Month: October 2025

If I had to think of a time in my life when I felt very comfortable it would have to be the nineteen nineties. By then my children had both graduated from college, married and were doing well. I had many incredible friendships with individuals and couples who enriched my life with their very presence. I had earned a Master’s degree by then and was very comfortable in my career. I liked the movies and the music and the wonderful vacations that we took. My mother was retired and enjoying life and doing better with her mental illness than ever before. It felt as though all of the hard work that my husband and I had done had fallen into place. We totally lived with the mantra that life is good. 

I went into the new century filled with so many hopes and dreams little knowing the toll that ensuing events would take on our family. I suppose we all have the bad habit of thinking that our lives will continue to rock along without any difficulties when times are good. I had lived through so many chaotic moments and I somehow felt entitled to a quiet time when roses seemed to be blooming all around me. Then came 9/11 and its horror. I can still call up the intense emotions and fear that I felt on that day. I worried that life as I presently knew it was going to drastically change, but somehow as Americans we found the fortitude to work together in honor of those who had lost their lives. Our democracy held and it felt as though we had defeated a grave danger. 

I worried about the wars that came from that moment in Afghanistan and Iraq. I felt uncertain about how all of that would eventually play out. A kind of national anxiety that I had not felt since the nineteen sixties began to create worries for me as well. Nonetheless, I had a strong family and so many wonderful friends with whom to walk through those difficult times and so life went on without world events affecting me too much.

About the time of the fall of Iraq the world began to shift under my feet. My mother-in-law had a stroke and died after days in a coma. My father-in-law became tied up in knots and was soon in the hospital having emergency surgery from which it seemed that he would be unable to survive. Somehow he made it, but my mother began to have some of the worst symptoms of her bipolar disorder that she had ever experienced. I was back in the saddle of caring for people in crisis once again but still enjoying that births of my grandchildren. They became my saviors with their innocence and joy. Being with them kept me from becoming too wrapped up in my troubles. 

It seemed as though one horrific event after another came to rock the world. Hurricane Katrina destroyed the city of New Orleans and my school took in more students from there than any other in the United States. Our classrooms were crowded and not all of the parents liked that we had taken in the suffering students. For me it was a sign that prejudices were growing again in my country. I had already seen much of that for Muslims, but now it was people from a neighboring state who were viewed with fear.

At the same time my dear friend, Pat, was diagnosed with cancer and would spend the better part of a year being treated at M.D. Anderson Hospital. My center was holding even as things began to fall apart. I was and still am a control freak and I was unable to repair all of the damage that I witnessed around me. 

Pat recovered and my mother found a wonderful doctor who seemed to help her in miraculous ways, but my friends Egon and Marita were not doing well. If it was not one thing it was another. Nothing seemed certain and there was a kind of chill in America that I had only seen during the Vietnam War. 

Life swirled around me. Egon died and his wife ended up in the hospital with her destiny uncertain. My grandchildren were still at the center of my world and my happiness as I embarked on a new job at KIPP Houston High School. There I would encounter “my people” in both my fellow employees and my students. I had never before felt so strongly that I was in the right place at the right time. It was good that work had become an anchor because my friend, Pat, would die and I would never quite get over losing her.

Work and my grandchildren became the steadying forces in my life. I enjoyed the years of Barack Obama’s presidency. Somehow I began to feel that everything was going to turn out all right even as I had to become accustomed to losing more and more important people who had kept me steady. First came Marita, then our friend Bill and, tragically, my mother. Then I retired and felt ready for a quiet life that seemed rather certain, Sometimes though the world has a strange sense of humor and the craziness only got worse. 

Our nation has endured so many tests and somehow we have always emerged from them but the present time seems more dire than ever. We managed to come out of the worldwide pandemic mostly intact but too many had died and our confidence was in tatters. Somehow we had become a divided nation. Our national tone has become uglier than anything I have ever seen in all of my almost seventy seven years on this planet. I don’t think I have ever worried this much about my beautiful United States of America. I can’t even seem to explain to those who think differently from me how horrific our current situation is. I long for the people that I have lost. I want allies who will talk to me and reassure me. I know that they are around but we have grown so wary of each other that many of them are afraid to express how they feel. Even families are being torn apart. 

