Author: Sharron Burnett

It was an October day in 1971. I was at home with my one year old daughter while my husband was at work. Our apartment faced Interstate 45, so I became concerned when I heard an almost continuous wailing of sirens along the highway. As I stepped outside I witnessed a long string of firetrucks and emergency vehicles racing toward the south. I knew that something terrible must have happened, so I went back inside and turned on my television. I learned that a train had derailed along Mykawa Road and that there had been an explosion. 

I stayed tune for more details. My interest was more than just vicarious. I had grown up only a block or so from the train tracks that ran along Mykawa. Many a night the sound of cars rumbling along the metal tracks lulled me to sleep. I had crossed those iron roads and walked alongside them hundreds of times. My mother and two brothers still lived near them. I needed to know if they were in danger. 

I was only slightly relieved when I heard that the accident had occurred a few miles south of my family’s home at a rail yard on Almeda Genoa. There was talk of unknown hazardous chemicals burning and filling the air. I worried that winds might carry the toxic fumes north to my family. The reporters mentioned the concern of the firefighters who had no idea what they were battling because the contents of railcars were not labeled back then. 

The scene was chaotic as film crews covered the incident live and civilians gathered to see what was happening. The firefighters were blindly doing their jobs with little thought of what kind of chemicals might have caused the explosion and fires that had resulted in the train yard devolving into a state of chaos. One firefighters was engulfed in flames and another had died with the impact of the explosion. Little did anyone know how dangerous the environment actually was as fumes from vinyl chloride and butadiene filled the air. Ultimately there was only one death, but thirty seven people were injured. 

The horrific incident was one of the worst train accidents in Houston’s history. Eventually it prompted the passing of legislation requiring companies to label the hazardous material contents of every car. Those strange looking letters on the sides of railcars and tankers instantly alert first responders to potential hazards that they might encounter. All firefighters now also undergo hazmat training and in most cities have special Hazmat units. The Houston Fire Department learned from that disaster and would later incorporate improved safety measures deemed necessary after other incidents that indicated a need for even more caution. 

I don’t recall anyone coming from Washington D.C. to reassure the citizens of Houston who lived near the tragic accident of 1971. Nobody made the incident a political cudgel. Instead the powers that be understood that additional precautions were needed for the future and passed the necessary legislation to fix the problem. It was a bipartisan effort, not one designed to grandstand for votes. It was all done quietly and without rancor. Then life moved forward. 

I’ve been thinking about this as I read about the train derailment in East Palestine, Ohio. My understanding is that the reason for the accident had to deal with braking systems on trains. Evidently stricter requirements became law during the Obama administration, but they were rescinded during the Trump administration when Railroad companies complained. Now the issue is a political football when all that is necessary is for legislators to admit that the stricter rules were no doubt needed. It should take little discussion or effort to put them back into effect with appropriate revisions to make certain that they are work in the majority of situations.  

Our politicians seem to have lost the ability to come together with common sense to help the citizenry. Instead every issue becomes a public disagreement that is fodder for the media. The blame game for incidents over which nobody has any real responsibility is slowing down the ability to quickly react. Nobody should be using such tragedies to further their own political ambitions. The ridiculousness of the present day political impasse is frustrating and unreasonable. It’s long past time for our legislators to bury the hatchet and work for the common good. Frankly the focus has too often been on non-issues rather than the difficult topics that matter most. This recent train wreck is in many ways a metaphor for our Congress which has become a playground for adults acting like children and bullies in the hopes of grabbing attention from the reporters holding cameras. Instead, they need to get back to work and demonstrate some common sense. 

I would much rather write about joyful topics that inspire people than complain about our broken government. We the people have allowed those that we elect to go astray. We sense that our branches of government at both the federal and state levels are not working for all of us. We are weary of the disagreements that our elected officials and the media stir up continuously for attention and ratings. It should not be that difficult for all of us to work together to get things done rather than quarreling to the point of inertia. I for one, would prefer to see quiet but swift and effective responses that take all of our needs into account. 

