Category: Commentary

My doctor recently told me that I was the youngest looking and acting senior patient that he has. Of course I smiled at that description, but inside my heart skipped a beat because I still don’t think of myself as being old. The visage I see in the mirror seems out of sync with who I am and how I feel. Nonetheless it has become a regular feature of my life to learn of yet another person in my age group who has died. I’ve been to more funerals and memorials in the past three months than I usually attend in a year. The fact is that I am getting older and I never know when it will be my turn to take my last breath. From the standpoint of probability there is a kind of certainty that it will happen sometime in the next twenty-five years.

Many of the deaths of friends and family members have reminded me that the end of life often comes suddenly and unexpectedly. There is no assurance that I still have many years ahead despite my continued energy and enthusiasm for living. If I were wise I would begin to prepare for what may lie ahead instead of leaving things to chance and the good will of my surviving family members. The death of a loved one is difficult enough without having to plan the final goodbyes, and I have done little to let my family know my wishes. 

I suppose that I put off such things because I don’t do death well  and I don’t like to talk about it. I tend to pretend that all is well when the reality is that I would prefer to avoid grief even as I know that it is unrealistic for me to think that such inaction is healthy for me or the people around me. I would do better to prepare for my eventual demise beyond having a will so that my children need only use my directions to complete the final celebration of the circle of my life. 

I always remember my mother struggling to find a plot in which to bury my father and then planning his funeral. She was in no frame of mind for such things and yet it fell to her. When she died it was much easier for me and my brothers because she had already made her wishes known, even in what kind of flowers she wished to adorn her casket. We knew the songs that she liked for the funeral and she already had a gravesite next to our father. We were able to grieve more than conduct business. We also knew without questions what had been most important to her in her life, so writing an obituary that adequately described her legacy was not difficult. 

I have avoided doing those things or having discussions with my family. I have not told them who I want them to contact if I die. I have many friends that they do not know. I need to provide them with list of people who have been integral to my life. I want my daughters to know that there are aspects of who I am that are incredibly important to me. Obviously my immediate family is at the center of my universe, but my brothers and their wives and children are also at the heart of who I am. I have cousins that I love like sisters and brothers. I have longtime and recent friends. There are students who were like my children. 

I treasure the learning that I received at Mt Carmel High School and the University of Houston. I am incredibly proud of my teaching and all of the schools where I worked. I even served for a time as the Director of Education at one of my churches. I come alive when I write. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I also use it at times as a vehicle for the causes that are important to me. I am an advocate for justice, the environment, education, democracy, refugees and those who struggle to defend themselves. I sometimes get into trouble for voicing my views, but it is something that I feel compelled to do. 

I suppose that one’s legacy in life is not so much what they want it to be, but what others think it should be. It’s possible that when people consider my life they may not see what I have accomplished in the same way that I do. They may think me a fool to espouse some of the beliefs that I have. They may wonder why I did not better use my talents or leave more of a financial nest egg behind. I understand that I have often marched to a drumbeat that is different than many individuals, making it difficult for them to comprehend why I have lived the way I have. 

I mostly hope that everyone understands how much they have meant to me. There is nothing more important to me than people, and not just those that I know. I have tried to project my feelings, but I know that there have been times when my fervor has been totally misunderstood. I also know that I have lost patience or come across as unkind even as I was attempting to be compassionate. I suppose that this is the fate of all humans. No matter how hard we try, we will not please everyone. 

I tend to believe that everyone leaves a remarkable legacy in one way or another. Mine is about average in the grand scheme of things, but all I can really say is that I tried with all of my heart to be kind and to love. If even a few of the people I have encounter understood this, then I have led a successful life and perhaps I have enough years left that more good things are yet to come. 

The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders…So it was that Socrates complained about the youth of his era. It’s a commonplace reaction to the younger generation that seems to echo throughout history. As a Baby Boomer I clearly remember how my generation was regarded as hippies, ungrateful and spoiled brats. The fact of the matter is that history is replete with examples of the older generation blaming youth for many of society’s problems. 

