Category: Commentary

it’s been a record summer for heat and I suppose that I am feeling cranky. I already have a condition that causes me to have flashes of extreme warmth flashing through my body even on wintery days. Adding one hundred degree temperatures to the mix does not help to keep me cool and calm. Since I like being outdoors the fact that I am stuck inside does little to alleviate my surliness as well. 

I’ve turned to reading to fill my time since travel is not on the agenda this year. I suppose that my mood is reflected in the choices of books that I are filling the hours of the long, slow days of summer. All of them seem to be political in nature, but then what is not pulled into the political spectrum these days?

I began with an optimistic memoir by Dan Rather and then turned to a biographic view of Jacqueline Bouvier before she married John Kennedy. The difference in the early lives of Jackie and Dan was striking. There was a certain irony that Dan’s childhood in Houston, Texas in a low income area of town was so much happier than Jackie’s life of wealth and opportunity. Parents really do make all the difference in a child’ life.

Off and on I have returned to a book about chemical dependency written by a minister with a long history of counseling people with addictions. It is essentially a critique of our nation’s idolatry of money, success, power, possessions, entertainment. In our quest for happiness we all too often turn to things when the real center of joy has to be found inside our very beings.

I thought of the contrast between the lives of Dan and Jackie while reading the advice from the good minister. Essentially we humans spend way too much time seeking things and pushing our feelings deeper and deeper inside our souls. We don’t really talk to each other the way Dan and his parents so obviously did. We do not share our feelings and attempt to understand those of the people around us who seem to be struggling. Our stiff upper lips and stoic natures keep us locked in toxic situations that steal our joy.

There is a great deal of talk these days about what it means to be “woke.” The reality is that wokeness is not a political stance as many attempt to claim. Instead it is a way of analyzing ourselves and the world around us. Done properly it teaches us that we are part of a daunting family history that does not have to remain the same. With truth and knowledge we have to power to become better versions of ourselves. To do so requires facing our weaknesses honestly. Doing so does not bring shame upon us, but rather helps us to change our bad habits and move forward. 

I have not yet begun the book about the two hundred seventy two slaves that were owned by Jesuit priests who had founded Georgetown University. I had grown up as a Catholic never imagining that religious people would have even thought of buying and selling humans for any reason whatsoever. It was a stunning revelation to learn that such was an absolute truth that points to our human tendencies to distort the parables and words of Jesus to fit our personal needs. Even priests are not immune to such frailties. Knowing what they have done over time in the pursuit of their mission of spreading the word of God is all too often heartbreaking, but because of my own weaknesses I know that I am not so sinless that I should begin casting stones. 

I am also reading a book that was written by a Jewish writer living in Germany when Hitler first came to power. It is a novel that follows the fate of a prominent family who owned a furniture store. it is not a book that I can continue reading for very long because I already know what is going to happen to them unlike those who read the book when it was written before and during the purge of Jews in Germany. Sometimes it becomes overwhelming to watch the slow demise of the once happy and too gullible characters marching so blindly to their doom.

I suppose that I analyze the world a bit too much. It is something that I have always done. My mother saw this trait in me and often opined that “ignorance is bliss.” I used to wish that I was more clueless and jovial. It seemed like an easier way to be, but then I would not have been a very good teacher. I would not have noticed students who were struggling and then felt compelled to help them. I have always needed to know more and more about the truth of the world. I have always tilted windmills and yelled that “the Emperor has no clothes.” It is a kind of self torture and self actualization at one and the same time. I watch and learn just as my mother often counseled me to do. I hunt for the truth, even within myself.

I think we would all do well to engage in soul searching and truth telling. Looking the other way when a stranger is lying injured on the side of a road is not how we are supposed to be. Plugging our ears when someone is attempting to explain who they are destroys the autonomy of all of us. We can’t live happily ever after in Cinderella’s castle in Disneyland. No trips or stimulants or possessions can make us whole. Only genuinely taking the time to understand ourselves and our histories can bring us together and help us to realize that in the end we all are equal and worthy regardless of where we live or how much wealth we own. There is no divine right that favors some and ignores others. Our role should be to first heal ourselves and then give that glory to anyone anywhere who is suffering. It’s our challenge in the heat of this summer.

