Month: October 2024

It was April of 1970 when the crew of Apollo 13 headed for the moon. I was still as excited about space travel as I had been in Mrs. Colby’s science class when her enthusiasm for human travel in the universe infected me with a thrilling sense of the possibilities for the future of mankind. All along with most of the I world have watched the first American going into space, the first American going into an orbit, the first American men on the moon. I was not any less enthusiastic about the journey of the crew of Apollo 13, but I was in the last months of pregnancy with my first child and so her impending birth distracted me from anything that was happening beyond my tiny little world of prepping to be a mom. 

The crew of James Lovell, Jack Swigert, and Fred Haise had been training for months for a walk on the moon when Swigert developed measles and had to be quarantined. Those were the days when none of us who were adults had enjoyed the wonder of a measles vaccine. Many of us contracted measles when we were children but Swigert had the terrible fate of getting sick just when he was scheduled to take off for a journey to the moon. Rather than delaying the trip the decision was made to replace Swigert at the last minute with Ken Mattingly and proceed as planned. 

There were some whose superstitious natures worried about calling the mission Apollo 13. After all we don’t have thirteenth floors in buildings and sometimes skip we that number in the ordering of seats on planes. Having a crew member become ill at the last minute seemed to portend trouble, but the crew and those who would monitor them in Mission Control scoffed at any idea that the fates were somehow doomed. On April 11, 1970 the crew hurdled toward the moon after a seemingly perfect launch. 

There were far fewer journalists covering the journey than there had been with the Apollo 11 mission when the first humans walked on the moon. Somehow the very concept of space travel had become seemingly more ordinary. We expected everything to go according to plan and so most of us went about our daily routines only peripherally paying attention to the third group of men scheduled to walk on the surface of the cold and craggy orb that we see in the night sky. 

Of course now we know how drastically things changed two days into the mission when an oxygen tank ruptured in the service module disabling electricity and the life support system. Suddenly the goal was not to walk on the moon but to get the crew back to earth safely, a venture that nobody ever dreamed of happening. The whole world watched with rapt attention as the engineers had to devise solutions to one problem after another on the fly. 

Those of us who were watching the coverage in real time remember the dire warnings and the tension that hovered over the entire world. We’ve seen the movie directed by Ron Howard with Tom Hanks, Bill Paxton, Gary Sinise playing the astronauts. We saw each problem unfold in living color on a big screen and thankfully know that the crew eventually made it back to earth safely. We now realize that they were in far more trouble that we might have once thought but all ended well and we moved on and grew older even as we never forgot that intense moment in time. 

Now there is a new documentary streaming on Netflix called Apollo 13: Survival that recounts the terrifying journey with films from inside the spacecraft and Mission Control at the NASA space center in Houston, Texas. Narrated by the actual people involved in that incredible adventure, it is a glance back at a time when none of our technology was as advanced as it now is. Viewing the inside of the spacecraft with the grainy and sometimes blurry film only emphasizes how far we have progressed since 1970. It is truly a wonder that the engineers and the crew were able to keep cool heads and make it back to the home base of earth. 

I found this documentary to be one of the most emotional films that I have ever seen. Even knowing the outcome in advance I was breathless through most of it. I marveled at the courage and calm of the crew who knew that they had only one shot at making it to the only place in the universe where they might survive. The earth became a spiritual place for them and for me as I watched the engineers using every ounce of their intelligence and engineering skill to handle every difficulty that seemed destined to end badly. Their work was perhaps one of the most extraordinary feats of engineering in the history of the world. 

I won’t spoil the details of the documentary but I will recommend that everyone watch this amazing film. It will take you to a kind of meditation about life and who we are as people that will be as uplifting as being born again. It is a tribute to courage and ingenuity and to our very planet that will leave you in awe. I know that I was in tears by the end of the film and even days later I can’t stop thinking about it and wondering why we are wasting so much time these days bickering instead of solving life and death problems as they arise. Jame Lovell’s commentary at the conclusion will most assuredly leave you feeling a kinship with all of humanity and with the planet that is our only hope for survival. Watch Apollo 13: Survival and you will understand what I mean.

