Category: Books

Heroes

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Wizarding-World-of-Harry-PotterThe love of reading seems to be embedded in my DNA. For as long as I can remember books have played an integral part in my life. They bring me pleasure and contentment. I enjoy a multiplicity of genres and always have. I like fiction as much as nonfiction, poetry as much as prose. The truly great writers capture the essence of the human experience. They introduce us to heroes, real or imagined. They ask us to think and consider alternatives. They transport us to new worlds and ideas. Reading is by far mankind’s most magical experience.

When I was in high school I had the same English teacher for all four years. He required us to read a new book each week and then write a general critique of it. At the beginning of my freshman year he gave us a list of all of the books in our school library and suggested that we enjoy as many of them as possible during our time as students. He not only encouraged but required that we select a variety of authors and topics to gain exposure to many different philosophies and ways of expressing thoughts. It was at times difficult to find the time to meet his demands while balancing all of the other tasks that were part of my life but admittedly I was the most content whenever I was lost inside the pages of a new book.

I came to know many heroes and anti-heroes. I learned that even the most remarkable individuals in fact and fiction had moments of failure in their journeys as well as triumph. I lionized the people who stood for purposes greater than their own. Perhaps my quest to find the goodness in mankind had begun with the fairytales that my father had once read to me. At the time that I sat next to him as he related the stories of triumph over tragedy I had little idea that I would one day embark on my own hero’s journey. When he was gone I became addicted to stories of saints hoping to find a pattern in their sacrifices and the secret to living a good and decent life. It was not until high school that I finally realized that heroism is far more complex than I had once thought. As human beings even the greatest among us often falter. There is never perfection.

There are particular authors who seem to understand our human strengths and frailties. John F. Kennedy’s Profiles in Courage describes unique situations in which individuals had the choice of standing for their convictions or mingling with the crowd. None of the people whose stories he told had particularly demonstrated the characteristics of a hero until the defining moments in their lives when they decided to do what they believed was right and just. In some cases it cost them dearly. In others it elevated their status. In every example their actions took great courage.

Sometimes we seem to have a dearth of heroes. We shouldn’t have to watch a Jason Bourne movie to experience greatness. It is doubtful that we will find true bravery inside the pages of a Marvel comic book. We want to see the real thing and most often find that it is hiding in plain sight in the most unlikely places.

My grandfather traveled across an ocean to a new world and worked from early in the morning until late at night to earn the resources to buy land and build a home for his family. He toiled in a meat packing plant cleaning carcasses and bloody floors. He was wracked with pain in his legs that he stoically endured. He and his children were taunted for being foreigners with unfamiliar ways. He maintained his dignity and his pride in spite of the difficulties that plagued him. He taught his children to work hard, remain optimistic and take full advantage of life’s possibilities. He insisted that they ignore insults and remain strong and confident. He was a hero albeit with his own feet of clay.

The new installment of the Harry Potter saga comes in the form of a stage play. It is almost Shakespearean in its theme. As the story unfolds we see Harry as a middle aged man, married with three children. His days of adventure are seemingly behind him but his reputation marks him as surely as the scar that reminds everyone of his story. Like many fathers he struggles to communicate his feelings to his children. He is a victim of the inevitable gap that separates one generation from another. As a grownup his heroism takes a new and less romantic form. J.K. Rowling wisely notes that even the greatest wizard has imperfections that make life difficult.

Perhaps we are all guilty of expecting too much from those who would be the heroes among us. We cringe when they make mistakes or say the wrong things. We seem to take joy in noticing their missteps. We magnify not only their accomplishments but also their failures. We place someone like Tiger Woods on a pedestal when he appears to be perfect but joyfully knock him down when he proves to be as flawed as the rest of us. There is something that is not quite right about our hero worship. It is filled with unrealistic expectations that no human being will ever be able to meet. With the media lurking around every dark corner it is almost certain that even the most generous and outstanding individual on earth will ultimately be accused of being a fraud. 

