Category: Commentary

My mother used to tell me that if I always told the truth I would never have to worry that I might forget details of the story I would have to invent to cover up a lie. She also remarked that defaming accusations hurled against honest people are rarely believed if that individual insists that he/she is innocent. Truth telling was a top priority in her moral code and she lived by the integrity that was so important to her. Sadly an ironic aspect of her bipolar disorder was a paranoid fear of being accused of something she did not do and not being believed when she uttered her truths. 

In her worst moments she imagined that someone was watching her and waiting for a moment to arrest her for crimes she had never committed. When she pulled the drapes in her home tightly shut and furtively peeked between the panels to search for boogeymen we knew that she was quite sick. It was time to get the assistance of doctors who prescribed medications that somehow quieted her mind and helped her to return to reality and become the wise and delightful person that we knew as our mom. 

My mother was my hero. In spite of the debilitating illness that seemed to stalk her again and again, she managed to create a wonderful life for me and my brothers. When I think of the balancing act that she had to endure to fight off the illness that few understood or wanted to talk about, I am in awe of her courage and her willingness to forgive those who turned away from her in fear of her changing personality. Somehow sho chose to love them even when they hurt her. Always she remained the most honest person I have ever known. 

I seem to have an eye for noticing someone who is suffering from a mental illness. I often wonder why even the members of their family do not appear to have a clue that the erratic behaviors they are witnessing are a sickness, and not just an undesirable way of acting. They look away or even push such persons away rather than coaxing them to get the treatments that they need. I suppose that the fear of confrontation keeps many sick individuals from receiving the care that they deserve. It can indeed be a challenging process to convince a psychotic individual whose paranoia is raging to trust you to do the right thing. Nonetheless, it is worth the effort to at least try. 

Now and again I observe celebrities who are out of control, seeking attention in horrible ways. Often I sense that they are actually quite sick and in need of medication and therapy rather than our indignation and judgement. Society does not always demonstrate the compassion that such people need, but instead spurns and isolates them. If the person is lucky one of their own will notice the erratic nature of their actions and guide them to find the help that they need. 

In my decades long quest to care for my mother I read many books about bipolar disorder. One of them was written by the actress, Patty Duke, who suffered from the same disease as Mama. Ms. Duke was lurching out of control in a manic state that created problems for her career and her family life. She detailed her outbursts in the book and spoke of the moment that changed everything for the better. It happened after she appeared on the Tonight Show when it was hosted by Johnny Carson. She was in a highly agitated state as she boasted that she was going to build an ark in Arizona. As she chattered rapidly the audience laughed and Johnny made funny faces. She came across as a kooky character and little more.

After the show Ms. Duke received a phone call from Frank Sinatra. The two of them had never before met in person, but of course they knew of each other. Frank told Patty that he had been watching the show and that he was exceedingly concerned about her. He urged her to go see her doctor and to be very honest with him about how she was feeling. He insisted that he was going to bug her until she had done what he had counselled her to do. She was so overwhelmed by his demands that she meekly obeyed and called a doctor the following day. 

The rest of the story is legendary. Patty Duke was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and given medication to ease the symptoms. She lived the rest of her life educating and advocating for the mentally ill. Her days were full and happy in a way that they had never before been. She credited Frank Sinatra with saving her even though he did not personally know her. She urged people to follow Sinatra’s example and never ignore the signs that a person needs help.

It is difficult to witness mental illness and even more difficult to do something to get medical attention for the person who is suffering. Mental illness is chronic in most cases so the cycle of illness and treatment becomes a lifetime journey. It’s up to loved ones to do as much for those with mental illnesses as they would if they had other diseases of the body. The truth is that too many fear the symptoms of mental illness and turn away from those who present them. I urge everyone to help instead of laughing or pretending or shunning. It’s well past time to bring mental illness out of the darkness by talking about it openly. Truth is a verb that calls for action.  

