Author: Sharron Burnett

I vividly remember boarding a bus and riding downtown to shop for clothing and household items with my mom. It was a really big deal to go there and spend the day. My mother dressed up for the occasion and insisted that I wear my Sunday best as well. We walked along Main Street visiting various shops to find the best deals on the things that we needed, but visiting the Foley’s department store was always our ultimate goal. 

My mother usually paid cash for all of her purchases, but now and again she used her Foley’s charge card if she found something exceptional that strained her budget just a bit. She would take a little embossed metal plate out of her purse and hand it to the cashier. The clerk placed a layer of paper and carbon paper on a flat surface with my mother’s metal plate on top. Then she pulled a lever that imprinted my mom’s information on the receipt, which Mama then signed. 

I was a veteran shopper from the get go, but I had trouble with my growing feet so my mother always insisted that I wear orthopedic style shoes. That meant that my choices came down to a variety of ugly oxfords they made me feel clunky and unattractive even as a little girl. I longed for loafers and cute flats like so many of my friends wore. Mama would insist that she was only making sure that my feet grew properly and she predicted that I would one day thank her for her diligence.

When I was a teen a beautiful air conditioned mall had opened near my home. By then I had asserted myself and convinced my mother that I no longer needed the shoes that kept my feet in good form. Instead I enjoyed using the money from my summer jobs to purchase the most stylish shoes available. Thus began my love affair with shoes. I simply could not get enough of them. 

Back then the mall that I frequented had an annual Moonlight Madness sale in which every single store participated. People would come from all over town to find treasures marked down to rock bottom prices. I went every year for as long as I can remember and I most often hunted for shoes. I purchased so many varieties of shoes that I began to feel like Imelda Marcos, the infamous woman who owned hundreds of different kinds of footwear. 

I wore stiletto heels, boots, sandals, flats of every color. I reveled at compliments that I received not only for my shoes, but also for my feet. I had nice trim ankles and perfectly formed toes. It never occurred to me that my mother’s efforts to keep my feet growing properly were the reason for my good fortune. I only knew how wonderful it felt to be freed from the ugly shoes of my childhood. 

About halfway through my career as a teacher my feet began to fail me. I would end each day with aches and pains so horrible that I felt as though I could barely walk. I ended up resorting to wearing a hideous pair of oxfords that made the ones I wore as a child look trendy. They kept me going pain free all day long, so I wore them with a stiff upper lip even though I felt ghastly in them. I saved my huge collection of fabulous pumps and strappy sandals and boots for special occasions when I would not be on my feet for hours, and I still looked so fabulous in them.

Time looks its toll on my feet. The day came when I had to give away all of my high heels. After that I found my flat sandals hurt my feet as well. One by one the cute shoes in my closet became too much to bear. I became an ardent customer of brands like Clarks whose shoes often reminded me of old ladies and women lacking style. 

It was as though I heard my mother’s voice warning me that I would one day regret not taking care of my feet. By then I had banged up and broken toes, fractured one of my feet, and endured bouts of plantar fasciitis. I had worn casts and boots and attended physical therapy sessions. All the while I wondered which of those really cute shoes had been the culprits in wearing down my feet. 

I still have a thing for shoes. I see fabulous footwear in the stores and salivate like Pavlov’s dog. I imagine how great they might look on my feet with just the right dress or pair of slacks. Then I remember that I can’t wear such things anymore without enduring intense pain. I accept that I must wear clunky hiking shoes when touring London or spend most of the trip sitting in the hotel. I wear my arch support sandals and oxfords that are of the kind that only an older woman would think of wearing. My feet feel great in them and I am able to walk for miles. I have given in and accepted my fate while still dreaming of the times when I seemed to have million dollar feet. Mama would be happy that I finally accepted the reality that I need to take proper care of the part of my body that gets me around. I suppose that it was always inevitable that she would be proven right. Oh, but how still love fabulously cute shoes!

