Stealing From the Blind

On the hill where I grew up, something was always happening. With five girls and four boys, there were plenty of opportunities to get into trouble, annoy each other, or find adventure. Our home was surrounded by fruit trees—mango, coconut, custard apple, papaya, guava, and cashew. Beyond our yard, other properties had even more delights: breadnut (chataigne), passion fruit, soursop, red and yellow cherries, pomerac, plums, sapodilla, and many others that kept us well-fed year-round.  

Now, the breadnut was an unusual fruit—oblong, green, with white nuts inside covered by brown shells when ripe. Those nuts, once boiled in salted water, became a delicious treat. One day, two of my sisters gathered some breadnut, cleaned them, and decided to cook them on an open fire. They placed the breadnut in a large can, covered it with a lid, and set it over the flames, leaving it to simmer.  

It wasn’t long before my youngest brother wandered by, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.  

"What’s in the can?" he asked.  

"You shouldn't open it," I warned.  

But he was determined. Ignoring my words, he lifted the lid—and in an instant, hot steam burst out, hitting him full in the face. He screamed, stumbling backward.  

Our mother, hearing his cries, rushed outside. He clutched his face, whimpering, "I can’t see!"  

The steam had temporarily blinded him, and for three days, his world remained dark.  

During that time, he and I spent a lot of time together. We were close in age—he was two years older than me—and at lunchtime, our mother guided him at the table, helping him find his food on the plate.  

On the second day, she made a dish I adored: dumplings with codfish. The smell alone was enough to make my stomach growl. As my brother fumbled to eat, temptation got the better of me. Instead of helping him, I decided to steal one of his dumplings.  

I reached out, my eyes focused on his face rather than the plate. In doing so, my hand brushed against his.  

He paused.  

"Mom!" he called out. "Joan is taking my food!"  

I froze. I couldn’t believe my mistake—stealing from the blind and getting caught in the act!  

Our mother scolded me. "How could you do such a thing?" she asked, shaking her head. I had no excuse. It was, indeed, a silly, heartless act.  

On the third day, my brother whispered excitedly, "I think I see something!"  

Little by little, his sight returned, and soon, he was back to normal. Looking back, I realized how childhood perspectives shape the way we experience events. My siblings and I had feared his blindness would last forever, but our mother, with the wisdom of an adult, knew otherwise.  

Life often presents us with unexpected challenges, and how we perceive them makes all the difference. Sometimes, we assume the worst, only to be surprised by a positive outcome. That’s how life works—sometimes we steal, sometimes we stumble, but we always learn.  

Slithering Intruders

 

Growing up in the islands, our home was a place of both comfort and adventure. We raised goats, sheep, and chickens—just as many of our neighbors did.

Some had cows, donkeys, and other livestock. In the tropics, encounters

with insects and reptiles were commonplace: iguanas basking in the sun,

manicou scurrying through the undergrowth, birds soaring overhead, and

bees and butterflies dancing among flowers. Life was vibrant, filled with

the sounds of the rooster’s intermittent crow and the rustling of trees in the breeze.  

But sometimes, the creatures of the wild ventured a little too close.  

One evening, my mother and most of my siblings left for a function. My youngest brother and I remained home, though I can’t recall why. As night fell, the stillness of our quiet house unsettled me. I asked my brother to sleep beside me until the rest of the family returned, and he agreed.  

We drifted into sleep, unaware that an unexpected visitor had slipped into the house.  

The snake, cold and in search of warmth, slithered into our bed and nestled between us. Its presence was unknown to us, peaceful and undisturbed. When my mother returned home, she spotted the intruder and quietly woke us, careful not to startle either us or the snake. She feared that harming it could put us in danger, so she gently coaxed us awake. Disturbed by the sudden movement, the snake swiftly retreated, disappearing into the shadows, leaving us unscathed.  

It was an eerie moment that reminded us of the scripture: *“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him and rescues them.”*—Psalm 34:7.  

Our family had many encounters with these slithering creatures, but none were as fascinating as those involving my niece—my oldest brother’s daughter. She practically grew up with us, and if there was one thing I could say about her, it was that she was fearless. She was sharp-minded, an avid reader, and remarkably composed, never one to let circumstances fluster her.  

