Category: Commentary

This morning I find myself staring at a picture hanging on the wall in our study. It shows a ship at sea struggling with a violent storm. It is a gorgeous work of art that we found on a long ago trip to Chatham on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Gazing at the ship in distress elicits so many emotions in my present day mind. My head is filled with a mixed bag of emotions each vying for ascendancy when what I really want is calm.

Our trip to Chatham was glorious in every possible way. Our eldest grandson, Andrew, who was just advancing from childhood to adolescence at the time accompanied us on our journey to Boston and parts nearby. We had been reveling in the history of that part of the United States and its many connections to my husband Mike’s ancestry. We had already visited Plymouth where Stephen Hopkins, a member of the family tree, had first landed in America along with Puritans running from religious persecution in Europe. We had also visited Salem where another ancestor, Roger Conant, had founded a settlement in 1626. Now it was time to visit a place filled with members of the Nickerson family, yet another branch on our family tree.

The town of Chatham was awash with tourists and hydrangea bushes blooming with stunning blue flowers. We drove through the quaint village toward the beach where the hot sand burned our feet when we removed our shoes and the water was so cold that we were only able to stay in it for brief moments before feeling a chill run through our bodies. We chose instead to simply walk along the shoreline in our shoes talking about the deep topics that were swirling through Andrew’s head as he attempted to navigate the changes occurring in his young life. It was then that I understood the depth of his character and the earnestness of his desire to live a good and meaningful life. 

After a time we felt the pangs of hunger and set out in search of seafood. The location we found was delightful and we filled our bellies with fish so fresh that it seemed to have been caught that very day. We laughed and continued our deep dive into the nature of humans and the conundrum of how we interact with one another. We spoke of history both generally and personally and of the mistakes and progress that people make during a lifetime. It was quite a philosophical and meaningful talk that I shall never forget. 

A stroll through the town led us to a little shop where we found the work of art that now hangs in our study. At first we thought that perhaps the piece was a bit more expensive than we had thought. Then while Andrew and Mike were distracted with other places I returned to the shop and asked for a business card where I wrote down the title of the picture. Once I returned home from the trip my thoughts returned to the ship in dangerous seas again and again. Finally I called the shop and ordered if for Mike’s birthday. The lovely piece has hung on the wall ever since, reminding us of the good times we shared with Andrew but also of the dangers that come like storms into every life. 

We have navigated through the sunny days and the storms since that time. We never quite know what each day, each week, each month, each year will bring. We guide our ship as best we can knowing full well that deadly waves may come to rob us of our security. We stay on alert while doing our best to enjoy the good times when the world seems to be perfect. 

Andrew is a grown man now, managing the engineering of constructing schools, medical centers and hospitals. He graduated from college during the height of the pandemic so there were no graduation ceremonies or parties for him. He spent his first months on his job working remotely from an apartment that he rarely left. He was one of those young people marked by the devastation of the virus but somehow he managed to stay healthy and keep moving forward while still wondering and worrying about the ways that we humans mistreat each other. He has carried on stoically while also diving deeply into questions about justice, climate, human rights. He has kept his ship floating even through some devastating storms. 

I suppose that Andrew has a personality like mine. Neither of us are capable of just ignoring all of the hubbub of the world as though it has nothing to do with us. We see ourselves as citizens of a global community with duties to stand up for those fighting for justice. It does not seem to be enough to simply observe happenings without becoming actively involved. We both carefully monitor the pulse of the world and ask ourselves what we might do to keep the ship of state aright. It can be a difficult way to live because being always happy go lucky is not an option for us. 

The storms in my life come in the form of witnessing the suffering of others. i cannot turn away or simply walk by without making an effort to help. Sometimes that simply means listening to what people have to say, learning new points of view, advocating for the underserved and voiceless. I see the world through many eyes and often find myself at odds with people that I love who believe that the world has always been filled with problems about which there is little we might do. They advise me to stay in my own backyard and take care of myself before venturing into problems that do not directly affect me. 

Perhaps they are right, but empathy and the urge to set things right seems to be baked into my DNA. I don’t have the right constitution to party on the deck of my ship when I see storm clouds ahead. Lately the sky seems quite dark indeed. I sense that storms are brewing all over the world and I want to be prepared. 

