Category: Commentary

We’ve just celebrated another Halloween. All of the little ghosts and goblins have walked from house to house sweetly asking for treats while their parents watched them from only a few feet away. The annual tradition of scary movies and dressing up in costumes has come and gone once again while the focus in many cultures and religions moves to All Saints Day, All Souls Day and the Day of the Dead. November first and second are important reminders of those who have died before us and a way of remembering them for the contributions that they gave to our world. These are the days of honoring the millions and millions of souls who once walked on the earth filled with many of the same dreams and concerns that all humans experience during a lifetime.  

As I write this I am also communicating via text with my twin grandsons who have now spent twenty years among us. I am recalling the glorious day when they were born. It was filled with so much excitement and inestimable amounts of joy. Loved ones who are now gone were present on that day to welcome the two beautiful baby boys into our family. Excitement was ever present as we waited for my daughter to give birth. My mother-in-law Mary was there as was my son-in-law’s father, Gary. My mother waited at home. As new lives came into our family circle we were not thinking that some of members of our family who celebrated with us might not still be around when the little ones became twenty year old men. Mary, Gary and my mother did not live long enough to see them reach their twenties.

Time passes and we take it for granted that everyone that we love will still be with us, even as we understand that none of us are immortal. The day will come to say goodbye just as surely as new births will continue to enhance the beautiful circle of life that enfolds us all. It is a lovely idea to pause each year to remember those who came before us, some of whom we never even had the chance to meet. They are as much a part of our story as those that we cherish in life. Many of them are only names on a family tree. Some are ciphers whose existence we know had to happen, but whose identity remains unknown. We feel a connection to them even as we may not have any idea who they were. 

I often gaze at my family tree and attempt to put faces and stories together. I want to remember and honor my ancestors. Some stand out more than others like my great grandmother Marion Rourke Mack for whom there is no information, a photo or even a date of birth. I only know that she died shortly after giving birth to my paternal grandfather. I think of her often and feel that I understand how horrible it must have been for her to realize that she would not live to watch her baby boy grow into a remarkable man. I do not know what the complications were that left her dying so soon, but I can imagine because when I gave birth to my first child I had difficulties that caused my doctor to mention that in another era I might have lost my life. I wonder if Marion and I were physically similar. Did I inherit her problem? Was I fortunate enough to live in a time of wonder for medicine that she did not enjoy?

I want to know more about my great grandparents who lived in Slovakia. I know their names and where they lived but little more. I wonder how they felt when their children, my grandparents sailed across the ocean to start a new life in the United States. Did they miss their son and their daughter? Did they know what a wonderful family would grow from their babies? Would they even think that one day someone in their line would wonder about them and try to imagine what they looked like and how they lived? 

I look at my family tree and I am able to go very far back into the history of how I came to be. I have a vivid imagination so I attempt to understand who these people were. I have walked through the battlefields of the Civil War where my great grandfather was present as a Union soldier. I have found myself wondering how he dealt with the horror of that war. I know from military records that it left him with physical ailments that never went away. Since he moved far from civilization after the war I tend to believe that he was done with violence and wanted to live out the rest of his life peacefully.

I go back to names from England, Normandy and Norway. I imagine them sailing across the English Channel or looking out into the North Sea. I wonder about the people who came to the new world just as my maternal grandparents would one day do at the dawn of the twentieth century. Who were these people? What drove them to be so adventurous? How did they look? How did they sound? What would they think of how things turned out?

I feel a kinship with these people whom I never met. The connection between us looms strong even as I have only questions about them. We are eternally linked by DNA but also by a spirit that traveled through the centuries. It is a lovely idea to pause each year to remember them and the gifts that they unknowingly handed down through the generations. I enjoy gazing at the branches of the tree on which their names and even unknown names sit attesting to their lives. Our common humanity is glorious and I hope that they somehow know how much I honor them. I always want to remember and honor the souls who came before us.