One evening, we sat in the living room chatting, while my niece quietly read a book in the corner of the couch. At some point, she got up to use the bathroom. Moments later, she returned and—without a hint of concern—announced that there was a snake inside the bathroom. Then, as if nothing had happened, she resumed her reading.  

Her tone was so calm that none of us took her seriously.  

One of my sisters, out of sheer curiosity, decided to verify the claim. Moments later, the house erupted in screams—the stark contrast to my niece’s composure was almost comical. My sister, hysterical, shrieked that the snake was coiled around the bottom of the toilet bowl. The commotion sent the serpent slithering away, likely more alarmed than any of us.  

My niece simply looked up from her book, puzzled by the dramatic response, before returning to her reading.  

Another encounter unfolded in the bedroom, where a custard apple tree extended its branches near the open window. One of my brothers had planned to cut those branches, but before he could, the tree served as a bridge for yet another unwelcome guest.  

As usual, my niece was reading on the lower bunk of a double-decker bed, absorbed in her book. A gentle brush against her arm barely distracted her; she assumed it was a stray leaf and casually brushed it away. But the sensation returned. This time, she turned—and met the eyes of a snake.  

She calmly got up and informed us of its presence. When I went to the bedroom, I saw it retreating, vanishing just as swiftly as it had appeared. My brother wasted no time—those branches were swiftly cut down.  

Fortunately, Tobago has no venomous snakes, and while these encounters were startling, they were never life-threatening.  

Looking back, I admire my niece’s quiet strength. Her unassuming nature, her ability to remain composed in the face of uncertainty—it was a striking contrast to the rest of us. Though we all grew up under the same roof, our personalities shaped our reactions differently.  

Life has a way of teaching us that, even in shared experiences, we each process the world in our own way.  

My Speech Disorder

 I can truly say I had a happy childhood, most of the time—but I had a speech disorder. I stuttered. It was really bad. As a child, I was teased and jeered at. The sound a goat makes is as though it is stuttering, so I was called “stammer goat.” Children can be cruel.

There were moments when I would try to speak in conversations with my playmates, only to grow frustrated when the words refused to come out. People around me would grow impatient because I wasn't speaking fast enough. Seeing the looks on their faces, I would feel embarrassed and stop talking altogether. Other times, I would rush my words in an attempt to match the pace of my friends. But in doing so, my speech would get tangled—jumbled to the point that I was asked to repeat myself. Imagine that. Here I was struggling to get the words out, only to be asked to do it again. The frustration was overwhelming, and worse still, people rarely understood how difficult it was.

Many offered remedies for my stuttering. Someone once suggested drinking water from a calabash, claiming it would cure me. I never tried it—I didn't believe it would work anyway.

Among those who teased me was my youngest brother. For the most part, I endured it. But one day, he went too far. We were on the veranda talking when I started to stutter, and he began jeering at me. I tried to walk away, but he followed, continuing his mockery. Anger surged within me. I picked up a stone and aimed it at his head. He ducked just in time, avoiding what could have been a painful lesson. He never teased me again. That moment taught me that teasing a person who stutters can be dangerous—pain cuts deep, and frustration can lead to unintended consequences.

My dear mother noticed my struggle one day and gave me advice I carry with me to this day: take deep breaths and speak slowly. She meant well, though at the time, I couldn't help but think, *Why do I have to do this when everyone else speaks effortlessly?* But as a child, accepting that truth was difficult.

A defining moment in my journey came at church, when I was asked to recite a poem. I was determined to do it, despite my disorder. I started speaking, but immediately, children in the front began giggling. I felt their stares, their amusement at my struggle—but I refused to give up. In my mind, I encouraged myself, *I don't care what you all think—I will say this poem.* I remembered my mother’s words, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly. I got through it. I was proud. That day, I began truly believing that stuttering wouldn’t hold me back.

To this day, there are moments when nerves creep in, and old habits return. But I always recall my mother’s advice. And interestingly, I never stutter when I sing! Perhaps it’s because singing naturally requires deep breaths. 

As an adult, I do not stutter as much—thanks be to God. Occasionally, I am called to speak before my church congregation or other groups, and I always write at the top of my notes: **Speak slowly.** It works for me, because life is like that—we must learn, adapt, and move forward. 

