Author: Sharron Burnett

Every human has a family saga which may or may not be known depending on how much our parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles are willing to share with us. Tracking down my own history has been rather difficult given that my father died when I was only eight, a time before I had even thought to question him about his ancestors. My mother was mostly tight lipped, given to very little discussion about her life as a child or the stories of her mother and father. I have been forced to piece together an incomplete puzzle with many missing pieces and even contradictions. I have only been able to trace the long lineage of my grandmother Minnie Bell Smith. Knowledge of every other grandparent ends with mostly questions.

There are those who see little value in tracking down the names of the people whose lives trickled down to the moment of our own births. They seem to think that knowing our origins does nothing to change who we actually are, but I am of a mind that those names from the past provide us with important knowledge about ourselves. Through them we are able to follow the amazing journey of our little branch of humankind. 

Perhaps the most stunning absence of information comes from my paternal grandfather, the ultimate storyteller who inspired me to record my own tales of living. Even he was somewhat uncertain about just how he came to be. All he knew was that his mother died within days of giving birth to him. He thought her name was Marion Rourke, but I have been unable to find any evidence that she even existed. His father was James Mack, a man who was seemingly overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising a child alone. His response to the tragedy was to take his infant son to a woman named Sarah Reynolds whom my grandfather knew as his grandmother. 

None of these people show up in official records even though they presumably were living somewhere in either North Carolina or Virginia. Their connections with each other are not to be found in marriage licenses, birth records, or even census documents. It is as though all of them were flying under the radar, ciphers in their own presence. Years of research and DNA testing have yielded nothing to verify that my grandfather even had parents or grandparents, but of course he must have had ancestors like the rest of us. 

Grandpa told me that his beloved grandmother died when he was thirteen. Since he was a minor he had to have a guardian to administer the small inheritance that his grandmother left him. At court the judge allowed him to choose the person that he wanted to guide him into adulthood. Given his lack of contact with his birth father for most of his life, he asked the judge to name an uncle named John Little to be his official guardian.

John Little was an honorable man according to Grandpa. He had attended the United States Military Academy at West Point and my grandfather so admired him that he ultimately changed his own name from Mack to Little. He kept his father’s name as his middle name which became a nickname among his friends and coworkers who often referred to him as Mack.

I have found John Little and know who his family was. I can trace his ancestry far back in time, but I have never been able to find any kind of connection between him and my grandfather. I even tried contacting John Little’s descendants to find out it any of them knew how he was an uncle to my Grandpa. 

Unfortunately John Little died in Puerto Rico. A deadly hurricane had devastated the island country in 1900, and Captain Little was sent to help in the aftermath. While there he contracted typhus and died leaving a young wife and an infant daughter. It is likely that his early demise left much to be learned about his own story, leaving his descendants to wonder why I seemed to think that he was somehow one of my ancestors as well. 

We humans have a desire to know who we are, how our stories began. I can follow a thread all the way back to Norwegian Vikings in my Grandmother Minnie Bell’s line. I at least know who my Slovakian great great and great great great grandparents were even though I never had an opportunity to quiz my grandparents about their lives before boarding steamships and traveling to Galveston, Texas where their life in America began. 

Three fourths of who I am is hidden in the mists of history, but I have a determination to somehow solve the mystery. I am connected to my ancestors by threads that seem broken, but surely there is a knot somewhere that will lead me back along the journey that those people took. Somehow I feel them calling to me, wanting me to know them even in very small ways. I know that they matter. I believe that they want me to know them so that I might be the voice of their stories. Somewhere out there are the answers. 

I have become more contemplative in the past ten years. Writing has been a kind of therapy for me as I look back on my own life and life in general. I am certain that my father’s death represented the most traumatic event I ever experienced.  Even though I eventually moved on from the pain and fear induced by the suddenness of his passing, I realize how this one event influenced my thoughts and my decisions for decades to come. I walked through the days and months and years after my father’s death in a kind of fog. I was not continually sad or even thinking about him, but his influence over me had been imprinted on my heart and whether I was conscious of doing so at the time, I made choices based on what I thought he would have expected of me.

Just as I had found joy in sharing my father’s love of reading when he was alive, I sought comfort in books and learning after he was gone. School was a place where I felt normal and in control. Whenever my anxiety for my family raged, I was able to calm it with my studies. I suppose that I unconsciously used the gift of curiosity that my father had instilled in me to maintain a sense of direction and calm in what might have otherwise been a childhood marked by uncertainty. Learning gave me a higher purpose and a goal that diverted my attention from sorrow and worry. I was unable to dwell on my loss when my brain was engaged in the tasks of reading, writing, and analyzing. 

