Category: Commentary

When I was in high school I had the same English teacher for all four years. Luckily he was an incredible educator who opened so many horizons for me that it would be impossible to fully explain his influence on the trajectory of my life. I think of him often because he changed me from a little girl whose reading habits only included Nancy Drew mysteries and stories of pioneer families. He nurtured my creative bent and introduced me to a wider world than I had ever imagined. 

One of the weekly tasks that he gave us was to write a short theme based on a word or phrase that he posted on the blackboard each Monday morning. I would have seven days to complete the assignment but more often than not waited until Sunday evening to put together two hundred words that felt coherent enough to submit. Most of the time my offerings were rather dull but now and again I would feel the fire of creativity that produced an opus worth reading. 

Back then writing was a chore, something that had to be completed before the deadline. There were times when I sat staring at a blank piece of paper panicking that my lack of originality would finally cause my downfall. Sometimes I ended up writing something so banal that even I would have given myself a disgusting grade. Luckily my teacher was a bit more gracious in using those themes mostly to help us become more and more comfortable about writing. He wanted us to improve, not become instant geniuses of the pen. 

Much of the terror that I felt about writing involved having to use a typewriter to do so. My mother had insisted that I learn how to touch type before I even entered high school. She saw that skill as an important bridge to completing the assignments of higher learning. I happily learned how to tap the keys with all ten of my fingers without looking down to note whether or not I was actually performing well or creating a page full of mistakes. 

When there was no pressure I performed well on a typewriter but somehow creating text that would be assessed by someone other than myself sent my fingers to all the wrong letters. It would take me hours to complete a coherent document. Even then my work would be dotted with so much white out that it looked as though something had leaked on the page. The art of writing became a task fraught with terror as I tried mostly without success to quickly post my ideas on a blank sheet of paper. 

There is an irony that I now write every single day as a kind of relaxing meditation. The beauty of being able to correct mistakes that I make on my laptop with ease has freed me to concentrate more on my words and ideas than on the mechanics of creating a manuscript. I have reached a point in my life when writing is fun and I imagine my English teacher providing me with a daily prompt that will challenge my creativity rather than my ability to create a readable document.

Words and ideas and grammar all come together in a coherent unity when I write all because of the English teacher who showed me the power of reading and crafting ideas with words. Because of him my home is overflowing with beautifully bound volumes and magazines. Thanks to the internet I am able to find even more to read and I widen my horizons even more than my teacher showed me how to do. When I went to college my professors wanted to know who had mentored me so well. I was proud to tell the stories of time in his class listening to poetry and plays and words put together so beautifully that they drew pictures on my heart. 

I often wonder if I would find so much joy in writing each day if I had never met my wonderful English teacher. I ask myself how I was so fortunate to encounter such a person during my becoming years. His vision of a world without limits fit so well with the early love of reading and learning that I received from my father. Somehow the influence of those two men became the foundation of the person that I would ultimately become. 

Some people take walks or go to a gym each day to insure their physical and mental health. I write for the same reasons. It may be a vanity project but it is also a way to be myself. I am not a quick thinker. I have to ponder ideas before speaking of them. Writing allows me to give voice to the many thoughts that race through my head. It calms my soul and provides me with a kind of superpower that my dear grandmother Minnie Bell so longed to have. In only two generations I have progressed from ancestral women unable to either read or write to holding a graduate degree. My father and my English teacher accelerated my sense of power over who I am by showing me how to use stories and poems and editorials to form my own beliefs and then speak of them to others. Theirs has been a gift that I cherish each time I sit in my recliner with my laptop balanced on my legs. The whole world comes to me in those moments.

Courage isn’t loud or fearless. It is the quiet decision to try again tomorrow. Author Unknown

When we are young if we have been lucky enough to grow in a safe and loving environment we see our future as a straight line heading for the fulfillment of all of our dreams. Soon enough we learn that life rarely unfolds without problems and challenges that take us in directions that we never imagined. It can be daunting and confusing when the world impedes the progress that we planned for ourselves. It can be disorienting to find ourselves lost in a situation that we never imagined.