One of my all time favorite books is Isaac’s Storm by Erik Larson. It is the heartbreaking true story of the 1900 hurricane that devastated Galveston, Texas leaving thousands dead and ending the golden era of the once prosperous town. It focuses on the hubris of Isaac Cline, a meteorologist who chose to ignore warnings about the impending hurricane and instead insisted that the citizens would be safe in their homes. 

Of course we now know in hindsight that Cline was wrong. The ferocious storm toppled houses and buildings alike, leaving citizens adrift in a terrifying sea of rubble. Cline lost his home and his wife and his reputation in the aftermath of destruction. The theme of the book is one as old as humanity itself, namely that unfettered hubris can be deadly. 

My home city of Houston is the prosperous place that it is because Galveston never returned to the glory of it’s days as a center of commerce and trade. The little town along a ribbon of bayous would dredge a pathway over fifty miles long to create what would become one of the the largest ports in the United States. With railroads crisscrossing the landscape and the new waterway bring ships filled with goods, the city was destined to become the behemoth that it now is. Nonetheless even fifty miles inland the danger of powerful storms still lurks. 

I have spent a lifetime watching anxiously from June through October for storms in the Caribbean that might make their way into the Gulf of Mexico. I have memorized a litany of hurricanes that affected me and my city. Sadly we still have a bit of hubris much like Isaac Cline in thinking that we have seen the worst, dodged bullets and will ultimately be just fine. Yes, we suffered greatly during hurricane Harvey but we had the grit to make our way back. Sadly there is little evidence that we took that storm as seriously as we should have and a great deal of evidence that we are still taunting nature. 

I had the good fortune to be spared any damage from the many hurricanes that I have experienced but I have been inside homes ravaged by wind and rain. I have seen what six feet of flood water does to people’s possessions and well being. I have labored in the muck retrieving ruined photos and diplomas. I have washed clothing and dishes in an attempt to return the sodden items to a usable state. I have cried for those who lost so much only to feel threatened again and again as hurricane season rolls back around. 

What I have not seen is a united effort in changing the way we do things so that we might stall the changes of climate that are making weather related events more and more dangerous and deadly with each passing year. We seem as unwilling to face the reality of our situation as Isaac Cline was a hundred and twenty five years ago. We continue to build in places that were once buffer zones. We tear down trees, pour miles and miles of concrete, own multiple cars, create mountains of trash and pretend that those warning us of the consequences of our inaction are just party poopers trying to steal our joy. 

This summer the Houston Metropolitan area experienced an earlier than usual hurricane that was only a Category 1 storm. Nonetheless millions of people were left without power for days and weeks. The roofs of home were torn off, fences went down, trees fell across roads and sometimes toppled buildings. It has taken months to repair the damage and some are still waiting for workers and materials to arrive. 

Now hurricane Helene has spread unprecedented horror across multiple states leaving even towns hundreds of miles from the Gulf of Mexico devastated beyond anything that anyone might have imagined. One of the most beautiful cities in our nation, Ashville, North Carolina, has been left unrecognizable with flooding that nobody there has ever before seen. The mountain town is cut off from the rest of the world with impassible muddy roads, no power, and dire needs. 

When will we face the reality of what is happening and unite in our efforts to make a difference in how we treat our planet earth? When will we all make the needed sacrifices to change the projection of our destiny. Yes, there will still be storms, tornadoes, droughts, fires, but if we strive for a more sustainable way of living perhaps they will not be as numerous or as powerful. We can turn back the inevitable if we all pitch in. It’s time we work ahead of time rather than only in the aftermath of destruction. 

We have been warned for decades but we have brazenly ignored the truth. We make excuses like a child, insisting that we should not have to take the lead in doing what is right if other countries are not even trying. We want what we want when we want it without considering what our choices may be doing toward the destruction of our planet. 

When James Lovell was hurtling toward the Earth in a spacecraft so damaged that it might not make it home, he gazed at the beautiful blue orb with a realization that changed his life. He understood that the only safe place in the nearby universe was Earth. He understood that the only hope for humankind is to nurture the place where we live. There is no alternative so we need to get things right. It is past time for us to stop fighting and complaining and work together to heal the wounds that we have inflicted on each other and on our planet. We can no longer pretend that “It’s just what it is and the way things have always been.” We have the power to change if only we have the will.  