It’s nothing new to hear that young folk are “know it alls” who have yet to experience life enough to form a valid opinion about how things should be. Older folk boast about the good old days when we walked five miles uphill in snow to get to school. They seem to forget the days when they too were approaching adulthood with risky behaviors and lots of experimentation. In fact, few people in the United States realize how very young many of our Founding Fathers actually were. James Monroe was only eighteen when he joined the revolutionary cause. Aaron Burr, Nathan Hale and Alexander Hamilton were only twenty-one. James Madison was twenty-five. Fighting for independence was in reality a young man’s cause. So many of those with major influence on our Constitution make today’s icon of youthful political thought, Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, appear to be an older woman. 

The hue and cry about the younger generation is as vocal these days as ever. I hear people constantly voicing concerns about their work ethic, their lack of critical thinking skills and their propensity for addiction to video games, social media and drugs. While there are some youth who very much struggle to demonstrate maturity or at least an attempt to grow wise, the truth is that they are the exception rather than the rule. The vast majority of teens and young people in their twenties and thirties are not only hardworking but they are also filled with the kind of wonderful ideas that transform the world for the better. They earnestly look at life with vision and optimism that sometimes has been beaten down in older people who grow weary and simply want to return to times that are more familiar to them. The young see possibilities and are willing to try new ideas and ways of thinking while their more conservative elders sometimes cynically insist there is no hope unless we return to days gone by. 

Perhaps the best approach is to trust one another without the constant tension between old and new that permeates history. Our young are actually working quite hard to be prepared for their future. As someone who has spent a lifetime in education I am acutely aware of how advanced the process of learning has become. Today’s students are tackling topics in high school that were once reserved for college. The negative tropes about our schools and the students inside of them are very wrong because we only hear about the minority of bad situations rather than the day to day incredible work that is happening all across America. 

Young men like David Hogg, who became a political spokesperson after the shooting, at Parkland High School in Florida, are reminiscent of those impulsive youngsters of 1776 who were willing to literally risk their lives to create a new nation free from the constraints of a tyrannical king. They were no doubt roundly criticized by the one third of the colonial population that had no desire to revolt and the other third that remained silent out of fear. They were a minority that was not always appreciated by the more mature folk who preferred the imperfect status quo to political experiments. 

I suppose that there will always be a tension between the young and the old, the risk takers and the conservatives. It is the way we humans tend to be. I suspect that we become more cautious as we age because we no longer have the emotional or physical energy to keep changing. We become set in our routines and when we see our young agitating for new ways of living we become uncomfortable. We begin to look backward instead of forward because the past is more familiarly comfortable than the uncertainty of the future. We fall into outmoded regimens even as we sense that there probably is a better way of doing things. We just don’t want to try those things anymore. 

Most of the great inventions have come from young men and women. Many of the finest works of art and thought are the products of young minds. They challenge the status quo and ask us to consider that there may be better ways of doing things. Much of the world in which we now live is the product of ideas that came from young people who envisioned hope and change. Those kinds of things should not be so frightening to those of us who have settled into the comfort of our later years. We would do well to respect our young people the same way we ask them to respect us.

I actually have the highest regard for young people today. I do not see them in the negative way in which they are all too often depicted. Most of them are working hard in an uncertain world that may leave them with a future riddled with problems. They are already considering solutions and appealing to their elders to help them make the changes we need to survive. Instead of wasting air space with complaints about how they do not measure up to the way we imagine ourselves to have once been, maybe it’s time to actually consider that they are our hope for a future that they are more than willing to tackle no matter how difficult it may be. Let’s trust them for a change.

