Month: July 2023

Spring of nineteen seventy seven was rather warm and our home was cooled by window air units. The early season heat prompted me to consider installing an additional air conditioner in the house to make certain that there would be no hot spots when summer came. Mike agreed with my thinking, but we had to do a bit of electrical work to make it happen. Mike’s Uncle Bob agreed to help us with the project, so one Saturday he and Mike went to work. 

Uncle Bob, a retired master electrician, had some problems with his heart so his wife, Elsie was worried about him doing too much. Mike and I assured her that we would look after her Bobby who had a tendency to overdo his efforts toward perfection in his work. Mike had worked often enough with his uncle to understand all of the instructions he was commanding him to do. Much of the process involved pulling wire through the attic and dropping it down behind wood paneling and the outside wall. It was a hot and tedious task for Mike, but in the end the air conditioner was cooling the house wonderfully and Uncle Bob was not even the least bit over stressed. 

In the irony of ironies, it was Aunt Elsie who died of a heart attack in her kitchen only a few weeks later. She had gone to church that morning and then served Bob a lovely lunch. As she was finishing cleaning the dishes she dropped to the floor. She was gone by the time the ambulance arrived, leaving everyone shocked and dismayed.

Aunt Elsie was the glue of the family, a matriarch who was so sweet and kind that she made everyone feel special and important. She had been so lively and energetic that her sudden demise was shocking. A great gaping void opened up in her absence.

Elsie had come to the United States with her parents and siblings from Newcastle, England shortly before World War I. Her family had settled on the northside of Houston in a wooded area not far from downtown. She was lovely and refined, a rock of compassion. She and Uncle Bob were still like two teenagers in love even though they had been married for years. While Elsie never had children she was beloved by her brothers, nieces, nephews neighbors and many friends. Each Christmas she hosted a magnificent traditional dinner in her Victorian home in the Heights that was the highlight of the season. None of us could imagine life without her. 

Mike and I were so overcome with grief that I hardly noticed that he was not feeling well on the day of Aunt Elsie’s funeral. Her death was such an emotional shock that we had all gone inside ourselves to deal with the pain of losing her. Later in the evening I realized that Mike was burning up with fever. He had also developed strange lesions on different parts of his body. He called the family doctor and secured an appointment for the following day. The visit was not anymore enlightening because the doctor said that he had never seen such symptoms before. He sent Mike to an infectious disease specialist who post haste admitted Mike to St. Luke’s Hospital for tests to determine what was causing his symptoms.

We were shocked to learn the Mike had a rather rare disease not often seen in the Houston area called blastomycosis. It was a fungal disease that is more common in areas near the Mississippi River. How he contracted the strange illness was anyone’s guess. The thinking was that he may have encountered it on a business trip that he had recently taken in that area or perhaps he encountered spores while working in the attic to install the wiring for the air conditioner. Whatever the source may have been, the treatment was chemotherapy with a drug called Amphotericin B. Mike would get the infusions three days each week at the hospital and then return home for the weekend. It would take many months to complete the process. The doctor was grimly honest that he seemed to have diagnosed the disease early enough to subdue it with powerful drugs, but indicated that there were no guarantees that Mike would survive.

Neither Mike nor I were I were yet thirty years old. We had been married just under ten years and had two children. In that space of time we had literally grown up together. I worried that our love story was going to be cut tragically short. I thought of my thirty year old mother losing her husband of only eleven years. Somehow I felt every terrible fear that she must have experienced. I worried for my girls and wondered how the three of us would make it if Mike died. Like my mother I had to demonstrate strength that I was not feeling for the sake of my daughters. On nights when Mike stayed in the hospital the girls and I all slept together in one room. It initially happened that way because they would sneak into my bedroom after I had fallen asleep and make pallets on the floor next to my bed. Maryellen would soothe her little sister who did not fully understand what was happening other than to sense that it must be something bad. It became our silent ritual for the long months that seemed endlessly brutal.

My friends were wonderful about helping me by watching the girls while I went to be with Mike at the hospital. My mother boosted my spirits and provided me with wise advice whenever I began to fall apart. She told me that emergency situations required someone to be the adult in the room and that person was not always the individual with the most experience with life. I understood what she was telling me and her when her advice was repeated by our family priest, Father John Perusina. I had to at least pretend to be tough and optimistic because my girls needed me as much as Mike did. I was walking a tightrope once again, finding a hidden part of me that kept our little family going while I balanced myself to keep us all from tumbling into an abyss. The outpouring of love from everyone kept me going even in times when I thought that I was surely going to break apart. 