Those of us in the later years of our lives have so many stories to tell of failures and stolen promises. We have endured the serendipity of living often with a weariness that feels unremitting only to survive again and again. The true history of humankind is bound in both successes and disappointments. As our lives unfold we realize that we have never lived in isolation. The whole world is constantly challenging our beliefs and our determination. It is the way it has always been since the beginning of time. 

We too often forget that we do best when we live in harmony with nature. We are but one aspect of life on planet earth. Every single thing that we do affects the world around us. We all too often hurt nature without considering the consequences of our actions. We like to believe that the harsh weather disasters that befall us have nothing to do with how we have treated the ecosystem in which we live. We pretend that tearing down forests and excessively using water has no repercussions but evidence shows us the folly of such beliefs. We are dependent on each other and on the entirety of nature and yet we assemble in tribes and fight with people that we do not wish to understand. All of these things change the reality of our lives whether we choose to believe it is so or not. 

If we are truly honest we will admit that we humans have done both good things and bad. If we continuously learn from the evil that people have perpetrated in the past we can try to be better tomorrow. Ignoring mistakes only insures that we will keep making them over and over again. it is only through a willingness to keep trying to be better that our true courage shows its power. 

Twenty twenty six was slated to be a celebratory time for the United States of America. Our nation has survived for two hundred fifty years since the brave but imperfect men signed the Declaration of Independence. From that moment many mistake have been made. Ignoring them insures that they will happen again and again. Addressing them with total honestly insures us that tomorrow will be a bit better than the day before. Progress in our individual and national lives has always been incremental. We move slowly forward with deliberation. Breaking everything all at once only creates chaos. Lying to ourselves hides the truths that will set us free. 

If we study history and our personal stories we know that it is in the very moments that were about to break us that we have so often found ourselves. In most cases our journeys have not been alone. Along the pathways we have encountered others who helped us to be our best for a moment or a lifetime. Isolating ourselves from people and situations that frighten us has rarely worked. It is when we come together in a spirit of compromise and good will that we leap forward.

I will be seventy eight years old in November. My life has never been a bed of roses but it has always been filled with people who comforted me in my darkest days. I have moved slowly from the isolation of my childhood to becoming a true citizen of the world. I understand the importance of looking beyond the borders of our homes, our neighborhoods, our states and our nation. Learning about the beautiful tapestry of our differences has shown me that most of us long for the same things no matter how separated in time and space and culture we may be. We are born. We learn from our families. We walk out into the adult world. We do our best to create good lives for ourselves and each other. We have good and bad days. We enjoy success and feel the pain of defeat. We go to bed each night feeling satisfied or broken. With luck we arise the next day and begin our individual hero’s journey once again. 

These are difficult times for so many people throughout the world. At the same moment many of us enjoy living conditions that are better than those experienced by kings of old. Powerful people may try to frighten us and turn us against each other with canned phrases that hold terrible meanings. If we are wise we look beyond the fear mongering and wake up again and again with hopes that the new day will bring us together again regardless of how imperfect each of us may be. We push forward and look for the goodness that lies in the hearts of people throughout the world.  

I suppose that I have dreamed of being a writer from the time I was a child.  I worked on the school newspaper when I was in high school and vied for job of editor in chief but that was not meant to be. The adult sponsor chose me to be the news editor which seemed to be a rather dull assignment. After assessing whether or not the five Ws of Who, What, Where, When, Why had been properly addressed my biggest job was checking the spelling and grammar and making certain that the articles would fit on the front page. I longed to work on the literary page and I was admittedly envious of the sports editor who seemed to enjoy the most readers of his exciting and hilarious stories. Still, I imagined that our faculty leader had made a mistake and that one day she would see that I was born to write the great American novel. 

