All It Takes Is A Little Love

Life was adventurous when I was a child. My neighborhood was filled with children on every street. At the end of the subdivision there was a bayou where childhood explorations felt just like living alongside Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. While I never actually went into the water, I many times swung over the snake filled Simms Bayou on a swing that someone had built high up in an ancient tree. It took daring just to climb to the platform from which we jumped but I was either exceedingly courageous or really dumb as to any dangers back then.

There were rumors that alligators sometimes sunned themselves on the lawns of those whose homes backed up to the bayou but I never actually saw one. I just made sure that I would never have a close encounter by staying away from the murky waterway that separated Overbrook where I lived from Garden Villas on the other bank. Those who shared homes with critters from the deep had to watch for snakes like water moccasins or they might get bitten. A lady from Czechoslovakia who was friends with my mother almost died from a bite by the viper so I made sure that I checked the area before moving around. My Grandma had shown me how to watch out for critters lurking in high grass and I always followed her advice. 

Who knew that squirrels were also troublesome? A girl who lived around the corner from me became very sick when a squirrel that she tried to pet turned on her and bit her hand. Unfortunately the cute little fellow had rabies and she spent many painful days in the hospital getting the treatment that would save her. I remember praying for her at my Catholic school and being delighted when she survived her ordeal. 

There was a large wooded area across from our church that was the domain of the neighborhood kids. I was a true free range child who delighted in the adventure of roaming through trees and weeds to explore and build forts that made us feel like pioneers of old. Most of us began our adventures around the age of seven and neither our parents nor ourselves seemed to worry that we might encounter danger. Nonetheless we created scary stories about what we had seen that we told at night whenever someone had a slumber party. Little of what we claimed had happened was real but our imaginations made us feel that such things probably might take place if we were not very careful. 

Our bicycles took us up and down the streets and sometimes even over the railroad tracks at the entrance to the neighborhood. Everybody knew everybody else and even though we thought we were free as birds adults were watching over us all of the time and keeping our parents advised of where we were and how we were doing. That’s just how life was back then.

Most of the time I didn’t get into any trouble but now and then my friends and I might come across some teenagers smoking or making out. They usually scared us into running away as fast as possible and never revealing what we had seen. I probably learned more about taking care of myself in those wonderful days than all the formal lessons might have taught me. 

My fun was not limited to the place where I lived because my cousins and I roamed my grandmother’s neighborhood in the east end of Houston whenever we got together. We climbed on mountains of rock and shale at a local business on Sundays by skittering under the fence. We pretended we were mountain climbers. Only later did we realize how dangerous it was to climb on those loose rocks. We most surely had guardian angels watching over us us or someone would have been hurt. As kids we had little regard for possible danger.

There was an abandoned two story house one street over from where my grandmother lived. We avoided that place out of fear of what kind of demons were haunting it but eventually our curiosity got the best of us. We made our way over to the place only to find that the front door was ajar. The downstairs was littered with leaves, cans and other refuse but was otherwise not particularly interesting. We took a vote and agreed that we needed to go up the stairs to see what was there.

The planks creaked as we made our way higher and higher. Finally we gazed from the stairway at a wide-open area that held a makeshift bed of blankets. Nearby a pile of clothes convinced us that someone was living in the dilapidated place. One of my cousins decided to bravely do a bit more investigation so he moved from the stairway into the room in spite of our worries that doing so was not a good idea. Suddenly the floor fell apart under his feet and he saved himself from falling down below by spreading his arms like an anchor, but his feet were dangling in mid air. The oldest and strongest of the boys gingerly made their way over to him and managed to pull him out of his precarious position. Then we all hightailed it down the stairs and out the front door as fast as our feet would take us. 

Just as we turned to head for Grandma’s house the person who lived in the “haunted” place came in to view yelling obscenities and warnings at us while we ran with as much speed as we could muster. Never looking back we hurled ourselves at the safety of our grandmother’s front porch and breathlessly vowed never to tell our parents what we had done and never to venture over there again. 

It’s been a long long time since those days of my youth. I would not consider doing those same kind of things today. I am older and wiser and my sense of adventure is muted. Still, the memories bring a smile to my face and a sense that those days were as good as it ever gets. I don’t even think of how lucky we were not to get hurt and true to our word we never told our moms what we had done. Sometimes I wonder if they somehow knew.