We have a terrible habit in this day and age of confusing heroism with a willingness to agree with us. We tend to disdain anyone who suggests that perhaps there is a different way of viewing things or solving the world’s problems. It is easy to bend and sway with the wind. It is far more difficult to adhere to integrity and endure the boos of the crowd. Sometimes it is that lone voice urging us to realize that the emperor has no clothes that holds the truths that we need to hear. Heroes are not always the most popular or the ones who make us feel good. Often they express truths that challenge our comfort and ask us to suspend our preconceived notions.

The history of the world demonstrates over and over again that we seem to get our heroes just when we need them most. They bravely guide us to be our own best selves.  They may do so quietly and without fanfare or with great flourish. They may live next door to us or in the halls of power. We never quite know when we will encounter them but we recognize them when we see them. They show us how to muster our hopes and dreams into a better reality if only for a brief moment in time. They are Mother Theresa and the woman who brings a casserole to the sick. They are Martin Luther King, Jr. and the man who helps a stranded motorist to change a tire. They can be the child who stands up to a bully or a senator who refuses to endorse a questionable political candidate. Our heroes are not just found between the pages of a good book. They are all around us and in the end they almost always set the world aright.

One Picture, A Thousand Words

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

minnie bell85759993_133385194360A former colleague and friend has agreed to help me include photographs in the body of the book that I have written. I’ve spent a great deal of time  to that end sorting through boxes and albums containing images of family members that tell as powerful a story as the one that I have related with phrases, sentences and paragraphs. The old saying is that a picture is worth a thousand words and I have been reminded of the truth of that statement as I study each of the snapshots from my family’s history that have been forever captured in black and white, Kodachrome and pixels.

After my mother died my brothers and I spent many hours inside her home dividing up her few belongings. I was amazed at how many cards, drawings, letters, invitations, programs and photos she had saved. I found pictures that I had never before seen that had long languished inside boxes. It appeared that at some point my mom attempted to identify the people and the places so that we might one day have a clearer understanding of her personal history. The best of the lot were the black and white images from the nineteen forties when she was young and her whole adult life lay before her. Many of those images held commentaries such as “Those Happy Days” or “Such a nice person.” It was as though she wanted us to understand who she had been when the road before her was still based mostly on dreams.

I so enjoyed seeing my mother with her brothers and sisters, mugging for the camera, walking arm in arm down 1940’s Houston streets, and looking so incredibly young and beautiful. There were at least two quite handsome young men whose photos she kept, noting that they had purchased engagement rings for her before she had even met my father. One of them was killed during World War II and the other she turned down even as she noted that he was always a gentleman. I mostly loved seeing the pictures of my grandparents when they were younger than I remembered them, younger than I am now. I lingered over the postcards and panoramas from trips that Mama had taken. I laughed to learn that she traveled alone to San Diego when she was only seventeen to visit with a friend, demonstrating the daring spirit that would always define her.

My favorite photos were the ones that showed my mother and father flirting with one another during their courtship and early days of wedded bliss. It was almost shocking to see how young and in love they were. They mugged and teased in the style of the day. Mama vamped on top of automobiles and Daddy leaned on lamp posts gazing at my mother as though he had just won the lottery. Mama carefully recorded her feelings on so many of those pictures that show them in the first blush of their courtship.

Eventually the chronology of their life together led to photographs of me and my brothers. They took noticeably fewer snapshots of each other once we were born. Their lives appeared to shift focus. Their own visages became more serious. Instead of looking at each other they looked adoringly on us. Nonetheless, one image taken only months before my father’s shocking death shows them holding hands while walking down the streets of Hot Springs, Arkansas. It provides a testimonial of the depth of their feelings for one another. It shows one of those rare moments away from their children when they were relaxed and still so much in love.

The remainder of the memories are the story of our family life without our father. Somehow we managed to hit all of the milestones and find our own special kind of happiness. Of course that was mainly due to our mother’s determination to provide us with the safety and security that we needed at a time when our futures appeared to be so bleak. She did a yeoman’s job and somehow found the inner strength to provide us with a show of optimism in spite of our circumstances. I would find notations and writings that indicated the truth of the struggle that she silently and bravely endured.