Mike was his stoic self, joking with the nurses and hoping that his veins would not collapse before the treatments ended. On some days he had horrific reactions to the medication. On other days a special nurse from Texas Children’s Hospital had to come with pediatric needles to get his IV going. He lost weight and his hair turned gray even though he was not yet thirty. I tried to pretend that I was not afraid. A parade of visitors came to keep Mike company among them was his buddy from high school, Larry, who joked that he would have brought some Green Light to kill the fungus, but he was going to keep that cure in abeyance in case it was needed later.

The whole situation felt so bizarre, but I knew that we had to stay optimistic. A big wedding was coming. All of us would have roles to play as my brother, Michael, pledged his vows to the love of his life. Somehow I had to believe that we were going to be fine just as we had been when my father died and when my mother had been so ill. As it turned out, with lots of loving support we would indeed survive once again. 

Things were going well in nineteen seventy six. We were celebrating the nation’s bicentennial along with moving forward with our lives. Somehow in spite of beliefs to the contrary and a devastating civil war our nation had managed to survive for two hundred years. Even the recent Watergate dust up and Nixon’s resignation had not deterred the forward movement of our country. In the election that year Jimmy Carter had carried the day to become President of the United States. Meanwhile our family was happily looking forward to the Christmas holidays and a new year that promised to be wonderful. 

Maryellen’s hearing had improved and she was doing well in school. Catherine was adorable and easygoing. Mike was earning respect at the bank while I became a teacher in the CCE program at St. Frances Cabrini Catholic Church. I had earned an invitation to work with youngsters after sending a letter to the pastor complaining about the continually negative homilies from one of the Deacons at the church. When the priest asked to come visit me in our home I was worried that he was angry. As it ended up, he tended to agree with me and enjoyed the fact that I had been courageous enough to speak on behalf of the other parishioners. He urged me to volunteer to teach in the religious education program since he liked my way of thinking. 

I was assigned to work with a group of kindergarten aged children which was easy since I had already been working with pre-school children in a little school called “Do and Learn.” It was fun to get out of the house and practice my teaching skills. It also allowed me to begin Maryellen’s religious education as well. Catherine was so traumatized when I left her in the nursery to go teach my class that the two nuns who ran the program had to hold her and play with her the entire time. She took to them right away and after that when she arrived each week they automatically welcomed her to their office . 

It was in the church class that I met the woman who would become such a dear friend that she would be like a sister to me. Pat Weimer wanted to assist someone rather than taking on the responsibility of being the sole teacher of a class. We clicked right away as we prepared the lessons each week. Her help proved invaluable on the last class before the Christmas break. I had not felt particularly well but had pushed myself to teach a brief lesson and then party with my students. When I became dizzy Pat sensed my difficulty and took charge. 

At a stop on the way home I encountered my next door neighbor, Carol. She took one look at me and asked why I was not in bed. She announced rather forcefully that I looked terrible. Furthermore she insisted that I call my doctor as soon as I got back home. She noticed that the white’s of my eyes were yellow and felt certain that I had hepatitis. I thought that maybe she was overreacting, but I did make a call to my doctor’s office lest she check to see if I had followed her orders. The nurse asked me a couple of key questions that convinced her that I was indeed quite sick and that the culprit was probably hepatitis just as Carol had diagnosed. A visit to the office and a blood test confirmed my illness. 

Soon enough I was feeling so horrific that my imagination went wild and I thought that I was actually dying. My skin became a lovely shade of golden yellow. I found the thought of eating anything disgusting. It was all I could do to stay awake to watch Catherine while Mike was at work. I mostly entertained her on the bed hoping that I would not pass out and leave her unattended.

Before long Mike showed signs of the same illness. A quick trip to the doctor confirmed our suspicions but luckily he did not feel as ill as I did nor was his level of bilirubin as high as mine. We took turns resting and watching the girls until his mother also contracted hepatitis and decided to come to our home with my father-in-law so that we might combine our resources. I was so sick that I literally did not care what was happening in my house even though I normally would have been uncomfortable with the situation. In the meantime my mother began to come take the girls to her house so that all of us might get some very needed rest. 

