Category: Commentary

When my grandson became a member of his high school band I often attended his school’s football games, mostly to watch the musical performances at halftime. When I was a high school student I was addicted to the football competitions and found ways to attend most of them even though I didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. Those Friday nights were always fun whether or not our team was a contender for a championship season. 

I attended a private Catholic school, Mt. Carmel, so we rarely played any publics schools, but there were enough parochial schools to provide us with a full schedule. In the Houston area alone our rivals were Jesuit, Marion, St. Pius and the biggest of them all, St. Thomas. The games were grudge matches in which we attempt to demonstrate our bonafides and they sometimes challenged my allegiances because so many of my beloved cousins were student in the opposition schools. In truth, on Friday nights nothing mattered more to me than winning so I had no trouble justifying my disloyalty to my cousins. I only wanted to witness the glory of my school and my classmates who fought for its reputation. 

Mt. Carmel had a fabulous drill team that included a drum and bugle corps along with twirlers and a marching group that performed difficult precision routines. They wore sharp military style uniforms in our school colors of brown and white. They were an extraordinary group that often stole the show from the athletes, adding to the attraction of the games. 

There was usually a parent who would agree to transport some of us to the games when we were still freshmen, and once my classmates began obtaining their driver’s licenses they took turns borrowing the family car to take us to enjoy the Friday night lights. Somehow I managed to hitch my way to the happenings and they were always so much fun. They were an integral part of my youth as much as learning and attending church were.

I had wanted to join the drill team and had spent years practicing my tricks with a baton, but I lost my nerve when it came to the tryouts. I was skinny, flat chested with baby fine hair that would not hold the bouffant hair styles that were so popular back then. I felt gawky and embarrassed by my childlike body so I backed out of showing my twirling skills which were actually quite substantial. Instead I made up a number of excuses for why I suddenly was not interested in being one of the Cadets. 

In retrospect I know how silly I was, but at the time things worked out well nonetheless. I went to virtually every football game and I had the freedom to walk around and just have a fun and memorable time with my friends. When I became a senior the drum major of the Cadets asked me to be their official voice during performances. I got to go the press box and describe the music and movements of their routines which in some ways was more my cup of tea than prancing about on the field. 

My male classmates on the football team were awesome, but St. Thomas always seemed to stand in their way of experiencing a perfect winning year. That team was a force of nature and my cousins who went to school there would often tease me about going to a school that could not defeat them. One of those cousins would eventually become a star player for St. Thomas continuing the dominance of that school on the gridiron long after I had graduated and moved on to college. I sometimes found myself cheering for him with the rest of the family and always felt a tiny bit of guilt which I resolved by never rooting against my alma mater.

Despite my family connections I was ever loyal to my own team. I believed in the Beach Boy creed to be true to my school. I’d intensely watch every play and rejoiced with each inch of ground that moved the guys closer to the end zone. Id say Hail Marys for the quarterback and the kicker. I’d lose my voice yelling with both glee and disappointment. Those were glorious times. 

Later, as a mom, I would spend many years watching the football games of my daughters’ high school. I sat each week with a group of parents who became dear friends. Our children were athletes, members of the drill team and cheerleaders. The stands were packed with fans, mostly in the student sections. I found as much joy in my new role as I had as a student. 

What confounded me when I went to watch my grandson and his band is how few students came to the games. The stands were filled with members of the band, the girls on the dance team and parents. The number of students watching the game without affiliated to a particular group was minimal compared to my own experiences. I was surprised with the obvious lack of interest and I wondered how that had come to be. I noted that it was not just my grandson’s school that appeared to lack student spirit, but also the opposing sides. I wondered why those gridiron competition had grown out of fashion with student spectators. 

I would not trade my memories of those Friday night duels for anything. I viewed my male classmates who played in the game as heroes. I thought that the girls who marched at halftime were glorious. I felt so much joy and delight on those evenings that it created energy for me to study and learn during the school week. Those really were the days. 

In a postscript I ended up marrying a student from St. Thomas. He still boasts about the state championships that his team won. I let him brag because I know I would do so if the tables were turned. I also found out that my former rivals from that school were actually rather nice fellows, not the brutes that I once thought them to be. It seems that we all had great fun on those Friday nights and it was wonderful.  

