Month: June 2021

I remember a time when my mother-in-law was attending funerals on a rather regular basis. One Sunday when she and I were having tea and discussing the state of the world she commented that she was growing weary of losing people who were important in her life. She was in her seventies at the time and had already laid all of her elders to rest. What had become unnerving to her was the number of people in her own age group who were dying with more and more regularity. Losing people was wearing her down. 

My grandfather who lived to the age of one hundred eight also complained about the constant presence of death. He had long ago lost all of his friends, his wife and even his children. When his grandchildren and great grandchildren began to die he felt as though he had somehow outlived his welcome on this earth. Even though he was an optimistic fellow who still had a number of young friends and family members he regularly mourned those who had walked with him through the early days of his life. 

So too did my mother begin to dread the kind of phone calls announcing the passing of yet another person that she loved. In fact she reached a point of being emotionally unable to attend funerals any longer and instead grieved quietly at home. As her losses mounted she felt more and more isolated and alone even as my brothers and I regularly visited and checked on her. 

Growing old and doing so with grace and good health is a blessing but with it comes the price of watching the inevitable demise of the once vital people in our lives. It can be emotionally daunting to realize that the march of time is relentless and selfish in reminding us that nobody is immortal. Death eventually claims everyone. We know this and yet we almost always feel the hurt of loss even when there have been warning signs that someone we love is fading. 

Each culture has rituals associated with death. For most of my life funerals have meant having a viewing of the deceased, a visitation with the family, a prayer service and a final mourning that includes eulogies from those who knew the departed best. We honor our dead with flowers and flags and kind words that all too often we neglected to utter when they were alive. We comfort their families and share hugs with their friends in gatherings that we wish we had done while they were still with us. We joke that we have to do more than meet when someone dies and make promises to correct our behavior but we get a bit too busy to actually do anything to change. We celebrate a life when it is over but not often enough when it is still vibrant.  

My brothers and I conspired to give my mother a surprise party on her eightieth birthday. We asked everyone that we invited to write letters to her revealing what she meant to each of us. We put the notes and cards together in an album and presented it to her as a gift. She kept it close and often re-read the comments to remind herself of the love that she had spawned and the impact that her life had made on others. When she died just shy of her eighty fifth birthday we were happy that we had told her how we felt before it was too late. 

We are a busy society flitting from one task to another, measuring the success of our days by the number of things we accomplish. Telling people what they mean to us never quite makes it to the top of our list of priorities. We have the best of intentions but there always seems to be so much to do. Still, there are wonderful souls among us who seem to have a knack for acknowledging the contributions of the people around them. We all know someone like that and we admire them for what they do. Perhaps we have even been the recipients of their gift so we know how wonderful it feels to be seen and heard and appreciated. 

I was once asked what I would say about myself if I were to write my own eulogy. Even though I have found the words to describe countless people who have died, I was speechless when it came to myself. I think that is because I know what kind of person I hope to be but only those who know me can actually speak to my success or failure in building a meaningful life. We can critique ourselves but it is only in the eyes of others that we know whether or not our efforts to find purpose have been realized. It is so so wonderful when we hear that we have actually had an impact on the people around us. 

I know how I want to be but I also know my imperfections intimately. Thus it is for each of us. We tend to be our own worst critics. We question ourselves and worry that even our very best efforts are not really enough to accomplish all of our dreams. Even Mother Teresa had moments of darkness and doubt. Abraham Lincoln questioned himself. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wondered if his efforts were actually making a difference. Each of us likewise needs feedback from the people around us to know what we are doing right. When we get such acknowledgement a load is lifted from our hearts. 

Do not wait for death to come before saying the kind words that you have for someone that you love. Sometimes it only takes a couple of sentences to convey how you feel. Make it a daily routine to reach out and touch hearts before it is too late. Start a new tradition that will make eulogies as old fashioned as massively expensive funerals. Say the words to the living. Don’t save them for the dead.

