All It Takes Is A Little Love

I often think about the people who paved the way in the past for my eventual introduction into this world. It is humbling to consider the thousands of years of history that took place in many different places before I uttered my first cries of life as a newborn. The ancestors that I have found are so much more than names on a register and yet I have so little information about how their lives unfolded. I have no photos or even paintings to visualize how they looked. They were simply members of a society of people who scratched out a living for a time on this earth and then became forgotten save for their names on registers that survived the centuries. 

My paternal great grandparents came along at the time before the Civil War. Photographs of common folk were popular by then and so I have a picture of my great grandmother. Unfortunately nobody seems to have a likeness of my great grandfather even though he was a man of many important duties. He served as a lieutenant in the Union army during the Civil War. Later he joined the fraternal organization of the Grand Army of the Republic. He even became the Justice of Peace in Scott County Arkansas but there is no photo of him to be found. Surely he posed in front of a camera at one time or another but along the way any photo of him became lost. 

My grandmother rescued the mustering papers that were his when he left the Union army. She urged me to care for them when I was still a child. My mother kept them safe until I was old enough to understand my responsibility to preserve them. I have since learned from a cousin that there is a big folder filled with information about my grandfather in the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. I suppose that I need to plan a trip there perhaps with one of my daughters or a grandchild to see what we may find inside that paperwork that will surely unlock many of the mysteries of his life. 

I think about him often and realize that he never got to see my father, Jack, his grandson who most decidedly would have made him proud. Descendants of John WS Smith have done well at least in the branch from his daughter Minnie Bell. There are engineers, doctors, teachers, musicians, mathematicians, accountants, firefighters, nurses and some working to be lawyers. I think he might have enjoyed knowing that the future of his family would turn out to be so productive but at the same time he appeared to be a very private and humble man who was not inclined to bring attention to himself. 

I belong to a group of distant cousins and such who all descended from John WS Smith’s parents Austin Boley Smith and Biddy Anne Fitzsimmons. They had many children so there are an incredible number of people who share my DNA that I have never met. My father died young so I never got around to asking him or his mother about our extended family. I knew a few names like Aunt Katie and Aunt Clara. I even met some folks in California that were somehow related to my father. I was too young at the time to pay much attention to that sort of thing. The people are just fleeting memories of individuals who did not mean much to me at the time. I lost the link to them when my father died and his mother followed him only a few years later. 

I once spent a pleasant afternoon with one of my paternal cousins named Vickie who lives in New Mexico. She has spent a lifetime tracking down information on the extended family but until she met me her search more or less ended with the death of my father. She had as many questions for me and as I had for her. She gave me photos of my grandmother when she was young and one of my great grandmother. She told me where my great grandparents were buried and revealed their connections to Texas and Arkansas. 

The only family stories that my grandmother told me centered around health issues. She mentioned that members of her family often drank vinegar and pickle juice. She insisted that everyone in the family died from gut troubles. Given that she herself died from colon cancer I took her words to heart. When I made my first visit to a gastroenterologist I told him what she had said and he nodded with a smile. I eventually learned that a folk remedy for the heartburn that plagues me is vinegar or other acidic sources that somehow quell the GERD that plagues some folks like me.

I am the very image of my cousin from the Smith family and I see much of myself in my grandmother. As a matter of fact my mother often frowned at the idea that I more closely resembled Minnie Bell than her. I’ve learned that how I appear often depends on who is assessing me. I have a bit of both sides of the family but seem to lean a bit more toward those Smiths. 

My Smith ancestors were common people who came to America from England before our revolution. They settled in Virginia and when the fight for independence began they offered their services to the patriots. While my ancestors seemed to land on the right side of history I know little more about them. Nobody was wealthy enough to own slaves as far as I can tell. They were generally simple people just striving to make it from one day to the next. It was not until my father’s generation that they became more educated but somehow it seems that John WS Smith had leadership skills that vaulted him into roles that foretold the success of his present day descendants. 