Many years ago I attended a teachers’ conference in Minnesota. People came from all over the United States to hear experts describe their methods for educating our nation’s children. One featured speaker included a field trip to a model school in his presentation. Since I was eager to see how the folks in the midwest were doing things I signed up for the day long adventure. 

We drove away from the city and into a suburban area that seemed to be floating on a golden plain. I almost expected to see Laura Ingles Wilder emerging from the swaying foliage on that cold November day. I don’t remember much about the model school but I was enchanted by the loveliness of the prairie grasses. It had never occurred to me that a place so flat might be so beautiful. I have carried that image in my mind for decades and when I draw on it from time to time I feel relaxed and somehow in tune with nature at its finest. 

I’ve traveled all over the United States and seen such wondrous places. I have been touched to the point of tears by a rainbow that reached from one mountain peak to another in Glacier National Park, Montana. I have stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon and know that no words will ever adequately describe that breathtaking site, especially when the sun is setting at the end of a glorious day. I’ve driven along the Pacific Coast marveling at the power and beauty of the ocean. I’ve traveled through the forests of Maine and walked through the caverns of New Mexico. I’ve seen sunrises and sunsets in the most beautiful places imaginable. I’ve celebrated the dawn of a New Year in a quaint mountain village in Austria. I have hiked to the top of mountain trials in Colorado and spent nights under a starry sky. 

To choose my favorite place would be almost impossible. I am after all a woman who has spent her life in the Houston Metropolitan area where the landscape is dominated by concrete roads littered with potholes, murky bayous, strip malls and buildings that seem to crop up over night. I have watched my town grow into a city, the fourth largest in the nation. I have endured it’s heat, it’s hurricanes, it’s floods, but I have also known it’s heart. 

It has not been the beauty of Houston that has kept me from moving away, but the people who live here who have made me reluctant to consider relocating to a place with more panoramic views. Time and again the citizens of Houston come together whether to celebrate, to aide one another or to mourn. Like any large city we have our bad guys, but on the whole the people here are kind and compassionate. They work hard and mostly allow people to live whatever kind of lives they wish to enjoy. Houston is famously diverse and yet most of the time the people look beyond the many physical hues of our neighbors and see only the hearts and souls. People come here to work and they do that quite well. There are opportunities here that can’t be found in such abundance anywhere else. We treasure our universities and our world class Medical Center. We love our Texans and Rockets and Astros whether they win or lose. We are proud of the NASA Space Center and love knowing that many of our relatives and neighbors were instrumental in getting humans to the moon.

If I want to see something beautiful I can go to the Houston Zoo or walk around Bayou Bend. It’s only an hour’s drive to the Gulf of Mexico in Galveston. The beaches may be small and the water muddy but it’s our happy place nonetheless. We know the stories of pirates and native Americans who once lived there. We have heard about the hurricanes and the ingenuity of the people who built a ship channel to make Houston, a landlocked city, one of the largest ports in the United States. 

It takes me hours to drive to the most beautiful places in the country, but only minutes to be surrounded by the best people anyone would ever hope to know. That’s why when people ask where my favorite place in the world is located I have to say Houston. I know that my city will never win a beauty contest. I realize that when people visit here they often leave thinking that the place is butt ugly. Those of us who know better just shrug because if someone is down and out Houston is the place to be. There will be someone who can mend a broken heart or one that needs a new bypass. Goodness seems to be in the DNA of this city.

I can’t imagine living anywhere else than Houston but I know that sometimes things change and so I never say never. At least for the moment I can assert without hesitation that I love my Houston with its warts and all because when the going gets tough I will always find good people here. In the meantime I will drive or fly away to see nature’s beauty and then always come back home.

Several months ago my husband, Mike, casually mentioned that Sting and Billy Joel were scheduled to perform in San Antonio in October. I laughed and said that we should go and celebrate since October is the month of our wedding anniversary. After all, we would be marking fifty six years of life together. It seemed like a good idea to make a big deal out of such a milestone but the conversation soon moved on to other topics and I mostly forgot about my spur of the moment idea. 

