Month: December 2023

I used to give myself and my life grades for the year. I suppose that I have always had a type A personality that required me to assess my daily achievements and mistakes. Somehow after Covid I found myself feeling more and more lucky just to still be alive. Somehow I saw the silliness of always striving to do better and better. The fact that I am here in a nice house with people that I love and not too many health issues seems to be good enough. 

I do my best each day to be a nice person. Sometimes I don’t do too well at that but I have learned how to forgive myself and start over again on a new day. I remind myself constantly that I am not living in a war torn country like Ukraine or Gaza or Israel or places in Africa. Nobody forces me to act or think a certain way, so I get by with my own ideas and beliefs. I remind myself of my mother’s daily admonition that I should be thankful for a warm dry place to sleep at night and the fact that I never have to miss a meal. In so many ways I am richer than the vast majority of people who inhabit the earth. 

We Americans complain a great deal when most of us should simply be grateful for the bounty that we often take for granted. I haven’t seen too many airports that are deserted or restaurants with no customers. I have to wait in a line of cars to get my fix at Starbuck’s and the stores have been packed with people purchasing gifts for Christmas. 

I know that we do have people who are suffering in our midst that we rarely encounter. Many are without homes or jobs or good health. Some are refugees from horrific situations. Others work hard and barely make it from day to day. We tend not to notice them that much in all of our bickering over rising prices that may cause us to have to cut out some luxury that we really do not need. 

I had a busted ankle at the end of this year, but I got fabulous care for under a hundred dollars. My husband had a scare with his heart that cost us less than a weekend vacation at a nice hotel. We are fortunate to live near a world class medical center that is only a few minutes away from our home. So far doctors have been able to keep the two of us going along with my ninety five year old father-in-law who almost died twice a couple of years ago and made it through with the expert care of doctors and nurses. 

There is much about the world and my country that worries me, but on the whole my greater concern is for others. I am doing fine, but my heart aches for those who yearn for the kind of life that I so often take for granted. Sure I have worked hard, but I have also had the opportunities to use my talents and my efforts to build a great life, while others in the world have not had my advantages. some of that is only due to my birth. 

Like the kings of old I got lucky in who my parents were and the place where I lived. Simply by being born the daughter of Jack and Ellen in the United States of America I was free to be whoever I wished to be. I was able to pay for an advanced education. There were jobs available to me. I married a man who treats me as his equal. I live around good people who wish the best for me. Such is not the case for everyone, especially women and those deemed to be different or undesirable. 

So as the new year beckons I can only feel a sense of good fortune and gratefulness. Nonetheless I feel obligated to continue to work on the problems of the world. I know that if we pretend that all is well it would be a terrible mistake. I can’t get by with passing on problems to the younger generation. It is my duty to work on their behalf even as I grow older. We have issues that cannot be ignored. We have to determine how to save our planet and its people from droughts and floods and deadly storms and fires. We have to demonstrate love and compassion for all people on this earth, not only those just like we are. There are evil situations that must be addressed, wars that need to end. Hunger and want are as prevalent today as they ever have been. We cannot turn away pretending that we cannot see. 

I am ready to tackle the task of teaching the young. I’m ready to make whatever sacrifices are needed to level the playing field of the world. As long as I am breathing I am ready for the challenges that face us. 

A new year is coming. I hope it will be great. May there be peace and love in abundance in 2024. Happy New Year!

Philosophers have considered questions of who we humans are from times before Jesus was born. They have attempted to determine what our purpose is on this earth. What is it that makes us different from the animals? How do we think? How should the good human behave? The thread of thought sometimes leads to deep discussions and theories that leave us wondering what the limited lifetime of each of us should really be about. Even among lay people like myself earnest conversations often lead to the differing ways in which we choose to interact with one another, hoping that we have indeed chosen correctly. 

As with anyone, I have been influenced by different people along the long road of my journey with my parents and grandparents providing the first and often most important lessons about how to create a life well lived. They each taught me to be open to new ideas, different ways of thinking and living. They also showed me the power of love and a lifelong willingness to keep learning. 

Along the way I encountered people who made lasting impressions on the way that I think. A first grade teacher taught me how to overcome my personal challenges with determination. A fourth grade teacher did not realize that I learned how not to be cruel from watching her denigrate her students. A high school teacher introduced me to the world and initiated my embrace of thinking beyond the confines of the tiny corner of the universe where I live. A college professor showed me how to follow the red thread of society that connects us as humans. Another warned me of our human tendencies to dwell on other people’s weaknesses, a trait that has led to interpersonal conflicts throughout history. Still another taught me how to find and develop the talent that lives in every human heart. 

