All It Takes Is A Little Love

I suppose that I have always wanted to be a writer. Even as a child I created little stories and then books and a neighborhood newspaper. All of it was recorded by hand with my own illustrations. None of it went beyond the boundaries of the street where I lived. Still, I fancied myself as an author who would one day be famous for her creativity and wit. 

Sadly none of that came to be, not even in high school when the teacher that I had for all four years challenged us to write a theme every single week. I would sweat bullets over the prompt until it was do or die on Sunday evenings. Try as I may I never once had the honor of my teacher reading my work to the rest of the class. As I listened to the offerings of my classmates I wondered where they got their incredible ideas and how I might one day create something worthy of praise. 

I wrote a great deal of prose in college and managed to earn high grades on my papers but I wanted to do more than write reviews or compile facts in a persuasive argument. It was not until I was in my senior year that my work began to receive some notice and I even received several invitations to continue my education in the art of writing through a program that was new to my university. Since I needed to get cracking with my career to earn some money I passed on that idea and settled into the life of a teacher. Ironically I spent all of my years teaching mathematics because the first principal who hired me did not need my English major but was taken by my minor in math. 

Since retiring I ply my mediocre talent with blogs that I compose five days a week. I seem to hit a bullseye of delight now and again but I have never been discovered as the next great journalist or story teller even as I dream of such a thing happening. I suppose that I get enough joy out of writing to offset the fact that I mostly seem to be doing it for myself. 

Just when I think that my skills are improving I read a daily blurb from someone like Anne Lamott and I suddenly realize that there is a vast difference between an amateur and someone who truly has a gift. Anne is one of those incredible authors who strings words together in such a way that they light up the page like a fireworks show. I am in awe each and every time that I enjoy the way that she is able to take an ordinary topic and make it feel like one of the most extraordinary things that I have ever read. 

Some writers like Stephen King have such a facility with words that even a short political dig comes across as memorable and brilliant. I suspect that there is not a class that can teach such skills. There has to be some kind of innate talent that begins on the day of birth when they begin observing the world around them. Their words are magical in their ability to bring ideas to life.

My parents created an almost spiritual reverence for genius in me that wraps me in a kind of elation when I encounter a wordsmith. My worship and envy of them almost always coincides with wonder of how they became as good at delivering ideas as they are. I suppose it’s the same kind of admiration that a wannabe athlete experiences watching Michael Jordan or Caitlyn Clark. 

I’ll keep reading the best of the best and pecking on the keys of my laptop in a quest to one day write something so wonderful that anyone who reads it will feel exactly the way I was hoping to coax them to be. I want to hit the kind of high note that nobody ever forgets. I know its in me somewhere if only for that one great moment. 

I laugh as I reveal my inner feelings because there was a day when one of my students just knew that he was destined to be the next basketball great. He was well under six feet tall and mostly sat on the bench during the games that his mediocre team played. I did not want to murder his dream because I truly understand how hurtful such truth can be. Instead I encouraged him to develop as many of his talents as possible so that if the career as a basketball star did not work out he would still have a backup plan like I did with my teaching. He tried several pathways but eventually found his own kind of joy in computer work. Now he simply enjoys a quick game of basketball with his buddies after work. I suppose this is what I did with my own career, so I wonder if he still dreams of dunking the winning ball in a major game as I do in wondering if my writing will ever be known beyond the limits of my tiny group of readers. I suppose that everyone sometimes imagines what it would be like to rise above the mundane. 

In the long ago before I had even started school at the age of five I had a friend named Merrily. She was a beautiful child who always wore her dark brown hair in braids that hung down over her shoulders. I so enjoyed playing with her, but she did not live full time on our street. Her parents were divorced so she only came now and again to visit with her father and his new wife. 

Merrily never spoke of the breakup of her parents and I was too young to ask about such things but it was indeed strange to me. I was never sure how to refer to her father’s wife because Merrily never referred called her “mother” or even her stepmother. Nonetheless Merrily was lots of fun and so I simply enjoyed her company whenever she was available. 