For anyone struggling with stuttering, I encourage you: do not be discouraged. If I can overcome it, you can too. Every journey is different, but who knows? Maybe slowing down and taking deep breaths will be the first step toward finding your own path to fluency.

Mistaken Identity

My two older brothers moved away from home in their late teens and settled in  Trinidad, the larger of the two islands of Trinidad and Tobago. A few years passed and they both got families of their own. They were living in different parts of the island of Trinidad, but there were times when they will return home to Tobago to see the rest of the family and talk of old times.

At the age of eight, my mother took me to spend part of the summer vacation in Trinidad, with my oldest brother, who is nineteen years older than me. I traveled on one of the island ferries that transported people and goods between the islands several times a day.  At that time, it took six to eight hours to get from port to port.  I believe they now have faster boats that take less time. It was not my first time traveling by ferry since I previously did that with my mother at a younger age. I am not a good sea traveler. I tend to get seasick. The journey was not a good one for me and was relieved when the boat came to port.

We started traveling from the Scarborough Wharf,  in Tobago,  at 10:30 pm and arrived at the Port of Spain docks, in Trinidad, at 4:30 the following morning. My brother was there to meet us and my mother returned on the next ferry to Tobago. My brother hired a taxi since he did not like driving, and never will. As we traveled along the winding road that leads to his home, the windows of the car were down, and I can feel the cool morning breeze on my face. I can see the early rays of the morning sun in the clear blue sky, which was a beauty to behold. It was a pleasant ride considering the past night.

After a twenty-minute drive, the taxi stopped beside the gate of a large house.  The house was enclosed by a four-foot wire fence. There were two apartments on the first floor and one of them belonged to my brother. As we entered the apartment, his wife met us at the door. I was a bit tired and since I was still feeling a bit queasy from the boat ride, I drank some tea and decided to take a rest. After such an awful night on the ferry, I slept for about two hours, which refreshed me.

Later in the day, I realized there were other children around my age that were living in the same compound. We became fast friends, and for the next two weeks, we took part in different activities. A couple of my friends were grandchildren of the owner of the house, who lived on the second floor. There were times when we would play and visit the grandmother on that floor.

One evening, during the last week of my vacation, at about eight o'clock, we were jumping on the bed in one of the bedrooms that were facing the street. As I stated earlier, this house was surrounded by a fence with a gate that was always locked. We were considered safe. There was a commotion on the outside. Some men were calling out the name of my sister-in-law's brother. He was not in the other apartment and no one at the time knew where he was. Apparently, the men at the gate were members of a gang. They came to collect the money that was owed to them. No one from the home was going out to talk to them and they could not get in. The light was on in the bedroom where I was and I innocently drew the curtain to see who was on the outside. Suddenly someone said, "Shoot the woman at the window." The person who spoke did not know it was a child at the window. At the same time, a family member came into the bedroom and switched off the lights, simultaneously a shot was fired. I dropped on the bed and shattered glass was all over me. I thank God that I was not hurt.

The following day, the police were searching the area for these gang members but without much success. They questioned the adults in the home to get some information on the happenings of the previous night. I am still determining what transpired next since I was leaving the following day to return to Tobago.

Looking back, I can truly say that I was protected by the unseen hand of God. Those gang members were angry and they just did not care who got hurt.  I believe it could have been worst and I would not have lived to tell this story because life is like that.

Lessons Learned from Confrontation with a Dog

 One beautiful sunny afternoon, my friends and I traveled to one of the beaches of Lake Ontario in Hamilton. It was seven of us, and we traveled in two separate vehicles. Three of us arrived at the planned area first and decided to take a look around before the others arrive.

In our exploration of the area, we saw the main beach. It was windy and the waves were a bit choppy. As we walked along the trail we noticed that there were a few private coves as well. We met a young lady returning from her walk. She lived in the area and she cautioned us not to walk too closely to the tall grass because of the ticks that may be lurking there.

My companions were two male friends. As we were returning I decided to take some pictures and small videos along the way. My friends knew my "agenda" and the reason why I stop so often to take photos. They will continue walking and I will have to catch up with them. Let me say this; all my friends care for each other so this does not reflect on them negatively. It's all on me.