I have also had spiritual guidance most of which never happened inside a church. My mother-in-law was a brilliant woman sometimes frustrated by the traditional roles and estimations of women in a time before the idea of allowing them to have a voice became popular. She was a thinker who sought answers about eternal questions. She constantly read books, attended retreats and deeply contemplated our purpose on this earth. She shared her thoughts with me on Sunday afternoons while the men watched sports in another room. She warned me to beware of religious fanatics who claimed to have all the answers. She pointed out how often conflicts occur in the name of religious beliefs that run counter to the ideals of peace. 

One of her mentors had been a priest who just happened to be the person who baptized me at All Saints Catholic Church when I was an infant. He was a wise man who often took me aside and advised me how to be a genuinely loving person. He taught me that God does not dispense goodies like Santa Claus. He explained why bad things sometime happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. The God he described to me was loving and kind but also desirous that I treat my fellow humans with dignity and understanding regardless of how different our beliefs and cultures might be. He emphasized that we all make mistakes and God is forgiving, eager to allow us to express our contrition and willingness to attempt to be better. 

I suppose that the lessons that I learned from so many others have caused me to be stunned and confused when I witness the embrace of so much hatefulness in the world today. Some among us almost deify persons who think nothing of insulting and degrading others publicly. The rise of bullies masquerading as saviors is concerning to me. The claims of religious leaders who regularly condemn whole swaths of people as though they have some secret claim to godliness worries me. Somehow there is an ugliness about it all that flies in the face of the lessons I have learned from wise souls who offered a more positive and inclusive view of humanity. 

Christmas reminds me not of a tiny baby born in a manger, but of a young man who preached a gospel of love. He loved everyone he encountered without consideration of how young or old they were. He embraced the poor, the outcasts, the suffering. He blessed the children and answered their questions with honesty. He was forgiving of human imperfections. He was above all a teacher who understood what we all needed to hear and then explained those things to us with stories and simplicity. 

In this season we once again witness what happens when we close our minds and become unwilling to see the wonder in every human, not just those who are like us. Perhaps the best way that we might celebrate would be to simply love just as we were cautioned to do over two thousand years ago. It is certainly worth a try.

Pat Weimer was the big sister that I had often dreamed of having. She introduced me to so many wonderful aspects of living that I had never before encountered. I saw chick flicks for the first time with her, movies that my brothers and my husband would never have considered viewing. She loved shopping for hours and going on spur of the moment adventures. She and I attended musicals and live performances together. Her door was always open. There was no need to call first to see if she was amenable to the idea of a visitor. She made life fun, but she was also someone with whom I was able to discuss anything. I did not need to filter my thoughts or comments with her. She allowed me to vent and I reciprocated with her. Our bond was sacred and incredibly special. 

Pat was a great wife as well. She created a hard and fast tradition that she believed every couple should enjoy. She and her husband had a date night at least once every single week. She found that Thursdays worked well because it was easier to get babysitters on a week night than on the weekend. She had a regular reservation with a young girl from the neighborhood. She and her husband went to dinner or saw a movie or just spent time sipping on coffee and talking about their jobs, their family, their dreams. 

In spite of my feeling that Pat’s date night idea was fantastic I was never quite able to follow her lead with my husband, Mike. There always seemed to be something that prevented us from keeping such a routine alive, but in the back of my mind I always believed that we should have worked a bit harder to make it happen like Pat had always done. She set alone time with her husband as a priority whereas I viewed it more as a fling if we happened to have the spare time. More often than not date night took a back seat to something that seemed more pressing at the time.

Pat died several years back and her husband has also gone. Now I find myself thinking that she was brilliant to make those date nights one of the most important routines of her daily life. I know that she glowed with joy whenever she described them. I suspect that they had sent the message to her husband that he was the most important person in her world. Theirs was a beautiful partnership that any of us would do well to emulate.

I have to admit that I have all too often pushed other responsibilities to the forefront of my calendar. First I was raising my children. Then my datebook became crowded with the needs of all of my students as well as those of my mother. There was hardly time to sleep much less indulge in the luxury of a regular time spent alone with my husband. It was not until my daughters were grown, my mother had died, and I had retired from my full time job of teaching that I found myself with enough freedom to just have fun with my husband. It was as though we were meeting each other all over again. For a time we had an almost daily adventure from the moment we awoke until we fell asleep at night. We were dedicated to making up for the years when our focus seemed to always be on other members of the family or work. 

All of that freedom came to a screeching halt when my father-in-law came to live with us a year and a half ago. Suddenly it takes great planning to go out for an evening or to take a trip. Nothing can be random anymore. It is like moving backward into a time when we were too tired to even try to have a regular date night like Pat had urged us to do. Since we did not choose to create a regular time alone together back then, we somehow struggle to pull it off now. We let other responsibilities push such times from our calendar. 

If I have one resolution for the impending new year it will be to finally get serious about putting my marital relationship before all others. I am going to do everything in my power to assure that our calendar includes a regular date night each and every week. When we have randomly experienced such a thing since our home life changed so drastically, we have returned to our duties refreshed and less stressed over our caretaker role. 