Life can feel unexciting at times as our days become a never ending repetition of themselves. We may consider the sameness of our routines to be boring, perhaps even dreary, but the unpredictability of life inevitably catches up with us in one way or another. The unexpected can be exciting, make us happy, or it can rock our world, leaving us groping for the everyday schedules that once made us complain. In truth our journeys through the cycles of the earth are a complex mixture of calm and anxiety brought on by forces that we can neither predict nor control.

I’ve learned to greet the morning with gratitude for simply waking up one more time. As each hour passes during a typical day I am thankful if no emergency arises. I no longer crave excitement like I once did. Calmness is my ally, sameness makes me smile. Experience has taught me to be prepared for anything, even as I know that sometimes the unimaginable will leave me quaking, unsteady in my resolve. Adjusting to new ways, to loss of certainty is always a massive challenge. 

There is only so much that we might generally predict. We know that there will be seasons in our lives but we can never be sure of how they may ultimately affect us. We’ve learned how to reasonably predict the weather but not to pinpoint who will be most impacted by it. We set up our calendars knowing that everything on them is subject to change given unexpected circumstances. We have control of our lives but only in how we choose to react to the events that unfold beyond that control. 

Our shared human experiences have the power to bring us together in support and compassion, but that does not always happen. Each of us responds differently to challenges and sometimes we cannot even predict our own behavior in difficult times, much less the actions of others. In many ways life is a puzzle, a difficult maze, a game that we will sometimes navigate with ease and other moments with a feeling of being totally lost. 

It’s easy to watch others struggling and believe that we might do better in the same situation, but we don’t really know if that is true until we experience our own crises. As humans we would be wise to pontificate less and attempt to understand more. But for the grace of God, as my mother often said, we might collapse under the pressures that some of our fellow humans must endure. It’s easy to condemn the person who attempts to illegally enter our country, but how often have we taken the time to actually speak to such an individual? Have we truly listened to their reasons for taking such great risks? Do we even try to visualize what we may be willing to do given the same circumstances?

For some reason people often open their hearts to me. I learn from them that there are times when life becomes so unbearable that they must take extraordinary steps to ease their pain. A father may steal from a store to feed his children. A mother may subject herself to indignities to keep her family together. A family may find themselves living in a car behind a funeral home that allows them to use the restroom facilities before going to bed at night on seats and floorboards padded with blankets. A son may lose his life in violence for no reason at all. A nation may be invaded at the whim of a madman. 

How would each of us react in such situations? We think we know, but desperation has a way of channeling our behaviors in very unpredictable directions. I was quiet and shy until my mother required my care when I was not quite yet an adult. I whined and cried and wailed at the heavens for a time, but eventually realized that either I would accept my new role or watch my entire family suffer. I had to push myself to become an aggressive advocate for my mother and for my younger brothers. It was uncomfortable, an ill fit with my natural temperament and I often dreamed of simply running away. Instead I pushed myself to become a different person than I had expected to be. Thankfully it made me a better person than I might have been. 

The unpredictable is a double edged sword. It can be fun and exciting or it can attempt to crush us entirely. We can never really know how we will do until such moments taunt us to demonstrate who we are. In the back of our minds we know that there may one day be a time when the pressure is too much and we will break into a thousand pieces. We would do well to be understanding when we see someone who has shattered under life’s pressure rather than judging them harshly or thinking them weak.

I sit in my safe little home each morning tapping my fingers on the keys that string letters together to make words that express my feelings. Most days I have a fairly good idea of where the hours will lead me, but I also know how unpredictable even the most serene beginning of my routine might be. I hope and pray that all will go well and that I will have whatever strength I need to deal with surprises. I can’t really predict how things will progress or how I will be affected by them. All I can do is take one minute at a time and try to be grateful for the quiet and the calm. The unpredictable game of life will most certainly challenge me just when I least expect.

I suppose that my favorite parable is the story of the Prodigal Son. It encapsulates my feelings about the people that I love. A son turns away from his family and is estranged from them for a very long time. When he decides to return his father greets him with love and forgiveness without question. I tend to very much be like that father. I value my relationships so much that even when someone has hurt me, I am willing to take them back into my good graces if they decide to return. My commitment to family and friends is for life, but I am also realistic enough to understand that there are some situations that make reconciliation almost impossible. 

