Aging – Page 59 – All It Takes Is A Little Love

Brothers and Sisters For All Time

Published on October 17, 2016October 16, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

14715452_10210431674649282_4125192097874582664_o-1 The dictionary definition of family is “a group of people related by blood or marriage.” Such a description is far too limiting. We often extend the breadth of our relationships to include special friendships that are as deep and endearing as those we share with our kin. We feel bound to such people by sharing common experiences and traditions. We especially form deep and abiding friendships when we are young. The common history of our youth makes particular people feel like our brothers and sisters. Just as with those who come from our same DNA, the individuals who walk with us day after day for a time may leave, but they are never forgotten. Somehow they live in our hearts even when we do not have them near. Such it is with my family from Mt. Carmel High School.

Fifty years is a very long time, five decades, half a century. When I was a teenager it was difficult to even imagine such a long passage of the calendar but I have indeed walked through those fifty years since my graduation from high school. Before that day of long ago I had spent eight to ten hours five days every week inside a brick and mortar building with the same people. Our journey together lasted four years. We shared the same lessons and traditions. We learned together, laughed together and sometimes even cried together. We cheered for our heroes of the gridiron, baseball diamond, track and basketball court. We slowly discovered the people and the ideas that interested us. We formed circles of friends and lived through all of the adolescent peaks and valleys. We became a family.

In my home away from home I grew from a gangly little girl afraid of her own shadow to a pensive young woman wondering what life had in store for me and my classmates. I wondered about all of those questions that occur to most teens. What would I become? Would I have an exciting career? Would I ever marry? Would I have children? Would I become rich or famous? Would I have a good life? I never thought about death or illness. Those things seemed to be the purview of the old, not something that I would encounter for a very long time.

Life took hold of me and my classmates after we had finished our school days and one year grew into two and then ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. I thought of the people who had been with me in my formative years now and again. I wondered where they were and how they were. I intended to keep up with them but something always seemed to distract me. The phone would ring. One of my children would need my attention. My job would demand my time. My mother would need me to care for her. The excuses always came and so I did not see most of the people who had been so much a part of my life but I never forgot how much they had meant to me.

A couple of years ago along came a beautiful soul that I had known since I was a little girl, Carol. I had been in the Brownies with her and her twin sister, Cindy. We celebrated First Communion together and went all the way through high school only to lose track for all those many years after graduation day. Carol came to some of us almost fifty years later with an idea. She wanted to have a fabulous reunion for our class. It was to be in honor of her sister who had tragically died from ALS. It would be a way to remember Cindy and our other friends who had already left this earth. It would remind us of our youth and the importance of living our lives to the fullest. It would provide us with a way to embrace each other once again.

Carol worked diligently with a group of people determined to find every last soul who had been in the Class of 1966. Terry, Susan, Mickey, Paul, Shirley, Ruth, Judy, Monica, Linda, Jim, Jeannette, Tad, Tommy, Donald and Chris began meeting over a year ago to plan a celebration to remember. Sadly Chris left the world this summer but his impact and generous spirit kept the group inspired. On Saturday night the fruits of this committee’s labors came to fruition as we all gathered together in a love fest that none of us will ever forget.

There were so many stories to share on Saturday night. Some of them were joyful. Others were heartbreaking. I learned of successes and disappointments, happiness and loss. I found that my classmates are people of uncommon conviction, optimism and courage. They have faced down challenges and accomplished great things. They have led the kind of lives that all of us value. They are happy even as they have endured the ups and downs that are inevitable in a span of fifty years. We have all matured and learned what is truly important. We realized in visiting with one another that the ties that bound us so long ago are a special part of whom we will always be. We are truly family in every sense of the word, brothers and sisters for all time.

In the excitement of reuniting we have made promises that we will not let the time run away from us ever again. I hope that we honor that commitment. We have learned that life is precious and fragile and unpredictable and that we must reach out and grab every opportunity to be with the people who were and always will be so important to us. We have always been intertwined even as we branched out in different directions.

