Category: Commentary

Last week our family had a very bad day. If something had the potential of going wrong it seemed as though it was actually going to happen. Things began normally much as they always do and then suddenly it felt as though we had been selected to be the grand prize participants in a nightmare. Nobody was untouched by some form of difficulty. 

I had taken my second dose of the Shingrix vaccine with a warning that I might have a bit of soreness at the injection site and perhaps a few chills and or fever. The first injection had been rather easy so I assumed that I would be fine the second time around. Boy, was I wrong! Before all was said and done I had a knot the size of a lemon on my arm, a temperature of 102.4 F, chills, nausea, a massive headache and a malaise that sent me to bed for most of the day. Given that there are still cases of COVID 19 popping up even among those who have been fully vaccinated I found myself worrying that perhaps I had become too lax in my precautions and had somehow contracted the virus. Surely the side effects of a vaccine would not be as severe as mine were. 

While I was nursing my reactions my granddaughter was traveling with a group of students and a teacher to a veterinary medicine competition in north Texas. Along the way they passed a tornado tracker who urged them to turn back and find cover. They were driving right into the center of a storm that would create destruction all along the southern United States. My granddaughter kept us apprised of their situation while we sat helplessly on pins and needles hoping that they would soon enough find a safe haven.

On the same evening there were hailstorms all over central and north Texas. My grandson who is a recent graduate of Texas A&M University had his brand new car, the first one that he had ever purchased, parked in front of his apartment. It was a beautiful car and a source of pride for him because it represented the culmination of many years of hard work and studying. After the storms passed he found his one month old vehicle pocked with about one hundred quarter sized dents from the hail that had beaten down on it. 

Meanwhile another adopted grandson was on his way to school when he was stopped for going five miles over the speed limit in a downhill area that caused him to accelerate without even placing his foot on the pedal. Of course he got a ticket and was late for classes only to find out that there was a conflict in two extra curricular activities for which he has been training and practicing for months. 

While running around the neighborhood as he routinely does each day my son-in-law tripped and skinned his arm from the elbow down to the wrist. He injured a hand that had been broken before and had required surgery. He wondered if he was going to have to endure the same sort of pain and inconvenience once again. 

Finally two other grandsons were bitten by the remote learning bug and those horrific deadlines that time out sometimes before the work can be properly submitted. With only two months more of high school classes they were both suddenly looking at averages unlike anything they have ever before seen. 

Of course there is nothing fatal here, nothing so horrific that it cannot be overcome or repaired. I slowly recovered from the horrible side effects of the shingles vaccine. Now I should not have to worry about contracting that painful illness so my couple of days being under the weather were a small price to pay. My granddaughter made it to the safety of a hotel with instructions to get into the bathtub if a tornado warning sounded on her phone. My grandson has contacted his insurance company and the damage to his car will be repaired. The ticket for speeding is just one of those very annoying things. My son-in-law will heal. The grandsons with a touch of “senioritis” have learned a lesson in time management that will serve them well as they head off to college next fall. Still, it felt as we were all having one of those “Alexander terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.”

Sometimes life gives us almost more than we think we can bear but in retrospect we realize that our woes are not nearly as bad as they seemed at first to be. In truth we were all somewhat lucky on that day last week. The things that happened to us might have been far worse. In the grand scheme of things they were annoyances rather than full blown tragedies, reminders that our lives are actually rather good because we have the resources to recover from such things.

I spent some time recently talking with a young man from Vietnam. He immigrated to the United States a few years back because of the possibilities that living here afford him. He told me that sometimes on our very worst days here in America it is still so much better than in many parts of the world. He said that he has great sympathy for those attempting to enter our borders and that most of us do not truly understand the desperation that they are feeling. We have days when things look so bleak but people all over the world have an endless parade of hardships that we might never be able to imagine. We had the good fortune of being born in a place of freedom and opportunity. There is nothing terrible, horrible, no good, very bad about that and it’s time we felt gratitude for our luck and understanding for those who do not have it.