My people came for opportunity and things certainly worked out well for my branch at least. I feel a sense of history and pride in my background that makes me understand my own responsibilities in keeping our nation moving forward and staying free. The Smiths were here 250 years ago and their legacy keeps those of us who are living in the present aware of our duty to assure that the United States continues to be a haven for those longing for the chance to create better lives. I honor the work of John WS Smith each time I speak for what I believe is right and just.    

I suppose that life has forced me to develop a tough skin or I would have fallen apart long ago. Nonetheless I am a very feeling kind of person. I literally have the ability to empathize with people so much that from time to time I hit an emotional wall. When that happens I have to step back from the world for a time to reenergize my determination. It is a tactic that I developed as a child and it still works for me as my clock ticks closer and closer to my eighties. 

I have a tendency to take on the worries of the people that I love and those of the world whom I have never met. Try as I may I can never turn my back and pretend that all is well when it is not. I have a caretaker personality that includes concern for the sick and hungry and abused people of the world. 

There are many negative descriptions of people like me. I’ve heard them all and rejected them because I truly believe that each of us is called upon to care for the needs of others. Simply going to church on Sundays and praying for God’s grace and help is not enough. I believe that every aspect of our lives should reflect the belief and expectation that we will genuinely strive to provide solace for all people well beyond the sphere of our families and friendships. 

When I witness the level of greed that is so often admired and simulated in our modern society I cringe. There is nothing wrong with wealth unless it becomes the be all and end all of a person’s motivation. When riches are hoarded while obvious suffering is all around us I grieve and wonder why we humans are so often oblivious to the hardships that many among us endure. 

I know that it is wise to give only what one is able to afford but in some cases I witness people building mansions of material acquisitions while complaining about people on welfare whom they depict as lazy. My experience as a teacher of economically disadvantaged children taught me that things are not always as they appear to be. I have encountered parents who worked two jobs during the week supplemented by more work on the weekends to barely scrape together enough to afford housing and food. Such individuals are caught is a vicious circle of exhaustion and poverty that few of us can even imagine. 

I have taught students who seemed to be very bright but made horrific grades because they neglected homework and studying. They fell asleep in class and seemed not to care that they were missing the opportunity to elevate themselves. Taking the time to talk with them about what was motivating their bad attitudes often revealed disturbing situations that kept them unbalanced and weary. 

There was the girl who went home from school to supervise her younger siblings while her mother worked a second job. She had to see to their lessons, prepare their dinner, bathe them and get them to bed before she was able to take care of her own studies. There was the young man who traveled forty miles from the school campus each afternoon to clean office buildings until after midnight. There was the student whose bed was the family couch where she dreamed of Santa Claus bringing her a bed for Christmas. I could fill books with tales of families working more hours each week than most of us would ever be able to endure while still barely keeping up with rising costs. 

As a society we have heard our so called leaders fuming about “shit hole countries” and “welfare mamas” without taking the time to determine what was really going on in such people’s lives. They cater to themselves and other wealthy souls complaining constantly that they are expected to help the poor and suffering. It is as though they see themselves as the victims as they proclaim their spirituality while condemning those who behave in ways that they do not approve. 

Either these kind of people are incredibly uninformed or clueless or stingy. Whatever the case, they don’t seem to realize how life’s events can often create situations so dire that people cannot raise themselves up no matter how hard they try. In such instances it is up to those of us who have to give proportionately. We are called upon to remember the sermon on the mount that admonishes us to be aware of those who are suffering and to care for them.

Our present society in the United States is awash with demonizing groups and countries with generalizations that do not take into account the worth of every human who walks on this earth. We are building a treasure for war by taking from the poorest and weariest among us and then going to church on Sundays and proclaiming our love for God. It boggles my mind even as I know that it is not up to me to judge. Nonetheless I can follow the example of Jesus and upend the tables of the money changers when I see adoration of wealth while ignoring the less fortunate and that is what I intend to do. 

The source of my most current frustration grows from my sorrow that we are hurting people more than we are helping. Thus I recently reached a point of deep sorrow that overtook me until I gave myself a brief moment to look away just long enough to toughen up again and reenter the fray. 