I just finished reading about Laura Ingalls Wilder and her story of life as a pioneer and farmer in the last last thirty years of the nineteenth century and the first thirty years of the twentieth century. She chronicled a world that was gone by the end of her life but she loved to share her stories and even commented that now and again she felt an itch to write down one more tale about all that she had seen. I thought of my own grandfather who was a master of oral history with his folksy way of describing the world of his youth and years as a young adult. Like Ms. Wilder he had witnessed dramatic changes that would have been unimaginable when he was a boy growing up with his grandmother in an isolated area of Virginia from 1878 until he was thirteen and she had died. In a fashion typical of the era he launched his adulthood far sooner than is common today mostly because of economic necessity. He traveled all over the United States finding work and never settled down until he met my grandmother around 1919 while doing a job in Oklahoma. The journey he described with vivid details and a wry sense of humor sounded very much like the one that Laura made famous in her series of books for young readers. 

I suppose that Grandpa influenced me with his fascinating memories that were filled with details and insights into an era that seemed so different than my own. I was a bonafide Baby Boomer, born only three years after World War II had ended. The United States was booming in more than just births with great promise for a future that seemed limitless. I was part of the great migration to the suburbs and a recipient of the strong interest in education. My world was one of communities of tract homes quickly built to satisfy the demands of young men and women ready to put the war years behind them and build lives in a modern era. 

Things changed a bit when my father died so unexpectedly when I was eight but my mother was an independent soul who quickly adapted to her new role as a single parent at a time when few women held such responsibilities. She took me and my brothers to a little community in southeast Houston called Overbrook where we had every convenience that we needed right near our home. Our whole world revolved around church and school and enjoying life with our neighbors and extended family. It was an almost idyllic existence for me and my brothers even as we took our mother’s ability to provide for us for granted. 

Summers were the very best back then. While I enjoyed learning and excelled in my studies like any kid I looked forward to the free time when my days were not ruled by schedules and assignments. When June rolled around I knew that the next three months would be the most fun of the entire year as I conspired with friends who lived on our block to fill our hours with adventure. All we needed was a bit of imagination to find excitement in our neighborhood which was teeming with other Boomers all looking for some fun. 

I don’t recall wearing shoes very much in the summer unless we were going to a store or church. The heels of my bare feet became tough enough to walk on hot concrete and were usually as black as tar by the end of each day. I had a few pairs of shorts and sleeveless tops that I wore without thinking too much about whether or not they matched. Staying cool was the rule in hot and humid Houston. Very few people had air conditioning and we kids went outside early in the morning and stayed there until it became dark at night. The water hose kept us hydrated and we needed little more than our bicycles to convey us from place to place and shade trees to cool us down in the most brutal parts of the day.  

I owned a blue Schwinn that was a gift from my parents on my seventh birthday. It was my ticket to freedom and adventure. I’d ride it to Garden Villas Park where there was always some kid centered event or entertainment. I’d use it to catch up with the bookmobile where I probably checked out every title they ever had over time. I’d take my bike to Hartman Junior High to go swimming on days when they opened the pool to the public. I’d ride to visit friends from school who lived many blocks away. Sometimes I just rode up and down my street doing tricks like letting go of the handlebars while pedaling at warp speed or standing on the seat with one leg in the air. 

We kids built forts out of sheets and blankets carefully hung on a clothesline or with scraps of lumber and tree limbs. One year a man down the street created a kind of sod house for us to use. it was quite fabulous but the moms became concerned that it might cave in and trap us under piles of dirt so he reluctantly tore it down. Our attempts to build treehouses never succeeded but now and again someone created a nifty platform on which we might perch and gaze down at the world below us like birds. Best of all my brothers and I were masters of the roof where we skittered back and forth like squirrels after finding a way to use our fence and ladder to ascend to the heights. 

There were woods and a bayou not far from where we lived and of course children congregated there everyday. Our mother taught us how to watch for poisonous snakes after a girl was bitten by a water moccasin but I never encountered one of those creatures in all the times that I played there and imagined myself as a modern day Huckleberry Finn. For me the biggest draw was a swing that someone had constructed on a huge tree that grew right near the banks of the bayou. We would climb up on boards nailed to the trunk and then seat ourselves on a slab of wood tied to the bottom of a long heavy rope. With a little courage and a jump away from the tree we would swing back and forth over the water with the wind blowing on our faces and the kind of exhilaration that belies any concerns about safety.

