SO HOW DID YOU TWO MEET

A question that hovers in one's mind, when one meets a couple who were not married in our traditional way of mother of the groom spots a suitable girl, discusses her with the son and then makes a visit to her family to ask for her hand.

Although most of the other ways could still be considered traditional in contexts,  it is the unique details in every case that spark a curiosity in acquaintances, and acquaintances only, to ask this question.

So here's mine, hoping that I on my part, will hear yours some time.

In July 1968, after my father passed away, I decided to leave the country and had two offers at hand. One was to Seattle, Washington to join an engineering firm in an attempt to emigrate and settle there, the other was to Saudi Arabia that for me was unsettling, but would keep me in the region.

It was during this period that Bushra showed up on our doorstep,

coming to visit my sister for the first time. She had recently graduated from AUB with a Masters Degree in Psychology and, with my sister, was working as a researcher with one of the United Nations agencies in Lebanon.  I got to know that she belonged to a conservative Syrian family living in Ras Beirut not far from our house.

Eventually, Bushra joined our group of friends of mixed genders few of whom were already paired. Our activities as a group were mostly going together for evening dinners or weekend day trips to the mountains or to the beach.

Bushra did not know how to swim, so every time we went to the beach, my friends would point to me and tell her ” Go to him, he’ll teach you,” and I would gallantly oblige.

One time, we were discussing food and Bushra mentioned off-handedly the fact that Tisiquieh was a traditional dish in their family. Upon hearing this, a spontaneous heartfelt wah came out from me that was heard by everybody. An understanding look was exchanged between my sister Umayma  an her friend Mariana. The guy is stuck at last. علق.. Ubeknown to me even then, both had decided us for each other and were discreetly manipulating events in that direction. As for myself, and still so far, I was unaware of what was being schemed. يا غافل الك الله .

It took one of my friends, Suheil,  to pin me down one day and say it straight to me in my face “Hey Ziad, that Bushra is the ideal girl for you. Go after her.” .......  And in the manner of an obedient hound, that's exactly what I did.

The next time we were together with our group, and at the end of our outing, I invited Bushra to join me in my car to discuss a private matter with her. She got into the front seat, and as she did, two of our friends, Mohamad and Jamal opened the backdoor of the car to join us, unaware of what was on my mind. I looked at them and ordered  in a very stern and commanding tone “Get lost.” They burst out laughing and went away. That was my official announcement that we were pairing off.

As we drove around and around, I told Bushra that I was interested in her and would like to know her more by going out together more often. I assured her that I was serious and not just spending and wasting both her time and mine. That I hoped everything will work out for both of us to eventually marry and live together as husband and wife. My approach was very level headed lacking in romantic flavors. Her only concern was that I was only one year older than her. A concern bred in the traditions of our culture. A concern that was easy for both of us to dismiss.

So we started going out together.

Not long after, she expressed her wish one evening that we both go to the the Creperie in Jounieh for dinner, which we did.

 After we finished, we walked back and got into the car.

Before I started the car, I grabbed the opportunity to tell her that I was serious about her, and if she felt the same towards me, it was time for us decide on getting married.    I told her that at the time I was of limited resources but already had an apartment house of my own to start with. Spoke of my plans to go to Saudi Arabia for a well paid job that will require me and later both of us to live in rural forlorn areas in the desert. I was a road construction engineer, and the nature of my work dictated that I live in rural regions that have not yet been reached by a road. I did not want to paint for her a life full of roses ahead of us. Nothing of of the I am madly in love with you or I cannot live without you stuff. It was a very clinically sterile descriptions of what was ahead of us.

She answered saying "I will go with you to wherever you have to go." Period. No questions asked.

OMG . . . .  this girl had blind confidence in me at a time when my self confidence was still shaky.

A heavy burden weighed on my shoulder.

She could not have said anything better for that moment.  It was a dark cool starry night with a full moon shining on both of us.

It filled us both with intense emotions and we kissed for the first time.

Now came the time to meet the family.

Bushra belonged to a traditional bourgeios Damascene family of two parents and eight siblings of whom she was the eldest. They all lived in Beirut except for the father who stayed in Damascus looking after the family business. The mother was handling the family affairs here.

So I was invited to dinner at their house.