My mother remained a pretty lady for all of her days. She possessed a radiance and unselfish spirit that drew people to her. Her albums are filled with memories of celebrations and parties and the people who meant so much to her. Eventually she grew tired and her friends became less energetic themselves. Many of them even died. She spent a great deal of her time alone. She collected readings from the Bible and verses that appealed to her. She wrote about the positive aspects of suffering and how enduring pain and loss had only made her feel closer to Jesus.

I discovered aspects of my mother’s personality and life story that I had never before known. I was able to gaze objectively into her world, not as her child but as a fellow human being. She had kept pieces of her heart hidden away and it felt amazing to get to know her in a whole new way. She became more real to me than she had ever been. I began to understand her on an almost spiritual level and I was awash with gratitude for all of the sacrifices that she had made for me and my brothers. It was a truly humbling experience to take a marathon tour of her memories.

We each travel through the modern world recording our own histories with selfies and images of the people that we know and the places to which we travel. Our faces and expressions tell stories of our passages through time. I wonder how many of our most special memories might one day be tossed away or deleted by distant descendants who don’t even know who we are. Will there be no one left to understand the meaning of our poses and our smiles? 

Whenever I eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant I find myself looking at the old portraits lining the walls. I wonder who the people are and how their pictures ended up so impersonally decorating a place where nobody knows their names. There is a kind of sadness in knowing that their fate has become being a caricature of an era long past. It seems wrong that their lovely photographs have met such a lonely fate.

I now have a new goal. I plan to organize the thousands of photos that are in my possession. They will be far more meaningful for the next generation and those that come in the years long after I am gone if I take care in identifying their importance. My first step is going to be to include some of them inside the covers of my book so that my readers will have faces to put with the grand story of a little family that did its best to muddle its way through life. I hope that my words will equal the grandeur of how special they really were. Perhaps then the people that mean so much to me will find a way to live on forever. 

Summertime Classrooms

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

kids-playing-for-the-summerSo Memorial Day weekend is coming and the schools are closing for the summer. Tomorrow will be the last day for teachers and students across the land…NOT! Shockingly, virtually every child still has an entire week of classes left and some even have two more weeks to go. What happened to the launch of summer fun on Memorial Day? Who decided that it was a great idea to keep the kids working until well into June? How did this happen without someone protesting? Is this really healthy or necessary for our youth?

I just left my daughter’s home and I worry that my grandchildren are majorly stressed out. They are only in the sixth grade but they have comprehensive final exams in every subject next week, Can you guess what they will be doing over the so called holiday weekend? They have intricate multi-page study guides with information that they must review before the big tests which begin on Tuesday. There will be no time for barbecues or swimming or a quick trip. Instead they will spend the three day weekend making certain that they remember everything that they have learned during the school year. There goes all of the fun for them and their parents!

I honestly don’t understand what anyone hopes to accomplish by extending the school year more and more. When I was young we were always finished in time for Memorial Day and we knew that we wouldn’t have to return until after Labor Day. We weren’t exactly an ignorant generation because of that schedule. In fact we actually learned quite a few bits of practical information and skills during our three month vacation. That was when a week spent with my grandparents on their farm taught me about birds, rocks, gardening, cooking and survival skills. It was the time when my mother taught me how to touch type without looking at the keys and how to sew. I went on a book reading binge each summer, checking out as many volumes as the library allowed and consuming them well before they were due to be returned. That was also when I got my first jobs and because they actually lasted for three months I earned a full four quarters of Social Security time before I had even graduated from high school. I also found out how to keep books in a medical clinic and what it takes to run an office. No amount of class time would have given me such fantastic experiences. I literally had an internship with life each and every summer.

I understand that there is a belief among many that children need more, not less time in classrooms. Still, our society has gone a bit overboard in demanding so much of a young person’s time. I have watched my grandchildren leave for school at seven in the morning and not return until after five in the evening. They have no time for independent play. After a quick dinner they have to hit the books because they have so many assignments and projects to complete. There is rarely a moment to spare. If they are very lucky they manage to get everything completed before bedtime but there are also nights when their work keeps them up far longer than they should be. They become grumpy and tired and mostly they just don’t get to be kids. At this moment in the school year they are hopelessly burned out and yet the demands continue unabated.

