Category: Commentary

A long time ago in a world that seems quaint and unreal I spent summers in Houston, Texas without air conditioning. There was a huge fan installed in the attic of our home that hummed away both day and night pulling air into the rooms through the open windows. We strategically created cross breezes to keep ourselves as cool as possible in the humid temperatures that often registered in the nineties during July and and August. I remember wearing shorts and sleeveless tops and being a bit jealous of my brothers who were able to walk around bare chested. Even as a child I got sweaty on those hot days, and the perspiration on my skin mixed with dust and dirt to form a kind of film on my neck that my mother called “grandma’s beads.”

My mother did not install an air conditioner in the house until I was in college. She only ran it when guests came to visit or at night as she became more concerned about keeping our windows wide open while we slept. It would be a few more years before she would move to another house that was fitted with central air conditioning, but even then she kept the thermostat so high that the temperature inside rarely fell below eighty degrees. 

The first home that I purchased had window units to provide air conditioning. They did only a fair job of keeping things cool. There were hot spots in certain places and areas that were freezing cold. We were on a strict budget in those days so I often attempted to emulate my mother’s saving techniques by eschewing the air conditioning during the day while my husband was at work, and only running it in the evenings so that we would be more comfortable as we slept. 

One summer my friend Linda and I decided to have a kind a contest to determine who could save the most energy and get the lowest utility bill. I knew that I was in trouble in that contest when I saw the lengths to which Linda had gone. She was cooking most of her meals outside on a grill and had set up a table for dining under a big tree in her backyard. I picked up a lot of conservation tricks from her, but soon enough had bowed to the heat and found myself using the air conditioning more and more often. Somehow I had lost the ability to bear the heat that had seemed so easy to do when I was a child.

By the time we finally installed central air conditioning in our house I was hooked on so many modern conveniences. I no longer sat mostly in the dark at night as my mother did in her quest to be frugal with her electricity use. I began to take the lights and appliances and huge utility bills for granted in ways that would have been upsetting to my mom whose frequent mantra was “turn that off and quit wasting electricity.” I rarely gave thought to my part of hurting our planet. In fact, it never even crossed my mind that I might be indulging in behaviors that were harmful to anyone or anything. I embraced a lifestyle of comfort that often raised my mama’s eyebrows as she quietly insisted that I might do well to be more circumspect in my use of energy and resources. 

I suppose that I first began to think about the environment when talk of global warming and rising seas became more than just chatter. I have to admit to being a bit dubious about the hyperbole that seemed to be associated with that movement, but over time the evidence that our world was in trouble began to mount. Things seemed to get especially bad in my own backyard as more and more heavy rain events flooded homes and businesses at a rate that I had never before seen. Even before the July 2017, arrival of hurricane Harvey I worried each time torrential downpours hovered over my city. The terrifying days and nights of nonstop precipitation from Harvey would become the face of climate changes and would awaken a realization in me that we all have to change our ways. 

The mounting evidence of our human folly is impossible to dismiss. We have unthinkingly attacked our environment with toxic emissions, fossil fuels, deforestation, pollution of waters. Instead of moderating our activities like my mother had done, we have almost thoughtlessly engaged in a proliferation of indulgence that is threatening the very existence of the planet on which we live. Instead of caring for our earth, we have all too often ravaged it as though it would just heal on its own. We have depleted our seas and our forests, and created so much garbage that we are running out of places to put it all. Now we are faced with the challenge of undoing the damage before it is too late, and I wonder if we have the wherewithal to take the measures that we need. 

Each of us can begin now to reconsider how to live. In my own case, if I were to better emulate my mother or the tricks I learned from Linda, I would be making a good start in contributing to the welfare of our planet. Sadly, even such measures will not be enough. We really do need to take steps that will surely be difficult, but that are necessary. It’s time to think about everything that we do and to consider a more sustainable lifestyle. It will mean changing habits that have become ingrained and accepting new possibilities. It will no doubt be a great challenge, but not impossible. I’ve survived heat and limited use of resources before. I am certain that I can do so again. Still I must do more than just that. The question is whether enough of us will be willing to join in the effort before it is too late. The warnings are here. I hope that we heed them or the future may be very uncomfortable and dark indeed whether we like it or not.