Each of us has a story and every story is important. Some of us share our joys as well as our heartaches. Others prefer to silently bear whatever happiness or sorrow comes their way. We never really know what those around us may be enduring unless they confide in us. We must be aware of changes in their demeanor, watching for clues that they are somehow not quite themselves to alert us that they need our compassion and support. They may not ever reveal what is bothering them, but when we can embrace them just as they are without probing into their privacy. They need not be alone.

There are almost always signals that all is not well with someone that we know. Perhaps the person will suddenly appear to be anxious or even out of sorts. They may turn down invitations and seem to pull away from friendships. They may uncharacteristically get angry without provocation. They may be slow to answer phone calls or text messages. They leave social media or conversely post angry rants or responses that leave us puzzled. They may confound us to the point of simply walking away from their toxicity. 

The truth may be that they are overwhelmed by events in their lives that we know nothing about. They are coping alone with unspeakable tragedies that are killing their souls. All too often our response is to grow weary of their confusing changes in demeanor and personality. We walk away from them just when they may need us the most. 

Each of us has that one wonderful person who spreads sunshine and kindness even in the darkest most hostile corners. They refuse to give up on the people they love. Without prying they simply embrace the suffering and let them know in every possible way that love is still alive. They patiently call, send quick texts, mail cards that telegraph their undying devotion. It does not take much time, but what they do means the world. 

I have had friends who loved me even when I was in so much distress that I barely loved myself. I don’t think that they have ever known how much I appreciated those moments when they pulled me from the depths with a single gesture of concern. My friend Pat was masterful at sending little signals that she was around to assist if I ever needed anything. She beautifully and quietly helped one of my daughters over the grief of having a miscarriage. Her kindness to those in need was legendary and everyone who knew her misses her now that she is gone.

My friend, Linda, is another wonderful soul who seems to have the energy of six women when it comes to nurturing relationships. She has been known to cook up a storm and drive an hour across town to bring food and comfort to the sick. She somehow knows exactly what to do and say whenever I am in need in spite of her very busy schedule. I have plants that she grew for me that brightened some of my dreary days. It is as though she has some kind of extra sensory perception about people that tells her that it is time to make a call or send a card or bring a gift. She is the essence of love. 

Some people have the gift of compassionate understanding. They are thoughtful even when their own lives are difficult. My mother was one of those souls. Her suffering might have been unbearable to many, but she somehow maintained an optimistic outlook and a generous heart. I know that she loved people who did not love her back. They were afraid of her mental illness and chose not to try to understand that sometimes the chemistry of her brain would cause her to appear scary. They recoiled from her even as she continued to love them. Luckily she too had incredible supporters at work, in her neighborhood and in her family. These were lovely people who saw beyond her illness and realized that underneath the haze of bipolar disorder there was a most remarkable woman. 

I am constantly humbled whenever I see someone who is willing to wade into the muck for a friend or family member. I have a cousin who together with her daughter and son-in-law cared for her husband who was afflicted with Parkinson’s disease. Without ever complaining the three of them lovingly adjusted their lives to demonstrate to him how much he was loved. Their devotion was unwavering and whenever I witnessed it I was moved and inspired. 

Look around you. Be aware. Someone you know is angry or withdrawn for a reason. Be there for that person without prying or giving unrequested advice. Be patient with everyone and not so quick to judge. Send your love even when it is not acknowledged. You may never know how much you are brightening someone’s day. Be like Pat or Linda or my mother or my cousins. Spread your kindness without expectations of thanks. Be good because it is the right thing to do.

As a child I often chose books about pioneer life. I was fascinated by hearty souls who lived off of the land and endured loneliness and hardship while forging a new life far away from family and friends. I was also fascinated by biographies of saints who experienced martyrdom for their religious beliefs. I suppose that what I really enjoyed about these kinds of stories was my own admiration for people who are so dedicated to a particular cause or way of life that they refuse to allow challenges and even death to sway them from their goals. My heroes have always been courageous folks with original thoughts and an unwavering allegiance to ideals. 