Our reunion was a happy and moving experience for all of us. We laughed and cried tears of joy and remembrance. Our celebration was perfect in every way. The love that we felt for one another was palatable and the spirit of our departed friends was ever present. We heard their laughter in our hearts and knew that they were especially happy that we had once again come together. We will forever be grateful for the opportunity that we had to learn that everyone is mostly okay. I’d like to believe that we will have many more chances to come together again. I know that I intend to do all that I can to keep our renewed friendships alive. They are important enough to merit our time and attention. Carol understood that and showed us how it is done.

Let the Celebrating Begin

Published on October 14, 2016October 13, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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It has been fifty years since the Mt. Carmel High School Class 0f 1966 left the school gymnasium after graduation. We departed with high hopes and good intentions and the clock on our lives began ticking far more quickly than we might have imagined. Some among us served in the military. Others went to college. There were those who married and started families, some who focused on careers. We navigated through the ups and downs of life, experiencing the milestones of human existence. All the while we remembered those years when we were young. Our days in high school had at times been filled with angst and at others with joy. As teenagers we had felt hurts and victories. As full fledged adults we mostly moved past our immaturities and hangups to mellow into acceptance of ourselves just as we are. We became able to gaze into the mirror past all of the flaws and truly like the people that we had become. Somehow all we now need to know about our former classmates is that each among us has found happiness. We have embraced the contentment that comes with wisdom and age and grace.

Tomorrow evening we will gather together for our fiftieth reunion. It will be good to see one another again and to hear the stories of what happened to everyone as the decades passed. Our old friends will be there and some will bring their spouses, people that we have yet to meet but will most surely enjoy. We will view photos of travels, children and grandchildren. We will learn about jobs and hobbies and all of those things that weave together the fabric of our lives. None of us will look the same. Regardless of how well we have aged fifty years leave an imprint on our faces and our outlooks. We are now just as we once were and yet different. The essence of our youthfulness is still in our hearts but our experiences will have changed us.

I lost track of so many people after graduation day. I was busy earning a college degree, raising a family, teaching and caring for my mother who developed chronic mental illness shortly after I had finished high school. Like most people my days were filled with responsibilities from dawn until I fell asleep at night. I had little time for pursuits outside of my family and my work but I have enjoyed a long and lovely friendship with Linda Daigle Scheffler that thankfully continues to this day. Our children grew up together taking swimming lessons, watching football games and celebrating birthdays, graduations, marriages. We have met at Christmas to exchange ornaments and gifts virtually every year since our children were born with few exceptions. Monica Krider Watzak has been by my side from the time that I was a tiny girl. She was one of the first people that I met on the playground in second grade back at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Elementary. Her children also grew up with mine. We have gone on trips together and stood by each other in times both good and bad. Nancy Gracey was one of the bridesmaids in my wedding. We played bridge together on Fridays and finished sentences for each other. She eventually moved away and we lost touch for years only to reunite as though it had only been five minutes since our last meeting. I continue to encounter Susan McKenna Bolduc, another of my bridesmaids, time and again at funerals for classmates and their parents. Judy Loisey is often there as well demonstrating the same warmth of heart that was her trademark in high school. Of course I also encounter Tommy Darst who has so graciously helped so many Mt. Carmel families during times of greatest sorrow.

Mostly though I lost track of the one hundred forty three souls with whom I had shared so much during those critical four years of my life. From time to time I heard stories about them but somehow I never crossed paths with them even though I must have surely been moving through the same places where they had been. It was only through the miracle of Facebook that I have slowly reignited friendships with former classmates, sometimes finding surprising kinship with those that I barely knew when I was young. I have enjoyed reading about their trips and adventures and seeing their beautiful children and grandchildren. I’ve even appreciated the great variety of their political persuasions. Nobody can ever say that we were brainwashed at Mt. Carmel High School. Everyone has a mind of his/her own. Mostly though I have marveled at how wonderful we all became. We are good people who took the lessons that we learned at Mt. Carmel High School to heart no matter where in the world we landed.

I get excited just thinking about the possibility of seeing so many of my classmates tomorrow night. The guest list has swelled to a hundred or more including curious spouses who have no doubt heard so many stories about our Class of 1966. I get both giddy and nervous when I think about seeing them in person again after all these years.

