Allison Oubre (left) and Andrea Alvord on campus in their Navy ROTC uniforms. It was their first photo taken together.

Dear Allison,

It’s been a few weeks since we last wrote, and now we really have no need for letters. You are the ever-present friend. I am here in Slidell, La., at your old church with your family and friends, doing what I feared most after hearing the news that Thursday morning: giving a eulogy instead of the speech at your wedding.

I don’t know why God chose this time to take you back, but because I believe and trust in Him, I am not asking why but rather praying that someday He might explain it to me. Maybe as our woman on the inside, you can help with that! Allison, I know you are still here even if I can’t reach out and hug you.

I have been very fortunate to spend the last two weeks with your and Colter’s families and our friends. We miss you so much! We’ve been telling lots and lots of stories about you—we have so many good
memories.

Last week in San Diego, at the memorial service for you and the other four crew members killed when your Navy HH-60H Seahawk helicopter crashed into the Pacific Ocean, I told the one about our recovery after we had laser eye surgery in preparation for flight school. Although we spent most of our time sleeping in “the cave,” waking each other up to put in eye drops or eat one of Laura’s delicious meals—by taste, not sight—being blind with you is one of the most treasured moments of my life. Remember how we walked down to McDonald’s after the surgery wearing those big black sunglasses the eye doctor gave us? You led me with your one good eye, both of us walking slowly toward the counter, and as we approached, the cashier exclaimed, “It’s the Stevie Wonder twins!”

Allison, there are memories of you everywhere. We sang “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” just now, and it reminded me of our times sailing lasers on Percy Priest Lake. Although quite limited in our repertoire of songs-of-the-sea, we decided it was only appropriate that we sing Navy-related songs. We sang the one verse we knew from “Anchors Aweigh” and “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” over and over but never grew tired of singing.

You taught me that sea shanty you knew from your days with the sailing Girl Scouts, and I still remember it. I actually sang it to my crew on a flight over the Red Sea last deployment. It was always a fun song to sing, although the lyrics told of the impending doom of the ship and crew, which seemed appropriate considering the level of our sailing skills. Now it’s sad to me.

“Oh, the ocean waves may roll, may roll and the stormy winds may blow / While we poor sailors go skippin’ to the top and the land lubbers lie down below, below, below / And the land lubbers lie down below.”

Oubre and Alvord ham it up in flight school. The two were fast friends from the day they met.

Allison, so many songs serve as souvenirs of our friendship. I had forgotten about our love for “I’m Proud to Be an American” and how whenever we heard it playing on the radio, we would call and, without greeting, hold the phone up to the speaker. I loved getting those calls. Of course, it’s not something I really think about unless I hear the song, but I broke down in tears in the Miami airport the other week on my long trip back home from deployment when I saw a text message I had saved from you that you’d sent me on Kelsey’s birthday last July. You sent it at 3:37 a.m. Jacksonville time and said, “It’s too late to call … but ‘Proud to Be an American’ is on … and it’s tradition. :) .”

There’s another song that didn’t mean that much to our friendship, except for a dream I had a few months ago—but it set me to tears when I heard it the other day. The dream was so funny at the time, and it’s the only dream I’ve ever had where I woke up laughing. And I mean laughing—from my belly. I’m glad that I got to tell you about it even though we didn’t have much time to talk. But you found it just as funny as I did and laughed with me as I recollected the dream. We were in a meadow like the one at the end of the movie Napoleon Dynamite. It took me a second to realize what was going on—it was your wedding rehearsal. You stood facing me, and your hair was really long and straight and parted in the middle, like a hippie, and you had a scarf tied around your forehead.

That was funny enough to me. But then it got better. Colter was singing to you. Reserved, quiet Colter was standing next to you singing the Scottish ballad “Loch Lomond.” I woke up from this dream and had this song looping through my head all day. It was such a good day, and I remember it so well—how big I smiled and laughed at that imaginary scene. But now it is sad for me, too. Al, I even had the lyrics wrong, which isn’t really that surprising—I’m not known for my knowledge of Scottish folk songs. In my dream Colter sang to you, “I’ll take the high road and you’ll take the low road, and we’ll meet in the middle at Loch Lomond.” I like these lyrics because I know the two of you will meet again, and perhaps now is a good time to start looking for this lake—I know how you are with directions! I looked up the actual lyrics and history of the song, and I think you will like these, too:

O you’ll tak’ the high road and
I’ll tak’ the low road
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye
But me and my true love will ne’er meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.
’Twas there that we parted in yon shady glen
On the steep, steep sides o’ Ben Lomond
Where deep in purple hue,
the highland hills we view
And the moon comin’ out in the gloamin’.
The wee birdies sing
and the wild flowers spring
And in sunshine the waters are sleeping
But the broken heart, it kens nae
second spring again
Tho’ the world knows not how we are grieving.

Allison, I don’t think she told you this, but my sister, Nicky, who thought of you as her older sister, said to me a few times over the last 10 years that she envied the friendship you and I had. She said some people go their whole lives without finding a soul mate in a friend, but you and I had that. When she asked me how I was doing after hearing this news that changed my life forever, I told her I felt like I’d lost a part of myself, that you were my twin. We always used to joke that we were the same person, but I realize now that you were a much better version of me.

Every day since hearing about your crash, my stomach has been a mess of butterflies for the better portion of each morning. It’s like I’m anticipating a test later in the day. I think this feeling will pass in time, but you will still be my ever-present best friend, with me always in memories, songs and life.

We planned to climb Mount Kilimanjaro in December next year, and I know that I will need you on that climb now more than ever. You’ll be there, I know it, and I’ll give you a hug and high-five when we reach the “Roof of Africa.”

A few days ago your mom told me about the moment you first mentioned the Kilimanjaro climb. She said you had just returned from our trip to Europe, where we’d celebrated my 21st birthday in Paris on Bastille Day and gone to Pamplona for the running of the bulls.

I guess she expected you would want to rest after such an exhausting stream of adventures. You said to her casually, “Andrea called, and she said Kilimanjaro’s doable.”

And that’s true. Because anything is doable. You definitely taught me that.

I will miss you forever.

Love always,
Andrea

Wirth

“Welcome to Germany. Just three weeks until you’ll be in Bosnia,” I was told by my battalion’s personnel sergeant upon my 1993 arrival in Frankfurt.

I never imagined then how my longing to experience the adventures of transformational Central and Eastern Europe (CEE) would lead me through the dense complexities of nation building and the thrill and heartbreak of creating a new company, providing me with a front-row seat to the global financial crisis.

