Author: Sharron Burnett

My father’s death was at the epicenter of my childhood. Everything in my life changed on the night that he died. My mother did her best to guide me and my brothers through the stages of our lives that would lead us into adulthood. I sometimes wonder how she was able to hold it together for as long as she did. It must have been incredibly difficult just to keep the roof over our heads and put food on the table each day but somehow she managed. 

When I headed off to college in 1966, I was shy, naive and idealistic. My mother had sheltered me from the dark side of the world. I would soon enough learn that life was not as easy and cheery as she had worked so hard to present to me and my brothers. I had purposely chosen a large public college because I felt that it was time for me to see more of the world than I had experienced in the private school where goodness seemed to reign. I knew that if I was to make it as an adult I would have to learn how to be tough and resilient like my mother who often boasted that she was the child of immigrants and the youngest of eight kids. She was street smart in ways that I had yet to develop. 

I jumped feet first into my college experience, taking part in dances and frat parties, and reading the editorials in The Daily Cougar from a gifted writer named Edith Bell. I soon enough realized that I cared little for loud celebrations and felt more at home with quiet gatherings that prompted interesting discussions about the world. I participated in civil rights marches and protests about all sorts of things including the taking down of old trees on campus. I found my people in earnest souls who saw their educations as stepping stones to making a difference in a world which was on fire. It was a time when the heat would  grow more and more intense. I began to see life as it truly was, not as a perennially cheery time filled with only rainbows and unicorns. 

Along the way I met the young man who would become my future husband. He had spent some time studying at Loyola University in New Orleans. He and I began talking on our first date and the conversation never ended. I had found my soulmate when I was not even looking for him. By 1968, we had decided to get married. 

The world was a powder keg that year, most especially in the United States. Protests were breaking out on campuses across the country. There was a feeling that life was fragile and uncertain and so the idea of seizing the day with a wedding did not seem to be extraordinary. In fact, many of our friends had already tied the knot. It was as though we worried that things were so uncertain that pledging our eternal love to someone was a kind of panacea to the ugliness that was coming to a head all around us. 

Before our wedding date Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Later that spring Robert Kennedy, Sr. was killed only minutes after celebrating a primary victory in California. In the summer riots outside of the Democrat Convention in Chicago would mesmerize the nation. By the time October came and we were being married at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic Church the priest was noting that it took a great leap of faith and hope to embark on a life together during the volatile times. What he could not have known is that the times had been a factor in our decision to join forces with each other while we could. 

It would be a very long time before things settled down for us. The pressures of being strong had finally broken down my mother who began a long journey with mental illness only months after our wedding. I would take on the role of caretaker for her and my brothers, thankful that I had the support of my husband during those dark times. I would spend the next forty years making certain that my mom had whatever she needed, learning about mental illness and bipolar disorder on the fly.

In our early twenties my husband would contract a fungal disease that landed him in the hospital getting chemotherapy for months. In the less crazy times we had two beautiful daughters and somehow learned how to balance home life, work, and watching over my mother with raising our little ones into two incredible young women. 

Life has been a bumpy ride for most of my years but I have somehow been able to adapt to each new challenge. I was quite happy when me and my husband were finally able to retire and travel to places that had been only dreams. I assumed that our hardest challenges were behind us but life has a way of laughing at our innocence. Along came Covid and with it the icky feelings of uncertainty that we had experienced so many times before. Then we inherited Mike’s father as the newest member of our household and caring for him became a full time job that curtailed our gypsy-like adventures. Now we spend our days at home following the schedule that keeps him healthy and happy. Somehow we have made it work even as I quietly long for a few more trips before we are too old to stray far from home. We have planned a trip to London in the fall and hopefully all goes well and we get there.

This year has reminded me more of 1968 than any other time in my life. There is a grave chill over the nation that seems to increase with each passing day. I find myself worrying more about my country and its people than at any other time in my personal history. In the backdrop of my story there are health issues that are slowing down me and my husband. My knees hurt more often than not. He has cancer and will spend most of the summer getting daily radiation treatments. I am scheduled for cataract surgery tomorrow. It is all a bit too much and there are days when I worry that I won’t be able to keep up with the demands on me. There have been moments here and there when I felt as though I was going to break. Luckily I learned the importance of self care at an early age and so far I have been able to refresh my energies again and again. 

I hope and pray that this too shall pass without such dramatic changes that I will no longer recognize the Untied States or the new kind of lives that we all may be asked to live. So far I have my partner who has walked with me every step of the way but I also realize that both he and I have expiration dates that may come due at any time. I am determined to keep the faith and be the warrior that I believe I was always destined to be. I know how to survive and I am determined to do it well. 