Yesterday was Mother’s Day and I found myself thinking about my mother and grandmothers as I often do. All three women led unbelievably difficult lives but they were strong and resourceful and loving in spite of the the many tragedies and difficulties that beset them. I count them among the saints and angels in heaven. They were good women devoted to family who asked for little for themselves. They were the kind of ladies who would skip a meal to feed a family member, stay awake all night to nurse a sick child. They had few possessions but they never complained. Instead they celebrated what they saw as their good fortune. 

You have often read the stories about the three women who most impacted my life but today it is time to move forward not just to the present but to the future. I want to talk about my two daughters, Maryellen and Catherine, who are consummate mothers in the modern sense of that word. Both of them are college educated, well read, and attuned to today’s technology and political environment. Much like my mother and grandmother’s they have focused their time and talents on their children, my seven grandchildren. From the time that those young men and one woman were babies Maryellen and Catherine went full throttle nurture, reading to them, taking them to museums, musical events, and watching them learn to swim, play soccer, run track and cultivate their artistic and acting talents.

My daughters’ mothering days began early and their nights went late. They encouraged their young ones to develop their talents and their personal identities. They served as tutors when the kids were little and hired tutors when they grew older. They were always teaching their children something new, explaining how things work, how we humans act and create. Their little ones were naming the planets and their moons before they had even entered kindergarten They travelled to exciting places where they learned to cherish nature and how to live frugally. They all grew strong and bright and filled with kindness and compassion because they knew that they were valued and loved by their mothers. They worked hard and excelled because their mothers helped them to develop themselves and fulfill their dreams. 

Now all of my grandchildren are adults, each a bit different than the other. Two have graduated from college with engineering degrees. Four are moving into their junior and senior years of college with majors in political science, communications, aerospace engineering, and accounting. The young one will embark on his college journey in the fall majoring in computer science. They are a sweet and loving bunch who care deeply about the political issues of the day. They revere nature and understand that we humans must change if we are to continue to thrive and survive. They are thinkers and activists who live according to their deepest beliefs. Their mothers have taught them to be good citizens who take time to speak out for those who are underserved. They represent the very best kind of hope for the future of this fragile planet on which we live. 

Sometimes I look and my daughters and wonder how they became so strong, so thoughtful, so willing to sacrifice like my mother and grandmothers did. I marvel at the many hours that they have devoted to their children, the hard work that they have done to provide them with a place to call home no matter how old they may become. I watched them giving of themselves over and over again not with things but with experiences. All seven of my grandchildren have always known unconditional love. 

Every human knows in our hearts how important mothers are and yet all too often we underestimate the influence of mothers on their children. It is in the simplest of moments that they shine the most. It’s when they sit in the hot sun tallying scores at a swim meet or spend an evening mending a broken heart. It is when they drive two thousand miles to minister to a child in need or check texts every morning to be sure that everything is okay. It is ib mostly listening without offering unwanted advice, giving better hugs than it seems possible to exist. 

I learned how to be a mother from three special women. I never felt that I filled their shoes. Perhaps this is the way all mothers are. We wonder if we have given enough or if our efforts were too much. We analyze every interaction and think of ways that we might have said or done things better. All we can really do is hope that somehow the message that we most want our children to know is as clear as it needs to be. We love them with all our souls. We think of them every hour of the day and night. We help them fly away from our nest but they are never far from our hearts. Being a mother is at once the most difficult and the most rewarding role we women ever have the honor to fill. 

I hope everyone had a happy Mother’s Day! I know some of you without children are nonetheless like mothers to people that you have encountered. Know that each of you is cherished by someone who knows that he or she owes so much to you. Smile in knowing how important you are and enjoy a special moment. You have earned the joy! Each of you have awed me.

I live in a great city with one of the best medical centers in the country. People come from all over the world seeking care from some of the same doctors and hospitals that are only minutes away from my home. My husband’s life has no doubt been extended by brilliant cardiologists and advanced medical procedures. My father-in-law is alive today because of the genius of doctors who understood his need for emergency surgery and then weeks later interceded when he came down with Covid and was unable to breathe. I cannot complain about the remarkable people who always appear at the right time to bring better health to the people of the Houston metropolitan area. Sadly our medical system is not so kind and efficient in every situation. 

When I was fifteen years old I landed a summer job as a receptionist at the clinic of our family physician. I routed phone calls, welcomed patients, took payments for services and even made appointments for visits. The doctors advised me to keep slots open each day to accommodate patients with emergency issues. Nary a day went by without someone rushing into the office needing help immediately. In every situation one of the doctors would volunteer to see the patient. Only the most serious medical crises warranted a call to an ambulance which would take the patient to a hospital. Sometimes the doctor would even ride along inside the ambulance ministering to the person in crisis. 

