Jan's Story

 On the way to publish Tuesday's blog,"What Do You Think? I was warned that some domains were coming due, so I began clearing out some old blogs.  I came upon this post. If you've read it before, please forgive me. It was posted on May 2 2013. Jan was my sister. I guess I'll publish "What Do You Think?" next week. Stay tuned.

She was crying when I first saw her. She was three years old. I was twenty.

 

It was evening. I rushed in the door, fresh from work, anxious to see my new sister, and was met by a sobbing little girl. Here she was fresh off the plane from Korea and had ridden with my parents from the airport in Portland to our little town of The Dalles, Oregon. She was thrust into a new family, into new surroundings, panicked to see a dog, and our little Jan was so tiny we didn't know if she could stand. She kept repeating a Korean word we didn't know that sounded like "Ummaya," which we think meant "Grandma."

 

Mother was making all efforts to comfort her, and knowing she was tired from her long trip and in need of rest, Mom filled the kitchen sink with water and bubbles and set little Jan in it. Jan reached out in joy and curiosity to the bubbles, and a smile broke out over her face that brightened the room like a crack in the cosmos.

 

Jan was our girl from then on.

 

That night Mom took her into her bed and cuddled her until morning. After that, mom became Jan's haven, a place where she felt safe and adored. Jan was a joy to the family, and she and I became fast friends. She would crawl into bed with me in the mornings, wet my bed, and greet me with incredible affection. I loved her, and I loved showing her off. She liked pretty clothes, and I would dress her and brush her beautiful long dark hair and take her into town with me.

 

When I was at work, Mom said she would wander around the house asking, "Where's Jo?"

 

Regretfully I waited out the day assisting dental procedures instead of meeting the plane from Korea and experiencing the joy of watching babies being placed into eager parents' hands. Mom said when a parent connected with their child, it was cosmic. Mom took Jan into her arms that day, and that was it; they were connected. Jan was a sister to two brothers and a sister who came later and to me. Mom got the family she longed for, and Jan got the mother she needed and with whom she wants to be buried.

 

Jan died last Thursday, April 24, 2013.

 

Two months ago, Jan exclaimed about her newborn grandson, "I didn't know I could love that child so much. I love being a grandma."

 

She had undergone her first round of chemo and felt good, hopeful, and filled with dreams. "I want to get a little house I can play with," she bubbled, "and entertain, and I am getting my music back. Maybe I will perform. I used to do that, and people in town still remember my piano music."

 

Jan had married and had a beautiful daughter, divorced, and raised her child as a single parent. She was highly efficient; even as a teenager, she could clean up a kitchen before the guests had finished burping. She gave up her music in response to the father, who kept volunteering her for events without asking. And she wanted her expression back, her skill, her ability to make music. She wanted her power, to dream again, to laugh that infectious laugh again.

 

I miss her terribly.

 

In my mind's eye, I asked Mom why this happened. Why did Jan die so young? I saw the image of Mom taking frail Jan into her ample loving arms and cuddling her as she did that first day.

 

For years after Mom's death, Mom's grave had no gravestone. One year we kids went together and bought one. Jan and I had never visited it together. So, on a cold December day, I drove from Eugene, Oregon, to The Dalles, Oregon, to visit the gravestone I had never seen. I had brought flowers, and as it had begun to snow, Jan grabbed a broom as we exited her back door. Carrying flowers and a broom, we walked through the cemetery under a gray sky where snowflakes drifted onto our heads and collected tiny crystal pinwheels on our coats. We placed the flowers beside the gravestone and gently swept aside the filmy white so we could read the words written on her tombstone.

 

As we stood there talking to Mom, saying what a wonderful mother she was and how lucky we were to have had her, the gray clouds parted in a tremendous arc, revealing the clear sky above. The snow stopped. We stared above in disbelief. "I feel joy," said Jan. "So do I," I said. Then as abruptly as they had parted, the clouds closed, and it began to snow again.

 

 

 

Funny, Sometimes You Read a Story and Exclaim: “What?!” And You End It With an Embarrassed, “Oh.”

 

I’ve eaten my words more than once.

