Category: Commentary

I’m not sure exactly when I first got my Tiny Tears doll, but it was before I started school when I was five. That little doll and I became inseparable. I literally dragged her everywhere I went as though she was a real baby. I called my doll, Jeannie. She had a tuft of brown curly hair just like a real infant might have. Best of all there was a tiny hole in her mouth through which I was able to feed her bottles of water. Of course, she would eventually need a diaper change from drinking the liquid, so it felt as though she was a real baby. 

I’m not certain what eventually happened to Jeannie, but after all the loving I had given her, she began to grow weak. First, her hair  came unglued from her head, and my brother joked that she looked as though she had removed the coon skin cap that had once graced her head. I did not take too kindly to his irreverent commentary even though in retrospect it was somewhat funny. Her limbs were made of rubber and at some point a couple of her fingers fell from her hand. My mother suggested that Jeannie’s time with us was over, and one day when I came home from school, she was gone. 

My mother tried her best to substitute other dolls for Jeannie, but none of them were as wonderful as that Tiny Tears doll had been, so I grieved for her. She had been my “lovey,” a comforting presence much like stuffed animals are for some children. I can still remember dreaming the night away with her slumbering peacefully beside me. 

Many years passed, and my mother found another Tiny Tears doll at an antique store. She gave it to me as a surprise on my birthday. I was an adult by then so I was not going to play with the doll, but it touched my heart that my mom remembered how much Jeannie had meant to me. I kept the new doll perched on my dresser more as a kind of reminder of Jeannie and my mother’s thoughtfulness rather than a prized object. 

Over time even the new Tiny Tears doll began to deteriorate. Her rubber skin became sticky, and much like Jeannie pieces of her fingers broke off. I had to move her to my closet lest she damage my furniture. When I would see her on the shelf she looked so forlorn, as though time had taken its toll on her. I kept her until after my mother died, and then I guiltily tossed her into the trash. By then just touching her caused cracks in her limbs, and she stuck to everything. 

The only stuffed animal that I ever enjoyed was a great big teddy bear from my Uncle Andrew. He was hardly a cuddly creature. Instead, I used him to have bear fights with my brothers. We had many a jolly row with our three bears. We’d take those critters by the legs and pound each other over the head. it was great fun that brought lots of laughs from all of us. 

According to my mother I was never attached to a favorite blanket either, only Jeannie. although I have come to see all objects as expendable, I do still think of Jeannie and wish she had held up so that I might show her to my daughters and granddaughter. I can’t explain why she brought me so much joy, but she did. 

I would have many dolls that were much more beautiful than Jeannie, and while I liked them, they never held a candle to her. it’s funny how we attach ourselves to certain things, often for no real reason. Perhaps I was just at the age when I was transitioning from toddler to young child, and Jeannie was my companion in that phase of life. I was reaching the time when I would begin venturing away from my parents for many hours at a time rather than being tied to them all day long. Jeannie made it easier to do those sometimes frightening things. 

I hear many different tales of special stuffed animals or toys that people loved as children. For one of my daughters it was a yellow blanket that became frayed and filled with holes before she was finally willing to leave it in a corner and never look back again. She gave it up for a little stuffed dog called Le Mutt that she has to this very day. The story of Le Mutt is the story of her childhood, including friendships, vacation trips, and illnesses. My eldest daughter had a teddy bear, but like me with Jeannie, she gave him away when his seams began to come apart and his fur became bare. 

Our “loveys” are wonderful, at least I know mine was. All I have are memories now, and that is more than enough. Sometimes I can go into my mind and see Jeannie in all her glory keeping me company and entertaining me for hours. She was not real but, for a time, she was my friend. 

This is a story of a family. It began with two people who fell in love having little idea of the tragedies that would befall them, and the courage and faith they would need to triumph over every challenge. It is a quiet adventure, a battle against the  unseen monsters of mental illness. It is also story of the goodness in people who always seem to appear to help just in time. It is about a little bit of living and a whole lot of love. 

My book is complete. I have doted over it for far too long. Like a child leaving the nest, I must let it got for better or worse. I have edited and re-edited, questioned how my words will sound to others. I can only hope that interpretations of my story will be fair and understanding, but I know from experience that in sharing such a profoundly personal part of my life I will have critics. The written word has been misinterpreted since the beginning of time. Two people reading the exact same tract often see its message quite differently. The more controversial the topic, the more likely for misunderstandings will occur. There are few subjects more volatile than mental illness. 

