At Home in Many Worlds

At Home in Many Worlds

Memoirs of an Iowa Farm Girl

Who Had Far to Go

Sister Jane Fell, MMS

At Home in Many Worlds

By Sister Jane Fell, MMS

Copyright © 2011 by Society of Catholic Medical Missionaries aka Medical Mission Sisters

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

Foreword

Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger.

I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest.

Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life whoever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.

When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of the many.

(Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore, pp. 42-43)

As a child I feared to be away from home. During my one experience of camp I suffered from homesickness the whole three days that I was there. Who would have believed that as life unfolded I would be comfortably at home while living in 11 localities in six countries and three states? But such was the case. Born and raised on an Iowa farm, I joined the Society of Medical Mission Sisters (a Religious Community) at the age of 22. Following my three years of education for living religious and missionary life, I have been assigned to:

• Philadelphia for one year,

• Pakistan for 10 years,

• Afghanistan for four years,

• North & South Carolina for seven years,

• Papua New Guinea for four years,

• Ghana, West Africa for six years, and finally,

• Uganda, East Africa for 17 years.

It was from Uganda at the age of 75 that I finally repatriated back to the United States. I have loved every bit of my life. I came to experience the truth that each place has its own unique flavor and yet at base we are all the same regardless of religion, race or education.

As I sent letters to my family and friends telling stories of the inside of a convent; the adventures in my travel by freighter, train and horse-drawn tonga to get to my first mission in Pakistan; my struggles to communicate in a foreign language; nursing within the Moslem culture; travel by local bus through the Khyber pass into Afghanistan with only $7.50 in my purse; adventures, close shaves and fun among the Pathan tribes of Afghanistan; being with the highlanders of Papua New Guinea as they emerged from the Stone Age; trying out simple living in a remote village of Ghana: encountering Congolese rebels in Uganda; and learning how to be architect and building contractor in a part of Uganda not far from the gorillas in the mist; they were intrigued. They told me I should write a book.

One day in the heat of July in Philadelphia I was living in a house that lacked air-conditioning. I was recovering from surgery. Reflecting on the fact that there was an air-conditioned room in the administration building, with a computer that I could use, writing a book suddenly seemed the thing to do. The rest is story.

Having grown up on a farm I have always felt more comfortable in a rural setting than in a city setting. Fortunately, virtually all of my assignments as a member of the Medical Mission Sister society have been to rural areas. While reading this book it is important that the reader remember that I was experiencing life and living conditions in the rural areas of the various countries. Amenities such as electricity, telephones, paved roads, running water and a variety of foods would have been available at least in the larger towns and cities while not being available in the rural areas at the time that I was there.

I was blessed to be in all of these countries during the good years. I hope that I can give you a glimpse of what the life of the people was like when they were not in crisis.

My personal gifts seem to have included the gift to intuit the potential of others. Again and again throughout my life I have been able to enable others to develop and to use their gifts. One part of the Medical Mission Sisters’ mission is to bring an endeavor to the point where others can carry it on, thus allowing us Sisters to go to other places of need. Thus my ability to help colleagues and employees to further develop their skills has contributed to this aspect of mission. It is one reason that I have been able to move on to yet another place so many times.

We all have our inner journey as well as our external journey in life. I have tried to include something of this in these pages.

I have a sense of humor and many of my stories are told with the humor that I experienced on looking back after all was over, and nothing terrible had resulted. Often these events were not funny at the time they were happening.

I originally wrote this for family and friends who were already aware of the context. I have tried to add more context for the sake of those who do not know me or the Medical Mission Sisters, or the countries in which the events happened.

Finally, these are my Memoirs; my memories! They may vary slightly from the facts or from the memory of others involved in the same location.

I am told by early readers of the manuscript that I held their attention and helped them to feel as if they were right there with me. They have encouraged me to make it available to a larger readership. So here it is. Enjoy.