I got a call from a friend of a friend of a friend that sounded like a great opportunity. It was shortly after my husband, Mike, had been declared free from blastomycosis and ready to return to work after a many months of absence getting chemotherapy. So much had happened that I needed to put my longing to return to college on hold once again. Still, I needed something more in my life and I had asked my friends to be on the lookout for any opportunities that I might try. Thus came the call that brightened my world. 

A local woman had put together a little pre-school program that was housed in the classrooms of a nearby church. She called it “Do and Learn Preschool.” It was a year long program for three and four year olds that took place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. One of her regular teachers had suddenly bowed out leaving her in a scramble to find a replacement before the new school year began. The call that I received was from a stranger who had heard that I was an almost degreed teacher. She provided me with information about the school and urged me to call its director. Uncharacteristically I did not hesitate.

My interview for the job was serious business. I had to bring a transcript of my classes and grades and a resume of any kind of work I had done. The director presented me with some pointed questions that demonstrated her intent to find someone who might be able and willing to maintain the quality of her school. At the conclusion of the discussion I was not so sure that I would land the job, but a few days later I was overjoyed to be employed as a teacher of four year olds. An additional perk was that Catherine would be a member of the three year old cadre. Best of all the school was only about three minutes away from our home. 

Planning meetings with the director were intense. She was quite serious about offering a high quality program that included regular lesson planning meetings and a structured curriculum. It would be incredibly important real world practice for my future and might even help me to hone in on the area of education that might be most appealing to me. It also involved a great deal of work outside of the classroom hours, a precursor to the realities of being a teacher. I threw my enthusiasm and skills into what I was doing with my entire heart and soul. It was incredibly fun and also helped a tiny bit with the payments for Mike’s medical care that were not covered by or insurance. I saw the job as a kind of godsend. 

In the meantime Pat had graduated from the University of Houston and was once again announcing his intent to apply for training with the City of Houston Fire Academy. He was also dating a beautiful young girl who lived just down the street from our childhood home. Her name was Kelly and Pat was totally smitten with her. We all saw that things were moving rather fast for him as he settled down into pursuit of the future he had always imagined. 

Mama’s family was growing at the same time that her home was becoming empty. My brothers and I were all involved in traveling down our own adult pathways. Even though our mother had a career that she really enjoyed, the direction and meaning of her life had changed dramatically. She had done a phenomenal job of guiding us to adulthood, but the prospect of being alone after so many years of serving as the center and guiding force of the family was bearing down on her. It became a constant topic of discussion between her and her doctor. Luckily she had two granddaughters on whom to focus her doting attention and there was good news that Becky and Michael would soon give her another grandchild to love. 

Time has a way of accelerating to the point where one month then one year begins to bleed into another. I literally began to lose track of the months and years as I threw myself into my teaching job and being a mom to my two girls. I was enjoying life and loving that my mothers and brothers seemed to also be doing so well. Mike was healthy and we were surrounded by good friends with whom we constantly celebrated life. Our weekends were filled with invitations that kept us quite happy. It was a moment in life that was filled with so much promise. Our cousins and our friends were finding love and having children just like we were. 

The seventies were a time for growing up, finding the compass of our lives. They were often bumpy, even a bit scary, but by nineteen seventy nine we were knew exactly where we wanted to go and how to get there. In July Mike and Becky’s daughter, Kim, was born, a beautiful child who would prove to be incredibly bright and sweet. In October, Pat and Kelly were married in the same church where Mike and I had pledge our love and devotion eleven years earlier. Joy was literally oozing out of our pores. 

I saw that or mother had done a remarkable job of being both mother and father to us, often with an impossibly low income. She had taught us what was most important in life and encouraged us to be the individuals we wanted to be. We knew how deeply she loved and devoted herself to us. Now it was time for each of us to pass down the beautiful lessons we had learned from her. We were each creating our own brand new circles of love concentric with the one in the center of our family that Mama had begun over thirty years before and that she would continue to maintain for the entirety of her life.  

My brother, Michael, was always considered the brilliant sibling. From the time he was a child his mathematical acumen was stunning. None of us were surprised when he graduated at the top of his high school class. When he was accepted at Rice University, one of the premier colleges in the country, we knew that he was on his way to fulfilling his dreams. After earning both an undergraduate and Master’s degree in Electrical Engineering he was courted by many companies but ultimately chose work with a NASA contractor to fulfill his childhood imaginings of being part of humankind’s journey into space. 