Fast forward to the end of September and I noticed that there was a notation on our family calendar that simply said “Sting/Billy Joel.” When I asked Mike what that meant he seemed to have no idea and insisted that he had thought that I had put it there for some reason, maybe a hint to get tickets for the show. We bantered over who placed the reminder there for a few minutes that then Mike began checking the different places where he keeps notes about upcoming appointments. Lo and behold he found tickets for the show that he had purchased way back in the spring. 

One of the joys of growing older is forgetting things and this would have been a doozy but for the calendar doing its duty of keeping us up to date. Suddenly we were planning for an exciting weekend in San Antonio. We knew that we would be able to stay at my daughter’s home so we had no need to reserve a hotel. Out next challenge was convincing my father-in-law to accompany us on our little adventure. At close to ninety-six years old he certainly did not need to stay by himself in our home for the amount of time that we would be gone. It took a bit of nudging but eventually he saw the light and agreed that it would be best if he came with us. 

We excitedly travelled on a beautiful Thursday morning with perfect weather and high hopes for the fun that lay ahead. On our way out of town we checked out the new Portillo’s that had just opened in the Houston area. We had such fond memories of Portillo’s in Chicago that we just knew that we had to be among to first to dine there and it really was on the way to our ultimate destination. 

The place was packed with people standing in line out the door. As is usual with a Portillo’s the staff moved the crowd along quite smoothly. While inching forward we got to talk with a lovely woman who was originally from Chicago who had come back to Portillo’s for a second time just to get a taste of her hometown. Sadly it was a soft opening for the restaurant with only a limited menu that did not include Mike’s favorite polish sausage sandwich. Nonetheless the food and the atmosphere was great and the manager assured us that a bigger menu was on the way. 

After another pit stop down the road at what is being billed as the biggest Buccee’s ever we made it to my daughters home with big smiles and lots of anticipation. Friday came and we spent most of the day driving around the Texas Hill Country listening to Willie Nelson tunes on the radio and enjoying wine at Becker’s Vineyards until it was time to head for the concert at the Alamodome. 

Our son-in-law had warned us that there might be a bit of traffic once we approached downtown San Antonio since the concert began at seven in the evening. Being from Houston where afternoon commutes are legendary we thought little of his concerns but still left two hours before showtime. Little did we know what a nightmare lay ahead of us. 

We flew down the highway until we caught up with a miles long ribbon of cars all heading to the same destination that we sought. As we barely inched forward we watched our estimated arrival time move closer and closer to the seven o’clock beginning of the concert. We also shook our heads in horror as signs along the roadway announced that all of the parking lots at the Alamodome were full. Not knowing the city well at all, we had no idea what lay ahead. We just kept moving as slow as a turtle with all of the other souls heading to the same place. It was already seven thirty by the time we exited the freeway and soon enough we saw people walking from far away parking lots that all seemed to be filled to capacity. So we simply drove and drove and drove until we finally saw a place that might hold our truck. It was at least ten blocks away from the venue but we were willing to hike even though it was now eight o’clock and we knew that we had missed an hour of the program. 

We were not alone in our quest. There were still hundreds of people stuck in long lines of cars searching for a place to stop. The sidewalk was filled with others almost running to get to the stadium as quickly as possible. We were all determined to make it by hook or crook. We finally reached our seats near eight thirty when Sting was performing his last few songs. Luckily we had seen Sting perform earlier in the year so we did not feel too much angst in essentially missing his part of the show. Soon the lights came on in the arena and it was time for an intermission.

Latecomers were still pouring in even as we settled into our comfortable seats and relaxed a bit before Billy Joel came to the stage. We tried to calm down from the anxiety that had sent our hearts into overdrive during the three and a half hours it had taken us to finally reach the concert. Soon enough the lights dimmed and seventy five year old Billy Joel was playing one of his many hits. It became apparent that he was as talented as ever. 

For two hours Billy Joel took us down memory lane to a time when we were a young married couple in our twenties with no idea of the adventures and tragedies and wonders that lay ahead. With each song a memory popped into our heads. We could see ourselves looking young and eager and optimistic. It was all incredibly glorious and Billy Joel and his ensemble did not disappoint. We agreed that we would have walked all the way from Houston for the opportunity to take part in the lovefest of that evening with people of all ages. 

