Giving myself a pep talk: You’ve got to do this

After the big chubasco blew beyond us and the weather settled, Dave walked to school, about a mile away. I headed back to unscramble the confusion in our suitcases, finding new homes for clothes, toys, sewing supplies, mixing bowls, and books.

A humid, hot wind blew through the windows, forcing me to move slowly—a lifestyle I’d have to get accustomed to. Sweat ran down my face and neck. I splashed off with water, but that didn’t do much good—within seconds of toweling off, sweat broke out again.

Cockroaches skittered around the kitchen and left their stinky droppings in dark corners. They grew them big in Lomalinda—up to two inches long not counting antennae—and I was furious that one had run across my face during the night.

Until we unpacked cookware and dinnerware and stocked our cupboards, we ate lunch in the dining hall and so, fifteen minutes before noon Dave called and said he’d meet us there. I groaned at the thought of stepping out under that midday sun—even in the shade, the thermometer read a hundred degrees. But the kids and I set out hiking those hills—no umbrellas, no hats, no sunglasses—arriving broiled and nauseated. We had hardly enough energy to lift our forks.

Eager to buy groceries, after lunch we explored the commissary, better known as “the comm.” A low-lying building painted sky blue, inside it was dark and cramped, the size of a small house. It smelled of laundry detergent, bleach, insect spray, powdered juice drink, burlap, and bread.

Shopping at the comm on another day

The manager, Esther Steen, smiled and said, “You’ll need this.” She handed me a round basket more than two feet wide with a handle over the top. I didn’t know why I needed it but thanked her.

Hand-crafted wooden shelves housed canned food—things like tuna and vegetables—but limited supplies shocked me. I found one loaf of bread, a small tin of rolled oats, and coffee, rice, flour, and powdered milk in small plastic bags.

A chest freezer held a few odd pieces of meat, but no ice cream. We would soon learn that the commissary stocked ice cream only on rare occasions.

I didn’t know it then, but on future days the commissary would sell broccoli, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, pineapples, bananas, oranges, lemons, and so much more, but that day I found no produce or fresh meat, and I despaired. How could I feed my kids well enough? How did people make decent meals?

I stacked food, laundry detergent, and toilet tissue on a dandelion-yellow wooden counter. Esther used an aged adding machine to total our bill, and then I learned the commissary had no grocery bags—everyone brought their own containers.

We loaded our new basket with groceries for Dave to carry, and what wouldn’t fit we piled into Matt’s arms, and Karen’s, and mine, and we marched out beneath a blistering sun—down a long hill, around a hill, up a hill, down a hill, and across the softball field. Dave’s arms must have ached under the weight of that awkward, overloaded basket.

By the time we reached home, the four of us felt sick. Nausea bubbled in my throat. Our heads ached, our eyes stung from the sun’s glare, our bodies dripped, and our mouths had gone dry.

I didn’t know it then but the four of us exhibited symptoms of what’s sometimes called “sun poisoning” (though no poison is actually involved). Symptoms can include “nausea, vomiting, chills, fever, headache, and a general feeling of being sick.”

I gave the kids a drink, settled them to rest in their bedrooms, and then collapsed across my bed. I hadn’t expected living in Lomalinda would require so much dogged effort. I wished I could wake up and find it a bad dream. But this was no dream.

Before long, Dave hiked back to school, delighted to get ready for his new job and the new school year. I let the kids nap but dragged myself up and resumed unpacking, giving myself a pep talk: You’ve got to do this. (From Chapter 7, Please,God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)