My mother never let a scrap of food go to waste. Luckily she was a marvel at concocting wonderful recipes using whatever happened to be on hand. There were often times at the end of the month when the available fare was rather meager, but Mama somehow performed miracles and served us some of the best meals ever. 

I’ve been watching a documentary on Netflix called High On the Hog. It tells the history of enslaved people who brought seeds and knowledge of foods from Africa. Ultimately, they introduced foods like okra, gumbo, yams to the new world. The people were taken from their native country to perform hard labor in rice fields, on cotton plantations, and at building sites. They often had had to get creative with whatever food was given to them. In the process they learned how to make soups, stews, and other culinary innovations from the worst cuts of meat and leftover vegetables. They used their knowledge of cooking from back home and handed down those recipes from one family member to another. Over time, they introduced a distinctive cuisine that features some of the favorite dishes in America. 

It often amazes me how humans work so hard to create interesting menus from the items that are available to them. Like my mother they use new combinations of spices and sauces to change a recipe from bland to tasty. It takes a special talent to determine what combinations will create delicious flavors. 

My grandmother Minnie Bell did not read nor write. A cookbook was of no use to her. She learned to cook from watching and with an instinct for creating tasty combinations. She had some amazing techniques with vegetables and made the best pies I have ever eaten. Her style was pure country cooking because the ingredients she had were those that she was able to grow in her yard or gather from a hunting or fishing expedition. I still drool when I think of her greens and pinto beans, and like my mother she never wasted anything. She used the dregs to  make broths and soups and even created snacks like pork rinds. If anything was left over after that, she used it as fertilizer in her garden. 

We live in such a fast paced world that we depend way too much on ready made foods and items that take little of our time to cook. Those of us who work are tired at the end of the day, and the idea of having to spend time laboring over our meals is often unappealing, but I still know people who have turned cooking into an art. I wish I could say that I am one of them. 

I often call myself the “bean queen” because I can take any form of legume and turn it into a delightful feast. People really do enjoy my beans. I seem to have inherited my grandmother’s skill in turning them into something delightful. My secret is to always use the “trinity” of onion, celery and green pepper, but also to know exactly when to introduce those flavors to the mix. I cook my beans very slowly, starting with either vegetable or chicken broth along with a ham bone or ham hock, and then adding water over and over as the liquid boils away. I have to be patient and vigilant to end up with exactly the right flavor and consistency. Somehow it is one dish that I have mastered over time.

I also love to create soup from the leftovers that I have in my kitchen. I get quite creative when I try my hand at making a nice stew of vegetables and some bits of protein. I choose my spices depending on whether I am working with chicken or beef or pork or just vegetables. Again, I allow the flavors to slowly steep together, but I have to be very careful not to just end up with a pot of mush. The line between perfection and overcooking is very thin.

I suppose that I am best known for my gumbo, but I can’t take credit for the recipe. I have the benefit of literacy, and so I follow the direction for seafood gumbo from a cookbook that I purchased years ago at the Gumbo Shop in the French Quarter of New Orleans. I found a few problems with the concoction as described in the book, and so I’ve made a few changes. I add a bit more crab meat and am a more generous with the amount of shrimp that I use. I also add a bit more kick to the final product with spices. The real secret is in getting a dark roux without burning the thickening mixture. I’ve also learned to let the final product sit for a day or so before serving it to let all of the flavors come together.

Beyond that I would have to admit to being a very ordinary cook. Most of the time I have little desire to get fancy. In that regard I do not appear to enjoy the art of cooking like either my mother or grandmother did. It’s doubtful that I will ever be credited with creating something new like both of them were. I do, however, make a fabulous smoothy. I won’t give away my secret for that, but it is so yummy on a summer day, and rather healthy as well. I’d call it Sharron’s Summer Swirl. It’s the most original edible I’ve ever made.

I grew up with stories about America’s role in World War II. My uncles were members of the armed forces and served in various posts. My dad got in late due to his younger age, but he too eventually enlisted in the army. My mother often boasted that women took up the slack in businesses and factories once the men were gone. She proudly spoke of the sacrifices and rationing that everyone endured as the nation pulled together to defeat the enemy. Later I would hear similar stories from my mother-in-law who showed me a her high school yearbook which was printed on newspaper stock and featured class pictures that were virtually devoid of male students because all of them had enlisted. She still had a ration book with coupons her family had never used because they thought it was a very small matter just to totally give up certain things for the cause. 

