All It Takes Is A Little Love

Who was my maternal grandmother? Even though I saw her virtually every Friday night during my childhood I never really had any idea what she was thinking or what the story of her life might have been. Maria Bartakovics was born in Trencin, Austria Hungary in 1890. Her parents, Andreas Bartakovics and Maria Trebaticzky baptized her in the Catholic Church at Cactiche that same year. I have little information about her childhood but my eldest aunt seemed to think that she had a brother who died in some kind of accident involving a horse. She arrived in Galveston, Texas in 1913 where she met up with my grandfather Pavel Dusan Uhrik. 

My aunt said that my grandmother and my grandfather lived and worked on a farm until she delivered the first of her ten children in 1914. After that her story becomes murky but it appears that she spent time cleaning an office building until her manager made an improper pass at her. She quit that job and worked for a time in a bakery. Evidently she was learning English then but when her second son was born in 1917, she became mostly homebound and having no need for English she reverted into speaking only Slovak. The children came in quick succession after that in 1919, 1921, 1922, 1923, 1925, and 1926. 

My mother was the youngest of the brood but only a year before her birth a boy was born in February and died by July. Evidently there was also another birth that never got registered because the child died in utero. My grandmother gave birth to all of her children at home, so I marvel at her fortitude. I have often felt that surely life must have been difficult for her even as she gave no hint to her sons and daughters that she ever had any struggles. 

She ran the household from a small home with three bedrooms and one bathroom. It had to be rather wild with so many children running in and out of the house but somehow she made them all feel loved. When the Great Depression occurred she kept the family fed with vegetables from a garden that she tended in the backyard and made meals stretch even if she was left with only the bones. Somehow the children communicated with her even though their knowledge of her language was minimal. They spoke English at the insistence of their father. 

Not long after my mother was born my grandmother had a breakdown which is not surprising given the loss of two children and the pregnancies that seemed to come without much time to readjust. She spent some time in the hospital and none of the children were ever able to estimate how long she was gone. Her absence was particularly hard on my mother who was only about five years old when her mother was taken away in an ambulance. It was a horror that haunted my mother for all of her life. 

Once my grandmother came back home she never again wanted to leave the house for any reason. She only left two more times, once when an appendix burst and another when she was diagnosed with the cancer that ultimately took her life. 

I first recall my grandmother with a long braid of black hair running down her back. With her blue eyes and lack of English she seemed rather exotic to me. Her vocabulary was limited to calling all of us either “pretty girl” or “pretty boy.” She feted us with cups of weak coffee filled with sugar and milk served in enamel cups and accompanied by dark rye bread. I actually enjoyed the little feast, seeing myself as being rather sophisticated with an “adult” beverage but most of my cousins disliked having to pretend to want the sugary mixture. 

My grandmother had her own special chair in the corner of the living room where she perched herself like royalty as she enjoyed watching her children talking over one another just as they must have done when they were young. Visits to Grandma’s house were never quiet but the raucous bunch seemed to please her well. Their almost religious habit of meeting every Friday night insured my grandmother that she would see them frequently and I suppose that was rather nice for her. 

Two of my uncles ended up living with Grandma full time. One was a dyed in the wool bachelor and the other had a brief marriage that ended in divorce. They kept things repaired at the house and shared the bills for utilities. It was a nice arrangement that seemed to be perfect for my grandmother because my grandfather had died from a stroke before he had even retired from his work. She happily cooked and cleaned for her sons while eschewing shoes in the summer and donning slippers when it was cold. 

I always had so much fun at my grandmother’s house. I had dozens of cousins and we played so many games while our parents filled the place with smoke from the cigarettes that they would eventually stop using. During my youngest years everybody seemed to smoke and so they puffed away while playing penny ante poker games. While they were busy we had a blast outside, sometimes pushing the envelope of safety when nobody was watching. 

I would like to know so much more about my grandmother. I often wonder what she was really thinking and whether or not she missed her homeland and the family that she left behind there. I wish I had known how to talk with her instead of just assuming that her thoughts were unimportant. I would have liked to know what she had experienced as a young girl and how she met and fell in love with my grandfather. I would love to have an idea of how she looked in her younger days. I have so many questions that will never be answered. The only thing about which I am sure is that she loved all of us who were part of her family. She was a wonderful hostess who never failed to welcome us with her coffee and bread. 