Both Merrily’s father and his wife worked at full time jobs so during the week Merrily was supervised by the family maid who would watch her and care for her needs. That meant that I had to play at her house rather than mine and it was quite different to be in a place that seemed to be picture perfect, quiet and always orderly. My own home was filled with the toddler babbling of my brother Michael and the laughter and songs of my mother who always seemed to be celebrating her delightful mood. 

Merrily’s home was always dark and cool and decorated with exquisite furnishings while mine was filled with sunshine and the usual collection of highchairs and playpens and little toys that belonged to me and my brother. I loved my family and everything about life in our house but sometimes it was fun to be in the elegance of Merrily’s domain.

I was usually a bit wary of dogs back then, especially large ones that seemed to tower over me. I had been introduced to the German Shepherd that belonged to the girlfriend of one of my uncles. All I had to do is walk to the back door and the snarling beast would slam his entire body against the only barrier between him and me. All the while he would growl and bare his teeth as though to warn me that he would devour me if only he had the opportunity. Thus I remember flinching a bit when Merrily first introduced me to her pet who was a Chesapeake Bay Retriever. Fortunately he was a very gentle and obedient dog who never made any kind of dangerous moves towards me. He only wagged his tail and waited for me to pet him which I truly enjoyed doing. 

My friendship with Merrily was sporadic given her comings and goings but after we had played together a number of times her parents invited me to dinner one evening. I can’t recall what the food was like with the exception of the dessert at the end of the meal. The lady of the house set a single scoop of vanilla ice cream in front of each of us and then performed what seemed to me like a feat of magic. She walked around the table spooning a liquid chocolate concoction onto the confection that turned to a hard surface upon connecting with the cold. It was like an Eskimo Pie in a bowl. Never before had I seen anything like it and to say was impressed would be an understatement.

Before long Merrily’s father and his wife had moved so I was once again trapped in a neighborhood filled with only boys and no girls. It seemed to be my fate everywhere I went. Even my cousins were all boys save for one girl. I somehow got along until we also moved into a neighborhood that was filled with girls my age whom I still know and celebrate to this day. With all my new friends I didn’t think much about Merrily anymore but in my heart I suppose that I would always remember her with her gentle dog, enchanting home, and strange situation with her parents. She would always be the first girl to whom I shared my secrets. 

Life is filled with surprises. After a difficult journey to California and back my parents rented a house in a neighborhood not far from where I had once enjoyed the company of Merrily on Kingsbury Street. They chose the place because it was within walking distance of my father’s best friend, Lloyd Krebs. One day when I accompanied my father on a jaunt to Mr. Kreb’s home we suddenly encountered Merrily and her father walking that sweet pup that I remembered for his well behaved manners. 

I was excited beyond belief and so was Merrily. Her father and mine talked for a bit while we hugged each other and promised to get back together whenever possible. Happily not long afterward I was in her now and again home with the same maid watching over her while keeping everything spotless. We had so much to talk about because we felt so much more grown up now that we were almost ready to complete Grade 3. We thought of ourselves as rather sophisticated young ladies and we planned playdates and sleepovers to last a lifetime. 

Fate intervened once again when my father died suddenly and my mother chose to purchase a house for us in a far away neighborhood. I would never see Merrily again. I realized that I did not even know her last name and I never thought to ask my mother to help me find her. Somehow my life moved along without her and yet even many decades later I think of her and the sweet name that she had that was so perfect for her gentle and happy personality. I find myself wondering what happened to her and hoping that her life has been good. I don’t know if she felt the same way about me but I loved her. She was my very first best friend. 

“Dignity does not consist in possessing honors, but in deserving them.”

• Aristotle

I am admittedly a competitive person. Like most people I like to win but there is no joy in cheating to rise to the top. If I gain an award I want it to be because I deserved to do so. I don’t want someone to honor me out of pity or fear. Simply using force to get attention or glory is the way of a coward and cheat. 