“Sometimes carrying on, just carrying on, is a superhuman achievement” 

I don’t know who said this but it really hit me between the eyes. When anyone has been around for as long as I have it’s more than likely that they have seen people enduring such difficult situations that they indeed think such folks are made of steel. Somehow we wonder how such individuals have been able to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. We talk about superheroes all the time but rarely think to put those who overcome common everyday challenges in that category.

I have a cousin who is battling a ferocious cancer that has metastasized to many parts of her body. She is a single mom with two very young children and in spite of the uncertainty of her prognosis or perhaps because of it, she is focusing on her little ones every single day. Somehow she summons the energy to appear to have super powers that none of the rest of us have. While getting chemotherapy she found the energy and wherewithal to continue doing all of the things that good mothers do. She made jokes about losing her hair and smiled at her children even when she was worried about the future. Not even the bravest soldier in combat has exhibited more courage that she musters to make sure that her babies will feel safe and secure. 

She is getting stem cell treatments that will hopefully be the miracle that she needs to chase her cancer into remission and keep it there long enough for her to enjoy a normal life with her children. Somehow her focus on them has been the driving force that pushes her out of any doldrums that might attempt to bring her down. She remains optimistic even in the realization that there are so many unknowns that lie ahead.

When I think of my cousin’s situation I applaud her great faith in God but I also consider the doctors and researchers who have quietly created treatments for illnesses like hers that were not available even ten years ago. They are quiet and often unheralded heroes whose names we never know. They work in their labs using all of the scientific methodologies available in pursuit of cures for the many diseases that stalk humans. Were it not for them people like my cousin would be hearing messages without hope. Instead there is a good chance that she will live on to be the fantastic mother that she is to her daughter and son. 

Of late many people not only question our medical and scientific community but even go so for as to suggest that they are somehow nefarious and intent on hurting us. While there have been rare cases of incompetent or nefarious doctors, the overwhelming majority are dedicated to using their knowledge and skills to keep the rest of us as healthy as is possible. They work long hours caring for others, often to their own detriment. 

One of my husband’s uncles was a renowned cardiologist. He sometimes existed on four hours of sleep at night. He often had to miss family gatherings and leave in the middle of the evening to tend to an ailing patient. Even when he got to be at home among family and friends it was not unusual at all to see him falling asleep for a few moments to catch up with his need for rest. He often commented that doctors put so much stress on their bodies with the brutal workloads that they carry that they often die earlier than other groups of people. He himself left this earth much sooner than we expected, no doubt because he had put so much stress on his body by dedicating his life to his patients. 

It is popular these days to question our medical community and to imply that most of them are experimenting on us for fun and profit. Ordinary souls with little or no education claim that there is a powerful complex of greedy men and women getting rich from the suffering of those who are sick. Some even insist that the doctors and scientists are causing the illnesses. They do not take into account the years of study and experience that lead to incredible discoveries designed to save people, not hurt them.

I am rooting for my super cousin. I pray that her doctors will beat her cancer. I hope for a miracle for her while also understanding that if one happens it will be because some brilliant souls were able to discover a way to deal with her illness because of their diligence and genius. They worked hard to find a treatment that may keep her mothering her children for many more years to come. Superhumans do not always wear cloaks. 

I should be feeling on top of the world right now. I just came home from a wonderful trip to New York City that I shared with a lovely group of women that included my daughters, granddaughter and a long time friend who is like a daughter to me. We enjoyed the sights and food and kinship over the Fourth of July weekend. We spent days together being open and honest about our feelings and opinions. It was incredible to feel so comfortable just being ourselves without having to filter how we acted or what we said. Just realizing that it was okay to do and say whatever came to mind knowing that we would still deeply love each other was the best aspect of our adventures. 

We dined at a posh Israeli restaurant and imbibed at a bar near NYU. We were floored by a performance of Cabaret and cried openly and frequently at the 9/11 museum. We met cab and Uber drivers from around the world who were excited about being in the United States. We enjoyed the food and the people watching in a Russian restaurant and piano bar. We walked through St. Patricks Cathedral where we said our private prayers then hoofed it to Bergdorf Goodman to drool at fashions that none of us will ever be able to afford. We marveled at the Metropolitan Museum and sang along with the tunes at a showing of Chicago. We rode on the subway from one end of New York City to the other, trying Taylor’s Swift’s favorite lipstick and munching on food from India, China, Italy and a local deli. All the while everyone we encountered was friendly and helpful, not at all like the stereotypes that are too often hurled at the fabulous city and its people. 

I might describe each aspect of our brief tour in great detail but what stood out the most to me was how much we humans have in common no matter where our origins began or how we look or speak. Everyone everywhere enjoys kindness. It takes so little to produce smiles on people’s faces and we saw so many wherever we went. Even the initially grouchy woman working all day selling art in the hot sun on a street corner relaxed and grinned when I chatted with her. 