I don’t know how long we will be a nation that has lost its way but I do know that I will remain in the effort to confront the movement that is pushing us into wars and ugliness toward the most vulnerable among us. I can be as dedicated to a just cause as the pretenders who dehumanize others in selfish pursuits. Change will come. It always does. 

My mother had countless photos of me as a toddler visiting America’s national parks with her and my father. I can’t say for certain that those early intersections with the beauty of our nation influenced me to love the outdoors later in life. Still there is something mystical about the feelings of reverence that I have always felt whenever I revisited the majesty of places that my parents first showed me. In my mind the national parks and monuments of the United States are spiritual. I feel the hand of a force far greater than anything human when I am wandering along the roadways and trails of our national treasures.

I can’t even think about places like Rocky Mountain National Park, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, or Glacier National Park without becoming emotional. I have cried tears of joy in each of those places. I have been overcome by their beauty in the same way that I celebrate the glories of humanity. I feel my own presence and duty to preserve and honor the planet on which we live whenever I have the privilege of viewing the natural wonders of our nation. 

I married young and from the onset my little family was plagued with problems that demanded our attention and finances. Not even a year into my marriage I found myself caring for my mother who was sidelined by bipolar disorder. At the age of twenty five I watched my husband being treated for a fungal disease that was often fatal. Somehow he overcame his illness with many weeks of chemotherapy that reduced him to skin and bones. 

With two children and not a great deal of money my husband and I purchased a tent and some sleeping bags that allowed us to visit the most wonderful places in the United States on a strict budget. We became the camping family who sat under the stars at night cooking on a propane stove. We gazed at the stars and felt a connection with the beautiful environments that embraced us with a sense of awe. At the end of the day we crawled into our tent and slept on the floor feeling as though we were the luckiest and wealthiest people on the planet. 

We have awakened to the sound of a moose passing by our tent. We have stayed safe and dry during raging storms. We have watched the geysers in Yellowstone National Park venting their steam just the way they had done when Teddy Roosevelt was president. We found ourselves in canyons where it felt as though we were the only people on the earth. We became one with the spirits of the first people who walked on our continent and saw the ruins of their pueblos and works of art. We hiked to the top of mountains and told stories by campfires. The joy that we experienced was immeasurable. 

When our daughters were grown we took our grandchildren to the same places that we had shared with their mothers. We saw how much they loved the journeys just as we always had. The simplicity of those trips when we were pared down to simply surviving and appreciating the glories of nature were part of the spiritual inheritance that we passed down in our family. Somehow our grandchildren understood just as we had how important it is to protect our natural resources not as ways to make money but as the sources of connection to our oneness with the world. We understood in those places what a gift they were and how it was up to us and all Americans to protect them. 

We are older now. We cannot lie down on the floor of a tent without fear of never being able to get up again. We graduated to a trailer and then to staying in motels and cabins but our love for the natural wonders of the United States has never faded. We are the most at peace in such places and they continue to call us just to wonder at their beauty. Sadly our president does not appear to share our concern about preserving our parks and monuments for all Americans for all time. He is a business man who sees everything as an opportunity to garner wealth. He does not appear to understand that some places are far too sacred to mar with drilling or mining or cutting down. Perhaps his parents never showed him how to spend quiet moments revelling in the beauty of falling water or endless vistas at the top of a mountain. Maybe he never walked among the ruins of native Americans who lived in this land centuries before the first Europeans came. Maybe he never experienced the sheer joy of sitting under the stars with only the sound of the wind and the calls of the animals interrupting the silence. 

Since the last few decades of the nineteenth century our presidents and our Congress have mostly supported the idea of preserving much of the natural beauty and history of our vast continent. They have set aside places of incredible value for our very souls. These places tells us our story in ways that no words might ever do. They burrow into our hearts and help us to understand the enormity of our roles in caring for them so that future generations will experience what we have. Doing anything less than preserving them from the greed of those who only view them as sites of resources and income should be anathema to us all. 