I’m pensive by nature and if anything I have become more so during the past year. In my solitude I have read and thought about the history of humankind. I have seen the mistakes that people have made and marveled at the glorious achievements of our minds and our goodness. Spring is one of my favorite times of year with the glory of nature bursting forth to remind us that even after the harshest of times new life promises brighter futures. Easter is the ultimate triumph over our earthly natures and the inevitability of death. The life, death and resurrection of Jesus promises us an eternity of peace. 

I think of my grandmother, Minnie Bell, in the spring time. She was a child of God and of nature. She had a knack with people, animals and plants. It was said that she could stick a dead twig in the ground and it would burst forth in splendid blooms under her tender care. Her yard was a show stopper and particularly so at Easter when her lilies caused many a passerby to stop to gaze in amazement at the blooms. Birds and butterflies came to visit in profusion as well and I enjoyed nothing more than walking through her little paradise while she sweetly explained the stories of each lovely plant as though they were her friends. 

It has been a tough year for everyone. Last Easter most of the world was shut down. Streets were empty. Stores and restaurants were shuttered. My husband and I spent Easter Day alone for the first time since we were married fifty two years ago. It was a quiet day on which we went to church from home and listened to Andrea Boccelli sing from the deserted streets of Rome. We had little idea what would happen to those we loved and we felt a sadness that we had never before associated with Easter. 

I remember thinking of my grandmother on that day and wondered if the death of her husband and four year old son in 1918 might have been from the pandemic of that year. She died before I had learned of the Spanish flu and its devastation on the world and neither she nor my grandfather ever spoke of it. Suddenly it seemed that she may have been gravely touched by that horrific virus and yet she somehow survived and rebuilt a life with my grandfather. 

I never thought that we would still be battling COVID19 a year later even as doctors and scientists warned that it was not going away any time soon. Life became a routine inside my home and the confines of my yard. I contemplated my place in this vast universe and drew on the courage that I knew my grandmother had always possessed during her never easy lifetime. The craziness of the situation only grew as the months went by but I thought of how in my grandmother’s time there had been a war in addition to the pandemic. I remembered how the new hope of the nineteen twenties was followed by a devastating depression and then yet another war. My grandmother never mentioned nor complained of such things. She just puttered in her yard, cooked her delicious meals and loved her family with a contentedness and happiness that was so calming. 

My yard had been quite beautiful all through the summer and fall and winter until suddenly there was an unusual freeze for our planting zone. When the temperature dropped back down to a more normal range I was stunned by the damage to my once glorious plants. I saw that many of them were most assuredly dead and others needed tender loving care. With thoughts of my grandmother I donned my rubber boots and grubby clothing and worked for days on end to reclaim the splendor that was once the highlight of my domain. Weeks went by so quickly as I dug and pruned and planted. Now it is Easter time again and I have been thinking about my grandmother, the angel who always seems to be with me. 

This week my yard is showing signs that it will rise once again to the loveliness that once defined it. Roses are blooming in a profusion of many colors. The azaleas are displaying their deep purple and scarlet flowers. The amaryllis bulbs are sending glorious shoots of red and white and pink into the air. The hollies are hosting bees and the ferns are peeking from under the soil that we have enriched with mulch. Caladiums and lilies have overcome the attempts of the cold to destroy them. We have selected strong plants to replace those that were not suited to survive the cold. They are small now but I know that will grow and one day fill out the areas  with magnificence. 

I feel hopeful this Easter. I am ignoring the naysayers and focusing on those who are good and loving and kind just as Jesus was so long ago. His message was really quite simple and one that my grandmother followed to the letter. All he asked of us is to love and so many among us have done just that during our horrific year. They have sacrificed time and talents and even income. They have shown us that we humans still have more good tracing through our veins than bad. I see now that my grandmother’s secret to survival was to always look for the beauty in people and in the world. She created joy in everything she did by not allowing the weeds of our natures to overtake what is best about us. 