My grandmother died in 1977 when I as twenty nine years old and I still knew so little about her. She was loved by her entire family and our get togethers never again felt the same after she was gone. I especially missed seeing her sitting serenely in that corner where she seemed to be so content and I find myself wanting just one more cup of her sugary coffee. I rescued one of her enamel cups so that I would never forget how wonderful she was. It is a treasure that nobody but me understands.

Many years ago I purchased a metal sign that said “Simplify Simplify.” Of course that short statement comes from Henry David Thoreau, the famous writer, philosopher and environmentalist who lived for a time in a tiny cabin that he built on Walden Pond. 

The irony of that sign is that I found it at Hobby Lobby which is a bastion of “stuff” that we really do not need but we sometimes have to have. I mounted it in my laundry room as a reminder to make my life a bit less consumed with possessions and for the most part it became lost in the chaos of cleaning products and appliances that I use to keep my home tidy. I did not even remember seeing it of late until I watched a lovely three part Ken Burns program featuring Henry David Thoreau.

With all of the stresses in the world today it was quite enjoyable to sit back and learn more about the man who spent most of his life attempting to determine how humans and nature are intertwined. His philosophies of how to live without the “quiet desperation” that most of us endure was a lovely change from the doom scrolling and worries that seem to crowd our daily routines. For three hours I was immersed in Thoreau’s wisdom and appreciation for the humble aspects of living. 

Thoreau was so much more than I ever realized. He and his elder brother had both run a school for a time. He was a natural born teacher who enjoyed educating the  young people of his time. When his brother became ill they closed the school and Henry nursed his sibling until he died. Somehow the loss of his brother seemed to heighten his belief that we should all be striving to find a kind of harmony with the world around us because it is in such ways that we find the best of ourselves. 

After living for a time in the simple environ of Walden Pond Thoreau became a leading voice in the anti-slavery movement. In fact, his thinking about the enslavement of of humans was rather radical, believing that anything was fair in abolishing this horrific practice. When he voiced support of violence to rid our nation of slavery many of his followers were appalled but he felt that anything that would stop the vile tradition of slavery was necessary. 

Thoreau was a deep thinker whose passion was understanding the world and its people. He wrote thousands of pages in his daily diary that outline his belief that we humans are supposed to be stewards of this world, not owners who destroy nature and other people. While his thoughts often appear to be idealistic he actually predicted many of the problems that modern men and women encounter because of our hubris in believing that we have the right to destroy nature and others for the sake of progress. 

Thoreau died rather young from tuberculosis, an illness that ran in his family. Nonetheless he left a treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom in the many articles and diary entries that he wrote. He was a futurist who understood the need to balance human needs and wants with doing what is right for the common good. He understood quite clearly how our place in the world was being perverted by greed and lack of empathy for one another and for the nature around us. 

Somehow Thoreau reminded me of my Grandma Minnie Bell who seemed to be a child of the elements. She had a connection with animals and plants and the environment that was stunning. She communicated with birds and carefully guarded the soil and the plants that she used to grow her own food. Somehow she understood that she was but a part of the ecosystem and that her role was above all to be kind to the earth. Without being able to read or write she was a genius when it came to caring for the planet on which we live. She recycled and enriched the land with great respect and care. 

I enjoyed learning more about Henry David Thoreau. I had only ever viewed him as a kind of hermit living in a tiny cabin away from other people. I learned that he was very much involved in the world around him and that his quiet and seemingly humble way of living often became quite vocal when it came to protecting his fellow humans. He was much like my grandmother in that regard. Both of them embraced other people without prejudice. Both saw themselves as simply one among millions tasked to care for every living person and thing. 

It seems fitting that in this time when greed is often destroying our planet there is a program about a man who understood our true responsibility for each other and the world in which we live. We would all do well to consider Thoreau’s ideas for living in harmony. When we forget what is really important we seem to hurt each other and the beautiful planet on which we live. Our desperation comes from a lack of understanding that we can live in harmony and still find great happiness. Life has never been about power, destruction and selfish endeavors. We are at our best when we work together and simplify the way we live. 