We have seen the tacky destruction of our monuments in Washington D.C. that Donald Trump has defaced. His propensity for covering nature with concrete and faux gilt has destroyed much of the essence of our capital. Now he is quietly eroding the protections of our natural heritage in the parks and monuments that have heretofore been free from monetized industries. Bit by bit he is imposing his belief that there is a buck to be made in every corner of the earth. As a result he is taking land and allowing it to be used for profits rather than to provide us with a glimpse of the glories of the United States. 

Woody Guthrie said it well. “This land is your land. and this land is my land. From the California to the New York island. From the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters. This land was made for you and me…”

Let our lawmakers know that we don’t want Trump to destroy our land. It belongs to all of the people, not to those who would gut it and leave it ruined.

Back in the late nineteen eighties my eldest daughter was enrolled in an Astronomy class at the University of Texas. One of her assignments was to create a project using information that she had garnered in the class. Somehow she had heard about a remote National Heritage Park and UNESCO World Heritage Site in New Mexico called Chaco Canyon. Native Americans lived there long before Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic to land in the Americas. In fact there was a pueblo culture there in the eight hundreds that lasted until it mysteriously ended around 1250 CE. 

The people sometimes known as the Anasazi built a thriving culture in Chaco Canyon that included indications that they understood many astronomical ideas including how to predict the autumn and spring equinoxes. as well as the winter solstice. Even the structures of the ruins suggest that they were built with astronomical alignments. Evidence indicates that the  ancient citizens of Chaco tracked and marked the cycles of the moon. For that reason the site is a mecca for astronomers and archeologists. 

My daughter and my husband traveled to the site during her spring break so that she might take measurements of the remains of the buildings and learn more about how the native people used astronomy so far back in human history. She and her father nearly froze in the tent where they spent each night but they also became enchanted with the knowledge that the ancients seemed to have understood. Her paper was a success but more than that the visit changed her life in many respects. 

We have returned to Chaco Canyon many times after that. It is a place that is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. One has to really want to visit there. The road is long and far from being smooth and the environment is cruel in summer and winter with extremes of temperatures that challenge the idea that people actually lived and thrived there. The reward of walking among the ruins and climbing up vertical trails is worth all of the effort. This is a spiritual place that is quiet and reverent and filled with the ghosts of a past culture that was remarkable.

On one occasion I was able to bring the members of the KIPP Class of 2010 there. I suspect that even the other chaperones wondered why I had so enthusiastically pushed to include Chaco Canyon in their tour of New Mexico. During the ride there were grumblings that I ignored. Somehow I knew that the haunting spirit of Chaco Canyon would entrance my students once they roamed in the ruins. Just as I had predicted it became a highlight of the entire trip that was made even more spectacular when the rangers called a couple of astronauts who were in the area to come speak to the group. 

Another time we came with a granddaughter and grandson. On that trip the temperatures rose past one hundred degrees. The sun beat brutally down on us but the importance of Chaco Canyon was not lost on any of us. Just as with every other time we left with a reverence for the people who once lived and worked there so long ago. Chaco Canyon helped us to understand the significance of our place in the universe and in the sweep of history. 

Now the solemnity of Chaco Canyon is about to be destroyed as the Trump administration has struck a deal with BMI to drill for oil and water in the confines of the site. I can’t even imagine that anyone would consider the desecration that this will surely represent. Sadly Chaco Canyon is not the only national treasure that is being threatened with the invasion of businesses wanting to harness natural resources. Many of our nation’s parks and sites will be darkened with destructive practices that were never intended to happen as former presidents created a string of precious places throughout the United States that have been preserved up to this point. 

My husband and I took our children to our nation’s parks and historic areas on our vacations. We slept in nearby tents and walked along paths that led us to spectacular views. We heard about how and why such places became part of our national heritage from forward thinking  presidents who understood how closely our history and the history of our earth are intertwined. The very idea of commercializing such places is grotesque and yet little by little bit by bit President Trump is shifting funding from our national parks and in some places using them for profiteers. It is a travesty that garners little publicity but endangers the balance of nature itself. 