I realize that some children live in deplorable conditions and that school is the safest and most productive place that they might ever be. I certainly agree that we need to create programs for them but why pull the entire population of children into the same one size fits all schedule? We really don’t need to over-plan the lives of our youth. It is often in those moments when they have to rely on their own creativity that they learn the most.

I remember putting on shows for the neighborhood. It took rehearsals and imagination to produce a worthy program. I garnered more knowledge during those moments than I might have filling out worksheets and tests during an extra week of school.

On other occasions me and the other neighborhood kids created a local newspaper, complete with comic strips and editorials. Each of us contributed to the process and had to use our writing skills as well as our business expertise. It was great fun. I would later read that Truman Capote and Harper Lee did the same thing when they were children living next door to one another. They used an old typewriter and spent entire summers creating stories and using their fledgling writing abilities. Who knows how things might have turned out for them if they had been stuck in school instead.

I don’t want to underestimate the power of education and adult guidance but I also believe that there is much to be said for providing children with the freedom to innovate. It is in those moments that adults are not watching that we are often the most curious. When nobody is there to help us we use our minds to find solutions to our problems. We also learn how to work with others without the interference of well meaning parents. We navigate around the bully who lives down the street and negotiate with friends to distribute power. We learn teamwork from experience.

I don’t expect to see the powers that be changing our educational year anytime soon. I suspect that the pendulum is swinging in favor of ever more time spent in classrooms which actually makes me a bit sad. Children are flexible and they will adapt to whatever the adults tell them they must do but when I think about what they will be missing it makes me worry. I had a near perfect childhood and I would so love for all youngsters to have the adventures that I had. I had no father and very little money but each morning for three whole months I was the ruler of my day. I got to decide if it was going to be spent reading a new book from the library or playing a life or death game of Scrabble with my friends. I could ride my bicycle to the swimming pool at the junior high or walk to art lessons at Ripley House. It was my call and I loved it.

Perhaps we can find a way to compromise. Children today are certainly being exposed to ever more information and opportunities but they often have no idea how to entertain themselves. We need to help them to develop that skill along with the others that prepare them for life. Sometimes being stuck in the yard with only a water hose and a few friends is the perfect invitation to creativity. When faced with boredom, most children eventually discover how to have fun without spending money or attending a class. Sometimes the best classroom is the one that they have to run by themselves.

 

Crickets or Thunderous Applause?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

successIt’s been a little more than four years since I first began writing my blog. I spent my first year of retirement working sporadically on a book that I had wanted to write for years and somewhere along the way I hit a brick wall. I struggled to convey the emotion that I had hoped would become the heart of the story. I needed some guidance but had no idea where to turn. It was then that I noticed that the Rice University Glasscock School of Continuing Education offered a day long seminar for people like me who wanted to improve their craft and learn how to one day publish their work. I signed up immediately with Mike’s blessing even though the course was far more expensive than most of their offerings.

The class itself turned out to be frustrating on many levels. When I arrived late because I had become disoriented while attempting to follow a poorly designed campus map, all eyes turned on me with looks of undisguised irritation. I apologetically slinked into the first available seat and marveled at how many people appeared to share my dream of becoming an author. The room was packed with bestseller wannabes.

The guest speaker began her monologue much like a professor of freshman English by warning of the unlikelihood that any of us would ever live to see our words in print. She warned that the world of publishing and bookselling was changing everyday in ways that did not bode well for the fledgling author. She insisted that someone famous might create a work unworthy of lining a birdcage and hit the top of the New York Times bestseller list based solely on name recognition rather than talent, while a gifted but unknown author may never be discovered. The emphasis of the remainder of her remarks would focus on what it takes to be noticed in today’s dog eat dog market.

In an effort to relax us after frightening us, the instructor gave each attendee the opportunity to share a few words about the type of book he/she was writing. She patiently listened to person after person, providing encouragement and ideas. She laughed, smiled and applauded, noting that there were definitely going to be some winners from our obviously talented group. When it was my turn I nervously described the general outline and purpose of my memoir, expecting to feel better about my efforts once she gave me the proverbial pat on the back that she had extended to everyone else. Instead her face remained emotionless and without so much as a word she moved to the next person.