I suppose I somewhat romanticized those stories and felt a sense of pride that people in my country had been so noble. It never occurred to me that there may have been those who dodged the draft or rankled at the idea of having to do without certain resources. I naively assumed that everyone had gladly played a part in the efforts to defeat the authoritarian forces that were threatening the world. In truth there probably were naysayers, but it seems that on the whole there were heroes all across the globe who pulled up their sleeves and did whatever seemed to be needed at the time. 

This July was four years since hurricane Harvey inundated the city of Houston and its surrounding areas. I remember feeling a sense of great pride as the citizens rallied to help one another. Things like politics, religion, sexual preference, race did not seem to matter. We pulled together and people from all over the world supported us. It was a tragic moment in our history, but also one that demonstrated how truly good people are. Sharing, caring and heroism were dramatically on display in a way that made me so happy to be a Texan and an American. 

When Covid-19 came along I expected the response from my fellow humans to be much the same as other times when we needed a united effort. I was appalled when I realized that people were using the virus to bolster their political power. This should have been a moment when republicans and democrats came together even in an election year. I would have loved to see our lawmakers working unselfishly for the common good rather than using the misery and death as a way to divide us. Unity would have been a beautiful thing, and would no doubt have resulted in fewer deaths and far less suffering. 

Even after the ballots were cast and the winners were named, it would have been quite wonderful for the two sides to shake hands and then vow to work together to control and ultimately destroy the virus. We lost an opportunity to demonstrate what has so often been the best of our country. Instead we doubled down on rancor. Covid has continued to spread and so has our anger and unwillingness to make even small individual sacrifices for the good of all. 

Seriously, how terrible is it to wear a mask in public? Sure they are uncomfortable, but I’ve found myself noticing the mask less and less as I have adjusted to wearing it. I see it as being like wearing a suit and tie or high heels and panty hose. Neither of those things is particularly pleasant, but we still dress up when the occasion calls for more than jeans and a t-shirt. All of the whining about masking up in certain situations seems to ignore the fact that this small step makes a huge difference in the spread of Covid 19 only if everyone is doing it. 

I hear people attacking others with the vilest of language and I note phrases that are repeated over and over again. Those words are coming from those who are supposed to be our leaders. They are useless soundbites designed to simplify the very complex situation that we face. Their intent is to pander to political bases rather than to consider the needs of everyone. Politics should have no place whatsoever in determining the measures we take. We should be focused on attacking the virus, not each other.

When Abraham Lincoln became president the nation was on the verge of a civil war. Lincoln did not surround himself with “yes men” who would agree with everything he said. Instead he invited some of his sworn enemies into his cabinet. He understood that keeping the nation together would require differing points of view and a united front. Even as we devolved into a civil war, his wisdom ultimately paid off because he was not making decisions in an echo chamber. He understood that unity as a nation depended on working together.  

Likewise, Franklin Roosevelt relied on expertise rather than political sameness. He used the knowledge of prominent republicans almost as often as he depended on the members of his party. He understood that we would be destroyed if we were unable to work together. He needed everyone in the war effort, not just those who agreed with him. Luckily both parties were willing to set aside differences.

I recently read an interview with a climate guru who is a professor at Texas Tech University. She outlined the growing effects of climate change and described the kind of measures we must take to avoid a global disaster. When asked if she believed we would be able to halt the growing dangers, she sadly tempered her optimism. She noted that our response to battling Covid-19 had shown her that we are probably not ready or willing to take the measures needed to prevent the cataclysms that will surely come if we choose to do nothing. She worries that we have been led astray by groups who do not seem to care that sometimes the only path forward comes with a willingness to work together. She warned that it is a dangerous error to believe that things will miraculously work themselves out. 

I dream of leaders who will bring us together. I hope that they will come to help our nation before we hurt each other anymore than we already with our arrogance and selfish behaviors. Surely such individuals are out there, and surely we can learn again to be brothers in arms with whatever challenges come our way. We can learn from the past and choose again to become the way we once were. Surely it’s not too late.