I went on to college where I majored in English and minored in math. My professors liked my work but none of it was particularly creative. My main goal was to critique the writing of others or explain the proper way of using the English language. I wrote descriptions of the incredible movements of two of the members of our basketball team that received rave reviews from the professor. I recorded and discussed the oral history from my grandfather and the teacher was over the moon. None of those things were particularly original Nothing demonstrated that I had a unique way of stringing words together. I could see that my best talent involved telling true stories about people that I knew or had taken the time to observe. Like my grandfather I was pretty darn good at describing the folksy aspects of life. I soon realized that perhaps the sponsor of the high school newspaper had been on to something. I was not a creative writer, I was simply a kind of chronicler of what I saw. 

I suppose that there is nothing wrong with the fact that I can’t write the next great American novel since I am able to communicate rather well but my prose stills feel so pedestrian, especially when I see a friend developing into a stunning author. There is such a difference in the way I post words together and the unique ways that he takes those same syllables and weaves a lively tale. 

My high school English teacher often said that we did not all need to become prize winning authors. He felt that there was something rather special in being an appreciator of good writing, a person of good taste. When he chose me to grade the weekly essays of some of his students he urged me to direct them to greater heights than they may otherwise have risen. He said that being a developer of talent was an incredible skill that not everyone has. I suppose that is why I ended up teaching for a living rather than banging away on a typewriter building beautiful dreams from words. 

The funny thing is that almost everywhere that I taught I was commandeered to write the news bulletin for parents. I threw myself into that task knowing that my job was to report just the facts. I soon learned from feedback that many of the parents thought that I was being bit uppity with my vocabulary which I thought was rather dull. I had to rethink how to compose my blurbs so that they would be understandable to anyone who read them. That meant no long winded sentences, only those that got straight to the point. 

I suppose that I still dream of being discovered as a writer. I get my best reviews when I describe someone that I have known and admired. I no longer even try to enter the field of fiction. Instead I am satisfied to write about real people and real topics that interest me. I have accepted the reality that I am one of the world’s greatest appreciators and encouragers because many a student, relative or friend has taken my advice to keep writing because something was really special about the stories that they told. I’m no longer a bit jealous of their ability like I once might have been. Instead I celebrate the fact that I know enough to be discover real talent and sometimes even guide someone who struggled at first to let their minds take them to wondrous places about which we would all enjoy reading.

I write and write and write and write. My hobby is no longer aimed at being discovered. Now I do it daily as a way to relax during times when I am feeling anxious about the state of the world. There is something soothing and perhaps a bit selfish about writing down and sharing one’s thoughts. There is a certain audacity in thinking that what I have to say is important enough that others might actually care about the words and sentences and paragraphs that I put down on paper. I often wonder if mine is a vanity project or something worthwhile. 

I’ve read about other writers and the struggles that they often endured. I remember seeing that F. Scott Fitzgerald nearly went mad attempting to recreate the genius of The Great Gatsby. Some people like Stephen King seem to have endless ideas. Others create that one incredible piece and are never able again to reach the heights of literary glory. Nonetheless it seems to me that there is some kind of gene that literally forces those of us with the writing bug to keep plugging away no matter how far from perfection we fall. 

I am the great appreciator and encourager. My skill has inspired many a soul. Maybe in the long run of things that is a rather incredible way to be. Do I dare use the word, Muse? 

One of my favorite movies is Full Metal Jacket. It is a difficult film to watch and it always leaves me with a sense of heavy sorrow. It focuses on the horrors of war but also on the military process of training soldiers. Much of the induction into the military and the realities of warfare featured in the movie are difficult to even imagine. 

The most jarring section of the film comes in the beginning when the main character is undergoing the training that he and his fellow soldiers will need to be successful in the roles that they will eventually play. As we all know the process under the close maintenance of a drill sergeant can sometimes feel brutal but then so is war so the troops must become tough and willing to follow orders. In Full Metal Jacket we see what happens when a young man is ill suited for the grueling transition from private citizen to a military man. 