Mike’s case was quickly gone after a little more than a week. The same was true of my mother-in-law. I continued to test positive and to develop more and more symptoms. My skin itched so badly that I was clawing at my arms and legs. Christmas came and went and so did the new year and still was ill. I lost weight and felt listless most of the time. I remember one evening when my neighbor, Dave, was playing “The Girl From Ipanema” on his organ and I laughed at the thought that it might be the last sound that I heard before I died.

It would be more than three months before I was finally declared well. In the meantime life went on without me. My brother, Michael, was planning his wedding with Becky. Pat was working and attending college. He did everything from driving a mail truck to delivering furniture for Foley’s, a local department store. My two brothers spent lots of time watching and entertaining Maryellen and Catherine, something that they fondly recall to this day. They build machines out of Tinker Toys and danced with the Mama and the girls like we had done when we were kids. I loved them so for being such good uncles.

By March of nineteen seventy seven I had finally regained my health and my energy. I was once again considering a return to the University of Houston to complete my degree and commence my career as a teacher beyond the level of four and five year olds. Things felt quite settled but just when we think all is well life has a way of delivering surprises and this time what would happen was a real humdinger.

Sometimes there are movies or television programs that find a niche in my heart and seem to stay there forever. Long after viewing I find myself thinking about what I learned from the characters or the story. Ted Lasso is one of those classic series that sticks with me, comes to mind at unexpected times during the day. I literally feel a connection to each of the characters that is so real. I see a bit of myself in each of them and I almost view the series in its entirety as a kind of parable about the human spirit that somehow muddles through even the deepest tragedies and disappointments. 

We humans are both incredibly flexible and strong but also sometimes weak and uncertain. The totality of our experiences often lead us down destructive pathways in which we doubt ourselves or even dislike ourselves. We present protective faces to the world that may or may not comply with how we feel inside. Such are the characters of Ted Lasso, flawed individuals attempting to overcome the weight of stories that have prevented them from fully being themselves. 

When Ted Lasso encounters this cast of characters he at first seems to be a rather naive and silly soul, but over the course of the series we learn that Ted is a classic caretaker. His role in life seems to be to shore up everyone but himself. When dealing with the other people he encounters he almost always presents the kind of wisdom that helps them to become better versions of themselves. He is an optimistic soul who sees the good and the potential in everyone. He accepts and loves people freely, always more focused on making their lives better than worrying about winning or advancing himself. He is a good man, but as often happens with really good people he has a tendency to hide his own suffering, to freely give so much that there is sometimes very little left for himself. 

We all know someone like that, a seemingly saintly soul who ministers to others instinctively. My dear friend and colleague, Sharon Saunders, was such a person. She saved countless individuals from self destructive thoughts and behaviors and yet she more often than not hid her own trials. When she died people spoke of the miracles that she had performed for them but regretted that they had not really told her how important she had been to them while she was still alive. 

It’s not unusual at all for any of us to know and love someone like the fictional Ted or the very real Sharon. In our hearts we feel such gratitude for that person but we allow time to slip away without acknowledging their incredible Impact on our lives. In the bustle of our daily routines there just does not seem to be enough time to genuinely thank people for always being so considerate. 

As we go about the business of living it might be our hairdresser who becomes our therapist, the waiter at the Cracker Barrel who brings a smile to our faces every time we encounter him. Perhaps it is the neighbor who takes time to get to know everyone and then bring them together in celebration who is the Ted among us. The guy who manicures our yard in one hundred degree weather is a true hero, but how often do we tell him that? It is often in the seemingly insignificant areas of life that we find the greatest comfort and joy. We would do well to let those folks know how much we appreciate what they do because they may be carrying loads even heavier than our own.

I went to high school with a lovely girl named Bren. She grew up to become a beloved college professor at Loyola University in Chicago. During Covid, Bren was quietly reaching out to so many of us, sending little notes to cheer us, and even offering hospitality if we ever decided to visit Chicago. Bren was a very busy woman and yet she found the time to do the loveliest things for the people that she knew. I know that she inspired me beyond measure. I never really got to tell her how grateful I was for her kindness because she died rather suddenly. It was a grave loss to the world and many gathered to praise her at her funeral. It seems sadly to be what we most often do instead of loudly proclaiming the wonder of a person like Bren while she can still enjoy the praise. 

