Moving forward at the speed of light

It’s all happened so fast. From half-joking idea to grant proposal to plane tickets; earth to bricks to building; ideas to lessons to business: this project has moved at an incredible pace. Despite setbacks and reroutes, months of thinking and planning and working are about to crystallize into something very real and very exciting. Today we look forward to opening night, the first opportunity for members of Nomdu One to visit the new solar center in the middle of their community. But before we celebrate too much, we have a bit of catching up to do.

Completed distribution and explanation of lanterns to all 57 compounds of Nomdu

In the past few days we have trained Fati and Sowda on operating the solar equipment and running the charging business, presented our project to all of Nomdu One at a community meeting, and distributed solar lanterns to each of the fifty-seven households in our community.  At the end of these long days, we’ve found ourselves much more interested in sleep than in attempting to coherently share what we’ve been up to. So let’s pick back up where we left off.

We arrived at Nomdu shortly after sunrise to greet the Chief and a handful of elders lounging beneath the emblematic big tree. This is the scene we’ve found most days upon our early arrival to the village. Slowly rising from a regal throne, a chair whose back was nearly horizontal, the chief told us to wait for the community to arrive and fill in the circle. Slowly, squirmy children, cackling older women, and even the ostracized Fulani brought life to the otherwise tranquil village center. The Chief made a nearly imperceptible hand gesture, which Khadijah immediately picked up on, and told us to begin.

It was not until I stood at the center of the impromptu amphitheater before me that I could fully conceptualize what fifty-seven households looks like. Over a hundred people gathered, representing the much greater population of Nomdu, to hear our presentation. Although we have gotten to know a handful of the community during construction, a sea of unfamiliar faces watched and waited to hear what a couple of Salamingas had to say for themselves. With the boost of confidence from our freshly tailored Ghanaian clothes, we began with hopes of winning over the community’s support.

Tragedy struck when Robert’s demonstration of lantern durability backfired. The batteries popped out the back of the “drop-proof” lantern as he skidded it across the stage. Oops…it must have not been closed all the way? We silently wondered. However, he quickly regained the community’s confidence by tossing an illuminated lantern into a murky bucket of dugout water, where it bobbed and remained afloat for the rest of our presentation. With the Chief and elders already on our side, convincing the rest of Nomdu was not the challenge we had anticipated. And when the group dispersed as quickly as it had coalesced, enthusiastic community members repeatedly prodded as to why they had to wait for the solar center’s opening. Whether due to the newly installed solar panels or the community’s widespread enthusiasm, there was an electricity in the air of Nomdu One.

Fati and Sowda stripping copper wire to ground the panels

The next few days were a whirlwind of panel installation, training, and lantern distribution. Fati and Sowda easily learned to wire the panels and gen set (admittedly quicker than I had a week before), displaying great confidence when they told village men to let them do their job. They are absolutely killing it, and I could not be more impressed. We can’t wait for them to shine at Opening Night!

Fati inside the Solar Center

Brick by Brick: Building Community

“It’s straight!” “No, no, I’m telling you it’s straight!” Although Khadijah was translating, we couldn’t understand why the loud volume and harsh tones could somehow amount to a consensus. In the U.S. a fierce argument like this would end in disappointment, frustration, and maybe a lawsuit. But in Ghana, the dramatic tenor of heated debate means something entirely different. ”So what’s the problem?” we asked Khadijah. “They are saying the same thing. It’s just that one is older and the other is younger.” It’s moments like these that our expertise is not needed, not wanted, and not helpful.  It is also moments like these that we realize that much of the time we have not idea what is really going on.  I’ll admit, it’s all too easy to over-romanticize a village lifestyle.  It’s easy to catch other Salamingas (white people) proclaiming, “They have so little, but they are SO happy!”  Many times, statements like that don’t make it past me without question and a stern and perplexed look.  But watching the until then hidden intergenerational power dynamics of the two masons was a much needed reminder of how narrowly assimilated I’ve become into this culture after many months over many years of living here.