I’m seventy five now and my husband is seventy six. When my father-in-law was in our age range he met a lovely woman and married for a second time. The two of them travelled all over the world and regularly went out to movies and restaurants. They lived life to the maximum and it rejuvenated him at a time when he had seemed almost near death. Being with his new love filled him with joy for almost twenty years. Now he is ninety-four and content to sleep late, eat at the same times each day, follow an exercise routine without exception and and use the exact same schedule day in and day out. We help him to do that and to chase away his loneliness, but we can’t put our lives on hold either. The clock is ticking for all of us, and I think that my husband and I need to stop it’s progress at least once a week with a regular night out for just the two of us. 

I miss Pat’s wise counsel. I feel that I know what she would tell me if she were still here. She was not one to allow her troubles to steal her fun. She was always finding ways to make ordinary days seem exciting. She would look me in the eye and reiterate how important those date nights are. I think it’s well past time for me to get serious about such a tradition in my own life. The kids and the parents and everyone we know will be alright while Mike and I slip away for a few hours each week. Pat showed me how to do it. Now it is time. 

There is a special bond between siblings. We spend the first years of our lives living with brothers or sisters who probably know us as well as anyone ever will. I was the eldest child in my family and the only girl. While I often wished for a sister, that was not to be. Instead I had two brothers who became two of the most important people that I will ever know. I vividly remember the birth of each of them even though it seems almost impossible with regard to the first one who came along since I was only three years old. Somehow I nonetheless recall seeing him in his bassinet and later in a wicker basket that my mother sometimes used to carry him into the yard for sunning. 

Jack Michael was born on January 6, Three Kings Day, while we were living on Kingsbury Street in Southeast Houston. He was a dark haired dark eyed little boy who slept most of the time and was often quite sick. I suppose I recall his early years mostly because my mother would often be fretting over him as he developed fevers that raised his body temperature to disturbing levels. He had asthma and many allergies that prompted our family physician, Dr. J. Forrest Jorns to make house calls to our home. I watched my mother place Michael, as we came to call him, on the kitchen table while the good doctor listened to my brother’s breathing. He usually ended the visit by providing Mama with medication for m baby brother and giving directions for what to do if Michael’s condition worsened. 

Michael was a curious soul who always seemed to be exploring the world around him as he began to toddle around the house. One time he got into an ant bed and was soon covered with painful whelps. Another time I witnessed him putting a screw into his nose. That incident prompted a visit to the hospital where his tonsils and adenoids were removed. By then I had learned that sometimes he had to go inside the bathroom where our mother ran hot water to make steam to help with his breathing. I often worried about him as much as my mother did. 

When Michael was three and I was five our brother William Patrick was born. In keeping with an unexplained tradition he became known by his middle name just as Michael was. I always wondered how I had kept my own first name instead of being called Dianne. Anyway I was annoyed when I learned that instead of a sister my mother was brining home another boy. At first I petulantly refused to even go see him as he lay in the same bassinet where Michael had been. Curiosity got the best of me so I snuck into the room where he was sleeping and instantly fell in love with him because he was the most beautiful infant that I had ever seen. 

Patrick was like me. He hardly ever got sick but he tended to be so energetic that he had a number of accidents. I always thought of myself as being his second mom and I felt guilty whenever he was hurt. Somehow I thought that I was responsible for the cuts and bruises that often appeared on his knees from his adventurous play. 

I was only eight when our father died and my brothers were five and two respectively. I took it on myself to constantly watch over them from that day forward. I tried to tell them what our father had been like. I thought it was important for them to know how wonderful our Daddy had been. Michael had a few rather vivid memories that complimented mine, but Patrick had no real recollection of the man that he would always so closely resemble. 

Our mother was determined to allow each of us to develop our own unique personalities and talents. We ended up all being good people but incredibly unalike. Michael was the mathematician that he said he would be who awed us with his intellect. Patrick was a charismatic soul who charmed people wherever he went and would end up being a leader in the community. I became a teacher and a dreamer who still imagines that one day my writing will become known across the world. 

The three of us were as devoted to each other as any brothers and a sister might be. We stayed close to each other over the years and eventually joined forces in caring for our beloved mother who had sacrificed so much for us. Michael worked at Boeing designing the navigational system for the International Space Station. Patrick became a Houston firefighter eventually rising to Head of the Fire Training Academy and then a Regional Fire Chief. I taught mathematics and became the Dean of Faculty in a local high school. Our mother continued to dote on each of us until her death and she remains the heart of our family to this day. 

At this time of year nothing pleases me more than being with my brothers. Now our gatherings include our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. It is always a happy time with love oozing out of the room. I now have sisters, Becky and Allison, who married my brothers. They are exactly what I had hoped to find in a little sister growing up. I can’t imagine my life without my siblings and I hope they can’t imagine one without me. We are best friends and my love for them is immeasurable. The sibling relationship is one of the most special in life and I am so glad that my parents gave me the gift of two wonderful brothers.  