I grieve for what is happening I wonder if Trump himself has ever even experienced the unmitigated wonder of visiting such places. Does he not understand why predecessors like Teddy Roosevelt realized that we must protect such places? How can Trump think that the denuding of forests and the trashing of mountains and historical places by those only interested in growing richer than they already are is a good thing? Some of these places will never again be the same when the invaders come and yet the plans to move ahead have barely been questioned. I hope that somehow we can stop this travesty before it is too late. The damage that will be done is a mortal sin.  

I am a very common person. I once dreamed of reaching soaring heights but never really did anything to get to such a place. I have lived my life quietly for the most part, spending most of adulthood teaching young people whom I sometimes reached and others who found me to be a bore. I dreamed of writing the great American novel but never came up with an idea worthy of enchanting readers. I spend my days describing my very normal life which in truth is rather extraordinary because in all of my seventy six years on the earth nobody has ever truly hurt me. 

I have seen horrors in the lives of some of my students and have only been able to imagine how horrific being them must have been. There was the young boy whose mother once attempted to set him on fire. She was only minimally successful and so from a physical standpoint there was little evidence of the injury she imposed on him. It was in his mind, his mental health that he suffered great pain. That damage came out now and again in dangerous behaviors that threatened his well being and sometimes even that of those around him. I have never been able to forget this child because there was a glorious spark hiding underneath the scars that made him wonder if anyone would ever truly love him. 

I think of the little girl whose mother shaved off the glorious curls that made her so beautiful simply because she came home with a case of cooties. Even with her bald head and ill-fitting wig she was still incredibly beautiful. Her blue eyes twinkled and her forgiving smile told me that she was not willing to believe that her mother’s behavior was cruel or in any way wrong. 

I wonder what happened to the child who lived in a car behind the local funeral home with her family. Somehow she thrived in spite of the incredible challenges that she faced from day to day. She always completed her homework due to the generosity of the man who ran the funeral home. He let her sit inside to do her lessons. He told her to feel free to clean herself in the bathroom and if patrons brought in food and left some behind he gave it to the girl and her family. Each day the sweet child brought me a fresh bouquet of flowers that she plucked from wreaths thrown away after the funeral services. Not once did she complain. In fact she was grateful for the goodwill of the people at the funeral home and smiled with confidence that her family would soon be back on its feet. 

I can never forget the girl whose face was scarred from a fire. She looked like a character in a horror movie until I got to know her. Somehow her smile and her lovely outlook on life transformed her appearance and all that I saw was her beautiful soul. 

I wonder where the boy is whose life was changed by an opportunity to take part in a summer math and science program. He was a special needs student who was rather notorious for his bad behavior but he succeeded in mathematics so much so that he was a model student in my class. When I announced that one student from the school would be chosen for a summer program he immediately asked for an application and wrote the required essay with such heart that he was chosen by the college. Everyone else at the school was appalled that he would be representing us but I knew when I read his essay that he would win. Unfortunately he had no way to get to the school each day so for the entire summer I drove him there and then picked him up. He was so involved that they invited him back every single year until he was about to graduate from high school. That is when he told me how glorious it had felt when people treated him as though he was smart and one of them. It never occurred to him that he was indeed very bright and that is why he had fit in so well. 

I have story after story of young people who did not enjoy the good fortune that was always mine. Yes, I lost my father at a very young age but my extended family and the community where I lived stepped in to make up for that loss. We did not have much extra money but the love that I always felt from my mother made up for any material things that we lacked. I always felt safe and loved. Nobody ever hurt me like I had seen with hundreds of students who passed my way. Their stories haunted me then and still do to this day. 

Most of the young people that I have taught would now be in their forties and fifties and heading toward their sixties as I head toward my eighties. The ones who have kept in touch are doing quite well but I often find myself wondering about those with whom I lost contact. I would like to think that they all found happiness and good lives and that somehow they understood how much I cared about them. Mine was an ordinary life with extraordinary opportunities to make a difference for someone else. My greatest hope is that I truly did.