In my work I have heard of unbearable abuse of women by their husbands, and children by their parents. There is no reason to think that those who have been maliciously hurt should welcome their tormentors back into the fold. Some people are so toxic that the only healthy thing to do is to cut them off like a cancer. Freeing themselves from either emotional or physical battering is a necessary step in asserting their own worth. Nobody should ever have to endure the pain and hurt of bad behaviors that tear them apart. It’s important that we support those attempting to extricate themselves from horrific situations. 

I have never had to endure either verbal or bodily beatings so I can only imagine what it is like for those who have been badly injured by someone who should have loved them. I saw only glimpses of uncontrolled anger in the moments when my mother’s bipolar disorder lead to a mania so debilitating for her that she raged with words that she would never have uttered when she was well. Such times were a sign to me and my brothers that she needed medical help to still the demons of her diseased mind. I knew to ignore her outbursts because they were only an outlet for the fears brought on by psychosis. Medication promptly returned her to her usual loving self. 

In most cases we lose friends or family members because they simply move on to a new phase of life, not because of a disagreement. As we grow and change so do our relationships. We may find that we don’t feel as comfortable as we once did with someone who had been very close. We drift apart and are lost to each other before we even realize what has happened. Sometimes people who have been far away from us suddenly return and we realize that it is possible to pick up the friendship once again without effort. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

So it is with my friend, Nancy. She and I met in high school and felt a strong connection almost immediately. Both of us had lost our fathers when we were quite young. Both had beautiful caring mothers who worked hard to keep us safe and happy. We went to the same university and spent time dreaming of our futures which ultimately took us in different directions. Time passed so quickly that we were retired before we connected once again. The magic of our friendship was still very much intact. We picked up our conversation exactly where we had left it forty years before. Our reunion was as smooth as if we had only been apart for a few days. 

I have a cousin who moved away from the family years ago. I have only seen him at funerals for the past fifty years. He comes to honor those who have died and then promptly returns to his life in another state. He is not much for writing or talking on the phone. He does not even send Christmas cards, but my love for him is as deep and warm as it always has been. I sometimes worry that he does not realize that he is forever in my heart. I know that he has his reasons for staying away and I respect his decision, but I find myself hoping that he does not think that I have forgotten him or that my feelings for him have weakened in any way. 

I fight for some relationships and let others end because I know that it is best to halt them. People come and go and sometimes come back again. It is the way of the human experience, and yet like the father of the prodigal son, I am always open to welcoming them back into my life whenever they choose to return. The magic of reigniting a long lost friendship is one of the most beautiful feelings that there is. 

My first best friend was Lynda Barry. We met when we were only six years old. She lived across the street from my house and we hit it off instantly. We spent whole days playing childhood games and making pinky promises to never desert each other. Life and our careers took hold and sent us in opposite directions but now and again we call each other on the telephone and converse for hours just like we did as little girls. We seem to have a mind meld that is unbreakable and ours is an understanding that we will love each other forever even if we do not see each other again. 

In this Christmas season I think of the people I have known and loved. I can’t begin to describe how important they have been to me. Some have gone to other places to live their lives, others have died, most are still very much present. All of them have been worth fighting for, worth loving with every bit of heart that I have. 

When I was a child my grandfather seemed to be an imposing almost unapproachable figure, a strong man with a no nonsense demeanor. He towered over my grandmother who was a tiny woman not even five feet tall. When he worked in the fields of his farm he wore heavy work boots, flannel shirts and denim overalls. As soon as his labors were done he showered and donned khaki trousers ironed with a sharp crease, a dress shirt neatly tucked into his pants and dress high top perfectly polished oxfords. I don’t think I ever saw him looking sloppy. 

