In the wake of USAID’s closure, this is my tribute.

In 1993, Charlie walked into our Mozambique kitchen, and dropped his briefcase on a chair. “I’ve got news.” The generator roared, the distiller hummed.

It was a May evening. Vegetables soaked in a Clorox-and-water solution rendering them safe to eat. Aarica pummeled Play-Doh on her kiddie table.

Aarica hugged Charlie’s legs. “Hi, Daddy!”

Charlie tousled her ringlets. “Watcha making?”

“Cookies!” Aarica held up her handiwork.

I grabbed a towel, mind racing. Charlie’s secretary’s toddler had fallen from a third-story window weeks earlier, and was still in a South African hospital.
“What happened?”

“Nothing urgent. I’ll go change.”

“Don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry!” Charlie shrugged apologetically.

Aarica returned to her Play-Doh. I mixed rice cereal and fruit. Charlie descended in jeans and a T-shirt, settled Aarica into the high chair, and Velcro-ed a bib around her neck.

“What’s the news?” I laid the veggies out to dry.

“Jack’s retiring.” Charlie set the bowl in front of Aarica.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Jack and Charlie worked together at AID, and his wife Patricia served as Community Liaison Officer (CLO). “When?”

“June, July at the latest.” Charlie handed Aarica a spoon.

“Wow. That’s soon.” I sliced chicken and peppers. Stir-fry was a staple dinner. Charlie and I had no time for meal-planning or searching for scarce ingredients, so I default-ordered the same items through a South African grocery service every week: chicken breasts, stewing beef, spaghetti and jarred sauce, hamburger, rice, and seasonal vegetables for salads or steaming. This menu was an improvement over Aarica’s first six months when our dinners alternated between Hamburger Helper and Tuna Helper.

“Should we host a party?”

“Sure, but he’s not just leaving, he’s retiring . . . after 30 years. This might be his only chance for a celebration.” Charlie and Jack had worked together for two years. Jack was deputy mission director, but he’d been “acting” director at times, too. Maputo was a “hard-to-fill” assignment because, besides lacking stocked grocery stores, it had no English-language high school for dependent children. Mission directors were often vetted by the White House, and had to meet the Portuguese requirement.

I stirred soy sauce and chicken. “Everybody will pitch in. They’ll want to recognize Patricia, too.” She’d done a lot for me as CLO: the mental health library; transition advice; travel information.

Charlie’s face brightened. “I should write a poem!” Aarica scraped her bowl. “I’m done, Daddy!”

At dinner, Aarica nodded off in Charlie’s lap, so he shifted his chair gently. “Jack’s retiring from here because he wasn’t offered a mission director position next.”

I sipped water. “Why not?”

“Just timing.”

In 1989, after our wedding, Charlie’s father retired from AID. I’d been amazed by the effort Charlie’s family put into a surprise retirement party. Then, AID held an official farewell for his father, too. Each of those parties had 200 attendees, the same size as our wedding, a different kind of life celebration.

Of course, Charlie felt Jack deserved a special send-off.

Patricia had hosted a baby shower for Aarica at their home, at their expense. She’d invited the whole embassy and AID, after just arriving in Maputo following unexpected bereavement leave. Jack had written Charlie glowing performance evaluations that had enabled him to advance in the super competitive foreign service “up-or-out” system.

My brain lurched into gear. “Your poem could be lyrics for a song.”

“Yeah, maybe . . . .” Aarica woke and squirmed in Charlie’s lap.

“I’ll do some brainstorming.” I jumped up, excited, and hugged Charlie. Some part of me was waking up. What? A sense of purpose. My love of music. Learning lines, songs, dances. Being part of a group. High school drama club.

The next afternoon, immobilized by Aarica napping on my lap, I remembered being a daughter in Fiddler on the Roof in high school. The opening number, “Tradition,” played in my head.

The AID Maputo program was about transition: war to peace; communism to capitalism; planned economy to free market. Change “tradition” to “transition.” Voila!

And the verses? Development buzzwords needed.

Over a spaghetti dinner, I quizzed Charlie. “Remind me what the transition teams do?”

Charlie cut a meatball. “The Drought Team coordinates water, food and medical supplies.”

“Tradition” started, “Who does mama teach,” so I sang, “Who makes sure there’s food . . . and water and medicines too?”

Charlie added, “responding to emergencies . . . .”

“When nature’s overdue?’’ I finished, and prompted him again. “And what about the Demob team?”