As we sat in the salon, the mother, a Prima Dona by her own right, talked nonstop. She was singing high and low, saying things left and right.  At one time, she even remarked, يو نحنا ما منعطي بنانيي. (we do not marry our daughter away to Lebanese. )

I sensed she was the one who was tense.  This was the eldest and the first of her children to marry. So I crossed my legs and put myself at ease.

Well, not completely at ease. Those teenage sisters of hers sitting in the corner, they kept eying me,  whispering among themselves and giggling.

When we sat at the dining table, Bushra started by distributing bowls of soup a l'ongnion she had prepared for the occasion, while her mother, placed among others, her pride of a large plate of stuffed vine leaves.

In a calculated move, I painfully ignored the steaming hot bowl of soup in front of me and started by helping myself with a serving from her mother's vine leaves. That did it. The Italians knew it all the way. "Che voglio la figlia caressa la mamma," they say. Tensions relaxed and the rest of the evening went very smoothly. I had taken the first step up a ladder that eventually lead to the position of being her favorite son in law.

Next thing, I abandoned plans for immigration to the USA and signed a contract with a Saudi contractor to work on a road construction project. The pay was good and not much opportunity to squander, being in the middle of the desert.

Loaded with presents to the family, I flew back to Beirut less than one year later, february 1970, for the wedding. Bushra and my sister Umayma had set everything for the occasion. I on my part had saved enough for the three pillars of a wedding. A diamond wedding ring, a wedding party in one of the Beirut hotels and a honeymoon in Europe.

Back from our honeymoon, we boarded a plane to Jeddah where my Jeep was waiting for us. We passed by the market, bought some linen, pots and pans, and headed to the  house provided for us by my employer, somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

We were starting from scratch, except that we had each other, and the pots and pans clattering  in the back of my Jeep.

MY STORY WITH READER'S DIGEST

I've been a regular reader of RD since I do not know when. Could have been since sixty years. This story happened with me more than fifty years back and I will never forget it. 

Some time in the year 1958, I read an article in RD stating  that if you fold a piece of paper over itself fifty times, the thickness reached would be equivalent to the distance of travel from the earth to the moon and back for an x number of times. I was fascinated but not surprised by the answer, knowing then, as a high school student, what geometric progression in algebra is about. 

Later that same year,  I sat for an interview facing a panel of three professors to qualify for acceptance as a student to the Faculty of Engineering at the American University of Beirut. I had been preparing  myself for weeks reviewing my textbooks of math, science, history, geography et al. 

The first question asked was "if you fold a piece of paper fifty times, how thick would it get?"

-"If you know the thickness of the sheet, you can find out using the formula of geometric progression," I answered and wrote the formula on the blackboard. 

-" Do you think it could reach up from here to there?" asked the professor  pointing to end of the room. 

I realized immediately the professor had also read the article and was trying to pull my leg. 

-"Oh no, the result would be astronomical. The ensuing thickness is an x multiple of the distance between the earth and the moon" I answered. 

The interview ended there and then with that single question. No need for more and I was accepted. They realized I was not that person whose leg could be pulled. Good material for a future engineer. 

By the way, I got hooked on RD here in Lebanon through my late father who himself was a regular reader, and my mother who at one time was regular to Al-Mokhtar, the Arabic version of RD. 

AN EXPLOSION THAT ROCKED

AN EXPLOSION THAT ROCKED

In the olden days, and before portable clocks and watches were invented, time of the day could only be observed through a main clock usually erected in the town center on top of a tower for all to see. The time for  each  clock was  reset daily as per the position of the sun on that particular day for that particular town. 12:00 for high-noon. High-noon is that time of the day when the shade of a stick, planted vertically in the ground, reaches its smallest length. A very simple benchmark to determine high-noon for any location anywhere. That was before radios were common and international time zones were introduced.

So every town was its own time zone. An island unto itself. One could know the time of the day only by looking at the clock tower when it was within sight or by hearing it's chimes at the top of the hour, when  out of site. Clocks and their towers became a familiar, common, everyday feature of the town and a center of attention and attraction for the town dwellers. Builders  and clockmakers would lavish the utmost of their craftsmanship to turn their clock and it's tower into an icon worthy of their city.

That's what College Hall Tower Clock was to Ras Beirut.

As a note on the side, when College Hall was first built, the clock was not on the very top of the tower. There was an arcade above it. Eventually, and for obvious reasons, the clock switched places with the arcade and was raised to the top.