In this holiest of weeks in the yearly calendar I am feeling hopeful and also understanding that I must be as patient with people and the virus that plagues us as I am with my garden. My grandmother taught me that. Everything and everyone needs time and care and nourishment to bloom. There is no paradise on earth but we can come close if love guides us past our sometimes selfish natures. My grandmother shared the vision of her garden and the flowers and plants and vegetables that grew in it. She kept only the bare minimum that she needed and gave away the rest. In her folksy wisdom she understood the secret to life and uncomplicated the complexities that we all face. Love one another and we will be fine. Plant that love wherever you go.

Matthew 25:40-45

40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

44 “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

45 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

There was an Easter time when I was busily preparing for the annual family celebration that I hosted for many years. I was buzzing around town like a crazed bee thinking more about the list of things I had to do before Sunday than the meaning of Holy Week. I had just visited the Airline farmers’ market to procure fresh fruit and vegetables for the dishes I planned to prepare. I had found lovely flowers to decorate the tables and then use as party favors for the guests. I was filled with great joy but also anxiety that the clock was ticking and I would not get everything done. I had many more errands to complete and lots of cooking and cleaning to do before members of my family would crowd into my home. The last thing I needed was any kind of delay. 

Then it happened. An elderly man in a wheelchair was making a scene in the middle of the road bringing traffic to a standstill. He was either intoxicated, drugged or mentally ill or all of the above as he yelled obscenities and cried out for help. Those of us in our cars waited impatiently for his fit to subside. Some swore at him demanding that he get out of the road. Others uncomfortably looked away. I simply felt sorry for myself for choosing that route in a moment when I needed to keep checking off the completion of my tasks with great speed. 

Suddenly a woman emerged from her car. She was rather rough looking to say the least. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest and a cigarette hung loosely from her lips as though she was not willing to set it aside for even a short time. She wore no shoes and her feet were dirty. An array  of tattoos ran up and down her arms and legs. Her tank top was so tight that her breasts threatened to spill from the cover of the cloth. She turned to those of us in our cars with a look of disgust on her face as she motioned with her hands for all of us to wait for just a moment while she took charge. 

She walked over to the man who was still raging away. She bent down and embraced him so lovingly that it almost seemed as though she knew him. He immediately became quiet as she smoothed the hair out of his face and handed him a bottle of water that she had carried in the back pocket of her shorts. She stood in the middle of the road taking the time to fully calm the man before she moved his wheelchair back to the esplanade. She called out to the rest of us to wait for her to complete her mission and somehow we all obeyed in utter amazement. After getting the man to safety she went back and forth to her car brining him a bag of fruit, more water, and other items that must have been rattling around in her back seat. Then she reached for her wallet, counted out the bills that were inside, and gave everyone of them to him. Before leaving she hugged him once again and kissed him on his forehead. Then she turned to her stunned witnesses and extended her middle finger into the air. 

I drove off feeling moved and shamed. I had been angry at the unfortunate man only moments before. I had seen him as a nuisance and the woman had reminded me that he was a child of God no different from any of us sitting in our cars. There was no telling how or why his life had somehow gone awry but it was not for us to judge, only to respond. I thought of how Jesus would no doubt have helped this man just as this woman had done and I understood his teachings just a bit better in that moment.

The lady who had modeled the epitome of Christian behavior was not a woman of means. Her car was old and in need of repair and yet she had emptied her wallet and her heart for this stranger. She had shown the kind of compassion that Jesus admonished us all to demonstrate. I had been more concerned with preparing for a celebration of Easter in a very superficial way while she had shown us all what the life of Jesus had been all about.

We all too often forget the message that we were supposed to hear from the life of Christ. Over and over again he modeled a life of kindness, understanding, generosity. He was not worried about laws and rules but about the comfort of the very least among us. On this Holy Thursday we remember his last supper with his apostles When he predicted his own demise and asked that they teach the entire world how to live. There are many among us who are hungry, without clothes, sick, in prison. Just going to church and praying is meaningless if we ignore the cries of the suffering that are all around us. Perhaps now is the time to really follow Jesus and be like that woman who took the time to show a sick and confused man that someone cared. Let us see the poor, the sick, the suffering, the migrants and the prisoners in a different way. Let us solve our problems with love.