My book, A Little Bit of Living, is a three part tragedy in the style of those written by the Greeks. It differs in that my family was not defeated by the events that tested us. Even as we made mistakes, we found ways to deal with whatever hand came our way. We were guided by the wisdom and compassion of family and friends. Always at the center of our journey was our mother, a beautiful and gifted soul, who dedicated her life to our safety and security. In turn, we would become her caretakers whenever bipolar disorder stole away her joy and her loving personality. 

We had to learn how to navigate a system that sometimes appears to care little for the needs of those afflicted with mental disorders. We became all too aware of the myths surrounding mental illness and the shame too associated with it. We watched our gregarious mother fighting to maintain her independence while also attempting to hide her illness. Somehow in spite of the missteps and angst we not only survived, but grew stronger.

I have found someone who will help me design a cover for the book and I plan to spend the coming weeks learning how to format and upload my work onto several ebook platforms. My hope is that I won’t suddenly become worried about how people will respond to my writing and will instead soldier forward and get this project finally completed. I no longer imagine that I will become a best selling author, or that I will make vast sums of money selling my work. My only goal now is to help those who struggle with mental illness, whether for themselves or a family member. I hope that after reading my book they will understand that they are not alone. 

It is well past time for us to have open and honest discussions about the effects of mental illness on all societies. It is time to take the treatment of this debilitating illness seriously. Mental illness lies at the foundation of so many of our problems, and yet we all but ignore it as though it should still be hidden in attics and basements. It is caused by physical abnormalities in the brain that we still do not fully understand, but unlocking those causes should become a priority for us all. 

In the not so long ago humans were superstitious about mental disorders. Individuals unlucky enough to have such afflictions were often deemed to be witches or demons. Our history is filled with stories of unneeded and unwanted suffering for those whose minds all too suddenly ceased to work properly. We have much to learn. We would do well to finally focus our attention and our efforts on unlocking the secrets of sound mental health. My upcoming book is a small step in bringing a human face to the process.

I applaud people like Glenn Close, Oprah Winfree and Prince Harry for striving to make us all aware of the tragic costs of mental illness. I want to join in their campaign in my small way. Be ready to read A Little Bit of Living by the end of this year. I’m going to really make it happen this time. 

By the way, I decided on the title for my book when I was cleaning and organizing one of my bookcases. I found an old notebook that had belonged to my mother. She had written some poems and a few thoughts in it. Then she mentioned that she wanted to write her autobiography, and she called it A Little Bit of Living. Somehow, it felt as though she was giving me permission to reveal our journey, and her title seemed exactly right.    

I’ve become more and more content with what I have as I grow older. I’m less inclined to want much of anything other than comfort and security. I enjoy my garden and probably spend too much on plants but they bring me joy and seem to delight my neighbors as well. I like to travel, and there is much of the world that I have not seen, but the time during the pandemic has taught me that I can find great joy in just staying home. The best things in life and not things, they are people. 

I often hear arguments that those who work hard, earn degrees, make money, save and invest wisely are somehow more deserving than those who appear to be lazy. While such thinking seems logical, it does not take into account particular challenges that all too often create the problems that appear to be only a lack of motivation or a willingness to be productive like the rest of us. Experience has taught me to be leery of categorizing people without knowing their stories. Life is incredibly complex, and all too often we insist on interpreting issues that we witness with the narrow mindset of our own experiences. When we do that we run the risk of misinterpreting what has happened in an individual’s life. 

I saw a short article recently that featured a photo of Pope Francis dressed in ordinary clothing, making him unrecognizable as the leader of the Catholic Church. It is a guise that he sometimes uses so that he may leave the Vatican, and serve the sick and poor on a personal basis. In the same spirit, former president, Jimmy Carter, offers not just platitudes and donations to the needy, but his own sweat labor to help them. Instead of judging those who struggle in our society, such men and women offer their compassion and understanding without strings attached. They exemplify the message that I believe we should all be following. 

I deserve no more than the desperate woman living inside a tent underneath a freeway in some major city. I do not know how she got there, and it is not for me to judge. What I do know is that I should not be content to simply look away, and complain about her situation. Instead of grumbling about the cost of actually helping her, or arguing that taxing me to make her life more equitable is only going to make more people more lazy, I should be asking what it is that she really needs. Perhaps she is in need of medical care, or maybe it is education or some kind of work. Mostly, a bit of kindness would be a good first step in giving people in dire need a jumpstart on their lives. In some cases, they may be so ill that we simply must care for them, and make sure that they live in a clean and safe environment. 