I teach or tutor around ten students in mathematics each week. I use the funds that I earn to give my daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren nice gifts for birthdays and Christmas. I sent out text messages in October asking them what kind of things they wanted or needed that I might purchase for them for the holiday season. Much like my mother I believe in sharing my good fortune now rather than storing it away for some future day when I am gone. So, the requests flowed in and I did my best to fulfill the wish lists that came my way.

The requested items seemed to nicely reflect the personalities of each individual. The grandson who cooks for a hobby wanted a better quality cookware to add to the hand me downs he had been using. The young man who used to have little interest in clothing has become more aware of fashion trends as he inches toward completing a college degree, so he chose a few pieces that will enhance his style. Another grandson wanted a dress watch to go with his newly acquired position as a leader at his university. Another is thinking ahead to next fall when he will be moving from dorm life to an apartment. He wanted anything having to do with stocking a kitchen. One grandchild simply wanted to enrich the savings account that he has steadily increased over the years by squirreling away earned and gifted cash. A daughter eyed a chair that she thought might be nice for reading. The other daughter created a wish list of quite ordinary items that ranged from Little House on the Prairie books to tea and honey. Happily I was able fulfill all of their wishes which made me feel quite content and happy. 

I don’t think of Christmas as being only about gifts. It is so much more than that. It is about hope and love and the importance of family. It is about sharing stories and time with loved ones. It is about remembering those who are gone. The gifts that I give are designed to lift spirits and make a small investment in providing something special that each person might otherwise not have. The work I do in my spare time is also my gift to the young people who need to learn the workings of mathematics. The gift they provide me is a feeling that I have done something that has a profound purpose. The intertwining of joy that comes from my lessons radiates out in many directions and sometimes ends up in wrapped packages under my Christmas tree. 

From the time I married my husband, Mike, I heard stories of his grandparents. I was not fortunate enough to meet them because both of them had died long before I met my future spouse. Nonetheless I learned of their generosity from the stories of those who loved and admired them. My mother-in-law often related how her father had once boasted that his goal was to make his only grandson’s life so wonderful that the boy’s only worry would be how to store the motor on the boat that he would surely one day own. That grandfather had already purchased a toy fire engine for his Mike to drive around the neighborhood. He imagined a lifetime of sharing his own good fortune with the little boy that he hoped to mentor into becoming a great man. Sadly Mike’s grandfather died in his forties when Mike was only a five years old, but family lore kept his love and devotion to his grandchild alive. 

Mike’s grandmother was a young widow who somehow pulled herself together and successfully steadied the business that her husband had once run. She would finance Mike’s education in private schools like St. Thomas High School. She provided him with his first car, a used Chevy that seemed to be as wonderful to him as a brand new Camaro might have been. She appeared to take great joy in providing him with little perks that he might otherwise not have had. He in turn spent endless hours with her, enjoying her generous scoops of love and understanding. Unfortunately she would die when he was only fifteen and he would still be grieving that loss when I met him four years later. 

I like to think that I pattern myself after generous people. I may not recall each gift that they gave me, but I remember the very special feelings I had in receiving something from them. My mother purchased the first pots and pans that I ever had and I still cook with them to this very day even though they are almost sixty years old. I treasure the books that my grandfather gave me. My favorite perfume is still Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew because my mother’s friend, Edith Barry, gave me that fragrance as a gift when I was thirteen years old. My home and my memories are filled with reminders of the generosity and indicators of love that even the smallest gift provided me. There is something incredibly moving about knowing that someone took the time and money to give me a present. This is why I would rather use my extra earnings now to provide those I love with tokens of my feelings for them rather than banking those dollars and making them wait for a time when I am gone to share whatever wealth I will have. 

My mother and I developed a tradition of spending an evening together each Friday. We first went out to eat and then went shopping. Mama was perennially searching for gifts for her children and grandchildren. She hunted sales and walked up and down the aisles of stores hoping to find wonderful treasures. She kept her treasures in a closet in her home with labels detailing who would receive them. She kept track of birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, graduations, weddings, baby showers and purchased gifts in advance of the many special occasions. When she died she had already wrapped a present for my retirement. Her closet was filled with items intended for many celebrations to come. She did this in spite of a meager income that would have been insufficient for most people. She was a genius at balancing a precarious budget and still seeming like Santa Claus when it came to her largess. 

I sense that it is time for me to share even more than I ever have done. I am contentedly supplied with all that I need for comfort, but the younger members of my family are just beginning the process of adulting. My teaching provides me with the ability to give them a bit more than I otherwise might have been able to do. I want to share that good fortune now. I see no reason to wait.