I have been exposed to corruption at the highest levels, industrial espionage and intrigue, and the joy and satisfaction of enabling thousands of needy people to live a richer and more fulfilling life. I never could have anticipated the transformative impact this path would have on my perspective and view of the world: My naiveté and raw idealism have transformed into a deeper, more balanced and respectful understanding and acceptance.

Back in my student days at Vanderbilt, the transformation of CEE was a daily topic of discussion for me and my fellow residents at Carmichael Towers II during the fall of 1989. Although none could agree on which government would fall next and which revolt was genuine or staged, we shared a common yearning to be part of this history in the making. The events taking place across the Atlantic were so monumental, so dramatic, so exciting! Why couldn’t we just be a few years older? And couldn’t I find a way to defer my R.O.T.C. obligations to serve in the U.S. Army?

Although my departure to the former Yugoslavia was delayed by several years and my end destination in the service of the U.S. Army changed to FYR Macedonia, it seemed that I would finally realize my dream to experience transformational CEE as a freshly minted 2nd lieutenant. Serving with the United Nations’ Operation Able Sentry required immersion into the region’s deep and complex history.

For centuries various Slavic tribes, the Ural-originated Magyars, the ancient Illyrians, and the dominant Ottoman Turks often lived side by side, more frequently as oppressor and oppressed. As each side could point factually to numerous tragedies and betrayals suffered at the hands of the other, it quickly became apparent that no moral justice or higher truth could be claimed by any side. Objectivity, independence and balance were crucial to our ability to patrol safely through Albanian, Macedonian and Serbian villages.

This intense experience of rich cultural diversity and political transformation left me wanting to experience more. I had just contributed to the political and military stabilization of a region and its ethnic diversity. Having seen much poverty, few professional alternatives, and a population eager to advance themselves, I decided that I would earn an M.B.A. and set up my own company somewhere in CEE to stimulate growth and create opportunity.

A few years later—armed with a Cornell M.B.A., the skills and knowledge gained while launching new businesses as a strategy consultant and investing in and growing startups as a venture capitalist, and the perspective and cultural sensitivity gained from having worked or studied in six different countries—I believed I was ready to build my company.

As a preliminary step I re-entered the region working as an economic adviser assigned to five early-stage companies with a U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) project in Zagreb, Croatia. The somewhat arrogant goal of my project was to “transfer Western knowledge” to enlighten the locals. But as with my Vanderbilt Alternative Spring Break on a Cheyenne Sioux reservation years back, it was I who walked away with a deeper understanding. Business in the U.S., the U.K. and Germany had been civilized—predictable even. I was just beginning to learn that in CEE, business is much more. It is about survival. This lesson was to be reinforced on many occasions during the coming years.

My plan to privatize and transform a naval shipyard into a yacht marina and repair facility almost became real—until management, union representatives and local officials began demanding personal incentives.

Throughout, I could not help but notice the dire poverty that the senior population (60 years and older) was forced to endure. Forbidden to accumulate wealth under the communist system, lacking private pensions, and facing inflation, currency devaluation, bank crises, and numerous pyramid schemes and other scams, many seniors—even the well educated and accomplished—had been relegated in just 15 years from positions of seniority and respect to poverty, need and dependency. Upon investigation, I learned that seniors across the region were suffering a similar plight.

Aware of reverse mortgage and home equity models well established elsewhere, I recognized the opportunity facing me: a large, fast-growing demographic with unusually high home-ownership rates, unserved in the region by retail banks and insurance companies. I saw an opportunity to aid a suffering and marginalized segment of society.

So with an idea and a laptop, I relocated to Hungary, where there were more than twice as many seniors. And because Hungary was soon to be a member of the European Union, it would be much easier to raise financing.

I was completely alone, without a salary or knowledge of the Hungarian language, and had to be resourceful. Survival became very personal. Living not as an expat with a comfortable compensation package and the coddling support of an established institution, but competing with the locals on their turf and according to their rules, gives one the real experience of living abroad.

It can be overwhelming. There is something spiritual about the process of being broken to the basic elements of your core identity, then picking yourself up, evolving into a stronger, more complete being.

“If nobody’s doing it, it can’t be done!” and “Like everybody else, you just want to steal their homes” were the warmest words of encouragement extended to me in Budapest. This was not the enthusiastic support of individual innovation and creativity at the core of the American psyche. A general pessimism pervasive across Europe to varying degrees, residual feudal instincts of learned helplessness, and 40 years of surviving Communism through passivity and acceptance had created a population with a limited confidence in its own potential for innovation and growth. After decades of party spies, neighbor informants and doublespeak—along with questionable privatizations and all types of scams—trust in society had long been lost.

I found a deeper phenomenon underpinning this pessimism and mistrust, something known locally as the “neighbor’s cow”: “If my cow falls ill, I do not seek treatment to make it better. Instead, I focus on how to ensure that a worse fate befalls my neighbor’s cow.” Little did I realize then how deeply this mentality penetrated the very souls of the region’s citizens and how thoroughly it was reflected in business, political and everyday life.

Reaching out in all directions, tapping all possible resources—such as alumni networks and acquaintances from school—and even teaching entrepreneurship at Central European University, I began to weave a network of local relationships and alliances, creating substance where none had existed. While building my professional foundation, I began to develop my business concept—research, financial modeling, strategy, presentations and investor-ready reports.

Good fortune enabled me to recruit my chairman and first investor. (Luck must have helped as well, as we had
been next-door neighbors in Boston.) Over the following two years, we built a complete team, signed several contracts with seniors, and brought on Deutsche Bank as our primary institutional backer.

“It’s too bad things are becoming difficult for your company,” said an ex-government minister from within the region, now known widely as Mr. Ten Percent. “Working as your consultants, we could guarantee that things clear up for you quickly,” he offered.

I had learned by then that “consulting” in CEE had become a euphemism for “bribe.” Little did this ex-official understand that neither I, my board, nor Merrill Lynch, which by this point had become a shareholder, would even begin to consider entertaining his proposal. (The U.S. Commercial Service can be a great ally in such situations.)

In another of our markets, one of the region’s largest banks, unwilling to accept an innovative startup entering “its” geography, employed various devious tactics from initiating regulatory reviews and manipulating press relationships, to registering complaints against supposed anti-competitive practices. These attacks began only after this bank had lured away several early employees in an effort to acquire our intellectual property.

Corruption and unethical practices are not beyond the purview of the common citizen and business in CEE. An elderly lady once tried to extort money from us in an effort to earn her support for a partnership with her association of retirees. After receiving ungrounded attacks in a local newspaper, we learned that this paper was hoping to generate some advertising revenue. To this day I still wonder how this approach can be so widely preferred over the simple sales call.

