All It Takes Is A Little Love

When I was a little girl I was fascinated by a storybook that featured a cute little house that was built in a lovely field. The house was loved and cared for by its owner but over time it began to show the wear and tear of age as the city moved closer and closer. Eventually the house stood cramped between two tall buildings, looking shabby and unhappy but help was on the way. The granddaughter of the original owner came along and saved the house from its demise. She moved the house to a lovely field in the country and repaired it so that it looked like new once again. The house enjoyed a happy ending because it was now loved. 

Our homes are truly our castles but over time they sometimes lose their luster even as we grow old ourselves. We think about the abodes that sheltered us as children, young adults and the ones where we now live. We feel a grateful attachment to those houses that can only be explained by the joy, happiness and life that echoes inside of them. 

The first house that I remember was on Kingsbury Street in Houston, Texas where I moved with my parents when my father graduated from college and landed a job as an engineer. It was a lovely ranch stye design with a big picture window in the front that provided a view of the entire neighborhood. It was large and airy compared to the tinier homes of many of my relatives. Everything inside was brand new and shiny like the wooden floors that led from one room to another. 

The kitchen was so big that it held a dining table in the middle and there was still room to dance around on the bright linoleum that my mother kept gleaming. A window over the sink had a perfect view of the large backyard where I was able to run and play as a little girl not yet five years old. The back door to the kitchen opened to a screened in porch where I was that allowed to have fun even when it was raining. 

There was a lovely living room connected to a dining area where my parents placed a mahogany table with upholstered chairs. In the living room was an elegant couch made symmetrical by end tables holding brass lamps. Hanging on the area behind the couch was was a painting of flowers that seemed to be from an exotic place. I spent many an hour lying on the sofa imagining stories about the shadows and details in that work of art. In front of the couch was a coffee table holding a marble vase that my father kept filled with roses for my mom. 

Down the hallway were three bedrooms and one of them was all mine. I had a double bed in which I would feel the luxury of my life. Each day my mother tidied it with a pink bedspread on which I would lie staring at the pictures of ballerinas that hung on the wall. I felt like a princess in that house. It seemed like a real castle to me. and much like in the fairytales I was very happy there.

This was a time in the early nineteen fifties when the economy of the United States was roaring. My father used his GI benefits to purchase the house. He bought a car to park in our driveway as well. Life was quite good for the growing middle class. My father had no leftover bills from his college education. We lived what seemed to be an idyllic life but hidden on the outskirts of our good fortune there was poverty and racism very much alive, things that little girl me did not realize existed. All that I knew was how happy I felt from day to day being loved by my parents and enjoying life with the innocence of a preschooler.

I look back on that time over seventy years later and realize how much has changed since then. The house that I viewed as a kind of mansion would be considered very small and unspectacular by modern day standards. I doubt that it was more than a thousand square feet in area but it felt more than adequate back then,

While it felt wonderful and I saw that house as having just enough for me and my family, most people today would think of it as being crowded and perhaps a bit inadequate . The broken up rooms lined along a hallway are no longer in fashion. Styles and expectations have changed so much since that time. I myself have moved to bigger and bigger places and still seem to run out room for all of my possessions. I sometimes find myself wondering how I and others became so spoiled, especially as I see perfectly good homes like the one of my early childhood being neglected as though they are unworthy of modern day habitation. I think of the little house in that book and I wonder if the time has come for our society to paint and  repair what we already have, making small houses clean and affordable for the many people who yearn for places of their own. 

I don’t know what kind of salary my father had back then nor do I have any idea how much that house cost. I have seen that homes of that era ran from about $7500 to $10,000 with monthly payments of fifty to eighty dollars. Of course the salaries were less back then as well. but somehow it was affordable for most young families to have a home of their own. We Boomers grew up in places that seemed heavenly at the time that might be spurned today. Somehow we seem to want rather than need more and more and more without noticing that there are people who have never experienced the joy of owning a home. 

My parents bought that house in their early twenties. In today’s economy most young adults are in their mid thirties before they can afford a home. The cost of housing has gone through the roof leaving more an more young men and women renting instead of being able to invest in a house of their own.

Surely instead of starting wars and spending millions on vanity projects and billions on chasing immigrants away we as a nation should be considering how to help all Americans find a house with a reasonable price so that they might enjoy the pleasure that my parents and I found in that house on Kingsbury Street. Somehow we have taken the wrong turn in our economy and in the things that we prioritize but it’s never too late circle back and rescue little houses that will bring security and happiness to more people, especially those just beginning their adult lives.

Is that just a fairytale or can we make it possible?