We are a large and diverse nation of many different beliefs, but some things like train safety are universal. I urge our Congress to work together to create the proper legislation that may reduce the tragedies that are now occurring. It may be more difficult because our government has derailed. It’s long past time to make repairs and changes and move forward again. 

March is Women’s History month, a celebration of women’s’ achievements created by Congress in nineteen eighty seven. The purpose of creating a special month was to highlight the contributions of women that had all too often been overlooked throughout most of history. As a female I know this to be mostly true. While I learned much about the men who influenced civilization, nods to women seemed to be few and far between. No doubt much of the  neglect came from the fact that women have not always been given equal footing with men in the world of work, invention and ideas. Nonetheless, it seems that they have indeed left a mark on society that has not always been as duly celebrated as it should be.

I cut my teeth reading about the lives of the saints, which included a number of women. I enjoyed those stories but rarely identified with the women in that august group. Most of them were martyrs or religious leaders rather than ordinary souls like me. I needed to learn about someone like Mother Teresa whose compassion and devotion to ministering to the sick and forgotten inspired me. I enjoyed reading about her courage in overcoming the kind of barriers that women face. I identified with her moments of anger over the fate of so many suffering people in the world. She felt very human to me and so I appreciated the incredible work that she did. 

I enjoy learning about women of the past who bucked the systems and traditions to get things done. Abigail Adams is one of my favorites. If ever there was a woman who should have been a member of the Continental Congress it is she. She was an educated and well read woman who understood the flaws in the plans of the Founding Fathers. She advocated for women through her husband, even though much of what she sought to accomplish never happened. I believe she would have fought to give the vote to women from the beginning, but there was still too much feeling that women did not have the good sense to make such important decisions back then. 

I absolutely adore Eleanor Roosevelt. She overcame almost paralyzing shyness to speak for underserved people around the world. She insisted on inviting Black Americans to the White House even as her husband, the President, sometimes balked at how it would look to do so. She was a progressive who was a warrior for equality and justice. She had the intellect and the strength to run the country in her own right if she had not been a woman.

I’ve had to find the stories of incredible women mostly on my own. They rarely showed up in the history of my student days. The were single sentences in chapters filled with tales of men and their feats. I barely knew about individuals who had pushed down barriers to contribute to engineering and science. The silent female trailblazers were rarely spoken of as anything but appendages to famous men. I often think of how difficult it must of been to be a brilliant woman in an earlier time.

A friend of mine from high school became well versed the in the historical accomplishments of women. She wrote articles about their achievements and even produced a movie that chronicled the incredible work of nuns in the development of the United States. I became particularly impressed by Frances Cabrini who was charged with the duty of traveling to America from Italy to work with the children and orphans of immigrants in Chicago and New York City. This woman who had never left Italy boarded a ship and travelled to a world unlike anything she had ever experienced. With an iron determination she built schools, orphanages and hospitals. Her impact on generations of poor immigrants to America is almost immeasurable. She overcame her own shyness and worries to create a legacy that few men would have been capable of achieving. According to my friend, Frances Cabrini’s story is only one of a long line of industrious, creative and determined women who overcame roadblocks and prejudices to do amazing work. 

I remember how difficult it still was for women to enter male dominated fields of endeavor when I was a college student. Friends attempting to earn degrees in engineering or architecture were often ridiculed by their professors and harassed by their male counterparts. There were formerly all male universities where trailblazing women who were the first to enroll were threatened with vile insults. It has not been that long ago when women with ambition were derided and denied entry into certain workplaces. We have a long way to go to learn the stories of those who persisted even in the face of violence. 

I have not heard much about Women’s History month. Most of what I have seen has been quite superficial. We need to hear more about Margaret Mead and Rosa Parks. Where is the twenty dollar bill that was supposed to bear the face of Harriet Tubman? Why is the redesign taking so long? What can we learn about the incredible women who have not always made it to the forefront of history? I think we need to hear about the unsung women who broke the mold in spite of efforts to hold them back. It’s long past time to make their unsung histories a part of curriculum for everyone.