 

 

“Donkey cheese at $600.00 per kilogram, about $500.00 a pound.”

 

When I read about Donkey cheese, I couldn’t believe people would pay $500.00 for a pound of cheese, but after watching the video about the only farm in Europe that makes Donkey cheese, I said to the farmer, “You go, man.”

 

Donkey cheese is made using the milk of an endangered donkey species - fewer than 1,000 are alive. (I hope they aren’t stealing from their babies. However, since they are milking them three times a day, that will up their milk production, so maybe they can feed both.)

 

It all started in 1997 when Slobodan Simic’, a former member of Parliament, saw the Balkan donkeys being mistreated. He was so mad he bought all 1,000 of them and created The Zasavica Nature Reserve. The farm has 300 acres now.

 

Simic’ decided to milk the donkeys and make soap as it is good for the skin. At least Cleopatra thought so, she bathed in it. Simic’ found he had more milk than he needed for soap, so he decided to make cheese. 

 

The donkeys are well cared for, and they wait for three months after the baby is born for it to have its fill of mother’s milk. Simic’ is the only man, plus one other, who knows how to make cheese from Donkey milk. (Somebody in American said they made cheese from Donkey milk, but hey, this is my story, and it’s what the interviewer told regarding Simic’s cheese.) Making donkey milk cheese is a complicated process. It is low in fat, so they add 40% goat’s milk, plus Casen and bacteria to help the milk coagulate, which is necessary for cheese making. Watch the video. it’s fun. (At the bottom of the page.)

 

It costs Simic about $100,000 a year to keep and feed the donkeys, but he only makes about $30,000.

 

He deserves the price. 

 

The trouble is you must buy it from the farm—a ticket to Serbia in the Balkans would really up the price. It isn’t sold outside the farm because it is illegal in Europe to sell unpasteurized products. The catch is, it needs to be unpasteurized to make the cheese.

 

 

I'm Eating my own words—again:

:

I have screamed and yelled, saying I would not be a Real Estate Agent. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t like the bureaucracy involved. I didn’t like the expense of getting started. I didn’t like that the agency—you must be assigned to one--took the lion’s share of the profits if you made a sale, and they expected you to be a bird dog to find clients. And people resent paying a broker a commission when their job is by commission only.

 

So, what am I doing now? 

 

I’ve committed myself to 150 hours of study (Yipes) to be a Real Estate Agent. 

 

Haha. The state told me I needed to begin again after letting my license lapse. (After the first hour of study, I had a headache.)

 

I do need a refresher course, for laws go through my head and out the other side. They don’t follow Einstein’s proclamation of “Don’t memorize anything you can look up.”) And, they say, “Trust me, somewhere on the test, you will need to know how many feet are in a mile and how many square feet are in an acre. (5, 680, and 43,560). Do you really think a client would ask me that?

 

 

 “Can you keep your cool when others have lost theirs?” 

 

This question was posed by one school in their intro, “Is Real Estate for You?”

 

I knew that they had a handle on what it took to be a broker. (The term in Oregon is Broker. It’s Agent in many other states.) 

 

Buying a house is often one of the biggest investments a person will make. It is stressful and often frustrating—That’s when the broker must keep their cool

 

Why did I change my mind?

 

Glad you asked.

 

My daughter has kept her license active for more than three years. After three years, a Broker can become a Principal Broker and have their own agency.

 

Thus, I can work for her. We would be a team, and she would be responsible (as the Principal Broker) if I made any mistakes.

 

See, people would get two for the price of one.

 

And isn’t it fun to move into a new house? Think of all the clutter you have an excuse to dump.

 

Back to the donkeys:

 

Pule cheese, aka Donkey Cheese:

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOq6FEu12bs

 

Rerouted—the Balkans

 

Eva Zu Beck, a young woman interviewer, visits The Zasavica Nature Reserve. There you can see the acreage and the friendliness of the donkeys and her trying to milk one: 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WN7QN1nZpk

 

I think I ought to sell the cheese. You can try to save people money, or you can just go for the top. Hum. I wonder what the postage would be.