Today marks day three of building the solar center.  We’d budgeted three days total for building, but by the time we left Namdu One this afternoon, the solar center couldn’t much withstand a rainstorm let alone produce electrical current.  Our first day of building featured some highs and lows boiling down to community mobilization and hard math.  We began by settling on a “central location in the community with plenty of sunlight that faced south.”  Within fifteen minutes of arriving, half a dozen men equipped with handmade shovels and hoes had cleared a strip of land east of the Chief’s palace and outlined a 6’x9’ rectangle. Twenty minutes after that, a steady stream of villagers coming from all directions with bricks in hand helped lay the first level of the foundation.  What about keeping the structure stuck together? Nomdu One men casually began to dig a hole twenty feet north of the structure, sprinkling in water and cement mixer into a thick mud to solve the problem.  Handful after handful of deep red earth bonding were slapped in between bricks until a moment when the work abruptly stopped.  No more bricks.  The structure was a grand 1 foot high, and we’d run out of bricks.  “No problem, no problem,” we were assured.  “Just come back tomorrow and we’ll have made enough bricks and already assembled it!”  As we gathered or things and washed off the cement and clay, another mason began hand-packing bricks in an all-too entrancing manner.  It was enough to get us excited for the 5:15am wake up the following morning.


The vignette about the two masons came on day two of building.  Upon arrival, Nomdu One had indeed laid four more feet of wall along all sides of the soon to be solar charging center.  We continued to mix the earth-concrete caulking and slap it in between the still moist bricks.  But only an hour after we arrived, we’d run out of bricks again, and were to return the next day.  Today, day three, the four walls were finished.  Next step, carpentry. Given that this is a trade totally out of our expertise, we picked up a carpenter from a nearby village along with wood, zinc roofing, nails, and other supplies required for a waterproof roof and overly sought after verandah.  The carpenter, an Ashanti region native, could have flipped a coin and just as easily been a circus performer.  Perched on the thin and still moist walls like a cat on a picket fence, the carpenter managed to saw, hammer, level, and assemble the roof skeleton all from the six inch or so tightrope of a wall.  He didn't get down for three hours.  While I’d like to say we helped, I’m not sure how much we actually accomplished.  I rushed over to the hanging two by fours whenever he was cutting the wood, only to arrive with the wood falling and slapping the ground with a “thanks for nothing” thud.  Nomdu One children and elders laughed at our frantic scrambles to help, only to be shooed away, or at most, tolerated.  By the end of the day, the roof had taken shape, and we had finalized plans to finish the roof and plaster the drying walls the next day.  

There’s a lot of beauty in feeling just so ignorant.  At times treading the line between burdensome and enduringly clueless, there’s something to be said for the recent college graduates – studded with honors, awards, grants and praise – who are unable to meaningfully build a mud-brick structure with a shaved wood roof.  It’s one of the reasons intercultural exchange is so rich and reciprocal; it’s another reason I love Ghana.  I’ll admit, in the hours of waiting here and there for supplies, I sometimes think about how I’ll convey my experiences, work, and research in this place few friends know anything about.  While I’ll save the long list of lessons learnedfor a post trip conversation with you, know this: I won’t include how I became an expert carpenter or mason.  Or even tell you if indeed, that straight line is straight.

Chairmen, Chickens, and Chiefs

Is it the man in the green shirt? Close, but no. He’s an elder. Does he have a beard? Yes, but a longer beard. Ok, so he will definitely be wearing a hat. Is it the man in the red beanie? No, that’s the Chairman. From the moment we pulled into the village of Namdu One, our real-life game of “Guess Who” began. Although we share fond memories of playing the Hasbro classic, today the stakes were raised. We were sure that every older and regal-looking man that we met was certainly the Chief of Namdu One. But when we subtly looked to Khadijah for confirmation, she laughed and shook her head.

There was a lot riding on today. Our objective was to pitch our project, which would fundamentally alter daily life in Namdu One. We had planned to spend the morning familiarizing ourselves with the community and surveying how household met their energy needs. But community members enthusiastically shepherded us to the second chief’s palace immediately after we stepped out of the car. “No, they are not the Chief,” Khadijah softly giggled.

“Gaffara” we announced before slipping off our Choco sandals and ducking our heads beneath the open entry. Two older men gracefully slid out a hand-woven reed mat for us to sit on, and began to engage us in what can only be described as village small talk. And as we patiently waited between translations, we couldn’t help but get lost in the beautiful and unfamiliar oddities that surrounded us. Directly overhead hung mobiles of maize: delicately woven heads of corn suspended like chandeliers. The end of a tree fiber rope was looped around the big toe of the second chief. We watched with fascination as he twisted and braided the cord, working to add to his collection of bolts that dangled from the straw roof above us. Although we could have spent hours committing this room to memory, the elders quickly led us to the Chief’s palace for our impromptu meeting.