Despite the multitude of challenges in establishing a new industry in CEE, we have raised more than $150 million in financing from Merrill Lynch, Deutsche Bank and leading venture capitalists. We have built teams of outstanding and capable nationals in three countries—with two more under way. And we have signed thousands of seniors. With substantial financing from us, our seniors have been able to realize long-forgotten dreams, reassert themselves as family providers, and enjoy the comfort of a secure retirement.

By pooling together many disparate senior associations, we have replicated the cost-savings programs of AARP, creating discount programs with our numerous commercial partners to enable millions of seniors to benefit from discounted pharmaceuticals, travel, medical care, food, banking services, insurance, toys for their grandchildren, and other products and services.

Each of our offices serves as a social center where afternoons are filled with entertainment such as senior karaoke, English lessons, and even senior belly dancing. We also have partnered with leading health-care providers to make available quality and responsive medical attention which, unfortunately, is often lacking in the region. Sometimes it’s difficult to know whether a business truly meets its customers’ expectations and provides good value. Considering the many plates of home-baked cakes and cookies I have enjoyed through the years, it seems that we have hit the mark.

What started as a quest for adventure morphed into a desire to help and, through the years, evolved into a life’s journey of experience and personal development. My natural inclination to view the world in absolutes has transformed into challenging the various shades of gray, differing points of view, hidden motives and layered meanings. There are so many warmhearted, talented and ambitious people in the region. And I continue to be amazed by the number of natural entrepreneurs I have encountered here.

It was naive for us in the West to assume that things would change overnight, or even in two or three generations. Nonetheless, with more people willing to embrace the challenge, to forge new ground, to demonstrate how business can be done fairly and ethically, things will change for the better.

Still idealistic, but now with a measured idealism, I believe each of us can change the world in our own way. But I also have learned that others are not helpless, our way is not the only path, and we should only help those who ask for it.

John Wirth welcomes feedback from other alumni. Contact him at john.wirth@alumni.vanderbilt.edu.

Ellen Pearson, second from right, and her family hang themselves out to dry.

“Gripes, kudos, inspired ideas for future stories? Put ’em here,” read the Vanderbilt Magazine voluntary subscription card I received in the mail last year. Having long fancied myself an enlightened environmentalist with a throbbing social consciousness, I wondered whether the Vanderbilt I attended had evolved along with me.

At my Vandy, which wasn’t even integrated when I graduated in 1963, coeds obliged the social standards of the day by wearing raincoats over our Bermuda shorts and disdaining to walk while smoking cigarettes. We stood breathing in Nashville’s coal smog and our friends’ passive smoke, and knew in our hearts that we were upholding the standards of our school.

That in mind, I scribbled something like this on the card:

“Feature articles on efforts by the university to get ‘green.’ Publish personal accounts by alumni about reinventing their previously black and gold lifestyles.

“P.S. I drive a Honda Civic Hybrid, use compact fluorescents, and own a tankless hot water system, composting toilets and Energy Star appliances. I raise my own veggies, organic lamb and egg layers. I only purchase organic food and humanely raised meats.”

I posted my suggestion, thinking I had done my part. Apparently not. A few weeks later I got an e-mail from the editor asking me to write about my green life.

This has happened before. When will I learn?

For 35 years in my tiny, hip town of Monterey, Mass., I played the part of Queen of Community Cohesion. My court and I produced annual celebrations, each with a noble theme (energy conservation, world peace, local food, local culture, Mother Nature).

Two years ago I decided to move to North Carolina to be near my grandchildren. As a last hurrah I was asked to co-chair the committee for the 2007 I Love Monterey Day. The theme was “Greening Monterey.” Our kickoff parade forbade all but hybrid vehicles, the bio-diesel town truck, horse or oxen power, and foot travelers (including llamas and dogs). The Center for Ecological Technology, the Community Land Trust, and a nearby bike shop set up booths, and a local farm provided lunch. There were tours of solar-powered homes, and we wrapped up the celebration with contradancing featuring local musicians.

To keep the energy going, I suggested that townsfolk be invited to submit descriptions of their efforts to green their lifestyles to our monthly newspaper. Me and my big, highfalutin’ mouth. Guess who got picked to go first?

I diligently assembled my list: the hybrid car, the Energy Star appliances, on-demand water heater, composting toilets, low volatile organic compound (VOC) paints and varnishes, wood heat backed up with a bio-fuel furnace, an organic food garden tilled with draft horses, egg layers and broilers, a backyard sheep flock, a mountain of compost, and an elaborate recycling system. And, I added, I buy local, eschew “big box” stores, invest in socially responsible companies, use a community-invested bank, volunteer for service vacations addressing environmental concerns—and on and on.

But as I prepared to galvanize my audience, I realized that my lofty practices came with a matching set of glaring contradictions:

Let’s start with the hybrid car. Good enough on its own, but I also own a one-ton truck (that gets 10 mpg) with which I have hauled my horses, taken recyclables to the dump and brought in firewood.

The firewood was cut with a gas-powered chain saw and split with a gas-powered wood splitter. When not on pasture, the horses were fed hay harvested by tractor-driven implements. Oh, yeah—and I also owned a Polish tractor fueled with diesel. And a gas-powered lawn mower to smooth over what the horses and sheep didn’t tidy up in the yard.

© W. Atlee Burpee & Co.

The organic garden: I grew every vegetable the Northeast climate would support, stored root crops in a root cellar, and froze veggies, lamb and chicken for winter use. I canned crabapple jelly and pickles. But freezers are notorious guzzlers of electricity. Canning makes for low-cost storage, but home canning and freezing use outlandish amounts of fuel and water in the processing stage.

Composting toilets: My state-of-the-art toilets spared the water used to flush conventional toilets. They also employed a vent fan and an optional electric heater to speed the composting process. I used the heater only to finish the compost before I removed the residue. The fan ran most of the time. It was not powered by oxen.

Shopping local: Yes, I bought owner memberships in local co-op stores—but much of their high-end, organic food came from far, far away. I gave the horses and sheep wild and domestic apples off my farm, but when supplies ended, I bought organic fruit—shipped from the West Coast—at a chain supermarket.

“Responsible” investing: I invest in Socially Responsible funds with stringent “avoidance” screens against corporations with defense contracts, woeful environmental track records, and records of social injustice. I requested a special screen against pharmaceuticals because I am averse to animal testing.

On the other hand, I take at least three medications that were surely tested on animals. And now my investment counselor’s newsletter informs me that it is probably more effective to put money in best-in-sustainable-class fossil fuel, automotive, mining or chemical companies, thereby providing an incentive to further improve their behavior.

The hard truth is: We are all in some way dependent on fossil fuels. After all, who’s ever going to know that you’re not investing in something?