Abbreviations Used in the Text

MMS Medical Mission Sisters

PNG Papua New Guinea

PINDI Rawalpindi, Pakistan

VHC Village Health Committee

CHW Community Health Worker

TBA Traditional Birth Attendant

Table of Contents

Chapter1Chapter 1: Home on an Iowa Farm:

Experiencing a Call 1934-1956

Chapter 1 photos

Chapter2Chapter 2: Answering the Call:

Becoming a Nun 1956-1959

Chapter 2 photos

Chapter3Chapter 3: At Home in a Muslim World:

Rawalpindi, Pakistan 1960-1970

Chapter 3 photos

Chapter4Chapter 4: Life Among the Afghan Tribes:

Jalalabad, Afghanistan 1970-1974

Chapter 4 photos

Chapter5Chapter 5: Another Side of the Journey:

Philadelphia, USA 1974-1975

Chapter6Chapter 6: At Home in the South:

The Carolinas, USA 1975-1981

Greenevers, North Carolina: the Tar Heel Team

Bennetsville, South Carolina: High Risk Pregnancy Program

Chapter 6 photos

Chapter7Chapter 7: At Home in the Pacific:

Papua New Guinea 1981-1985

Chapter 7 photos

Chapter8Chapter 8: At Home in the African Bush:

Ghana, West Africa 1985-1992

Chapter 8 photos

Chapter9Chapter 9: In the Foothills of the Rwenzori:

Uganda, East Africa 1993-1998

Chapter 9 photos

Chapter10Chapter 10: Building for the Future:

Leaving a Legacy 1998-2009

Chapter 10 photos

Chapter 1: Home on an Iowa Farm:

Experiencing a Call 1934-1956

Childhood

I was born the fifth of seven children, living on a farm near Council Bluffs, Iowa, just as the family was emerging from drought and depression. It seems that I was a bit of a surprise as Mom & Dad had already decided that two girls and two boys nicely completed a family. My siblings and I can claim to be eighth generation Americans. And we are typical Americans. We are a mixture of German, French, English, Irish, and Welsh ethnic background. I was born on a Thursday and as we know, Thursday’s child has far to go. It seems that I began life on a rocky rather than a rock foundation.

My four older siblings were ages three, four, six and seven years when I came into the world. I must have been for them the ultimate toy, i.e. I cried, drank milk, peed, etc....all those things an expensive doll should do. At first, maybe because the family had used up all the beds before my arrival, I was bedded down in a dresser drawer in my parent’s bedroom. The dresser was on wheels and one rainy afternoon, according to my mother who was downstairs at the time, the four decided to play choo-choo train with the dresser in which I was sleeping. Great fun until the dresser fell over on its face with me inside it. Could this explain my feeling the need to be on guard the whole of my life?

Our farm was only four miles from the city of Council Bluffs, so we had the better of two worlds, i.e. access to good education, jobs, and shopping, plus the simpler life of a farm. Council Bluffs is across the Missouri River from Omaha, Nebraska.

My education began in a one-room rural school, Garner No. 3, where one teacher handled kindergarten through eighth grade. When I began school, my four older brothers and sisters were there in the same room. When I finished grade school, my two younger brothers were there. No chance to keep secrets from mom and dad. In fact, dad was the director of the school. It was he who not only saw to the maintenance of the school, but who signed the teacher’s pay vouchers as well. So we Fell children felt very important. It also had its responsibilities. We Fell children were responsible to bring a five gallon milk can of drinking water with us when we came walking to school. We used a little red wagon in the warm weather and a sled in the winter. In winter, if heavy snow meant the teacher couldn’t make it to school, it was we Fell children who decided to dismiss school and send everyone home. Everyone, in fact, numbered at the most 20 students. Most of the time the school had only about 15 students enrolled. I went through 13 years of school in the same grade with twin boys, Ronald and Roger, and with a girl who’s name, like mine, was Jane. Our first nine years were in this one-room school.