I worked at a school that honored a student or teacher every Friday at an end of week gathering. The idea behind the award was to have somehow been seen by the previous recipient as a person who did something of genuine merit. Thus week after week I watched with great interest as the new individual was lauded. When my name was one day announced I accepted my prize with great humility because what I had seemingly done to earn it was really just part of my responsibility to be aware of the needs of my students. I had helped a young man in a rather dire circumstance, not with an eye to being honored, but because it was the right thing to do. Nonetheless I still cherish that medal because it was evidence that someone saw that I understood him just as I had always tried to do. 

We have so many contests in our society. I’ve watched my grandchildren running in races and swimming against strong competition. They have told me that their goals were always to improve their personal best records. They competed mostly with themselves, not with others. They ran and swam because they enjoyed the process of becoming healthier better people. The trophies and medals were fun to have only because they pointed to their dedication. They were a nod to their willingness to rise early to practice and to improve through the coaching of experts. 

At the end of my high school years I ended up with the top grade point average which made me the valedictorian. I did not believe for an instant that it made me smarter than any of my peers because I knew better. It only reflected my hard work that stemmed from an early encounter with the principal of the school who insisted that my placement in advanced classes was in error. The only reason he gave me a shot at being in the top group was because my teachers had insisted that I deserved to be there in spite of my score on an entrance exam. I suppose that I worked as hard as I did to prove to the principal that my former teachers were correct and that he was wrong. It was a challenge that I accepted even as I heard my deceased father urging me to always put in the effort to my studies that he knew that I possessed. I was only proud of my determination, not the prize itself which literally became meaningless once I enrolled in college and continued in life. 

Sometimes we get a nod just for trying to accomplish something. There is nothing wrong with that. I am ashamed to say that there have been many times when I decided not to even attempt some challenge because I felt so hopelessly inept. I avoided sports of all kinds because I saw myself as a klutz. I envied my friends who seemed to be so naturally skilled. I would later learn from an observant professor that all I needed was clear instruction on how to stand, throw, and control my movements to be able to participate in athletic endeavors. I took his coaching to heart and used it to help my students understand that sometimes it takes a bit more work to achieve something that seems natural to others but that does not mean that it will never happen. We all learn things differently and at different paces. We may never be award winners in certain enterprises but every single thing that we attempt to do makes our lives fuller and more wonderful. 

We presently have a president who is obsessed with winning. He wants to be proclaimed the best at everything. He wants honors and glories whether he actually deserves them or not. He makes a mockery of those who have duly earned their prizes and covets the titles that they have. He wants to be acknowledged with greatness that he has yet to actually earn. He bribes and threatens and cheats rather than putting in the hard work that real trophy winners understand to be the actual joy of competitions. They work hard for the betterment of themselves and the team. If their efforts result in recognition that is only the cherry on top of their already wonderful accomplishments. Our president seems not to understand this very basic truth. Namely, he can display rings and placards and even the Nobel Peace Prize of someone else but they are nothing more than trinkets if he has not won them by his own genuine efforts. Nobody is impressed with someone who buys or cheats his way to glory. 

We would do well to teach our young that the true joy of accomplishment comes from the determined dedication to reaching a goal. It involves hard work, setbacks and disappointments, as well as working in tandem with others. The true prizes are not things and sometimes are never spoken aloud. We win whenever we can truthfully say that we did our very best in whatever we decided to do. The prize resides in our hearts, not on a shelf or a wall. 

 It’s incredibly funny how we vividly recall certain moments from our past and lose the details of others in a kind of fog. Of course we remember the shocking moments when someone close to us died or when there was a national disaster that affected all of us. I can describe the morning when I discovered that my father had died in vivid detail. I can see and hear the people and the voices as though the whole thing were happening right now. So too it was with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and the attack on the Twin Towers in New York City. 

One would think that such shocking incidents would become fuzzy in the cloud of emotions associated with them, but the reality is that we never forget the vivid details of such unique situations that impact every fiber of our being.  That is why the telling of one’s life story is so revealing. It becomes a kind of psychological journey that explains who a person is and what is most important to him or her. How we view the world around us and the events that were meaningful to us is a mirror into our souls. 

