Month: October 2022

When I entered high school I was three months away from becoming a teenager and my reading habits reflected my naivety. I mostly spent my time with books from the Nancy Drew series of mysteries, biographies of saints, and a variety of stories about pioneer times. The summer reading for my freshman English class upped the ante and forced me to begin an exploration of literature of a more polished nature. It was then that I began a journey of enlightenment through the brilliant words of great authors. 

I instantly became addicted to discovering a world unlike any I had ever before imagined. Because my English teacher required me to read one book per week and then compose a review of it, I spent many hours concentrating on themes and ideas that were new to me. My vocabulary expanded and so too did my views of the world. Those books carried me far beyond the insular little neighborhood in which I lived. Over the next four years I would become more and more daring in choosing books to read, and as I did I expanded my own ideas about the variety and possibilities of living. 

To this very day reading is one of my passions. When asked which books I most enjoyed it is quite difficult to choose only a few titles, but I see a kind of cohesion in the ones that most impressed me. I remember being stunned by the antics of Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye and becoming enthralled by Cry the Beloved Country. As I became more and more aware of the power of words, imagery, characterization I was literally blown away by The Great Gatsby. I viewed that book as a metaphor for life. I was unable to push it out of my mind and over the years I have kept going back to it as an exemplar of brilliant writing and characterization. 

When I read To Kill a Mockingbird I felt as though I knew Scout and her family. Having lived in the south and seen the segregation and other horrors inflicted on black people, I adored Atticus Finch for standing up for justice. I cried when I realized that in truth we have not yet overcome the prejudices of our country. This book encapsulated one of the most profound tragedies that I have witnessed during my lifetime.

I continued reading long after my formal education had ended. I asked for a copy of The Kite Runner for Christmas one year just as I always put book titles on my wish list. The holiday when I received it was particularly cold and wet so I spent the days after the Yuletide revelry sobbing over the political and religious upheaval of Afghanistan as seen through the eyes of a family that endured the tragedy. Of course that led me to researching more and more about the history of the Middle East and the rise of religious dictatorships. 

One of my grandsons was enrolled in his first advanced placement English class and was struggling a bit to analyze a book that he was reading beyond just summarizing the story. He reached out for some help and I agreed to read Things Fall Apart along with him. Somehow I had never before known about this novel, but even as I read the poetic rhythms of the first chapter I knew that I was engaged with one of the great works of literature. Surely enough, the novel about the evolution of a village in Africa and a man’s fate as colonialism changed his world was life changing for me and perhaps for my grandson as well. I suspect that my enthusiasm for the story and the brilliant use of figurative language vividly demonstrated the power of storytelling in describing history.

Imagine my bemusement when I learned that virtually every one of these titles has recently been included on the various banned book lists that are cropping up in school districts and town libraries all over the United States. I have wondered how it could be possible that such beautifully crafted stories would be considered somehow harmful to young people when I consider them to have been so inspiring and meaningful to my growth as a thinking adult. The irony to me is that these books opened my eyes to the wider world and to the difficulties and challenges that we humans must face as a part of living. They gave me strength and understanding that would not have otherwise been there. I wondered why anyone saw their messages as negative or immoral when they had simply been honest in moving ways. 

When I read lists of offensive books I saw that many more titles that had influenced and molded me for the better were included. I wondered if the those demanding that these books be removed from libraries had even read them, analyzed them, discussed them. Surely if they had they would have realized that their purpose was indeed to ask us to see life from the many points of view that exist around us. Closing our eyes or looking away from tragedies wherever they may be, is hardly a way of dealing with them. Ignorance may be bliss, but it does nothing to improve our ability to navigate through life. 

I count myself fortunate to have read these great books and so many others. I really abhor the idea of hiding them from the young people of today. I want them to slowly expand the horizons of others one beautiful story at a time just as have done for me. These books all still live in my mind. I know that they have enriched me, but never hurt me. I’m thankful that nobody attempted to take them away from me when I pulled them from a shelf and became lost in their eloquence and beauty.