I’ve always been drawn to intensely cold days. Perhaps it is because there are so few of them where I live. A frigid day is a kind of novelty that allows me to use my fireplace and cuddle under a blanket while I write my blogs or read my books. My cup of Earl Grey tea seems to taste better when there is a chill in the air. I find myself appreciating the shelter that my home provides more than I usually do. Wintery days provide a kind of diversion from the warm humid season that seems to last for most of the year in my part of the world. Probability being what it is tells me to treasure and enjoy moments when the temperature drops into the low thirties. 

I suppose that if it snowed for weeks on end, leaving me continually isolated, I might begin to feel a bit like Jack Torrance in The Shining, but that never really happens. The colder days of January and February instead make me friskier and more alert. I revel in the way I feel. Those months tend to be boring and seem never ending unless they are improved by a nice winter freeze. It’s even better if a bit of snow accompanies the moment.

I suppose that my love of the cold may have come from a time just after my father died. It was November and the days were growing shorter with a hint of winter putting a chill on our house. My mother was unsure of how to light the pilot for the furnace so she bundled us up at night under quilts that my Grandma Minnie had made. She told us stories about how she and her siblings had stayed warm during the winter in her childhood home. There was no central heat there, only a single gas heater that warmed the central part of the home, but not the bedroom she shared with her sisters. They would huddle under a pile of blankets and hug each other to get even more warmth from their body heat. She’d smile as she remembered how close they were and how they took care of each other. 

We finally got the heater working when our next door neighbor came over one evening to help. He laid down on the floor and showed my mom how to safely light the flame that would start the system and deliver heat to the entire house. That was the very moment when I began to believe that our strange little fatherless family was going to be alright. In a kind of Pavlovian way I have always felt comforted by the arrival of winter and the first stirrings of warmth from the heating system. I associate it with kindness and good fortune. I makes me appreciate the most simple aspects of my life. Winterlike weather is kind of a dog whistle that brings happiness to me. 

On the other hand I know that I have a kind of psychological aversion to the beginning of summer because it traditionally arrives on Labor Day when my father died. It’s rather bizarre how we humans make connections with certain dates on the calendar or places or even music. Our brains automatically affect our feelings even when we don’t realize what is happening. It took me a long time to understand why I prefer the cold over the sunny days of summer. Once I realized the why of my preferences I learned to once again enjoy both ends of the seasonal spectrums. I no longer fear the summer the way I once did, but it is still my least favorite season because I really don’t like being hot and sweaty.

My daughters both lived in cold climates for a time. They have told me how fun it initially was to have snow and get all bundled up before going outside. Over time they grew weary of the short days that became dark by four in the afternoon. They said that the snow became an ugly gooey mess as the months wore on. When April came and it was still chilly outside they longed for the spring weather that came in the middle of March in the south. They were more than happy to put their heavy coats and snow shovels away when they came back to Texas. 

I suspect that folks from northern climes long for sunny beaches and blue skies while I wish for a lovely white carpet of snow on the ground. While I worry about hurricanes from June to November they spend the winter months wondering when a blizzard may come to ruin their plans. We travel to cabins in the mountain in January and they go on cruises to the Caribbean. 

Not everyone who lives around me likes the cold. I’m often in the minority when going into rapture over the few days each year that we get a small taste of what it would be like to have bonafide winters. They prefer the temperance of seventy degree weeks when the flowers still bloom and even the most delicate plants thrive without any extra attention. Not even the fun of wearing their boots or drinking hot cocoa will convince them to give a thumbs up for winter. I suppose it’s like many of the proverbial questions that divide us into different ways of thinking. 

It was already warming up a bit as January came to a close, but tradition tells me that February will give me one more shot at the kind of chilly days that I so love. Wintery days in Houston are like Christmas to me. They come and go quickly, but deliver so much comfort and joy while they are here.  

Believe it or not, I really do not like being political. For the majority of my life I have generally avoided political discussions. Most of the time I had little idea how the people that I knew voted nor did I pay much attention to what was happening in the halls of power. I remember overhearing an argument between my father and grandfather over the integration of schools in Arkansas that became rather testy. To this day I do not know what they actually said or how they may have felt about that moment in history. 