I remember being frightened to enter an elevator when I was a child. I held on tightly to my mother’s hand as I jumped over what seemed to be a massive gap between the main building and the tiny enclosure that moved up and down. I suppose that I thought that I might fall through that tiny opening in the floor and fall to my death. I was also concerned that the doors might suddenly close and crush me if I were still in the way. 

My mother always assured me that there were mechanisms designed to make elevators as safe as can be. When years later a man literally got crushed by elevator doors that unexpectedly shut on his body I wondered what other things my mother had told me had actually been a bit inaccurate. Hearing the constant admonition to “mind the gap” when exiting elevators in London also made me realize that I may not have been so silly at all with my childhood anxiety about that little space that always seemed larger than if actually was. 

One thing that never really concerned me was the idea of being trapped in an elevator. I simply assumed that the little box would move up and down as planned, but indeed there have been occasions when people found themselves stuck between floors when the power in a building suddenly went out. Since I tend to become anxious in closed spaces I don’t think I would do well if such an occasion were to arise. I suppose that I would rather use stairs or escalators when possible to make certain that I will never find myself in a situation that would no doubt cause my heart to beat a bit too fast. On the whole I need to have a way to escape on my own power rather than relying on an electric mechanism that keeps things operating as they should. 

If such an event did indeed occur I suppose that I would have to breathe deeply and attempt to divert my thoughts for however long I was trapped. Even though I would generally prefer to be alone with my fears, this would be one occasion when companionship with other humans would actually be helpful, but not too many. If I were squeezed into a tiny space I’m afraid that I would freak out and hyperventilate. Having enough room to move around and maybe even sit down for a time would make it at least a tiny bit bearable. 

I suppose when I think of such possibilities of entrapment my mind drifts to thoughts of slaves packed in the bottom of a ship, chained up as though they were property rather than humans. I imagine those cattle cars on trains filled with souls headed to concentration camps. I associate tight spaces with cruelty and hatred.

We humans have some very bad tendencies to rank other people as though some types are superior and other are inferior. I’m not sure what causes us to do such things, but it is fact that has happened for centuries. It’s why the Israelites were enslaved by the Egyptians and people are trafficked for profit even in modern times. I sometimes wonder if my aversion to being confined comes from my empathy with those who have been degraded, trapped and confined by other human beings throughout the course of history. 

It has always been difficult for me to understand why people ever thought it was proper to steal land from people native to a certain region or to classify persons of a certain description as being inferior and yet it is a fact of history that these things have happened over and over again. Even my Slovakian immigrant grandparents and their children were taunted and ridiculed as being dirty and somehow subpar to the people around whom they lived only because they were from a certain part of the Europe that was thought to be inferior. I think of my grandparents traveling across the ocean in search of freedom in the tightly packed steerage of a ship only to be unwelcomed when they arrived. I feel suffocated by the mere thought of what they patiently endured without complaint just to earn a place in America. 

So if I were trapped inside an elevator I would hope that I would be able to get control of my claustrophobia and be calm and pleasant with whoever was in the situation with me. I’d want to work together to free ourselves from the confinement and maybe make a joke about our situation or tell each other stories about who we are and why we happen to be in the same place at the same time. It would be the only way that I would be able to endure my fate without overreacting and thinking about what imprisonment of any kind must be like. I’d remind myself that people before me have endured far worse. 

The odds that I will ever find myself stranded inside an elevator are slim to none so it’s unlikely that my courage will be tested inside such an enclosed area. I’m more likely to come unglued in a closely packed moving crowd. Mosh pits and I will never come together, nor will I put myself in the middle of hundreds of people moving together at the end of an event. Thankfully I have total control over the situations in which I place myself unlike refugees so desperate to flee from oppressive governments that they will squeeze into the back of a windowless van to die from heat and suffocation. Still I wonder why some humans are still so cruel. Surely history has taught us to be better.