I live close enough to Galveston beach that I can be there in under an hour. I feel a calm when I gaze out into the water that appears to continue infinitely. I often find myself wondering how many people have sailed from far away places into the harbor. I know that my grandparents once did just before the outbreak of World War I. There are also stories that German submarines may have stealthily navigated nearby in World War II. A bunker looking out into the sea still stands as a reminder of the dangers of that time. 

Mostly though, the beach near where I live is a place for swimming, fishing and fun. We don’t have the soft sand dunes of the Pacific coast nor is the water clear and shades of blue like in the Caribbean. Instead there is only a narrow strip of sand that has to be replaced periodically lest the beach disappear altogether due to the massive seawall that protects the city of Galveston from the wrath of hurricanes. Therein lies a lesson in history as well. 

Whenever I visit Galveston my thoughts always turn to the many souls who lost their homes and their lives in the 1900 hurricane. Before that fateful day in September Galveston had been one of the fastest growing and most prosperous cities in the United States. It had been described by some as the Wall Street of the south while also being a kind of heaven on earth, but nature asserted itself and literally tore the place asunder leaving it to become mostly a tourist town and eventually a port for cruise ships. 

I have grown up understanding the power and danger of hurricanes even fifty miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico. I have great respect for the power of wind and flooding rain. I know the story of Galveston by heart and the resilience of the people who chose to stay there even after enduring so much loss. I admire the courage of people who so love the beach that they are willing to risk the possibility that another hurricane may one day take aim at their property. Luckily these days most of them understand that they must leave until the danger is over, so the loss of life is rarely a consideration. 

The people of Galveston are a hardy lot. They enjoy celebrating life and they do so with great joy. They plan celebrations like Mardi Gras and Dickens on the Strand. They know the incredible beauty of the gulf waters in the cold of winter when it seems that only the most dedicated souls walk along the beach. Most of them have caught a kind of sea fever that keeps them tethered to the sunrises and sunsets that have to be seen to be believed. 

I prefer to be a visitor, an interloper who appreciates the beauty and the soul of living near the sea, but in the end I am a landlubber who seeks higher ground. While I understand those who feel a visceral attachment to the seaside, I am  not one of them. Nonetheless I feel the pull of the tides and a need to smell the salty air. I want that vista that seems to meld the earth with heaven. I feel the healing essence of sitting quietly on the seawall doing nothing but gazing into the magnificence and power of the water. 

My father often dreamed of living by the sea. He was drawn to the water as though it had a magical power over him. He was happiest when he sat on a pier with his fishing line bobbing up and down. I literally felt the joy radiating from his soul whenever he was near the ocean. I suspect that some speck of daddy’s DNA landed in my brother who has lived in Galveston for many years now. He found a bride who shares his love of living with the water in his backyard. Together they have created a pleasure dome of serenity, at least until the storms come. 

My personality is perhaps more reserved. I would not mind living by a placid lake or on a mountain top. I don’t want to have to worry about moving when storms brew offshore and threaten to come in my direction. I won’t even stay in my inland home when such threats are dire. I head for the Texas Hill country and enjoy a sojourn there until the danger passes. I often wonder why I became this way because the history of my family is one of adventurous spirits, not careful over-thinkers like me. Perhaps it is my caretaker personality that causes me to want to keep myself and my family safe. 

The only person whose way of doing things seemed to align with mine was my grandmother, Mary. Once she crossed the ocean and settled into a tiny house in Houston, Texas she never again wanted to move. In fact, she did not even have a desire to leave the house. She was perfectly content to live out her days caring for her children and tending her garden. 

I am somewhat more balanced in that I love to travel and I continue to work outside of my home even in my retirement years. Still, it would not take much for me to spend more and more of my time simply enjoying my home and the neighbors around me. I feel quite comfortable and safe here. I don’t feel the need for excitement. I prefer the quiet of living a routine life. 

I am able to hop in my car and travel to the sea on any day. I can spend as much time there as I wish and then go home knowing that the worst a hurricane may do to my home is toss a few shingles off of the roof or take down my fence or one of my trees. In fact, I know that my city is the metropolis that it is because of that hurricane of long ago. When the winds devastated Galveston the progress and commerce moved inland. Houston was far enough away to take advantage of the shift. They built a ship channel and used bayous and railroads to grow a city in a fairly unlikely place. 

