Author: Sharron Burnett

I used to see old couples celebrating anniversaries well beyond fifty years and think that they were just so cute. I never really thought of what those decades of devotion must have entailed as they shared a lifetime together. Now that I have recently celebrated fifty five years with my husband, Mike, I understand how much more profound a long term relationship actually is. I realize that the word “cute” is a stunningly inaccurate word for describing the lifetime of events that encapsulate the efforts and devotion of two people who have pledged their fealty to one another.

Life is beautiful, but it has a tendency to get messy and difficult for everyone. Surprises are always just around the next corner and they are not always about fun and laughter. Over a span of fifty five years there will be long stretches of mundane routines that involve hard work. Finding joy in the ordinary is often the only respite from the daily grind. The hug shared before leaving for a job in the dark of early morning is a cue to stay the course. Sharing a story or a joke at the end of the day is a reminder of how comfortable it feels to have someone who totally gets you just as you are. 

Things happen that rock your world along the pathway of fifty five years. Babies are born and those babies grow into beautiful young adults with their own journeys to follow. Loved ones become ill and some of them die. New friends become old friends over time. The world at large challenges serenity. Nothing stays exactly the same except for the love that anchors two people during the inevitable storms. In the blink of an eye there are tests of resilience. The road can become rocky and steep. Navigating together strengthens the bonds even as it tests their fortitude. The future often feels uncertain and even frightening. The steady presence and loyalty of the faithful person whose love has endured makes the worst of times bearable.

Since October 4, 1968, Mike has been my stalwart. We grew and evolved together. Our impact on each other has been greater than the influence of our parents. We almost share a brain, completing thoughts and sentences with uncanny similarity. We are two individuals who together comprise a singularly unique entity. We have supported each other in the quest of our dreams. We have enjoyed the melding of our talents and the acceptance of our unique beliefs. We are one while truly being ourselves in ways that few others understand or allow us to be. 

Of course we have our differences, our spats, but those are few and brief. We are comfortable not having to put on airs or force ourselves into round holes when we are feeling square. That is the beauty of fifty five years of companionship. We really do complete each other in the most romantic sense of that phrase. Together is the safest place that we can possibly be. Together we still have the ability to tilt windmills or just sit together in silence. 

I remember the first date that I shared with Mike. We were both naively immature but we thought of ourselves as adults. The backdrop of our world was riddled with war and unrest. We had little idea of what was to come but somehow we both instantly felt the connection that sparked between us. We were able to say things out loud that we had always before kept secreted in our hearts. It was magical and exciting. 

These days we are wiser. We know that our future will be together, but as we age it is impossible to know how long that will be. Friends with whom we shared our youthful beginnings are already gone. Adults on whom we relied for wisdom are no longer here. Our children and grandchildren dote on us as they build their own tomorrows. We in turn dream of futures for them that we hope will be as bright as our lives have been. While we wish that they will never have to face some of the trials that came our way, we know all too well that they will not find shelter from stressful situations that find their way to everyone. 

Fifty five years have passed since nineteen year old me made a pledge to an earnest young man. I sometimes shudder when I think of how young we were and how unaware we were of the challenges that lay ahead. We had to mature quickly or become another casualty of youthful passion. Somehow we knew that it was worth the hard work to persevere. We persisted through it all and as we did we both knew that we had indeed found the perfect partner for playing the game of life.   

Recently I read about the seventy seven year marriage of Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter. I love to think that Mike and I still have twenty two more years ahead of us, but the odds of such longevity are the exception, not the norm. I’ll take whatever was meant to be. I try not to think too far ahead. It’s best just to be happy with each day, each moment as it comes. If I have one wish it would be for everyone to find the kind of special person that I encountered at my cousin’s birthday party in the long ago. All in all the years have been so wonderful that I still feel exactly like that young girl and to me he is still that young man. Somehow we just know that we were meant to be. 