My children and grandchildren remain at the center of my tiny universe along with God. I hope that we will be able to endure the current crisis and come out better than before. I still have great faith in my nation but I worry that I won’t see its reconstruction before my time to leave has come. I want the best of what we have the potential to be for every person who lives in America. I wants us to understand that together we truly become the shining city on the hill. Apart we will gain less than half of the glory that we might find together. I am keeping the faith that the goodness in us will triumph before it becomes too late. I’ll be at the No Kings protest tomorrow in the hopes that my feeble efforts to save my beloved United States of America will be echoed a million times over across the globe. I see that this is no time to hide away and rest. I will limp on my gimpy knees to demonstrate my love for country and for all people for however long it takes to set things right once again.

When my youngest daughter, Catherine, was a little girl she received a Le Mutt stuffed dog. She had many stuffed animals and dolls but somehow it was Le Mutt who stole her heart and literally went everywhere with her. She had clothes for Le Mutt and even encouraged her best friend, Traci, to allow her Fifi stuffed animal to marry Le Mutt. It was a marriage made in heaven. The two girls and two little pups were inseparable. 

Catherine brought Le Mutt on vacations, ceremoniously dressing him for camping and hiking. Of course she was not going to leave him behind in our tent when we went trudging up mountain trails. He was family after all and would not have missed the outing for anything. Le Mutt ate dinner with us and watched over Catherine when we all went to bed at night. He was as faithful as any little dog might be.

On one occasion we were driving in the middle of nowhere on our way to new adventures at a new campsite. We had stopped at one point to take some photos of a lovely scene and did not notice that Le Mutt had fallen out of the car. After we had driven for many miles Catherine became inconsolable when she discovered that he was no longer with us. She was not able to recall the last time that she had seen him so he might have been anywhere along the hundreds of miles that we had already driven but her Pop instantly knew that he had to retrace our steps. 

He turned our truck around and we all craned our necks hoping to see Le Mutt somewhere along the way. he drove as slowly as he could on a highway with speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour. It seemed like we had driven forever without any sign of the pup when suddenly we all remembered the spot where we had taken pictures and we were now very close to being back there. 

As soon as it felt as though we had reached the place where Le Mutt might be we slowed down to a snails pace. We had to look across the road because we had been traveling in the opposite direction before we realized that Le Mutt was missing. I said a silent prayer that we would soon find him because I knew how heartbroken Catherine would be if he was never discovered again. Not even purchasing a new Le Mutt would do. She loved the worn one that my mother had sewn back together many times when his seams came undone. 

As if the heavens had opened to perform a special miracle we all suddenly saw Le Mutt lying on the side of the road. Pop carefully made a U turn and parked on the shoulder. Le Mutt was a bit dusty but none the worse for wear and of course Catherine was ecstatic. 

There is no end to the story. Catherine is now in her fifties and she still has Le Mutt. Because she lives in an area where wildfires often break out she has a “go bag” ready to grab in the event that flames threaten her home. Always near the bag sits Le Mutt, who is still a member of her family. Her children have all heard the stories of their mother’s adventures with the sweet pup and they treasure him as much as she does. Even her husband seems to understand how special Le Mutt is. 

We each have memories from our childhood that are so wonderful that we never forget them. We draw on them for bit of happiness whenever times get tough. We recall those family picnics at the beach, the Friday nights at Grandma’s house, the neighborhood antics and the bicycle rides with Linda and Susan singing Jesus Love The Little Children with voices so loud that everyone in the neighborhood must have heard us. Sometimes there is that one special object that earned our fancy that we cherish forever or maybe it is the memory of something wonderful that one of our parents did for us like my husband patiently driving many miles in the wrong direction to retrieve a missing stuffed animal. We know that what really happened in those times was the definition of love. 

