All It Takes Is A Little Love

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. 

It’s that time of year when I come down with a case of wanderlust that keeps me dreaming of places to visit even though I have only recently returned from a lovely sojourn in Maine. I never wanted to move to foreign realms like my father did, but I like the idea of spending the summer in places that I have yet to see before I have grown so old that traveling is no longer an option. I see the clock ticking and I want to pack my bag and go tarry for awhile in a new locale.

I have not yet seen all fifty states in my home country. Alaska and Hawaii are calling my name but even places like Oregon or Idaho tickle my curiosity. I’d even settle for a few days in a wooded area somewhere with hours to just sit and enjoy the scenery. Somehow summers are meant for exploring in my mind and I feel a distant call to go forth. 

The vacations that I enjoyed the most were the ones that took me to remote places where I slept on the floor of a tent and cooked my food on a propane stove under the light of a lantern that attracted all of the bugs in the area. I would hike all day and then gaze at the stars at night. When I became weary I climbed into a warm sleeping bag and listened to sounds that I never heard at home. 

I did those kind of trips when I was young and strong and sturdy with my husband and my two daughters. We climbed to the tops of mountains and trekked across streams. We told stories in the evening while munching on camp food that always tasted better than anything that we had at home. We watched a moose walk across our campsite ignoring us as though we did not exist. We heard the calls of wolves and coyotes and never feared that they might come harm us. We were more part of the world around us than at any other time. We were not Americans or members of certain groups. We were just humans surviving in the rough in tandem with nature. We would whisper as if talking out loud would somehow imbalance the humming of the universe. 

I’ve enjoyed my stays in famous cities of the world. I do like the inventiveness of humankind that is on display in such places. I feel the pulse of history all around me and somehow sense a oneness with all of the people who have come before me. I like the anonymity that such places provide me. I am just a fly on the wall observing the past and the present all at once. It is almost like play acting in an exciting roll when I dress up and experience the hospitality and customs of different towns and cities. I get to observe people and see how much we are in reality so much alike in spite of those who warn us that we are so different. 

Traveling is a glorious gift that I have been fortunate to enjoy. I think of my grandparents coming all the way from Slovakia and then settling into a tiny house in Houston, Texas and never going anywhere else again. It seems strange to have enough courage to leave as they did only to lose that sense of adventure later in life. Perhaps they simply appreciated the continuity of each day without frightening surprises like happened in the place from whence they had come. The joy of feeling safe and secure seemed to have been enough for them. 

I watch as people that I know become sidelined by illnesses or losses that bind them to the borders of their homes. When I think of them my wanderlust overwhelms me. I find myself planning the next trip even if it is only a ride to Galveston just to walk along the seawall and enjoy some of the local food. 

My mother told me over and over that I was a colicky baby. The only way that she could soothe me was to take me for a drive. She and my father began a routine of finding quiet unlit roads to calm my crying and lull me into a delightful sleep. There are still nights when I think I need someone to chauffeur me around in the dark of night until I begin to yawn and my eyelids become heavy. Somehow I never once have had insomnia on a trip. No matter where I am when I finally lay down my head I sleep like that baby in the backseat of my parent’s car.

Where shall I next go, I wonder. The mountains are calling me so perhaps I must go. I find myself thinking of the wildness of New Mexico or Utah or perhaps the serenity of an Amish town. Canada sounds quite inviting and I have never seen Quebec. Perhaps that will be my next adventure. Wherever I go, no matter how simple it may seem to be, I know that I will be overjoyed just experiencing a new place and roads that lead me to places that I have never before seen. 

Time to take out a map and put a pin in it. Wherever it lands will be wonderful.  

Every Friday night during my youth was spent at my grandmother’s home in the East End of Houston. She lived only a few feet off of Navigation Blvd. in the tiny house where she and my grandfather had raised eight children. The area was slowly overtaken by factories and businesses so the number of actual homes on the street became fewer and fewer over time. At the end of the dead end street was a huge warehouse for the old Weingarten grocery stores that dominated Houston at that time much as HEB does now. 