Service vacations: To avoid exploitive tourism I volunteered for two Earthwatch expeditions, one to study a threatened culture of cave dwellers in China, the other to study the effect of human encroachment on monkeys in Costa Rica.

I flew to each destination in an airplane, leaving big, black carbon wing strokes across the globe. Even using the Earthwatch program to offset carbon input, I can’t erase all the smudges.

So here I am in North Carolina, pondering the many contrapositions inherent in living green. Ever the optimist, and using an “eco-broker,” I bought an impeccable property in the woods near Pittsboro, N.C. My house is owner-built, incorporating timbers sawn on site from trees removed to create the lot.

A 500-gallon rain barrel collects water off the roof. There’s a pond fed by runoff from my neighbor’s and my house, channeled in rock ditches. I can pump from the pond in times of drought to water two gardens, one for food and native plants, the other for fruit trees and berries. The site plan was designed to facilitate a “permaculture” community, and I’m collaborating with my neighbors to share food gardening and egg-laying chickens.

The house is oriented for passive solar gain through south-facing double-glass windows and doors. Roof overhangs minimize solar gain in the summer. Four-inch-thick concrete floors in the living room and master bath contain water tubing for transferring heat to the floor and into the house. These can be enabled by mounting a solar hot water collector on a southern slope at the edge of the woods.

So far, so good.

The house is built with autoclaved aerated concrete block with excellent thermal and acoustic features. The thermal mass moderates temperature swings, both in winter and summer, saving both air conditioning and heating energy.

Too good to be true? Yep. My research on this porous precast block—known in the building trade as “Hebel type”—reveals that it is imported from New Zealand. Transportation costs in carbon currency effectively overwhelm its otherwise splendidly low environmental impact.

Out, out, damned spot! It’s Lady Macbeth here, zealously scrubbing at coaly stains.

I’m selling the truck and the tractor. All incandescent bulbs have been replaced by compact fluorescent bulbs with the lowest percentage of mercury. I’m flushing toilets with bathtub water. I hang out my laundry to dry. The entire TV/DVD/satellite system is off at the power strip, except when I watch a show. I shut down my computer (not just to sleep—all the way down) between every use.

And I found the most beguiling little device, called “Kill-A-Watt,” into which one may plug one electric appliance at a time to determine how many kilowatt-hours each uses. So far, I know that one Energy Star washer load uses .10 kwh. The refrigerator uses .66 kwh per day. Listening to NPR all day uses only .02 kwh! Heating 16 ounces of tea in the microwave is only…

Oh, never mind. My daily average electric usage is now 28 kwh per day. I’m heating my tea on the woodstove. My carbon karma will rise as I “kill the watts”—you wait and see. 
 

Ellen Pearson, BA’63, used .75 kwh to write this story.

It’s the most common reaction I hear when someone finds out I’m the youngest of 12 children. (And they’re right—we’re Catholic, raised by the Sisters of Mercy.) The next most common reactions: “Your parents did know what causes pregnancy, didn’t they?” (I guess so—but, really, I try not to dwell on things like that) and “How many twins?” (None; they were all single births. No adoptions, no blended family—12 full siblings.)

Once people get over the initial shock, usually the next question is, “What was it like?”

The first house I can remember had multiple sets of bunk beds in each room. Even when we moved to a larger house, I always shared a room with at least one other person. Privacy was not something we had a lot of growing up.

It wasn’t until my freshman year at Vanderbilt that I truly experienced having a room of my own. I can remember listening to my hall mates in Kissam Hall complain about the size of our rooms and thinking, You know, they could squeeze another person in here with a bunk bed.

As the youngest I was always the patsy. When our family dog chased a skunk into the ditch in which we were playing, take a wild guess who was sent in to retrieve our abandoned toys. Yeah, that was fun.

Another time, one of my older brothers was trying to teach another how to throw a football by having me run across the backyard. They didn’t have any confidence in my ability to actually catch the ball (any athletic genes didn’t make it that far out on the family tree), so they just aimed at the back of my head.

A few years later they had graduated to throwing a lasso. Guess who got to be the running calf in this training session? Vanderbilt’s admissions standards must have been lower when I applied. I can’t imagine being that gullible and getting in today.

­­­As the youngest of 12, I’ve had to endure a litany of “when I was your age” rants by older siblings—stories about how strict our parents were with the older children, or how they “did without” when they were young.

My favorite? “When I was your age, we only got one cup of Coke on Friday night. We didn’t have 2-liter bottles in the refrigerator whenever we wanted it.”

My response? “Had glass been invented by then, or did Coke still come in stone jars?” (Well, let’s be honest. I didn’t actually say that out loud. Being the youngest also means learning that others may not always appreciate your brand of humor, and they will pummel you mercilessly.)

When I started at Vanderbilt, a new family dynamic became apparent to me, involving those who were die-hard Vanderbilt fans and those who were not. I was surprised to find out during my Vanderbilt years and afterward the number of my siblings who had season tickets to Vanderbilt sports. I also was surprised at the number who cheer on that “university” (and I use that term loosely) to the east.

Admittedly, over the years those of us who cheer on the Black and Gold have not always had much to gloat about over the Vol supporters in the family, so we enjoy it when we can. In hindsight, forcing them to watch a replay of the 2005 “Victory in Knoxville” at Christmas dinner might have been a little over the top.

Speaking of the holidays, people usually ask me about Thanksgiving and Christmas. They have preconceived notions of the family lovingly grouped around a large table—something right out of The Waltons meets Leave It to Beaver. “Sure,” I tell them, “if you throw in a side of The Munsters with just a touch of Nightmare on Elm Street.”

To feed a gathering that size (Thanksgiving and Christmas, on a good year, average about 40 people), everyone has assigned responsibilities. There’s broccoli casserole (two kinds—with and without almonds), potato salad (two kinds—with and without onions), dressing (two kinds—well, you get the picture). Everybody’s pet peeves must be accounted for.

Christmas, in the “Good Old Days,” used to be a monstrous affair. My mother would hang a stocking on the mantel for everyone. They’d be lined up from one end of the mantel to the other, wrapping around the corners as we added more spouses/nieces/nephews. And the stockings would be so full that you could see things poking out the top. When I was very young, that would include a carton of each person’s favorite cigarettes for those who smoked. Back then the surgeon general’s warning was more of a suggestion, and I don’t think they even put it on the box. I remember thinking, I can’t wait to start smoking so my mom can get me a carton of smokes for Christmas! Once my father stopped smoking and then survived his first bout of lung cancer, that Christmas tradition thankfully stopped.