Such scenarios are a thing of the past. Phone numbers for most doctors go to a central location only for the purpose of scheduling future appointments. Emergencies are directed to 911 or nearby emergency centers. Nobody shows up at a doctor’s office without an appointment that has been secured weeks or months in advance unless the individual has paid big bucks for concierge care from a doctor with a private practice that often excludes patients with Medicare or Medicaid. 

We like to think that we have the best medical care in the world, but that feeling is only present for those of us with enough insurance to secure a long term relationship with a great doctor. Even then we have to plan ahead for services by making our appointments well in advance of the times when we need them. Doctors are so overwhelmed with patients that they have to prioritize the needs of patients, leaving some to wait for months before ever seeing a doctor face to face. 

At Christmastime I injured my ankle on a Sunday evening. After an hour or so I was unable to put weight on the foot without excruciating pain. I knew that I needed to see someone immediately. Since I had sustained the injury in the upstairs of my home I had to shinny down the stairs on my backside and then hop to the car with the assistance of my husband. He drove me to an emergency center affiliated with Methodist Hospital where the doctor on call took x-rays to find that I did not have a broken bone but my ankle bone was severely bruised and I had a traumatic contusion of the soft tissue in that area. He stabilized the ankle with a boot and told me to rest and ice that area for the next forty eight hours. He also instructed me to inform my primary care physician about the incident. 

I was able to reach my doctor the next morning quite easily via a messaging system. He looked at the x-rays and the comments from the attending physician at the emergency center and recommended that I contact a particular specialist in orthopedics who focuses on injuries to the feet. Her curriculum vitae was outstanding and even better was the realization that her office is only a few miles from my home. Unfortunately she was booked until February 15, more than two months after my injury. The helpful woman making appointments for her looked for other doctors who might have earlier opening but was unable to find anyone who was not booked solidly. She registered me for a February 15 appointment and flagged my request by putting me on a wait list in case someone canceled before that faraway date. 

I mention these things because many Americans are wary of establishing a national healthcare system because they have heard horror stories about such systems in other countries that force patients to wait for months to receive services. Sadly I sense that we are not that far away from the same kind of experiences here in our country. In fact I have been hearing horror stories from younger people with private insurance who are waiting as long as six months to see doctors for concerns that they have. In my own case I have learned to schedule checkups with my doctors a year in advance. In November I signed up for cataract surgery that will take place in June. I sense that our own medical crisis is rapidly encroaching and will no doubt get worse as more of us in the huge Baby Boomer demographic grow older and more prone to developing problems. 

I fully appreciate the medical care that is available to me but I worry that there are more and more people who are being locked out of the system either due to cost or because of long waits for care that does not come as soon as needed. It seems to be true that those with enough money are always going to be fine and even those who are older like me tend to be taken seriously. Somewhere in the middle are the are working people of the United States whose health insurance premiums are rising at the same time that the provided services are shrinking. There are even medical deserts in many parts of the country where finding a doctor can be almost impossible. It’s time to take a very hard look at how we might improve the functioning of our medical system before it is too late and too expensive to do so. 

I’m not complaining. I tend to be quite healthy and my doctors have never once let me down. When I hear about younger people reeling under the cost of medical care and then paying incredible copays while waiting for months for services, I truly wonder if we are doing the right things. We have to insure that every citizen gets the care they need when they need it. It’s time to straighten things out before we have a true crisis. 

I fear death, not mine, but the death of people that I love. I should be accustomed to death by now. I have watched so many who were so important in my life leave this world. My beautiful Uncle Bob was the first person whose death I endured. He was only in his twenties but he had a lethal form of cancer that had already taken one of his legs. When five year old me invaded his privacy I saw him attaching a prosthesis and I was frightened. He somehow managed to explain what was happening to him without scaring me and I have loved him to this very day for his gentle candor. When I was only not yet six years old he breathed his final bit of life. The adults who were grieving him did not seem to realize that I was fully aware of what had happened because Uncle Bob had gently told me what to expect. I have always remembered his dignity and the ways that he fully enjoyed his life to the very end. He has forever remained one of my all time favorite people. 