As progressively older and wiser men entered the narrow door, we waited with anticipation and a touch of apprehension. Silently, we continued our game of “Guess Who”, knowing that a well-rehearsed delivery lay just a few moments ahead. Amid the chatter, an older man entered, brushed off some hanging animal skins, and sat apart from the group that had amassed before us. This was our Chief. After ceremoniously biting and passing around a kola nut, I swallowed the surprisingly bitter sacrament and began the presentation.

Despite the serious tone of this meeting, there was nothing like the clown-car-like effect of more and more men filing into the small dome-shaped building to calm my nerves. Chickens snuck in and out, children peered in from outside, and the community received us warmly. This was not the challenge we had anticipated. Within the first ten minutes of our meeting, the Chief had accepted our project proposal, and was prepared to begin construction. Woo!

For me, making a big decision is often a drawn-out process of pro and con lists, comparative research, and exhaustive personal reflection. I appreciated the Chief’s decisiveness. I cannot say whether it was the project that spoke for itself, a cultural difference, or an individual personality trait that made the Chief’s decision such an easy one. In any case, this was the first big accomplishment of our project. Tomorrow we will meet our partners, the village-selected women entrepreneurs, and we plan to break ground on the solar center in a couple of days.

A bright spot in the rain

The inevitable happened just as predicted, although the weak whine was unexpected.  As voluminous raindrops quickly turned the deep red earth an even darker shade, we scrambled to shield our newly assembled solar equipment.  An afternoon that was supposed to be spent testing our equipment was instead spent testing our reflexes.  With wires tangling feet and the fifty-pound battery protruding like a potbelly out of the lime-green inverter box, we barely avoided short-circuiting the equipment.  A mad minute, the faint whine of the inverter signaling the error “insufficient sunlight” injected a degree of dry humor into the commotion.  I caught the eye of our translator, Khadijah, who cracked a narrow smile and nonverbally communicated the fact that she new the rain was coming.   “Saa,” she said pointing out to the increasingly powerful rainfall.  Although I had been using the word in a collegially Ghanaian way to exclaim disappointment, Khadijah taught me not ten minutes before that it also meant “rain” in Dagbani.  From stripping thick wires with her teeth to tactfully placing double entendre for the observant, Khadijah continues to impress us.

Our Equipment, Minutes Before The Rain

We’ve spent the past couple of days learning from the success of others. Traveling to three villages outside of Tamale, we visited water purification and solar charging businesses that have been implemented by Saha in the past few years. Yes, projects just like the one we are doing already exist. We are not reinventing the wheel here. In order to ensure the long-term sustainability of our project, we aren’t taking any structural risks. Saha has supported the opening of over 70 water and 8 solar businesses in total and has a 100% rate of success. We like those odds.

Tomorrow is a big day.  The kind of day that you prepare for by probing the annals of the market for Kola nuts – a local stimulant with ceremonious connotations.  Tomorrow is the first day we travel to our implementation site: the village Nomdu One.  We wish we could tell you what to expect – the characters at play, the scenery, exactly how impossible it would be to drink in the car measured by the bumpiness of the road.  But it’s all a mystery that tomorrow we will begin to illuminate (sorry…there are going to be a lot of solar puns going forward). Wish Lauren luck tomorrow.  She will be leading our chief meeting that will outline our solar business proposal and seek his approval.

Practicing Patience and Dagbani

Our predicted 12, then 14, then 16 hour bus ride began with a freefall and thunk. “That’s not a good sign,” someone muttered frankly. With a quick glance out the window, Robert smiled while others frantically looked around to figure out why our bus from Accra to Tamale had stopped. The engine revved, then revved again, reversed, and revved once more. Our driver misjudged the width of a right turn and sunk his back axel into the affectionately called “obruni trap,” or open street gutter (obruni means white person in twi). According to Robert’s countless stories, this is a classic Ghana moment. When time slows down and people ask, “when are we gonna get there?” you respond, “that is what I am also asking”. After a quick seesawing motion, we got back on the road for a solid 16-hour drive, minus three additional mechanical stops along the way.

For me, this was the perfect introduction to Ghana. Although I half expected something to go wrong immediately, or at least to not go according to plan, it still took me by surprise. But as we waited for the bus to be repaired, I had a quiet moment to remind myself that patience would be key to our project’s success. There is a lot out of our control. In order to successfully construct and implement a solar charging business in a rural community of northern Ghana, a place that ½ of the team has never experienced before, we must accept the fact that our detailed plan must serve as an outline.