I am a history freak. My favorite books are historical. I get a kick out of learning about events and ways of life that were previously unknown to me. I suppose that my interest in history goes right along my search for my ancestry. I have had great luck in some branches of my family tree and not so much in others. I have been rather surprised by how much I was able to learn about my immigrant grandparents who came here from Czechoslovakia. Using ancestry sites, family stories, reading historical tracts and culling through dusty boxes of family documents have provided some interesting insights about my ancestral heritage. 

For years there was a family disagreement about where my grandparents were born. Everyone seemed to agree that my grandmother was born in Czechoslovakia but there were two different stories about my grandfather. While some agreed that he too was born in Czechoslovakia, others insisted that he was born in Cleveland, Ohio. For a very long time I had no proof either way until one of my cousins sent me a box of documents that had sat for years in a dusty garage. 

I had to use gloves to handle the yellowing and brittle papers and most of them gave me little new insights about my grandparents. It was a photo of a page in the family Bible that unlocked the mystery for me. It clearly listed both grandparents dates and locations of birth along with the names of their respective parents. Further verification came from yet another cousin who had enlisted the help of a professional from Slovakia who confirmed that the names, places and dates that I had found were indeed correct. Furthermore the new findings gave me the names of my great great grandparents as well. 

My grandfather was born Pavel Dusan Uhrik in Trencin in what was then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. I read about the era when he was growing up into an adult and learned that the Hungarians had created very strict laws for the nations under their thumb. In fact they had made it unlawful for anyone in their empire to speak native languages, instead insisting that all citizens had to speak Hungarian in schools, churches and other public places. The rules were incredibly restrictive and considered Slovaks like my grandparents to be of a lesser quality than Hungarians. The Slovakian people were treated as inferior and generally relegated to lives with less education and laboring jobs. 

I suppose that my grandfather was looking for a way out of the horrific treatment of his people and so when places like Houston, Texas sent advertisements to European countries enticing the people to come to America he saw a way out of the situation. In 1912, he booked a ride on a steamship from Bremen, Germany and found his way to Galveston, Texas which was one of the ports of entry at that time. I have seen his name on the register for the day that he arrived. 

Grandpa Uhrik found work at a farm near Houston and saved his money so that he might send for my grandmother the following year. She too arrived in Galveston and the two of them got busy planning for a future that would allow them the freedoms that were missing under Hungarian rule. Eventually Grandpa would Americanize his name to Paul D. Ulrich and he would also become a naturalized citizen of the United States.

. According to my mother and aunts and uncles my grandfather was quite proud to be and American and he cherished the freedoms that came with his move. He instructed his children to ignore the taunts that were hurled at them by people who were angered by their presence because they were immigrants. He urged them to hold their heads high and to appreciate the opportunities that were so numerous in the United States even as rocks were being hurled at them.

My mother often spoke of her father’s attention to the country from which he had come. He was quite happy after World War I when the Austro-Hungarian Empire fell apart. While he was not so sure about the Slovaks and the Czechs being joined as one country, he was at least happy that his nation finally had found a way to be free. When Hitler invaded he was gravely concerned that his people were once again subservient to a nation that only wanted them for their rich farmland and supply of labor. He carefully followed World War II and was especially proud that all four of his American sons served in the military and helped to free Czechoslovakia once again.

My grandfather had wisely used his talents, his curiosity and his investments to have a house that he owned and a job where he faithfully worked. He had even bigger plans for his retirement years so he had purchased land in Richmond, Texas where he hoped to one day have a farm. Unfortunately he had a cerebral hemorrhage and died after World War II around the time when Russia laid claim to Czechoslovakia and made it a member of the USSR.

My mother always wondered if her father’s stroke resulted from yet another disappointing enslavement of his homeland by an authoritarian government. She said that when the takeover was announced in the news her father cried, something that he had rarely done in all of his life. 

I have followed the fate of what is now Slovakia for most of my adult life. I was ecstatic when the USSR fell apart and Slovakia became a free nation in its own right. I have most recently been concerned by Putin’s invasion of Ukraine and his rarely spoken but very real desires to resurrect the former USSR. I worried about the authoritarian government in Hungary with its rules that sounded so much like the ones that convinced my grandfather to leave his homeland so many decades ago. I felt his smile in my heart when Orban was defeated in the recent election and I found myself hoping that there will be no more bitter disappointments that would have make him cry. 