I’m sitting at my daughter’s house watching her dogs while she is out of town. It’s easier than taking care of them at my home. They are familiar with the place and far more relaxed than when we attempt to haul them across town and introduce them to a strange environment. They are much happier than they ever are when they come see me. So here I’ll be for the weekend, but I’m still close enough that I can make a quick dash to where I live if need be.

I’m enjoying the quiet of this neighborhood and the fact that I don’t need to do chores like I would if I were at home. I’m feeling somewhat pensive as I sip on my tea and hear a train rolling along the tracks in the distance. I slept fairly well last night and had the usual strange and meaningless dreams that have haunted my nights since the beginning of Covid. There is nothing frightening about them other than the fact that they all feature individuals I have never known, and make absolutely no sense. They simply jump from one ridiculous situation to another. At least I’m snoozing now, which I was not for about a three week period of time. It’s amazing how much better I feel with regular sleep.

I read a story this morning about the hard lives of caretakers and the impact of the work they do on their health. Most of them make ridiculously low salaries that keep them at the poverty level even when they work forty hours a week. Others are family members who toil for free, and lose income that they might have had if they were working. The conditions that they experience often lead to huge turnover and so there is a concern that those who cannot fend for themselves are not always getting the best quality care. There is a kind of crisis in the industry which is only slated to grow worse as more and more Baby Boomers require assistance to survive from day to day. 

The story reminded me of a friend who was stricken by a stroke that left her unable to walk or work or take care of herself. She had no family but she was able to hire people to take care of her in the comfort of her home. Eventually one of the women moved in with my friend and was assisting her twenty four hours a day. It seemed like a wonderful situation, and when I visited I marveled at how lovingly the woman catered to my friend’s every need, at least that was how things appeared. I would later learn that the caretaker also brought her son to the house and that he often sold and used drugs on the premises. Eventually the woman left suddenly after getting my friend to sign over her car. Once she had left we began to realize that most of my friend’s valuable items were missing. It was a devastating discovery. 

Sadly my friend died not too long after being robbed by the woman who had seemed so kind and loving. Until her death the people who came to watch over her changed so often that I never knew who was going to be there when I checked on how things were going. While I don’t think that what happened to my friend is necessarily commonplace, I have heard of other such situations. I tend to worry about anyone who has to find assistance from people that they do not really know. I also think of how difficult my friend often was due to her anger at being incapacitated, and I wonder if that is what made it so hard to keep good people working for her. 

I suppose that we get what we pay for, and sadly the cost of full time care is astoundingly high whether it is in a nursing home or a someone’s house. When family members take on the task, it can be incredibly difficult to maintain the needed energy. My mother and her siblings always took turns nursing their mother, but there were eight of them along with their spouses and a host of grandchildren who were able to volunteer for a shift. Nobody had to work more than once every two weeks and even then it was only while my bachelor uncle who lived with my grandmother was at work. I’m not underestimating what they did, but with so many available nobody ever reached the point of exhaustion. Today’s families are much smaller and less able to sustain such a plan.

There was a period of time when my brothers and I were tasked with checking on our mother every single day. We created a calendar designated which days each for which each of us would be responsible. We each were soon traveling to her home two times and week and then an extra day every three weeks. It doesn’t seem like much but after several months it became more and more difficult to keep up with the routine. We found it easier to have her live in one of our homes for a year and then move to the next place. It worked somewhat well but we knew that we would not be able to maintain that plan for much longer because she was having more and more difficulty moving around on her own. 

We all want the very best for the people that we love, but circumstances can rapidly become untenable. As long as my mother was able to walk we were fine, but her mobility was decreasing and we knew that at some point we would have to rely on the kindness of strangers. We hoped that when the time came we would be lucky enough to find reliable and honest people. 

I have a friend who did a great deal of research and ultimately found a very good nursing home for her mother. Even then she visited multiple times each day to be certain that her mother was receiving the best possible care. Her dedication resulted in a mostly good experience, but I know that she was often very tired. For many the cost of an outstanding institution along with the time needed to emulate my friend’s dedication just are not easily doable, and so I suspect that we may be heading for a national disaster with regard to the care of the elderly and disabled. I hope that we take this issue seriously and find ways to ensure that both those who need care and the people who provide it are all treated fairly. 

