All It Takes Is A Little Love

So here we are just a few days away from the two hundred fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence which led to a revolutionary war with England and the eventual creation of the United States of America and a new kind of government run by the people rather than a king. There will be much official celebrating in our nation but I have chosen to follow my own path for honoring the story of our democratic republic. 

Perhaps it is just my personality at work but I see this historic moment as one that is not about a bash that seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the dreams and expectations of our founding fathers. It is not about food or parties or fireworks or bloviated speeches but rather a moment of reflection on the enormity of what happened on that July fourth of seventeen seventy six. It was the beginning of a radical idea that we the people are the rulers of our own fate. It eschewed the idea that a king somehow had a divine right to rule over us and use our treasure for his own whims. It was a radical moment in history that like all such events was as imperfect as the men who initiated the idea but at its center was great possibility for common folks. It was a shocking and daring move that much of the world believed was impossible and yet two hundred fifty years later here we are.

It would be years before the dream of those signers was clinched and the war with one of the best trained military forces was over thanks in part to the aide of France. There would be much more work to do to craft a viable constitution that ended up forcing uncomfortable compromises to keep the new government from falling apart before it really got started. The new rules outlined in the Constitution began with the most important phrase “We the People.” Suddenly it was up to commoners to muddle their way into the future with the radical idea that the people were in charge. 

Of course many of us were not counted to determine representation in Congress. It would be years before we actually had the right to vote. The southern states stalled the acceptance of the the document until their slaves were counted as two thirds of a person and slavery was declared legal. The representatives who saw slavery as an evil had to swallow their beliefs to keep the government united. Some of them ultimately refused to sign the document in protest of what they saw as an horrific original sin. The hope was that somewhere in the future the problem of slavery would be rectified but for the moment they simply hoped for the best and then looked away. The rift would never really go away until a civil war and amendments to the Constitution ended the vile practice once and for all. 

It would not be until the twentieth century that women also earned the right to vote. We took our time acknowledging the Native Americans who had lived on the land in our nation for thousands of years before the first colonists set foot on the North American continent as well. Bit by bit we have been able to improve on the government that changed the world two hundred fifty years ago. Ironically we have found ourselves asking the same questions about our Constitution that James Madison set forth from the very beginnings of the United States. We wonder why a state with 500,000 people would have the same number of Senators as one with tens of millions of people. We ask why we elect a president by the electoral college rather than by popular votes. We wonder why it took so long to include all people living in the United States in the process of self government and why slavery was not outlawed from the outset. We continue to debate many of the same issues that our founders attempted to settle with compromises that were not always as fair as they might have seemed. 

I plan to spend this week learning about the people who founded this nation, this democratic republic. I will read about their individual philosophies and the impacts that they had on the direction of the new government that precariously attempted to provide unheard of freedoms and responsibilities to common citizens. I will follow the arc of history that led to Abraham Lincoln and a civil war, the outlawing of slavery and the eventual inclusion of women in the government. I will study the trends and the arguments about what is best for our nation and fully enjoy my right to criticize even our president. How wonderful it is that I am able to do this with impunity! That is the main point of what happened two hundred fifty years ago.

My celebration will be serious but also hopeful just as those men were in seventeen seventy six. We have achieved much as a nation but to keep our republic we must always be vigilant. Tyrants will rise in our midst just as they always have but we have the right to vote them out. In this moment we would do well to remember that that we have the power, not our president. No king or authoritarian can or should limit our freedoms nor should he or she curtail the rights of any people for reasons of race or place of origin or religious beliefs.

Our ancestors were not perfect. Nobody ever is but they had a dream that continues to evolve for the betterment of humankind of all varieties. Learning our unvarnished history with its genius and horrific mistakes is how we will move forward into the next two hundred fifty years. Our celebration is not about blood and soil or bread and circuses. It is about imperfect humans who did their best to form a more perfect union. They hoped their idea would ultimately honor all of the people who came together to make the United States the vibrant and welcoming place that it was meant to be. It was a solemn promise that depends on all of us working together to keep the dream alive and becoming ever better. There is much work for all of us to do.