Now it is my home and I love it, but I am beginning to worry. As the climate changes and storms become stronger I have witnessed the devastation of flooding more often than I like. So far I have been spared, but my cautious nature makes me uncertain. One day I may feel compelled to move north to higher ground.

This is a perfect morning. I awoke early, finished my Wordle puzzle quickly and enjoyed the laughter of children gathering on the corner across the street from my home as they waited for the bus to convey them to school. I’m sipping on my tea and thinking of my grandson Andrew whose birthday is on this day. He’s become a fine man who watches over his younger brothers and works fifty hour weeks on his job designing and managing the engineering of constructing schools and medical facilities. He’s come a long way from the days when he was a cuddly little baby boy who liked to be rocked and entertained with songs.

In an hour or so I will be leaving to teach Algebra to a couple of delightful young girls who are already proficient in rather difficult mathematical concepts. I look forward to seeing them because they provide me with so much optimism about the future of the world just as grandson Andrew does, as well as those youngsters on the corner who serenade me with their laughter and antics each morning. Still, there is a circle of life that is inevitable but sometimes just a bit frightening.

My ninety three year old father-in-law is still slumbering in his bedroom. He has worked hard to adjust to his new life without his wife and away from the comfort and familiarity of his home. For a time he hardly slept here in my house, but now he has begun to relax and adapt to the flow of our routines and the unfamiliar sounds. I can tell that there are times when he longs for his independence and the joys that he experienced with his wife. While the young people around here are just beginning their journeys he realizes that his time is slowly approaching its close. Nonetheless he takes very good care of himself and he may have another decade or so in his future. His mind is sharp and he becomes physically stronger with every new day.

This afternoon my brother and sister-in-law will pick me up for a journey that we all wish did not need to take place. One of our beloved cousins, who is only months older than I am, is now living in a residential care facility after dementia began to overtake his mind. We don’t know what he will be like but we are determined to show him how much we love him even if he does not know who we are. 

It has been a shock to our family to hear of his declining health. He is perhaps the sweetest among our large brood of cousins who grew up together. None of us can remember a single time when he was unkind. We used to joke that he was destined to be a priest or maybe a living saint. His love of people and his country is bottomless. He has quietly entertained us with his wit and his ability to spin a tail. He has always faithfully taken the time to be a presence in our family whether it be to celebrate or grieve. 

I am heartbroken that his mind has been undone. I know that such things sometimes happen as people grow older, but it does not make the realization that he has been afflicted any easier. I have known a number of people have suffered from dementia and it is such a frightening disease for the persons whose mind become jumbled and for those who love them. In a sense they almost become strangers to one another as the disease progresses to a point where the person does not even remember how to get dressed or even to breathe. 

My cousin appeared to be just fine only a year ago. He had retired from his job after decades of service. We saw him at the funeral of another cousin and he seemed to be as fit as ever, maybe even more so since he was not working everyday. It has been shocking to hear the news that dementia seemingly overtook him so quickly. We find ourselves looking for clues that we missed that might have warned us that he has been carrying this illness longer than we even knew.

Life can be up and down and sideways. Sometimes it makes little sense. It can be beautiful and tragic. There are aspects of it over which we have no control no matter how hard we try. It can feel like river rafting on calm waters and then being flung over a waterfall. If we work together we can keep our tiny boat upright and moving forward. It takes teamwork to navigate together. It also requires a willingness to go with the flow and master the methods for keeping afloat. There can be joy but also danger. The thrill of our ride through life is in hanging together and enjoying the good times whenever they are present.

My daughter tells me that there was once a vacation when she and her sons embarked on a river canoeing adventure. They were laughing and enjoying the views when one of the canoes overturned. Her second son became trapped under the boat as the waters kept carrying him and the canoe forward. Luckily he was a strong swimmer and eventually extracted himself from the trap. Still, they all realized how close his call with death might have been. It was a sobering moment for everyone. 