With a group that size and a history that long, the holidays can be a ticking time bomb. My personal favorite: the year Thanksgiving broke up before dessert because of an argument over a high school football game that had happened more than 20 years earlier. As people quickly and quietly drifted for the exits, those not involved in the “discussion” wondered how long it would last and whether it might not be better to skip Christmas altogether.

But back to the original question, “What was it like?” The better question is, “What is it like?” We’re all grown with families of our own, but we’re still learning from each other, and after all these years they still surprise me.

When my father became terminally ill, the family spent a rough seven months together, but I learned more about them in those seven months than in all the years before. We spent a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms, telling stories about growing up.

I’ve heard other people talk about the first time they really saw their siblings as adults—that, until then, they had always looked on their brothers or sisters as the children they grew up with. For me the reverse is true. Because of the age difference (one week shy of 21 years between oldest and youngest), I’ve only known most of my siblings as the adults they’ve become. After that time tending to our father, I finally have a sense of what they were like as children.

And starting a family of my own has given me a better sense of what my parents went through. When my wife was pregnant with our daughter, she was put on full bed rest, which left me to do all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, caring for her, and trying to keep everything running and in order. One weekend she asked me to go to JCPenney for some fleece footies she had seen in the maternity section before she went on bed rest.

When I got to the mall, I was convinced they had moved the entire store around. Not only was I unable to find the footies—I couldn’t even find the maternity department where they had been. I was standing in line for customer service, ranting to my wife on the cell phone about JCPenney rearranging the entire store, when I spotted the gift cards. 

Macy’s, they said. I was in the wrong store. (Note to Chancellor Zeppos: Please don’t take away my diploma.)

A few minutes later, as I was standing in the JCPenney maternity department (right where we left it!), the thought hit me: How the heck did my parents go through this emotional roller coaster 12 times? I started doing the math then and there: My mother was pregnant 12 times, averaging nine months each time. This means, in a 21-year span, my mother was pregnant for nine years. Nine years. And by the time I left for Vanderbilt, my parents had been raising children for about 39 years.

My parents did know what causes pregnancy, didn’t they? 

Christopher Baltz and his wife, Jill Taggert Baltz, BS’92, both have management responsibilities within Vanderbilt’s Division of Development and Alumni Relations. They have one child.

COURTESY OF MICHAEL WOODARD.

When the Black Hawk helicopter I was flying landed at the American base near Al Qayyarah in early October 2005, ending my role in Operation Iraqi Freedom, it came as welcome relief from the maddening pace of the previous 12 months.

Naively, I had believed that this deployment would have little effect on me. During my 23 years in the service, I have completed assignments in Europe and all over the United States. As a pilot I was removed from the immediate cruelties of war. I thought I would do my year and go home.

As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The coming year in Iraq would prove to be totally out of my experience, although at the time I did not realize it.

Alerted for deployment in 2004, my National Guard unit, N Troop 4/278 ACR, is a fascinating collection of citizen soldiers who serve because they want to. Our pilots have years of experience, and our crew chiefs are highly trained experts. “Guard” units evolve into stable, close-knit fraternities.

After training at Fort Bragg, we flew out to Iraq in the latter part of October 2004. The feeling of disorientation that comes with transcontinental flight was taking hold by the time we landed in Germany in preparation for the next leg of the flight to Kuwait. After settling in at Camp Udari Kuwait, we completed a short training syllabus and prepared to fly to our base camp up north near Al Qayyarah, site of an old Iraqi air force installation.

Americans call it “Key West” because the Arabic word Qayyarah sounds like “key.” “Key West” was a natural evolution. Although the area sounded exotic, Club Med it wasn’t.

The flight up-country from Kuwait revealed a homogeneous and vast landscape. Occasionally, you’d see a few camels or small villages, but nothing else. It has a certain beauty that I think you have to see to appreciate.

Southeast of Baghdad, while refueling at Tallil, I visited the Italians who were working nearby in their hanger. Three flight-suited maestros–apparently fresh from their naps–were very startled to see me. I was embarrassed at having surprised them, but neither of us really seemed to mind. They were gregarious fellows in the way you might imagine Italian aviators to be. In the future I would learn the importance of being able to rest anywhere, as the Italians had.

Our first days in Key West were hectic, and the learning curve was steep. We were replacing a regular Army unit from New York. Their young pilots had accumulated a career’s worth of experience and were ready to go home. We spent orientation flying with them and learning our way around. Skimming along the desert floor and weaving our way to the landing zone was the routine for safe flights. The low altitude helped reduce the possibility of taking fire. The Army guys were good people and went the extra mile to make sure we were ready.

Shortly after arriving in Key West, we were asked to provide two crews to the commander of coalition forces in Northwest Iraq. This was my assignment. We operated out of Saddam’s presidential site in Mosul, a city best described by one word: brown. The desert comes right up to the city limits, and buildings are a brownish earth-tone color. The Tigris River bisects the town and, aside from the mountains to the north, it is the major geographic feature in the area.

Now, Saddam’s former palace is known as FOB (Forward Operating Base) Courage. Occupied during the invasion, the grounds were suggestive of a small college campus, except now sandbags were everywhere. Protecting the perimeter was a 15-foot wall bristling with guard towers and machine guns.

Hard-core infantry units lived here now. These young men daily left the safety of the base to fight in Mosul, where they learned how cheap life was in the Middle East. They were good at what they did. Units like these do the “heavy lifting” associated with American policy in Iraq. It is messy work.

In a place like this, death is troublesome because it is so random. As an example, while picking up wounded we began taking fire. Mortar rounds landed just outside our helicopter’s rotors.

Fortunately, we escaped that day, but everyone didn’t. An incoming round careened inside a bunker where a young soldier had taken cover. It detonated and took his life. I think of those moments often, about what his family would do now. No happy reunions for them. Moments like these torment those who remain for a long time.

Survival while flying in a combat zone is sometimes a matter of inches. I realized this while approaching the Green Zone heliport in Baghdad late one night. A pair of reconnaissance helicopters passed in opposition, so close to our Black Hawk that our rotors overlapped, narrowly missing a collision. My crew laughed it off and talked about how we’d rather be lucky than good.

Days were long, often many in a row without a break. We did just about everything–flying from the Syrian border to the Iranian frontier, transporting troops, evacuating wounded, and hauling media and political stars who had come to check on the war. We never closed, and there was no saying no.

Being gone so far away and for so long understandably creates changes in perspective. After about three months in Iraq, one begins to appreciate what separation from home really is. During this period the deep bonds of friendship seen only in combat begin to form. Contact with home becomes less frequent. E-mail, packages and phone calls can only do so much.