There is a great deal of talk these days as to what makes a real man. Being a female I cannot totally understand this hypothetical question because I am hormonally and physically different from my brothers. I can only assert my point of view as it relates to the interactions between men and women. There are many different ideas as to what constitutes a real man with most of them being influenced by cultures and religious beliefs. In truth there is no one definitive way of defining a so called real man.

The first man that I really knew was my father but my thoughts about him are those of an eight year old child. When he died my vision of him was frozen forever in a time before I had the maturity to consider both his foibles and strengths. What I do know is that he loved me and my brothers and my mother as evidenced in big and small actions. The night that he spent hours and many gallons of gasoline attempting to find an open store with a Big Chief tablet that I needed for school the following day is as good a reason for me to view him as a thoughtful and understanding person. He saw how disturbed I was at the thought of showing up at school without the supplies that I was supposed to have and so he moved mountains to make sure that my needs were addressed in a long ago time when stores closed in the afternoon. When I awoke to find a Big Chief tablet on my dresser my admiration for him was cemented. For me he was the man!

I grew up with many male cousins and I had seven uncles who were different in so many ways. Some of them went hunting and fishing and carried themselves with the kind of confidence that is associated with cowboys and athletes. Others were quiet and pensive with hearts made of gold. 

I especially liked my Uncle Jack who was a tall lanky man who delivered mail for a job and enjoyed watching westerns for fun. He laughed and joked and called everyone “honey.” He was a good man who guided my mother in the weeks after my father’s death. He seemed to me to be the kind of man that everyone needs from time to time, someone to trust and to feel comfortable around. 

My Uncle Willie was like having Santa Claus in the family. He was quiet and sweet but always wise. He was the man who noticed things and understood when someone needed help. He gave of his time and his love without fanfare, so silently that most people may not have even noticed that he was around. He was like Superman or Batman seeming to be quite ordinary until trouble came when he always showed up to be a hero who shunned any kind of notice. He demonstrated the importance of being a man who cares for his family and his community without personal expectations. He did what he did because it was right.

Of course their was my Grandpa Little, a man straddling the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and adjusting to changes just as he knew needed to be done. He was a handsome man with enormous hands that tapered just enough to make them artistic in the way he built things. He had lost all but a ring of his hair by the time I knew him so he protected his head from the burning rays of the sun with a fedora in winter and straw hat in the summer. He smoked a pipe and the sweet aroma of tobacco followed him everywhere. He read voraciously and in turn spread the word about what he had learned. His life had been difficult and yet he was never bitter, instead he celebrated progress for all of humankind. He was a teacher of how to survive in a world that can sometimes be cruel and still find hope and joy in each day.

My husband is the epitome of sweetness. He almost innocently seems to love anyone that he meets without even a hint of judgmental bias. He is generous with his time and his treasures, wanting very little for himself including power and great wealth. He finds fulfillment in being a steadying force much like my Uncle Willie always was. He is brilliant like my father and an avid reader and conveyor of information like my grandfather. He laughs and jokes and takes care of situations like my Uncle Jack. To me he is the personification of a real man, someone who is never boastful, never rude, never prone to judging with prejudice. 

I believe that just as we women differ from one to another there is no definitive definition of what a real man is. I only seems to have an idea of what isn’t a real man. A real man values people and respects women. He is not undone by a woman who achieves greatness. He encourage everyones to be the best of whomever they choose to be. He does not find joy in boasting or insulting

So many men attempt to characterize the kind of man that they believe to be the epitome of that genre and miss the mark. Muscles are nice for the health of a man but they do not make a man. A real man is not superficial, nor does he grow stronger by putting others down. A truly good man does not lie or cheat or bully. The measure of a man cannot be determined by wealth or power, or sexual preference. A real man loves generously, encourages those around him and walks in a sacred kind of partnership with the earth and all of its people. Every man is imperfect just as each of of us are but he strives to quietly overcome his flaws with wisdom and grace. 

Things have not gone well for Donald Trump in the last week or so. He seems to be like Alexander in the book about boy a who had everything go wrong. So it has been for Donald and he is having a very difficult time owning up to his mistakes that have made everything seem so bad. 

First there is the reflection pool that admittedly might have needed a bit of cleaning. Trump’s instinct to do something to make it better was not in itself a bad idea but he is not an expert in such things even if he thinks he is and he would have done well to seek the advice of those who regularly deal with such things. Instead he turned to a swimming pool builder who has given him many monetary contributions. The problems is that there is a big difference between a swimming pool with systems that circulate chlorinated water versus a shallow pond whose water comes from a river and is mostly stagnant. 

There probably is a better way of keeping such a body of water a bit cleaner but painting the floor of the pond was not the answer that Donald hoped it would be. While it looked fairly nice initially it did not take long for the algae to come back just as it has always seemed to do only maybe a bit worse than usual. Sadly Donald once again insisted on a quick fix without a study of what might actually work and he turned to hydrogen peroxide as a way to kill the algae. Little did he know that it would also impact the bonding of the paint and soon chips were floating on the surface along with the algae which seemed not to respond to the chemicals as well as hoped. 