I think I understand my grandfather even though I have never met him. He was an honorable man who endured humiliation from Hungary in his youth and had to ignore those who did not want him in the United States. His grandchildren like me and my brothers and cousins have truly enjoyed the best that the United States of America has had to offer. My hope is that we will preserve our freedoms which are now under stress. I think he would appreciate that so far we can still speak our minds and even protest the wrongs that we see. I imagine him feeling quite proud that he was able to give us such a gift. I know that I will always thank him for his foresight and will do my part to preserve the freedoms that mean so much to us all.

A year of limping around because of my arthritic knees has left me feeling chunky and not as fit as I want to be. Since at least one of my knees is working beautifully now I am back to serious walking and exercise. The fact that I get tired after a mile is evidence that I have a long way to go to get back into the shape that I once took for granted. I know that I can do it if I put my mind to it. I mostly want to regain my energy and I am encouraged by how quickly I have recovered since my total knee replacement. While the numbers on my scale are absurd and my clothes are dangerously close to not fitting anymore I am once again able to do the work that I need to do. 

I love walking around the neighborhood. I come back home all hot and sweaty but that is to be expected at this time of year. I will no doubt either walk early each morning or late in the evening once the temperatures begin to really rise. I like seeing how people have landscaped their yards and nodding as I pass other folks who are also out for a stroll. I’d join my neighbors across the street if I were fast enough to keep up with them but for now my pace is sure and slow. 

I do lots of stretching and strengthening exercises that I learned in physical therapy. I know that they are really helpful so I don’t want to start slacking with them. I’m not nearly as dedicated to being fit as once was and still should be. I admire my grandchildren for making exercise and physical activities part of their daily routines. I’m ready to return to the days when I was like they are.

For most of my life I have been thin and energetic. My mother used to wonder why I never sat still. I was not even able to study without moving around. When I was on the stationary phones I required an extra long cord so that I was able to pace back and forth as I chatted with friends. I was one of those kids who got into trouble for tapping my feet and moving my legs around under my desk. It was an automatic habit that I was never able to quell. I suppose that was the secret to my ability to keep my weight in tow. Eventually a bout with back spasms and two arthritic knees changed me into a sedentary chunk. I watched the numbers climbed whenever I weighed myself and kept making excuses for my increasing girth. It wasn’t because I was eating too much. It was because I was just sitting around in pain. 

Now I have no excuses. I have all the tools that I need to get a move on and I have to admit to being excited over the prospect of regaining the boundless energy that once came so naturally to me that my mother suspect that I had some kind of hyperactive disorder. Like the Energizer bunny, on any given day I kept going and going and going. 

It pained me that I had to stop so much to rest when we visited London last fall so I knew that the time had come to submit to the knee surgery. Now I wish I had done it sooner. I literally waited until both of my knees were rubbing bone on bone because I feared the process of getting a new joint made out of nickel. Now I know that the first weeks are not so fun but the progress becomes more and more exponential as the weeks go by. The best part is that one of my legs is now so straight that I no longer look bow-legged, a by product of my aching knees that was so embarrassing to me. With another surgery I will be standing straight once again and with the disappearance of pain I can exercise myself into the kind of person I used to be. 

I marvel at the things that doctors are capable of doing. In just the last few years I have watched my husband’s heart be cleared of all the blockages that once threatened his life. I have witnessed his cancer going away with forty treatments that were not exactly comfortable but definitely good for him. My back no longer spasms like it once did and now one of my knees is just like new. I have to admit that such things were not even possible in times of old. No wonder older people were often portrayed hunched over and limping. 

I know people who struggled for decades with weight gains that seemed to come even when they starved themselves. Now with either operations on injections and sometimes a pill they are transformed. They get full faster and as the pounds melt away their energy returns. It is yet another medical miracle that reduces heart disease and even seems to reduce addictions. 

I often wonder where medicine will go next. I hope to see a day when scientists and doctors understand the brain so well that they are able to eradicate mental illnesses and cure people with neurological disorders such as Multiple Sclerosis, Parkinson’s disease, and ALS. I suspect that humans are closer to unlocking so many medical mysteries than we may think. Our funding for such research should be given gladly and the treatments should made  available to anyone who needs them. 