Each summer we created shows, newspapers, card and game tournaments. We shared stories and jokes and sometimes even played school which was way more fun than the real thing. We pitted one end of our long street against the other in ballgames and serious competitions of Red Rover, Swing the Statue, and Tug of War. One of the moms helped us to create crafts that we always thought verged on high art. The girls played with dolls pretending that we were grownups living in the future. When it was unbearably hot we found shade and lay in the cool grass to read our books. If we were very lucky our parents would take us to see a movie at the drive-in theater on a night when it only cost a few dollars for a carload. On Saturday mornings we all went to the Fun Club at the Santa Rosa Theater where we basked in the air conditioning and watched old films and cartoons while our mothers went shopping. Of course there were also the “boys of summer” who played baseball all suited up like the professionals.

I still think of those days with great pleasure. In some ways it was the end of an era. Few children spend an entire summers creating their own fun anymore. There are planned activities and play dates, exotic vacations and learning experiences. Kids don’t range freely much anymore and the heat keeps them indoors and out of the heat. I suppose that they are still having fun and have little idea of what they are missing. The world moves on and the old ways disappear. I suspect that today’s children will one day be recounting their adventures just as Laura Ingalls Wilder and my grandfather and I have done. Our stories will have the common theme of kids finding ways to have fun.

Many years ago I accompanied one of my students to New York City where she was slated to receive a national award for an art film that she had produced. Along with her art teacher I was able to see the sights of that grand town and enjoy the artistry that is so alive and abundant there. New York is a mecca for talented individuals hoping to display their passions for acting, painting, writing, sculpture, dance, music, fashion. There is a vibrancy and creativity that abounds even on the street corners where performers entertain crowds no doubt in the hopes of finding a pathway to fame and possibly fortune. 

I love the arts and truly believe that they rank with mathematics and science and philosophy as the ultimate evidence of human genius. Most of us can do a bit of arithmetic, pose some interesting questions about how things work and scribble designs on paper but the most talented among us excel far beyond the ordinary. There is something about their abilities that marks them as exceptional and this is particularly true with art. 

While I visited NYC I went to the Museum of Modern Art fondly known as MOMA. It houses some of the most stunning works of the modern era, many of which beg us to think outside of the parameters of everyday experience. Some view the most bizarre works, such as a white canvas with a single red stripe, as silly and easily reproduced by a child but further inspection reveals a mastery of paint and form and texture that few of us are capable of even understanding. Enduring works like Andy Warhol’s Campbell soup can are not only extraordinary in technique but also icons of an era. The complexities of modern art are much more daunting than a first glance reveals. It takes time and serious analysis to see and understand the nuances of such work. 

The film that my student produced was recognized by an international group of judges because its message was profound both visually and in content. In the space of only a few minutes she managed to pose questions about society without uttering a word that would indicate her intent. She demonstrated how we so often ignore the realities of life and instead lose ourselves in a world of our own fantasies. We look away from real problems that are right under our noses and see only what we want to see to justify our thinking. I understood why she won a prize but I wonder how many others would have seen her short movie as little more than silliness that made no point. 

Such it is whenever we view art. Some seem to think that it has to be rather linear, duplicating the world just as it seems to be rather than delving below the surface. They do not want to have to guess the meaning of any work of art but rather desire easy answers and duplications of their own desires. Real art is always challenging. The masterpieces of history are filled with messages about humankind that are not always obvious at first glance.

I can’t say that there is any kind of artistry that I do not enjoy viewing. Like anyone I have my favorites but I see nuances in shadows, colors, words, notes that elevate the masters from the copiers. Often it is a single moment of creative genius that demonstrates that we are in the presence of something that will be revered for all time. The expression on Denzel Washington’s face in the movie Glory as he is being whipped for disobeying orders conveys the pain of all the slaves who ever suffered under a yoke of oppression. His acting becomes a work of art. 

Great art takes us to places that boggle our minds. It delves into the human condition without apology. It is often misunderstood much like some of the work of Mozart was during his lifetime. We sometimes listen to hip hop and can’t get past the seemingly foul words instead of really hearing the message of what is being said. We can’t understand why Bob Dylan received the Nobel prize for literature unless we strip down his songs to the words and finally hear them as they were intended to be. 

I decorate my home mostly with items that mean something to me. My cousin laughs and jokes that everything I own seems to have a story and that is so true. I make attempts to coordinate colors and styles but mostly I just showcase the unusual and sentimental pieces that taken together explain my life. The stories only enhance the value of those items for me. They are not just things, they are part of a complex tapestry that I have woven together over many decades. They represent milestones, friendships, travels, achievements, memories. They are more than just decorations selected to represent a particular style. They are little hints about who I am and what I believe. Taken together they are almost like a biography, a puzzle that can be unraveled with a bit of imagination and thought. 