My own story is a bit more simple. I was supposed to have a Big Chief writing tablet for school the following day. I did not remember until just before I was supposed to go to bed. Back then no stores were open past five in the afternoon. The odds that my parents would find one were slim to none. My mother tried to soothe me but insisted that I would have to go to school without my required tablet. 

When I awoke the next morning not one but two Big Chief tablets were sitting on my dresser. My mother told me that my father had driven all over town until late in the night hoping to find what i needed. It took him hours but he finally got lucky and came home triumphant. 

I can’t even begin to describe how much I loved my father in that moment or how much Catherine love her Pop for helping her find Le Mutt. My father died just a little over a year from the day that he saved me from the certain wrath of my teacher. When I think of him I always remember how much he loved me. Parents need to know that when they do something wonderful we never forget. 

I have written about empathy before. It is something that I have experienced for all of my life. I suspect that I inherited the trait from my mother. I have learned over time that not everyone has the kind of deep feelings that arise from empathy and so it is quite understandable to me that some people might see the concept as some kind of new age woke idea that is silly at best. I would like to describe what it is for me but first I need to tell my readers once again how I finally knew what was causing the intense emotions that sometimes overtook me when I witnessed someone who was suffering. 

I was a great fan of the original Star Trek series. I don’t think that I have missed seeing any of the episodes and I have viewed most of them many times over. The one that struck me the most was about an individual from another planet who was an empath. In the episode this character almost died from feeling the pain of another person so intensely. At that moment I finally had a name for my own experience of becoming physically and mentally debilitated in the presence of suffering. 

I already knew that my mother reacted in a similar manner. I had seen her end up in bed for a day or two when tragedies struck her loved ones. She would eventually be revived and ready to perform her duties but she was still feeling a deep sense of oneness with whichever person was in a state of grief. People would come to her with their problems and she would listen attentively and then dwell on them until she literally felt sick. 

Some might describe what happened to her as a form of mental illness but it was so much more than just feeling down. It was as though she had taken on the woes of another person and carried them until she knew what she needed to do to nurture them and help them through their own devastation. She never claimed to feel exactly like they did. She understood that we can never totally know how someone else is feeling. She just saw their sorrow and instead of only offering tokens of sympathy, she felt some of the force of what was dragging them down. 

I am not as gifted with empathy as mother or the character on Star Trek were but I have had my share of moments when I became overwhelmed with painful understanding of how certain people around me were feeling. It was both a special ability and a kind of curse at one and the same time. As a teacher I encountered students with so much tragedy forced on them at very young ages that I would have to take a mental health day to heal myself of the physical and mental reactions that I was having for them. It did me no good to be so in tune with their feelings that I was unable to do my job. I had to learn how to moderate the intensity of what I was experiencing so that I might use my gift productively. 

I suppose that someone might read my thoughts and come to the conclusion that I am nutty as a fruitcake and need some help. Luckily I got the guidance that I needed from my dear friend, Pat, who was like a big sister to me. She saw and understood my empathetic nature and she is the one who helped me to learn how to use my gift without hurting so much for the person whose pain I was sharing that I would become ineffective. She was a savior for me who encouraged me to use my empathy as a wonderful way to understand people’s difficulties, something that she assured me not everyone understands. 

To this very day I fall in sync with individuals who are dealing with unbelievable life situations. I will never say that I feel exactly the same as they do. That would be impossible but my own emotions are very strong whenever I pick up on the difficulties that they are experiencing. It is simply just who I am just as my mother was. 

I sometimes feel confused when other people are not noticing that someone is silently crying out for help. I tended to be the go to teacher who first noticed a child in distress. Somehow I pick up on the body language, the eyes, the anxious stares, the changes in behavior and begin to deeply feel how the person is troubled. 

On a personal level I have friends who seem to read me with their own empathetic abilities. They will call me at the very moments when I am experiencing the most sorrow. Sometimes they live thousands of miles away but still have the sense that I need their comfort. Not even the people nearest me may be as observant and understanding. 