My father never indicated what his relationship with God might be. He only insisted that he was dedicated to allowing his children to be raised as Catholics. He was not Catholic and seemed to know very little about Catholics other than the fact that my mother was devout in her devotion to the teachings of the Catholic Church. He and she were married at City Hall in downtown Houston but my mother insisted that their pledge to one another would not be properly complete until they also exchanged vows at a Catholic Church.

The day after they sealed their love for each other in a legal manner they traveled to a little Catholic Church in College Station, Texas where my father was attending Texas A&M College. It was not until their union had been blessed in a Catholic ceremony that my mother declared that she was a married woman in the site of God and the state. 

My mother often recalled the meeting that my father had with the priest who blessed their marriage. At that time the priest asked my father to sign a promise that he would raise any children that he and my mother had as Catholics. Evidently he did not hesitate for a moment in providing his oath and so my brothers and I would be faithfully raised in the Catholic Church mostly under the guidance of our mother, a woman who was so devout that she spent her last day on earth in a state of prayer. 

My father never went to church with us but he supported my mother when she insisted that we be baptized in the Catholic Church. He celebrated each birth of his children with the idea that we would be as religious as our mother. He even sent me to Catholic school when it became time for me to begin my education. 

I never really wondered what my father was doing on Sunday mornings when my mother would take me and my brothers to mass. It just seemed like a normal situation because I was not yet old enough to think it odd that my father did not participate in our faith formation. The only time he ever hinted at his own beliefs was when he went on a rant about a Protestant church that he had attended as a boy. He warned us to stay away from people who were self-righteous in their beliefs. He much preferred the messages of love that my mother conveyed to him through her Catholicism. 

Because my father died when I was only eight years old I never had an opportunity to have a more adult conversation about religion with him. I would have liked to know about his beliefs or lack of them. Instead I grew in wisdom and age and grace by attending Catholic schools for twelve years. There I learned about the fundamental beliefs of my church which seemed to center on the life and words of Jesus. Mostly I followed my mother’s example of charity and kindness for all people. 

I had read about many of the Catholic saints and in learning about their lives I saw my mother as a saint in her own right. Other Catholics that I knew stood out for their devotion to God but mostly for their love of all people. Mr. Barry, the father of one of my best friends, was one of the souls who seemed to be the finest example of a good Catholic that I had ever known. Later I would meet parents of my friends who had the same kind of tendencies to love their neighbors as my mother and Mr. Barry always did. I mostly grew to love my Catholic faith because of the message of empathy and good will that it tried to embody. 

As I grew older I began to see the flaws and cracks in the Catholic church but like my father I focused on the best aspects of my faith. I began to understand that as humans none of us are ever perfect although my mother and Mr. Barry seemed to come close to achieving that ideal. I would eventually engage in long intellectual conversations about Catholicism and religion in general with my mother-in-law who was a convert to the Catholic faith. From her I leaned how to studiously probe the words of great religious thinkers. My faith matured to a point of being able to critique the human flaws of religion while still celebrating the essence of my faith. 

I am hardly the most devout Catholic in the world. I don’t always go to church and there have been times when I have totally disagreed with certain teachings that seem to be far more judgmental than the words and actions of Jesus. I have learned to embrace people of many different faiths and welcomed their stories and their beliefs. Some might say that I am far too liberal in my interpretation of God’s words because I focus on the single commandment to love one another more than all of the other rules. 

I know that I disagree with the beliefs of many of the people with whom I attended Catholic school all those years ago. Theirs is a more conservative and rule driven faith than mine. I suspect that they may at times feel as though the beliefs that I hold verge on being heresy and I do understand why they might see me as someone who has fallen from grace or is at least confused. I suppose that I have become a Catholic whose beliefs reflect those of my devoted mother, my intellectual mother-in-law and my seemingly faithless father. By watching and learning from them all I have a very ecumenical view of life while still holding steadfastly to my own Catholic faith. 

I am stunned but not surprised by the recent rant against Pope Leo that Trump posted in a nighttime rage. What really saddens me is knowing that many of my truly faithful friends and relatives have viewed Trump as a good and religious man who supports their own beliefs. I have wondered how they have been able to convince themselves that he is a spiritual man. I saddens me to think of how disappointed in him they must be feeling. If they still can’t see who he really is, I worry about them even more. It is apparent to me that they and others of good faith have been used by him in horrific ways. I wonder if they will even listen to Pope Leo who is making it very clear that Trump’s version of religion is dangerous and flies in the face of Jesus’ message of peace. 