My mother often accused me of being a control freak. I suspect that much of her belief that I wanted to rule the world came from the years of guiding her through medical interventions for her bipolar disorder. At the age of twenty I became her unofficial mental health caretaker. It was not a job that I wanted or ever enjoyed and it endured for well over forty years until I was quite weary of the battles that her periodic psychoses would engender. I often found myself wishing that I might have a more “normal” mother/daughter relationship whatever that may be. I became so accustomed to taking over when she needed help to regain her footing that I indeed became more irritable and bossy than patient and kind. I suspect that I had developed a “take charge” personality that filtered into every aspect of my life. Somehow keeping my world in a steady state seemed to be the main goal of daily life. I needed order and design in my home and in my work. I became the dreaded control freak that my mother claimed me to be even as I denied her accusations. 

I am sad to admit that in my mother’s final months of life I totally lost any semblance of authority over either her life or my own. The school where I worked was in a state of chaos and because I had decided to retire to provide my mom with more of my time and care my influence over events had greatly waned. When my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer I refused to believe that it was as bad as the doctor indicated. I thought that I would be able to put all of my efforts into getting her well and everything would eventually work out perfectly. Unfortunately the cancer ended her life only a few days after I had worked my last day in schools. I felt as though I was drowning in failure. 

I have since realized that life does not always bend to our commands the way we wish it to do. Forces beyond my influence had changed the school and so too had lung cancer overruled my determination to keep my mother healthy. In the end she had reasserted herself and become the mother while I became simply her child. She left this earth in full command of her destiny and it was a beautiful thing to witness. At the same time she officially passed the mantle of family matriarch to me, a title that has made me both honored and uncomfortable. 

I still struggle to maintain a sense of order and design in my life, but I have learned that I can’t always plan for ways to keep things running with constant smoothness. The unexpected happens and throws all of my world into disorder. A pandemic changes the course of my life. Aging sends my father-in-law to a long hospital stay and then to my home. A procedure that should have taken a day of recovery almost ends my husband’s life. A beloved cousin who always made me laugh suddenly is overcome with dementia and dies within weeks of being diagnosed. My brothers are plagued with illnesses. Friends have life changing accidents. I feel as though I am Alice tumbling down a deep and dark rabbit hole and all I can do is take a deep breath and hope that my landing will be somewhat soft. My efforts to control go unanswered until I realize that the only thing that I have the power to influence is myself. I have to learn to go with the flow or as a dear friend often says, how to float peacefully on the water. 

It’s not easy for me, but in my heart I hear my loving mother chiding me for attempting to force changes on others as though I always know what is best. Now it is time for me to take control of myself or surely I will be miserable in the knowledge that the mule I have been pushing for most of my life is never going to move. Perhaps I should simply walk away from him and hope that he will follow. 

I’ll be the first to admit that I am struggling mightily with caring for my father-in-law who makes my mother seem like a docile saint in comparison. With forcefulness I was always able to convince her to do the right thing. He, on the other hand, is an immutable force. He knows how he wants to live and there will be no changing him after ninety four years of living on this earth. He decides how he is going to live out the last years of his life and I might make suggestions but he will ultimately be the captain of his own ship. I am beginning to understand as I battle with him for primacy that I am indeed a world class control freak who thinks she has all of the answers, but in truth is just as uncertain as others. For my own sanity I have had to learn how to back away, at least for now. He is still mostly clear minded even though sometimes forgetful and confused. He wants to make his own decisions and I understand that I must honor him by allowing him to do so. Sometimes it’s best just to walk alongside someone rather that always attempting to lead. 

I am an altruistic person who worries and frets over the well being of others. There have been times when I have had to be forceful to help them out of harm’s way. Still it is time that I learned when It is more appropriate to just let them be. Letting go of the reins and handing them over to someone else is scary but often the best thing to do. 

Just as I had to have faith in my daughters when they flew away from the comfort of my nest, I will have to allow my father-in-law to do things his way at least until the if and when time that he is no longer able to make such decisions. I would do well to save my energy and my concerns for now and simply enjoy our time with him. I only wish that it were easier for me to do. A lifetime of being in charge has left me uncertain about just letting go, but I know that I must try. 

There are emotional moments in life that stay with us over time. Something seemingly insignificant, an object, a word, a song will remind us of a person that we loved deeply who is no longer sharing our lives. I suppose I will never forget the scene in a restaurant during the Christmas season when I was having a wonderful time with a group of teachers with whom I worked. We were in a festive mood in the room filled with the sights and sounds of the season. Favorite Christmas carols hummed in the background of our joy and laughter when quite abruptly a member of our group began crying as she rushed from the table. 

