Lemon for lemonade

The citrus trees abounding on island survived Soudelor; the ripe fruits dislodged but the green ones stayed on the branch. Pinoys squeeze kalamansi and lemon on their soy sauce and wasabi for the sashimi.

Raimon Lehman, former Mt. Carmel teacher, recently responded to an email and got us caught up on the lemon that makes his lemonade. Ray, as we called him at the local Immanuel UMC, was a pole on a tripod that held the spirit shop together until he sojourned to Korea at a private school that bellied-up; its leadership embezzled the funds with two spending 40 years each in prison, including a gentleman who was a senator at the time.

He returned to Virginia outside D.C., got a post in Kentucky and married Jolanda from the Netherlands who moved to the U.S. at a young age. A delivery-OB/GYN nurse for 27 years when they married, she collapsed while at work, commencing her health’s decline.

Raimon’s mom in Virginia had a stroke that made his wife convince him to go back and live with her, visiting his wife in Louisville, KY, once every three weeks, which he did. Not too long after, he collapsed while getting on a local bus that got his health on a downhill ride thereafter, now convalescing in a long-term care facility since mid-January of 2014, a year before Jolanda unexpectedly passed away.

While on Saipan, Ray exhibited a neuro-challenge akin to echolalia, repeating words and syllables while speaking. With a diagnosed kidney disorder (stage 5, dialysis 4x per week) and a foot surgery in 2014, the year was not an auspicious year for raucous celebrations.

Raimon is lighthearted enough to chide that the state of Virginia did not embrace Obamacare but gave him SS disability, Medicaid, and Medicare. He experienced physical illness but was never “in real danger,” a testament to a solidly grounded faith in the way life is (YHWH in the Torah). Raimon turned 59 two months ago.

By our title, it should be obvious that this reflection is not about Raimon. It’s about lemons. They can be our demons or delight.

Top of the lemon heap a few weeks back was Charleston’s Dylann Roof’s cold-blooded massacre of nine lives during a Bible study. He went ballistic over the ascendancy of blacks in a society accustomed to whites holding the upper hand. “You rape our women,” he charged his victims. He held lethal lemons.

I worked part-time in a company in the U.S. where the pecking order was white, black, Latino, and oriental, the last heavily stratified, Japanese on top while Indo-Sino-Malays graced the bottom. I applied to work fulltime, but I was considered “not versed enough in English.” 

I only corrected students’ term papers at the university! English is a primary language in the Philippines and I had a few elocution certificates on the wall. But lacking the Texas drawl, my English was “not good enough” for the company that chose a white girl who ironically came to me for help to fill up the company’s paper work!

The blacks were subjected to whitey’s subtle insults that in turn did the same to the Latinos who picked on the Orientals. It was a merry-go-round, with colored folks quietly insulting paleface when Whitey’s back was turned.

Dylann Roof’s act makes us pause on our nation’s symbols. The Confederate flag stood for white supremacy and Southern obstinacy for a long time in reactionary intransigence. Kim Davis of KY refused licenses for same-sex marriages; went to jail rather than compromise her personal values against civil rule.

Obama shattered a few obstinate images in his two-term stint in the WH but his foray to Alaska recently got me mooning. Obama’s highlight of climate change visibly affecting the 49th state was a brilliant political move, and his wading into the river by Bristol Bay was classic; a salmon spawned on his shoe. Concern for the environment grounded this presidential visit. The locals refused mines in their town and the President concurred. Mining companies sued EPA.

In 1976, a colleague who frequents Nepal from Canada anchored a team that facilitated a participatory out-of-council town meeting in Dillingham. I was the smiling foreigner in the team. This long ago event might have added to local sense of selfhood.

This brings me back to Raimon Lehman when he was on Saipan. Ex-PCV nurse Cyndy Tice was the second pole of the tripod that joined Ray and I to lead a group gathered at Oleai when the Methodist Church established presence there to find its soul. Cyndy later retired from the Nursing Department at NMC. She passed away in New Mexico last year.

Raimon mixed his lemons for his 59-year lemonade. He feels his age, and at 70, I commiserate when I fumble keys in opening my door. I intend to make it to my 86th year but fate snickers that I need more than potassium, magnesium, and calcium to get by.

With 66 as the year of retirement, we have hordes of idle retirees in the sunset belt walking dogs. Some cry over their lemons. Others stir theirs into delightful lemonades. How are yours?