It is alright when people say that they do not have empathy. I suspect that not everyone truly understands what that word means to those of us who do. It is not to imply that we someone realize exactly how another person is feeling but we have a deep sense of the turmoil in their minds. Perhaps empathy is the reason that sometimes loving someone hurts. We carry their sorrows along with them and do our best to let them know how much we really care. Everyone needs an empathetic person in their lives. I have been lucky to have more than my fair share and they know who they are. I hope that I have shared my empathy generously as well.

Anyone who follows my blogs knows that my paternal grandmother, Minnie Bell Little was illiterate. It bothered her that she was unable to read or write but she nonetheless possessed a world of folk knowledge and good sense in her head. She cooked without recipes, knowing exactly how much of this and that to measure to create the most wonderful dishes. She was able to identify birds, animals and plants and speak of their habitats and habits with authority. She understood the natural world around her through observation and practice. 

One of the things that she had noticed is the connection between family members and their health problems. For that reason she warned me when I was only a child of the importance of knowing that “all of our kin die from gut troubles.” She had seen relatives writhing in pain on their deathbeds no doubt from gastrointestinal problems. She noted that members of her family seemed to have chronic heartburn and an affinity for drinking vinegar.

While such meanderings sometimes stunned me when I heard my grandmother mentioning them, I never forgot how earnestly she wanted me to know about them. It was not too surprising when she was diagnosed with colon cancer that required a colostomy and ultimately was the very thing that killed her. Years later when eating became difficult for me and heartburn blighted my days, I found myself telling my doctor what my grandmother had revealed to me. He applauded her intelligence in understanding the connections that we have with our ancestors in medical issues. 

I was diagnosed with GERD and given a prescription that mostly keeps my acid reflux under control. Now again I have an horrific flareup that awakens me in the middle of the night with excruciating pain. I have learned the value of ingesting apple cider vinegar as a quick fix that eliminates the horrific sensation that someone has poured battery acid down my throat. I think of my Grandma Minnie Bell each time this kind of thing happens. 

The origins of our individual health issues can so often be traced to some kind of familial trait. The members of my mother’s family had a preponderance of heart disease and so too did she. That trendecy has not affected me but the prevalence of osteoporosis in all three of my aunts has followed me and my bones. I have kept the worst aspects of that disorder under semi-control with medications, exercise and biannual injections. My hope is that I will be able to avoid becoming wheelchair bound as they eventually were. Ironically my mother never developed the problem but those genes most assuredly jumped over to me. 

Grandma Minnie had a noticeable hump in her back and not so surprisingly so do I. Perhaps if people had paid closer attention to family medical histories someone would have been watching to see if I would develop scoliosis which I now know that I have. When I was younger my mother was unaware of such things so she was always telling me to stand up straight. I kept insisting that I was standing as best I was able. She had me loop my arms around a broomstick hoping that walking around in that manner would realign the curvature in my back. Nowadays school nurses check for such things and children’s back are corrected which will save them from a lifetime of back pain.

My father died in a car accident but I suspect that if he had lived his ultimate demise might have been like that of his mother. At the age of thirty three he was already having pronounced trouble with his gut. In fact he had joined the army during World War Ii but he did not last long. He developed ulcers so severe spent most of his time in the hospital. As a child I remember him being admitted the the VA hospital multiple times with digestive difficulties and pain that had continued into his twenties and thirties. 

My primary care physician has always been keenly aware of the connections between one person’s health and the family history of various ailments and diseases. I had to fill out a lengthy document outlining everything that every medical condition that my parents had and that my brothers have endured. So far the things his diagnoses of me seem to branch from Grandma Minnie Bell’s side of the family tree. I find that somehow appropriate given that she seemed so sure that I was much like her when I was still not quite ten.

Our family’s medical mystery lies with my brothers who have both been recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. None of my four grandparents or their children had this but a cousin on my mother’s side of the family was diagnosed with this fairly early in his life and ultimately died from it in his eighties. If there is indeed a genetic connection it has to be from somewhere in my mother’s family but I suppose that we will never know for sure. 