Grandpa never left home without wearing his fedora which no doubt kept his bald head from burning in the summer or freezing in the winter. He walked with the air of a man who knew where he was going and who he was as a person. He garnered respect that only increased as he grew older and it became apparent that he was going to reach a century of experience as a human on this earth. I was in awe of him, but often felt a bit shy around him, choosing instead to interact with my grandmother and listen to her tales of old times. 

When I grew older and more confident I realized that while my grandfather followed a rather formal routine, he also had an impish side that softened his aspect in my mind. I learned much about his boyhood and the pranks that he played on his grandmother who raised him. He confided his sorrows and struggles and became very human and wonderful to me. In fact, I often found myself dropping by to visit with him whenever I was feeling a bit down. I did not have to tell him of my troubles. All I needed was to listen to his optimistic take on life to feel revitalized. Just hearing how he had overcome hardships with determination and a sense of humor taught me that we can endure great suffering and make it back to a happy place. 

My relationship with my grandfather grew better with age, not because he had changed, but because I had grown in confidence and maturity. I suppose his descriptions of his own evolution as a person convinced me that I too was on a journey that might lead to a better sense of fulfillment. In many ways he taught me how to make the best of a difficult situation and that material wealth was not akin to real success. 

His stories were a conduit into his mindset which admired courage and compassion above all else. He spoke of understanding law officers and kind uncles who showed him what it means to be a real man. He described his grandmother with reverence for being a bright and take charge kind of woman. He saw the difficulties of native Americans and felt sorrow for the sins committed against them that he had witnessed. He forgave his father who had abandoned him and given in to self indulgent habits. He was a man who understood our human weaknesses and fought hard not to give in to them, but remained loving toward those who did. He became my surrogate father after his son, my own dad, had died. 

Grandpa lived to be one hundred eight years old and it was only in his final months that his mind faded and he seemed detached from reality, and yet he knew who I was when I came to visit and he smiled past his pain upon seeing me. I suppose that I knew that I would soon have to rely on the lessons and memories that he had given me to progress through the years that lay ahead. Somehow I’ve been able to remember all of his tales that had inspired me to find joy even in the most horrible moments and to look forward to progress and a future that would only get better according to his beliefs. 

My admiration for my grandfather has only grown since his death over forty years ago, not because I have lionized him, but because of his beautiful humanity and honesty about the good, the bad and the ugly aspects of his life. He seemed so content with how things had turned out even as he demonstrated how tough times had been. He was literally a role model for the ages, especially for me and my brothers. 

I sometimes think of how I am an amalgam of my mother and father and my grandparents. There is a bit of this person and that person who show up in the way I look and the way I approach life. Perhaps in many ways I am in reality the most like my grandfather who taught me that we have total control over how to feel about the ups and downs that come our way. Pain and sorrow are an inevitable aspects of life, but how we face down those things is up to us. In Grandpa’s world that means seriously facing responsibility but also finding the good in people and laughing even as we feel like giving up.  

My grandfather seemed to get better and better over time because he had a great philosophy about life. He passed that on to me and my brothers so that each of us has also been able to keep smiles on our faces and determination in our hearts no matter what the fates have brought us. Grandpa was a rare gift that we often enjoyed. As I too grow older I find myself referring to his words to guide me more and more often. It is as though his voice is still crystal clear in my mind as I realize I too am not just getting older. I am getting better all the time. 

I always loved going to visit my Aunt Opal. I was enchanted by her name which sounded so old fashioned. She was my father’s older sister and by the time he was born she had already married and had children of her own, creating the crazy fact that he was an uncle to people who were older than he was. It always boggled my mind to think of such a thing, but I also saw it as something fun and unique about our family. 

Aunt Opal lived on Wakefield Street with her husband, Harold. Their home was set on a huge lot that featured handmade lawn furniture and an enormous swing set that Uncle Harold had built in his huge workshop. Their home was one of his creations as well. He had built it with some help from my grandfather and it was quite different from most houses in Houston with its stucco exterior that seemed more suited for Arizona, New Mexico or California. 