We’ve spent the past three days moving from Accra to Tamale, and getting ready to begin our solar project implementation. In the U.S. this might have been a speedy process. But in Ghana this has meant buying SIM cards, finding share taxis while dodging baby goats, and spending fifteen minutes haggling to save fifteen cents on mangos. They were delicious (and the savings made them all the sweeter).

More important than tropical fruits, we are thrilled to introduce you to our translator, Khadijah. Robert worked with Saha Global last year and became close with her brother, Wahab, and met Khadijah when she was newly hired and shadowing other Saha translators. While Khadijah presents herself as reserved and professional, her quick jokes with taxi drivers and ability to instill debilitating laughter in market women suggests otherwise. Khadijah gets it…and we do not. What is clear is that we’re excited to spend the next three weeks with her, utilizing Khadijah’s linguistic mastery of English, Dagbani, and Howsa as well as her cultural literacy in northern Ghana. We’d be lost without her.

Lauren, Khadijah, and Robert at the Tamale Stadium

Khadijah spent her morning practicing a little Dagbani and a lot of patience with me as she slowly pronounced “gohm-bien-nay” for the fifth time. Dagbani is a tonal language that has 7 letters that are not found in the English alphabet. Given that my Dagbani is going nowhere fast and the village that we will be working with speaks zero English, we are feeling exceptionally lucky to have Khadijah on our team. There will be more Dagbani and progress tomorrow. For tonight, anula!

Akwaaba to the Power to Empower!

First Blog Post – Arrival in Ghana

Friends, Family, Students, Akwaaba to our blog, The Power to Empower!  Over the next month, this blog will chronicle the electrification of small village outside Tamale, Northern Ghana.  We (Lauren Phipps and Robert Little) are here working with the nonprofit Saha Global with funding through the Davis Projects for Peace Grant to create a women-run, community owned solar business.

We arrived here in Accra early this morning (June 8^th) after spending the last half week in Cairo, Egypt.  Pyramids, camels, a boat ride on the Nile – we were efficient tourists and will post some photos later to prove it (Yes, there are camel selfies).  Today serves as a cushion day before traveling 14 hours north to Tamale where we’ll begin working.  Logistics included taking a crowded tro tro (public bus) to the center of town to buy internet and phone cards, purchasing abrobe (pinapple), ankaa (oranges), and of course a how bowl of freshly pounded fufu. Because this is our first post, we figured we’d depart from the casual musings and photos of our future daily entries, and instead focus on sharing our project outline with you.

It is no secret that women, especially those in rural areas, are critical agents of achieving community wellbeing, security, and sustainable development. However, in the rural villages of Northern Ghana, a different type of power has stifled female empowerment: electricity. The United Nations General Assembly unanimously declared 2014-2024 as the Decade of Sustainable Energy for All, premised on the widespread understanding that “energy is the golden thread that connects economic growth, increased social equity, and an environment that allows the world to thrive”. Ghana is no exception to this trend. Our project, The Power to Empower, aims to address the lack of power, understood as a two-fold problem, by promoting female leadership and renewable energy through community-based social entrepreneurship.

Despite its national investment in renewable energy, 34% of Ghanaians are not connected to the grid. They are therefore forced to rely on inefficient and unsustainable sources of electricity to meet their growing energy demands. Powering up a cell phone, a nearly universal technology in Ghana, requires a day of travel to the Tamale marketplace and a fee to plug into the grid. Illuminating a home at night requires the use of lead-acid battery powered flashlights or kerosene lamps, a notoriously problematic fuel that is both expensive and hazardous when used in closed spaces due to the emission of black carbon. Women are disproportionately impacted by the physical danger of these technologies given the amount of time they spend fulfilling domestic responsibilities inside the home. Although the number of women in schools has increased, they are limited by the lack of sunlight to work in their home and on their education. The absence of energy infrastructure in rural Ghana has social, economic, environmental, and health consequences, all of which can be alleviated with a community-based solution.

Our project will construct a community solar center that will not only power up a village in Ghana, but also empower its women owners and entrepreneurs. The project goal will be to equip one village of 70-90 households (TBD) with one solar center, enabling cell phone recharge and predictable light 365 nights a year. We will train women of the village on business and solar power management, and we will provide each household with a lantern that can be recharged at the solar station.

Accomplishing our goal of electrifying a village and subtly shifting power and ownership to favor its women requires the extensive cultural knowledge, operational expertise, and respectful intercultural perspective of our student team. Although we secured funding for this project from the Davis Projects for Peace, we are excited to be partnering with Saha Global – a nonprofit dedicated to “solving problems with opportunities” through social entrepreneurship.  