It was through his work that Michael met Becky Liu, a beautiful engineer originally from Taiwan. He knew her name from meetings and had only briefly spoken with her, but he wanted to get to know her better. One weekend he decided to call her. The only problem was that there were many Liu’s in the Houston phone book, and none of them were listed under the name Becky. He began his quest by calling each number on the list and asking if he might speak with Becky. It was a daunting task but he was determined to find her. After many attempts he finally reached someone who said that Becky was actually visiting his home. He would get her to talk to Michael. 

The rest was a beautiful story. The two of them clicked almost immediately. They were like a set of bookends that went together perfectly. Michael was somewhat shy and introverted while Becky was outgoing. Both were academically gifted but also enjoyed camping, hiking and being outdoors. They loved music and live performances of the symphony and opera company. It did not take long for them to fall in love. It was amazing how their two different cultures were so wonderfully enmeshed. 

Becky asked Maryellen and Catherine to be part of the wedding party. They were quite excited about the lovely yellow dresses that they would wear. Pat was going to be Michael’s best man and Mama was elated that Michael had found so much happiness. We all had roles in the wedding party so Mike was to be one of the groomsmen as well. Even though he looked like a skeleton he eagerly donned the formal wear and was quite happy to be doing something besides getting stuck with needles and enduring hours of infusing drugs into his body. Best of all I would finally officially have a sister. In fact, I would even be able to share her siblings as family. It was a glorious moment for all of us. 

The wedding was perfection, a meeting of east and west with great love. Becky looked like a princess and Michael was beside himself with happiness. The celebration at the reception was like the world’s best party. Becky was particularly respectful and effusive with Mama. The two of them got along so well. After a honeymoon in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado the happy couple settled down in a sweet house near NASA and all of our lives changed in a positive direction.

Mike was soon declared cured of his fungal disease. There would be no more hospital visits or infusions so we were more than glad to get back to normal or what we hoped would be normal. Sadly Mama had another episode of severe depression with some paranoid psychosis not long after. I had to finally face the probability that her illness was chronic and that her fate would be to battle its symptoms over and over again. This time she was not nearly as sick as in the beginning, but she did require regular visits for psychiatric care. Her doctor also requested that she stay in my home until she was better. He advised me to mostly allow her to rest, but to gradually increase her responsibilities so that she would ultimately be ready to return home and to work.

It was nice having her living with us for a time. She enjoyed cooking and playing with her granddaughters. She liked her doctor and promised to follow his directives. Her recovery was fairly quick so we all celebrated at Thanksgiving with our growing family and the assurance that Mama now had a plan for keeping her illness at bay. It was also great to see Mike regaining his own glow of health and to know that he was no longer in danger. We had weathered more storms and felt confident that we had learned how to endure any challenge that might come our way. 

With the dawn of nineteen seventy eight I was more assured myself than ever. I had conquered my fears and learned that I was capable of overcoming any challenge that might come my way. Better yet I realized once again how important family and friends were in centering and supporting me. I knew that some would only be there for a certain time and others would follow along with me for all of my days. I would never be alone and my family was bigger than ever.

Spring of nineteen seventy seven was rather warm and our home was cooled by window air units. The early season heat prompted me to consider installing an additional air conditioner in the house to make certain that there would be no hot spots when summer came. Mike agreed with my thinking, but we had to do a bit of electrical work to make it happen. Mike’s Uncle Bob agreed to help us with the project, so one Saturday he and Mike went to work. 

Uncle Bob, a retired master electrician, had some problems with his heart so his wife, Elsie was worried about him doing too much. Mike and I assured her that we would look after her Bobby who had a tendency to overdo his efforts toward perfection in his work. Mike had worked often enough with his uncle to understand all of the instructions he was commanding him to do. Much of the process involved pulling wire through the attic and dropping it down behind wood paneling and the outside wall. It was a hot and tedious task for Mike, but in the end the air conditioner was cooling the house wonderfully and Uncle Bob was not even the least bit over stressed. 

In the irony of ironies, it was Aunt Elsie who died of a heart attack in her kitchen only a few weeks later. She had gone to church that morning and then served Bob a lovely lunch. As she was finishing cleaning the dishes she dropped to the floor. She was gone by the time the ambulance arrived, leaving everyone shocked and dismayed.