A few years ago a new family moved onto our cul-de-sac. They were a friendly bunch who fit right into our neighborly traditions. On New Year’s Eve 2019, they hosted a party that was filled with dancing to music from each decade starting with the 1940s. It was lots of fun and the best part was that we finally got to meet the patriarch of the family who did not get out much because of his bad health. Augustus Barnabas Cabrera may have sat through the festivities, but his feet were tapping away to the music the whole time while a smile lit up his face showing his delight at seeing every enjoying the evening. 

Mr. Cabrera was born in Trinidad where he spent most of his adult life working for Texaco/Trintoc and raising a large family. He was a union man who quietly worked for good working conditions for his fellow employees and he was also a faith-filled man who put God first in everything that he did. He loved his Catholic Church and served on the Parish Council as faithfully as he did his work for Texaco. His children speak of the many sacrifices that he made for them as he guided them to be productive and compassionate adults. 

I did not see much of Mr. Cabrera after that New Year’s Eve party. The Covid pandemic hit with full force and he mostly stayed inside his home where his daughter, Christine, faithfully cared for him. His health began to further decline during those long days of isolation and he became mostly bed bound. We often witnessed ambulances arriving to take him to the hospital for emergency procedures, and on one occasion his parish priest came to administer the last rites. Somehow he rallied again and again.

Once Covid was not as worrisome as it had once been, a home healthcare worker would push his wheelchair around the neighborhood so that he might enjoy some sunshine and the well wishes of the neighbors. He always had a beautiful smile for anyone that he encountered. It was truly a delight to see him once again, but his time on this earth would not be for much longer. He died at the end of August this year. 

There was something special about Mr. Cabrera that I can’t quite explain. I mostly only knew of him, not about him. I was taken by his smile and the love that his family had for him. I only interacted with him a few times, and yet I felt that he was someone quite special and that I had been fortunate to spend those brief moments with him. When I went to his funeral mass at St. Luke the Evangelist Catholic Church I had a remarkable spiritual experience as though I had somehow been in the presence of a saint. 

I learned that Mr. Cabrera had been a determined advocate for justice and fairness. I heard that his faithfulness to his family and to God was exceptional. I realized that the frail old man with whom I had felt so comfortable had led an extraordinary life that was filled with hard work and great joy. His foot tapping at the New Year’s Eve party was no accident for he had always been a fan of Calypso music and dance. He had a balance in his life that kept him focused on the good of others. Somehow I felt his story calming me and urging me to keep following my own pathway in life. 

It’s funny how the small moments in our lives often turn out to be life changing. As I sang the hymns and prayed with Mr. Cabrera’s family I felt as though in his story I had found the true meaning of life. He was a quiet and unassuming man when I met him and yet I had realized that he was far from ordinary. Even in his pain and the slow dying of his body he was focused on being a light for the people around him. I know that he brightened my day whenever I had the privilege of seeing him.

Mr. Cabrera loved working the soil in his native Trinidad. He enjoying doing organic farming on his land, growing tropical fruits and vegetables. He raised ducks and chickens all the while entertaining his family with his endless sense of humor. He devoted his life to his wife and children and at the end of his own life his children and grandchildren were devoted to him. 

Mr. Cabrera truly lived. His legacy will be remembered not just by his family members but by the oil workers for whose rights he battled, and by the neighbors like me that he so impressed. Surely he was a man of God in every sense of that idea, a kind and compassionate soul who understood how to sacrifice for others and how to love. 

I feel fortunate to have had my brief encounter with Mr. Cabrera. He was a reminder to me of the goodness in humanity that is sometimes hidden by those whose ugliness steals the headlines. It is in the quiet but determined souls like Mr. Cabrera that our world moves forward towards fairness and love. Knowing that there are people like Mr. Cabrera calms the fears of my soul. May he rest now with the angels in the heavenly home that he most assuredly earned.  