I once thought I wanted to be a doctor or nurse. I decided that I wasn’t really destined for such a vocation but I greatly admire those who dedicate their lives to helping others overcome illnesses and injuries. We should never allow our government to neglect the studies and research that is needed to advance our medical knowledge and we should all hold our medical community in the high esteem that they deserve. Every single day someone is getting a new knee, or a better functioning heart, or a treatment to eradicate a disease. I know that I cannot even measure the benefits of good medicine that have made my life so much better. It still seems miraculous to me. 

The last year and a half has been difficult here in the USA. We’ve been on a roller coaster ride that is sometimes terrifying mostly because most of us never consented to enduring the difficulties that we face. From day to day we can’t predict what new horror will be introduced by a president who seems to take delight in coming up with strange ideas in the middle of the night. For a supposed conservative it is amazing how much radical change he has introduced in a very short time. It feels as though a barbarian horde intent on trashing programs and changing the foundations of our nation has invaded Washington D.C. The whiplash from day to day is often violent, leaving many of us in a dreadful funk. It can be difficult to keep the faith that good will ultimately triumph over the madness. We all find ourselves in need of emotional support, evidence that there is still a vast store of hope that might keep us eying a better future. 

In the midst of the crises along comes a group of four astronauts who remind us of all that is good and wholesome in our country. The crew of Artemis II that flew around the moon are just the steadying force that we needed to drown our doubts about humanity. These four incredible people are the very picture of goodness and heroism even as they themselves admit to just being human rather than superheroes. 

Imagine being in a confined area for days with three other people. Even a loving family might snap from the constant pressure of having to get along and yet our four astronauts seemed to truly revel in each other’s company. Watching them meet challenges and interact with one another was inspiring. They seemed to be the best among us, the kind of people who respect others regardless of differences. They were diverse in backgrounds, gender, race and nationality and yet they used those differences as a positive aspect of their mission. Their mutual respect and dependence on one another was so wonderful to witness. They were just the group that we needed to see in a time of so much turmoil. 

These men and women are so accomplished, the best of who we are as humans and yet they all bear a sense of humility and even gratitude for the opportunity to be part of an historic moment. Just thinking of the remarkable feat that they demonstrated to the world was a kind of tonic for all of our souls. Realizing the level of cooperation and intelligence that that was required for their mission to be successful was an inspirational reminder of what we humans are capable of doing, not for power or riches, but for the betterment of all people. Their time in space was just the panacea that we needed. 

There have been other moments and people that have reminded us of the courage and goodness of people in the midst of ugly chaos. Pope Leo is a steadying force for the world, constantly reminding us of what the message of Jesus was. He challenges all people everywhere to remember the poor and sick and wanderers of the world. His is a message that we would all do well to consider. He too has become a source of emotional support. 

I have hardly been a fan of King Charles. I tended to write him off as someone of little merit but when he visited our nation he so quietly and deftly outlined the very foundations of our nation. He helped us remember why we exist as a free and independent country. He iterated the hopes and dreams of our Founding Fathers and challenged us to be the kind of people that they hoped we would be. He touched my heart and calmed my insecurities. As he spoke I realized that we the people of the United States will honor our ancestors by righting the wrongs that have dominated so much of the past year and a half. We will not let power hungry would be kings destroy the human progress that we have made as we strive for the ideals of our Constitution. 

I sometimes feel as though we the people have been thrust into an abusive relationship with our own government. We watch rules being twisted and flaunted while our taxes are being diverted from the good of humanity to treasure troves for war and construction of unnecessary ballrooms. Emotional supporters like Heather Cox Richardson remind us daily with her letters that we Americans have faltered before and always found our way back to the pathway of freedom. We wake up from our fears again and again and figure out how we need to be. 

It has been said that the United States of America operates on eighty year cycles during which we grow lazy and distracted from protecting our government. It has been eighty years since the end of World War II which was the culmination of horrors like World War I, a pandemic and the Great Depression. We lived a kind of golden age in the years since that time and our memories blurred as to the horrors that we should avoid. Now in our celebratory year of the founding of our nation we are being challenged once again to set things right. We would do well to look to the emotional support individuals who show us the proper way to be. They are the heroes of our era and their wisdom and example will show us what we must do to reignite the promise of our nation. 