I once wrote a paper using the stories that my grandfather told me over and over again. I don’t know how accurate they actually were but their content never changed. It was as though he had memorized certain times in his life so that he might reproduce them verbatim. What those tales told me is that my grandfather admired people who were kind and caring but also who were strong willed and courageous. Every remembrance that he presented had a moral and a bit of humor and spoke of his own difficult journey through life. Losing his mother at birth impacted him but living with his wise grandmother inspired him. Many of his best memories told of her intellect and independent spirit. 

My mother remembered the kindness of my grandmother and the toughness of herself and her siblings. She spoke of her father with a deep respect for his hard work and inventiveness. She often boasted that she was able to survive any difficult situation because she had grown up as the youngest of eight children. She insisted that while they were immigrants who often endured the ire of the people who lived near them, she held her head high with the pride of knowing that she was as good as any of them. More than once she recalled a high school English teacher who insisted that she had the best understanding of the English language that he had ever encountered among his students. She was a survivor who knew how to push back on bullies and ultimately her ability to ignore the naysayers helped her to navigate through a lifetime of tragedies and difficulties with optimism. 

For my mother-in-law stories of family were the center of her thoughts. She never moved far from where she was born and she dedicated many years to completing her family tree and learning the history of the people who had come before her. She was adamant in caring deeply for her relatives and dedicated to making sure that they were safe. Perhaps her undaunted love of people came from the heart defect that challenged her from the time she was a young girl. Doctors told her that she would die young but she pushed herself to defy all of the odds, even giving birth to a son when she was told that doing so would most likely kill her. He story of that birth was at the center of who she was as a person, someone for whom people always came first. She loved with a fierceness that never wavered.

I once had to create a three part autobiography for one of my graduate school classes. While I thought that the assignment was frivolous, I nonetheless enjoyed it because I love to write. The guidelines were such that I had to reveal a great deal about who I am as a person and what beliefs are most important to me. I threw my heart and soul into the writing with as much honesty as I was able to muster. 

The professor liked my work and encouraged me with his comments and the high marks that he gave me but then he took the time to tell me how he had interpreted what I had been saying in the lines and paragraphs that told my own story. I was stunned when he took me aside and insisted that I would only be happy in my work and my friendships when I was making a difference in the lives of others. He counseled me that my words had shouted clearly that money meant nothing to me but that relationships with people energized me. He told me that being an educator was not just a way of earning a salary for me but was really a way of life that fulfilled me. 

We reveal ourselves in what and how we remember the journey that we choose from our childhood and throughout our lives. We may change course along the way but in general there is a continuous thread that defines our values and the things and people that we most admire. Even how we recall tragedies tells us something about ourselves. 

When I think of my father’s death I remember the kindness of my Aunt Valeria who came to aid my mother and our little family in the middle of the night and stayed in our lives to love us until the day she died. I think of my Uncle Willie who saw the grief and confusion of me and my brothers and took the time to comfort us with ice cream. I can hear the loving words of the priest who visited my mother and assured her that even though my father was not a religious man he would be embraced by God. I think of the stray dog called Whitely who randomly showed up on our front porch and guarded us until we were feeling strong enough to carry on without my father. I can still see my Uncle Jack guiding my mother to purchase a new car to replace the one that was demolished in my father’s wreck. I hear him brokerring with a kind and generous man to provide a reduced price on the house that my mother eventually bought to provide us with the refuge that would embrace us until we were adults. I learned from all of these people how important it is to be kind and supportive and I suppose this is the kind of individual I have always tired to be.

Our stories tells us and the people around us who we are. We would do well to listen to them with understanding and awe. 