When I became an adult and things began to fall apart once again with the diagnosis of my mother’s mental illness, teaching others would become the panacea for my worries. I channeled my anxieties into my work and never failed to find the calm and the happiness that I needed. Somehow I have always been able to turn off the random thoughts that lead me to silly obsessions with worry by donning my armor of learning. 

I have been formally retired from teaching for a dozen years, but in that time I never stopped being an educator. Any thoughts that I may have had about leading a life of leisure soon changed when the school bells rang again and I had no place to go. I was longing for students who were not there. I felt as though an integral part of my happiness was gone. I reached out for opportunities to continue my work in small ways and soon found that the need for my services was still there. Since then I have had more than enough connections with young people wanting to learn mathematics and each August I return to the routines that have seemed to calm me since I was an eight year old child trying to make sense of a world without my father. 

This year I will have a dozen or so students working on mathematics from the basics of fourth and fifth grade the foundations for Calculus. They are sweet and eager souls who look to me to demystify the algorithms and theorems developed by the geniuses of history. I do my best to help them to feel comfortable as they attempt to master concepts that sometimes seem to be irrelevant to them. I show them how the many strands of mathematics all work together in every aspect of their lives. 

I’ve been planning for my classes since the beginning of July and gathering the supplies and tools that my students will need for the coming lessons. I look forward to seeing them again. I suspect that they have little idea how much joy they bring to me. They would never guess that they energize me and keep me from growing old too soon. They would be surprised to learn that they make me continue to feel close to my father. I feel his spirit within me when I am teaching. They are also the best possible medicine to tamp down the worries that threaten to overwhelm me when I have nothing to do but think too far into future about possibilities that probably will never happen.

My mother was also a teacher for a brief time. It became too much for her to be responsible for a classroom when her recurring illness became a constant feature of her life. It made me sad that she had to leave her career behind because it had brought her a special kind of contentment. Sadly the cycles of depression and mania that hit her with great regularity did not allow her to plan ahead or lose herself in her work. It was a loss to the world when she was no longer able to be an educator. There are few who have the devotion and stamina that it takes to be a great teacher and she had once possessed those traits. I suppose that she had inspired me as much as my father had.

The parents of my students are always graciously thankful that I am guiding their children. I suspect that they have no idea how much their children give to me. As I think back on my own time as a student and the many decades of being a teacher I now realize how incredibly fortunate I have been to have memories of education that still vividly bring me comfort. I can honestly say that I found my true purpose in life and I’ve never had a moment’s regret. The joy that has saved me all began when I was sitting next to my father as he explained to me how everything worked. Somehow passing that knowledge on has kept his memory alive.    

The Bible speaks of seasons of our lives. It is certainly true that we navigate through eras in which we have certain responsibilities. Sometimes we do better with some of our challenges than with others. We adapt and we grow as we face down the inevitable joys and difficulties that come with living. So it has always been with me. I learned how to deal with aspects of my story that I was unable to change. Instead I adjusted my own thinking and ways of doing things. I became rather good at being flexible even as I more often than not initially grinched when yet another trouble came my way. Like anyone I preferred the times when life moved slowly and according to a comfortable routine while understanding that such sojourns are often short lived. 

By the mid nineteen eighties I had experienced multiple traumas and found myself still standing. I suppose that the crises I had endured had scarred me while also making me a stronger and more compassionate person. I became far less judgmental than I might otherwise have been. I realized that behind every person was a private story that sometimes weighed so heavily that it was difficult to make it from one day to the next. I saw that most questionable behavior in students, and adults for that matter, is born from pain and suffering of some kind. I realized that the grouchy parent who screamed at me might be carrying a heavy load of despair. I had learned to approach people gently and without prejudice because of the many times when I myself had feigned smiles and energy attempting to cover my pain. 

I had also learned that tragedies come at us from out of nowhere. We can certainly make plans for a day or a week or a month or years into the future, but it’s always best to think about what we will do if things fall apart. It’s okay if our first reaction is to rant and complain, but at some point we have to learn how to pull ourselves together. Sometimes this requires first being gentle on ourselves by letting some of our duties go. 

I reached a point in which working, caring for my family, and watching over my mother had become firmly entrenched in my routines. I was not yet forty years old and I had already lived a lifetime of unexpected surprises that had rocked my world. Things settled down for a time when my eldest daughter, Maryellen, was in high school and Catherine was heading for intermediate school. I was working at St. Anne’s School teaching six different mathematics classes and serving as Chairperson of the Mathematics Department. It was a glorious time when my whole world felt calmer than it had for most of my life. 

