my mom’s side died this past weekend. I decided not to fly back for the second funeral in 2.5 months. The stress of getting there, plus the trauma that it’s a funeral for someone very dear to my heart, plus the expense, plus having to deal with this difficult (at times) organization all added up to too much. I thought I really would have trouble leaving the U.S. again after a trip back like this. I’ve already waved goodbye to my family from the other side of a security gate at the airport 3 times, and each time it was much harder. A fourth time might have been the end of Peace Corps for me, as much as being here feels right, it’s so so hard to go back knowing how hard the life away from family and familiarity is. So I wrote this, something along the lines of what I might have wanted to say at the funeral. If you’re not from Lancaster, PA or aren’t a Schell or relation, some of this stuff might fly over your head, but it describes a small part of my memories with my grandfather, so I'm keeping it.
There were always snacks. We’d arrive from that seemingly endless 1.5 hour drive from the Philadelphia suburbs out to Pop-pop’s, and despite Mom’s stern looks and protests that we might ruin our next meal, Pop-pop would have some sort of snack for us. A brick of cream cheese mixed with herbs and a whole tube of saltines would be set in front of Theodore (my brother, for those who aren’t family) and I, and we’d eat the whole thing, because we were at Pop-pop’s, and we were allowed. Or there would be pretzels, big hard ones with extra salt. Or a root-beer float, made in one of the glass mugs that had been stockpiled in the freezer for such an occasion.
I remember the time he had made a big bowl of mashed potatoes (something I always requested when we ate at Pop-pop’s), and instead of putting it in the middle of the table, he plopped the mixing bowl down in front of me. “It’s all for you” he said, that mischevious twinkle in his eye. The best grilled cheese sandwich, he figured out, was made with a good cheese (preferably from Clyde Weaver’s or Lancaster Central Market), a slice of tomato, but most importantly, grilled in the electric waffle maker. Sometimes, he’d even make you a black-and-white milkshake with tiny bits of unblended ice suspended in the drink, to go along with the waffle-printed sandwich and that was even better.
When we were staying the night, he would ask us before bed, “So what do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” Pancakes, cheese omelette, French toast, whatever. He’d make an early-morning run to the store, so we could request whatever we wanted. I liked waking up early enough to help mix the pancake batter, or learn to fold the omelette. It was Pop-pop, I’m sure, who taught me to cook breakfast, a meal I never ever skip. Besides the main course, there’d always be big glasses of juice, plates of fresh fruit, toast, and jam (which required a spoon, in Pop-pop’s mind, to ensure that enough jam made it on the bread). The hardest part was getting him to sit down and eat with us.
If you got him to sit down, and if you waited a little while, the stories would start. The most interesting ones were about being on the farm of his foster family during the Great Depression. He must have been very young for a lot of that time, but it is clear he remembered the general feeling of struggle and poverty. However, it was his common refrain, “We had no money, but all of us kids were fat” that stuck with me forever. He said there was always enough food. I interviewed him for a high school report I did on the Great Depression, and he told me that they would even have enough to provide for overnight guests, hobos. Clearly, providing food is not something that was just a fun thing, it was integral to his philosophy on what it means to love and care for people. His stories inspired me to question about the lack of food in the world, especially for the poor farmers who at least should have enough to eat. This work has taken me far away from Pennsylvania, from my family, and from anything comforting or familiar that would help me deal with my dear Pop-pop’s death. But I am fortified by thoughts of Pop-pop, his struggles at a young age of being separated from several siblings and his mother and being put into foster care, his decision to be brave and join the Army and fight in WWII, his determination throughout his life to keep going and make things better for his loved ones, and anyone he met that he could do a kindness for.
You could go anywhere with Pop-pop and come across someone he not only knew, but most often genuinely knew about and cared about. Pop-pop knew how to make people feel valued and important, from the waitresses at Smithgall’s pharmacy to the random people who would stop him on the street saying they remembered him from somewhere. It kind of got annoying, always having to stop and wait for him to have a conversation. But we’d always put up with it, because Pop-pop doted on us so much, gave us that attention and value at home, cooking for us, playing Gin Rummy (and predicting every card that would come up, calling the Jacks and Kings “cowboys”), teaching us to play pool, showing us the garden, or just talking over tea.
I think Pop-pop knew I believed in something and felt compelled to this line of work because of what he had told me, but he usually spent more time questioning me about whether I would be safe enough, happy enough, and yes, whether I’d have enough to eat. Ultimately that was it for him. He would worry about me, sometimes make me doubt my ambitions through hard lines of questioning (but Rachel, are you really making a difference? Why do you need to go to that country? Can’t you stay here a few more days?), but it was only because he knew once I left, he couldn’t make sure I was getting enough food or living in a safe enough place. He never wanted me to experience discomfort, it seemed.
It would be wonderful to go back to Pennsylvania, to say a proper good-bye, but Pop-pop never let me say good-bye when he was living, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want that now. In December, when I went back for Nanny’s funeral, he only let me say “see you later.” I guess my task now is to see Pop-pop in myself, remind others who knew him of how he’d act or what he’d do, to use him and his ways as inspiration to be unrelenting and stubborn when it comes to caring, loving, and of course, to feeding others plenty of good food.
Big grasshopper. I put the pen up there for comparison but didn´t want to arrange it because I was going to scare the insect. Taking this picture made me miss a bus. 
Not wildlife. But I like my new sustainable bowl. It´s what people used here before ceramics, and they still use these, mostly to scoop water. It´s made from a squash-gourd. And I like eating my stir-fry out of it because it´s the perfect size, plus I know when I leave here I will be able to throw it on the ground and it will decompose. Mother Earth is the most sustainable designer.
Goslings at my host family´s. I had a video of them being too cute for their own good, but it didn´t upload onto here for some reason. The baby goat is due in April.
BAAAAT. BAAAAAT. anyone remember that Office episode. I have no exclamation mark on this keyboard, or at least all the puncuation is switched. Well this bat clearly was attracted by the banana peels I had in my bowl of stuff to be composted...but it was strange to see it during the daylight, and so close to the house. Mona must have been eating cockroaches or something, but I´m glad she didn´t see this one because she still doesn´t have her Rabies vaccine and you never know with bats. I poked it and threw some rocks at it to get it to fly away, but it took some real convincing. It must have been injured, but it did fly away. 