I remember myself as a young child walking with my grandfather (Jiddi Abou Yousif) on Bliss street  in the direction towards the University. As soon as the College Hall tower clock came to sight, Jiddi would take out his pocket watch with its beautiful gold chain from his vest pocket, look up at the tower clock, set his watch to it and place it back in his pocket with the satisfaction that it was now in accord with the clock of the greatest institution of learning in the world . He was on the top of the hour of the world.

Much later, as a young boy, going down Jean D'Arc street, reaching Bliss, I would always look to the right first before turning to the left on my way to IC. The tower clock was always there, to bid me  good morning and point out the time left for me to get to class.

Later, as a young man, and from the same location, I would look up to the right and there was the clock, urging me to quicken my steps through the Main Gate to get on time to the the lower campus  before the start of the  class session.

During our class sessions, we could always count on the  ten to the hour sound of its  bell urging an over zealous teacher to give us a break and let us out at last.

When we sat in the Green Field Grandstand cheering our home team, the clock was always up there, in full view, to fan the flame of loyalty to our Alma Mater.

Walking on the Beirut Cornish on a sunny day, I would look up and there was the clock, on top of a green hill,  towering against the blue sky, surrounded by some strands of white clouds, added as a final touch-up to a master painting by a Master Painter

Later, I joined AUB in February 1991as  Director of Physical Plant. Lived in my own house on the Manara area for two years then moved to live on campus in a beautiful house that was later demolished to make way for the present Charles  Hostler Student Center.

The  position I held  provided me with the privilege of having College Hall clock placed in my custody.

She was now my baby.

With the memory of my grandfather's faith in the tower clock still vivid in my mind, I took it upon myself to see to it that it was still worthy of his confidence. So every Monday morning I would set my wristwatch to the BBC time signal at six o'clock. Then on my way to the office, I would first go to the upper floor of College Hall, climb the wooden ladder to the top of the tower and reset the clock accordingly.

At six o'clock on the morning of Friday November 8, 1991, I woke up and turned on the radio to listen to the BBC news, as was my habit, before I start my day. Somewhere along the way, the newscaster interrupted himself to announce  a statement in a single sentence. "An explosion has rocked the main administration building of the American University of Beirut," and went on with whatever piece of news he had interrupted.

.........

........

Did I really hear what I just heard?

Living in the Manara area we should have heard the explosion, and we heard nothing

Did he say specifically the American University of Beirut?

What did he mean by "the main administration building?"

Could that be .... College Hall.

How ironic that, as custodian of the University buildings, living a mere five minutes walk away, to be informed of this devastating piece of news from a source as far away as London.

So, hurriedly, and without going through my morning ritual of shower and coffee, put on my clothes, got on Bliss street and started heading for the Main Gate. Brisk steps at first.

As I was getting nearer and nearer, my pace slowed down and my heart started pounding, at the realization of what could be waiting for me.

My eyes would refuse to look up afraid of what I might see, or actually what I might not see.

When I reached the Jean D'Ark junction, my habitual vantage point, I gathered all the courage and looked up ....

She was not there

She was there

JIDDI ABOU YOUSIF

JIDDI ABOU YOUSIF

Jiddi Abou Yousif was a man.

And when I say "a man" I do not mean to describe his gender as one does when filling a profile for Facebook or a visa application to the USA.

When I say "a man" I mean what it took in those days for somebody to be referred to as "a man," when such men were few. He was a man of his word.

Jiddi was a man of sufficient means. He did not have to work for a living. Actually, he looked down at working for a living, but not at those who worked for a it.

Jiddi was always well attired when out of the house. A dark blue suit with double breasted jacket, a blue polka dot bow tie and a black ebony cane with an etched silver handle. Always wore a tarboosh " fez." He had three positions for the tarboosh, upright for official, cocked to the side for casual and tipped to the front for relaxation. The same way westerners would use their hats?

He was fair complexioned with green eyes. A beautiful face. The name of his family, Ballouz, originated from the Italian word "Bellos," meaning beautiful ones. Italian? I do not know why and how

Likewise his wife, my grandmother, Sitti Imm Yousif, she also was fair complexioned with blue eyes, as described in another article. That combination was passed to my mother, who passed part of the genes to me and my sister Umayma.