At one of the coves, I saw three dogs and their owners. The dogs were running in and out of the water and playing with one of the owners. I decided to take a picture and make a 2-minute video of this activity. I was about 50 feet away from them. One of the dogs saw me and stared. He glanced at his owner but apparently, the owner was not aware. The dog started walking towards me and I stopped the video and walked off.

The dog walked quickly. It did not bark or growl. It did not make a sound. Suddenly it jumped up at me towards my neck. I am thankful that I am tall (5'9') so I was able to get him off but then he went to my back. All I can say was "OK OK!" A few seconds later the owner came and called him off. They did not say why he jumped at me in that way. They only apologized.

Now I am afraid of big dogs, but this one was medium in build and height. I cannot say what breed of dog it was but after showing a friend of mine a picture of the dog he said it might be a cross between a pit bull and a labrador.

Surprisingly, I was not fearful because earlier that week I encountered another dog at the house of one of my clients. My client does not have a dog but her son and his wife were visiting her and they brought their dog with them. As I entered the porch, the dog started barking and I was hesitant to go into the living room. The son's wife came to me and gave me some dog treats to give to the dog. I held out my hand with the treats and the dog ate from my hands. Thereupon we became friends. 

I learned three things from these two encounters.

1. Do not walk alone. Stay with your friends. Stay with the group. The reason is that situations may occur that being alone you may not be able to handle it. When you are with other people you can be taken care of.

2. Those who are in the group should be always aware of those who are in the group and look out for those who might have strayed. It shows togetherness, even if that person has an agenda.

3. Sometimes God prepares you for what you will encounter even if you do not know. Since my fears were calmed with the first dog earlier in the week I was not so fearful when the other dog jumped at me.

A Childhood Memory of Folk Medicine and Maternal Love

 

When I was seven or eight, I encountered a folk remedy that had been passed down for generations. It was a different time—one where survival meant relying on what was available. People were honest, hardworking, and deeply connected to their families and neighbors, sharing what they had and supporting each other in times of need.

Our home sat on sturdy concrete pillars, creating an open space underneath, perfect for childhood games. The warmth of the day was offset by the cool breeze swirling between the pillars. Construction was underway nearby, and we had been cautioned about the hazards. But children rarely think twice about danger when wrapped in the thrill of play.

During a game of hide-and-seek, I slipped behind a pillar where an old barrel stood, thinking I had found the perfect hiding spot. But as I moved, I stepped on a rusty nail, its jagged point piercing my heel through a forgotten piece of wood. At first, I thought little of it—childhood resilience had me convinced the pain would fade. So, I said nothing and went on with my day.

As the hours passed, discomfort turned to agony. By evening, I limped noticeably, drawing my mother’s attention. With gentle yet urgent concern, she asked what had happened. I told her, and she immediately inspected the wound. The infection was setting in, and she knew action had to be swift.

What followed was something I will never forget. My mother, calm and deliberate, reached for a clove of garlic, pressing it carefully. Then, she took a piece of cotton, soaking it in kerosene oil from the lamp. As I watched in silent curiosity, she did something entirely unexpected—she found a cockroach. Without hesitation, she cut it open and placed the garlic and cotton inside its exposed belly. Then, with remarkable composure, she laid the strange mixture over my wound and bandaged it.

She reassured me with words so steady that I found no fear in the oddity of her actions. “You’ll be fine by morning,” she said, sending me off to bed. That night, I slept soundly, the pain gone. And in the morning, true to her word, I was healed—no infection, no pain, no limp.

It was a different era, one where necessity shaped action, and wisdom passed down through generations formed solutions for survival. My mother loved deeply and would do anything for her children. This moment, forever etched in memory, reminds me of her strength and unwavering care—a quiet testament to the lengths a mother would go for her child.

My Amazing Mother

                                    Pigeon Point Beach, Tobago - Courtesy Wikipedia

 I grew up in a small village in the twin island state of Trinidad and Tobago. I am the youngest of nine children, five girls, and four boys. I hardly knew my father since he passed away when I was just five years old. As a result, my mother was the only one I can look to for guidance.