It’s a cold rainy day and the temperature is supposed to drop even more during the night. In all likelihood there will be sheets of ice on the walkways and roads by morning making it treacherous to move around outside. I am trying to enjoy the time of hunkering down like a bear hibernating inside a cave. Perhaps it is the dreariness or maybe the silence that is making me pensive but some might say that I seem to be pensive all of the time. For now my mind is jumping from one thought to another without landing on a topic that will control the many thoughts racing through my head.

I am about a week away from surgery for a total knee replacement and because I am rarely sick and have had few medical emergencies in my lifetime I am a bit anxious about what lies ahead for me in the days and weeks after I have an artificial knee inside my body. I have been coached on the seriousness of what is going to happen and the need for my attention to all of the little details that I must be certain to follow to make my recovery as quick as possible. It can all be a bit overwhelming in spite of my confidence in the doctor and medical personnel who have been working with me. 

I’m not supposed to go outside into the yard or the garage for the next many days lest I pick up an infection or hurt myself before the surgery. Normally I would be outside helping my husband prepare for the big freeze but this time I have done very little to assist in the process. Instead I have relied on people like my eldest grandson and the men who mow our lawn to assist in moving potted plants and covering the more fragile ones that grow in the ground. I’m obeying my orders but feeling a bit useless as I watch my husband checking things outside to insure that all will be in good shape for the onslaught of winter which usually comes only in brief spurts in my part of the world. 

While all of this is happening I am reading about the courageous citizens of Minnesota who took part in a general strike by the tens of thousands. It amazes me that they took to the streets in sub freezing weather just to show their concerns about ICE using questionable tactics with their neighbors. They spoke of their first amendment and fourth amendment rights as citizens, echoing the determination of our nation’s founders who wanted to live with the freedom to speak their minds and to be safe inside their homes. I want them to know how much I admire and support them knowing that at least for the coming weeks I won’t be able to emulate their protests in my own town. 

I read an article in theNew York Times this morning describing the costs of healthcare in the United States for those not covered by Medicaid or Medicare. I thought of how little I have been paying for my own health issues and how I am able to schedule a knee replacement because I am well covered only because I am an older citizen. I think of how I mainly see retired persons when I visit any of my doctors and I feel that the main reason is that younger folks mostly use medical visits for emergencies because the rising costs are too much for them. 

I have compared what I pay for routine visits to what my daughters pay for the same kind of interactions with their doctors and it is stunning. Their costs are always thousands of dollars more for something that only cost me twenty dollars or forty dollars. When I hear such things my sense of fairness begins to question our entire system which at the present time seems to be disorganized and broken. It only appears to be working for Americans depending on how old a person is and even where that person lives. 

I certainly would not deny older Americans the level of medical care that I and my peers are receiving at costs so much less than those who are younger but the fact that other Americans are struggling under the weight of increasingly expensive fees with no help from our government is appalling. My ninety six year old father-in-law has incurred hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical care in the last couple of months, most of which will be covered by Medicare and an insurance plan from his place of work that has never cost him a dime to carry. While it is wonderful that he has so much coverage I can’t help wondering why our system is so unbalanced that a young American with the same medical circumstances would be drowning in debt. 

The United States is one of the few first world nations in which the citizens are not covered by a universal healthcare system. We have always feared the idea of standardizing the care by insuring that everyone can enjoy medical care without bankruptcy. We worry that there will be long waits for services or that the level of care will deteriorate. We consider the cost and how much it will increase our taxes. These are all legitimate concerns but right now we are ignoring a vast swathe of Americans who are drowning under the cost of medical insurance that they only use for emergencies. Even then they will be left with huge debts based on deductibles that would erode most incomes. How can we call ourselves a great nation knowing that we are ignoring the needs of so many? How can we repair this problem with a spirit of fairness and a willingness to change for the greater good?

These are my musings and I believe that they should be considered by everyone. We take care of our elderly but we turn our backs on the young. It’s time that we listen to their needs and find ways to make certain that nobody has to sell their homes or dip into their retirement funds just to stay healthy. Those of us enjoying the luxury of a system that takes care of our every need should be leading the way to guaranteeing the same kind of access for all.