I was blessed with a quick mind, an ability to learn even very difficult concepts. I inherited intelligence from my parents, but not any money. My father died when I was only a child, and my mother struggled financially from that point until the day she died. Nonetheless, she managed even with a mental illness to hold down a job, pay for a small home and mostly care for herself. When she became unable to work a host of good people supported her with understanding. Her boss did not fire her for sporadic attendance on her job. Her neighbors protected her when her psychoses made her seem frightening. She did not end up homeless or destitute, because people around her cared. Perhaps that lady under the freeway was not as lucky.

My brothers and I did in fact work our way into the middle class. We have multiple degrees and nice homes. We travel and enjoy the good things in life. We indeed worked hard to move from the poverty of our youth, but we were also lucky in so many regards. We mostly had all the tools we needed to work our way up the economic ladder, and there were few roadblocks to our progress. Not everyone is so fortunate.

As an educator I have seen students who truly struggle to learn. Some of them are balancing responsibilities and abuses at home that nobody should have to endure. Life seems to be far more complicated for them than seems fair. It takes more herculean effort for them to move even an inch than it does for others. They seem destined for hardships that tear down the spirit and crush the soul. Even when they attempt to overcome the realities of their situations, they all too often find themselves falling backward due to circumstances beyond their control. 

All of us deserve a comfortable life and opportunities to find happiness. Sadly, far too many live in places where achieving something as simple as basic security is almost impossible. Often, when they take risks to journey to better lives, they find roadblocks,  borders, and walls. We literally make it illegal for them to seek a place that allows them to improve, live free, uplift themselves no matter how hard they are willing to work. 

When someone asks me what I think I deserve that I do not have, I realize that I have everything that anyone should ever need. I should instead be asking myself how I might help others to find the dignity and comfort that we all deserve. 

I remember a time when my mother-in-law was attending funerals on a rather regular basis. One Sunday when she and I were having tea and discussing the state of the world she commented that she was growing weary of losing people who were important in her life. She was in her seventies at the time and had already laid all of her elders to rest. What had become unnerving to her was the number of people in her own age group who were dying with more and more regularity. Losing people was wearing her down. 

My grandfather who lived to the age of one hundred eight also complained about the constant presence of death. He had long ago lost all of his friends, his wife and even his children. When his grandchildren and great grandchildren began to die he felt as though he had somehow outlived his welcome on this earth. Even though he was an optimistic fellow who still had a number of young friends and family members he regularly mourned those who had walked with him through the early days of his life. 

So too did my mother begin to dread the kind of phone calls announcing the passing of yet another person that she loved. In fact she reached a point of being emotionally unable to attend funerals any longer and instead grieved quietly at home. As her losses mounted she felt more and more isolated and alone even as my brothers and I regularly visited and checked on her. 

Growing old and doing so with grace and good health is a blessing but with it comes the price of watching the inevitable demise of the once vital people in our lives. It can be emotionally daunting to realize that the march of time is relentless and selfish in reminding us that nobody is immortal. Death eventually claims everyone. We know this and yet we almost always feel the hurt of loss even when there have been warning signs that someone we love is fading. 

Each culture has rituals associated with death. For most of my life funerals have meant having a viewing of the deceased, a visitation with the family, a prayer service and a final mourning that includes eulogies from those who knew the departed best. We honor our dead with flowers and flags and kind words that all too often we neglected to utter when they were alive. We comfort their families and share hugs with their friends in gatherings that we wish we had done while they were still with us. We joke that we have to do more than meet when someone dies and make promises to correct our behavior but we get a bit too busy to actually do anything to change. We celebrate a life when it is over but not often enough when it is still vibrant.  

My brothers and I conspired to give my mother a surprise party on her eightieth birthday. We asked everyone that we invited to write letters to her revealing what she meant to each of us. We put the notes and cards together in an album and presented it to her as a gift. She kept it close and often re-read the comments to remind herself of the love that she had spawned and the impact that her life had made on others. When she died just shy of her eighty fifth birthday we were happy that we had told her how we felt before it was too late. 

We are a busy society flitting from one task to another, measuring the success of our days by the number of things we accomplish. Telling people what they mean to us never quite makes it to the top of our list of priorities. We have the best of intentions but there always seems to be so much to do. Still, there are wonderful souls among us who seem to have a knack for acknowledging the contributions of the people around them. We all know someone like that and we admire them for what they do. Perhaps we have even been the recipients of their gift so we know how wonderful it feels to be seen and heard and appreciated. 

I was once asked what I would say about myself if I were to write my own eulogy. Even though I have found the words to describe countless people who have died, I was speechless when it came to myself. I think that is because I know what kind of person I hope to be but only those who know me can actually speak to my success or failure in building a meaningful life. We can critique ourselves but it is only in the eyes of others that we know whether or not our efforts to find purpose have been realized. It is so so wonderful when we hear that we have actually had an impact on the people around us. 