Aunt Elsie was the glue of the family, a matriarch who was so sweet and kind that she made everyone feel special and important. She had been so lively and energetic that her sudden demise was shocking. A great gaping void opened up in her absence.

Elsie had come to the United States with her parents and siblings from Newcastle, England shortly before World War I. Her family had settled on the northside of Houston in a wooded area not far from downtown. She was lovely and refined, a rock of compassion. She and Uncle Bob were still like two teenagers in love even though they had been married for years. While Elsie never had children she was beloved by her brothers, nieces, nephews neighbors and many friends. Each Christmas she hosted a magnificent traditional dinner in her Victorian home in the Heights that was the highlight of the season. None of us could imagine life without her. 

Mike and I were so overcome with grief that I hardly noticed that he was not feeling well on the day of Aunt Elsie’s funeral. Her death was such an emotional shock that we had all gone inside ourselves to deal with the pain of losing her. Later in the evening I realized that Mike was burning up with fever. He had also developed strange lesions on different parts of his body. He called the family doctor and secured an appointment for the following day. The visit was not anymore enlightening because the doctor said that he had never seen such symptoms before. He sent Mike to an infectious disease specialist who post haste admitted Mike to St. Luke’s Hospital for tests to determine what was causing his symptoms.

We were shocked to learn the Mike had a rather rare disease not often seen in the Houston area called blastomycosis. It was a fungal disease that is more common in areas near the Mississippi River. How he contracted the strange illness was anyone’s guess. The thinking was that he may have encountered it on a business trip that he had recently taken in that area or perhaps he encountered spores while working in the attic to install the wiring for the air conditioner. Whatever the source may have been, the treatment was chemotherapy with a drug called Amphotericin B. Mike would get the infusions three days each week at the hospital and then return home for the weekend. It would take many months to complete the process. The doctor was grimly honest that he seemed to have diagnosed the disease early enough to subdue it with powerful drugs, but indicated that there were no guarantees that Mike would survive.

Neither Mike nor I were I were yet thirty years old. We had been married just under ten years and had two children. In that space of time we had literally grown up together. I worried that our love story was going to be cut tragically short. I thought of my thirty year old mother losing her husband of only eleven years. Somehow I felt every terrible fear that she must have experienced. I worried for my girls and wondered how the three of us would make it if Mike died. Like my mother I had to demonstrate strength that I was not feeling for the sake of my daughters. On nights when Mike stayed in the hospital the girls and I all slept together in one room. It initially happened that way because they would sneak into my bedroom after I had fallen asleep and make pallets on the floor next to my bed. Maryellen would soothe her little sister who did not fully understand what was happening other than to sense that it must be something bad. It became our silent ritual for the long months that seemed endlessly brutal.

My friends were wonderful about helping me by watching the girls while I went to be with Mike at the hospital. My mother boosted my spirits and provided me with wise advice whenever I began to fall apart. She told me that emergency situations required someone to be the adult in the room and that person was not always the individual with the most experience with life. I understood what she was telling me and her when her advice was repeated by our family priest, Father John Perusina. I had to at least pretend to be tough and optimistic because my girls needed me as much as Mike did. I was walking a tightrope once again, finding a hidden part of me that kept our little family going while I balanced myself to keep us all from tumbling into an abyss. The outpouring of love from everyone kept me going even in times when I thought that I was surely going to break apart. 

Mike was his stoic self, joking with the nurses and hoping that his veins would not collapse before the treatments ended. On some days he had horrific reactions to the medication. On other days a special nurse from Texas Children’s Hospital had to come with pediatric needles to get his IV going. He lost weight and his hair turned gray even though he was not yet thirty. I tried to pretend that I was not afraid. A parade of visitors came to keep Mike company among them was his buddy from high school, Larry, who joked that he would have brought some Green Light to kill the fungus, but he was going to keep that cure in abeyance in case it was needed later.

The whole situation felt so bizarre, but I knew that we had to stay optimistic. A big wedding was coming. All of us would have roles to play as my brother, Michael, pledged his vows to the love of his life. Somehow I had to believe that we were going to be fine just as we had been when my father died and when my mother had been so ill. As it turned out, with lots of loving support we would indeed survive once again. 