Even though there were once one hundred forty four of us. Not everyone has made it this far. Before we had even been gone for ten years some among us had already died from cancer or accidents. Others have gone from us more recently. They had hoped to be with us for our celebration but the good Lord saw fit to take them. Each time we have heard of a death among our old friends it has brought us great sadness. We remember when they were so bright and beautiful. We know that they meant so much to their families and to us.

When I was a young mom buying shoes for my little girls Mrs. Lippies used to ask me to pray for her son Kerry who had cancer. Sadly he did not make it. He was one of the first among us to die. I was broken apart when Bill Bailey was killed in a freak accident in Galveston. Not long ago I heard that a colleague of mine at St. Christopher’s School had lost her husband who also happened to be one of my classmates, Frank Fox, a wonderful man who had been so loved by his wife and children. I followed Cindy Cash Criss’s medical progress as she fought ALS. I loved seeing her images of kitties on Facebook and I marveled at her courage and optimism as she dealt with the devastating effects of that terrible disease. I know how much she wanted to make it to the reunion but that was not to be. Instead many of us gathered at her memorial and came together for the first time in years. We knew that she had been the catalyst for beginning our journey to the celebration that we will enjoy tomorrow. Somehow her spirit will be there with us, hoping that we love and laugh the way she always did. Chris Nixon had overcome many heath problems and came faithfully to the early planning meetings for the reunion. He too was called to heaven sooner than we had hoped. Many of us attended his funeral only months ago and cried together for a dear sweet friend.

I had lost track of my friend and high school confidante, Claudia Dean Langguth for well over forty years. When we were teenagers we had shared our deepest secrets and dreams. I had thought that ours would be a lifetime of togetherness but circumstances pulled us apart. When I recently searched for her I learned that she had died only a year ago. I wish that I had been able to tell her how much she had meant to me. I would have liked to let her know that I loved her.

Others who meant much to me are also gone. David Patton and I often competed with one another academically. I knew in my heart that he was my intellectual superior but I would never have admitted that to him. A few years back he began to email me after he had suffered from a stroke. It was sad to know that his brilliant mind had been diminished. I hope that I gave him a bit of comfort with my responses to his communications. I was crushed to learn of his death.

In school our teachers usually seated us in alphabetical order. I sat behind John Kurtz for four years and got to know him well enough to have a secret crush on him. He once told me that his juvenile diabetes would curtail his life prematurely. I was too young and inexperienced to believe that he knew the truth. I shook my head and told him that he was being silly. Unfortunately he was not wrong and left this earth far too soon for such a good man.

The list of those who have already entered the kingdom of God is longer than I would want it to be. There are about twenty four souls who have already died and will be watching over us as we convene this weekend. They will remind us that life is a treasure that we must embrace before the opportunity to do so has left us. In our minds they will be forever young and as lovely and energetic as they were on that May day of long ago when none of us were able to imagine the roads that we would travel or that fifty years would go by so quickly. They are gone but never forgotten. We can still see Janice Repsdorph as the amazing athlete that she always was. We will remember Dorothy Wheeler Cox and her sweet smile and loving presence. In our hearts we’ll think of Diane Martin in all of her glorious beauty and generous spirit. Each of them touched our hearts.

Our lives have been blessed. We are all fine people who have contributed to the benefit of our families, our friends and our communities. We have remembered what is most important and have lived the way our teachers had hoped that we would. When we left on that May in 1966 we understood that we had been called to work for the benefit of all mankind. We have kept the promises that we made. Now it is time to remember and appreciate all of the people who helped us to arrive at this remarkable place in time. Let the celebrating begin.

The Beginning: 1962-1963

Published on October 10, 2016October 6, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

yearbook In September of 1962, I entered Mt. Carmel High School as a freshman. I was not quite fourteen years old and looked as though I was only about ten. At under five feet tall and only about seventy pounds I was a tiny girl who didn’t appear to belong. I was both excited and terrified as I walked down the wide gleaming halls in the two story building that still looked as new as it had when it was built only a few years before. I had been warned that members of the upper classes might try to sell me an elevator pass and that I was to politely refuse to purchase one because there was no elevator in the building. It was easy to tell the fish from those who had already spent a year or more studying in those classrooms. We wandered with dazed looks on our faces as we attempted to take in the magnitude of our new phase of life.