All of the ugly myths that I heard about New York City and its people were simply false in my view. I never had to stand on the subway, which was very clean by the way, because some nice young person always gave me a seat. Nobody pushed me aside because my aching knees slowed my gait. Everyone was eager to help and every place was inviting, even those not on the usual visitor’s list. We never felt afraid or insulted, in fact it was just the opposite. I have rarely been so respected just for being an older woman. I was accorded so much consideration even from the TSA agent who remained patient while I fumbled and bumbled.

My return to my own city stole away some of the joy that I was feeling. Perhaps it was the long delay of my flight which got me home at two thirty in the morning when I was supposed to arrive at around six the evening before. Mostly, I was deeply saddened by the floods in the Texas Hill Country in places that are so dear to my heart. I’ve been there so many times that I can easily envision how lovely and peaceful they were before tragedy wreaked its havoc. I have cried for those affected by so much loss. I have felt helpless in wondering what I might do for them. I was stunned by the horror of how the last moments of life had been for those who died. Somehow all of the joy that I felt on my trip seemed trivial and maybe even a bit inappropriate given what had happened. 

Still, all of it made me focus on what was most important about my trip, namely the wonder of my relationship with the incredible women who shared those days with me. It made me more deeply appreciate that we were able to set aside our worries and just be present in the moments with each other. For those many hours we were in a wonderful world filled with love and laughter that can’t be bought at any price. Perhaps others saw that and thus responded to us in kind. What we had was a memory that will always be a blessing no matter what our futures may be. 

I’ve come back home to bad news in the political world and irritations at home, but my mind keeps being reminded of the glorious feelings that we had just knowing that we are loved. It is a story repeated over and over again and it is the way that we will overcome any troubles in the future. We are assured that we have each other and with that knowledge nothing else matters much. Still, my heart weeps for those who are suffering and my joy is tempered even as I know that they are remembering their own joyous times with loved ones who are now gone. We must be kind to them. The days ahead will be difficult.

Life often piles up on us to a point where we are weary and even a bit unworthy of praise. We begin to feel fake whenever anyone compliments our energy or even our efforts to be kind because we know that in truth we are tired and angry about the weight of the challenges that we face. That’s when we reach for solace in tiny moments that bring us a sense of balance and joy. 

It doesn’t take much for me to feel recentered. I learned the technique of relying on small moments of peace and happiness from my mother. I suppose that given the many challenges of her life she had to find a way to adapt that cost nothing but paid great dividends. Sometimes that meant sharing her nightly hugs. Other times it included the extravagance of licking on an ice cream cone. 

I have a photo of me, one of my daughters and a few of my grandchildren sitting on a bench in Estes Park, Colorado enjoying the small luxury of ice cream in the middle of a warm day. The picture is a treasure because it encapsulates my mother’s simple method for turning the small moments into the most memorable ones. She had a way of being totally present and aware of the beauty of the world that made her rich in what she most valued in life which was her love of people. I’ve tried to emulate the kind of zen that focusing on the most basic times in our lives can bring. 

I have traveled to many places and enjoyed some concerts that I will never forget but when I remember such things I always seem to associate the happiness that I felt with single moments that warmed my heart. It was in sharing with the people that I love that those times etched pure joy in my soul. It was great seeing the Rolling Stones but the smile on my husband’s face as he sang along and played his air guitar with Keith Richards was priceless. Getting goosebumps at a Hans Zimmer extravaganza was made even better when I saw that my grandson was as moved by the music as I was. Having Luciano Pavarotti turn and smile at my mother is a memory that I will take with me to my very last day. 

I will always be grateful that my Mama showed me how to navigate even the most unimaginable tragedies with seemingly tiny indulgences that took the edge off of the anxiety for a brief moment. When my father died it meant gathering together with my little brothers in her bed and knowing that it was a safe place to reveal my worries and to cry. Eating a special dessert on Saturday nights or piling into our car with a paper bag filled with popcorn to watch a double feature at the drive in theater was a treat beyond measure. She had a way of making our lives feel special and safe without grand expenditures of money. She taught me to even treasure the weak sugary cup of coffee that my grandmother always prepared for us with so much love. 

Once you learn how to notice those small moments that take your breath away you begin to realize how many of them there are in a single day. Just seeing the coming and going of the people in your neighborhood becomes a delightful adventure. Watching the birds gathering at the feeders in the backyard is entertainment of the highest value. Savoring a juicy read strawberry on a hot summer day is a delight that brings back the most pleasant memories. Laughing in unison with a loved one is a treasure. 

