Our Life in Costa Rica--A Tropical Adventure

Yesterday was one of those days where you pace the floor, watch the clock and hold your breath. For hours. My mother was in surgery for six hours but seems to now be doing well. (My poor parents have had a hard time of it lately). Thanks so much to all who helped support me through the day with emails, Facebook, phone calls and text messages. It was greatly appreciated. I love you for it!

While walking back and forth over the tile all morning, my mind went back to my days in Costa Rica. I was nine when my father was called to preside over the Central American Mission. My mother was 33. A rather daunting calling, I believe, for someone so young.

I looked forward to what I was sure would be an adventure. That sentiment was not shared by my older siblings however. Terri was a senior in high school and Randy a junior. Both looked forward to spending their final years at Skyline High in Salt Lake City. Now they would be in a class of less than 20 in San Jose.

We attended an English speaking school called Country Day which was run by a Mennonite couple, the Bakers. The elementary school bore a close resemblance to the classic haunted house in the movies. It was an old hotel with rickety wooden steps and rotting verandas. You could bring your own lunch or order from the school. The food was cooked at the high school on a grill many roaches called home, and consisted of such nutritious choices as hamburgers, milk shakes and French fries. My classroom had walls that only extended three quarters of the way to the roof. The rest was open air, but in a tropical setting, that was never a problem –except during the daily rain storms.

Our house was an adventure. All the windows were made of slats and covered with bars. You had to pass through a gate to get to the front door, and once inside there was another locked gate (yes, inside the house) that separated the bedrooms from the living areas.

(March 2008 in front of our old home)

The backyard was a tropical paradise, filled with trees, flowers and a man made pond. We loved to play out there, until the gardener brought us a tarantula he had chopped up while using a machete to cut the grass.

We were blessed to make many friends, although there were no other members of the church our age. Many of the people we met worked for the American Embassy or the Peace Corp. Another family owned a coffee plantation and we enjoyed going out to their ranch, riding horses and enjoying the beautiful Costa Rican country side.

And another friend, the Gants, owned a private island. Once during winter break, my sister Ruth and I were able to travel to the island and spend a week there. We spent all day in swimming suits, and for our meals ate fresh fish caught that day in the ocean, rice, and vegetables grown in the garden. And we craved terribly soft drinks. So much so that one day we sent a boat to a neighboring island to see if they had some for sale--which they did.

While just 11 and in sixth grade I met the son of the vice president of the country, who lived down the street from us. He was a senior in high school and for some reason thought I was close to his age. He also developed a bit of a crush on me (during our one time meeting) and hired a professional band to serenade outside my bedroom window at 2 in the morning. Being very young, I was not prepared to handle such a proclamation of love and spent the next couple weeks hiding from him when he came to the house or I when I saw him drive down the street.


All in all we survived several minor earthquakes, a volcanic eruption and the perverted men who came to our door to expose themselves. (Don’t ask me why, but that seemed to be a common thing to do down there.) We loved the people, and the rainy weather. (Although I had a sister complain it was so humid she was sure we all had fungus on our lungs) We loved the volcanoes in the distance and the little bread stores on all the street corners. We loved the missionaries that came for dinner and the sister missionaries who lived with us.

It was three wonderful years of my life, for which I will always be grateful. Although there were some difficult challenges, mostly our time there filled my heart with tender memories.

Two years ago I had the opportunity to go back with my husband and two of my daughters. It was so much fun to see the sights of my childhood. It was amazing all the things I could remember, and that I even found my old house! What a treat, and what great . . . joy to my journey.

The Early Years

This is a picture of my three older siblings, myself and my younger brother Scot. I am the little girl in the front who is looking totally confused.

And here I am six years later, along with my younger sister Becky. I love this picture!

I had an entirely different blog post planned for today until I read Dawn at Momza’s House and decided to follow her example (sounds better than “copy”) and do a little “getting to know me”—the early years. Some of these things my kids don’t even know.

I was born in Salt Lake City, Utah. I am intentionally omitting the year—but Barbie and I do have one thing in common. I was welcomed into the family by loving parents, two sisters and a brother. (Four more kids came later)

As a toddler I was either precocious or dumb. I prefer precocious. When my mother was trying to teach me my name, she would say my name and then ask me to repeat it. But instead I would say “Duff.” “No”, she would say, “that isn’t your name. Now let’s try again,” and again I would say “Duff”. Later I changed it to “Duffy,”. Finally my family gave up and called me Duffy—a name I went by until I was nine and we moved to Costa Rica. However, my dad does still call me Duffy on occasion.

Marbles were big when I was little and my older siblings loved to play them. And I liked to get in their way. One of my first memories is of my sister tying me to the rocking chair in the living room while they played so I couldn’t mess things up. I am pretty sure my mother was not very happy about that one.

That was the same chair my parents would pull up to the kitchen door so I could watch them eat dinner when I was three and too sick with hepatitis to join them. Also over the course of my first few years I had mumps, measles, German measles and chicken pox.

I hated Barbies, but loved baby dolls. My favorite was Thumbelina. I would bathe her, take her for walks in a little stroller and rock her to sleep. I also loved to play “teacher”. I spent many hours in my father’s office, holding my flannel board and teaching my imaginary students.

My first real hero was John Glenn---the astronaut who was the first person to circle the earth. I was fascinated by him—until I grew older and learned he was a Democrat. :-)

My best friends were Mary Ellen McMurray and Ann Marie Rasmussen and we lived on a quiet little cul-de-sac where everyone knew each other, everyone was friends and our summer evenings were spent playing “Kick the Can” and “Hide and Go Seek”, with all the neighborhood kids. Our summer days were spent learning to waltz and putting on plays (under my sister’s direction) or watching magic shows in the McMurray’s garage, with the neighborhood’s teenage boys as the stars.

The first boy I ever liked was named Frank, who also ended up being my second cousin. He always wanted me to walk him home from kindergarten, and if I didn’t want to do it, he would get mad and tell me he wouldn’t be my cousin anymore. The second boy I liked was Mitchell. We used to play kissing tag during recess until the principal told us we had to stop. (The entire class played, not just the two of us.)

It was a very happy, very secure, and very comfortable life which all came to a screeching halt the night my parents told us my father had been called to serve as the mission president of the Central American Mission. This included the countries of Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. I was nine years old at the time and my mother was in her early 30’s. (My father is 8 years older than my mom). So we sold our house, packed up our belongings and moved to a foreign country where Spanish was the only language spoken and there were no other members of the church our age.

But that is a story for another day. . .

May you all have a wonderful weekend and may you always find . . . joy in your journey.