My mother and aunts and uncles were a noisy bunch who often had penny ante poker games while we kids played outside. From that vantage point we always enjoyed the aroma of roasting coffee beans from the factory not so far down the way from Grandma’s place. It always brought fond memories of the great times that I had with my cousins over the years. We were a lively bunch who felt more like brothers and sisters than cousins. Somehow back then we just assumed that Grandma would always live there and that our parents would be forever be engaged in an endless poker game that brought out their booming voices and ever present laughter. 

It’s a miracle that all of them and us did not eventually die of lung cancer because the smoke inside the house encased anyone inside in a fog so thick that it clung to our clothing until we washed the items that we had worn. I remember my eyes burning from the noxious fumes but none of us had any idea back then that the nicotine was dangerous. We just wanted an excuse to be outside and the smoke gave us that. Otherwise it would have been incredibly entertaining just to sit and listen to the sibling banter that always ensued. I honestly found the interplay to be incredibly hilarious and entertaining. 

Nonetheless we kids wanted to breathe so staying outside was always preferable and we invented one silly game after another. The smell of that coffee from Maxwell House still lives in my brain. It brings back memories so lovely that it is almost as though I am back to being a kid again. Those were halcyon days when none of us seemed to have a care in the world. Our parents were beautiful and we were scrawny and scrappy and living kind of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn lives that seem to imaginary. That house and the aroma of coffee wafting over our play was heavenly. 

The best nights came when the adult poker games broke up early for one reason or another. My uncles Andy and Paul might have night shift work and have to leave or Uncle Willie would be taking his wife to the Friday night wrestling matches downtown. Whenever that happened our moms would suddenly decide that it was time for a visit to the Coastal Salvage store down Navigation Street where treasures of all kinds were on sale at rock bottom prices. There was no telling what we might find in the aisles covered with exotic items brought in from the Port of Houston which was not that far away. 

My mother rarely purchased anything but the hunt was the fun part anyway. The place was like a Turkish bazaar, a least that is how my mind imagined it to be. In the winter there were overhead heaters that blowed warm air from flames that seemed to be threatening to set the whole place ablaze. Surely, I imagined, pirates had to be involved with the enterprise. Where else would such wonders find their way to a spot near my grandmother’s house?

Sometimes when our games became boring and the poker party droned on we would sit down on the front porch of Grandma’s house and tell stories that more often than not frightened us enough to prefer braving the smokey air inside. Then we would settle down to watching even scarier shows on television or tune in to the Friday night wrestling fest that was hosted by Paul Bosch. It took me a long while to realize how totally fake those fights were but the crazy personalities were fun to watch. There were always heroes and villains and a crowd roused up with enough beer to keep us entertained. 

We’d keep an eye on the time and whenever our mom decided to leave around nine thirty it was a sure sign that we would stop for ice cream on Telephone Road on the way home. The lady who always worked there seemed rather irritated when we just barely got through the door before the place was supposed to close. I’d order my usual butter pecan and my mother was sure to ask for banana nut. We’d lick those cones with the kind of joy that only children are fully able to appreciate.

Not all the gold in the world would have made us any happier than we were on those Friday nights. It never occurred to us that the times we knew would not last forever. First our grandmother died when we were young adults and nothing was ever quite the same after that. Then one by one my mother and her siblings also died. Now the angel of death has landed on three of our cousins as the rest of us grow older and ridden with the aches and pains of the old.

We are spread all over the place now and it is rare for us to get together in one place. Most of the time that happens at funerals but even then we reignite a joy that is immeasurable. Sometimes on Friday nights when the wind blows I imagine that there is a whiff of that wonderfully aromatic coffee in the air. I think of those days and forget that I am older than my grandmother was back then. Somehow I hear my aunts and uncles taunting each other and laughing good naturedly while my cousins and I are barefoot and beautiful and carefree. It is such a lovely thought.

It was my daughter’s birthday and she chose to made reservations at a pottery painting place to celebrate. So there I sat on a Saturday morning with my daughter, my grandson’s fiancé and the young woman’s mother. The pace of my life can be measured by the pure joy that I felt in that very simple moment. 

