John Enterline Photography, used with permission
John Enterline, photographer and friend I never knew John very well. He went to the early morning church service. I rarely ever am cleaned up and ready to leave the house by 8:00, especially on a Sunday morning. I preferred the later service. However, in between those services was a gap in time when some people went to Sunday School, others mingled in the gathering hall behind the sanctuary, and those members of the congregation with taste visited the art on display in the small church gallery. That's how I met John
He was a photographer. I'm sort of a photographer. I have an artist's eye and doctor absolutely every photo- graph that I take with PhotoShop. But, John was a photographer He didn't need PhotoShop. He had the knowledge and all the necessary toys to take breathtaking photographs. He loved landscapes like the barn scene included here. But, he also did amazing things with still life photography. I have a print of an orange and pomegranate that looks like an oil painting. I have no idea how John did that with a camera. He tried to show me once during a photography lesson in his basement studio. I still have no clue.
I'm not sure which of us had an exhibition first. But, I loved his photographs and he loved my portraits. John retired and the plan was to pursue his photography as he traveled. It was a great plan. Great plans don't always happen. Shortly after retirement, John developed cancer.
I didn't see him as much as I should have, but our loitering overlapped one Sunday morning. He was on his way home and I arrived early for my service. We had a nice time catching up. At this point, John could only speak in a whisper, but he was confident that he could beat the cancer. Throughout the entire conversation, I had an argument going on inside my head. "This guy has cancer. He's in the fight of his life. Should I give him a hug?"
I didn't hug John. And, I regretted it almost as soon as it didn't happen. So, I emailed John and filled him in on situation. He agreed that I should have hugged him. Plans were made immediately to meet again the following Sunday in the overlap time between services for a hug.
It happened.
And then, he took a quick turn for the worse. The cancer flared up. He rapidly withered away. And before I knew anything about the turn of events, John died.
I learned my lesson. And, unfortunately, it seems that I have to learn lessons the hard way to actually learn them. When given the opportunity to hug someone you care about, do not let the opportunity pass you by. When I attended John's funeral, his niece was my main contact. She saved a photograph for me that I wanted and I shared my "John story" about the hug with her. And as soon as she heard the story, she opened up her arms for a hug.
Lahcen and his son Brahim around 1990 I wish I completely learned my lesson the first time around. But, sometimes life has to hit me over the head a second or third time to let the message fully sink in. And, that's what happened to me this week. While I was on Facebook, I saw a suggestion to "friend" one of my friends in Morocco. I didn't know Lahcen had an account, and I was thrilled to send off the request. I hadn't seen him in almost two decades. What can happen in that amount of time? or even a week?
I'm very blessed in my travels. I tend to meet the most wonderful and gracious people along my path. Lahcen was one of the best and dearest. And, really, seriously, it was a friendship that probably should never have happened. At least, it wasn't too likely. If you ever take the bus from Marrakech to Ouarzazate, you have to cross over the Atlas Mountains. And, the bus stopped for lunch in Taddart. (If you ate what you should eat, there were piping hot bowls of tagine along the roadside. Tagine is a stew made of potatoes, onions, tomatoes, carrots and some kind of meat. In Taddart it was often goat heads.)
If there were places to eat, it makes perfect sense that there were also souvenir shop with exotic treasures. It may surprise you, but I preferred souvenirs over goat heads. And, that's how I wandered into Lahcen's life. Lahcen spoke Arabic, Berber and French. You may notice that English was not included in that list of languages. That's why the friendship was a little unlikely. My three years of high school French helped me some, but not enough to really communicate to any satisfaction. I usually traveled with one or two Moroccan friends who spoke English. They did a lot of translating. But, a lot of words were not really needed to like Lahcen. He had such a warmth and kindness about him. I liked him immediately. So, I came to Taddart frequently.
Whenever I needed to escape from the busy city life of Casablanca, I headed to Taddart. At first, I stayed in the local hotel. Nothing to write home about. Eventually, I was adopted into Lahcen's family and stayed at his home. No plans or invitations were needed. When I showed up in town, I was taken home. There was no road to his little village. The trail lead down the valley from Taddart and then up the side of the next mountain. The family lived among a cluster of adobe homes. The dirt from the mountain was used to build the blocks and the village blended perfectly into the landscape.
It was always a trip back in time. Lahcen's home had no electricity. There was no running water. Bread and butter were made by hand. In the evening, when it got cold, we wrapped up in homemade blankets. And, when I told Lahcen I wanted a hand-woven Moroccan pullover gown called a djellaba, I bought one that someone in his family made. It was about as close as I've ever come to getting the shirt off of someone's back. Lahcen had been wearing the gown.