The school was housed in a beautiful historic building that one of my grandsons would later describe as resembling Hogwarts in the Harry Potter stories. My classroom was massive with a bank of large windows that provided me with a view of the city of Houston that was both serene and bustling. The wooden floors creaked when I walked over them and the cabinets and shelves seemed to be living things that might have told many tales if they had only had voices. I loved it there and found so much joy in the quieter interim of my life. 

My students came from miles around. Some commuted from as far as forty miles away. Others lived in the nearby neighborhood. Some were enormously wealthy, others were scholarship students who lived in some of the most economically stressed neighborhoods in the city. Uniforms made it difficult to differentiate the rich from the poor. All of them were delightful, but as with any group I soon enough found those whose lives were complex and challenging. Those with money were not immune to sad situations. Life tends to dole out horrors without discrimination.

In the very first month of my sojourn at St. Anne’s we came back to school from the Labor Day holiday to learn that one of our students had endured a deadly car accident while traveling to celebrate the occasion with relatives. Not only was his mother killed in the wreck, but he was severely injured as well. It would be many weeks before he returned, broken and much changed from the happy go lucky individual he had once been. 

I witnessed an outpouring of love from the faculty and the students unlike anything I have ever seen before or since. We began the day by gathering the entire student body inside the church where we cheered the young man to express our joy that he had returned. Then we prayed for him and for his family, admitting that while our words were not sufficient to counter his loss, we promised to help him to regain his footing and hopefully to eventually find his joy. The sense of community and caring wrapped all of us in its warmth and I knew that both that young man and I were in a very good place. 

I suppose that my story became rather mundane for a time, but it certainly felt good not to have to look over my shoulder wondering when the next shoe would drop. I felt like a member of a great big diverse family where hope and joy reigned supreme. I worked with the energy of a continuous motion machine, but I didn’t seem to get tired. I had learned how to concentrate on the moment and give my full attention to whomever needed me and to myself as well. I had become expert at juggling, balancing on a barrel, and spinning plates on my head all at the same time and having fun while doing it. Multitasking had somehow become a breeze. I savored this good time with family and friends. These were indeed the golden years.

My mother made coffee every morning and I never drank it because I did not like the taste. My grandmother offered me a cup of coffee each time I visited and I sipped because I knew that she offered it out of love. I never got into the habit of consuming coffee which sometimes has made me wonder if I am a fully official adult. My mother-in-law made hot tea for me whenever we visited and I fell in love with the brew. I’ve been a morning tea drinker ever since and on some days I even enjoy afternoon tea time in the English tradition, but without biscuits or crumpets. 

The tea times with my mother-in-law on Sunday afternoons were extraordinary for me. She prepared the tasty drink the way her English mother and grandmother had taught her to do. It was a precise operation involving careful measurements of both tea leaves and water. She never skipped the critical step of warming the pot before inserting the tea. It steeped for just the right amount of time and then my she would pour it into delicate porcelain cups with a flourish of her beautiful hands. 

All the while she and I would talk in the ways that women do while the men removed themselves to watch sports or discuss the issues that were concerning them at the moment. I long for those glorious times with just me and my mother-in-law sitting quietly talking about life and great thoughts. She always had a way of bringing up topics that were so much deeper than just chit chat or gossip. I learned about great thinkers and spiritual philosophers from her. I heard about essays on socio-economic issues that she had read. She recounted tales of her family’s history. She encouraged me in my own life endeavors. It was just the two of us partaking of our tea while engaging in discussions worthy of intellectual soirees in drawing rooms filled with great minds. 

I always suspected that my mother-in-law enjoyed our time together as much as I did. We were both fully ourselves in those moments, two women sharing knowledge and viewpoints with each other without critique or efforts to sway each other’s minds. I suspect that we both grew from our tea times. I know that both of us were more genuine when it was just the two of us. We felt relaxed and safe enough to speak our minds without filters and without the constraints of roles that society had attempted to impose on us. We truly valued and understood each other in those moments.

There was something quite glorious in the simplicity and slow tempo of tea time, a deliberateness that signaled how cozy and safe we were to voice our ideas. There was nobody there to comment or rebut what we said. We simply took turns talking and listening intently. I for one always felt that my mother-in-law had truly heard me and I had heard her. I saw her genuine greatness and understood her brilliance finally unconstrained by societal norms. It was breathtaking to hear her ideas as were her words that lifted my spirits and increased my own confidence.

I think it was especially pleasing to my mother-in-law to have two granddaughters. She wanted me and them to know about the links between the women in her family who tended to be quiet and humble but particularly brave and strong. They were the glue that held things together, the strength that insured safe passage from one generation to the next. They were the ballast that kept the family upright. They brought the compassion and understanding that nurtured and healed the members who sometimes went astray. 

