When we think of women's clubs we visualize country club meeting rooms, hotel luncheon rooms or at least that nice restaurant that is the latest trend. Well, travel with me to rural Africa if you will and let me introduce you to the Women's Club that my beloved grandma Anna was a part of.

The women met twice, sometimes three times a day: once in the early hours of dawn as the sun's rays began painting their brilliant colors across the blue skies. Here, down by the riverside, several women met. No one arrived in the latest model by GM or Honda and certainly there was no parking lot that looked like an expensive dealership's showroom. No valet service either since you kept on what you came on, literary, your bare feet.

There was no time to sit down and exchange ideas while sipping sweet, excuse me, unsweet tea. Indeed some of the water they were there to draw would be used to make tea. Yes, we must have our cup of tea. For a long time we thought it was simply because it was one of the legacies of having been a British colony; well, partly, but the other reason was that we had, over time, become completely addicted to the caffeine in tea. So the women chatted as they drew water from the river into their "mutungi" a water container of varying sizes depending on the strength of each woman.

The water had many uses:

1. It was drinking water

2. Bath water for the babies and husbands (the women took a bath discreetly at the river and

bathed the toddlers and young children at the river later during the day.

3. Cooking water

4. Washing the dishes

5. Household cleaning

As they "fetched" the water, they women chatted. They noted who had not made it to the river that morning, a roster-call of sorts. It was here that news of anyone being ill or pregnant or unable to do their daily chores would be relayed. The result was that immediately responsibilities were shared to ensure those who were unable were taken care of.

As they drew the water for their households the women discussed their families. They sought and gave advice; they admonished and cautioned; they gave and received encouragement for the day. They shared ideas and bore each other's burdens and then each carrying their "mutungi" of water which could be anywhere from five to tweny gallons of water; carried on the back or on the head over a tourniquet, they departed, singing and trudging up the hill. Their feet had done this dance so many times they were as surefooted as the mountain goat.

Oftentimes, the women returned to the riverside during the day to do their laundry. Here by the large riverstones that were as old as Moses, they sat and pounded the laundry. Now I have to share a personal experience here. The first time I saw this being done I thought, "how cool!" I also thought it was easy. I did not realize that it would take a mind well-versed with physics to "catch" water flowing down in a fast moving river and contain it in a basin. After several abortive attempts my loving grandma, always one to seize a teaching moment, took me gently by the hand and led me into the shallow bank of the river.

"You cannot live your life on the edge, my child. You have to get into the middle of it. Do not be afraid. Nothing can take you where you don't want to go!"

"Hmmm!" At the age of nine most of that valuable lesson flew clear over my head. However, today that lesson resonates with me and I appreciate it daily.

As the laundry lay on the riverstones drying (quite rapidly in the hot, dry African sun) the women either planted vegetables in the rich and wet dirt by the riverside or picked out the arrow roots that were succulent and ready to be made into the evening meal. I found the arrow root a most interesting food. The root in its dirt brown color looks unassumingly like some tasteless plant. Cut in half it yields a purple polka dot extravaganza laid against a white backdrop. Grandma took only enough for one meal. There was no need to carry more than was needed for the day only to go and store it (no refrigeration at the time) when you could get it fresh each time you needed it. Reminds of manna and the children of Israel.

As they collected the arrow roots or chopped down sugarcanefrom which they made syrup for a myriad uses, the women talked about what they would be serving their families for dinner. They talked about "chapatis" a flat bread that is served with goat or chicken stew; of rice and beans or "mokimo" that was comprised of green peas, potatoes, corn and pumpkin leaves all mashed together. It was here that they planned weddings, commiserated over any deaths and rejoiced over any new births.

The small East African country known as Kenya sits astride the equator and therefore has no time changes during the year (daylight savings and so on) so the appointment down by the river is always at the same time all year round. There is also the myth that all of Africa is as hot as the Florida summers with a heat index that pushes the mercury to triple digits; nah! Most of the country such as the place where Grandma Anna was born, grew up, got married, had her two sets of twins and one set of triplets plus five other children and died, by the foothills of Mt. Kenya, the altitude averages 5200 feet above sea level. That guarantees a temperature of about 72 degrees all year round. There are two seasons: wet and dry, so again increment weather would never be an excuse for one not to be down by the river at the appointed hour.

One thing that was inherently different from today's women's clubs was the lack of discussion or mention of weight. At today's luncheons some ladies will opt for salad because they already exceeded their daily allowable calorific intake (horrific) at breakfast. There will be commiserating over weight gain since the last meeting; the meeting might even be to promote weight-loss products. Here there will be considerable focus on the physical appearance whether the issue is expressed or just thought about (kindly, maliciously or with envy) it will be a major item on their minds even if not on the agenda.

For Grandma Anna and her club members, the trail up and down the hill to the riverside provided the daily work-out that no amount of calorie intake can compromise. Grandma was slim, slender and tall. She was elegant and walked with a slight swing; a swing I now realize most women had because they swayed slightly from side to side to balance the "mutungi" on the top of their heads.

The last run to the riverside would be in the early evening just before the chickens went to roost. It was before the men came home to find water waiting for them to have a bath; food ready to be served and the children ready to appear before their father briefly before they went to bed. The young men of the home stayed up and sat on three-legged stools by the fire and listened to words of wisdom from their father but the little children went to bed early. They would be exhausted from playing with their countless cousins and if they were older, from helping with the household and outdoor chores.

As the sun set beyond those hills from where the river flowed down to meet the women's needs, a great deal had been accomplished by this unofficial women's club whose only agenda was to meet the needs of their families; meet the needs of their neighbors and be part of a tight-knit community that cared for its own, through droughts and floods; from one ridge to the next; communities that were connected and interconnected by blood relations but more often than not, by the river that flowed between those hills.