My first task was to choose the item that I wanted to paint. I went up and down the display like a kid in a store who is unable to decide what to take home. At first I had my eye on a large pitcher but when I saw that the others had all chosen small projects I realized that I would be painting long after everyone else was finished. Not wanting to change the unity of the occasion I settled on a spoon rest, a practical item that I am sure to use.

I found one on the table of finished products that was already painted and fired. I liked the design so I took a photo and began to cover my piece in multicolored dots of different sizes. The more dots I made the more whimsical the pottery became and it suited my mood. All the while we engaged in the kind of chit chat that only women will ever understand. In the process I began to feel more and more relaxed. It felt wonderful to do something that required very little deep thinking on my part. The simplicity of it all was soothing. 

I realized that I felt incredibly comfortable with that group of women and may have possibly said more than I should have. Fortunately nobody seemed to be disturbed by my comments so I felt quite safe with them. Just being myself in a world that now seems so judgmental and dismissive was refreshing. The three hours of perfecting the dots on my spoon rest were well spent. 

We continued our girl time at lunch where we sipped on margaritas and sangria and munched on enchiladas. The food was great but the camaraderie was even better. We were just four ladies representing different generations and getting along amazingly. Without all of the noise and chaos of our nation’s politics life can be rather nice. I know how my daughter thinks about things but I have no idea about the other two and it was refreshing to be in the dark if only for a few minutes. Our political world is so invasive that I find myself being asked to justify my beliefs over and over again as if I am some crazed citizen intent on upending the entire democratic system.

It hasn’t always been like that. Before 2016, I had no idea what the people I knew felt about politics and they had no interest in what I believed either. In order to win the presidency Trump changed that and social media helped to push the idea that we are all affiliated in one or the other of conflicting camps. The belief that we all wanted many of the same things was tossed out the window. The old practices of polite debates became a thing of the past. Trump showed the world exactly what he was thinking even if it sounded cruel and he got by with it. Suddenly personal beliefs were outed and debated, changing relationships in families and friendships.

I never really cared what anyone felt about different issues as long as they did not attempt to foist unsavory ideas on me. Political thoughts tended to be silent and deeply personal. I would not have been able to determine who was a Democrat or who was a Republican among my family members and friends. Suddenly Trump demanded visible allegiance with red hats and huge flags and rallies that poked fun of the opposition. We divided into tribes and began arguing fruitlessly with each other rather than quietly conferring. Politics truly became a blood sport rather than a formalized discussion of issues and platforms. Whole families and friendships were suddenly at risk and people like me were being challenged to defend our points of view. 

I kept believing that the insults and rhetoric and delivery of hoaxes from MAGAs were just a phase. I learned too late that it was a carefully planned and executed work of propaganda that is now accepted by Americans who truly believe that they are saving the nation, not tearing it down. The lines are drawn creating discomfort at family gatherings. and straining friendships all too often to the breaking point. Just enjoying putting dots on a spoon rest while chatting about nothing and everything without a single moment of political discourse became a lovely change in the world that exists today.

I sometimes wonder if Americans will grow weary of the animosity between citizens that is nurtured by the media and many of our politicians and influencers. Will we ever become more civl again? I long for the days when nobody asks me to explain why I have certain personal beliefs. I look forward to a time when the hats and the flags and the signs will be put away and we leave our thoughts about how things should be in the anonymity of the voting booth. Until we can discuss without ending relationships I suspect that I may become addicted to painting dots on pottery and spending time with people who feel safe. 

I have told this story before but it seems to bear repeating given the current political environment. I was in the sixth grade when a new girl came to our class. She was from a different part of the United States and she definitely seemed to be very unlike the rest of us who had spent most of our lives in Houston, Texas. 