I immediately volunteered to follow her to determine what had upset her so. I found her standing outside sobbing while attempting to compose herself. I gave her a hug without prying and she admitted that she was missing her mother who had died in that moment. She spoke of her mother’s love of Christmas and most of all Christmas music. She weakly smiled through her tears and confessed that the scene of joy around the table with her mother’s favorite song playing in the background had suddenly released beautiful memories of times spent with her mom that overcame her. 

I understood what my colleague and friend had been attempting to convey. I, like most of us, am often move by music. There is something so incredibly powerful about the messages that certain songs and symphonies send directly to our hearts. As John Lennon once said in an interview, “Talking is the slowest form of communication.” For him music was a much better way to speak honestly to the world, and he did that so very well. The messages contained in his compositions of melodies and lyrics are not just poetic, they are powerful expressions of his very soul. 

I have taken moments again and again to listen to the latest Beatle song that was released last week. After decades the Fab Four are together again thanks to the marvels of technology with a lyrical song called Now and Then that was recorded by John Lennon on a cassette tape as he sat at his piano in the Dakota apartment that he share with his wife, Yoko Ono. 

According to those who knew him well John was content in the days before he died. He had a young son, Sean, whom he loved as deeply as any father ever has. He and his boyhood friend, Paul McCartney, had made peace with one another after Paul and his wife, Linda, came to visit. As McCartney was leaving John told him to “think of me now and then old friend.” It was as though both men had overcome any difficulties that had caused a rift in both their friendship and their musical collaboration. 

Neither of them knew in that moment of reconciliation that John would soon be dead, a victim of violence. It had to be quite profound for Paul McCartney when Yoko Ono sent him a tape labeled Now and Then on which John Lennon seemed to be expressing his feelings in ways that talking had never worked for him. It was both an apology and an assurance that John had always loved Paul. He had not forgotten his boyhood friend. 

The tape was so poorly done that it seemed almost worthless even as Paul and the three remaining Beatles attempted to make a go of turning it into a recording. It would take decades before artificial intelligence made it possible to separate John’s voice from the dominance of the piano. What evolved is a beautiful song about the endurance of friendship. In many ways it was John Lennon’s last message of how much that connection had always meant to him. It is so beautiful that I cry every time I listen to it.

The world has endured very trying times in the last few years. We pulled together for a time but then our emotions were highjacked by political forces. New alliances were formed, not based on our shared memories, but on making our beliefs seem counter to one another. It suddenly became anathema to have differing views about how to solve problems. We became so divided that families and friendships that had endured through entire lifetimes were sometimes shattered. It was heartbreaking to watch because deep in our hearts we knew how much we still loved one another. Somehow the words we used to mend the hurts seemed only to make things worse. We were left wondering if those whose love we had lost ever thought of us now and then the way we always thought of them. 

The song Now and Then is a masterpiece in my mind. It conveys the kind of longing that we have to convey the depth of our feelings. We miss the people who somehow seem to have misunderstood how much we loved them. Somehow they took hurtful words uttered in a thoughtless moment to heart and did not understand that our feelings for them were so strong and pure that we felt that nothing would ever tear us apart, not even a few sentences spoken without considering the consequences. 

John Lennon was my favorite Beatle. His songs were pure poetry. His words conveyed a thousand emotions. Now his dear friend, Paul, has shared one of his last gifts with all of us. It is a message of love that all of us can understand. 

Go find the video. Listen to the lyrics. You will cry.

My Grandpa William Mack Little was generally a happy man even though he might have had many reasons to be miserable, sad, depressed. He spoke little about the deprivations of his life unless someone prompted him. I knew that his mother died at the time of his birth and that his father immediately took him to grow up with his grandmother. He was quite content with life in rural Virginia with the grandmother who raised him. He frequently told stories of that time, all of which focused on his admiration for his grandmother. Sadly she was already quite advanced in age when she lovingly accepted the job of being his mother. He only enjoyed his time with her until he was thirteen years old when she died. An uncle would become his guardian, but William was mostly on his own by then. He was thrown into the responsibilities of being an adult before he had celebrated his sixteenth year on this earth. 