The girls looked a bit uncomfortable in our brand new uniforms which seemed to have been designed to make us look as unattractive as possible. We would eventually grow to hate the brown and white pleated skirts, white button shirts, and brown flannel jackets that were our daily wear but in those early days it was all brand new and we did not yet understand how weary we would become of donning the same outfit every single day.

Our teachers were no nonsense as they outlined the requirements for each class. They insinuated that we would have to demonstrate our mettle or be left behind. It felt as though we were in a military boot camp as we wondered how it was even possible to read and report on a book each week while also writing two hundred word themes that would be due every Monday morning. It was difficult to work the combination locks on our lockers and still have time to rush to class from one floor to the next. There was so much to remember, so much to do and learn. I don’t recall much from the beginning because I felt as though I was in a daze but soon enough we all had adjusted to our routines.

The best part of being in high school was a new found freedom that we had never before experienced. Nobody was treating us like babies any longer. We became responsible for ourselves and it was exhilarating. There were also so many new faces with people coming from all over southeast Houston to join us in our adventure. At first I felt shy and self conscious, especially around the older students, but before long I was enjoying brand new friendships that would only grow as I worked my way through the next four years.

This was a year of profound change all around the world. Pope John XXIII died during that school term and would many years later become a saint. A little musical group from Liverpool, England would score a music hit with a catchy tune called I Want To Hold Your Hand. Rachel Carson would alert mankind to the dangers of polluting our environment in Silent Spring. Charles Schulz would introduce Happiness Is a Warm Puppy and Crick, Wilson, and Watson would earn the Nobel Price for Medicine and Physiology for determining the molecular structure of DNA. In my hometown of Houston Dr. Michael DeBakey used the first artificial heart during surgery.

I loved my teachers and my classmates almost instantly. Father Shane, my English teacher, would become a beloved icon and inspiration both for my writing and my career in education. Sister Wanda somehow made Latin fun and Father Bernard opened up the heavens for me in our Physical Science class. Father Franklin did his best to teach us Algebra I but I still suspect that I mostly self taught myself when I went home each evening to unravel the confusion that I felt after each of his lectures. Sister Francina was as sweet as can be but I often experienced stark terror whenever she began shuffling the index cards that contained each of our names so that she might randomly quiz us on the reading that we were supposed to have done the previous night.

Mostly though I loved all of the extracurricular activities associated with a high school. I joined the newspaper and became a cub reporter, although my contributions were minimal. I traveled with the Medical Careers Club on field trips to the Houston Medical Center thinking that I might one day pursue a degree in medicine. I loved our class journeys to the Alley Theater and to the Music Hall to hear the Houston Symphony. I became a member of the Student Council and for a time marched with the Cadets drill team. Best of all were the Friday night football games where we all met to blow off the stress from studying and to just laugh and yell and be ourselves.

Mt. Carmel sponsored a dance every Saturday night in the school cafeteria. It was open to anyone willing to pay the small entry fee. Disc jockeys from radio station KNUZ played the latest music and sometimes even secured live bands. They advertised on the radio so we usually drew a nice crowd. I went almost every Saturday night and loved listening to the music and visiting with my classmates. I learned the true meaning of being a wallflower as I often found myself relegated to sitting in the metal chairs that lined the perimeter of the dance floor. Somehow I still managed to enjoy the evening even when I never got the opportunity to hit the dance floor.

I was in awe of the older students in the school. I thought that Gerri Gallerano was the most beautiful girl that I had ever seen and since she always smiled at me when she passed in the hallway I knew that she was also quite sweet. I formed a new friendship with a girl named Claudia who had gone to my previous school but whom I had never really known that well. Her sister Camille was a senior who kept us well informed regarding the dos and don’ts of high school society. She was so down to earth and would serve as a major inspiration for me for years. I never really got to know many of the juniors but since my cousin, Ingrid, was in the sophomore class, as was my next door neighbor, I felt more comfortable with them. I had major crushes on several of the sophomore boys but their names will go with me to the grave.

The freshman year of the Class of 1966 would prove to be quite wonderful. Somehow we managed to meet all of the impossible deadlines that our teachers set for us while we were being transformed from babies into bonafide teenagers. We had little warning that the our innocence and that of the world would soon be put to the test. For the time being we lived in a comfortable world where the halls were filled with our laughter and we were certain that the hopes and dreams that we whispered to one another as we walked from class to class would surely come true.