When I was a child I would sometimes accompany my mother to a part of Houston known as the “village” near Rice University and the Texas Medical Center. Back then a Weingarten’s grocery store was the center of the area but it was surrounded by a number of family owned shops that fascinated me. One in particular was a toy store with a thriving doll hospital. I thought the whole area was quite lovely and I dreamed of one day living nearby and walking to the bustling shopping area to get whatever I needed. 

Over time the grocery store faded away and Rice Village became more of a mecca for dining and shopping in unique little stores. We often drove there to visit a train shop for supplies when my husband was creating a model railroad landscape in our garage. Mostly though we met his parents at what would become one of our all time favorite restaurants, El Meson. The Cuban food there was extraordinary and we each had our favorite dishes almost always accompanied by black beans, rice and fried green plantains. 

As our family grew we continued to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, graduations and special occasion at El Meson. For years there was a particular waiter who provided us with world class service. He was elegantly dignified and a master of his craft. The food of course was always incredible as well and we revelled in the many memories that we had created there. 

When my mother-in-law died it did not feel the same for a very long time. We realized that the joy of a particular place more often lies in the people who accompany us there. Eventually, however, we missed the Palomilla, Solomillo and other favorites. We finally returned to a less familiar place with a slightly different vibe than we had remembered. Our usual waiter was gone and without him and my mother-in-law there would always be something wonderful missing but the food was still quite good and before long we had resurrected our family gatherings there. 

The last time we ate at El Meson, or attempted to eat there, was on my father-in-law’s birthday. We had planned a big family bash for him but just as everyone arrived a storm blew in. As we were being seated we heard a big boom and all of the power went out in the entire area. We waited for a bit in the hopes that it would be a momentary interruption but it soon became apparent that it would be hours before the needed repairs were completed. We had to leave because the cooks were unable to operate in the kitchen. 

We planned to return at another time but life took members of the family in many different directions and then came COVID 19. We have not been inside any restaurant since the beginning of last March and somehow just getting take out from El Meson loses far too much in the translation. It is in the shared delight and the memories of good times there that the restaurant is at its best. The joy and the laughter are the spices that make the food exceptional. Without them it feels as though something is missing and that something is people. 

I long for the time when family gatherings in favorite places will once again become a normal way of life. I hope that most of us will be able to join one another in a wonderful celebration at El Meson. I like to imagine my father-in-law at the head of the table regaling us with his stories and jokes while we sip on our wine or Dos Equis or iced tea. The whole room will be animated by the love at our table as we remember all of the times when we felt so blessed and happy. We’ll no doubt end our soiree with flan and coffee, a sweet tradition that I can almost taste just thinking about it. 

I sometimes worry that El Meson will drastically change or even go away. It is a small business run by a family for decades now. I’m not even sure that it is still in the hands of the same people or that the cooks know how to prepare the standard recipes anymore. So much has changed so quickly while we attempt to eliminate COVID 19. Places that we assumed would always be the same are struggling to survive. I hope that El Meson does not become a sad statistic in the virus saga. 

I’m a student of history. I understand the evolution of the world around us. There are upheavals and things change. It is quite rare for time to stand still even in the guise of a restaurant. Even without a pandemic it is unlikely that anything will stay exactly the same. I just want at least one more gathering of my little clan at El Meson that is as close to the old times as possible. Perhaps with a few more vaccinations and a bit of good luck we might have a triumphant return in the summer or fall. 

I can see the quirky artwork on the walls. I can hear the classic Spanish music. I feel the starched white napkin covering my lap. I wait expectantly for all of the members of our party to arrive. I get a little catch in my heart as I see them through the big glass window. I know that for the next few hours time will stop and worries will vanish. We will celebrate family and all the while we will know that my mother-in-law is smiling down at us. All will be well at El Meson.   