Jiddi indulged in the hobby of raising cows in his yard. I think he did, because his wife, Sitti Imm Yousif loved cow milk. Milk produced always exceeded home consumption. So early every morning Jiddi would make a round distributing the excess fresh milk to his neighbors. For free of course and purely as a neighborly gesture.

Then there came a time when for one reason or the other, Jiddi had to give up this hobby of his. So when he informed his neighbors, one of them, a well to do Bassoul family, said jokingly, "so what shall we do now without you ya Abou Yousif?"

Jiddi would not take it as a joke.  He  took it upon himself to fetch them their milk every morning from a supplier who lived somewhere near the Abou Taleb crossing. Took me with him one early morning on this chore.

This the Bassouls would accept only if Jiddi would agree to get paid for the service. Jiddi accepted to receive only what he had to pay the milk vendor, not a single piaster more. He accepted because it was a condition imposed on him and therefore the only way he could live up to his

word.

That"s what it took to be referred to as a man in those days.

Jiddi also involved  himself in raising rare expensive  breeds of pigeons. He belonged to an exclusive circle of friends who shared this hobby.  This circle met regularly in a downtown cafe to exchange news, updates on new breeds, feeding techniques, medications and the like. Networking to use the present days term. The cafe was a melting pot for men of all denominations from all parts of Beirut.

One member of this exclusive circle was Hajj Nqoula

(Nicolas) Mrad, the famous Achrafiyyeh notable of his time.

I remember Jiddi once remarking to me that Christians are good God fearing people just like us Moslems

. جماعة أوادم مثلنا بيخافوا الله

And the nearest of them to us, (I love this part) are the Greek Orthodox. Evidently, Hajj Nqoula, an avid Greek Orthodox himself, and in enlightening my grandfather on Christians and Christianity, had planted a cookie in his head.

It turned out, Jiddi also shared this passion for pigeons with King Farouk of Egypt. Emissaries from the Egyptian embassy would visit him from time to time in search of specific rare breeds for their monarch’s collection.

At the age of six, Jiddi treated me like a man.

He once took me to the cafe when I was still five or six years old. Placed me on a chair by the table with the other men and ordered for me the traditional small glass of tea (istikana.) When the waiter bowed and placed the glass on the table in front of me, I felt so full of myself as I never have.

On Ramadan eves, he would instruct the "tabbal" to include  my name in the list of men he called to wake up for the suhoor.

On the Ramadan feast, he would give me one full Lebanese pound for an Idiyyeh. That was worth around ten thousands of present value. Not only this, but the banknote itself was more than double the size of present ones, multicolored and fashioned in the patterns of a Persian carpet. Crisp, shining, colorful freshly minted banknote. A feast for the eye and a good treat for the pocket. 

Whenever he lifted himself up or had to apply an effort, Jiddi would always invoked God by murmuring audibly to himself "Ya Mueen.” يا معين.

    

I have heard it so often as a child that it got imprinted in my mind and now I use it myself for the same purpose.

Recently, I was very happy to hear one of my sons use it. Amazing how such things pass effortlessly from one generation to another.

The last I saw of Jiddi in good health was when he came  to visit us after I had graduated from AUB as an Engineer in the year 1962. I had made it to the Big Diploma (الشهادة الكبيرة) in the manner they used to refer to a University Degree. We took this picture with my father and my sister Umayma.

At the end of the visit, he asked me to accompany him visiting some friends in Ras Beirut. Wanted to show them his Engineer Grandson. He was so proud of me.

After that, he fell ill to the common old age ailment of multiple sclerosis and passed away in peace.

May God have mercy on his soul.

A HEAD-ON COLLISION

WEDDING SPEECH

WEDDING SPEECH

Speech delivered at the wedding of our son Sani Z. Yamout to Stephanie L. Andrus
Whiteface Lodge, Lake Placid  NY, USA
January 7, 2012

I'm so happy, so charged with emotions, I do not know how I 'll be able to go the through this.

Bushra..... Could you please come and stand by my side for support, the way you have done for the forty two years we are now married. Please bring along your glass for the toasts.

Diana Mother of the Bride

I am so happy at last to have met you Stephanie, met your family...  The Andruses, the Firliks, the Mullens, and also your families' close friends. We have always followed you all by proxy, on Facebook, in messages and on the phone.  Now it’s the real thing. You stand out as such a tightly knit circle of lifetime loyalties.  