I’ll take my days as they come and hope that I will have the strength of my courageous second grandson to deal with the dangers of life when they happen. I understand how important it is to soak in the laughter that comes from the corner where the children are gathered. I realize the necessity is to celebrate life just as I herald the birth of my grandson. I know that one day even the best among us may be nearing the end of this journey like my cousin. I am not any more exempt from the reality than anyone. I am in what some people call the last quarter of life and with each passing year I inch closer to the end. There is no other way to live than to enjoy the ride. I plan to grab it when it’s good survive it when it becomes dangerous. I’ve learned that the secret to a happy life is in enjoying each precious moment as it comes. Today is no exception as I ride the river of life.

Just for fun I recently watched an old Vincent Price movie, House on Haunted Hill. I told my husband that I remember seeing it at a local movie theater back when I was a kid. Every Saturday the theater hosted a “Fun Club” that featured games, cartoons and movies. One Saturday the film they showed was House on Haunted Hill and I remember feeling terrified as I watched it. I wanted to see how it held up as a thriller over sixty years later. 

Aside from the horrific acting and slow moving story there was very little to recommend to anyone who might want to watch something scary. I had a difficult time imagining why I had been so frightened when I watched this as a child. It was so hokey that I find it difficult to think that anybody would find the story to be spine-chilling, but it was definitely horrifying in the sense that not much about it was entertaining. Even the ending was flat. 

I grew up on a dose of Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. My cousins and I got together whenever our parents were playing cards. While they were occupied we quietly watched whatever we wanted to see. Of course we chose the scary shows over those that were more child friendly. We’d sit in the dark staring at the flickering of the black and white images on the screen. The stories on those shows were amazing and unforgettable. Great writing and a modicum of good acting made such a difference. That’s why those shows are classics.

Modern day horror films are so creative that they put me into a state of extreme anxiety. I literally worry about the safety of the characters and jump at every sound and shadow. Sometimes I can hardly breathe as the action unfolds. Twists and turns of plot are shocking and even the endings are often a total surprise. Is it possible that human imaginations are actually better than they once were or is it the visuals that are better? 

I never cease to be amazed by the stories that screen writers and novelists create. Not only am I hooked on certain plots from beginning to end, but I find myself feeling a kind of awe that someone is capable of writing such tales. I suspect that I have indeed come to expect more and more from entertainment, but over and over again there are geniuses who surpass what I had hoped to see. I wonder where these ideas originate.

Long ago I decided to write a murder mystery. Mine was about a serial killer who was traveling up and down an interstate highway abducting and killing young girls. He had a certain physical type that he hunted and even though the deaths piled up, he was cunning enough not to be caught or leave clues that might implicate him. Without revealing who this person was I wrote general descriptions of the thoughts going through the his mind. I had to become that monster as I described the evil that coursed through his brain. It was mentally exhausting and I literally had to cease my writing after a time because I began to feel untethered. My story telling sessions became too painful to continue. I threw my manuscript away. 

I’ve read that really talented writers sometimes become so involved in their stories that they begin to lose their hold on reality. They literally get carried away by their imaginations. I found that to be debilitating when I was penning my mystery. I wonder if I would have done better if I had created a happy inspiring character and story rather than a tale of evil. If such a story is the creation of someone else I am able to distance myself, but to write about violence and killing I have to imagine the tiny details of both the victims and the evil doers. Such exercises make me feel as vile as the make believe that I am attempting to describe.

As a teen I really enjoyed reading Agatha Christie mysteries. They were more cerebral and investigative. Solving the puzzle of the crime was the goal. I liked those very much, but I learned that even Ms. Christie had some quirky behaviors that made her a bit of a mystery herself. I wonder if writing so many of those tales had the same kind of effect on her as my one foray into murder did with me. Maybe it is such a taboo topic that it is best left alone. Not even the imagination should go to certain places. 

I’d no doubt do well to write a few scripts for Hallmark movies, but where is the challenge in that? A friend and I once created an entire outline for such a story in about fifteen minutes as we sat around his pool sipping on wine. I am convinced that our tale would be embraced by those who enjoy such things, but somehow it felt as trite and silly as that old Vincent Price movie that was only scary to a child. 

