All It Takes Is A Little Love

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. 

Things have not gone well for Donald Trump in the last week or so. He seems to be like Alexander in the book about boy a who had everything go wrong. So it has been for Donald and he is having a very difficult time owning up to his mistakes that have made everything seem so bad. 

First there is the reflection pool that admittedly might have needed a bit of cleaning. Trump’s instinct to do something to make it better was not in itself a bad idea but he is not an expert in such things even if he thinks he is and he would have done well to seek the advice of those who regularly deal with such things. Instead he turned to a swimming pool builder who has given him many monetary contributions. The problems is that there is a big difference between a swimming pool with systems that circulate chlorinated water versus a shallow pond whose water comes from a river and is mostly stagnant. 

There probably is a better way of keeping such a body of water a bit cleaner but painting the floor of the pond was not the answer that Donald hoped it would be. While it looked fairly nice initially it did not take long for the algae to come back just as it has always seemed to do only maybe a bit worse than usual. Sadly Donald once again insisted on a quick fix without a study of what might actually work and he turned to hydrogen peroxide as a way to kill the algae. Little did he know that it would also impact the bonding of the paint and soon chips were floating on the surface along with the algae which seemed not to respond to the chemicals as well as hoped. 

This was the moment that Donald might have admitted that he had made a hasty mistake but such confessions are anathema to him. Instead he made up a tale of vandals slashing the blue epoxy so that it separated from the bottom of the pond and floated to the top. It did not matter that there was no evidence of such a thing happening. The only thing that mattered in his mind was saving face when he was actually making things worse. Therein lies the biggest problem with the man. He would rather lie and blame his shortcomings on someone else than ever admitting a mistake.

The reflection pool is a kind of analogy of why Donald’s presidency is looking like a resounding failure. He breaks things first without studying what might actually be wrong if anything at all. His actions have over and over again ended up costing the American taxpayers more than they should have. He decided that we did not need people combating an insect that was not in the United States and now is spending many times more than the cost of prevention to rid the nation of the screw worm. 

So too it has been with the war on Iran. Without consulting Congress or studying all of the issues Donald assumed that he would be able to bring Iran to its knees in the matter of a few days or weeks. He has learned that his plan is not working as well as he thought. Now he is peddling the idea that his memorandum of understanding is a good deal for the United States when the truth says things differently. 

Donald’s terrible horrible days exist mostly because he has surrounded himself with spineless men and women who fear crossing him even when they suspect that there are flaws in his thinking. He sees himself as the ultimate expert in virtually everything when nobody has ever been able to be the best in all things. Good leaders always rely on the advice of other experts. Thinking that one person has all the answers is a dangerous assumption that has landed Donald in so much trouble right now. 

Everything he touches is falling apart just like that reflection pond. We have dead grass on the White House lawn. The cost of gasoline is absurd and won’t go down anytime soon. Groceries are becoming more and more difficult to afford for most Americans and recent college graduates are struggling to find jobs. Meanwhile Donald is showing off his multi-million dollar plane that will go with him when he leaves office even though our taxes were used to refit it. He is tone deaf to the needs and concerns of the average American. His only focus is on making himself and the members of his family wealthier than they have ever before been.

The man’s health and his mind are obviously fading and he’s trying so hard to cover up the fear that must be racing through his mind. As the problems pile up Donald is in for many more terrible, horrible, no good very bad days. It’s time for his family and the Republicans to get help for the man before he destroys our nation any more. When Donald has a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day so too do we all.