I now look at the cute little faces of my classmates in the yearbook for 1962-1963 and I wonder how I possibly felt intimidated and shy around anyone. All of the kids wear expressions that are so sweet and eager to please. Their smiles are genuine and inviting. It is easy to see that we were all good people beginning a four year journey in which each of us would be forever changed.

Big Girls Do Cry

Published on October 5, 2016October 2, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

I didn’t cry much when my father died, not because I had no emotions but rather because I somehow believed that I needed to stay strong for my mother and my brothers. I don’t think that it was particularly healthy of me to prevent the natural feelings that were causing me so much internal pain from becoming public. For a great deal of my life I have tended to be stoic. I’ve often put forth a strong face when what I really wanted to do was allow myself to sob. Over time I realized that tears and sadness are a natural aspect of our humanity that is to be celebrated rather than hidden. We are made to react to hurt and loss and pain with a release of our real feelings. Big girls really do cry and it is not just an okay thing to do, but a therapeutic release. When our minds and bodies urge us to set our tears free, we should feel comfortable responding to the instinct.

Of late I have been crying a great deal, but still not so much in front of other people. I’m in the process of becoming able to do that. It have been through a difficult three months as have so many. I find myself reliving the moment when my husband had his stroke, and I cry, mostly because I am relieved that he is still alive and thriving. I have cried almost every single day for the last month because invariably I see or hear something related to the horrible flood in my city, and I sense the struggles that so many are still enduring and will face for months to come. I can hardly watch the news reports of the conditions in Puerto Rico, a place that I recall being so friendly and beautiful. The images that flash across the screen are heartbreaking, and I feel helpless, so I cry. I have cried for my friends whose relatives have so recently died and for those who are reliving the anniversaries of such losses. I cried for my father-in-law who had an accident that has left him barely able to move. I shed twelve hours of tears while watching the Ken Burns series on Vietnam that ran for the last two weeks on PBS. The memories of that era of my life are still raw with emotion and the poignancy of the presentation brought long past feelings to the surface once again. I have cried for the state of our country today which seems as divided and angry and confused as it did back then. Problems that I believed to have been solved were evidently just festering beneath the surface. All of it has made me feel weary because I know of no magical solutions to make things better, and so I cry.

I am by nature a peacemaker. I have always wanted to help people to get along. I have loved living the role of a supporter, a motivator, an inspirer. I feel uncomfortable when people are angry and fighting. I suppose that this is because I learned so long ago that our lives are quite fragile. We simply do not know from one moment to the next how much more time we have on this earth, and so I believe that we must make the best of however many hours that we have. My heroes have been individuals like my Uncle William who was the epitome of kindness. I would be quite surprised to learn of even a single time when he purposely set out to hurt someone. He was a man who mostly set aside his own thoughts and did his very best to consider the wants and needs and dreams of everyone else around him. He was always willing to listen and to love. In that regard as a child I viewed him as the strongest person that I ever knew and my assessment of him has never changed.

I remember our neighbor Mr. Barry who everyone seemed to regard as a living saint. There was nothing wimpy about him. He had served in the Navy during World War II. He managed a large bank for years. He knew how to get things done, but he always accomplished them with an eye toward being sympathetic and good. He was one of those people who noticed the individual who was unseen by everyone else. He didn’t know it, but he was the male role model that I needed after my own father died.

There is a tendency these days to admire people who possess what I call a false bravado, individuals who bully, blame others for their mistakes and take pride in demeaning those who do not agree with them. I personally find such folks to be offensive and weak. They remind me of a student that I once had who found joy in hurting other kids. When he went after a blind girl in order to increase his own popularity I put him down with a vengeance that I never used on another student before or since. I was unwilling to allow him to parade like a champion when what he had done was so vile and cowardly. For that reason I have cried a great deal of late, because our society appears to be mesmerized by those who behave the ugliest. It is something that I can’t understand.