I’m glad that the Pope is standing his ground for what is right. I think my father would be happy to know that Pope Leo is protecting the Catholic faith that he wanted me and my brothers to have. In some ways it was my father who alerted me to the danger of false prophets, false gods, those who would defile the words and actions of Jesus for their own power. Still I believe that Trump is a very sick man and that Jesus would be willing to forgive his sins and love him in spite of his heresy. Sadly, my only reaction will be to continue to warn those that I know and love to be wary of the dangers that our deranged president are forcing onto the world. It is now up all American citizens to stop Trump before his insanity grows even more dangerous than it now is. Perhaps God has sent us a sign that enough is enough. Like Pope Leo we have to be unafraid to stand up for what we know is right.

We rise by lifting others! —-Author Unknown

I have felt like a klutz for much of my life! I am not a naturally athletic person at all, at least that is how I became programed to think of myself when I was young. I was a rather small and waif like child with skinny legs and little experience with organized sports but I was able to do tricks and skate backwards better than anyone in the neighborhood. If someone threw a ball my way my instinct was to dodge it, not catch it. It seemed that my hand eye coordination was nil except for the fact that I was able to twirl a baton as though it was just an extension of my body. 

I began to fear participating in sports because I did not know how to control the coordination of my eyes and my hands. Even though I ran like the wind I was still unable to keep up with my classmates because I was so much smaller than they were. In my mind I began to think of myself as a loser when it came to anything connected with physical activities that forced me to work with a team. After all, when the truly gifted athletes selected the members of their teams I was always one of the last to be chosen and even then I had to endure the groans of my peers who already knew that I would bring them down. 

I was not only a full year younger than my classmates but I also turned out to be a late bloomer who looked like a ten year old child well into my high school years. I recall taking an art class one summer and without verifying my actual age the instructor submitted my drawings and paintings to a contest for elementary school children when I was a junior in high school. It embarrassed me to learn that I had taken the top prize from children so much younger than I was so I never went back to claim my glory. 

I suppose as I felt like a failure in the world of sport I felt less and less certain about myself. I withdrew into a kind of quiet resignation that somehow I was not built to partake of team sports of any kind. My brain told me that I need not even try to catch or throw a ball. I knew that if I attempted to glide over a hurdle I would catch my foot on the apparatus and feel the pain of being a loser so I avoided any activity having to do with athletics. I had convinced myself that my prowess on skates and my bicycle was not a sign that with the right instruction and practice I might be able to overcome my deficiencies. Instead I sat on the sidelines unwilling to demonstrate how awkward I felt. 

I was in my thirties when I took a couple of mandatory classes to prepare for teaching certain skills to my students. Some schools required my ability to not just give instructions in mathematics but also in physical activities. Instead of avoiding such jobs I knew that I had to overcome my fears and so there I was taking one course in movement and another in general sports. 

I started with the movement class and as luck would have it my instructor was an amazing man with a doctorate in physical education. He almost immediately took me aside and complimented the control of my body that I seemed to have when I moved along with music. He often used me as the exemplar for the different activities. It felt good to be able to achieve success in an activity that made use of my limbs that I had always believed to be gangly and uncoordinated. 

The next class I took was with the same instructor and it was an introduction to every conceivable sport. After the first session the prof asked me to stay behind and then he grilled me on my experience with athletic activities. When I told him my sad tale he insisted that the problem was not with me but with the teachers who had failed to coach me on the proper ways of learning how to successfully participate in each sport. He invited me to stay after each class so that he might study my stance and show me how to plant my feet and use my arms. 

Before long I was connecting every pitch thrown at my bat. I was catching passes of the football and sinking basketballs into the net. It felt so good to finally be successful in an arena where I had always felt like a failure. Not only did the experience build my confidence but it demonstrated the importance of working with students who were afraid of math. I learned that most of us do not just learn how to do things naturally. As educators and even parents we have to provide guidance and practice in whatever we are attempting to teach our young. 

I am still less comfortable with athletic feats than taking a test in mathematics but I no longer chastise myself for being uncoordinated. Once someone showed me exactly how to make things happen on a volleyball court or in a softball game I was assured that everyone is capable of learning if someone provides them with specific and caring help in overcoming mental and physical hurdles. 