There is a common thread that binds me and my role models together starting with my maternal grandparents who fled the oppression of a government intent on erasing their culture and their language by force. They arrived in the United States of America only months before Europe became a senseless tinder box of war between neighboring nations. Like the pioneers of old that had so captured my imagination they headed west on steamships heading for Galveston, Texas where they embarked on new adventures in a place where they only had each other. 

I never met my maternal grandfather, but I often heard stories about him and his hard working spirit and love of freedom. He taught his children the value of education and urged them to fully embrace the country that was not always so welcoming to him. With sadness he watched his homeland of Slovakia struggling to free itself from the power struggles that had prompted him to leave. He did not live to finally see his nation become independent, but it was a dream that never left his thoughts. In the meantime he urged his children to take full advantage of the possibilities afforded them simply from being born American citizens. He understood that in the United States they would enjoy freedoms and safety that had often been denied to him as a Slovakian living in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was a pioneer in this land of opportunity. 

My mother understood and heeded her father’s message to his children. She taught me and my brothers to be proud of our country, but also to be willing to point out its flaws and to feel free to work for changes that would help others. She was strong and unafraid because her father had taught her to hold her head up high and to ignore the taunts hurled at her because she was the child of an immigrant. She was a bold defender of her beliefs. Her heroes were individuals like Eleanor Roosevelt. She was infinitely outspoken and unwavering kind, unwilling to look away from problems that others might have simply swept under the rug. She was the first person in her family to earn a college degree, an often uneasy task given her propensity to challenge the status quo even with her professors. 

I most admire those who are willing to endure hardship, sometimes facing violence for their courage. I think of Galileo’s insistence on standing by his scientific discovery that it is the sun, not the earth that is the center of our universe despite the cruel treatment of his inquisitors. I imagine Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. sitting at his kitchen table asking God to help him decide whether or not he should continue the dangerous task of advocating for the civil rights of humankind. I wonder how someone is so incredibly brave and devoted to a cause that he or she is able to stand up to the taunting of bullies and ignorance. 

Of late I have had the highest regard for Dr. Peter Hotez, a professor and researcher at Baylor College of Medicine and Texas Children’s Hospital. Throughout the pandemic he devoted and donated hours of his time speaking to the American people about the Covid virus, noting its trends and explaining how to best deal with it. At the same time he and another doctor were developing a traditional vaccine for the virus that might be used in remote areas of the world where there is no refrigeration. He not only accomplished his goal, but he then offered to give the formula for the vaccine to any country or group who wanted it without cost or any strings attached. 

Since his vaccine was approved and ready for distribution tens of millions of people in places across the globe have been vaccinated. Dr. Hotez has not received a dime of remuneration. Instead, for his efforts, he has almost daily been ridiculed and threatened with violence from ignorant souls who accuse him of nefarious intentions. Somehow he finds the fortitude to continue his work with dedication. He is my newest hero. I am in awe of his energy, his sense of humor and his love of all people everywhere. 

The world is filled with pioneering spirit. The ones I love are not greedy land grabbers but those who want to peacefully exist in concert with their fellow humans and nature. They are the discoverers, inventors, and profiles in courage. They see problems and tackle them. They see injustice and point it out even if it means standing alone like Liz Cheney has done in fighting for the very heart and soul of the country that my grandfather so loved. Her willingness to give up everything that she held so dear in defense of the Constitution and democracy is breathtaking. While I do not always agree with all of her points of view, I stand with her as she puts country before personal gain. She is a modern day pioneer and martyr, someone who has my deepest respect. I suppose that one day a little girl will be reading about her and others like her. I hope that they will be as influenced by such stories as I have been.

Sometimes a television show or documentary is transformative. One evening this month my family sat down after dinner and watched a documentary on Netflix called Aftershock: Everest and the Nepal Earthquake. I remembered briefly hearing about the event back in 2015, but I have to admit that it did not really register that much in my mind. I suppose that I assumed that given the location of the disaster it had not affected very many people. I knew about Kathmandu but thought that it was little more than a remote little village. I was wrong in every assumption that I had made. 