James Talarico is not a perfect candidate for the United States Senate but then has there ever been a perfect candidate in the history of elections? Once the primaries are over and someone has been selected by voters to run against the opposing party the real question should become who is the better person between the names that will be listed on the ballot.

In Texas it is difficult for a Democrat to win a statewide race because Republicans tend to show up in large numbers for whomever won the spot on the ballot. To defeat that person Democrats need all of the possible support that exists but quite often the purists in the party stay away in protest when their guy or gal is not selected. We have seen what happens when those Democrat purists decide to show the party their anger. We end up with a president and Congress that make certain that no Democrat gets any of what they want. Then the Republicans force their views on everyone. 

I personally like Jasmine Crockett. I love her spunk and willingness to speak out that is missing in so many of our representatives. It was a dirty deal when the governor of Texas redrew the lines of the Congressional district to gerrymander people like Jasmine out of office. I lost my Democrat congressman in the process as well and it still angers me. That being said Jasmine entered the primary for the Senate much later than the other candidates so it is little wonder that she did not win. I know also that some voters worried that Jasmine was too vocal to appeal statewide and so Talarico took the task of representing the Democrats.

I think that it is a huge mistake for Democrats to keep fighting each other with ideals that they feel that they must defend or die. This is why we are where we are in this nation right now. We have a president who has gone rogue and a Congress dominated by Republicans who will not cross him. Even our Supreme Court is outnumbered by conservatives who seemed to think it was a good idea to tell Trump that he has immunity as long as he is acting as the president. Now our nation is a a great mess and the only thing that might change the situation for the better is for Democrats to regain the majority in either the House or Senate or both. That means the Democrat voters have to turn out in historic numbers and support the Democratic candidates up and down the ballot. 

I have already written about Ken Paxton. He is a dirty as politicians come. He is a fake Christian who cheated on his wife and uses his power to line his own pockets. Even his staff members turned against him when they witnessed his flaunting of laws and decency. It should be easy to defeat such a man but the Republicans will comply with his shortcomings in the fear of losing their power. They will show up in large numbers to keep the majority. If Democrats don’t match that just because their favorite candidate did not end up on the ballot they will lose just as they have done again and again for far too many years. 

The first time I had the opportunity to vote in a national election I cast my ballot for Hubert Humphrey. He was a lackluster candidate if ever there was one and yet he was far more honorable than Richard Nixon. We now look back and see what a disaster Nixon was. At least back then the members of the Republican party were willing to speak out when they realized the crimes he had committed. He stepped down but his legacy was forever tainted. In modern times the idea seems to be to keep the power at all costs even when someone is as dirty as they come. 

I would like to believe that the citizens of Texas will rally behind James Talarico rather than bowing to petty fights that will do nothing to save our state from the disgrace of supporting an horrific individual like Ken Paxton. The man is a liar, a cheat, and a person who is only concerned with his own fame and glory. He will do nothing for the citizens of Texas as already demonstrated by his time as the Attorney General of the state. 

I think there is a future for Jasmine Crockett but not if she burns bridges in a fit of anger. I have admired her up until this point when I am a bit stunned that she would not understand the importance of rallying her own forces in support of the Democratic candidate who has a chance of winning by what will no doubt be a very close race. Talarico needs every vote possible and Jasmine will demonstrate her true concern for the state of Texas and our nation by working to finally bring a Democrat from Texas to the Senate. If she continues her snub Talarico I fear that it will stifle what has been a wonderful demonstration of her courage and concern for us all. It’s time to bury the hatchet and finish the job of sending Talaric to the Senate. Texas deserves better than Ken Paxton but we will have to vote in massive numbers to keep him from winning.