I appreciate art in all of its variety. The fact that we humans take the time to create seemingly useless forms of expression elevates us from the muck and the mud. There is something in us that compels us to paint on the wall of a cave, make music with a piece of wood, tell stories that are fantastical. It is baked into our DNA and some among us become giants in the world of art. 

My father not only enjoyed reading, but he also loved to go to the movies. I still remember viewing Shane with him. Alan Ladd was one of his favorite actors and Daddy loved the story which he talked about long after we had seen the flick. One of the last movies I watched with him was The Mountain with Spencer Tracy, perhaps my father’s all time favorite actor. We had also seen The Old Man and the Sea together and while that should have been a painfully slow film for a child my father’s enthusiasm for the artistry somehow translated to me and I have always cherished the profundity of that moment that I shared with him. 

Daddy was a man of many interests which was reflected in his reading habits. One of his volumes was filled with the horrors that came from the mind of Edgar Allen Poe. My father not only enjoyed reading such stories but also liked movies that were scary. Being a bit more protective of my psyche, my mother insisted that he not expose me to such things lest my little mind would not be capable of dealing with fright. Eventually my dad convinced Mama that a monster movie would be okay. He reasoned that I was bright enough to understand that imaginary creatures were not real and that such creations of the mind were simply good fun. So my parents took me to see Godzilla. 

Daddy had explained that people had somehow imagined dragons and non-existent creatures for all time. He told me about Loch Ness and insisted that any so called sightings of the strange animal had been faked. We laughed as he showed me stories about Big Foot and then recalled the story of King Kong. He did his best to rationally prepare me for yet another silly story about a nonexistent creature that we would soon enjoy at the movies. I thought I was totally ready for the event and my father was more than sure that I would be able to handle the story without fear.

Things began well but soon I felt my little heart pounding and creeping into my throat as Godzilla terrorized the places and the characters in the movies. It seemed more real than make believe and I had never in my life felt so scared. I was determined not to visibly show my real feelings because I did not want my mother to become angry with Daddy for subjecting me to such a thing. I knew that she would remind him that she had thought that I was too young and impressionable for the intensity of the movie even thought he had tried so hard to prepare me with logic and truth about so-called monsters. I laughed nervously when I wanted to scream. I closed my eyes when the images were too difficult to absorb. I somehow found courage to be steadfast even though I really wanted to cry and beg my mother to take me from the theater. When it was finally over I managed to smile weakly and proclaim that the movie had been great fun. 

My mother watched me closely and seemed certain that I was covering up my fears but she kept quiet as we drove home. I never told her how I really felt but as I lay in my bed in the quiet and darkness of our house that evening I did not want to close my eyes lest I see the horrific creature from the movie once again. Somehow sleep eventually overtook my attempts to stay awake and to my surprise did not lead to nightmares or visits from Godzilla to my bedroom. 

Once I had made it past that first night I seemed to be a changed person. I spoke of the movie with my father and even admitted to him how scared I had actually been at times. We laughed about how real the monster had seemed to be and Daddy spoke of camera tricks and makeup that made it all feel so possible. He asked if I was really okay and I assured him that not only was I good but I found myself looking forward to many more forays with stories of horror much like riding on a terrifying roller coaster again and again. 

I have to admit that some of my favorite movies are those that scare to the point of being almost breathless. My brain tells me that they are fiction but some part of my mind gets so involved that I almost feel as though I am one of the characters fighting for my life. I feel the danger in the tightening of my chest as my heart beats ever more quickly. I jump in my seat and find myself almost gasping for breath. Somehow the thrill of it all is mesmerizing, addictive and so strange. It would make more sense for me to avoid purposely scaring myself but maybe my father was right when he told me that we humans have been telling frightening tales from the beginning of time and somehow still finding such moments entertaining. Perhaps it is our need to allow the demons inside our imaginations to run free lest keeping them inside might drive us to madness. 