One of the characters has trouble from the onset. The other soldiers make fun of him and the drill sergeant calls him out to a point of breaking him. Watching the downfall of this person is humbling and it is difficult not to want to scream at the drill sergeant and the other members of the troop to leave him alone. Still, common sense tells us that this man cannot be weak when he goes into combat. He has to be able to stand with his comrades and follow the instructions of his commanders. Sadly the man is unable to endure the constant barrage on his psyche. In the end he violently ends the cruelty that has left him in a state of rage.

The idea of turning individuals into devoted members of a group works most of the time in the military. It is why there are uniforms and clear attempts to erase the individual quirks of each recruit. In other situations management of that style can sometimes seem appropriate but rarely is. In the world of work turning employees into unquestioning followers can actually spell the downfall of the enterprise. 

Humans are hard wired to think and to ask questions. When those very instincts are used for the good it is magical. Allowing workers to express concerns and make suggestions for improvement is valuable for the growth and sustainability of any organization. When such abilities are stunted by canned programs and responses the workplace becomes dull and prone to losing momentum. 

I spent most of my adult life in schools. I worked for a few drill sergeants but never stayed very long in such places. I found them to be far too confining.They created unhappy and often failing schools. Going to work was a drudge in which I was forced to follow directions that did not allow for the variety of techniques that I needed to reach all of my students. The classrooms in such schools became boring and more like working on an assembly line than inspiring young people to use the best of their talents.

I was fortunate enough to spend the start of my career in exciting environments. My principals and mentors knew exactly how to tap into my skills. They invited me to voice my own ideas and encouraged me to challenge theirs when I felt uncomfortable. We had long discussions in which I knew that I was truly being heard and it propelled my confidence in ways that kept improving my teaching. I was not afraid to admit to making mistakes and then asking for counsel in how to repair the damage. The collegiality of such workplaces prepared me to be a strong advocate for myself and my students. It also showed me how to be a true mentor to the teachers that I would ultimately train, develop and represent. 

When I later encountered the drill sergeant mentality I knew how to respond. I understood that I did not have to be in such a place and plotted my exit before the frustration of being treated like someone without a brain had driven me mad. In some cases I was even bold enough to challenge the people who wanted to bind me with so many rules that were counter to my understanding of best practices. 

We humans are not built to be trained and managed as though we have no ideas of our own. Each of us is beautifully original and we all want to find ways of using our talents and skills in creative and original ways. There are basic rules that we must follow in any venue but when we are demanded to shut down our own thoughts we generally feel confined to the point of needing to escape. In a democracy like ours too many rules that deny the freedom of thought and lifestyle are dangerous. Those who want to walk in tandem with certain beliefs should be more than welcome to do so but when they force those same ideas on everyone else they have gone too far. 

The lovely variety of humanity is a beautiful thing. No president or boss or even religious leader should ever become a drill sergeant demanding that we march to only one tune. Our beautiful minds tell us that such a world is totally wrong.

In school I learned that it was not appropriate to love objects. Only living persons or creatures are deserving of love according to my teachers. Things are only to be liked or enjoyed. I understand the reasoning behind such thinking but I have to admit that I truly loved my Tacoma truck. From the moment we drove it home in 2014 I knew that it was a beauty that would bring us joy for many years to come. I never imagined how much that Tacoma truck would become intimately tied to our lives. 

We had the truck fitted out to pull a trailer that we later purchased to use on vacations. For years we had slept in tents but as we aged our bones began to rebel and make it less and less easy to endure nights on the floor cuddled in sleeping bags or even an upgrade to lying on cots. I suppose that we saw the handwriting on the wall in one of our last ventures inside a tent when it began to bow under the raging of a terrible storm that lit up the inside of our haven allowing us to see the fear in each other’s eyes. When we walked out into the dawn of a new day we saw that all of the other tenters had wisely left the scene and somehow without saying so each of us knew that the time for tenting had passed. 