Robert Little has lived in Ghana for nearly half a year, conducting pioneering research on potable water sachets through Andrew Mellon funding (to be published in May 2015). Most recently, he was selected to create a women-run potable water business in Salaga (near Tamale) with our partner organization Saha Global. He plans to continue visiting Ghana for graduate research and community follow up visits. Spending the majority of 2014 outside the US, Lauren Phipps revolutionized the core operations of an internationally famous social enterprise that builds and distributes locally- sourced clay water filters in Guatemala. She was able to modernize Ecofiltro  by developing and implementing a cellphone bar-coding inventory management system and remained financially independent holding down a second job – navigating both responsibilities almost all in Spanish. Together, the strengths of the two partners constitute a powerful formula for the international development work in Ghana targeted at the two-tailed goal of sustainable energy through empowering women.

Sustainability is at the heart of our project, and must be understood as a social and environmental objective. So many NGOs experience only short-term success due to a top-down charity-based approach. Our project prioritizes community investment and a profit motive to ensure its positive reception and longevity (in combination with NGO monitoring for at least 5 years). We will work within the existing social structure (village chieftaincies), partner with village-selected female entrepreneurs, and provide funding for sustained sales and equipment monitoring through our collaboration with the Ghanaian nonprofit Saha Global, all in order to guarantee the permanent success of our project. By harnessing a renewable source of energy with locally sourced Burro solar energy products, we can proudly identify of creating sustainable, local business for the people of Ghana. Making rapid development in Ghana sustainable and equitable means empowering the next generation of resources. Our project will redirect the power of the sun into the hands and homes of Ghanaian women indefinitely.

We invite you to follow our journey!

-Robert and Lauren 

Moving in with chatty and crazy eyes

I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus since the last upload, and much has changed.  I’ve moved from San Jose to the mountainous coastal town called Dominical. I’m living with a housekeeping and incredible cook named Lela, her wild-eyed farmer husband Tista, and their notoriously antisocial son Pablo.  Instead of trying to explain who these family members are, here are three short events that took place since I arrived a week and some ago.

3/11/14

“Pull over to the side of the road…Here, here” I heard Isabelle, the director of the Costa Rican program tell our driver in a noticeably hushed tone compared to what she said next.  “Here we are!  Robert, your new home!” Compared to the last home we’d come from, I had some snap judgments about this house on the side of this windy mountain road.  Lauren was just dropped off at the top of the mountain, where her parents greeted her out front of their cafeteria / house.  Across the street, a vibrant block party couldn’t help but infect a sense of excitement, only topped by what I assumed to be a small bullfighting arena.   Five minutes later, I here I was on the side of what seemed like a lonely mountain highway unloading my bags while my family was absent.  As I approached the house, the woman I’d call mother for the next three weeks exited the open door to greet me.  Her husband, then got up from the bench on the side of house to greet me as well – he seemed to blend in with the house.  Maybe I was preoccupied, maybe the two were somewhat reserved compared to the warm welcome Lauren received, but before I stepped into the house, I was already feeling flustered and negative.  Adely, my new mother, ushered me into the compact living room, and told me to enter my room.  Three rooms sat next to each other forming the corner of the house, and I peeked into each one.  “El Verde,” she pointed to the room in the center, glowing a teal green.  I quietly moved my bags into the sparsely furnished space, noting not only the sharp creaking the floor made, but the degree to which the floorboards moved.  As I leaned my bags against the wall, the open window to the left caught my eye.  Outside, I could see a car with the windows down, and beyond the tarpaulin “garage,” was a deep, green valley.  I moved to the other open window facing the valley, and two thoughts crossed my mind.  First, the window itself: More like a cannon porthole on a ship, the window was just a piece of the planked wall carved out and attached with hinges – no glass, no bug screen, and in the night, just another part of my wall.  More importantly was the view.  A descending ridgeline in the background, a thick, lush forest between the mountains and the foreground, and, “Look there,” my host mother had appeared behind me,  “That between those two mountains, that’s the ocean.”  Her lips curled into a smile before she left, and I’d like to think she understood the wave of emotion and realization that she’d seen on the faces of the 18 students before her.  Much like my contentment with simplicity, my fascination and charm derived from the movements and places where I can appreciate life’s comforts without feeling clean and pampered that keeps me returning to Ghana, I understood that this new life was going to be just fine, and maybe more.  I returned to the windowsill, mounted myself straddling one leg outside the edge of the house, and watched the forest. 