Being a medical detective is so interesting to me. At one time I considered becoming a nurse or a doctor but ultimately felt called to be a teacher. Now I spend a great deal of time studying human anatomy and the diseases that attack us. I keep my ultimate care with my doctors and follow their learned advice because I want the advice of learned professionals, not pseudoscience determining my fate. Still, I sometimes think back to my grandmother and feel a sense of awe that she was so smart to warn me of what might come in my future. So far she has kept me feeling better than I might otherwise have been because my doctors have heard what she predicted and used it to chart a medical plan built just for me. I think that would make Grandma quite happy.

Have you ever thought about all of the millions of things that had to happen over time in order for you to be wherever you are right now? it’s pretty amazing when you get right down to analyzing it. One tiny change might have altered everything and the world would be without you. 

I think of my parents meeting each other at a small company called Reed Roller Bit when they were both quite young. My mother was doing secretarial work and my father was there for the summer as a draftsman earning money for his college tuition. My mother first noticed him when they were both waiting for the same bus to arrive each afternoon at the end of the work day. Initially they said nothing to each other but my mother was intrigued by the young man who would was so much younger that the other guys who worked there. She did some digging and learned that he was an engineering student at Texas A&M which caught her fancy even more. With her sparkling personality she decided to get to know him. 

One afternoon as they were both walking to the bus stop she flirtatiously called out to him, saying that if he waited up they might sit together on the ride home. He turned in amazement as he saw the beautiful girl who was inviting herself into his life and instantly stopped in his tracks. Of course the rest is history because they began dating and fell in love and got married and by 1948 I was born. In truth however so much more had to happen for their destinies to collide in the summer of 1946. 

My paternal grandparents were from Virginia and Texas. The odds of their meeting were slim and it did not happen until they were both in their forties when my grandfather was staying in a boarding house in Oklahoma where he was working. As fate would have it my grandmother was the cook for the borders and one evening Grandpa asked to meet whoever was concocting such delicious meals. When Grandma came out of the kitchen she stole his heart and before long his single days were over. 

Of course they had to get to Houston for my father to be working there. They travelled to many places each time that my grandfather heard about a new construction job. Eventually their journey took them to Texas and finally to Houston were they lived in a lovely home on Arlington St., my father’s destination from work each evening. 

I have no idea how my maternal grandparents met. I only knew that they were both from Czechoslovakia and that my grandfather immigrated to Galveston, Texas in 1912. From there he found his way to Houston where he lived in a boarding house until he had enough funds to send for my grandmother in 1913. Once she joined him they also moved about but soon settled in Houston on North Adams Street where my mother was going each evening when her shift as a secretary was done. 

What had to happen before my grandparents were born is so interesting to me. While my the ancestors from my paternal grandmother were in what is now the United States long before the American Revolution, I have little idea about those who came before my paternal grandfather. I know that he was born in North Carolina but the genealogical trail ends for him with his parents.

My paternal ancestors from my grandmother came to America from Great Britain. They came from Irish and Scottish stock and I have tracked their story all the way back to Normans and Vikings. My maternal grandparents both had parents and grandparents who were from Czechoslovakia but it would be unlikely that the family was always in that part of the world. After my great great maternal grandparents the trial ends.

I remember watching a television special called Roots when I was a young adult. It was a fascinating story about a man who was able to retrace his family all the way back to Africa. I suppose that each of ushave a yearning to know how we got to where we are now. It is in our natures to want to understand more of who we are and where our people have been. It provides us with a better idea of how we came to be. It also shows us how so many little things had to fall exactly into place to become a very specific member of the human race. 

I enjoy hearing the stories of people. I find that while they might differ enormously there are also so many commonalities that we all share. We all too often believe that our differences make us unable to truly understand each other but revealing the stories of our lives almost always demonstrates how alike we humans ultimately are. What is always the many things that had to take place to create the unique and wonderful person each of us is. It’s pretty wonderful and amazing when you think about it. Every human is the compilation of a million little miracles.