I see my mother-in-law’s influence on her son, my husband, over and over again. He is so like her. He learned from her and from her mother. The two women created a strong and compassionate man willing to share duties and power with the women in his life. He sees us as equals, not subservient creatures with less to offer than males. Given that my mother-in-law lived most of her life in a male dominated role due to the times, it amazes me that she found outlets for her own talents and intellect. She made her son aware that it was time for the male half of the world to move over just a bit to make room for the women even as she dutifully kept her place whenever the occasion demanded it. 

Now when I sip my tea I always think of the women who have had such a dramatic impact on me. I can see that I had role models who were extraordinary. Little wonder that I grew to be bold and willing to voice my ideas. I tried to pass down that knowledge to my daughters as well. I remind them of the long line of women from whom they have descended, their great grandmothers and grandmothers who sometimes endured almost unbearable challenges and still emerged triumphant again and again. 

There is a spirituality of family and a special kind of understanding between the women who hold them together. The ritual of tea time will forever remind me of what and who is most important. In many ways making and partaking of tea has become a lovely metaphor of life and each time I sip a cup I remember my mother-in-law and feel gratitude for our tea times together and the glory of what they meant to me.  

My mother’s mental illness became a central concern for me and my brothers. We understood that there was no cure for the depression and mania that returned to her mind with great regularity. There were certainly medications that help to lessen the symptoms, but often they caused side effects that rendered them unsafe to use. Her treatment involved close monitoring and changes in tactics and prescriptions that annoyed her. She would mistake feeling better with being free from the bipolar disorder that would follow her to her death. She would stop seeing her psychiatrist, take her pills only when she felt like she needed them. Sadly this would cause her to descend into recurring bouts of deep depression followed by mania that prevented her from sleeping and often led to psychotic episodes of paranoia. In spite of all this she had long stretches of normalcy that allowed her to keep her job, pay for her house, be the delightful person that she truly was. 

Anyone who took the time to know my mother loved her. She was quirky for sure but her heart of gold was what people liked about her. She was generous to a fault, often cutting her food budget to donate to a worthy cause or give someone a gift. Amazingly she did not allow her mental illness to steal her happiness. She was the supreme optimist who found joy in the smallest of moments. She taught me and my brothers to be grateful even when times were hard. 

The love that my mother spread was not always returned to her. I suppose that her illness frightened or puzzled some people. Many people who had once been her friends abandoned her, but she never became angry with them for doing so. She would continue to speak of them with glowing compliments, ignoring their failure to stay by her in her times of need. 

I have done my best to be like my Mama but the truth is that I am far less patient with the world than she was. I become angry when I see injustice. I often bemoaned my own fate even as I understood that others were suffering far more than I ever have. Still, I did my best to love people just as they are without imposing my will on them. A student recently told me that this was the key to my teaching. He said that I somehow made each of my pupils feel confident and important. I’d like to think that was the case because it was something that I was always striving to do. I suppose I got that talent from my mother because that is exactly the way she was.

My mother believed in redemption. Her rule was to apologize to anyone that she had hurt during the day. She insisted that everyone should go to sleep at night knowing that they are loved. If that meant that she had to ask forgiveness or give the gift of forgiveness, she ready to do so. When her illness was not clouding her mind Mama lived in a state of perpetual delight.

Of late I have been thinking of the moments that were the happiest for me and in truth they have all been quite simple. Driving along Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park with my family was a spiritual experience to which I have returned countless times. Hearing the laughter of children is the sweetest sound anyone might ever hear. It is mind blowing to realize how fortunate I have been because of the simple randomness of having the parents that I did. Living in the place where I was born has provided me with opportunities that I did not earn. I won them by the luck of the draw. 

I have been writing about my life and in the process I have seen that while some moments were incredibly traumatic, the overall cadence has been comfortable and filled with intangible gifts that are far more valuable that wealth or power. My mother showed me how to be passionate about life, to find beauty in simple places. For her every single glass was full, every person a wonder. I applied those lessons to my own life and what a difference it has made. 

It’s not to say that I never become frustrated or dissatisfied with the world as it is, but I learned how to fall down and then dust myself off and try again. I get quite angry at times, wondering why I had to lose my father so early in life and why my precious mother was afflicted with such a diabolical illness. I have been known to feel defeated by life and to wonder why evil exists so openly among us. I have wanted to walk away from overwhelming challenges, but then I would remember my mother and know what she would tell me to do. 

I have recounted the early years of my life before I truly found myself in my forties. There is more to come but somehow the tenor of my tale will be more mature, more inclined to be flexible. In the next phase of my life I practiced allowing myself to make mistakes. That was a triumph that was difficult to reach for a perfectionist like me. It’s something that I suppose I will be working on for the rest of my days. Luckily I had a great maestro to show me how it should be done.