I can’t really say why my thoughts focused on this topic today other than the fact that I was alerted to it while I was blissfully reading a little of this and a little of that while watching the dogs. I had time to learn about the issues, but how many others might come across the same article that I did or something similar? How many will take the time to read such things and actually think about what to do? It’s certainly something to consider.

All through high school I belonged to the Medical Careers Club. By my junior year I was an officer in the organization, and in my senior year I became the president. Everyone thought that I was going to go into medicine. I wanted to be a nurse, and my family wanted me to be a doctor. I worked for our family physician each summer from the time I was fifteen years old. He took an interest in me, and did his best to send me on a pathway to medical school. It only took one field trip to Baylor College of Medicine in the spring of my final year in high school to totally derail my desire to become involved with the medical field. 

I had planned the outing for the members of our club, and everyone was quite excited. We were lucky enough to get an insider’s look at the laboratories and the current research taking place at the school. One of the rooms we visited contained specimens of human body parts, some of which were healthy and some which were seriously diseased. At first I gazed at them with total fascination, but eventually I found myself becoming dizzy, and finally physically ill. I had to hide my state as best I could, but I feared losing it as my stomach churned and my head throbbed. By the time I got home to the safety of my bed, I somehow believed that I would never make it through the rigors of medical school or even nursing classes if I was unable to handle a few specimens languishing in jars of formaldehyde. I decided to choose another career.

I’ve never really looked back on my decision to eschew a medical career until recently. I enjoyed being an educator, and stayed so busy for decades that I had little time to consider “might have beens.” I was happy with my work and continue to serve as an teacher even during my retirement years, albeit on a much smaller scale than when I was working full time. What I do know is that once I had my own children I learned to deal with medical emergencies that might have caused me to faint when I was younger. I realized that when someone needs aid, my brain somehow allows me to do whatever I need to do without noticing blood or vomit or pus filled infections. 

When my youngest daughter gave birth to her twins she had a Caesarian section. Her wound became greatly infected and had to be reopened to drain the toxins. I was in charge of keeping the area germ free during the healing process. It was not a pretty sight at all and yet I found the wherewithal to follow the directions for cleaning it several times a day without hesitation. In fact, after a time I actually felt a tinge of enjoyment in being able to properly care for my girl. 

I’ve talked with friends and relatives who are doctors and nurses and they tell me that everyone goes through phases of reacting badly to various procedures. They get dizzy using certain instruments and techniques. They feel an aversion to certain smells or things that they see. Eventually they get past their difficulties and are able to deal with practically anything they encounter. I suspect that I might have been able to do that as well.

That doctor for whom I worked sometimes asked me to assist him with a patient. I remember one time holding the grossly infected foot of a man while the physician drained and dressed the wounds. At first I wanted to run away, but I did not want to appear to be a wimp to the doctor who was always so kind to me. I thought of closing my eyes, but that would have been a sure sign that I was struggling with the situation. I simply took a deep breath and focused on the process that the doctor was using rather than the horrific look and foul odor of the infection. The fact that I made it all the way through the task without so much as a flutter in my tummy should have told me that I might have been okay dealing with all of the facets of nursing or doctoring.

I’m totally fascinated by medicine. I spend lots of time reading about research into diseases and learning about the human body. I often think that I would have enjoyed working in a lab at one of the hospitals or being part of a team searching for answers to medical riddles. Right now I find myself searching for everything I can find about Covid-19 and other coronaviruses. One of the most exciting areas of study centers on the genetic makeup of those who are heavily exposed to Covid-19, but never get sick versus those who have no history of health concerns who end up with severe cases that sometimes lead to death. There are some promising leads from this work that might one day fortify vaccines for the virus as well as create treatments that will eliminate the most horrific consequences of the disease.

It’s somewhat fun realizing that I probably would have done well as a doctor or nurse. I’m not particularly sad that I chose to walk away from such a career though because the one that I followed brought me immeasurable joy. Perhaps the truth is that the way my life unfolded is exactly how it was meant to be. I’ll never know for sure, but I do know without a doubt that I prepared the foundation for many of my students to continue to careers in medicine. Maybe in some ways that is what I was always supposed to do, and that moment in the lab at the medical school was exactly what I needed to set me down the right path.