My father and Uncle Bob were best friends. They had gone to high school together and attended Texas A&M College at the same time. After my mother and father got married they played matchmaker by introducing Uncle Bob to my mother’s sister. Their intrigue worked and Uncle Bob officially became my uncle when he married my Aunt Claudia. They were a beautiful couple and I adored their visits when our home filled with laughter. It never occurred to me that someone so vital would actually die, even as Uncle Bob so honestly told me about his battle with cancer and the fate that might end his life sooner that he had hoped. He was resigned to his fate but determined to get as much out of the time that was left as possible. He was working on earning a Phd., expecting his first child with my aunt, climbing mountains, and spreading love wherever he went. When he died I knew that he was ready because he had told me so. Somehow as a little girl I believed that the death of someone so young was simply a quirk that I would never witness again, but I was wrong. 

I was traumatized when my father died so suddenly and so unexpectedly when I was eight years old. I had no time to ponder the possibility of his leaving. It was almost impossible for me to accept that my eighty year old grandparents were still hale and hearty, but my energetic father who was just reaching his stride at the age of thirty three was gone. I quietly went inside of myself until I was in my early twenties. I felt uncertain all the time and worried about who would be next to fall. Somehow I pushed myself to engage with life the way I had seen my Uncle Bob do, overcoming my reticence to become emotionally involved with others lest I lose them. 

Life has been good to me and now I find myself living in my seventy fifth year still adoring my father and my uncle for the ways that they taught me to grab life and embrace people and adventures. I sometimes believe that I have loved each individual that I have encountered just a bit more deeply than I might otherwise have done because I so viscerally understood how fragile each life is. We do not know from one moment to the next who might be the next to die, so we should not waste a single moment with them. 

I have lost beloved people one by one. My grandmother, Minnie Bell, would be an old woman of eighty eight years at the time of her death, but it was still difficult for fifteen year old me to watch her die so bravely and so concerned about how we would all be without her. My cousin, Sandra, Uncle Bob’s only child, would die at the age of sixteen when I was only twenty one. My sometimes gruff but always just a teddy bear, Uncle Andy, had a heart attack that killed him instantly when he was only forty. My Grandma Ulrich followed him in death soon after. Then there was a long pause in death’s grip on people in my live that allowed me to set aside my anxieties about losing family members and friends. Life was fun and easy and I grabbed every bit of it that I was able to do.

I was not quite in my late thirties when my Grandpa Little died. He was one hundred eight years old and had become my hero in every sense of the word. He was wise and kind and very tired of grieving for lost loved ones. He had lost all three of his children by then and many of his grandchildren as well. All of his peers were gone and he had was ready to move on to whatever the next stop might be. He was unafraid to die but weary of watching those around him leave him behind.  

I was in my forties when my sweet Uncle William died. Somehow his death seemed to be part of the natural order of things because he was an older man. Then came my Uncle Paul who had also managed to live a good long time. My sweet mother-n-law, Mary, who was born with a heart defect beat the odds and lived to the age of seventy six even though she had been told from an early age that she would not make it past her twenties. 

It was when my peers, friends the same age as I was, began to die that I felt those same pangs of distress that had seized my heart when I was a little girl. My dear friend and confidante, Pat, died far to soon. The two of us had so many more adventures and milestones to share. She was my chosen sister who I thought would walk by my side until we were old ladies but that was not to be. Our incredible friend, Egon, had a fatal heart attack one day and I struggled to understand why he too would not grow old with us. Then came the death of his wife, Marita, and the passing of Pat’s husband, Bill. Suddenly friendships that Mike and I had so enjoyed were gone while the two of us still had years to journey without them in this life. 

My mother made it to the age of eighty four. She had lung cancer that might have ended with horrible pain, but she was saved from that kind of horror by a quick transition from this life that was beautiful and so perfect given all of the sacrifices and love that she had so freely given to every soul that she ever met. Nonetheless, I have missed her more and more with each passing year and have grown to better understand how incredible she was.  

I’ve been to funerals for my peers and for my cousins. My Aunt Claudia and her twin sister died within weeks of each other. My longest living Aunt Valeria died during the Covid pandemic when she was just shy of being one hundred years old. Now I am seventy five years and becoming all too aware that I will witness more deaths at a must more continuous pace. Therein lie my fears. It is so hard to lose someone even when we believe that they have transitioned to a beautiful afterlife. The pain and grief of death lingers and I dread those feelings and the changes that they will engender.