The three episode program focuses on the people caught up in nature’s fury on Mt. Everest, in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, and in the tiny village of Langtang Valley. All three of those places experienced devastating tragedy that is captured with first hand accounts of survivors and footage taken before, during and after the earthquake. The film challenged my emotions in a way that I did not expect.

Hundreds of people were camped on Mt. Everest just below a dangerous ice flow that had to be traversed with ropes and ladders. Teams of guides helped individuals who had paid upwards of four hundred thousand dollars each for the privilege of attempting to reach the summit of the majestic mountain. The area, known as Base Camp was filled with tents and equipment, including a food hall and a medical area. In the early morning hours many of the climbers had already begun their treacherous ascent, reaching Camp 1 just as the earthquake sent an avalanche of snow and rock down the mountain resulting in deaths and injuries in both of the base and first camps. Those higher up had no way back down because the path that they had followed up was gone.

Meanwhile there was a tiny village in the mountains called Langtang Valley. The only way there was a hiking path. It was a picturesque place with spectacular views. A group of Israelis had gone there to see if it was as lovely as it had been described. In fact, it turned out to be better than they had imagined. Being adventurous they decided to continue their journey to the next little town before returning to the foot of Mt. Everest. The earthquake hit while they were a bit higher up than Langtang Valley. When they turned back to take the path that would lead them out of the valley they saw that the village of Langtang was covered in mud, ice, and rock along with all of the people who had lived there. There was literally no sign of civilization and no way out.

I learned that Kathmandu is a large city with millions of people. The quake there took down entire buildings where people were trapped under rubble. The scene was so overwhelming that first responders had no idea how to even begin rescue efforts. 

What struck me most about the documentary was the human element. It reminded me of how we humans are more alike than we are different. We may speak different languages, have different cultures, and come from different income levels, but in an emergency situation we all react in similar ways. We experience fears but also want to help those who are hurt. We grieve more for loved ones and even strangers than for the loss of material goods. We have helpers and we have those who take advantage of the situation. All three areas featured in the film became microcosms of the human experience. 

We too often become so tied up in everyday living that we become isolated in our thinking. We want to protect our own and we see people from other places as outsiders. We tend to assume that we don’t really have any responsibility for them. We eye them suspiciously and only see their differences rather than the ways that they are exactly like us. It often takes a disaster to bring us together and even then, if the tragedy occurs far, away we may have difficulty understanding our duty to help our fellow humans. 

I know that we can’t be all things to all people, but we should be capable of understanding that the trials and tribulations of life happen to each and every one of us regardless of where we live or our economic status. I suppose this is the aspect of the program that burrowed the deepest into my heart. It was a reminder that even in a remote part of the world there are people with the same kind of dreams and feelings that I experience. Perhaps we would do well to view them with more understanding and compassion.

I remember hearing from a friend who had once traveled to Nepal. When the earthquake there occurred he spoke of how loving and kind the people there had been when he visited. He urged us all to pray for them and to do whatever we were able to help to them. His plea did not affect me as much as it should have. I only thought of how nice he was to think of them. I realize now how very ignorant I was in that moment because I truly thought that only a tiny number of people had been affected.

We are all members of the human race. We live and breathe and love and laugh and suffer in our time here. The world would be a much better place if we were to set aside our differences and share the earth and its treasures. When disaster comes the people wealthy enough to spend forty thousand dollars to climb a mountain are no different from the poorest souls trapped under the rubble of a building. They all become brothers and sisters in that moment of tragedy and death. How wonderful it would be if we were able to remember that reality even when the days are mundane. We should make it a daily practice to look around where we live and even far away to see who is suffering and then do something to help. One day it may be our turn to need the kindness of strangers. Hopefully when that happens we will have already done our part to be compassionate when others were seeking refuge. We should daily remind ourselves that no matter where we look in the world we are mostly the same.