Social media was a lifesaver during our Houston floods. I kept my sanity because I was able to stay in touch with friends and family members during the long days and nights when the waters filled our streets and homes. Unfortunately there is a negative aspect of that same wondrous means of communication that is hacking away at our decency. I suppose that it is simply too easy these days to dash off a quick and dirty reply to any person or situation that offends us. When we don’t have to look someone in the eye it is more likely that we will be willing to vent in ways that are hurtful. Too often we forget to think about how our comments may affect someone else. Too many among us don’t take the time to consider the impact of our words. When I see the fighting that ensues among people who were once friends and family members it makes me cry. There is simply no reason for any of us to be hateful, and yet even some of our leaders are not able to control their basest tendencies.

I am weary of hearing epithets about snowflakes, commies, ingrates, sons of bitches, entitled kids, abominable people, fascists, racists, homophobes, rednecks, ignoramuses. I listen as we devour one another with words and accusations that often have little or no basis in fact, and yet we speak as though they are gospel. I grow tired of seeing memes and tweets that trivialize serious situations or poke fun at entire groups of people. We seem intent on boiling a pot of furor, and so I cry.

I remember a time when I went on a civil rights tour with my students. We sat in the church in Birmingham where little girls were murdered because of hate. We crossed a bridge in Selma where fire hoses and snarling dogs had once been let lose on protestors whose only crime was asking for the same rights as their white counterparts. I walked down the street toward the capitol building in Montgomery and remembered the hateful rhetoric of George Wallace. I cried as I looked at my students and remembered the violence and racism that I had witnessed when I was young. I stood in Dr. King’s kitchen and ran my hand across the very table where he sat and prayed for God’s guidance. I cried as I thought of his courage and wisdom and I knew that he too would always be one of my heroes.

I cry when I think of Jesus and the lessons He taught us, the sacrifices that He made. I wonder why it seems so difficult for us humans to follow His very simple message of love whether we believe He was God or not. What is it in our natures that makes us complicate and misinterpret His words? Why did we not learn how horrific hate can become from His death on the cross? What prevents us from being like my uncle or the man who was my neighbor?

As I grow older I find that I remember the kindnesses that were extended to me and I cry tears of joy and gratitude when I recall the people who touched my heart so beautifully. I also think of the ugly things that I have witnessed. They make me cry as well. I had hoped that we would be evolving toward a better way of living with one another by now. Unfortunately we are instead being taunted to take the low road, to dialogue with our fellow men and women with rancor rather than understanding. We give power to the rabble rousers instead of ignoring them and siding with those who would challenge us to bring out the good that resides in our souls. The fact that this is happening makes me cry.

I would so much rather cry over a beautiful sunrise or sunset. I want to shed tears when I see people helping people. I want to release those positive emotions when I watch a toddler so innocently embracing the world. I would prefer feeling a heave in my heart from listening to music or sharing a wonderful time with friends and family. I know that there will be uncontrollable events like natural disasters and deaths, but I am so tired of seeing the kind made by people. It really is up to all of us to begin to demonstrate the kind of understanding that was the hallmark of Uncle William’s and Mr. Barry’s lives. Those two men were so loved because they never hesitated to love.

Perhaps the most telling story about my uncle came when he was delivering mail along the route that had been his for years. He came upon the mother of a notorious serial killer and the emotion that he felt for her was unadulterated love. He spoke of how sad it must have been for her to lose her only son under such circumstances. He did not judge the woman nor consider that she might have somehow been responsible for how her son had become. Instead he simply cared for her, and worried about how she would be now that her son was condemned to prison for life. My uncle taught me how to love. I’m still trying to be as good as he always was, and while I am learning I sometimes cry.

Tree

Published on October 5, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

tree1024x1024 There is a tree in Rockport, Texas that has been growing in the same spot for centuries. Some wise soul thought to save the old oak forever by declaring it an historical treasure and building a fence around it. People travel from all parts of the world just to stand under the shade of the sprawling limbs and to marvel at the girth of the ancient trunk. They snap photos of the wondrous image and try to imagine what the old tree has seen in its time on this earth. If only it could talk we might hear of native people pausing under its branches to rest after a day of hunting and fishing or learn of explorers from Spain who traveled along the Gulf Coast searching for cities of gold. Did the tree once see vast flocks of whooping cranes wintering in the area in their annual journey from Canada? How did it manage to withstand the forces of tropical storms and punishing hurricanes? What is its secret to long life?