I'm very blessed in my travels. I tend to meet the most wonderful and gracious people along my path. Lahcen was one of the best and dearest. And, really, seriously, it was a friendship that probably should never have happened. At least, it wasn't too likely. If you ever take the bus from Marrakech to Ouarzazate, you have to cross over the Atlas Mountains. And, the bus stopped for lunch in Taddart. (If you ate what you should eat, there were piping hot bowls of tagine along the roadside. Tagine is a stew made of potatoes, onions, tomatoes, carrots and some kind of meat. In Taddart it was often goat heads.)
If there were places to eat, it makes perfect sense that there were also souvenir shop with exotic treasures. It may surprise you, but I preferred souvenirs over goat heads. And, that's how I wandered into Lahcen's life. Lahcen spoke Arabic, Berber and French. You may notice that English was not included in that list of languages. That's why the friendship was a little unlikely. My three years of high school French helped me some, but not enough to really communicate to any satisfaction. I usually traveled with one or two Moroccan friends who spoke English. They did a lot of translating. But, a lot of words were not really needed to like Lahcen. He had such a warmth and kindness about him. I liked him immediately. So, I came to Taddart frequently.
Whenever I needed to escape from the busy city life of Casablanca, I headed to Taddart. At first, I stayed in the local hotel. Nothing to write home about. Eventually, I was adopted into Lahcen's family and stayed at his home. No plans or invitations were needed. When I showed up in town, I was taken home. There was no road to his little village. The trail lead down the valley from Taddart and then up the side of the next mountain. The family lived among a cluster of adobe homes. The dirt from the mountain was used to build the blocks and the village blended perfectly into the landscape.
It was always a trip back in time. Lahcen's home had no electricity. There was no running water. Bread and butter were made by hand. In the evening, when it got cold, we wrapped up in homemade blankets. And, when I told Lahcen I wanted a hand-woven Moroccan pullover gown called a djellaba, I bought one that someone in his family made. It was about as close as I've ever come to getting the shirt off of someone's back. Lahcen had been wearing the gown.
(Clockwise) Lahcen wearing his/my djellaba, a typical Berber village in the Atlas Mountains, Tagine ready to enjoy with - or without - goat heads
Lahcen not only welcomed me into his life, but he also welcomed my family and friends. On occasion, co-workers from school ventured off into the Atlas Mountains with me. And, when my mother, sister and brother came to Morocco, Taddart was a "must see" destination. On that occasion, I guess Lahcen's home was considered too small. We stayed in the mayor's home. Both Hassan (the mayor) and Lahcen thought my sister was a "gazelle". I guess that's considered quite a compliment. The mayor was heartbroken to learn my sister was married.
As we hiked around the mountains, Lahcen always held my mother's hand to guide and protect her. She adored him. We all did.
The last time I saw Lahcen was at the end of 1999. If you are old enough to remember then, it was during the Y2K scare. Nobody knew what would happen to the world and it's computers as we entered the new century. Some people felt the world would end. I decided if computers failed, technology crashed and the world was coming to an end, I might as well be in my favorite location on the planet which happened to have neither computers nor technology - Taddart.
At this point in time, Lahcen had a new souvenir shop about three miles north of Taddart. We walked there. Upon arrival Lahcen set about to prepare tagine. His recipe didn't have a goat head, but it was stuffed full of guilt. This was the season of Ramadan when Muslims fast all day until sunset. The last thing I wanted was my friend preparing a meal for me when he would have no part of it.
There is no arguing with Moroccan hospitality. I was going to eat and feel so very guilty.
While I watched Lahcen prepare the tagine, my friend Salah rode the bicycle two or three miles down the mountain to get me some bread. Yes, all of this was done just for me, the non-fasting Christian among Muslim friends. Lahcen set the table up outside but we waited inside the warmth of his shop while the tagine cooked. When the meal was about to be served, Lahcen frantically searched around for the bread. It was gone! A passing dog snatched it away. I said it wasn’t a problem, but apparently you don’t eat tagine without bread. It just isn't done. Lahcen sent one of the nearby kids home for a loaf of bread. When it arrived, Salah said it looked like a baseball glove. It was about as tough as one and probably tasted the same, but I had bread.
Since those days, Lahcen moved to Marrakech to run a beautiful hotel. I have friends now studying Arabic in Morocco and I directed them to Marrakech for a wonderful weekend. And, this week, another contact new to Morocco was given the same advice. If you want a wonderful experience in Marrakech, drop my name at the Riad Honey Hotel when you meet Lahcen.