Gradually, I began to see Iraq as my home, and these people with whom I lived and worked were now like my family. Military life has always required a good deal of separation, but a deployment of this length and under these conditions was definitely uncharted territory for me. My crew became my brothers, and each of us would have done anything for the other.

Even my Iraqi friends offered normalcy in an abnormal situation. We shared holiday traditions, treats from home and thought-provoking conversation. Some of the Iraqis took enormous risks to help us.

You feel marooned in the Middle East, and home is a distant abstract thought. Life is lived in the moment. There is no tomorrow and no yesterday. There is just “now,” and only your crew matters. Rank dissolves, and your team operates with a satisfying sense of purpose. You lose track of days, confidence builds, and you feel bulletproof. It is addictive.

All of this changes when it’s time to go on leave, about midway though your tour of duty. You are extracted from this madness in a rush of jet transports, and you arrive home only hours after dodging small arms fire. American excess is too much now. I was home, on leave, and yet my mind remained back with my unit where I was needed.

Afterwards, we told lies about great times we’d had back home, only to later learn the difficult truth: No one really did.

When my leave ended and I returned to Iraq, temperatures daily rose over 125 degrees and terrorists were more active in attacking our base. A long, hot summer lay ahead of us in more ways than one.

The things that one becomes accustomed to are amazing. Small arms and mortar fire seem routine. During the usual assault one evening, I headed for the safety of a bunker with a freshly scooped bowl of ice cream in my left hand. On the way I tripped and impaled the palm of my right hand on the edge of a counter. Blood gushed as I headed off for stitches, sewn by a disgruntled reservist medic who had just signed up for some college money. I still have the scar, which reminds me of the ribbing I got about the lengths that I’d go to for a medal or a bowl of ice cream.

In August 2005 rumors about going home began spreading, but I didn’t give them much thought. Finally, in September we learned our replacements were in Kuwait and would be flying up any day to relieve us. We knew then that we had to at least think about going home.

It sounds strange, but when we were asked about staying until January if Gen. Rodriquez or Gen. Bergner needed us, everyone instantly said yes. Such was our dedication to the mission, but really more so to each other.

Living near violent death as we had for so long had a price that would someday demand to be paid. So as the end neared, we vowed to leave this experience behind, in Iraq. It would not be fair to anyone to bring this home.

The new guys would learn this as I had. For now we tried to make sure our replacements had the knowledge to be successful, as our predecessors had done for us.

Before we left, the general gave a very nice send-off by saying that we would be missed. In the military no one is indispensable, so this was high praise. We had earned official awards for our actions; however, they pale when compared to the respect and trust our colleagues placed in us. This bond exists only among those who endure the hardships of this path.

The next morning we flew to “Key West,” joining friends we’d left there the year before. During those last days I thought about home a lot. For me, coping had required complete withdrawal from American life to live fully in Iraq. Now all that would need to be reversed–quite a psychological workout. After a few days we flew to Kuwait, deposited our unit’s helicopters on a ship, boarded a jet, and flew to Fort Bragg, N.C. I slept all the way.

My wife drove over the next day, and we began to get reacquainted. It was a happy time for us. I passed on the military’s C -130 ride, choosing instead to drive home and just look at America on the way. As we made our way through East Tennessee, I began to enjoy the clean, cool air of the mountains. I realized how much I had missed my home and family. Most people don’t get the opportunity to see the rest of the world from the perspective I have, but if they did they would realize as I do what a beautiful country America is and how very fortunate we are to be here.

After a few days at home, someone told me that it would be all right to look back at my time in Iraq because remembering those who don’t come home is important. But, I was cautioned, “Don’t stare.”

From time to time I think I will look back on that lifetime lived in Iraq that year. Staring won’t be a problem because there are still 160,000 troops deployed and I’m still in the military. It doesn’t take a genius to know what that means.

Outfitters to Wookiees and Warlocks: Paul Bielaczyc, BS’02, MS’04 (standing), and his brother, Michael, only use their special powers for good, helping solve the age-old problem of what to wear to your next Renaissance festival or science fiction convention. The brothers create ogre masks, elf ears, faun pants, fangs, wounds, swords and more. Photo by Chip Talbert

My boyfriend makes elf ears. Long, pointy, flesh-colored things you can slide over the tips of your real ears when you pretend to be a goblin or fairy or your favorite Lord of the Rings character. His name is Paul Bielaczyc, BS’02, MS’04, and he makes these ears with his brother in an East Nashville studio, along with noses and foreheads, masks and scars — basically, any costume prosthetic you can imagine. And while I always have a good outfit on Halloween because of him, every time I tell people what he does, I am faced with blank stares and confused, sometimes horrified, expressions.

“Elf ears?” someone will say at a cocktail party. “What on earth are those?” I find myself at a lot of cocktail parties these days, talking to people I don’t know because I’m supposed to learn how to network. I’m 25 now, four years out of college, and my social life is slowly migrating from two-for-one drink specials to wine-and-cheese night at someone’s Pottery Barn-themed apartment.

The small talk at these soirees is always the same: big, friendly smiles, enthusiastic head nods, and superficial discussions about things I don’t actually care about. If I mention my boyfriend in conversation, my new acquaintance will ask a few perfunctory questions about our relationship. How long have Paul and I been dating (six years), how did we meet (as undergrads at Vanderbilt), and what does he do for a living? And that’s when things get interesting.

No one responds to the mention of elf ears with a nod and a smile, the way they do when the answer is “lawyer” or “accountant” or any other one-word job description. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to explain Paul to everyone I meet. “He makes fake wounds and gashes?” I imagine someone saying at a party. “How interesting–so do I!” But this never happens. Paul has the prosthetic bullet-wound and exposed brain-bits market all to himself.

Over the years I have perfected my description of Paul’s job. He owns his own company, I tell people. It’s called Aradani Studios. He started it with his brother. First it was ears, but then they moved on to other prosthetics, then costume jewelry and customized weapons like flails and maces. Last summer they hired a seamstress to sew made-to-order costumes. They don’t have a storefront, but they do have employees who travel to conventions and festivals for them, and sometimes they travel themselves. Oh, they’re also artists who illustrate fantasy books.

The conversation usually ends there, punctuated by an awkward silence that hangs in the air one second too long before someone decides to change the subject. But sometimes I’ll see a spark of recognition in a person’s face–usually a man’s–and he will say, “What kind of fantasy books?” And that’s when I throw out the terms Paul has taught me: Dragonlance. White Wolf Publishing. I don’t know what these words mean, but I say them cheerfully and forcefully, the way my father taught me to recite “vice president of the financial division” when I was in first grade and had to do a report on what my parents did for a living.