It has only been in more recent times that I began to feel concern over the direction and divisiveness of our political thinking. I found myself reading more and more about the founding of our nation and the worries of its originators like Alexander Hamilton and James Madison. I learned of the policy disagreements between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. I took the time to attempt to understand why the issue of slavery had not been tackled earlier in our nation’s history. I became more and more enlightened through my studies. 

I understand that politics have been a volatile undertaking since the beginning of time. The fact that we disagree on how things should be done is nothing new under the sun. Even a cursory parsing of world history demonstrates that humans have been arguing or even fighting over how to best live together from the beginnings of time. Nonetheless, there are moments when it is imperative to actually choose a side. 

The ancestors that I know of who were here in the colonies fought in the American Revolution. I’m not sure if they had strong feelings about warring against the king or if they simply followed along with some of their neighbors. My great grandfather chose to stand with the union during the Civil War. Given that he was from Kentucky it must indeed have been a well thought out decision. My father and uncles volunteered to fight in World War II. My dad was quite young and entered the fray late, so he did not see any action, but he believed strongly in our nation. 

I am a bonafide Baby Boomer. As a young college student I professed my allegiance to the Civil Rights movement but did little other than taking part in a few peaceful demonstrations. I was against the war in Vietnam because I did not believe that it was in the best interest of our country. I was never against those who had been drafted or who had choses to fight. In fact, my main motivation was to end the war and bring them safely home. 

After that I generally snoozed through the ups and downs of politics. I voted regularly and without any kind of distinct pattern in my choices. I suppose I would be called an independent whose main interests were in social issues. Perhaps this is a result of my own childhood in an economically challenged family and the stories that my mother told me of her experiences as a child of immigrants. Financial issues meant little to me because I had devoted my life to a career in education which essentially meant that I would never get rich.

In these times my political concerns continue to revolve around the well-being of others. I am comfortable and content with my own situation, but I have dedicated my life to helping those less fortunate to climb their way out of difficult situations. I have been a strong advocate for fairness and opportunity for all. That is the essence of what matters to me. 

As an educator I encountered bullies and unkindness. I witnessed abuse and the struggles of children afflicted with learning disabilities or just plain bad luck in circumstance. My goal was to do anything in my power to help the wounded souls who entered my classroom as much as those who talents and characteristics were extraordinary. I advocated for excellence for all of them. I pushed back on those intent on abusing them. 

I write this because I have long been silent on an issue that bothers me. We have a President of our country who by his own admission struggled to speak and to read because of a terrible stutter that he had. Luckily his parents encouraged him to ignore the taunts and work hard to overcome his disability. With great effort he did in fact learn to speak deliberately and slowly enough to avoid the pitfalls of his speech. He rose to be a champion for the underdog just as I always was and became the President of the United States.

Instead of lauding him for being able to overcome what must have been such a public difficulty, we allude to some ridiculous idea that his verbal missteps must be a sign of mental deterioration. We do not stop to think that in order not to stutter, President Biden must slow down his responses. His brain must control his stuttering and answer difficult questions at one and the same time. That has to be incredibly challenging and now again there is sure to be a misstep here and there. 

I have a slight case of dyslexia. Sometimes when I have been teaching for long hours I begin to reverse numbers, copy problems down incorrectly. My students have to correct me. I am not losing my ability to perform mathematical calculations. I have not forgotten the algorithms or theorems. My mind simply twists around what I see with my eyes once in awhile. It a disability which provided me with sympathy and patience for others who for whatever reason must take a bit longer to learn and respond. 

Who among us would hold up to the intensity of the presidency without making a slip or the tongue or momentarily forgetting a word or a name or an idea. I know that I sometimes see a former colleague and have to collect my thoughts before remember his/her name. I often fumble for the word I want to use. I say things that sound ridiculous when I am too hasty in speaking. I have often been accused of being slow, even by teachers who eventually praised my intellectual acumen when I showed them that I simply learned differently. 