That's a rare thing to see these days. We know and value what it means to belong to that circle. We're very happy to see our son Sani is already a part of it. So here's to you all, but first and foremost to you Diane, mother of the bride, the vibrant hub of that circle, the person puling it in all together.

"Son, when the time comes ....... "

When I was a young man, my father gave me the advice of my lifetime. He said ........ "Son..., when the time comes for you to marry, find yourself an intelligent girl. For an intelligent wife will make life much easier for you." 

Well,,,, when the 

The blessing of my life

time came,........ Bushra showed up on our doorstep.... coming to visit my sister for the first time. It was no coincidence. The thing had been pre-arranged. . She was God-sent.  The blessing of my life...... Home delivered.

Here's to you and to those wonderful years we've been together now.

And now with this wedding, we are happy to see that all three of our sons have done by my father's advice.

So here's to you Nicole, to you Dionne, and to you Stephanie.  

When I attend wedding celebrations, I am always reminded of our own wedding, actually, of a small ceremony that precedes the wedding celebration. It's that of signing the marriage contract. We refer to it as the Kitab ceremony. Those among us of the Jewish denomination are familiar with this ceremony. It is one of the many traditions we share. Even the Hebrew word for it (ketubah) sounds something similar to the Arabic word Kitab.

"We are gathered here ..........."

Anyways, the sheikh who presided over the ceremony, opened by saying "We are gathered here to witness the start of a new family bla bla bla ......"

I say bla bla bla bla for upon hearing this...., Wah..........., I felt myself suddenly face to face with the reality of the responsibility for that forthcoming family. It sent my head into a spin and for a few moments I was oblivious of whatever he said after.

In the thick of these ceremonies and celebrations ..........

For it was there and then, in the thick of these ceremonies and celebrations, that the burden of that forthcoming family started to bear ....heavily..... on my shoulders. ........That burden turned out to be the blessing and joy of our life. 

And the family did not take long to start showing up.

Strolling with Salah  on the Cornich of Beirut

So much so that by the time Salah, our first born was two months old, we took him for a stroll and were encountered by a nosy couple who are relatives from Damascus, and people of Damascus can be very nosy. They peeked into the stroller and the usual questions.........

"Oh what a nice baby, a boy or a girl?....... What name?........... How old?"

Upon hearing he was a two months old boy, there was a frown and a moment of silence ......... followed by this exchange;

"when was he born?"

"He was born last November twenty four."

"You know we have been to your wedding, we forgot the date, when was that?" A very innocent question as you can see.

"It was the twenty first of last February."

Again a moment of silence with fingers twitching and lips murmuring in count followed by a big burst. 

"Ohh what a nice boy, look at that beautiful face, the curly hair, can we hold him.........." 

Salah was followed by Sani, Sawsan & Karim...... No more premonitions about our children being nice children.

The One Million Dollar Man

And by the time Sani grew up to be two and a half years old, we had to send him to school. Actually it was not a school....... not even a kindergarten. It was what was referred to as a playgroup. A place where children spent their time either napping or dancing around the teacher in a circle  

"Round and round and round we go, tra lala lala  lala." 

Every morning Sani would leave the house weeping his eyes out. He didn't want to leave mom, and would come back home with red eyes, puffed checks and a face full of tears like he's been weeping all the way through. For him it was an ordeal.

This went on for some time until one day Sani came home with eyes gleaming, a face beaming with a big smile..........  and with all the lisps of a two and a half year old, had a big announcement to make. He said

 "Ma...... Today I saw the teacher's butt."

Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's what the two and a half years old scholar reported to his mother on that day when he came back from that institution of basic learning .  

I can't use the synonym English word for the Arabic word he used. ......... Not appropriate for the occasion........... Yet it showed that ..... the scope of vocabulary of this two and a half years old ......went way beyond tra  lala lala lala............  Likewise a quest for academic achievement......  that looked up to levels..... above those of a preset curriculum.

One can't help but relate to Galileo Galilee when, on a dark starry night of the early seventeenth century, and with the help of his newly invented telescope,  he spotted and reported the sighting of the first of the four moons of Jupiter.

Newt

Except that you have to give more credence to the methodology of the former's observation, for it was conducted in proximity to the object being observed, in pure daylight and with the naked eye thus formulating a good idea of the shape and size of the object being observed, with no leeway for optical distortions.