Ted Lasso reminds us of the power of compassion, optimism and forgiveness. We would do well to fellow his lead in our interactions with the people that come our way. At the same time we need to honor the Ted Lassos that we know to be extraordinary. Sometimes they too have moments of self doubt. Let them know how wonderful they are just the way they are. Do it today!

It was an abnormally hot day in June. I sat in the food court of Memorial City Mall waiting for a former student to arrive. I took a seat at one of the tables near the carousel and engaged in my favorite pastimes of people watching, I had the perfect excuse for staring at the crowd. If anyone had questioned my reasons for studying each person around me, I would have quickly noted that I was looking for a friend. The crowd was gloriously diverse which made my observation time even more wonderful. 

As a security guard circled the area I was reminded of the violence that has become such a reality in our world today. He was a very young man who walked with more uncertainty and less swagger than he needed to inspire confidence. He seemed nervous which momentarily gave me the jitters. I quickly looked around to see where escape routes looked promising. I tried to determine where I might hide if a shooter was to enter. I worried most about the small children who were so innocently enjoying the freedom to run and play inside the cool, air conditioned space. 

Everyone seemed so happy that I pushed my negative thoughts about shooters out of my mind. Nobody appeared to be deranged. No big guns were in sight. It was just a nice day out for everyone who was chatting and eating and laughing. Best of all the group gathered there was a microcosm of the incredible diversity of Houston, Texas, a welcoming place for people from all races and nationalities. The echoes of foreign languages wafted up to the roof and laughter seemed to be the order of the day.

I was fascinated by a handsome young man who was shepherding his very well behaved five children. They were all as beautiful as their father who spoke gently to them in a language that was unfamiliar to me. Perhaps they were from somewhere in the Middle East. At least this was my best guess about them. The older boys declined an offer to ride on the carousel, but the young ones followed their father with glee as they climbed the stairs onto the lovely platform filled with magical animals that moved up and down and round and round. 

I saw a group of women chatting as though they had not see each other in years. Their smiles never left their faces as they bantered back and forth. I wondered how they knew each other and what had brought them together. Were they old school friends? Had they once worked together? Were they related? Whatever their relationship might have been they were quite happy to be together. 

I overheard a man talking seriously to his lawyer. He expressed bravado in words, but his voice gave away his anxiety. I have no idea what his case was about but it was coming to court and he wanted to be certain that all of his ducks were in a row. When the brief conversation was over, he stared into space as though his phone call had not provided him with the confidence he had hoped to gain.

There were groups of teenagers opening the bags that they carried to show their finds of clothing, shoes, jewelry, games that they had purchased in the stores advertising summer sales. They nodded approvingly at each other as the presentations continued as a kind of ritual. 

A multigenerational family arrived walking purposefully slow to accommodate the grey haired women who seemed unable to move without assistance. Everyone was duly and gently caring for the older lady’s needs. It was beautiful to see the love that passed between mother and daughter, grandmother and granddaughter. Nobody appeared to be annoyed at how much time it took just to get their matriarch seated. They ever so naturally made her the center of their attention. She in turn smiled blissfully at each of them. I supposed that it felt good for all of them to get out of the house and into a place filled with so much to see and do. It was a outing that allowed them to be together feeling normal even as their loved one’s health was markedly failing. 

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a young woman who was sobbing almost hysterically. Her entire body shook with each wail. Her friend moved to embrace her in a hug, wipe away her tears, listen intently to her sorrows. I wondered what tragedy had befallen this young girl. Had she lost her job? Did someone do something despicable to her? How sad it was to see her so devastated in the midst of a sea of people seemingly have fun. 

There were so many stories in that room. Life was all around me showing itself in unfiltered glory. It was a beautiful thing to observe. I was deep in my thoughts when suddenly my former student arrived. She exclaimed with joy when she saw me and immediately embraced me in a big hug. She was no longer the young teen I had known. She was a woman with a family and a job and a wise grasp on how to live a good life. She was beautiful. 

We moved to a quieter place to enjoy our lunch. We talked as though we had last seen each other only yesterday. We spoke of old times, but mostly of the present. It was wonderful to see her so happy and self assured. I felt a contentment in knowing that she was doing so well. After all, I had always wished the best for my students. It was nice to see that she had learned from me that the most important lesson is to respect and love the people around us. 