We have applauded ugliness and insults for too long. It is time that we return to respectfulness and a sense of unity for the sake of each other and our nation. Our founders purposely called this country the United States of America. If they had wanted us to continually be divided we would have only been The States of America. It’s time we remembered that there are many countries that are part of north and south America. There is only one nation that is who we are and should be, The United States of America. Our founders wanted to form a more perfect union. They understood that there is no perfect union. Let’s stop the ridiculous bickering. It does no good for any of us. Let’s make the United States great again by being a nation that is respectful, empathetic, accepting and courageous. Let’s strive for that more perfect union.

There is a great deal of talk these days about civil rights, voting rights, equality and justice. As humans our history is sadly littered with prejudice, hate and even genocide. As I type this there are people being abused by governments and their fellow citizens all over the world. The arc of history is indeed long and while it has often bent towards justice, it is all too often a slow and cautious process. Meanwhile those bearing the brunt of unfairness are expected to simply wait patiently. 

When Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was one of the world’s most well known advocates for civil rights he understood the impatience of those who continued to suffer from segregation, violence, and injustice longer than they should have in a country that idealized freedom. He dreamed of a day when all people would be equal. He hoped that such a condition would not be too long in coming. He understood that the pillars of justice included economic security, educational opportunities, and the right to vote and be both heard and represented. 

Dr. King was the eloquent voice of the civil rights movement that resulted in tearing down many of the barriers that had kept the children and grandchildren of slaves bound by the chains of poverty, hatred, lack of opportunity, segregation. He became a martyr to the cause and a renowned figure in the years after his death, but many have forgotten how much his hopes and dreams had angered significant numbers of American citizens during his lifetime. 

He had been hounded and spied upon by the F.B.I. He had been arrested and jailed. An attempt was made to kill him with a bomb left at his home. Police set snarling dogs on him and wielded hoses designed to knock him and other protestors down. He was taken for a ride in a police car on a dark road in Mississippi as a threat designed to discourage him from continuing his work. Dr. King and the thousands who worked to bring all citizens the rights they deserved understood that their very lives were in danger from those who were unwilling to accept that justice must be for all.

Those of us who have not experienced the suffering of being abused simply because of the color of skin or differences of any kind tend to believe that the story ultimately ended well with the passage of the Civil Rights Act in the nineteen sixties. They see the progress that has been made and assume that there is nothing more to be done, but that would be an error because we have seen situations that should alert us to the truth that we still have work to do. 

I was actually one of those people who thought that the hate and prejudice that I had seen in my teen years had been wiped from the American psyche. I balked at the idea that some people hated President Barack Obama because he was Black. Then I began to hear the racist epithets railed at him and his wife. I was stunned to realize that such thought was still alive in our society. Over the past many years I have watched the hatred only grow and become more and more visible. I have personally heard and witnessed horrific forms of racism.

We cannot stop the struggle for the rights that Dr. King once advocated just because we wish to just be comfortable. It is usually very difficult and even a bit frightening to make systemic changes, but I realize that this is what we must continue to do. We have to ask ourselves why poverty is still so prevalent. As an educator I know full well that criminal behaviors and addictions often begin in desperation. it’s up to all of us to consider ways of improving lives. If our current programs are not accomplishing what we had hoped, then we must consider new and better ways of ensuring that everyone has access the food, housing, healthcare and a strong education. 

We also must be certain that everyone has fair access to the ballot and to representation. That means looking at voting districts and asking if a poor minority neighborhood is benefiting from being zoned with a number of wealthy white areas of town that water down their voice in the halls of power. It requires us to consider whether or not our processes for voting work well for those who work long hours and can’t leave jobs to vote during the scheduled times. Most of all, it means that we must be willing to listen when any group is feeling belittled and beset upon. We have to be certain that we are hearing their voices and taking them seriously. 

We can be proud of our progress, but we can never be complacent. We have issues to address right now. Senate rules that are barriers to needed changes may need to be updated. Lawmakers who only tow the party are too often part of the problem. We began the process of civil rights with a coupling of courageous Democrats and Republicans who were willing to do the right thing even if it meant that they would never again win an election. This is the kind of patriotism that our country needs now more than ever.

i remember when people had cookie jars or candy jars in their homes. My Grandma Minnie had both and she managed to keep them filled for the times when we visited her house. My mother never had a cookie jar until my brothers and I put together the money we had made from doing odd jobs like babysitting or cutting grass. We found a small ceramic jar that was shaped like a little house. It was painted in pastel colors to resemble a sweet shop. It had a little handle crafted from woven strips of wood. We thought that it was magically delightful as only children would.