Things were going well in nineteen seventy six. We were celebrating the nation’s bicentennial along with moving forward with our lives. Somehow in spite of beliefs to the contrary and a devastating civil war our nation had managed to survive for two hundred years. Even the recent Watergate dust up and Nixon’s resignation had not deterred the forward movement of our country. In the election that year Jimmy Carter had carried the day to become President of the United States. Meanwhile our family was happily looking forward to the Christmas holidays and a new year that promised to be wonderful. 

Maryellen’s hearing had improved and she was doing well in school. Catherine was adorable and easygoing. Mike was earning respect at the bank while I became a teacher in the CCE program at St. Frances Cabrini Catholic Church. I had earned an invitation to work with youngsters after sending a letter to the pastor complaining about the continually negative homilies from one of the Deacons at the church. When the priest asked to come visit me in our home I was worried that he was angry. As it ended up, he tended to agree with me and enjoyed the fact that I had been courageous enough to speak on behalf of the other parishioners. He urged me to volunteer to teach in the religious education program since he liked my way of thinking. 

I was assigned to work with a group of kindergarten aged children which was easy since I had already been working with pre-school children in a little school called “Do and Learn.” It was fun to get out of the house and practice my teaching skills. It also allowed me to begin Maryellen’s religious education as well. Catherine was so traumatized when I left her in the nursery to go teach my class that the two nuns who ran the program had to hold her and play with her the entire time. She took to them right away and after that when she arrived each week they automatically welcomed her to their office . 

It was in the church class that I met the woman who would become such a dear friend that she would be like a sister to me. Pat Weimer wanted to assist someone rather than taking on the responsibility of being the sole teacher of a class. We clicked right away as we prepared the lessons each week. Her help proved invaluable on the last class before the Christmas break. I had not felt particularly well but had pushed myself to teach a brief lesson and then party with my students. When I became dizzy Pat sensed my difficulty and took charge. 

At a stop on the way home I encountered my next door neighbor, Carol. She took one look at me and asked why I was not in bed. She announced rather forcefully that I looked terrible. Furthermore she insisted that I call my doctor as soon as I got back home. She noticed that the white’s of my eyes were yellow and felt certain that I had hepatitis. I thought that maybe she was overreacting, but I did make a call to my doctor’s office lest she check to see if I had followed her orders. The nurse asked me a couple of key questions that convinced her that I was indeed quite sick and that the culprit was probably hepatitis just as Carol had diagnosed. A visit to the office and a blood test confirmed my illness. 

Soon enough I was feeling so horrific that my imagination went wild and I thought that I was actually dying. My skin became a lovely shade of golden yellow. I found the thought of eating anything disgusting. It was all I could do to stay awake to watch Catherine while Mike was at work. I mostly entertained her on the bed hoping that I would not pass out and leave her unattended.

Before long Mike showed signs of the same illness. A quick trip to the doctor confirmed our suspicions but luckily he did not feel as ill as I did nor was his level of bilirubin as high as mine. We took turns resting and watching the girls until his mother also contracted hepatitis and decided to come to our home with my father-in-law so that we might combine our resources. I was so sick that I literally did not care what was happening in my house even though I normally would have been uncomfortable with the situation. In the meantime my mother began to come take the girls to her house so that all of us might get some very needed rest. 

Mike’s case was quickly gone after a little more than a week. The same was true of my mother-in-law. I continued to test positive and to develop more and more symptoms. My skin itched so badly that I was clawing at my arms and legs. Christmas came and went and so did the new year and still was ill. I lost weight and felt listless most of the time. I remember one evening when my neighbor, Dave, was playing “The Girl From Ipanema” on his organ and I laughed at the thought that it might be the last sound that I heard before I died.

It would be more than three months before I was finally declared well. In the meantime life went on without me. My brother, Michael, was planning his wedding with Becky. Pat was working and attending college. He did everything from driving a mail truck to delivering furniture for Foley’s, a local department store. My two brothers spent lots of time watching and entertaining Maryellen and Catherine, something that they fondly recall to this day. They build machines out of Tinker Toys and danced with the Mama and the girls like we had done when we were kids. I loved them so for being such good uncles.

By March of nineteen seventy seven I had finally regained my health and my energy. I was once again considering a return to the University of Houston to complete my degree and commence my career as a teacher beyond the level of four and five year olds. Things felt quite settled but just when we think all is well life has a way of delivering surprises and this time what would happen was a real humdinger.