It was a good day. My grown up student and I left with hugs and promises to meet again very soon. We exchanged phone numbers and spoke of how lovely our brief sojourn had been. I remembered one of the wisest things that I had ever known. It is in the brief encounters with strangers and friends that we often see the hopefulness of humanity. I felt assured that in spite of the hubbub on daily parade in the news, we are going to be alright. Our instincts for getting along and taking care of each other will rise to the fore. Nobody will be left behind as long as we take the time to notice them and demonstrate how much we care.

It’s early morning and I am happily engaged in my usual routine. I arise long before my husband and father-in-law so that I might enjoy the quiet time when even my neighbors are still slumbering in their homes. There are few sounds other than the drone of the air conditioner working to trick us into believing the wretchedly hot July weather is cooler than it actually is. As the sunshine becomes brighter a few birds begin singing their good morning tunes, announcing that another day has begun. Now and again a car starts in the distance signaling someone who is making an early start for work. It is the most peaceful moment of the day when I am able to gather my thoughts, count my blessings and feel thankful.

I open the blinds in all of the rooms of the house save for the places where the men are sleeping and watch the splendor of sunrise. I sip on my tea and nibble on my breakfast while offering birthday greetings to my friends and family on Facebook. I have watched everyone grow older since I joined that social media platform over ten years ago. The heartbeat of life goes on until it does not. Far too many have left this earth and I tend to think of them in the stillness of the day’s beginning. They are still part of me, part of my story and I do miss them. 

I read the morning news from several sources. I like it best when nothing tragic has happened while I was asleep. I still find it amazing that with a click of a few keys I can instantly learn what is happening in the moment. The technology of our modern world enigmatically keeps us constantly connected while also pushing us farther and farther apart. It seems that we have yet to figure out how to use our conveniences perfectly well. Perhaps we have too much information too soon and never have enough time to process what we have learned. I suspect that it keeps many of us in a continuous state of anxiety. Maybe we would be best served if we were to limit the amount of time that we set aside to respond to notifications on our phones, 

Sometimes I find inspiration from a news story or a post from a friend that carries me through the entire day without an unpleasant thought. Other times I learn of someone who is suffering and I find myself thinking of them and wondering what I might do to help them in their time of sorrow. More than anything I enjoy hearing good things about the young people. I know that the working of the world will soon be theirs and I have every confidence that they will know what to do, but I worry that we have left a bit of a mess for them. 

Before the others arise I meditate on many topics. I try to get my mind free of the kind of thoughts that inhibit my ability to enjoy the precious life that I have. Most of the time I do quite well with that, but other times I let my imagination get the best of me and I worry more than I should. Life is all things at once. In the same moment I can remember and feel all that has been good and all that has pulled me down, made me weary. I suppose that each of us is tilting windmills, battling demons while also living our dreams. If someone hangs around as long as I have they will have also endured nightmares and tragedies that seem unbearable while they are unfolding. I have learned that it is okay to be angry now and again, but we each have to be careful not to allow the darkness to enshroud us. At some point we have to dust ourselves off and move past the disappointments, suffering and loss even when it is intensely painful to do so. 

Each new dawn provides us with another opportunity to become just a bit better at living life on this remarkable planet. As a mother and a teacher I have seen that hard work and patience can make dreams come true, but no life is ever perfect or without challenges. Some have more setbacks and tragedies than most of us would be able to endure. We would so well to remember that our good fortune often came only from being born to the right people in the right place at the right time. As my mother often reminded me, every human on this earth desires safety, security, love. Some have to fight harder than the rest of us to find such things. 

My morning musings are eventually interrupted as the people around me awaken. We all have tasks to do, places to go. Life gets noisier and more complicated. I hope that I am ready. I want to be pleasant and accepting even if I’m hit by curve balls that change the direction of my plans. I know that being human I will no doubt get irritated now and again, but I don’t want to be hurtful either by will or accident. There is enough anger and sorrow around us. I try not to be the cause of more. May goal is to be better today than I was yesterday and to forgive myself when I don’t quite measure up.

I love the mornings. They set me straight, determine my goals, chase away the terrors that infect my brain in the dark of night. I begin again. Maybe today I will get it mostly right!