August 2018
My Dearest Barbara,
Wow! Fifty years together. According to Google, only 6 percent of all married couples have made it past 50 years. I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, so before anything else, I want to thank you for putting up with me and all my faults for all these years.
It was love at first sight. We got married in Pittsburgh on a Friday, and soon ran off to a volcanic island in the western Pacific Ocean called Pohnpei. I had accepted a job there in the education department teaching English as a foreign language program.
Flying in a World War II vintage seaplane, we peered out the window, marveling at the coral reef and mangrove-covered coast, dominated by the island’s most spectacular landmark, Sokehs Rock, a massive cliff that jutted seaward. We knew we had found paradise.
Once on land, however, we were confronted with the reality of our new situation.
After a short orientation, we were transported by speed boat to my assigned post, Ronkiti, on the far side of the island, and then left at the doorstep of our new home. Built for American and other contract personnel, the grey cinder block house had stood empty for years, just waiting for you and me to show up.
I can still remember the shocked look on your face as we inspected the place. The house was in a clearing in the jungle, close to a dilapidated, one-room primary school. There was no electricity or running water or way to communicate with the outside world. The totality of our isolation and helplessness was overwhelming.
The next day was much better. We met Principal Timothy and his teaching staff, which consisted of Bernard and a Peace Corps volunteer named Karen. They introduced us to the two-dozen or so pupils, who ranged from 6 to 11 years old. We also ventured into the jungle to meet some of the parents, who lived in raised houses made of coconut palms and bamboo.
Everyone was friendly and welcoming.
Back home, we tried to make the best of things. We cleaned and rearranged what little furniture we had, stocked the kitchen with some utensils and canned food, and stacked a bunch of survival books in a prominent place, so that we could find them quickly in case of an emergency. After figuring out that our stove used propane fuel, we found and connected the tank.
Our toughest job was dealing with the mosquito larva-infested water catchment system, which we had to drain and clean out. In the meantime, we hauled water from a nearby stream for household use, and boiled it for drinking water and cooking. Luckily, Pohnpei is one of the wettest places on Earth, so it only took a few days before we had enough fresh rain water to replenish our tank.
The locals, believing we might starve to death, frequently brought us fresh fruit and vegetables, including breadfruit, mangos and yams. One day, Bernard showed up with a huge, live lobster. At first, we didn’t know exactly what to do with it; neither of us had ever cooked or eaten one. Fortunately, you had stuffed a paperback cookbook in your suitcase, so we promptly solved the problem and had a candlelight dinner that evening. The lobster was very tasty.
As time went on, my love and admiration for you grew.
Throughout each challenge, you kept a cool head and a friendly tone. I always knew you were smart and sensitive (you told me so), but now I was finding out just how resilient, resourceful and adaptable you were.
For example, once, when I wished for a Spam sandwich made with warm, freshly-baked bread, you built an oven out of a biscuit tin and made some. You seemed to embrace the life we were living, and you never once complained about anything. You took every inconvenience and hardship in stride.
Well, actually, you did complain from time to time, but 99 percent of these complaints were about me, and they were usually about very minor things, so I’m not sure they count. For example, do you remember the day we were bathing in a 1-foot deep mountain stream? The water was crystal clear. All of a sudden, we saw an eel swimming toward us. You screamed and splashed, as I jumped out of the water.
You have never forgiven me for what you called “a flagrant act of cowardliness,” even though I came up with a perfectly good explanation for my behavior: I jumped out first so I could pull you out of the water, and not because I was afraid, as you are want to forever believe.
Of course, the highlight of our stay on Pohnpei was the birth of our eldest child, Ron Jr. He was born in the island’s only full-fledged town, Kolonia, just three days before Christmas at the island’s one hospital, which was within sight of Sokehs Rock. When we left the hospital that evening with our little bundle of joy, we looked at the majestic cliff, now framed in a golden sunset, and thanked the Lord for everything, but especially for him.
All my love,
Ron
Ron and Barbara Wheeler live in Williamsburg.