Toward the end of the concert there was a beautiful unity of spirit that reminded me of the times when we were not fighting with each other or trying to make each other believe or act in certain ways. Instead we were singing together and lighting up the stadium with our phones in a moment of peace and love that has been sorely missing. We did not care one way or another about politics or religion or race or age or any other kind of preference. We just had fun and shared memories while a very talented man brought us joy and even hope that we are going to get past the divisions and judgements that seem to be plaguing us. Life was good and beautiful then and now. Billy Joel reminded us of that. Nothing could steal our joy.

The summers are becoming hotter and hotter with each passing year. When the temperature hovers near one hundred degrees I cannot imagine how I was able to survive the first twenty years of my life without air conditioning. I remember it being warm, but nothing like the debilitating heat that keeps now me indoors for three or four months of each year. 

There was a time in my youth when I happily played outside all the day long, hydrating with the garden hose. I stayed cool wearing shorts and crop tops and cutting my hair short for the season. I’d walk across hot concrete in my bare feet and be so active that sweat accumulated on my neck in beads that locked like a necklace. I didn’t seem to notice the warm nights with the windows opened wide and the attic fan pulling in a muggy breeze. I suppose I was acclimated to the hot summer days because I never knew anything else. 

Even when school commenced after Labor Day in September I sat in classrooms without any kind of cooling system save for large fans strategically placed to send a bit of air across the rows of desks. There were walls of windows that opened to make the best of the ventilation. Being hot was standard fare for the first weeks of the school year and that pattern was repeated each spring. None of it stopped me from carrying on as though sweat was just a natural part of living in the south. I found ways to enjoy life and the great outdoors much like the folks up north adapt to the cold. 

Now too much time in the heat sickens me. I am like wilted flower waiting for more temperate times when I can return to dining on my patio and working with my plants. The weeds are collecting as I avoid the headaches and light headed feelings that overtake me after only a few minutes under the relentless sun. I wonder if this is a sign of age or just the result of being spoiled for decades inside air cooled rooms where I cannot feel the blazing rays on my skin. I worries me that I have become this way because I remember my grandparents toiling in the fields on their farm in hot summers when they were a good ten years older than I am now. The heat did not bother them, but of course their entire lives had been spent with few of the luxuries that I now take for granted. 

I get cabin fever and feel a need to travel to places were the summers are more moderate. I feel a guilty sense of envy for friends who summer up north and return to the south in October or November to elude the harsh variances of the seasons. I think of how wonderful it would be to enjoy spring like days in the middle of August when even my roses struggle to survive the heat. I feel so much more alive when I am outside communing with the flora and the fauna. I chide myself for not being able to ignore the heat and just gut through the experience like I once did without much thought or effort. 

I suppose that I could take a trip to the beach but I am more of a forest and mountains kind of girl. I like to explore on long hikes that take me farther and farther away from civilization. The more remote the place, the better I feel. I can hear the insects and birds calling one another. I can feel the breezes caressing me through the canopies of the trees. I feel as though I am in the paradise that Adam and Eve once enjoyed if only for a moment. Everything is perfect, my breathing, my heartbeat, my mood. I feel energized and ready to take on any challenges that may come my way. Being outside on a perfect day brings me back to life when my spirits are sagging. The outdoors is where I want to be. 

Of late I find myself searching each day for photos from a friend who has moved to Kodiak Island. She takes hikes in the evenings after work. The days are long up in Alaska so she has plenty of time to leisurely explore. She wears a light jacket with a hood in case it begins to rain. She seems to be alone in a magical place where she and the animals live in total harmony. She has seen mama bears with their cubs and starfish sunning on the beach. Mountains beckon along the horizon and wildflowers of many colors profusely grow along the paths that she follows. I have never seen anyone appear to be as happy as she is there and because of my own pull toward such places I understand why it is so. I live vicariously through her postings while doing my best to stay away from the heat that no longer leaves me alone so that I can be one with the outside world even on the hottest days. 

It will soon be just fine. I will return to my garden and let my plants know that I really do care about them. I will smile at the birds and watch the frogs and salamanders skitter across the lawn. I’ll put my hands in the dirt and feel as though I have placed them in a miraculous tonic that will heal both my body and my soul. My wait is almost over. I am ready for the times I love the most. The season of autumn brings my reprieve.