I was one of those college students who is often ridiculed. I spent as long as allowed with an undeclared major. I tried to determine what I really wanted to do when I grew up without much success. When time was running out I punted by changing my major on multiple occasions before finally deciding how I was going to spend the rest of my work life. Even when I had finally chosen to become an educator I vacillated on what level and subject I wanted to teach. 

I suppose that I was more typical than an outlier. I’ve watched thousands of my former students experience the same kind of confusion as I did about how to prepare for their futures. Often times they major in one area only to change their minds and find work in something totally different. I suspect that we put a great deal of pressure on young people when we force them to make life changing decisions before they have had enough experience to do so in a meaningful manner. 

I remember first thinking that I wanted to be a secretary, now euphemistically called an administrative assistant. My mother had done such work and she seemed to enjoy it so much that I dreamed of becoming just like her. Along the way I began to glamorize the life of an airline stewardess and imagined flying to far away places and living a life of adventure. Of course I had no idea of how different the actual work is from the pictures I had created in my mind. 

Eventually I decided that I wanted to be either a nurse or a doctor in spite of the fact that my least favorite subject in school was biology. In fact I mostly disliked all science courses. Somehow I imagined that once I had finished the academic work I would suddenly become enchanted with medicine. I had also been told that it was a sure thing to land a steady job in that field. Unfortunately a trip to Baylor College of Medicine and a close up look at reality left me nauseated at the very thought of entering that field and even more confused than ever.

In my heart of hearts I wanted to be a journalist. More than anything I had done in high school, I enjoyed writing. As the news editor of the school paper I felt that I was in my element. Sadly when I confessed this to my counselor, he dashed all of my hopes of majoring in journalism. With the quick reminder that the odds of getting a good paying position as a writer for a newspaper or magazine was slim to none, he destroyed my dream. Thus I entered university life without clue of what to study.

During my sophomore year of college the clock was ticking for me to make a choice. I thought about being a business major but the one course I took in that field was horrific in my mind. I had an art professor insist that I should major in fine arts. Several of my English professors invited me to become a student in the new writing program that they had developed. I even considered getting a law degree because it seemed to bring together all of the skills that I most enjoyed like writing, speaking, and the social sciences. In the end I chose being and educator because it too allowed me to use my creativity to inspire and teach our young. 

I never regretted my choice of careers, but a little bug has always whispered in my ear. It reminded me that I really wanted to write. Thus I often volunteered to create school newsletters because the task was fun for me. I made up stories to teach concepts to my students. I wrote little essays just for fun. The idea of being a writer for the public never really left me and still lives vividly in my heart. 

I have noticed that magazines and newspapers are dwindling. Many have gone out of business. Old school journalism is a dying art. Most of the good writing these days is online. With the new technology anyone who wishes is able to create an essay or a blog and then post it for public view. Thanks to the new avenues for writing, I get to fulfill my dream five days a week. For me it is a glorious hobby that brings me the greatest imaginable pleasure. Whether or not anyone actually reads what I write is unimportant. My joy comes from being able to finally share my thoughts.

Each day that I post a blog I feel as though I am creating my own little journal of stories and commentaries. I never fail to be surprised by the reactions of my mystery readers. Some essays that I write on a whim become quite popular while others into which I pour my heart seem to lay an egg. I suppose that is the fate of anyone who attempts to write for an audience. I never really know how people will react when I schedule a particular piece. 

When I think back to my youth I often wonder what might have been if my elders had not been so insistent that poets and journalists often starve. I was a very obedient and practical girl who found a way to channel my creative urges in a classroom. Ironically I did so while teaching mathematics. I have often felt that my ability with words helped me to explain difficult concepts in an understandable way to my students. Somehow all of my dreams came together when I stood before them hoping to communicate how delightful learning can be. I was writing out loud and it worked. I was fulfilled and so were they. 

Now I have a thousand stories to tell and the desire to do so while I am able. My magazine is my own and it is my gift to whomever cares to partake of it. All it takes is a little love from me.