“They help with de-mining and weapons surrender. People can’t farm until the United Nations clears the land mines.”

“Of course.” Land mines. We’d been confined to the capital for over a year because the roads were riddled with land mines from the 15-year civil war.

Charlie went on, “Elections — the E Team — helps arrange polling places, election monitors, voter education, ballot counting.”

We put Aarica to bed. Downstairs again, I grabbed my pen. “What’s the last team?”

“Rehabilitation and Reintegration. That’s agricultural training, distributing seeds and tools, vocational education . . . to help soldiers recruited as children enter civilian society for first time.” Charlie chugged water.

“Wow.” Processing the scope of AID’s assistance took time, although I’d been living it for 7 years.

We worked more the next few evenings.

Locating office space had been tough. To My Fair Lady’s “Wouldn’t It Be Lover-ly?” Charlie sang, “All I want is an office somewhere . . . with a split air condition-air.”

I continued. “A desk, computer and chair. Oh wouldn’t it be loverly?”

“Perfect!”

My Fair Lady yielded other ideas.

Jack was a ruthless editor. “At staff meeting today Jack ranted, ‘For God’s sake, give me simple, declarative sentences. This is official reporting!’” Charlie impersonated Jack’s voice and hand slapping the desk. ‘And, spare me these run-on sentences . . . without a single comma!’” Charlie waved his napkin like a sheaf of papers, and “Why Can’t the English Learn How to Speak?” became “Why can’t the staff learn how to write?”

We used “The Rain in Spain” as “The Rain in Beira” because of a cyclone and flooding in the city of Beira. The rain in Beira fell mainly on the “terra,” (Portuguese for “land”). I imagined a show-stopper number with three men in khakis charging each other as bulls while one held a folder by the corners as a red “cape.”

The entire cast could perform “Transition” as an “all hands” staff meeting. Each team — Drought, Demobilization, Elections, and Reintegration and Rehabilitation — would sing its “progress report.”

In the final scene “Patricia” would tell “Jack” she was distributing her resume with him retiring. She’d muse, “What war-torn country should I bid on?” then tease Jack, “I’m applying to be CLO in Bosnia! You can be my dependent spouse!”

With Patricia’s collaboration, Charlie and the staff scheduled the party, and notified everyone of the date via the office “telephone-tree.”

At home, I typed the script, and printed it on our molasses-in-January dot matrix printer. A political officer, and former opera singer, offered to direct. A project development officer with an electronic keyboard volunteered as accompanist. A program office contractor took charge of props. Charlie and I — as casting directors — persuaded people to play Jack, Patricia and other leads.

We rehearsed — with Aarica in a sling on my back — every evening for two weeks in the political officer’s garage. She blocked and choreographed dances. Charlie and I taught the songs.

Charlie’s supervisor, Cheryl, volunteered to spirit Jack to a fabricated World Bank meeting to deliver him to the party. A communications officer wrote a fake cable so the World Bank meeting seemed real.

The prop master procured toy guns for Demobilization, hoes for Rehabilitation and Reintegration, political signs for Elections, and stuffed USAID grain bags for Drought. We all wore khakis and short-sleeved button-downs, our unofficial uniforms.

A Mozambican staffer reserved the nearby Italian School’s outdoor amphitheater. AID secretaries, accomplished cooks, prepared refreshments for 100 guests.

Party day was clear and cool. That afternoon the crowd huddled in the amphitheater. We heard a car pull up in the street. Voices came around the side of the school. Cheryl’s voice said. “I need five minutes . . . . We’re not late.”

Jack appeared. Applause erupted. He stopped, stunned. “What’s going on?” Patricia elbowed Jack in the ribs, said something inaudible, and he broke into a smile.

“Let’s sit.” Cheryl led the way up front.

Charlie entered. “Welcome!” The accompanist played an overture. “Jack” leapt from behind his desk, shouted at the “staff” about their bad writing, and “sang” about floods although he couldn’t sing. The chorus vamped through missed entrances and lyrics. Esteem for Jack flowed as non-stop laughter and peanut gallery comments. Many, many tissues were distributed when we presented Jack and Patricia’s farewell gifts.

Later, I recalled a State Department course, “Realities of Foreign Service Life.” A speaker said, “USAID hardship posts were my favorites. My family and I made our dearest friends and fondest memories at USAID posts. Why? We bonded through hard work and made the best of things. We created our own fun.”