This was the moment that Donald might have admitted that he had made a hasty mistake but such confessions are anathema to him. Instead he made up a tale of vandals slashing the blue epoxy so that it separated from the bottom of the pond and floated to the top. It did not matter that there was no evidence of such a thing happening. The only thing that mattered in his mind was saving face when he was actually making things worse. Therein lies the biggest problem with the man. He would rather lie and blame his shortcomings on someone else than ever admitting a mistake.

The reflection pool is a kind of analogy of why Donald’s presidency is looking like a resounding failure. He breaks things first without studying what might actually be wrong if anything at all. His actions have over and over again ended up costing the American taxpayers more than they should have. He decided that we did not need people combating an insect that was not in the United States and now is spending many times more than the cost of prevention to rid the nation of the screw worm. 

So too it has been with the war on Iran. Without consulting Congress or studying all of the issues Donald assumed that he would be able to bring Iran to its knees in the matter of a few days or weeks. He has learned that his plan is not working as well as he thought. Now he is peddling the idea that his memorandum of understanding is a good deal for the United States when the truth says things differently. 

Donald’s terrible horrible days exist mostly because he has surrounded himself with spineless men and women who fear crossing him even when they suspect that there are flaws in his thinking. He sees himself as the ultimate expert in virtually everything when nobody has ever been able to be the best in all things. Good leaders always rely on the advice of other experts. Thinking that one person has all the answers is a dangerous assumption that has landed Donald in so much trouble right now. 

Everything he touches is falling apart just like that reflection pond. We have dead grass on the White House lawn. The cost of gasoline is absurd and won’t go down anytime soon. Groceries are becoming more and more difficult to afford for most Americans and recent college graduates are struggling to find jobs. Meanwhile Donald is showing off his multi-million dollar plane that will go with him when he leaves office even though our taxes were used to refit it. He is tone deaf to the needs and concerns of the average American. His only focus is on making himself and the members of his family wealthier than they have ever before been.

The man’s health and his mind are obviously fading and he’s trying so hard to cover up the fear that must be racing through his mind. As the problems pile up Donald is in for many more terrible, horrible, no good very bad days. It’s time for his family and the Republicans to get help for the man before he destroys our nation any more. When Donald has a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day so too do we all.

We needed a ride from Brunswick to Portland where we would meet with the rest of the family for a celebratory meal after the graduation of our granddaughter. We contacted Uber for the short drive but my granddaughter worried that we would not get a response. It seems that few Uber drivers hang around in Brunswick because they receive few calls there. Happily a man named Luke agreed to deliver us but noted that he first had to drop off another customer. 

We sat at the pick up stop for a long time. So long that we began to wonder if our granddaughter had been right and that we would be left stranded when Luke never came. Just when we were about ready to give up his red car pulled up and stopped in front of us. He was dressed in a suit looking much like a chauffeur. He welcomed us and opened the car doors for us. He was very polite and professional. We soon learned that Luke was from the Congo in Africa. He was eager to tell us the story of how he came to live and work in Portland, Maine and we were happy to listen to his saga. 

Luke had worked in various positions for the government of Congo. He was well spoken and intelligent as evidenced by his perfect English and use of an extraordinary vocabulary. He was doing well in Congo when his daughter was born with a liver disease that threatened her life. The doctors told him that unless she received the kind of care that was unavailable where he lived she would die within five months. 

Luke and his wife were proud people but they realized that they were unable to determine what to do on their own. They turned to social media to share their story and to hopefully learn where and how they must travel to save their daughter’s life. They set up a Go Fund  Me site and soon were bombarded with suggestions and funds. Ultimately they were invited to Nebraska in the United States by a doctor who thought he might be able to help their daughter. Using the money they had and Luke’s influence with the government of Congo they quickly got passports and visas that would allow them to journey to Nebraska. 

Once in Nebraska their daughter was hospitalized for multiple tests. Weeks passed and nothing much had been done for her. The clock was ticking on her life and their funds were all but gone. Luke decided it was time to reach out to anyone on social media who might have a better idea for making his daughter well. Miraculously a physician in Portland Maine contacted him and invited Luke and his family to travel to yet another hopeful place. The doctor even provided the funding for their journey and offered a place where they might stay when they arrived in Maine. Virtually penniless and devoid of answers about their daughter the family was on the move once again with a wing and prayer. 

The doctor in Maine reaccessed the infant and quickly began a treatment that worked. Luke’s daughter did not die. In fact she is now twelve years old and thriving. Luke was so impressed with the kindness of the people in Portland, Maine that he decided to attempt to stay there and become a citizen. With the help of countless people his wish came true. The family set down roots and have lived in Portland, Maine for twelve years. 