What is the true measure of a human being? Is it wealth, power, intellect, fame or is it something so subtle that it might go unnoticed? We all go through life hoping that we will somehow leave a legacy to the world but for most of us doing so matters more in the small moments than those that may appear to be big. The parent waking up in the middle of the night to check on the feverish child is doing something quite remarkable but we may never hear of it. The neighbor stopping to check on the lonely the old couple that hasn’t been out of their home for a few days seems more like someone just doing what is right rather than being heroic. The most remarkable actions of the people around us often feel routine, just carrying out responsible behavior. We don’t always get excited by those everyday occurrences that we may or may not even witness and yet we all seem to know when someone is quietly extraordinary. 

I have known people like that for all of my life. Nobody made a big deal about their goodness because it seemed to be just who they were and yet when I think of them I realize how consistently wonderful they were. The first person who comes to my mind is Mr. Barry, the father of a dear friend from my childhood. He was as quiet and unassuming as anyone might be. He dutifully headed off to work in his Buick each morning without fanfare and came home at night to enjoy dinner with his family and maybe a bit of time watching television with his wife after their children were asleep. One might even think that Mr. Barry never really achieved much other than doing what he was expected to do but somehow he was far more special than that. 

Mr. Barry had a way of making people feel comfortable about themselves. He made us all believe that he really liked us and wanted all the best for us. He loved his family without reservation and his joy in being with them lit up his face with a kind of innocent pride. When I read books at school about saints I somehow visualized them as being like Mr. Barry, kind and generous and without judgement. When I one day told his children about my estimation that he had been a living saint they smiled and assured me that I was quite right.

My mother lived on the edge of poverty sometimes going in and out of the depression and mania of her mental illness but no matter where her mind was at any time she bore an unselfish love for life and the people in her world. My mother-in-law once insisted that my mother was the greatest human she had ever met and I had to concur with her thinking. There was indeed something immeasurable about my mother’s grit but importantly about her embrace of the people around her. In spite of her many troubles she never felt sorry for herself. Instead her focus was always outward in efforts to make even the most downtrodden understand how wonderful they were. 

It’s rather amazing how we sometimes point our young people’s attention to what we see as grand achievements. Too often our assessments are superficial rather than meaningful. We neglect to speak of them about the extraordinary joy that comes from being around a very caring person. Not all the medals and stocks and bonds and titles are nearly as important as how a person treats others quietly and without fanfare day after day. 

We know who they are and they are many. They are the people who encourage and guide us when we are confused. They are the people who like us no matter how different our beliefs might be from theirs. They are the ones who show up to clean a stranger’s home that has been damaged by a flood, asking for nothing but hoping that their goodness will bring a smile. They are teachers who take the time to let us know that we are special, the supervisor who guides us without rancor when we mess things up. 

We seem to live in a moment when we adore false heroes. We think that a billionaire might be more wise than we are. We see anger and bullying as a sign of power. We look at so called beautiful people with hair extensions and surgeries and fillers changing their appearance and wonder if we look ugly with the normal aging of our bodies. We surely can see that none of these things matter as much as the kindness of a Mr. Barry or the generosity of a poor widow. 

A few days ago I spoke of a man who was once my boss and mentor. He made an effort to stay in touch with me long after he had retired. He would remember me at Christmas time with a card or a phone call. He came to my own retirement party when that time came. He did such things for everyone, not just me. When he died people spoke of him with a kind of reverence. Each person had a story of how wonderful he had made him or her feel. It took time for him to do those things and he did so with great joy. How was he not a man of immeasurable merit? 

We would do well to celebrate the true heroes in our world and deny our admiration to those whom we can see are only doing things for the betterment of themselves. We should teach our children what true greatness is and urge them to become people whose life stories are so much bigger than it may seem at first. These kind of people are all around us. Why wait until they die to speak of their glory. Let them know the marks they have made on the world even as they will no doubt humbly argue that all they were doing was what needed to be done.   

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.