As there was only one teacher in the school, there was only time for a 15-minute recitation period for each grade, for each subject, so we really learned self-study. I used to enjoy finishing my own study quickly so that I could listen to the recitations of the older students. One day I got so absorbed in the older students’ class that when the teacher asked a question and they didn’t reply, my arm shot up before I remembered it wasn’t my class. The teacher just laughed and let me give the answer. In this setting a teacher could spend more time on an area in which she was confident, and less on an area that was not so easy for her to teach. For instance, one teacher taught us the basics of music, including the complicated skill of how to change the notation from one key to another. This knowledge of how to read and understand music served me well as a Medical Mission Sister, as singing has always been an important part of our lives.

One aspect of winter I remember is how we managed to have a hot lunch. Each student carried a raw potato to school. These were put into the coals of the wood stove that heated the school-room, and by lunchtime they were nicely baked.

On really cold, winter evenings when we arrived home from school, half frozen from the long walk, Mom would have hot, homemade, cream of tomato soup and shell-shaped crackers waiting for us.

Life on a farm included a lot of shared family activities. One was producing our own food. In addition to the large fields, we had a big garden, two vineyards, and a big orchard with fruit trees, strawberry beds, raspberry patch, and asparagus bed. We had cattle and pigs and chickens for meat. We also had three or four milk cows. Selling cream and eggs provided our mother’s spending money.

From five years of age, all of us had tasks appropriate for our age to help sustain all of this. Typical jobs for me included: gathering eggs, cleaning pig and cattle pens, separating milk to obtain the cream and helping to cook (when forced to do so). All of us helped to grow and preserve food. In order to assist the boys and men in the fields while they were loading bales of hay onto a wagon to bring it into the barns, I learned to drive horses (from age six), and a tractor (from age 10).

Our father was employed as a motion picture projector operator in a theater in town. To supplement his income, he grew and processed popcorn to sell to area theaters. From about five years of age, we children stood along a conveyor belt that was installed in a room above our garage, where we cleaned popcorn by removing stones, etc., from among the kernels. Our father then bagged the corn and took it to the theaters. Until my older brothers got old enough to manage the farm, my father hired a man to help to do farm work, so that Dad could continue working in the theater. This, in addition to the marketing of popcorn, gave us a security our neighbors lacked during drought and depression.

I experienced my first flight when about five or six years old. It was a winter morning with a foot or more of snow on the ground. My older brothers and I were going over the hill to our grandparent’s house. At the top of the hill, my brothers caught hold of me under the arms, and ran full speed down the hill, leaving my little feet barely skimming the top of the snow. How wonderful.

A highlight of farm life was the 4-H Club. The four Hs stood for head, heart, health and hands. I belonged both to the girls club, where I learned sewing, cooking, and home furnishing, and to the boys club, where I raised cattle to show at the county fair, and to sell to make money for my college education. I had time for the outside activities because my two older sisters, much to my delight, assisted my mother with the cooking. Needless to say, as an adult, the fact that I lacked skill/confidence in the culinary arts was sometimes a bit of a problem.

Of course farm life was not all work. During the summer time we spent the afternoons exploring the surrounding woods and creeks. Our active imaginations defined Devil’s Den, Phantom Canyon, and Ghost Creek Canyon. Once my legs were long enough, I was allowed to join in these excursions with the four. Prior to that, they refused to take me despite my cries of protest. As it would be another four years before my younger brothers came along, I felt abandoned when this happened. Mosquito Creek was a source of cooling off on a hot day. I remember once being escorted by one of my big brothers to within a safe walking distance to return home, so that my Uncle John and my brothers could go skinny-dipping.