We humans have love/hate relationships with trees. We plan trips to Vermont in the fall to marvel at the glorious colors of leaves but also cut down beautiful specimens to make way for factories. We plant trees in the yards of our new homes that once sat in forests that we eliminated to build our suburban communities. We enshrine trees in metaphorical poetry even as we topple them in real life. We use them for our own whims often forgetting that they are helping to provide the very oxygen that we breathe. They cool us and shelter us and we all too often take them for granted. When we flee from natural disasters we abandon them to bear the brunt of wind and water and fire.

Along the Big Thompson Canyon on the road leading from Loveland, Colorado to Estes Park is the dead stump of a once mighty tree. It is bent and gnarled into a contortion created by the power of the river that took homes from their foundations and turned nature’s bounty into piles of rubble. Somehow that tree has become a work of art. Its determination to hold fast to the rocks in which it once grew is a testament to its strength and flexibility. It stands as a sentinel as rugged as the huge boulders along the face of the canyon. It has somehow withstood the onslaught of both nature and humans.

We personify trees. They teach us lessons. We track our human history in their branches. We have a special kinship with trees, especially when we are hot and weary. We sit under their branches cooling ourselves and dreaming of futures that we may never see but they are more likely to enjoy. Trees remind us of ourselves as they travel along with us through the seasons and the years. They are our silent partners in a lifetime journey.

My paternal grandmother was a child of nature. Her father and her grandmother are buried in a national forest in Arkansas where their homestead once resided. It seems fitting that her ancestral home is now protected and allowed to return to a wild and unfettered state. She so loved to walk in the woods under a canopy of trees that sheltered the birds and critters that she enjoyed. When she died my grandfather handpicked a spot in the cemetery that sits under a grove of oaks whose limbs reach gracefully over her final resting place. She would have loved the serenity of the area. In life she marveled at nature’s wonders and seemed almost to be a mischievous sprite as she wandered in the forest behind her farm naming every tree, plant and bird that crossed her path.

Hanging on the wall at the entrance to my home is an image of an enormous tree spreading its limbs across a landscape of green. I have placed it there to welcome my guests and to remind myself of the glories of the natural world. The painting calms me and makes me smile. Gazing at it takes me to my roots. I think of the people whom I never met who had to live in order that I might now exist. Like the tree they once began with a tiny seed and then reached to the heavens with their dreams, becoming ever stronger with each new branch. I know their names but not their stories. I can only imagine what their lives had been based on what I know about the places where they lived. I wonder what they would think of me and the world in which I exist. I suspect that they would be happy that things have turned out as well for me and my extended clan as they have. After all, each of us wants the best for our children and grandchildren. We want to know that they will be safe.

One of my favorite books is Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I have presented it as a gift many times over. I never tire of its story of unconditional love and sacrifice. I have now travelled through almost seven decades from the time when I was born. I have been the child, the teenager, the young adult, the middle aged individual and now the old person described in the tale. I have known both the exuberance and the drudgery of life, sometimes forgetting the people who have brought me to the place where I now linger. Like all humans I sometimes take my blessings for granted and even abuse the kindnesses that have been shown to me. I forget to be thankful and to simply enjoy the shade and the sound of the wind whispering through the leaves of the tree of life.

Trees keep me optimistic. They remind me that there is a continuity in this world that is bigger than our individual human efforts. We may falter and even become a bit full of ourselves but the ebb and flow of life remains essentially the same. We all benefit from being a bit more like trees. It is important that we “Stay grounded. Connect with our roots. Turn over new leaves. Bend before we break. Enjoy our unique natural beauty and keep growing.” (Joanne Chaptis) If we remember these simple rules we will surely find more of the contentment that we seek, especially in a world as seemingly mad as the one that we now face.

That tree in Rockport has seen more than we might ever imagine and still lives on. There is something rather nice about knowing that it is there and will be even when we are gone. Like the giant sequoias of Yosemite, the groves of Aspen in Rocky Mountain National Park and the countless shady lanes that soften the highways and byways across the land trees are the constant that we all wish to be in the world.