“Dragonlance?” the closeted geek will ask. He will look at me with wide eyes, and suddenly I’ll realize that I’m facing a man who wants nothing more than to drop out of business school and play Dungeons and Dragons all day. “I love Dragonlance! What did he do for them?”

“Ominous Night,” charcoal by Paul Bielaczyc

“I dunno,” I’ll reply. “I think he drew a horsey?”

The truth is, I don’t really know what Paul does. I see his drawings and look at his latest ear molds, but I don’t know which piece of artwork is sold to which company. And because I’m not interested in sci-fi or fantasy–I’m more of the shoe-shopping, America’s Next Top Model-watching type of girlfriend–I really have no idea why he’s so upset when he comes home from work in a bad mood because 20-sided dice wouldn’t glue onto a flail.

“What’s a flail?” I will ask, or “Why are you gluing dice onto it?”

That’s when Paul will turn to me with a look of mild pity, as if I’d just asked him to explain how to ride a bicycle. “A flail is a type of medieval weapon. I’m gluing dice onto it because then geeks will want to buy it.”

“Oh, like a Bedazzler!” I’ll reply. “For the type of people who cover their cell phones in pink rhinestones. I get it.”

Sometimes when I explain Paul’s profession, one of the closeted geeks will be so enthusiastic that he’ll get other party guests interested, too. I’ll find myself surrounded by people in khaki pants and Old Navy performance-fleece pullovers. They will stare at me like zoo visitors before a baboon exhibit, trying desperately to comprehend a job that allows employees to wear chain mail instead of blue jeans on Casual Friday. “Where does he make his products?” one of them will ask. “What’s his job title?” “Who buys them?” “How did he get the idea?” “How many ears have they sold?”

The answer to that last question is 25,000 pairs. Thanks to Aradani Studios, 25,000 people now know the joy of latex prosthetic elf ears. And that’s not even counting the customers who buy other products like noses and foreheads and vampire fangs. Paul and his brother even sell furry faun pants to people who want to dress like Mr. Tumnus from the Chronicles of Narnia movie. Of course, those who wish to look like a wardrobe closet are still better off going to Ikea.

Photo by John Russell

When they’ve satisfactorily investigated the business side of the elf-ear endeavor, the next thing people want to know is how it affects me. I look so nice and normal, they think–am I really dating a man who owns his own set of leather armor?

“Well, he doesn’t wear it,” I tell them. “It’s for decoration.”

I do find Paul’s profession strange, but it’s a familiar kind of strangeness, something that makes sense to me but is hard to explain to others, sort of like telling a foreigner why our democratic political system keeps electing people named Clinton and Bush.

My boyfriend likes his job, so I like it, too. I don’t care that he sells costumes to sweaty-palmed World of Warcraft fanatics who smell faintly of microwavable burritos, if he doesn’t mind making small talk with someone in chinos who has a strong opinion on shiraz versus pino grigio.

In fact, I try to have as little contact with Paul’s customers as possible. I used to attend the occasional convention with him–even I found the prospect of meeting the original Chewbacca interesting–but after a former Star Trek actor hit on me without wearing pants, I decided that the scene was not for me.

Most of my visits to Paul’s conventions have gone smoothly, but one particular trip stands out in my mind. My boyfriend is a friendly person, very animated and enthusiastic about his work, and his energy is infectious. One day he talked to another festival worker–a large woman who wore leather gauntlets as part of her everyday outfit–and she decided that she would try to steal him from me. Musketeer-like and clutching a sword, she challenged me to a duel. I’m a fairly wimpy person–I can’t play poker because I’m too stingy to make a bet–and there was no way I’d be able to beat a woman who owned her own saber. So I ran away.

Paul (right) with his brother and business partner, Michael Bielaczyc. Photo by John Russell

Other times, I’m the one who looks like an idiot at the conventions. Most attendees are there for one reason–because they are extreme fans. They spend hundreds of dollars on obscure memorabilia, dress up in costumes of their favorite characters, and fawn all over the celebrities who attend the conventions. The celebrity guests expect to be recognized and adored by these fans, but because they’re usually B-grade actors from sci-fi or fantasy movies, I have no idea who they are. I once held an entire conversation with the man who voices Space Ghost on the cartoon television show, and when I finally found out who he was, I said, “Oh. That’s nice,” and wandered away. Only later did Paul tell me that the actor was the convention’s guest of honor.

I have similarly embarrassed myself in front of Star Trek actors, Battlestar Gallactica characters, and the guy who played Hercules on that horrible USA television show by the same name. The only convention guest I’ve ever been excited to meet was LeVar Burton, the blind guy with the visor on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Burton came to the convention because of Star Trek, but I wanted to meet him because he hosted Reading Rainbow. I waited in line for an hour, behind hundreds of people clutching Star Trek DVDs, books and action figures they wanted autographed. When it was my turn to meet him, I shook the actor’s hand and said, “Thank you, Mr. Burton. I really admire the way you read Angelina Ballerina.”

These are the stories I tell at cocktail parties, and if I’m lucky, I inspire laughter instead of awkward silence. When I moved to New York City last August to attend journalism school at Columbia University, I wasn’t sure how to explain my boyfriend to my new acquaintances. On the one hand, New York is full of weirdos, and Paul’s career is almost boring compared to the man in my building who makes his living by dressing up like the Statue of Liberty and selling knickknacks to tourists. On the other hand, Columbia is a fancy institution, full of fancy people who wear fancy clothes and do fancy things like win Pulitzer Prizes. Would Pulitzer Prize winners care about the guy who hosted Reading Rainbow?

As it turns out, the answer is yes. Not only do Pulitzer Prize winners like Reading Rainbow, but they love elf ears. I’ve already hooked up one classmate with a pair of her own ears, and other people have asked to interview Paul and his brother for articles. Even if no one else takes advantage of my Halloween costume connections, at least I’ll have something to talk about the next time I find myself at a cocktail party.

When people ask about Paul’s educational background and how he developed the skills to follow such a bizarre, unraveled career path, I tell them he learned it at Vanderbilt. He learned about sculpture in his undergraduate studio art classes, and sometimes he crafts 3-D models of his drawings using the Maya animation software he learned in graduate school.

I keep telling Paul he should hang his Vanderbilt diplomas on the walls of his booth, right between the orc mask and the Legend of Zelda shield. When his elf-ear sales finally hit 30,000, he can look up at the diplomas and see how far he’s come. At least his master’s degree in computer science was good for something.

We never know when one small incident will change lives. It was reading a National Geographic article one September afternoon during my sophomore year at Vanderbilt that changed mine.

Reading the article “Twenty-First Century Slaves” in my dorm room that day, I was horrified and heartbroken to learn there are an estimated 27 million slaves in the world today, and that 800,000 to 900,000 are trafficked across international borders each year. I decided at that moment I had to do something.