My grandfather understood the limitations of his father’s ability to care for him. The two of them were never able to establish much more than a formal relationship with each other. Instead Grandpa mostly made his own way in the world, moving from one construction job to another wherever there was work to be found. His was a lonely life lived in temporary housing supported by incredibly long days of physical labor. It was not until he was in his forties that he found the love of his life, Minnie Bell. By his account he adored her from the first time he met her until he died at the age of one hundred eight long after she was gone. 

Grandpa never accumulated wealth but he was rich in his ability to find happiness in the mundane. Instead of bemoaning the trials of his existence he focused on the tribulations. He spent his last years in a rented room in a tiny house but celebrated his good fortune in finding a landlord who would become like a daughter to him. He was satisfied just to have a comfortable recliner in which to sit while he read his newspapers and magazines and books. He looked back on his life with a smile and only became a bit melancholy when he spoke of living so long that he had lost so many of the people that he had loved including his wife, his children, many grandchildren and all of his friends. Still he reveled in those who took the time to visit with him and to enjoy his stories and his wisdom. 

I was in my forties when my grandfather died. It was one of the greatest losses that I have experienced. From the time I was a little girl he had served as a kind of surrogate for my father, his son who died tragically when he was only thirty three. As I matured and launched my own life I began to realize more and more how magnificently Grandpa had lived his life. He would never be lauded for his business acumen or his possessions but he was perhaps the greatest man I would ever know. I admired him for his ability to survive and celebrate his “good fortune” in always landing squarely on his feet. He was a man who lived well because he decided to do so.

Grandpa was the quintessential optimist. His mantra was that “these are the good old days.” He believed in progress and had great faith that humans would always manage to find their way beyond tragedies, wars, disasters. He had seen the progressive march into the future for all of his lifetime and he believed that overall it was very good. He celebrated the inventiveness of humankind as well as the kindness that invariably finds its way into even the most difficult times and situations. He saw his grandmother, his uncle, and his wife as living proof of the decency of people. He spoke of examples he had encountered again and again. He saw that our human instinct of being kind always ultimately outweighed our darker inclinations. He was certain that good would win over evil in the long run. 

Grandpa seemed to bear no ill will or jealousies toward others. He admired people who achieved greatness. He did not see life as a competition with others. He believed in sharing whatever he had with others much as he had witnessed his grandmother and his wife doing. He saw people as being equal to one another regardless of their actual status as sometimes judged by others. He was a champion of the underdog as well as the person who had reached the heights of achievement. He literally did not see one as more worthy of respect than the other. 

Grandpa did not fret and worry. Experience had taught him that things have a way of working out over time. He was content with each day as it came. He was wise enough to know when it was time to work hard and when it was time to just sit back and relax. He liked to talk and listen and laugh. He found great joy in a bowl of ice cream or a hug. He often cautioned me not to be as anxious as he sensed that I was. He explained that over thinking about problems or what may happen next week or next year did nothing but make us unhappy. Carpe diem was his mantra even when the only thing to seize was waking up in the morning. 

I see so much sorrow and fear and complaining all around me. I wish that I had the power to convey the contentment and joy that my Grandpa Little radiated. I know that I am all too often guilty of feeling a sense of doom as I experience the effects of climate change and observe the suffering in the world. I know that my grandfather would tell me to look for the heroes because they are always there even when they appear to be silenced by evil. He would urge me to have hope and patience and most of all not to let anyone steal my joy. In remembering him I restore my footing and accept his challenge to be happy. 

Back in September I watched the live stream of a panel discussion of the imprisonment of The Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich. The event advertised as Journalism Is Not A Crime took place at Bowdoin College in Brunswick Maine where Evan was a graduate in 2014. The panelists included an editor of The Wall Street Journal, a professor who taught Evan creative writing at Bowdoin, and the former editor of the Bowdoin student newspaper who became good friends with Evan when they were both students. 