Whenever I find a student who feels like a loser I remember the professor who worked so hard to provide me with the confidence in the athletic abilities that I had always believed I did not have. I learned the important lesson that life is not a race or a contest and that with time and patience we each have the ability to overcome the difficulties that seem to be holding us back. We do indeed rise together whenever we lift those among us who are afraid or in need of a bit more time to tackle any kind of situation. Patience and encouragement are powerful and so much more motivating than gold medals. There is also so much joy in helping someone to learn something that they believed was impossible. We all rise in such moments.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life. ~Rabindranath Tagore 

Springtime is always so lovely where I live. I sit in my backyard gazing at the flowers that are blooming and watch the birds fitting from the trees to the bird feeders that I try to keep full for them. I have had a great life by any standards. I had meaningful and enjoyable work as a mathematics teacher and now I am enjoying the fruit of my labors with wonderful trips around the world. Nonetheless I truly believe that my real destiny is to leave some kind of legacy for the young people of the world. 

It is not enough for me to just enjoy my own good fortune. I want to be certain that I continue to plant proverbial trees that will bring shade and bounty to the next generations. That means that I must continue to share my talents and my riches (as humble as they are) with the people who will still be here when I have left this earth forevermore. 

I don’t know how much longer I will be on this earth, none of us know when our final hours will come. My grandfather lived to one hundred eight and I seem to be as robust and healthy as he always was but most of my ancestors died in their eighties and early nineties. By that estimation I am enjoying my last hurrahs. In that time I plan to work for the good of the young. I want them to have the kind of world that will make them feel safe and happy. I don’t want to leave them in a state of chaos or worry about how they will survive. 

I am still teaching although not as many hours each day as I once did. I am doing my best to help young people navigate through the complexities of mathematics. I want them to see how beautifully math explains the world. I want them to feel comfortable with numbers and patterns and the beauty of how things come together. 

I have to admit to getting a great deal of joy in being with young people who are not yet tainted by hate or cynicism. I admire their faith in each other and their trust that things will work out for them just as they mostly have for people in my generation, especially here in the United States. Nonetheless there is so much to be done if we are to leave the world in a better place than it now is That takes a willingness on our part to share our own good fortune with those who struggle. I know that I must not look away or ignore the problems that persist all over the world. 

I understand that I can’t fix everything that is wrong but I also adhere to a belief that a dear friend who is now gone taught me. He commented many times that we humans would be able to accomplish so much good in the world if we were willing to give just a bit more each time we saw a need. He likened his thinking to passing a basket at church where even a dollar coming from every person would swell the coffers. Generosity on a regular basis need not bankrupt us. It can be achieved even when we offer our time.

As we age we sometimes begin to worry about how we will meet the costs of the future. We hoard our money and take care not to fritter it away but we always seem to find what we can splurge to take that extra cruise or spend hundreds to see someone perform for one night. There’s nothing wrong with managing our funds so that we do not become a burden on anyone but surely we need to balance our caution with a willingness to invest in situations that can use our help in time, talents or treasures. 

We all have so much to give to young people trying to make a start in the world. Sometimes they have to pass up opportunities because they do not have the funds to participate. We should watch for such situations and make certain to contribute to their causes even if we are only able to provide a small part for the need. 

I heard about programs in Africa that were stripped of their funding by Donald  Trump’s destruction of many government programs. I was happy to hear that people from all over the world have made small donations to keep the most beneficial supports continuing. It’s nice to hear that people are coming to the rescue when other sources of funding are taken away. 

My grandfather loved to tell stories from his youth. The common thread in all of them spoke to the generosity of ordinary people who were willing to share small amounts of their own good fortune with those who were in dire straits. People working together are always more powerful than billionaires and always have been. So I plan to be constantly on the lookout for situations that might use my talents or some of my small treasure. If I just started a fund with what I spend each time I purchase a cup of tea when I am out and about I will be able to make a difference in someone’s life. 

It’s time for all of us Boomer to begin planting those trees if we have not done so already. We may not be here long enough to sit in the shade but we can imagine how wonderful it will be for the young people who are yet to come. That is a truly wonderful thing to imagine.