Anyone who follows my blogs knows that I am an advocate for free speech. I generally have no problem speaking my mind, and I value the opinions of others even when I disagree with them. I like healthy back and forth discourse unless it gets personal or ugly. While there is no law against belittling someone, I find it unnecessary and offensive. In general if a person’s argument is only to make fun of others, it indicates that they really have no rationale for their beliefs.

I was trained in the rules of competitive debate. I learned how to research both sides of an argument, defend either side and refute the presentation of my opponent. Ridicule or sarcasm was not a winning strategy. I had to be ready with factual evidence to prove my points. The more expert the information that I conveyed was, the more likely I would win. Sadly debates that I see today, whether with members of a panel or in the political realm, tend to deteriorate into challenges of who can talk over the other person with the most audacious insults. I find them to be informative only to the extent that they identify persons who don’t actually have much to say. 

In college I had to write countless papers. Many of them were persuasive, and I did not have the freedom to choose a particular side. There were times when I was successful at convincing my readers to do or believe something with which I did not actually agree. Such experiences taught me to seriously study situations and issues with an open mind before drawing conclusions. They were also enjoyable exercises for me. Since then I have taken great delight in sitting with a group of people willing to dialog in a polite and meaningful manner. I don’t mind at all when a diversity of ideas and opinions are offered. In fact, I prefer that to sitting inside an echo chamber where everyone sounds the same. 

Many people have lost the skill of active listening and persuasive discussion. They begin planning their rebuttals before they even hear the totality of the points that the other person is making. Often they become so emotionally unhinged that they descend into insulting the other person’s intelligence or even their appearance or personality. Sadly this type of debate is accepted far too often. The goal is to shut someone down rather than to rationally defend an idea. 

I remember watching the first televised debates between John Kennedy and Richard Nixon. While I was quite young at the time and never a Nixon fan, it bothered me that so many people focused on his appearance during the back and forth, instead of what he was saying. I felt that somehow such reactions were missing the point of having two political candidates present and defend their beliefs. Somehow that first venture into a national debate has only deteriorated more and more over the decades. Now people laugh at jabs about an opponent’s wife or the size of a candidate’s hands as though the ones able to amuse us are somehow stronger leaders than those unwilling to descend into the depths. 

I would be much happier if we had formalized Socratic discussions or Lincoln/Douglas style debates with rules that kept each speaker focused on issues rather than personal attacks. It’s one thing to refute a person’s platform, but another to insult their family. It may be free speech, but it is really lazy speech. A more formal approach would help us to determine truth rather than feelings. 

I recently brought up a topic on Facebook that prompted many response from multiple sides of the issue. I did my best to keep everyone focused on providing support for their statements rather than being sidetracked by snarky digs at the people who disagreed with them. For the most part a very healthy debate ensued with only a few off-topic regressions entering the conversation. At the end everyone agreed that it had been helpful to understand how and why people were taking different sides. 

Many of the problems that we have in our society today come from misguided attempts to derail important discourse. We have trouble finding common ground because we continually fight civil wars of words. We approach important issues like combatants unwilling to compromise even if it means accomplishing nothing. So many problems go unanswered unless there is a plurality of like-minded people to push their way through while totally ignoring the concerns of the minority opponents. It results in a constant state of discontent from one side or another. It’s no way to run anything, much less a government. 

I know that these are things we don’t really enjoy thinking about. We allow the degradation of our discourse because we don’t like to rock the boat. All the while it only seems to become worse because we have done nothing to point out the flaws of debate by insult. We have the power to stop it, but it would mean voting against anyone who uses such means to gain power and anyone who supports them as well. Soon enough our leaders would see that we demand respectful debate and action on issues that includes compromise. I believe that we should all be free to be you and me and still be respectful. That’s my idea of free speech. We don’t see enough of it these days. Perhaps we need to insist that more of our leaders learn the art of instructive debate and we the people would also do well to do so.