Luke became a minister by trade with a sideline job of being an Uber driver. He and his wife had a son who was born in America and is a bonafide citizen. He admitted that he was probably considered to be poor by many of his fellow Americans but he laughed at the idea noting that being poor in Africa is a whole different level of want. He felt blessed by God and feels a deep regard for the United States even as he admits to problems that our nation is still struggling to address. 

Luke is grateful to the people of Portland. He sees himself as a Mainer. He is not without detractors who do not want him or his family in the United States. He gets his share of racist behaviors because he is Black and an immigrant but he focuses on the generosity that  overwhelms the ugly aspects of our nation. He is an optimist with a strong belief that God has greatly blessed his family. He loves the people of Portland and sees himself as a bonafide Mainer. He would not want to be anywhere else in the world.

The ride with Luke was almost spiritual. He was an angel who happened to be around to take us where we needed to go and along the way he inspired us with his good will and his amazing story. We stepped from his car enriched in spirit and I know that I will never forget him. 

I was a timid child, quiet and obedient at all times. I had a naive way of viewing the world. Because my mother was so loving and supportive I tended to assume that everyone else was that way as well. Somehow I got through my childhood without being bullied or treated badly by either my peers or any adults. My world was rather protective and idyllic and made for a lovely way to grow into an adult save for the fact that I was not totally prepared for the realities of life. Somehow I knew in my heart that I had to venture out of my bubble and face the world as it really is so I shunned offers to attend private religious universities in favor of a large public university in my hometown. I eagerly applied for admission to the University of Houston because I believed that being there would better prepare me for the adult world that lay ahead.

The first thing that I realized was that with thousands of students there I would have to work hard not become just the number that served as my identification. I saw the anonymity of a large university as a way for me to reinvent myself as someone willing to be outspoken rather than a shadow lurking in fear that I might say or do the wrong things. I overcame my reluctance to raise my hand in class and to make appointments with professors so that they would know who I was. Mostly I began to write essays that honestly voiced my opinions, not just the ones that I believed would keep me out of the limelight or trouble. 

It was a very freeing experience that allowed me to participate in discussions and debates. I met people from far away states with customs so unlike my own. I heard truths that had never before been part of my knowledge. I listened to Mohammed Ali speak about the war in Vietnam in the Cougar Den. I expanded my confidence bit by bit often with the help of professors who saw potential in me that I never realized was there. My worldview grew exponentially in ways that I might not have otherwise imagined. 

I suppose that the same kind of things might have happened at any university that I chose but I needed to be among strangers rather than old friends who were going together to universities that recruited Catholic school girls. I wanted to evolve without anyone noticing that I was changing. Even though I did have friends at the University of Houston I rarely encountered any of them. Every class was filled with new faces and new possibilities for becoming confident in myself. 

I have to admit that the maturing process was not always smooth going but even in difficult situations I learned that I was capable of asserting myself and setting things right. All the while the world of ideas was feeding my appetite for knowledge that had been heretofore unknown to me. I voraciously read the books and articles and essays that the professors assigned. I learned the intricacies of art, language, literature, psychology, geography, history, politics, mathematics and even physical activities. I went to street dances and athletic events and learned about the wider world from everyone that I met.

Along the way there were mentors who realized my potential and encouraged me to be a lifelong learner. They helped me to understand my strengths and my weaknesses and how to use my talents in ways that had a positive affect on society. I still think of them and the impact they had on me. 

To this day I prefer to be an observer more than an activist but I know that sometimes I must step forward and I have the tools of speech and logic and information to state my case. Those are the skills that I took away from my time at the University of Houston. There I more closely became a citizen of the world just as my high school English teacher had encouraged me to be.

I have never looked back nor wished that I had gone somewhere else. I don’t know of another university that would have had as much impact on me as the one that I chose. The key to my success at the University of Houston lay in the quality and dedication of the professors who one by one offered me a personalization of my educational plan. They were open and ready for my questions and my musings. They managed to know that I was way more than that number that I used on all of my papers and tests. They were dedicated men and women who guided me into my life as an adult. 

Of course there were other experiences that would shape me later. Being responsible for the health of my mother increased my belief in myself. Meeting a young man who shared my hopes and dreams and thoughts boosted my assessment of myself. Successfully becoming more and more independent showed me that I was ready for whatever came my way. 

The day came when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I liked the person that I saw. That was a glorious moment that I have never forgotten. it seems that from that day forward I had no more qualms about being myself, a woman willing to keep expanding my worldviews. From the University of Houston I learned that knowledge really is power and I have never stopped reaching for more.