Earlier this month we hitched our trailer to our truck and drove east to Beaver’s Bend State Park in Oklahoma. We parked our home away from home under the shade of enormous pines and just sat around doing a whole lot of nothing for the next four days. We were joined by my brother, sister-in-law and their son and his sweet little family. We had no goals, no plans, no agendas. We simply sat and talked and laughed and listened to the wind blowing through the trees and the crows cackling away. We shared the cooking duty and feasted on arroz con pollo, jambalaya, and beef and noodles. Sometimes we simply soaked in the silence and enjoyed the fact that we had no appointments or schedules pushing us from one task to another. 

We live in a frantic world that is almost always filled with uncertainties and obligations. It’s often difficult to find the time to unwind and consider what is really important, like watching a little baby laugh or sharing stories that allow us to get to know each other better. Our calendars are filled even in retirement as though the idea is to just keep moving to prove that we are alive. It’s not often that we have the unadulterated pleasure of doing absolutely nothing other than being present in a lovely moment, but we did on that weekend in October.

I thought of my grandfather and his stories of working in Oklahoma when he was a young man. I wondered if the places he encountered were as lovely and as wild as our campground. Oklahoma is where he met my grandmother and where my father later went to junior high. I felt that somehow I must surely have a kind of kinship with the place. My family has roots there that Grandpa often spoke of in his stories that always enchanted me. 

My grandfather had traveled from state to state finding work when he stumbled upon a coworker who insisted on introducing him to a nice widow who also happened to be an extraordinary cook. The two men forged a kind of plan for the meeting that included eating in the boarding house where Grandma worked. After enjoying a tasty dinner my grandfather insisted on seeing the person who had created such culinary delights. According to his account when my grandmother came from the kitchen he felt the joy of love at first sight and he told his friend that he was going to marry that lovely woman. Thus my grandparent’s story began. Mine would follow from theirs.

Grandpa would never stop telling stories about Grandma and how she was his best buddy. They had two children together and also cared for my grandmother’s daughter from her first marriage. I’ve often wondered if her deceased husband had died from the Spanish Flu because he died in 1918 when the virus was decimating the world. She never spoke of him and I never thought to ask. Her devotion was to my grandfather and to her children and many grandchildren. She lived in the present, not the past or even the future. Every day was a special adventure for her and her love of simple things was enchanting. 

My father and I have such high cheekbones that I once imagined that we had descended from native Americans, perhaps a tribe from Texas or Arkansas or even Oklahoma. It was a silly thought resulting from a time that we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma when I was no more than about four or five years old. My father often took us to watch the ceremonies of the people who had once roamed over the plains of Oklahoma and proudly honored the land. Daddy and Grandpa both had so much respect for the native people that I became fascinated and also horrified by the history of those who were the original settlers in the land we call the United States of America. 

Grandpa often spoke of his days working in Oklahoma at the beginning of the twentieth century. He lamented the injustices that he saw perpetrated on the native people. He told us about men who traded car batteries for land that they suspected might be rich with oil or soil for growing crops. It angered him to see such dishonorable things taking place. Even as he neared his one hundredth year of life on this earth he wondered how anyone could have been so very unfair. 

Our camping trip was a lovely success. We got to know each other even better than we already did. We spoke of our shared history and the people who came before us to demonstrate how to live good and honest lives. They had quietly modeled the behaviors of handwork, integrity, and most of all devotion to people and learning rather than riches that became our own goals. Our storytelling grandfather had taught us with his tales whose themes always centered on the glories of being fair and compassionate. We revelled in the memory of his folksy philosophies.

It was with a bit of regret that we left our wooded haven to return to the faster tempo of our lives, but we were refreshed and reminded of who our ancestors wished us to be. They were hearty souls who shouldered both the joys and the challenges that came their way with determination and a sense of joy. Oklahoma had comforted us in the knowledge that we were from good stock and that no matter what might happen in the future we will know how to survive together. We must remember to return again one day. It is good to remember our roots.