My mother was very protective of us. After our father died, two of my uncles came to our home and requested that my mother gave them a couple of us to take care of since they were concerned about our welfare. They thought that doing this would help my mother since she was a "stayed home mom" at the time of my father's passing. My mother loved us deeply and made excuses for each one of us. She wanted to keep us all together.  The uncles wondered how she would make it. But she had great faith, knowing that God would see us through.

There were times we did not have very much to eat, but after breakfast Mother would say, "This is all I have to give you. Do not tell anyone what you had for breakfast and when you return home, you will get something more." There was always something for us to eat even though it was not much and we have to thank God for the backyard garden we had.

 My mother went to the Social Services Office to request assistance for us. When the officer in charge told her the amount she would be getting each month, she immediately stated "That cannot take care of my children, I prefer to work." The officer admired her spirit and said he wished more people would do the same. It was not long after this meeting that she became the custodian of the elementary school in the area. She was industrious.

My Mother passed away in 2014. She was 95 years old.

Mother was an excellent cook, and I still remember the delicious meals she prepared for us. She taught us all the culinary arts as she knew it. It turned out that each of us had our specialty. Since we were five girls, each of us was assigned a weekend to be in the kitchen to prepare the different meals of the day. One would prepare breakfast, the other lunch, and so on. One Sunday morning, it was my turn to prepare breakfast and the rule was that no one else should be in the kitchen at that time. That was to prevent problems. It so happened that one of my older sisters (they're all older than me since I'm the youngest child) came into the kitchen and I told her to leave. She was a bit annoying which caused me to punch her on the nose which started to bleed. My mother heard of the incident and reprimanded me. I thought I was right and did not speak to my sister for the rest of the week, unbeknownst to my mother.

My oldest sister knew I was not speaking to that particular sister and when Friday evening came she mentioned it to our mother. Now, at our home, we welcomed the Sabbath at sunset Friday evening, since the keeping of the Sabbath is from sunset Friday to sundown Saturday. We will sing hymns and read the bible and give thanks, as we welcome the Sabbath. At worship time we will make all wrongs right before the start of worship. At that time I was defiant. Mother told me to ask my sister's forgiveness.  In my mind, I am thinking "Forgiveness for what!" She was the one who came into the kitchen when she should not have been there. I realized that when you are the youngest, you are at a disadvantage. My mother did not argue with me, all she said was "Apologize to your sister." Imagine that, I am the youngest and am holding up the evening worship. I asked, "What if I said I was sorry but did not mean it." Again my mother said, "Apologize to your sister." I finally decided it was not worth it since all eyes were on me, and ask for her forgiveness. Years later when I mentioned it to her, she claimed to have no idea what I was talking about.

 As we only had each other, my mother told us to be supportive of one another. That rule is with us up to this day.  She never yelled at us or argue with us but we knew that her word was law. Mother would tell us that we should never lie to her about anything.  If someone in the village would complain to her about us and we give a different story she would believe us. But if at a later time, she found out it was not the truth then there would be trouble. Fortunately, that seldom happened.

I remember as a nine-year-old child she told me to make a couple loaves of bread. At that time there was no "quick rising yeast" as we have today. We had the traditional yeast that you would put in a little warm water for a few minutes before adding to the flour. The two loaves did not double in size as they should have, but I still placed them in the heated oven to bake. After they were baked my mother came to see how I did with the baking. The loaves were hefty and she asked me what kind of water I put the yeast in for it to rise. I mentioned hot water. She said, "Child you killed the yeast." That was my first lesson learned in bread-making.

Today I pride myself on what I can do in the kitchen. Here is what I baked recently.

                            Coconut buns, Coconut Tarts, and Spelt Bread

Even though Mother was always busy with different things, she always took time to help other people. In our village, she delivered many babies even though she never went to college to learn those skills. Those skills were taught to her by her grandmother, whom she grew up with since her mother died when she was eight years old. Sometimes she was called to deliver a baby in the middle of the night. I remembered one instance, during the early morning hours she was called, and as soon as the baby was born she told the parents to take that child to the hospital immediately because she knew something was not quite right. They did so and she was right in her "diagnosis" of the child because the doctor told them that if they had waited a bit longer the baby would not have lived. My mother was wise.