I have sometimes wondered how individuals are able to navigate through the horrific moments that seem unbearable. In speaking with them I realize that in addition to describing the tragedies that have befallen them they almost always add stories of love and great joy associated with their memories. They recall the times when their lives were routine and one moment felt almost the same as another and yet there was always something quite special about the sameness of it all. 

We are living in tumultuous times of uncertainty. Many of our fellow humans are enduring challenges that would stymy the most stalwart among us and yet we also see flashes of hope in the tiniest moments that somehow keep them going. It may be a comforting story, an unexpected smile, a joke that breaks the tension, a reason to hope for better days. Maybe it is only a warm hug and a well deserved cry that break the tension if only for a second. 

Any sign of love or hope etches itself into our memories. We can call upon it and learn from it. In remembering those small moments we begin to realize we will be okay even if we lose the accoutrements that are so often associated with success. When all is said and done the most valuable things in our lives are not things at all, but the times that we share with others. 

I have almost zero tolerance for alcohol. I can enjoy a single margarita or a nice glass of read wine but beyond that I literally turn into a pumpkin, a smashed one at that. My husband laughingly calls me a cheap drunk but he knows that I can only deal with one nice beverage that I sip for hours and I will be fine. The few times that I have gone past that limit have not gone well. In fact there was one occasion in New Orleans when i took chances on imbibing an entire hurricane within less than an hour. Things got quite out of hand. I got so dizzy that I had to return to my hotel room where I proceeded to fall into to a fit of laughter that I could not control. It may have been the jumping up and down on the bed that started my gigging. Eventually I just felt very sleepy and dozed until morning, vowing to never again reach such a silly state of mind. 

We live in a society that is filled with drinking as a kind of social obligation. it’s difficult to be with a group that is tossing back the cocktails and feel the pressure to be part of the party. I’m not against drinking. I simply know that it does not work for me. I also know that it does not work for many people for one reason or another. Some have religious beliefs that tell them not to drink at all. Some are diabetics who have learned how horrific their reaction to alcohol can be. Others are alcoholics who cannot even begin drinking lest they fall back into old habits that they are trying to abandon. 

Sadly there are people who seem to be clueless about just accepting people where they are on the drinking spectrum. Those types like to poke fun at me and pressure me into taking chances that I know will not work out well. They somehow feel that drinking is not fun unless everyone is doing it at the same level as they are. It’s how young people all too often get themselves into situations that they cannot handle. The peer pressure to drink along with others becomes too much for them and they keep going even when it no longer feels good. 

I have a dear friend whose parents were both alcoholics. Her childhood was difficult and as a result she has never put a drop of booze near her lips. When she goes to parties and the host asks what she wants to drink she requests coffee. Sometimes if there is a great deal of pressure she takes a wine class and fills it with water. She sips on it all night long and most people think she is drinking with them. It’s terrible that she has to justify her decision to do so, but years of attending therapy sessions to talk about her traumas as a young girl have made her strong and determined to be herself.

I have known people who had to entertain clients as part of their jobs and invariably drinking was involved. They learned the hard way that once they started they were not able to stop. Some of them admitted to their addictions and learned how to control them but others ended up losing their jobs and their families and hitting rock bottom. I suppose this is why I stop when I do. I am not a party pooper. I simply know my limits and that one drink is it. Sometimes I feel that no drink is what is just right and on those times I emulate my friend by sticking with a glass of water or tea.

I like a nice red Merlot or a Malbec from Argentina. I have to have something to eat with my drink and I have to consume the alcohol slowly. If I do those things I avoid headaches and horrific heartburn. I enjoy the experience and keep my head clear. I know that others are better able to tolerate drinking than I am but I always become a bit unnerved when I see someone going beyond what they can handle well.

I never met my maternal grandfather but my understanding is that he liked to come home from work each evening and have a single glass of wine or port or maybe some brandy. He made it his habit to have only that one drink to relax after a long day of working in a meat packing plant. A family story recounts a time when a young man asked for Grandpa’s blessing in marrying one of his daughters. Grandpa poured the suitor a bit of brandy to enjoy while they discussed things. They spoke of the man’s work and his plans for the future while sipping on their drinks. When the man’s glass was empty Grandpa offered him a refill which the man politely refused. Grandpa immediately gave his blessing for the marriage and later told the family that he would have said, “No” if the man had accepted a second helping.

I suppose that I enjoy the feeling of relaxation that comes with a good drink but also respect those who have learned when enough is enough. I know exactly how awful I feel any time that I go beyond my single glass and so I have learned how to nurse my drink like my friend nurses her coffee or water. I also admire anyone who keeps it within the realm of still being able to walk a straight line. Like my grandfather I worry about those who get sloppy drunk. I’ve witnessed the consequences far too many times among people that I have loved. I think we would all do well to know our limits and then refuse to stray from them. Lives are changed forever when we lose control.