The One Thing I Miss About Uganda.....

It took a while, but I’ve finally identified one thing I miss terribly about living in Gulu, Uganda. Here it is: nothing, and I mean absotively posolutely NOTHING in that town reminds me of my sister Julie.

This past Monday, for the first time ever, flying into Washington National Airport was seriously depressing. I mean “drink a half bottle of wine to gulp down your Xanax” depressing. Normally, gliding across the Mall and peeking out the window at our majestic national monuments makes me feel like one of the luckiest people in the world, because I get to live in the Mighty, Mighty District of Chocolate.

But now, everything in Washington reminds me of Julie, and how much she loved coming to visit. Here’s why: I worked in Detroit for 3 years, and Julie never visited me there ONCE. On the other hand, she came to DC, on average, about 3 times a year over the past 13 years. Only when she was in too much pain to unfold her arthritic joints--and that would have had to be enough pain to drop a Clydesdale--would Julie pass up a chance to come see about me and DC.

I was SOOOO worried about Julie's health while she was doing all of her traveling for the National Education Association. Don't get me wrong--being a representative for Education Support Professionals (ESP’s, or the secretaries, janitors, teacher’s aides, bus drivers, librarians and other non-teacher professionals across the country) made all of us so very proud of her. This new chapter in her life opened after she’d spent more than 30 years in the Cairo Public School System, at a the time that major hassles with school district officials, and a major lupus flare, left her bedridden for about 2 years in the late 90’s.

But when Julie got the call to help launch the NEA ESP committee, she literally WILLED herself out of bed. It didn’t matter that she had to swallow more than 60 pills a day to muzzle the pain and other complications of lupus. Julie handled her biz’ness, traveling across the country doing whatever it took to keep that committee going, to help fight for her colleagues’ rights.

And she did it with suitcases so big and heavy, you’d have thought she was trafficking gold bars from South Africa or something. I can personally attest that my uterus shifted at least 4 or 5 times over the years while trying to drag her massive deadweight luggage into my apartment. I think Julie’s motto was, “If you bring all your shit with you wherever you go, you have an ironclad guarantee that you’ll never run out of something, or have to buy a replacement while you travel.”

When she wasn’t leading meetings, and when I was off work and we weren’t prowling Pentagon City Mall, chillin’ at home with Julie watching Turner Classic Movies or Forensics Files was more relaxing than a weekend at the spa. With Julie, I didn’t have to be “NPR’s Rachel Jones,” or make sure I was wearing my best clothes and the right make-up. I could totally revert to the little nappy-headed girl who used to climb into Julie’s big bed 40 years ago while she read us stories or rocked us to sleep.

And I could eat my ever-lovin ass off. Part of the reason Julie’s suitcases were so heavy was that she and Ron would spend a few days barbecuing ribs before she came to visit. They’d freeze those ribs, pack them with Julie’s patented traveling food system, and then load them all into my freezer when she arrived. Julie would also cook a big pot of greens, and candied sweet potatoes, and mac and cheese…..whatever I fancied.

Or we’d go out to snazzy restaurants openings. I lured Julie out to DC many times by telling her about some ritzy event I’d been invited to where she’d get to rub shoulders with the famous, or eat exquisite food. I have pictures of Julie talking to Barbara Walters and Andrea Mitchell like they were old buddies.

We sure did have us some fun times.

But since I got back to DC Monday, I’ve been crying even more than I did after being dumped by some online loser. (Don't worry....I promise to write the Mother of All Blog Posts soon about my online dating adventures.) Yesterday evening, I was literally weeping, hysterically. It was the end of a long day of running errands and meeting with Internews staff to prep for my return trip to Uganda. I was headed to my brother Peter’s house in the snazzy little red Mustang convertible he’s letting me drive while I’m in town. I’d almost reached his street in Northwest Washington, but had to make a u-turn to get there. To do that, I pulled into a Popeye’s restaurant off of Georgia Avenue.

Julie dined at some of the best restaurants in this country, but we shared one distinct culinary passion….the 3-piece from Popeye’s. With the mashed potatoes and surprisingly tasty gravy. And some green beans. Trust and believe that I trolled the DC streets many a night looking for a Popeye’s during Julie’s visits to DC.

Remembering our shared reverence for the ubiquitous yard bird, I almost crashed into another car trying to get out of that parking lot. I kept my emotions in check long enough to get inside my brother’s house, drag myself up to my room, climb out of my jeans and unhook my bra so I could really cut loose with non-constricted heaving sobs, and then I opened the floodgates. I was pounding my fists on the bed, wailing, moaning her nickname over and over.

“Winky, Winky, Winky,” I sobbed. “Why, Why, Why?”

Of course, there was no answer. Didn’t the poet Rilke say “Live the questions now, and perhaps you will live along some distant day into the answers.” Too bad the answer to this particular question can be found only when I’m dead myself. Anyway, fter sobbing for an hour or so, I knew I had to try and pull myself together. I had to keep going. I couldn’t assume the fetal position for the rest of my life.

Besides, I’m just too damned busy. I gotta get ready to hop a plane out of Dulles next Monday evening, bound for Amsterdam and then Entebbe. I’ve got my own ridiculously heavy suitcases to pack. I’m headed back to Uganda, where my sharp pangs of grief will be quickly eclipsed by near-crippling lower back pain over raggedy-ass roads during my six hour drive from Kampala to Gulu. I’m headed to my cozy little cottage, where I will be greeted by my demonic-looking old pal ‘Base Bunny.” I’m headed to Northern Freakin’ Uganda. I’m headed……

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