I’m planning to cook my tractional St. Patrick’s Day feast today. I’ll be making corned beef with cabbage and potatoes. I may even include a loaf of Irish soda bread or a reasonable facsimile. It’s something I’ve done for years now because it’s fun to be Irish. 

I used to believe that I was only playing at being Irish until I discovered that my great grandmother was Marion Rourke, a woman of mystery who gave birth to my grandfather and then died three days later. I know nothing about her and never thought to ask my grandfather if he knew anything that might shed light on who she was. All I know is that Grandpa named his daughter after the mother that he never knew. He wrote her name in a bible he gave to my mother, but rarely mentioned her in his story telling. 

Marion is lost in the records of history. I have never found any reference pointing to her existence, and yet the fact that my grandfather was very much alive speaks to her importance in my family. With a moniker like Rourke, she was surely of Irish decent. In fact, my grandfather often spoke of himself as being Scots Irish, a bow to his father whose name was Mack and to the mother he would only know for a brief time. 

Marion has haunted me from the time that I first heard of her. I long to know more about her if only to discover more about myself. I had never thought of being a descendant of the Irish but I have always had an affinity for the Emerald Isles and its people. I like knowing that I have a bit of Irish in my DNA. I don’t have to play at celebrating St. Patrick now that I know that I am one of the many Americans with Irish roots. 

I find it interesting that even St. Patrick is as mysterious as my great grandmother, Marion. There is only spotty proof that such a person ever existed, let alone chased all of the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe he was real or maybe he was just a creation drawn from many different holy men. Whatever the case, he’s part of my tradition and the namesake for my youngest brother. 

I often think of Marion. I wonder how she felt when she held her baby boy, William, in her arms. I think of how tragic it must of been when she suffered to the point of death knowing that she would not live to see her son grow into a man. I find myself wanting to know what had happened during that birth that caused her demise. I can only imagine how she may have looked based only on the appearance of my grandfather. Did she have his pale skin dotted with freckles? What color was her hair, her eyes? Who were her parents. Was the grandmother who raised my Grandpa her mother? Why is there no mention of her in any of the records I have found?

I won’t be wearing green today because I truly look sick in that color regardless of the shade. Instead I’ll deck out my table with a green cloth and placemats that feature shamrocks. I’ll ask Alexa to play some Irish music and I’ll celebrate my heritage with my daughter and my grandsons. I’ll give a toast to Marion Rourke and tell my family the tiny bit that I know of her. 

My guess is that Marion was quite poor. Perhaps she and her family had not been in the United States for very long. Maybe she had even come here alone. She married James Mack who moved around so much that he too is never mentioned in census records. Perhaps the two of them lived in a rural area. I doubt that she had any assistance in giving birth. Any problems that arose would have gone unanswered. She would quietly die and become a cipher in the annals of history like so many souls who have traveled for a time on this earth. Her story, or lack of it, was quite usual for the times. 

Few of us find princes and potentates in our lineage. The United States has been a refuge for immigrants seeking better lives from its beginnings. Sadly many of those who came here continued to struggle. It was only in later generations that things sometimes turned around. We see that pattern even today with new immigrants seeking asylum from their troubles. They often remain as nameless and faceless as Marion, only to be discovered by a great grandchild farther down the line. Our stories are all linked together in the saga of humankind. 

Today is for celebrating and thanking Marion for bringing my family to life. I think she would smile if she were able to see what she created. We are a happy lot who have taken full advantage of the opportunities that were handed down to us. We’re a little bit Irish because of her and quite grateful to her for the gift of life that she gave to us. Have a Happy St. Patrick’s Day wherever you are and if you get a chance lift a cup to Marion who will never be forgotten again.  