Soon our beautiful truck was pulling a fine trailer that was just the right size for two people. We went everywhere in comfort that we had never before known. Our truck guided us all the way to California like modern day pioneers. During Covid we managed to travel thousands of miles without having to interact with any humans  All the while our truck did all of the hard work with hardly a glitch. It seemed to be eternally magical as the years passed one after another. 

I was never one to care much about my mode of transportation. Over the years I drove clunkers and fairly reliable cars. The closest I came to having a love affair with an automobile was when I purchased a Honda CRV. It was a reddish maroon beauty with license plates that gave homage to my grandchildren and ended up being its name. GAMMY7 was a honey of a car, perfect for driving to work and even for hauling rugs and tables and other kinds of treasures that a woman finds and brings home. It was surely a good car but I gave it up in order to get that Tacoma. It seemed to be a fair trade even as I felt a bit of grief over losing Gammy 7.

Over twelve years and over 200,000 miles the Tacoma was still as vibrant as ever. I can honestly say that it was the best auto that I have ever driven. I felt incredibly safe behind the wheel, even when the weather was hazardous. We drove it all the way to Maine one summer even as it had begun to age. In many ways it was doing better than my husband and I were. Still it had a few flaws that were beginning to show its age. 

The back up camera was not nearly as good as it had once been. Now and again in really sunny weather it became almost useless. Once in awhile it fogged over. I would notice the bells and whistles of the newer cars that people owned and feel a bit sheepish that mine was way behind the technology. Still, I felt brave and confident in that truck. At least it was so until I backed into someone’s car in a crowded parking lot totally unaware that it was behind me. There was a major blind spot that I did not take into account until I heard the big bang of my metal on the door of another auto. 

The accident was minor and the Tacoma only suffered a tiny hole in one of the taillights. Our insurance took care of the unfortunate soul who endured the injury to his car. It should not have affected me so much save for a story that my grandfather often told. He was a wise man who taught me much about how to live a good life. When he was ninety years old he backed into a grocery cart in a parking lot without ever seeing that it was behind him. He decided then and there that he was too old to continue driving safely and so he gave away his car that very day and never again sat behind the wheel. 

I took his story to heart and began to wonder if I had somehow reached a point of being a danger to others. My younger brother and my sister-in-law had all but given up driving until they found a reliable self driving car that takes them around town. I found myself feeling uncertain when I backed out of any space. My anxiety would not go away, especially on days when the rear camera was blurred. I would crane my neck in a thousand directions taking forever just to back out from my driveway. So I began to rely more and more on just being a passenger in our truck. 

Eventually we went to check out hybrid cars from Toyota. We left the dealership with a plug in Prius that was top of the line when it came to cameras and safety features. At first it felt very small compared to the power that my sweet Tacoma had given me but before long I was enjoying the incredible views that literally told me where everyone else on the road was located. I enjoy the beeps and warnings that tell me when I am getting too close to any kind of object. Best of all I am able to do all of my usual errands without ever using even a gallon of gasoline. I won’t go as far as saying that I love this car the way I had a romance with the Tacoma but for now it is a pleasure to drive. 

With my new Prius I feel that I am doing something good for the planet while also saving money. It is comfortable and fun to drive even as I have to once again get used to being bullied by folks in huge trucks who don’t want to follow the speed limits in my neighborhood. They never dared ride my back bumper and shoot me the bird when I was in my truck. I suppose that they view a Prius as a wimpy kind of automobile but I am laughing inside as I stand my ground and imagine how expensive their gasoline bills are while I will drive for a long time without ever having to fill my tank. The joke is on them.

I have not yet named the Prius. Nothing has yet come to mind other than maybe “Athena.” My grandkids called the truck Taco Mama which seemed to be just right. Gammy7 was my Honda calling card. Maybe I’ll have a contest to find a suitable moniker for my new ride. Until then I will smile each time I blow past a service station and avoid any parking lot crashes with my cameras and beepers keeping me in line. Here’s to new adventures!