I began by gathering a group of students and establishing a student organization, FREE, to raise awareness of human trafficking. During months of research I found photos of children and young women who had been rescued from human trafficking.

Two in particular captured my attention. The warmness of their gaze seemed to assure me that they, these girls, were the reason I must continue the anti-trafficking work that by then was consuming my life. The two girls in the photograph had been rescued from slavery somewhere in a town in India known as Allahabad. Suddenly, I felt the need to sketch these girls into a drawing of Freedom.

Each day as I drew, I was surprised at the images making their home on my paper. I noted that of the six figures in my collage, five of them were from India, a land I could only dream of visiting. Little did I know that within only a few months, I would be selected by the U.S. Department of State for an internship in New Delhi, India, with the Trafficking in Persons Office.

When I packed my suitcase, I included a few prints of my finalized drawing.Maybe, just maybe, I would be able to trace the young girls who had inspired me.When I arrived in Delhi in June of 2005, I showed the drawing to my director. She suggested I meet with Joy Zaidi,who ran a shelter home in Allahabad and would be coming to New Delhi the following week.

One week later I sat down with Joy as he told me about the shelter home and HIV/AIDS program he had begun some years before. As he spoke he dabbed his moist eyes, telling me about children for whom he could find no financial support.Many had been abandoned at the train station, or left to begging rackets on the streets, or rescued from forced child labor, or had been victims of trafficking. The small grant that kept the home open had run out. I promised him I would do what I could to find funding for the SOUP (Society of Underprivileged People) home.

Then I unrolled my drawing and handed it to Joy.”Do you know these two girls? Are they from your shelter home?” I pointed to the girl in the center and the girl in the right hand corner. Joy’s eyes filled with tears again. “Oh, yes.Yes, these are my girls! It is my Sunita. And the other, she is our precious Grace Malla!”

A year after I met Joy, I finally had the chance to visit the shelter home. Following my graduation from Vanderbilt in May 2006, I returned to India to work in Calcutta with two organizations, and at long last I could meet the children in the shelter home.

On the way to the shelter from the train station, Joy told me stories about the children: Kajal, a 4-year-old girl found at the train station, had been blinded with acid by her stepmother. Surendra was trafficked for child labor and sold to drug peddlers who cut off his left leg. Rahul had been trafficked for the removal of one of his kidneys.

When I arrived at the shelter, the children greeted me with curious, wide eyes–Rinki, Madhu,Ragni, Rita, Sunny,Gautam,Ramesh, Raoul, Surendra, Kajal. I bent down to take Kajal’s hand, for she was the smallest. Looking at her damaged eyes stopped a beat ofmy heart.

The children wanted to play in a nearby park. Rinki, Ramesh and Madhu never left Kajal’s side. Not once did they run ahead to climb the slide or join a game without taking her hand and gently leading her so she too could take part in the fun. The other children took special care to include Surendra in the games despite the limitations of his short wooden leg. They were a family, a team who took care of each other.

While the children slept around me that night, I feared what would happen if we did not find funding quickly.Would they be left to the streets? The rent was months overdue. Funds were so low that the children had no milk to drink.

In the past, worries could pull and push me into a frenzied panic. But these children had, in only one day, taught me a beautiful lesson. If these children who had lived through slavery, abuse, abandonment and pure evil could live each day with a simple faith, finding joy in helping each other, then so could I.My resolve was steadfast, and I was determined to find funding for those children and, if possible, special help for Kajal and Surendra.

A few months later, at Christmas, I once again journeyed to the shelter home.After I had sent out a call for help, family and friends had contributed to SOUP so that overdue debts could be paid in full. Vanderbilt students from FREE raised $4,500 in three weeks–enough to support the home for five or six months.My mother’s and sister’s Sunday school classes raised enough money for Christmas presents for the children, and there was enough money left over for Surendra to be standing proud and tall on a new leg specially made to fit him.

Now, a small voice called out to me.”Ashley di-di, English song?” Kajal tugged at my shirt.

Kajal wanted me to sing her English songs because she would be going to America for sight restoration surgery.My e-mail call for help had found its way to Jenna Ray from Nashville,who enlisted the help of Dr.Ming Wang. Dr.Wang had developed exactly the surgery Kajal needed in order to see–a femtosecond artificial cornea transplant. He offered to perform the surgery for free and even obtained a grant from the hospital.

But we still needed $30,000 to pay for months of hotels, food, transportation, passports, visas and airfare for Kajal and Joy’s wife,Grace,who would go with her as a translator and caretaker. Kajal’s story went out, and help poured in.Within weeks dozens of families in Nashville had offered to take Kajal and Grace into their homes. People donated to the “Kajal Project,” contributing enough for Kajal and Grace to pay for their passports and visas and needs once in the U.S.

Most amazing was how we obtained Kajal’s and Grace’s airfare.My mother had gone to a Wal-Mart in Monroe, La., to find a USB drive for downloading photos of the children. She did not really know what she needed, but another customer, a man named Curt Gober, offered his help.My mom shared the story of the shelter home and Kajal. Mr. Gober decided at that very moment that he and his family wanted to be part of this project by donating the airline tickets. As he walked away, he turned and said, “Mrs. Rogers, I’m for real, and I am going to do this.”And he did–a stranger from another city passing through town, in Wal-Mart, on the same aisle at the same time as my mom.

My smile was uncontainable that Christmas Eve as I watched Kajal play her favorite game with the other children–creating patterns and networks out of hands. One by one she took the children’s right hands and placed them beside each other before taking their left hands and laying them in a stack. “Ashley di-di, give me your hand,” sang out Kajal. Kajal stood in the middle and began turning so that we all moved in a circle around her.

Kajal is right, I concluded, as I watched her form a web of connections, complete only when she had used both hands from every person in the room.We are all connected, and we all have a part to play, hands to give. While I had worried about how Kajal would find the support she needed to journey to the U.S. for surgery, all I had to do was play a small role by giving my hands and heart, and God did the rest by forming an intricate network of people who gave a “hand” from all over the world.

In July 2007, Kajal had her first reconstructive surgery on her right eye in Nashville. Dr.Wang believes she has a 50 percent chance of regaining sight. Her story has touched many lives, and we hope it may bring help to other children.

Sunita and Grace Malla, the girls whose pictures I had drawn early in my journey, have passed away. Sunita died in June 2006 of a fever. Grace Malla died in 2005 after a battle with AIDS. This is dedicated to them– this article, this project, this lifelong mission. When I drew their picture three years ago, it was not me drawing the story; they were drawing me into their story. Thank you, girls. This story is yours.