Evan Gershkovich is the son of parents who immigrated to the United States from Russia. He grew up in a new Jersey household where both English and Russian were spoken, so he was bilingual and fascinated with the culture of his family. A gifted writer, he majored in journalism at Bowdoin and graduated in 2014. He quickly had job offers to work as a reporter for a newspaper in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania but The Moscow Times also tempted him with a position. He weighed the two possibilities and chose The Moscow Times, an independent English and Russian language online newspaper that was mainly targeted at English speaking tourists visiting Russia. It gave Evan an opportunity to learn more about the customs, culture and people of Russia while honing his skills a a reporter. Eventually his writing caught the eye of The New York Times. When The Wall Street Journal took notice of his work and offered him a position as the reporter in Russia he jumped at the opportunity to immerse himself in learning more about the country that so fascinated him. He went to work for the journal shortly before the outbreak of the war in Ukraine, sometimes living in Russia and other time staying in London for weeks as a time where he became an avid Arsenal fan. When the war with Ukraine made working in Russia more dangerous he nonetheless insisted on returning. His belief was that the world needed to know the truth of what was happening there. Last March he was suddenly arrested and charged with espionage. After several appeals he remains incarcerated.

The purpose of the panel at Bowdoin was mostly to raise awareness and support for his cause. an editor from The Wall Street Journal insists that Evan is not a spy as do those who know him best. They spoke of his sense of humor, love of people, and incredible ability to put just the right words together to tell a story. They are in contact with him and noted his optimism and their desire to keep Evan hopeful while the United States government works toward brokering his release. They all insisted that Evan was determined to write about the human side of living in Russia with honesty and compassion and nothing more. They are certain that he was not a spy, but simply a writer intent on telling truths. They suspect that his arrest was aimed more at punishing the United States for its support of Ukraine than because of any rules that Evan had broken. 

I suppose what struck me most about the panel discussion was the realization that Evan graduated from Bowdoin at about the same time that the KIPP Houston High School Class of 2010 did from the many colleges that they chose to attend after they left my guidance. I was designated as the leader of their class and I watched over them as though I was their mother. From the time they were freshman until their final day as seniors I monitored each individual’s progress, counseling those who were having difficulties, working with their teachers, writing countless letters of recommendation as they applied to colleges and universities across the nation. I knew and loved each and every one of them, so when many of them graduated from college in 2014 like Evan did I was there to witness their accomplishments. I watched them continue to grow and mature and chart their journeys into adulthood.

While all of my former students have mostly entered their thirties, I still remember them as wide eyed high school students full of so many dreams. In my mind a college graduate of 2014, are still very young persons attempting to build exciting and pleasurable live even as they have accepted very adult challenges much as Evan Gershkovich has done. It would pain me deeply to learn that any of them were in harm’s way. I feel a particular affinity for Evan’s plight and want to join in the attempt to raise awareness about the injustice of his imprisonment.

The members of the panel at Bowdoin are already working hard to keep Evan’s story in the public mind. They have mounted letter writing campaigns for him and held rallies to increase awareness of Evan’s situation. They have been working with our government to find ways to broker Evan’s release. Their concern lies in the reality that another American accused of espionage, Paul Whelan, has been imprisoned for five years. Their hope is that Evan will not face the same fate, but a kind of darkness has descended on Russia that is reminiscent of the Cold War in the days of the Soviet Union. It is more and more difficult to learn the truth of what is actually happening in the country. There is worry that he will be used as an example, a warning not only for other journalists but for the citizens of Russia as well.

Evan spent the summer before his arrest reporting honestly about how the Russian people were reacting to the war with Ukraine. He had commented that reporting on Russia meant watching people get locked away for life simply because of their views. In beautifully written articles he spoke of Russians attempting to live with the realities of war while trying to lead normal lives. He drank with them and watched them doing yoga. He saw them behaving as though nothing was happening in Ukraine even as they were cautious and unwilling to be totally open about their fears. Evan insisted on staying in Russia even after the war broke out because he believed it was important for the world to know what was happening there. Now his future is uncertain.

I will personally do what I can to keep Evan’s story alive. I understand his passion for writing what he believes to be true. I can relate to his interest in learning about the country from which his parents came. I too have longed to know more about Slovakia, the birth place of my maternal grandparents. I feel great sorrow that he has been caught up in a struggle that is bigger than his need to know and understand. I hope that we as Americans will rally to make him free as soon as possible. It has been six months since Evan was arrested. Keep his cause alive. Spread the word. #Free Evan! Journalism is not a crime.