I am at a stage in life in which each day moves me more closely to my own final moments. Somehow that does not scare me as much as enduring the deaths of people I love. My life has been wonderful because of the people with whom I have shared it. I fear losing more of them as the years go by. That may be one of the most difficult challenges that lies ahead. I hope that I will face each day with the same beautiful spirit that I witnessed in my Uncle Bob did so long ago. He taught five year old me how to savor each moment and live with joy regardless of inevitable challenges. His lesson has served me well. 

I can’t remember ever having a cup of hot tea when I was growing up. My beverage drinking experiences mostly centered on drinking water or milk, but not with meals. Somewhere along the way my mother heard or read that digestion of food was better served without sipping on some kind of liquid while eating. She encouraged us to drink either before or after the meal, not while we were in the process of consuming it. 

The adults in my family were coffee drinkers. My mother launched each day with an unadulterated cup of brew. She eschewed cream and sugar and never had any interest in adding flavors to the dark liquid that seemed to jumpstart her brain each morning. As a child I learned to stay out of her way until the magic of a cup of coffee eventually jolted her awake and returned her to her generally pleasant disposition. Before that moment it was best not to provoke her ire. 

My maternal grandmother famously brewed her coffee in a large enamel pot. Her concoction would never have been chosen as a contender for the delight of true coffee aficionados, but it seemed adequate for those needing a small dose of caffeine. I am told by those who love coffee that it was little more than hot water with a tiny dash of coffee. They called it weak, but I called it my grandmother’s attempt to be gracious and hospitable to anyone who came to visit, including her grandchildren. She never failed to bring us enamel cups filled with more sugar and milk than coffee within minutes of our arrival at her home. To this day I can see her proudly distributing the love that her concoction always signified to me. 

I never developed a love of coffee like most people have. Somehow I was never able to acquire a taste for it even though I like its aroma. My mother-in-law would introduce me to the drink that really stirred my passion. After Sunday dinners when the men left us to watch whatever sport happened to be on television my mother-in-law always made a pot of hot tea that the two of us enjoyed while we talked about family, books, and philosophy. 

My mother-in-law’s family had immigrated to the United States from Newcastle, England just before the outbreak of World War I. She had a grandmother who danced a jig and a mother who taught her how to brew a pot and share a cuppa the very British way. She would use a kettle to boil the water and then warm the pot before placing the tea inside and pouring the water into the container. She new exactly how long to allow the tea to steep in the hot water until the perfect chemical reaction had taken place. I absolutely delighted in sharing that lovely ritual with her. 

Before long it was well known that I loved tea of any kind, but that my favorites were Earl Grey and English Breakfast. Nonetheless, I tried many different varieties and learned that there were few that did not please me. I began to collect tea pots and tins of different blends. I’d launch my day with a cup of tae and imbibe again in the afternoon when my energy began to flag. I delighted in the ritual of making tea and often laughed when I learned that my mother-in-law’s very English mother had always use Lipton tea bags to make her own brew. 

Both my grandmother and my mother-in-law were delightful hostesses. The coffee from Grandma and the tea from Mary Isabel defined their graciousness and generosity. I suppose that the symbolism of sharing time with a warm cup of brew meant more to me than what was actually inside my grandmother’s enamel cups and my mother-in-law’s fine china. The time shared whether wordlessly or with dynamic discussion was priceless. 

After joining Ancestry I learned more and more about my dual background. I’m almost perfectly half Eastern European and half British Isles. I’d like to think that my love of tea is a natural evolution from one side of my ancestors. It took my mother-in-law to introduce me to a tradition that must surely have been a staple in the homes of my long ago relations who came to the colonies before the United States was even an idea. 

I introduced my grandchildren to tea time when they were rather small. Some of them really enjoyed both the tradition and the taste of the brew. Others navigated toward coffee which seemed to provide them with a bigger punch of caffeine for awakening to another day of studying. Only one grandson seems to still enjoy taking the time to let the tea steep in the pot while we talk about the world. He still plans to one day take whomever ends up being his wife to the high tea time at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia, a delightful experience that we enjoyed together on a vacation trip of long ago. 

It is quite remarkable how much impact two different kinds of brew have had on the history of the world. The stories of coffee and tea are more than just the way we start our days. They changed the world in both big and quite personal ways. For me they both represent love and in the case of tea, discovery. I can’t drink either one without thinking of the two remarkable women who gave me my first tastes of the drinks that would awaken my feelings in such positive ways.