I’d like to create an idyllic world but something would have to happen there for anyone to be interested in reading about it or watching it on a screen. I’m searching for a remarkable idea like the plot of Field of Dreams. Now that was imagination at its best! I haven’t thought of anything to equal it yet, but I am working on it.

I suspect that many of the world’s people feel adrift in uncertain waters since the pandemic overtook the globe. We humans tend to like our own personal routines, and things like mysterious viruses don’t jibe with the normal flow of life. Our recent brush with a deadly infectious disease revealed our differences in very dramatic ways. Some people needed to look away from the dying, the cries for justice from minority citizens in different countries, the problems that arose in virtually every sector of our society. Others saw an opportunity to shine a light on issues that have always been present, but were less noticeable when we were all bustling about as usual. A kind of worldwide unrest has punctuated the painfulness of the last few years. 

We tend to crave instant solutions for our problems and answers for who is to blame, when in reality nothing is ever as simple as it seems to be. It will take years of hindsight and research to fully understand what we humans did right and what we did wrong. To blame one particular person or group for our recent trials would be foolish and unfair. Sadly our misery is being used as a political cudgel by people who are less interested in coming to common agreements than gaining the power to push their own agendas. In the end our current angry climate will do little to calm the march of challenges that the entire world faces. 

I love people. I think it’s fine for each of us to have different ideas about how we wish to live but I also believe in learning from past mistakes and listening to experts. I also believe that in general we have become more accustomed to having what we want, when we want it for the price we want to pay, especially here is the United States. To believe that things will remain that way after the cataclysm created by the pandemic is not just naive, but dangerous. It creates anger rather than sacrifice for the short term and ignores the steps we should take for the long term. It really is not idealistic or whatever someone wants to call it to be willing to step back for a time from the ways things were three years ago. It’s instead time to examine how we can adjust our behavior as needed to get through the effects of a worldwide pandemic coupled with wars.  

Are there fascists on the far right? Of course there are. I knew one of them back when I was in college. He was a friend of my mother’s and belonged to the John Birch society. His political ideas were disgusting and frightening and I was relieved when my mother pushed him out of her life. Sadly many such people are coming out of the woodwork these days and attempting to peddle their racist and authoritarian tropes to a public that is looking for comfort. On the other hand there are most assuredly Communists on the far left. They too have been around for decades. Both groups are too radical to run a democracy, but they have the right to their opinions in a democracy. We just have to be able to identify them properly when they seek power. We would do well to spurn them and look to moderates from both parties to guide us through our current problems. We too often fall victim to the rants of people who do not have the interests of everyone in their hearts. They prey on our fears rather than our better spirits.

I think that much of the problem lies in judging people and their motives for believing the way that they do. Often if we walked in their shoes we might understand why they think the way they. I’ve said before that we all need to stop, take a breath and allow people to have a voice without rebuttal. Sometimes just listening helps to explain behaviors that we do not understand. 

I recently listened to a lovely broadcast on NPR that featured two women who were seemingly from opposite ends of a spectrum. One of the ladies was from a family that had once owned slaves. The other was a descendant from one the slaves that the family had owned. Both had heard stories from about that unfortunate time that made them cringe. At some point one of the women contacted the other and asked if they might get together to talk and hopefully heal wounds. 

In fact they began a years long conversation that ended with the white woman apologizing for the hurt that her ancestors had inflicted on the black women’s family. Both women learned about each other in the most intimate of ways and ultimately became close friends. They decided to write a book about their experience in the hopes that others might be willing to find some level of understanding with those whose histories and views seem to be at opposite extremes. 

I found myself sobbing as I heard the stories of these two women and heard the emotional journey that they were willing to take with each other. Somehow such honest conversations have seemingly gone out of style. We don’t allow people to speak openly about who they are and how they became that way. We seem to default to anger and insults when someone differs from ourselves. 

I still dream of making peace with one another, but evidence is making me weary of waiting for that time to come. We can’t look away from our problems nor can we rant so loudly that nobody gets a word in edgewise. What the world needs now is a mega therapy session and a whole lot of love.