I chose my home because of the kitchen. It is bright and airy with windows overlooking my backyard garden. I have appliances that my grandmother never imagined and tools that make cooking a breeze, but if I had to name the one thing in my kitchen that I appreciate the most it would be the clean water that runs readily from my faucet. It’s something that we tend to take for granted until we no longer have it. Of late I often find myself staring at it in wonder and feeling so grateful that I live in a place where it is so readily available. 

Water really is life in some parts of the world and even our own country it is becoming a valuable commodity indeed. I’ve watched all summer while places in the southwest have become parched, revealing dry beds where rivers once flowed. Here in Texas two areas have been particularly stressed by drought with wells running dry and rivers that usually provide tubing fun for tourists looking like dusty trails. It has made me wonder when and even if such places will find relief. 

Then there is the situation in Jackson Mississippi where citizens have been without safe water for drinking or bathing or even flushing toilets for weeks because flooding caused the old infrastructures to collapse. I can’t imagine having to endure such conditions, but it seems that we never really know when we will face a situation that threatens the availability of water in our homes. 

This summer I took a carload of water to my daughter who lives in the Texas hill country because she was having difficulty finding it in stores and she was worried that the wells that provide water for her neighborhood might become dry. As it happened there was rain upon my arrival and stores also received new deliveries of bottled water, so she is fine for now, but still under restrictions that do not allow her to water outside more than once every two weeks for less than one hour. There are strict fines for those who ignore the directive. 

I’ve been through a few hurricanes here in the Houston area and one of the first rules of preparation is to set aside water in case the system stops working due to damage of the systems from flooding like in Mississippi. I learned to fill my bathtubs and all of my pots and pans with water before leaving for safer, higher ground when a storm is threatening. When I return I always bring bottled water and cleaning supplies with me that I purchased just in case there is a run on them in the stores. I try to be prepared for any eventuality and I always breathe a sigh of relief when the only damage is the loss of a few shingles on my roof. 

We humans are overbuilding in places that have very limited sources of water or where there is likely to be flooding during a heavy rain. We seem to be ignoring the importance of water, but our ancestors never did. They knew not to build near bayous or on river bottoms. They allowed rivers like the Mississippi to flow the way nature intended rather than attempting to arrogantly engineering changes that created problems for people whose homes were once safe. We build without considering whether or not aquifers will be able to quench expanding populations. We waste precious water on the greening of lawns rather than creating gardens of rock. We act as though our supply of water is limitless until it is not. 

So when I see that lovely water running into my glass from my faucet I smile and say a little prayer of gratitude. There is nothing else in my kitchen that is more wonderful or valuable as that miraculous chemical reaction that connects two hydrogen atoms to one of oxygen. It’s all rather amazing when we really stop to think about it. Then there are the pipes that bring it to our homes after it has been treated in plants that make it pure enough to drink. 

I remember my father talking excitedly about an engineering project that he was working on way back in the early nineteen fifties. it was an attempt to make potable water out of salt water from the sea. He got a glimmer in his eyes at the very thought of being able to do something that might change the fate of the world. Desalination on a grand scale was still a dream in the United States when my father died in 1957, but now it is being used more and more around the world to create fresh water. The Saudi Arabians first perfected the technique in 1938. In the 1960s it became more and more common when John F. Kennedy encouraged the perfection of desalination projects to increase the amount of clean water in our country.

Today only one percent of usable water comes from desalination and most of that is still in the Middle East. As droughts due to climate change endanger our water sources perhaps this process will become more popular even though it is an expensive process that requires a great deal of energy. We certainly need to acknowledge that clean drinking water is a requirement for life, not a luxury and make changes to the way we live to ensure that it will be around when we need it. 

I enjoy my ice maker, my microwave, my stove, my refrigerator and all of the tools for my cooking, but it is beautiful clean water that I most love. I’ve learned that it is not something that any of us should take for granted. Our world is growing and we all need places to live and water to drink to take care of our needs. Water should be one of our top priorities. We should not wait until a disaster to acknowledge how much we depend on it. It is truly a source of life that each of us must have.