Even my husband is sometimes baffled by my attraction to horror. It seems out of place with my general character and tendency to be cautious. I suspect that somehow I see it as yet another link with my father and a kind of proof that I can be brave when I need to be. Watching horror films is a kind of practice for facing fears and a way of enjoying the amazing variety of our human minds. I’m always ready to grab some popcorn and a Diet Coke and sit shivering in the dark when the monsters appear on the screen. I almost hear my father marveling at the really great stories and fabulous camera work and telling me how they managed to put it all together. We share a wink and pretend that we were never scared at all.

I gained a few more pounds than I needed during the long year of the pandemic. I all too often soothed my soul with banana bread or ice cream. As we all began to get out again my clothing told me that I needed to get back some control or invest in a whole new wardrobe. The sweatpants and pajamas that had become my daily uniform during the long months of mostly staying home had fooled me into thinking that I was just as slim and trim as ever. When I stepped on my long neglected digital scale it was no longer working properly so I had to re-calibrate it before it showed me that I had some work to do if I wanted to get back in shape. 

Life is like that. We work hard and then get a bit too relaxed and have to consider how to get ourselves back on track. Sometimes we even consider how we might have done a few things differently in the story of our lives. I have to admit that overall I have little about which to complain in how things have turned out for me. There have been many events over which I only had the ability to control my reactions to them. For others I had many choices and did my best to be wise in considering what to do. I admittedly made some mistakes but luckily none of them were profoundly life changing. As I sit here today I feel satisfied with my own history but understand that much of who I am has been a matter of luck, good fortune in being in a place and time that allowed me to mostly fulfill the possibilities of my talents and dreams. 

It would only be small stuff that I might adjust here and there. I’d choose the same spouse, the same career, the same place to live. Most of my joy has come from my family, friends and work so I would be loathe to tamper with any aspect of those relationships lest one tiny tweak might change the entire dynamic. Losing my father was profoundly difficult for me but if I that had never happened I wonder if all of the rest of my life would have been very different. I accept that his death was somehow meant to be. I suppose that if he had lived I would never have known what I missed due to the changes that were inevitable. I had to become a stronger, better person after he died. I remembered all that he had taught me and urged me to be. I have carried him in my heart for decades so in some ways he never really left. 

If I were to actually change one aspect of my personality perhaps I might have taken a few more risks. I approach life with great caution in everything that I do. It’s not a bad way to be but maybe it has resulted in some part of me not blooming the way it should. I watch my granddaughter taking on the world with gusto, winning and faltering along the way but never being afraid. I know that I sometimes overthink things and then back away from uncertainty. I’ve been a reliable and steady force for my family and friends but just maybe I have undersold myself and my abilities. 

I suppose it’s never too late to begin to try things. I won’t be learning how to ski or jumping out of a plane. My bones are too fragile for such extremes but I need to get my book out there for the public to decide whether of not it is of any worth. I must set aside my internal arguments that perhaps writing a memoir was little more than a silly and somewhat self centered process. I have to top worrying about how my story will be received and just get the process done. 

I have friends and family members and former students who have written books and enjoyed a modicum of success with selling them. At this point it should not matter as much how well my efforts will be critiqued or enriching but that I was willing to just try to share a story that I believe will help others to deal with the tragedies that beset their lives. I just have to get this done one way or another and quit languishing in self doubt. I think I will contact the young man who agreed to design a cover and find someone who can help me plough through the process of preparing it to upload. The time is now, not tomorrow!

At my age there is always a bit of uncertainty as to how much more time I may have. I sense that I need to use each moment to the fullest. That means never missing an opportunity to embrace and love and encourage the people in my life. The dust in the corners of my rooms can wait now. It is far better to make that phone call or drive across town to spend some time with the people who have so enriched my life. I don’t want to be that person who is always saying that once I get some things done we can get together. It’d be better to hire a cleaning service and have time for what really matters like I did with my yard. Many years ago I found myself spending entire Saturdays mowing and trimming and weeding my lawn. When my mower broke I saw it as a sign that it was time for me to let go of that task and hand it over to someone else. Perhaps there are many other things that I should consider allowing professionals to do instead of frittering away my time attempting to do them myself. 

I’ve worked hard over the years. Now I just want to spend time with family and friends, see the world, and feel gratitude for the wonderful life that I have had. It may not have been as I had once dreamed but it has definitely been filled with joy. In truth it’s been a lovely story all around.