We were so proud of that gift because we had usually just made something for our mom. She seemed to like the pictures that we drew, so that was often our present of choice. One time we traced the image of a little boy onto a block of wood. Then we used a hand jigsaw to cut out the figure. One of my brothers used a magnifying glass and the rays of the sun to burn the boy’s features into the wood. We stained the whole thing and put a hook on it so that Mama would be able to hang it on the wall. She proudly displayed in the kitchen for many years until she finally stored in a drawer.

Having an actual store bought present was a big deal for us, so we chose that cookie jar very carefully. We wanted something nice that we might afford with our very limited budget. I can’t remember where we purchased it, but it most likely was from the local TG&Y. Mama treasured it for many years, but I don’t recall her ever using it to store cookies. She was afraid that the lid was not tight enough to keep the ants at bay. In all likelihood she was exactly right about that. 

Today that cookie jar sits on one of the shelves of my secretary desk. The doors are made with glass so it is visible to all who sit in the area that I call my sitting room. It is where I talk to friends on the phone, write my blogs, read and plan the math lessons for my students. The room is my refuge and I have filled it with things that make me happy. Knowing that my mother treasured the cookie jar, even if she never used it, is a wonderful feeling. It was not much, but she understood how hard we had to work to purchase it for her. 

Next to the cookie jar are two pieces of children’s china that were Mama’s when she was a child. Generally she did not have toys but she had that little plate and cup from a set that somehow survived the wear and tear of a house full of seven rough and tumble siblings. I can almost imagine her hiding the precious pieces so that they would not get broken. I have no idea what happened to the rest of the set or if there was even more at all. It simply is precious to me to have something from my mother’s childhood.

I have a small Eleanor Roosevelt doll tucked in the corner of the top shelf of the secretary. I bought it for myself because I have always been inspired by First Lady Roosevelt. I suppose I became a fan when my mother so vividly described how important both of the Roosevelts had been to her family. She literally gushed when she told us how President Roosevelt had save the nation. She proudly recalled how she stood on the corner of her street to watch Roosevelt  and his entourage pass by when he visited Houston. She shed tears when speaking of his death. She always insisted that Eleanor Roosevelt had been the greatest First Lady ever and told us stories of listening to her speak to the nation on the radio.

When I read books about Eleanor my mother’s opinions of her were confirmed. I fell in love with that remarkable woman and when I look at the doll representing her I always think of my mother. In fact, my mother’s name was Ellen, which I think is beautiful. Ironically Mama often commented that she would have preferred being known as Eleanor. At birth her parents named her Elena as would have been a more customary name in Slovakia. Any way I look at the different versions of my mother’s name, I find them to be wonderful and much more pleasing than my own. I suppose we all dream of having a different, more elegant name.

My mother used to collect salt and pepper shakers on her travels with my father. Her collection was abruptly finished upon his death. Nonetheless they had packed a lifetime of seeing the country in their eleven years of marriage. Mama’s tiny mementoes filled a small bookcase and I had to dust each one of them every single week. I remember carefully wiping down the tiny shakers that represented so many different places. What might have been a tedious task became fun as I imagined all of the wondrous cities and towns and National Parks she and Daddy had visited. 

Sadly something happened to all of those little treasures. Perhaps my mom grew tired of them and gave them away. Maybe she accidentally broke some of them. For whatever reason only two sets were still intact when she died. I was so proud of them that they ended up in my curio shelves as well. One day I accidentally broke one of the sets as I was cleaning. It shattered my heart, but I had to remind myself that they were only things. I still had the great memories of all of the original pieces, and nothing would ever take that away. I recalled the replicas of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. I thought of the tepees from a Native American reservation and the Cacti from Arizona. There had once been birds and bears, canoes and trains.

I suppose that anyone looking inside my secretary might wonder why I have such a hodgepodge of items. Nothing in there is particularly rare or of monetary value. It is the memory associated with each piece that is important. My treasures are of the heart. Gazing at them almost make moments from the past come alive. That makes them priceless for sure.