Veritably, and unbeknown to us until then, we were in the presence of a prodigy. A prodigy among his peers

Looked up and were fascinated by what they saw

Nicklaus Copernicus, Johannes Kepler, Galileo Galilee, Sir Isaac Newton, Sani Yamout......... All looked up at one time in their life and reported their fascination by what they saw.     

Add and Multiply

Not long ago, I drew a nice schematic diagram of our family tree starting with my grandfather down to our grandchildren, showing all uncles, aunts, cousins, siblings, spouses, with a portrait posted for each individual. This I sent to our children with a message of two main words..........

"Add and Multiply."

Today our family tree is being enriched by the addition of Stephanie..... a rare and precious acquisition,....to use collectors' jargon. We are now looking forward, the Good Lord willing as grandma Andrus says, Inshallah as we say it in Arabic, to the product of the multiplication.

That also goes for you Dionne and Karim. Do you hear that!!! Bushra asked that I relay this message also to you. Where are you, raise your hand. And Dionne, you raise your hand too. You should know by now it takes two to tango.  

Yes......, we are looking forward for more skiers, more sailors, more fishermen, more divers, more tennis players, more ice skaters, more soccer players........., but first and foremost, the Good Lord Willing and always the Good Lord Willing, for  more well raised,  conscientious, highly skilled professionals with both of you already as their role models. 

So let's raise our glasses to toast our beloved newlyweds Stephanie and Sani with excerpts from the Arabic lyrics of this song to the tune of Mendelssohn Bridal March.

Shine on us in your all white o you April flower

Shine on us in your all white o you April flower

Let your beauty shine on us with this radiant face of yours

Your prince is holding your hand

And all our hearts are around you

Showering you with roses and myrrh

Our hearts are praying for you on this bright evening

May the joy of this festivity continue with you for the rest of your lives.

May the Good Lord above bless you

May He be with you wherever you go

May He support you in hard days to come

And may your life together be that of good health, abundance, peace and harmony. 

THE HOUSE THAT REMINDS ME OF MY MOTHER

THE HOUSE THAT REMINDS ME OF MY MOTHER

My mother on the Balcony of the House

My first house is the house where I was born. It is an apartment in a simple three storey building that is still there to the south of Hamra street near Commodore Hotel.

We lived in this house until I was four when we had to leave. That's when my mother passed away. She died of Jaundice I was told. Didn't know what Jaundice was, except that it was what killed my mother.

How did your mother die?
She died of jaundice. 
Jaundice was a word that found its way into my vocabulary at the age of four. 

The only Picture I  have with my Mother

 The last memory I have of being inside this house is of many people sitting on chairs around the main room coming offer their condolences. I did something very strange. I passed around the people extending my palm to them facing upward as if begging for something. Was I begging for money, for sympathy. That behavior still puzzles me. I believe now it was an expression of the abject misery I felt myself in, at the time.
Losing my mother at the age of four gashed a deep wound in my heart that never healed. 

Jiddi Abou Yousif

My grandparents, having seen my father's predicament, took me and my sister Umayma to live with them. They lived at the end of Bliss Street near the Manara............. I can still remember the day we moved. The picture is always there in front of my eyes.  My grandfather carrying my one year old sister in one arm and holding my hand in another, walking us to their place.

My father, who had to travel away from Lebanon to earn our living, leased the house to a friend of his whom I knew.

Not long after we moved to my grandparents’ house, I had a longing and a strong urge to go back to that house. I missed my mother. I missed the house. Thought the house was where I could connect with her again.

Sometime, I do not know how long after, but definitely before I became five, I saw myself walking all the way from Manara to our house, go up the stairs, and knock at the door. The occupant opened, recognized me, and was surprised to see me standing there by myself. I asked for his permission to go into the house and recollect the feeling of living with my mother again. Of course he obliged. I went inside and started staring at the walls and the ceilings went from one room to the other. How can I, now in my  seventies, describe my feelings there and then as a four year old??? I then thanked the tenant and walked back to my new home.

The Building as it Looks Now

Now, when I pass by that house and look at it, I still have the urge to go up the stairs, knock on the new occupants and ask if I can go inside and again repeat that encounter and connect with a mother whose loss had gashed a hidden deep wound in my heart that never healed. How sweet that would be if I can get into the inside of that house again. But I lack that courage of the four years old.

I am afraid the building will be knocked down before I get back that courage.