Last year when I went for my annual physical with my Primary Care Physician, he commented that he did not have another patient in my age group who looked and acted so young. In fact he marveled at my lack of serious health problems. I was thrilled to hear such things and I wondered if I carry the same genes as members of my family who lived to see one hundred years of life and more. Somehow each of us is made from a combination of DNA that comes down the line from our parents and grandparents and beyond. 

I’ve often told the story of my paternal grandmother providing me with a medical history of her family. Of course she was not well versed in medical terminology but she nonetheless alerted me in her folksy way. She looked me in the eye and told me to always remember that people in our family all die from gut trouble. Ironically she did indeed died from colon cancer not long after her revelation and I have always been vigilant regarding the gastroenterology aspects of my body. 

In addition to my PCP, I visit my “gut” doctor, as my grandmother would have called him, on a yearly basis. I’ve endured endoscopies and colonoscopies multiple times in the fear that I might one day follow in the footsteps of my ancestors. So far the only real problem that I have is chronic heartburn caused by a hernia that I did not realize I had. If I religiously take medication for that I can generally operate without problems, but if I skip even one pill I am reduced to a state of severe pain. It is so bad that I have at times considered going to an emergency room even though I know that there is little they might do. 

It’s amazing how we are able to repair so many problems with modern medicine. My grandmother was not so lucky and she told me that many people in her family rid themselves of heartburn by drinking vinegar back in the day. In truth, that was a wonderful idea. It seems contrary but it actually reduces the burning sensation of heartburn. There have been times when I have used that trick to calm the acid backing up into my esophagus. It takes an hour or so to work, but eventually it calms things down so that I am able to go about my day. 

I once visited an Amish furniture store and they sold baked goods, jellies and home remedies as well as the lovely tables and chairs that they build so beautifully. I found a little jar filled with “Amish Heartburn Relief.” Of course I had to try it even though it cost more than the pills that I get free with my insurance each month. I knew that in spite of medication the night would come when I would be awakened by acid coursing up my throat. 

Surely enough, that moment came and I rushed to my medicine cabinet to try the Amish fix. I almost laughed out loud as I swallowed the suggested amount. It was like taking a slug of apple cider vinegar. It was no better or worse than the remedy my grandmother had suggested, but it worked and that was all that mattered to me. About an hour after ingesting it I was sleeping peacefully once again.

It’s amazing how we humans experiment to find ways to keep ourselves feeling well. I often wonder who the adventurous souls were who determined by trial and error how to treat ailments. Of course they went through some strange phases like using leeches, but over time we seem to get better and better at finding remedies that actually work. I find help my from my doctors and never through the grapevine, but back in the day I suppose that there were times so desperate that people were willing to try almost remedies. 

I can remember a time when there was talk of replacing a person’s heart. The very idea sounded like something out of science fiction. It also seemed to be so dangerous that it would not be worth the risk. Indeed the first iterations did not always turn out well, but over time the experts learned what had worked and what had not and made improvements. Now it is almost commonplace to transplant hearts and kidneys and other organs of the body. It really boggles my mind to think of such things. 

I’m a stickler for going through my doctors first. I trust them because they have never let me down. When it comes to home remedies I only use them as a stopgap measure until I can see my physician. Even then I refuse to ingest anything that I would not use to make food. There is no way that I would rely exclusively on the advice of a neighbor rather than going to my doctor. I know for certain that my grandmother died of colon cancer that had overtaken her body when she ignored it for many months. Her doctors were devastated by the realization that they might have been able to treat her successfully if only she had come to them sooner. Somehow she forget her own warning that everybody in her family dies from gut trouble. I don’t intend to do the same thing.