How old do you feel? No, I’m not asking how old you are. I want to know how old you feel. It seems that studies show that in most cultures in the western world people have their real age and an age in their heads that they think they are. In general people have a vision of themselves being twenty percent younger than they are. Depending on how one views this phenomenon it can be either a good thing or a bad thing. 

First consider cultures that treasure aging rather than desiring to turn back the clock. In Japan growing old is generally accepted and respected. People there let their grey hair show forth and revel in those wrinkles that are a sign of wisdom and living. They tend not to fight the passage of time but rather to revel in it. They don’t just lay down and die, but they also seem to be more willing to be who they really are as they age rather than attempting to hide the signs that the years are passing. They stay active while also slowly changing how they do things as the signs of life guide them. In many ways they are more mentally and physically healthy than their counterparts who fight to appear younger than they actually are.

I was reminded of my Grandpa Little as I read about the phenomenon of real age versus the age that one feels. I know that I have often viewed myself as being younger than I really am. In fact I seem to fall right in line with the twenty percent deduction of my actual age that researchers have found to be the case over and over again. Because I am still quite active both mentally and physically I see myself as a version of my younger self, so when someone treats me as though I really am my actual age I feel a bit shocked.

As we traveled through London a few years ago I was constantly being deferred to because of my age. Young men immediately surrendered their seats to me on the crowded Tube. Clerks in stores called me “Mum” and smiled at me the way they might do with a grandmother. At first I found the behavior to be off putting because I did not feel like someone old enough to need a seat or deserve an extra smile. Once I thought about it, I felt foolish, because in truth I am that older grandmother whether I think of myself that way or not. 

There is a vast difference between admitting to one’s age and its limitations and acting old. The truly wise person begins to understand that he or she can no longer safely do everything that was once so much part of life, but nonetheless remain active and joyful. I saw this kind of behavior in my grandfather. Nobody had to hide the keys to his car when driving became dangerous to himself and others. While he was still a safe driver he understood that his reflexes and vision were not what they needed to be and so he gave away his car and never drove again. He was still making repairs on the house where he lived when he was over one hundred years old, but he no longer climbed on a ladder because he realized the danger in doing so. He was cautious but not totally inactive. His mind and body continued to function well but he accepted that he had to curb some of the activities that he once did or possibly endanger himself or those around him. He celebrated his actual age with aplomb.

I suppose that there is another phenomenon of aging that has not been considered too often. It is the tendency of aging parents to insist on seeing their offspring as children. They demand to always be in charge, refusing to admit that the younger generations have indeed developed enough wisdom and independence to take care of the world. I remember my mother calling her eighty something year old nephews, “Boys.” My own father-in-law sees himself as the only member of the family with enough sense to make good decisions even though his son is in his seventies and his granddaughters are in their fifties and late forties. We are still children in his eyes just as my older cousins were still the “boys” that my mother had once watched as their babysitter. For some older folks it is difficult to let go of the reins and allow the younger people to take over the decision making. 

I still recall a conversation with a very frustrated friend whose husband was attempting to care for his ailing mother. The older woman lived in Detroit while her son was residing and working in Houston. He realized that his mom was no longer able to live alone in her home and made arrangements to move her to Houston where he had found a lovely assisted living site for her to spend the remainder of her days. She, however, was adamant that her son and his wife needed to uproot their lives and move to Detroit instead. She was unmoved by his arguments that he could not leave his job. In the end he had to force her to be where he was and their relationship was tense for the rest of her life. 

I’d like to think that I am growing older gracefully, but I know that I sometimes flinch a bit when I someone figures out how old I must be and then treats me accordingly. I like to think that the person in my mind is not the same as the person in the mirror that I sometimes do not recognize. I want to be like my grandfather and be so logical and helpful and accepting of my stages in life that I never cause any anxiety for my children and grandchildren. I want to be the kind of person who enjoys each phase without demanding power over the people around me. 