So, these were the memories that flooded me as I sent the friend request over the Internet to Morocco. And, I had the same warm glow when the request was accepted a couple of days later. Neither of us sent an actual message. We both knew how we felt about each other. I was going to write a message soon. I was busy with a big project at the moment, but the message was on my mind. Best of intentions.
As we hiked around the mountains, Lahcen always held my mother's hand to guide and protect her. She adored him. We all did.
The last time I saw Lahcen was at the end of 1999. If you are old enough to remember then, it was during the Y2K scare. Nobody knew what would happen to the world and it's computers as we entered the new century. Some people felt the world would end. I decided if computers failed, technology crashed and the world was coming to an end, I might as well be in my favorite location on the planet which happened to have neither computers nor technology - Taddart.
At this point in time, Lahcen had a new souvenir shop about three miles north of Taddart. We walked there. Upon arrival Lahcen set about to prepare tagine. His recipe didn't have a goat head, but it was stuffed full of guilt. This was the season of Ramadan when Muslims fast all day until sunset. The last thing I wanted was my friend preparing a meal for me when he would have no part of it.
There is no arguing with Moroccan hospitality. I was going to eat and feel so very guilty.
While I watched Lahcen prepare the tagine, my friend Salah rode the bicycle two or three miles down the mountain to get me some bread. Yes, all of this was done just for me, the non-fasting Christian among Muslim friends. Lahcen set the table up outside but we waited inside the warmth of his shop while the tagine cooked. When the meal was about to be served, Lahcen frantically searched around for the bread. It was gone! A passing dog snatched it away. I said it wasn’t a problem, but apparently you don’t eat tagine without bread. It just isn't done. Lahcen sent one of the nearby kids home for a loaf of bread. When it arrived, Salah said it looked like a baseball glove. It was about as tough as one and probably tasted the same, but I had bread.
Since those days, Lahcen moved to Marrakech to run a beautiful hotel. I have friends now studying Arabic in Morocco and I directed them to Marrakech for a wonderful weekend. And, this week, another contact new to Morocco was given the same advice. If you want a wonderful experience in Marrakech, drop my name at the Riad Honey Hotel when you meet Lahcen.
So, these were the memories that flooded me as I sent the friend request over the Internet to Morocco. And, I had the same warm glow when the request was accepted a couple of days later. Neither of us sent an actual message. We both knew how we felt about each other. I was going to write a message soon. I was busy with a big project at the moment, but the message was on my mind. Best of intentions.
Taddart only had one street. On the right, above the grilled meat, was the mayor's house. Lahcen died this week.
It took a couple of days to get the information I wanted. His son Brahim, who was about ten the last time I saw him and spoke no English, wrote to me to let me know about his papa. As I later learned, Lahcen also had cancer and was sick for about six months.
Enough already!
I know this lesson. I don't need to be reminded, but I guess I really do. And, maybe you do as well. Nobody on their deathbed ever says, "I wish I would have worked harder." "I wish I had put in a few more hours on that project." "I wish I had done more for my boss." We know what we're supposed to do. Hug your family. Tell someone that you love them. Hug your friends. Surprise someone with something special just because. Hug those in need of a hug. Praise, encourage, thank, acknowledge and love as much as you can. And, when you've done all you can, squeeze out a little more. I know that almost nobody ever sends hand-written cards any more. I sent one this week. I plan to send more.
And, seriously, when it only takes about a minute to send someone a message telling them what they mean to you, don't miss that opportunity.
It took a couple of days to get the information I wanted. His son Brahim, who was about ten the last time I saw him and spoke no English, wrote to me to let me know about his papa. As I later learned, Lahcen also had cancer and was sick for about six months.
Enough already!
I know this lesson. I don't need to be reminded, but I guess I really do. And, maybe you do as well. Nobody on their deathbed ever says, "I wish I would have worked harder." "I wish I had put in a few more hours on that project." "I wish I had done more for my boss." We know what we're supposed to do. Hug your family. Tell someone that you love them. Hug your friends. Surprise someone with something special just because. Hug those in need of a hug. Praise, encourage, thank, acknowledge and love as much as you can. And, when you've done all you can, squeeze out a little more. I know that almost nobody ever sends hand-written cards any more. I sent one this week. I plan to send more.
And, seriously, when it only takes about a minute to send someone a message telling them what they mean to you, don't miss that opportunity.
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