I never understood how Aunt Opal’s seven children had managed to squeeze themselves into the tiny place that only had three bedrooms and one bath. Six of those youngsters were boys and only one was a girl who played the piano so beautifully that she might have been featured in Carnegie Hall. Aunt Opal’s sons were tall and lanky and adventurous souls who were as entertaining as their sister with their outrageous stories of life along the bayou that meandered near their home. Most of them were grown and gone from their parents’ watch by the time I was a young girl visiting with my mother and father, but invariably word would spread that we were there and one or more of them would drop by to talk with my father who was more like one of their siblings than their uncle. 

Aunt Opal knew how to cook like her mother, my grandmother Minnie Bell. She often invited us into her kitchen where she would literally whip up a couple of pumpkin pies while sharing steaming hot cups of coffee for the adults and glasses of milk for me and my brothers. She worked away as though the process of baking had become second nature, like breathing. Before long the spicy aroma of the ingredients would fill the kitchen and our anticipation would mount. We knew how good those pies would be. 

Uncle Harold often pried my father and brothers away for a visit to his workshop. It was a sight to behold with its incredibly organized array of tools of every conceivable kind. I sometimes thought that his work area was cleaner that the interior of the house. He was adamant about keeping the area pristine. Nary a speck of dust escaped his eye.

My brother still gets a warm glow on his face whenever he speaks of Uncle Harold’s workshop. He tells me stories of our uncle instructing him on how to repair most everything. Mostly he learned how to use each of the tools. According to my brother, Uncle Harold was more interesting and informed than the builders on the program This Old House. Building things was indeed how he had earned a living and cared for his great big family. His hands were as beautiful and adept as a sculptor’s. He was an artisan of the craft.

After my father died Aunt Opal became an important link to our family history. She told us about his boyhood and how special he was to her and the whole family. She brought out photo albums with images of him and my grandparents that I had never before seen. She was a chronicler of family folklore and I loved her stories which she always told while sipping on heaping cups of coffee. 

One time Aunt Opal came with our little family on a trip to see our grandparents. My mother was only newly widowed and a bit leery of traveling alone with three children, so Aunt Opal happily agreed to be our guardian angel. I soon learned that taking a trip with her was fabulous because she insisted on stopping for snacks and stretching of legs every two hours or so, unlike my father whose method was to make time driving down the road without relief for hours. With Aunt Opal we became acquainted with tiny cafes from Houston to Hot Springs where waitresses wore little uniforms and called everyone “Honey.” 

I never thought to ask my Aunt Opal questions about our family even as I realized she was attempting to provide me with our history. I wish I had thought more about what I would one day want to know. Over time I saw her less and less as I launched my own life with a family and a career. My mother would become too ill to consider visiting Aunt Opal and so our link to her slowly faded. One of the most devastating moments of my life was to learn that she had died and none of us had been informed. I felt guilty that her children had come to believe that we were not interested in our beloved aunt.

Aunt Opal and Uncle Harold’s home is no longer where it once was. The land where it had stood was valuable and her many children sold it after she died. The new owners tore down the place that had been hewn with Uncle Harold’s hands. His workshop and the swings and all of the quirkiness of the place was gone along with those wonderful tales that Aunt Opal so loved to tell. Somehow though, her spirit and Uncle Harold’s as well seem to hover over the spot even to this day.

I find myself wondering what happened to all of Uncle Harold’s tools. I think of the antique phonograph that was a prize possession of Aunt Opal. She so delighted in turning the crank to operate the machine and play records for us from a time early in the twentieth century. Mostly I think of sitting in her kitchen watching her work on those pumpkin pies like a master baker while enchanting us with her never ending tales of long ago. I can close my eyes and feel those moments as though they were happening in the present and I think of her every single time that I make pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving and Christmas, an art passed from my grandmother Minnie to my Aunt Opal and eventually down to me. Now it is my grandson, William, named after his great grandfather who sits and talks while I spin my magic on those pies and tell him of his ancestors and how wonderful they were.