My siblings insist that I was Dad’s favorite, and one of their proofs is that when I was of right age, he bought me a riding horse! I, of course, made it plain to all my siblings that they were free to share the horse. It wasn’t my fault that they had trouble staying on top of it. For me the horse was the source of hours of freedom, enjoyment, and beginning contemplation. He carried me to secluded vales, or to the nearby experimental fruit farm. In the latter I would begin my ride in the vineyard, proceed to the apple trees and peach trees, and then finish in the strawberry patch, sampling as I went along.

Once, before Dad bought me the horse, I tried my skill at riding by another means. One day I was in the pasture with the cows. Impulsively, I jumped onto the back of an older calf. As I thought he would do, he started out running for the barn. I was getting a wonderful ride. He ran and ran and ran, and then he suddenly stopped…right in front of the big water tank, throwing me over his head into the water! Really!

Our family worshipped in a small rural church, which was a mission of the Columban Fathers. Alice, my older sister, played the organ and the rest of us, along with our cousins and a few other parishioners, formed a choir. Mom sometimes invited the priest or the Mercy Sisters, who had come from their convent in town to teach us our catechism, for breakfast. This wasn’t so much fun for us children as we felt intimidated. I was great at memorizing the catechism. It would be many, many years before I understood what I could so easily memorize.

At the same time, our religion was an ever-present part of our living. I remember to this day the disbelief that I experienced after entering a public high school that none of my peers knew or cared that the first of November was the Feast of All Saints. I had gone to Mass before going to school that day.

We were taught from childhood to pray hard when danger threatened. If it started to hail, we rushed to light the blessed candle, knelt down and started to say the rosary. The hail, which had the potential to wipe out a whole crop, never persisted beyond the first decade of the rosary.

Years later there came a day, when I had just finished getting ready to go on duty as a nurse at the Council Bluffs hospital, that I saw fire! Someone had tried to burn the waste paper, and the wind picked up pieces of flaming paper, periodically dropping it to the earth where it ignited dry grass in the pasture. The flaming paper kept going up and down, creating a path of flames headed directly towards our grandparents’ house, which was surrounded by evergreen trees. My older brother tried to contain it, but it was moving too fast. Down I went on my knees, and prayed like mad. Just before the fire reached our grandparents’ homestead, the wind changed direction 90 degrees, blowing the fire into the corner of the pasture. As the corner was in the intersection of two roads, my brother could then contain the spread of the flames. No damage occurred, except that part of our vineyard was burned. Thank you, God.

Dad loved to drive. On hot summer evenings and Sundays he would pack my mother and all seven of us children into the car and drive us somewhere. We enjoyed visiting with our relatives and Dad and Mom’s friends. In those days there was no TV to compete with our entertainment.

Dad taught me many skills useful in repair and maintenance. I have been able to utilize these skills in every place and every mission where I have lived and worked. Also, being comfortable with isolation and solitude, a trait that I developed while living on a farm, attracted me to living in rural rather than urban areas. I was happy that my mission assignments were to rural areas. As health care personnel are less available in the rural areas this was an asset to the country as well as to my life as a missionary.

Another experience that helped me to adjust to religious life was my being the third of three girls. I had little experience of wearing new clothes except on Easter as most of my clothing was passed on from my older sisters. Also, the feed store in town started selling chicken feed in colorful cloth rather than burlap bags. I remember choosing the cloth that I wanted for the sewing of my next dress when I was with my father to buy chicken feed. That was farm life.

A tragedy hit the family one day. Dad was in the feed lot on a ladder replacing broken windows in the barn when the ladder broke. One of his feet was broken almost completely off. A few miracles saved him and his foot. First was that the hogs did not attack him. Second my uncle who was on a noisy tractor a quarter mile away heard him calling for help. He responded immediately and drove Dad to the emergency room. Next, the artery didn’t blow until he was on the table in the ER where the hemorrhage could be managed. Finally, his surgeon had just returned from serving in World War II. He had experience not only with trauma but also with penicillin and it had just been released for civilian use. When he returned home we children took turns substituting for a whirlpool by powering an egg beater while his foot was in a bucket of water.

The accident happened during the