I’ve learned from family yore that a great great grandmother was known as “Doc Reynolds” because of her knowledge of folk medicine. She used herbs to keep people healthy and to cure common illnesses like colds. She created poultices for rashes and wounds. Evidently people came from all around to consult with her wisdom. Perhaps in a later day she might have actually gone to medical school and become Doctor Reynolds. I’m proud that she knew what to do in a place where no doctors were around, but I live near one of the best Medical Centers in the world, so I choose the professionals instead. Maybe I will be lucky and not be one of the family members who dies from gut trouble because I take my prescribed pill everyday and keep my Amish remedy close at hand. Who knows, one day I may be able to assuredly tell my grandchildren that they don’t have to die from gut trouble.      

Anyone who reads my blog regularly is well acquainted with the fact that my mother was a very interesting woman. She became a widow at the age of thirty and raised three little ones to adulthood by herself. Just after I left home she began to show the signs of mental illness that eventually would be diagnosed as bipolar disorder. With loving support from family, neighbors and her bosses she managed to work until she was able to retire with a small pension and a monthly Social Security check. Through it all she maintained an optimistic and generous spirit along with an uncanny wisdom that she shared with an eye toward the future. 

Mama believe in the scriptural admonition that there is a time for every season, and by that she meant that each of us must know when it is the moment to play our different roles in life. She had nurtured us when we were children, but encouraged us to fly away from her protective nest when we became adults. She was a working mom by necessity, but she surrendered her job in her sixties with the comment that it was time for younger folk to have the privilege of her position. She at times fretted that older people too often cling to the reigns of power longer than they should, sometimes making it difficult for the next generation to have their turn at running things. 

When people in their seventies boasted that they were still heading companies and working forty hours a week, my mother would sniff and ask why they were not willing to train younger folks to try a hand at their jobs. She believed that it was never a good idea to overlook the up and coming generation or to scorn them by an unwillingness to trust them. She felt the same about politicians, believing that there should be limits to the amount of time that people hold powerful positions, even it they were lifetime appointments.  

Mama was highly respectful of young people. She believed that in living longer we humans had a tendency to focus on the wisdom of the old while ignoring the beliefs of the young. She felt that we had become lopsided in the running of families, businesses and governments by allowing decades long control by a particular individual or group that might instead have stepped aside to give the next generation a chance to find their own way and to demonstrate their talents.

My mother also believed in sharing wealth before death. She was not one to hoard what few treasures she had. When she died she had little of great value because she had already given away much of what she had managed to accumulate during her life. She preferred the idea of providing young people a financial boost to leaving them fortunes when they had grown old. She often noted that she did not worry about becoming a King Lear whose family abandoned him once he had transferred his power to them. She believed that a well run society depended on helping each successive generation and demonstrating faith in their capabilities. 

I often wonder what my mother would think of so many Baby Boomers hoarding their power and their money. She’d wonder why the leading candidates for the presidency in our country are old men who should stay home and leave the running of the country to the generation of their children and grandchildren. She would also be asking why so many speak of our youngest adults with so much derision. Instead she would no doubt insist that it is the natural progression of things to embrace the vibrant ideas of youthfulness. She would remind me that even Jesus carried out his mission on this earth before he was thirty three years old. 

My mother gave me and my brothers infinite levels of confidence in ourselves because she encouraged and respected our thinking even when it diverged from hers. She often laughed at the impact our philosophies had in changing her mind about things. She grew as we did and she saw that as a very good thing. She rarely chided us unless she saw us growing insular and selfish. 

My mother helped me to find my footing when I was a fledgling teacher. Her words of wisdom were simple. She told me to embrace each of my students just as they were and to always demonstrate to them that I valued their differences. Once I stopped judging and ranking the children who came to me, but instead understood that they could and would learn at different paces and in different ways, I became the teacher that they needed. 

I doubt that I would be the person I am today without my mother’s wisdom. Her voice still resonates inside of me. I see the future generations as our hope, not our downfall. I realize that it is now my time to support and encourage the generation that will take humankind into the future. My mother taught me how to look forward rather than holding on to the past. Her influence has served me well.