She was shy and awkward and even the way she spoke stood out as being somewhat foreign to our own ways. I suppose that I instantly felt drawn to her because when I was in the third grade my family moved to California where I ended up feeling like a fish out of water. The fact that I had a Texas drawl when I spoke did not help me with either the students or the teacher who seemed to believe that I would be far behind the rest of the students simply because of where I had been learning up to that time. My foray into the new environment was painful and I reacted by hiding inside myself and just going back and forth to school like an automaton with little desire to win over my new classmates. 

By the sixth grade I had returned to Texas and the school where I had many friends and felt comfortable every single day. Since my home was closeby I walked to and from school in those days and I soon realized that the new girl was going to follow the same route that I used. Before long we were joining each other in our journeys home each afternoon. During our time together I learned that she was as sad about leaving her old life behind as I had been when I was thrust into California. We quickly bonded as I reassured her that I knew exactly how she was feeling. 

I learned that her family was struggling financially and that coming to Texas had been a way of beginning anew and finding better opportunities. Her parents were renting a house in the hopes of eventually being able to purchase a home of their own. The upheaval had left the girl feeling anxious and missing the comfort of the lifestyle and friends that she had left behind. She also realized that her midwestern accent and use of different words made her seem odd in the new culture. She wanted desperately to fit in and to build new friendships so she really appreciated our walks together that allowed her to express her feelings.

Sadly things did not go much better for her when we were at school. Somehow she continued to exist on the fringes much like I had experienced in California. Coming into a school in the spring is never easy even for someone with an outgoing personality. It is hellish for someone who is shy by nature and so it was for the girl. 

Things came to a head one day when a dispute broke out between two of the boys in the class. I never found out what started the row but it became public when one of them accused the other of having a crush on the new girl. The insult was hurled out loud in a manner that indicated that the girls was so horrid that only a real loser would be attracted to her. The two offenders threw horrific comments about the girl before the teacher was able to intercede. She handled the situation beautifully but by then the girl was in tears over the public humiliation that had ensued and both of the boys were shamed. All three were sobbing with their heads down on their desks and a brutal silence that reeked of conspiracy settled over the classroom. 

That afternoon the girl did not walk home with me. Her mother came to pick her up before the end of the day. We never saw her again. I never knew whether she had enrolled in another school or if she and her parents had moved. Nobody made mention of her again but I missed her and worried about her for a very long time. In fact I was never able to forget her and to wonder why she had been judged so harshly simply because she was different. I knew all of my classmates well and it was out of character for them to be that way. I wondered what kind of peer pressure had led to the willingness to count the girl out before ever giving her the benefit of doubt. I wondered why we had not welcomed her instead of judging her because in my heart I knew that without those walks I too might have avoided her. 

I was eleven years old at that time. Since I was a year younger than most of my classmates they probably would have been twelve years old. As a teacher I learned that sixth graders tend to be rather immature so perhaps we were all just attempting to find our way during that time. Nonetheless we were attending a private Catholic school where we had daily lessons in religion and prayed each day in the classroom. Everything that we had been taught should have lead us to be inviting and understanding just as we had been told that it was our duty to love one another. Somehow our silliness took over and hurt another twelve year old so deeply that she was not able to come back again. 

I look at the world today and I am appalled that we have so called leaders who make the bullying and insulting of that girl look tame with their egregious insults of whole swathes of people. I witness ugliness coming from adults who should  know better and I am just as confused as I was watching that girl be shunned and humiliated. I felt her pain then and I feel the pain of those who are being unfairly ostracized now. What makes it so horrific is that the harsh words are coming from our president and instead of correcting him there are Americans cheering his hate. It both stuns and frightens me because it is often done in the name of religion which makes it even more egregious. 

I wish that I had stood up for that girl as soon as the two boys uttered their poisonous insults of her but I did not. I was afraid and so I was silent. I have regretted that to this very day. Now as I hear an entire political movement bullying and harassing groups of people who have done nothing more that attempt to coexist among us I will no longer be silent. We have to speak out now or we will surely lose our rights to do so. It is frightening when I see individuals literally being murdered for attempting to protect others but I cannot afford to look away and neither can any other American who loves this country. It is time for us to behave like adults and insist that the slings and arrows of words that hurt be rightfully condemned.