For now I can still do hard labor, but for only about half the time that I once did. My mind is good enough to write blogs and teach mathematics. My driving is okay but I don’t really enjoy being on a crowded highway anymore. I’ll be seventy five this year and that’s not just okay, it’s a good thing. I hope to enjoy watching the young people take charge of the world because I have every confidence that they will do well. Still, inside I think that I am still in my fifties and that is probably okay as long as I don’t act like a fool. How old do you think you are?

My mother used to regale me with stories of going to the movies when she was a teen. She lived with her family in a tiny house just off of Navigation Blvd. where she once watched Franklin Delano Roosevelt pass in a motorcade. On Saturdays, if she had a quarter, she would board a bus and ride the short way into downtown Houston where she watched films from the golden era of the nineteen forties. She was madly in love with Tyrone Power and Dana Andrews whose brother was her English teacher at Austin High School. She described those times so vividly that I too became enthralled with movies, often enjoying some of the favorites from her youth as they were rerun on television.

After my father died we often went to drive-in movie theaters on family nights when a carload got into the parking area for a single, reduced price. After my Aunt Polly went to work at the Trail Drive In we went any time she was working with the complimentary tickets that she regularly gave us. Mama always packed dinner and drinks and a grocery bag of popcorn to enhance our viewing pleasure. Those were some of the most glorious times of my childhood as I watched my favorite actors playing different roles. 

I have no idea when the Academy Awards ceremony first came to television, but I suspect that I may have been watching from the start. Mama and I loved the beautiful gowns, the funny jokes, the singing and dancing and the anticipation of finding out if our own favorites would win awards. I don’t think I’ve missed a single airing of the Oscars over a span of decades. I’ve seen the good, the bad and the ugly of it all, and been disappointed many times when my own picks did not win or even get nominated. 

Once the nominations are announced I do my past to watch all of the contenders and rank them in my own mind. Of course I have my own favorites that don’t always conform with the popular thinking. I’ve learned that I tend to most enjoy movies with beautifully written scripts. I suppose that words and the thoughts they engender mean more to me than special effects. I dream of one day writing something so meaningful that it will become the kind of story that inspires a movie. As a very ordinary writer, I still know when I am watching the work of a genius. 

Last year my favorite movie was Belfast which won the Oscar for the best original screenplay. It was based on the recollections of Kenneth Branagh when he was a young boy growing up in Northern Ireland during the nineteen sixties when Irish Catholics and British Protestants were engaging in regular conflicts. The story was heartfelt and vividly portrayed the trauma of that era through the eyes of a young child. With stellar acting and a wonderful script it instantly became a classic in my mind.

This year it was another magnificently written script that captured my admiration. Women Talking was adapted from the book of the same title written by Miriam Toews. Based on a true event, it tells the story of a group of women who have been attacked by men in their in their  isolated religious community. They gather in a hayloft to decide if they will stay in the community and fight back or leave to build a new life where they and their children will be safe. The challenge in leaving lies in their belief that that they may be barred from entering heaven if they go. 

We do not see the attack in the film nor does the setting move far from the confines of the hayloft. The storyline is a conversation between the women that is recorded by a man who is a school teacher for the boys. The women are mostly illiterate because they have not been granted the privilege of an education. They have been led to believe that the attacks on them were the work of the devil. They must overcome their personal fears and differences to reach a decision about what to do. That is where the real beauty of the film unfurls with acting that is world class and a discussion that seems to almost timelessly define the challenges of being a woman. The movie is a work of art. 

Films can be as though provoking as the greatest literature. Some burrow into our hearts and we never forget them. They become so much more than just bits of entertainment, respite from our daily cares and woes. They make us think or laugh or cry. I’m a fan just as my mother was. Movies have inspired me and enriched my life. I admire those who take their craft to the level of greatness. Movies are an extension of our human capacities to create. They represent one of the most incredible abilities of being human by demonstrating the most unique power of our minds. We have glorious imaginations that lift us from the depths of ignorance. Movies are but one more grand evolution in the ascent of humankind.