I have to admit to being a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to saving our planet from the effects of climate change. I know there are concrete things that I might do and I am all in for some of them and rather lazy about the rest. I suppose that if I really believe in the cause, which I do, it’s time for me to change some of my habits.

There was a time when I had a huge yard with enough room to create a fabulous compost heap. Never a potato skin nor eggshell went unused or thrown into a garbage bag. I religiously collected the dregs of my fruits and vegetables and sometimes even made broth before tossing them onto the mound of dirt hidden behind my garage. The soil that I created there was like black gold. It was filled with earthworms and filtered through my fingers with a richness that promised a magnificent harvest of whatever I wanted to grow. I tilled up a large section of the yard and planted tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, peppers, onions and strawberries which provided me with fresh vegetables from May to August every single year. I reveled in both the idea and the results of my back to nature project. 

The garage at my old home was rather astounding as well. In addition to having space for two cars it easily held a work area for my husband and housed our washer and dryer until we remodeled and brought them inside. I had a nice clothesline that I often used for drying clothes on sunny days, saving just a bit more electricity than my dryer would have used. It was all rather delightful. Inside that same garage I collected tin cans and paper and all sorts of recyclable items. I was a veritable pioneer woman.

For a time I used cloth bags when I went to the grocery store and turned the thermostat for my air conditioner up to the high seventies in the summer and then adjusted my heat to the high sixties in the winter. I was rather devoted to the task of doing my part to be less of a destroyer of the world around us and then somehow I became lazy, less enthusiastic, a real piker. 

I moved to a new home in 2005. The HOA would not allow me to have a clothesline in my yard. There was no place to build a compost heap and when I investigated compost bins they seems a bit too expensive and labor intensive. I experienced hormonal changes and hot flashes that were so intense that I had to fudge a bit on my pledge not to use so much air conditioning. I found myself forgetting to put my cloth bags into my car when I made trips to the store and my efforts at growing vegetables all failed in the lousy soil of my backyard. I found myself giving up on the effort save for agreeing to give my personal car away and share a car with my husband. Otherwise I became one of those people who believes that we must all make a concerted effort to heal our planet without actually doing as much as I might. 

The past year has forced me to pay attention to nature’s cries once again. I have been isolated at home for the most part and after I run of tasks to perform I read more about happenings across the globe and in my own backyard. I watched a series of devastating hurricanes roll across the Gulf of Mexico during the summer and held my breath each time a new storm formed and threatened my own part of Texas. I saw that hurricanes are creating ever more destruction and doing so more frequently.

In the fall I visited Colorado in what I called a human contact free adventure. I enjoyed drives and walks through Rocky Mountain National Park even as I saw the drought conditions that had changed the landscape. Not long after my departure many of the very places that I had visited were engulfed in flames as wildfires threatened towns and neighborhoods. Once again I realized that our general lack of effort to listen to the cries of the wild have resulted in havoc.

Then this past winter came something I had never before seen in my life. An unusual winter storm locked most of my state into what might have been a frozen wonderland had it not knocked out power and left millions literally freezing in the dark. I like many experienced temperatures in my home so frigid that I had to a wear coat, hat and gloves while sitting in my living room. I was fortunate to have a gas stove and gas fireplace along with a small generator that kept my refrigerator running and provided me a a few light in the evening. Nonetheless it was a somewhat frightening time because it convinced me that we can no longer ignore the damage that we humans are doing to the earth. If we do not begin to act with great intent the destruction that we have already wrought will no doubt only become worse.

I vow to do better. I would do well to return to my old ways and to do even more than I did back then. I need to think about my actions and their impact on the world. I do believe that we all have to begin making sacrifices and heed the warnings of those who tell us that our time is running out. I would hate to see the way of life in the city that I so love becoming one crisis after another caused by floods, hurricanes, and winter storms. We have to begin to work together or we will bear the pain alone. It’s way past time for doing everything we can to stop the tide of damage that we have wrought. It has to become a top priority or surely the future will be difficult for us all. I promise to do my part.