I have encountered a number of nurses in the last few months. There were the wonderful men and women who prepped me for my total knee replacement surgery and those who worked with me once I returned home. They checked on my progress continually and responded to my questions so quickly that I never became anxious that they may not have received my messages. Their understanding of my concerns was unflagging and contributed greatly to my eventual recovery. 

My father-in-law has been in and out of hospitals, rehabilitation centers and a nursing home since the first week of December. During that time his nurses have worked diligently to keep him comfortable. Sometimes they have even sat with him through the nights when his anxieties have overtaken him. All the while they let him know how much they care about him even when he becomes grumpy in frustration at the downturn in his life. Florence Nightingale would have been proud of the professional and loving way that they have so patiently worked with him both day and night. 

My brother has been plagued with one heath problem after another since being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. He has always been an energetic man who loves to go on long hikes in rough terrain. He loves to travel and do wood working and all of the activities that he thought would be part of his retirement. Sadly he has mostly spent much of his time with illnesses and injuries related to Parkinson’s that have landed him in the hospital over and over again. Just as with my father-in-law nurses have watched over him and done their best to help him heal in as much comfort as possible. 

Nurses are truly angels among us and yet we do not always treat them with the kind of respect that they deserve. They are highly educated individuals who do not always receive salaries commiserate with how difficult their jobs actually are. Most work twelve hour shifts in hospitals where they are lucky to be able to stop long enough to have a break or to eat. They are on their feet rushing from one room to another and then keeping charts up to date with the distribution of medications and the symptoms of the patients. Theirs is an exhausting vocation and yet they remain calm and pleasant even when frustrated patients bark at them.

Nurses spend time with patients long after the doctors dash in and out. They are the lifeline for those who are suffering, usually having far more medical knowledge than we generally give them credit for having. Sometimes people even treat them as though they are servants rather than the professionals that they are. Most folks have little idea of how difficult the courses that they take to get a degree actually are. Nurses know and understand biology and chemistry and anatomy and can explain how medications work. They notice things that even the doctors may not see. They are the true backbone of our medical system. 

Nurses have been so important to my husband as well. When he was in his mid twenties he contracted a fungal disease that required weeks of chemotherapy. His veins began to break down but the doctor did not want him to have an implant in which to apply the medication. A wonderful pediatric nurse came to his rescue each time he needed an infusion. She took a tiny needle and created a perfect IV with an accuracy that was stunning. She remains one of his all time favorite people on this earth.

Later my husband had heart surgery and was recovering when it was a nurse who saw that his heart rate was unsteady. Even when the doctor said it was no big thing she continued to monitor my husband and pushed over and over again to note the fluttering of his heart. Eventually a cardiac specialist confirmed that her concerns had been real and my husband now wears a loop recorder to alert the doctor of any dangerous changes in the beating of his heart.

Much as with teachers we do not always give nurses the same level of respect that we would provide to a business person or an engineer. While nurses make a somewhat decent living they still fall below the salaries of those in other professions that may or may not require the higher level of knowledge that they must have to be effective in their work. 

In this month where teachers and nurses get lumped together for appreciation as though they were an afterthought we ply them with flowers or goodies but far too rarely take notice of how truly important they are. At the same time many of us never see give them the same level of regard as others with a college degree. Is it because most of them are women or is it because we do not clearly understand how much learning and training is required for a nurse to be ready to tackle daily challenges that consume every hour of their workdays?

There are those who seem to think that we might one day be able to use artificial intelligence to replace nurses, teachers, engineers and sometimes even doctors. Such thinking fails to see the importance of the human touch that nurses provide. No program or machine will ever be able to extend the gentleness and kindness that nurses bring to their patients. It is their warmth overlaid on their knowledge that makes them indispensable. 

I often hark back to a time after the birth of my youngest daughter when I was in the hospital recuperating. I was exhausted after a complication during my hours of labor. I was sleeping peacefully one night when a nurse quietly entered my room and checked my vitals as discreetly as possible. When she had finished she pulled the blanket over me and gently tucked me in like my mother might have done. She smiled down at me like an angel and whispered that I should rest. I will never forget how much her gesture meant to me in that moment. I can still see her face which calmed me and told me that I would be okay. 

I would like to believe that one day we will all elevate the status of nurses to the place of high regard that should be theirs. Until then find a nurse and tell her how thankful you are that he or she was there when you needed the most care. This is the very least you can do for them.