“Could you grab the straps,” Tista asked, as he hoisted the cooler up onto the roof of his rugged and beaten 4x4. I looked to the left, to the right, did a 360, and finally understood that he wanted the bike tubes next to the Fresca.  Today, my first full day in Dominical, we were to head down to the beach and have a picnic.  The three generations of women in the family – Lela, my mother, her daughter Anya, and her little daughter Kayla, were cramped into the back seat clearly designed for two people, with Kayla occupying a side seat to make matters more difficult.  I sat in front, and after the bike tires were sufficiently bound to the rusting rooftop bars, we headed down to the beach. 

            After meeting Sarah’s family on the side of the road, (her family was packed into the car in an almost identical fashion), both of our families continued down the windy forest road to the beach.  The conversation in my family is sporadic – someone has a thought, there is a brief bout of conversation between the adults, then absolute silence for a few minutes.  My Spanish still has a far way to go before I could consider myself proficient, but I enjoyed shocking the family by interjecting with my two cents when they spoke quickly without complete enunciation between each other.

            We arrived at what I now understand is the Dominical area’s largest supermarket, and both Tista and my host father headed inside to buy some supplies.  “He’s going to buy some meat,” Lela told me.  Sarah and I exchanged glances, and having been deprived of English speaking for almost 24 hours, burst into hurried conversation about our host families.  A few minutes passed by before I spotted Tista again.  Maybe it was the fact that his boots had the laces tied at their ends to make clear that they’ve never been pulled tight like normal boots, or maybe it was the way he seemed to look anywhere but where his feet were headed and simply let his eyes wander, but there’s never been someone I know that I can so confidently say “has a screw loose.”  He tromped down the inclined pathway, somehow carrying three beers in his right hand, leaving his left hand free to tap a drum beat on the railing.  He approached Sarah’s car, and – mind you, this is there first interaction – politely asked if she would drink a beer.  After a comical moment of hesitation, brought on not by the question, but surely because of the spectacle of a human that is my new host father, Sarah replied with a “Si, gracias” and took the beer.  Tista handed another to Sarah’s host mother, and promptly handed me one as well.  Realizing he hadn’t bought enough for he himself to drink, Tista headed back inside to purchase another, tapping the railing with his free hand. 

            He returned quickly this time, and with a glance side to side, cracked the can open and began to take deep gulps.  He hopped into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. “Tista, you shouldn’t be drinking, what if they see you?” Lela muttered, clearly having gone through the scenario before and conscious that I must have been looking on wide-eyed.  Tranquila, Tista replied, handing her the can.  “I’ll just hand it to you when I’m not taking sips.  They’ll think you’re drinking anyways.”  He looked at me with what Sarah simply dubbed “crazy eyes” and laughed. 

We’d been finished eating fore a good 45 minutes when Lela left to retrieve something from her bedroom.  “And she had her mind with her when she went,” Tista continued, almost sighing. “One hundred and one years old.  Here, look.” Lele had returned with a framed picture and handed it to me.  I was looking at Tista’s mother, who was weferred to as Abuela, “Grandmother,” by everyone including her own children.  “She looks younger than 101,” I contributed.  Tista half-smiled.  “She acted like a younger women too.  Every day, even at over 100 years old, she would cook her own tortillas.  She’d wash her own clothes, and NEVER let me or anyone wash her clothes for her,” Lela continued.  “All the students from Pitzer always went to her house to ask her about her life, everyone adored her and marveled at how someone could be so old, yet have a strong mind.”  I took the framed picture back in my hands after Lela blew the dust off.  “She died because she was sad that her ‘favorite’ son died, but I don’t think she really realized who her favorite son was,” Tista looked up from his old hands and said.  “She lived in the house out back for almost her whole life, but would always call my brother who lived in San Jose for anything.  One time, he made the three hour drive to change a light bulb for her, a light bulb!  And I was right here!”  he exclaimed, holding his hands as if he was screwing in the bulb.  “But I knew that she was my favorite.  She lived with me for almost 60 years, which for most people would be much more than half their lives.  And I lived with her for all of my life.”  He brought his hands down and began to wring them once again.  “We threw her birthdays at 97 because we thought she might not make it to 98, and of course at 100,” interjected Lela.  “But not for her one hundred and first,” replied Tista, with tears lining his bottom eyelid.  We passed the picture to him.  “Of course, this will happen to all of us,” he smiled, almost retracting his tears. “But, that’s life.”  “And what a life, and what a mind she had,” concluded Lela.  And for a moment almost tangible, as she affectionately stroked the picture frame, the three of us sat in silence.