I felt like the class dunce as one after another fledgling author received the praise that had been denied me. I wondered if I was deluding myself into thinking that I had anything of worth to say. It was not until the break that I regained my composure. That’s when several of the participants approached me to admit that they would be anxiously awaiting the day when they might read my book. Each of them had personal stories of encounters with mental illness. One woman in particular confided that her twenty something son had become a recluse in her home, writing science fiction works for therapy. She had come to the class to learn how to distribute his stories to the public in the hopes of giving him a life goal. She literally began to cry as she urged me to continue with my quest to show the world how a family manages to triumph over diseases of the mind.

For the remainder of the session I learned all the reasons why it would be up to me to convince the world that I have a knack when it comes to composing with words. Our instructor suggested that one of the easiest ways to show people that our works are worth their time is to write a blog. At that moment I decided that I would try my hand at becoming an Internet journalist of sorts.

Since that fateful weekend I have arisen each weekday morning to write about this or that. I’ve watched for ideas virtually everywhere that I go. I’ve carried my laptop to campgrounds, airports, doctors’ offices, Starbuck’s, McDonald’s and all four corners of these United States. Mostly though, I’ve sat in my living room listening to sounds of the parade of humanity outside my home and I have opened up the contents of my heart for all to see. I’m not certain that I have expanded my fame as a writer but I have certainly become better at the one thing that I most enjoy doing.

In those early days of four years ago I drew on family experiences and whatever I happened to be doing at the time for my inspiration. I knew that I was hooked on the idea of being a low rent columnist when I sat in a tent one evening typing away in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. It never occurred to me that I might be struck by lightening or even electrocuted as I told the world about my angst in relying on the protection of a leaky tent whose roof was collapsing and corners were taking on water at an ominous rate. I only knew that the mere fact of describing and sharing my experience provided me with inexplicable happiness.

I’ve been at it now for so long now that I fear that I’m beginning to sound like a dotty old aunt who repeats her stories so many times that everyone in the room knows exactly what is coming next. I fear that my readers’ minds glaze over each time they see the second or third verse of what seems to be the same song. My website once hit a peak of five hundred visits each and every day. Over time my blogs were viewed over 800,000 times. Knowing that I had fans was a giddy feeling and made me believe that one day my book will be a huge success. Sadly, without warning, my readership began to slide. I modernized my page and appealed to my readers to continue to follow me but perhaps I have outlived my brief fame at just the time when I am so close to launching my book. The fear that I felt when the writing teacher showed no interest in what I was creating has returned. I wonder if I have been taking my time in completing a task that I began so long ago because I have lost my confidence in its worth. The writer’s dilemma is knowing when and where and how to share the personal thoughts that they have etched onto the virtual paper of a computer screen. It is admittedly a frightening prospect because all the world is a critic.

I am within fifty pages of completing the revisions on my book. It is both an exciting and a humbling task. After one more quick read to check for typos, spelling mistakes and punctuation errors I will be ready to format my work. I need to design a cover and insert photos, something that I have no idea how to do but will somehow learn. Then my memoir will debut. It’s so close that I can feel it and I’m quite nervous. My greatest fear is that once it is available the public response will be just like that of the writing guru who so quickly dismissed the worth of my idea four years ago. That would be devastating. I sometimes wonder if my efforts will be greeted with crickets or thunderous applause. The only way to find out will be to finally complete the task.

Let the Journey Begin

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

i282600889619216089._szw1280h1280_It has oft been said that education is wasted on the young. While that is not entirely true, I suspect that some of the niceties of learning are never quite realized until we have experienced more of life. When we are not yet adults our focus is on far different aspects of the world than after we have experienced more of reality without the aid and comfort of our parents. With our widening horizons we are capable of deeper understanding. Somehow the curiosity that pushed us as toddlers resurfaces and we find ourselves seeking answers to a multitude of questions. Like a three year old we enthusiastically enjoy the world with all of our senses, ever alert for new experiences and adventures.  Continue reading “Let the Journey Begin” →