Dhaka

There are numerous previously foreign sights, sounds and smells that I have become accustomed to since I arrived in Bangladesh.
It is no longer strange for me to see various forms of raw meat being swarmed by flies and hanging from hooks at a dilapidated roadside stand or to encounter chickens and sheep roaming freely through the streets while a herd of goats on leashes are being walked by a native through the swirling conglomeration of trucks, cars, busses, motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles that make up Dhaka's traffic.
The sight of a man squatting on the side of the road to urinate no longer merits a second glance.
My ears no longer perk up when airplanes going to and from the nearby international airport fly low overhead but I must admit it still does make my heart race.
I fall asleep easily after being woken by the early morning Muslim call to prayer emanating from as yet undetermined nearby speakers instead of remaining wide awake and alert for the following half an hour with chills running up and down my spine.
My nose no longer wrinkles as I pass through the market replete with all the animals that pass their existence there or as I pass lots and lakes filled with rotting trash where stray cats and dogs make their home.
The past couple of days, however, have introduced a new sight, sound, and smell that I have yet to get used to.
In preparation for a Muslim holiday celebration, bulls have appeared on the streets of Dhaka to eventually be offered as a sacrifice and eaten.
So in addition to attempting to steer clear of ankle sprain producing potholes and periodic open sewers as well as trying to avoid getting hit by the components that form the maelstrom on Dhaka's streets, I now also have to keep my eyes peeled in order to avoid sinking my foot into a heap of putrid, steaming, literal bull crap.

Dhonnobad

During the extensive amount of time that I have spent in airports and also in foreign cities over the past couple of weeks, I have had the opportunity to observe the interactions of a plethora of parents and children.
This activity provided me with a healthy amount of laughs and also caused me to reminisce about some of my own memorable and cherished childhood experiences.
There are an innumerable amount that I could expound upon here but I will simply pick out some of the most enjoyable.
The memory that I recount most often most likely has to do with the Fisher Price tape recorder that Mama would break out when we grilled brats on the deck as well as sing-a-longs with the cousins and prayer time before bed. I would either end up laughing uncontrollably for reasons that were comical only to me or sing the chorus of the same song over and over regularly pausing to catch my breath in the midst of a word while Ben would inevitably complain and begin to cry when he didn't get to finish his song or was interrupted by me, Leah, Travis, Nick or Season. He pretty much cried for the majority of the time on the tapes. He still does this, by the way. Some things never change, I guess. Once a cry baby, always a cry baby. I still love him, though.
Another one that comes to the forefront of my mind would be picking up the "beans" from the monstrous tree that once stood in the front yard, visible as a landmark to us of where our home was as we drove down I-95.
It was pretty much the same script every time we filled the trash bags up.
Mama would mention what was on the menu for dinner that night. I'll use hot dogs as a common example.
"Well, Ben and Josh, do you want a hot dog tonight?"
"Yeah, yeah, hot dogs are awesome," we would respond.
"Well, then you need to fill up one bag each."
"Okay," I would reply as Ben would begin to cry because he was tired or for some other inane reason.
"Do you want more than one hot dog, Josh?"
"Yeah, I want two," I would say as I held up two fingers on one hand and stuck two fingers of the other hand into my nose to get rid of my boogers.
"Okay, well, that's another bag then. And keep your fingers out of your nose," said Mama.
"But don't I get another hot dog?" Ben asked as he wiped the snot caused by his constant crying from his nose.
"Well, Ben, if you would stop crying and start working you could probably have all the hot dogs in the house. Do you want any toppings on your hot dog, Josh?"
"Yes, I want catssup, mustaahd and pickel wellisshh."
"Okay, one more bag and you can have all those things."
"Alright, you got it, Mama."
Ben, meanwhile still hasn't filled one bag.
Parts of this conversation may be exaggerated but it made for a better story. Sorry for casting you in a bad light, Ben. You only cried a third of the time we picked up the beans.
Another happy memory involves Ben and me riding our bikes through the puddles immediately following a summer thunderstorm.
"Watch out for cars! Listen for thunder! Where there's thunder, there's lightning!!!" Mom would yell as we rode down our 45 degree angle driveway, ready to do some nasty jumps on the corner of High Ridge.
Other memories that stick out include playing catch in the backyard, making Christmas cookies and hard boiled Easter eggs, riding bikes with Mama over the overpass, aka the "jungle", to McDonald's for ice cream cones (I would always get the swirl), and last but not least Sunday afternoon drives along A1A in the '40 Ford with the same Oldies tape playing over and over.
"Do you love me? Do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl."
All this to say that I am incredibly thankful for the memories I have from my childhood.
Mom and Dad, you did a fabulous job raising both me and Ben and I am grateful to have you as parents.
If I eventually have children of my own, I hope I can do half as good a job as you have done.
As you well know, I will be unable to celebrate Thanksgiving with you this year, so this will have to suffice for my answer when Mom asks her annual Thanksgiving question of "What are you thankful for this year?"
Thank you for all your sacrifices.
"Dhonnobad," as they say here in Bangladesh.