I know how I want to be but I also know my imperfections intimately. Thus it is for each of us. We tend to be our own worst critics. We question ourselves and worry that even our very best efforts are not really enough to accomplish all of our dreams. Even Mother Teresa had moments of darkness and doubt. Abraham Lincoln questioned himself. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wondered if his efforts were actually making a difference. Each of us likewise needs feedback from the people around us to know what we are doing right. When we get such acknowledgement a load is lifted from our hearts. 

Do not wait for death to come before saying the kind words that you have for someone that you love. Sometimes it only takes a couple of sentences to convey how you feel. Make it a daily routine to reach out and touch hearts before it is too late. Start a new tradition that will make eulogies as old fashioned as massively expensive funerals. Say the words to the living. Don’t save them for the dead.

I just finished reading about Laura Ingalls Wilder and her story of life as a pioneer and farmer in the last last thirty years of the nineteenth century and the first thirty years of the twentieth century. She chronicled a world that was gone by the end of her life but she loved to share her stories and even commented that now and again she felt an itch to write down one more tale about all that she had seen. I thought of my own grandfather who was a master of oral history with his folksy way of describing the world of his youth and years as a young adult. Like Ms. Wilder he had witnessed dramatic changes that would have been unimaginable when he was a boy growing up with his grandmother in an isolated area of Virginia from 1878 until he was thirteen and she had died. In a fashion typical of the era he launched his adulthood far sooner than is common today mostly because of economic necessity. He traveled all over the United States finding work and never settled down until he met my grandmother around 1919 while doing a job in Oklahoma. The journey he described with vivid details and a wry sense of humor sounded very much like the one that Laura made famous in her series of books for young readers. 

I suppose that Grandpa influenced me with his fascinating memories that were filled with details and insights into an era that seemed so different than my own. I was a bonafide Baby Boomer, born only three years after World War II had ended. The United States was booming in more than just births with great promise for a future that seemed limitless. I was part of the great migration to the suburbs and a recipient of the strong interest in education. My world was one of communities of tract homes quickly built to satisfy the demands of young men and women ready to put the war years behind them and build lives in a modern era. 

Things changed a bit when my father died so unexpectedly when I was eight but my mother was an independent soul who quickly adapted to her new role as a single parent at a time when few women held such responsibilities. She took me and my brothers to a little community in southeast Houston called Overbrook where we had every convenience that we needed right near our home. Our whole world revolved around church and school and enjoying life with our neighbors and extended family. It was an almost idyllic existence for me and my brothers even as we took our mother’s ability to provide for us for granted. 

Summers were the very best back then. While I enjoyed learning and excelled in my studies like any kid I looked forward to the free time when my days were not ruled by schedules and assignments. When June rolled around I knew that the next three months would be the most fun of the entire year as I conspired with friends who lived on our block to fill our hours with adventure. All we needed was a bit of imagination to find excitement in our neighborhood which was teeming with other Boomers all looking for some fun. 

I don’t recall wearing shoes very much in the summer unless we were going to a store or church. The heels of my bare feet became tough enough to walk on hot concrete and were usually as black as tar by the end of each day. I had a few pairs of shorts and sleeveless tops that I wore without thinking too much about whether or not they matched. Staying cool was the rule in hot and humid Houston. Very few people had air conditioning and we kids went outside early in the morning and stayed there until it became dark at night. The water hose kept us hydrated and we needed little more than our bicycles to convey us from place to place and shade trees to cool us down in the most brutal parts of the day.  

I owned a blue Schwinn that was a gift from my parents on my seventh birthday. It was my ticket to freedom and adventure. I’d ride it to Garden Villas Park where there was always some kid centered event or entertainment. I’d use it to catch up with the bookmobile where I probably checked out every title they ever had over time. I’d take my bike to Hartman Junior High to go swimming on days when they opened the pool to the public. I’d ride to visit friends from school who lived many blocks away. Sometimes I just rode up and down my street doing tricks like letting go of the handlebars while pedaling at warp speed or standing on the seat with one leg in the air. 

We kids built forts out of sheets and blankets carefully hung on a clothesline or with scraps of lumber and tree limbs. One year a man down the street created a kind of sod house for us to use. it was quite fabulous but the moms became concerned that it might cave in and trap us under piles of dirt so he reluctantly tore it down. Our attempts to build treehouses never succeeded but now and again someone created a nifty platform on which we might perch and gaze down at the world below us like birds. Best of all my brothers and I were masters of the roof where we skittered back and forth like squirrels after finding a way to use our fence and ladder to ascend to the heights. 

There were woods and a bayou not far from where we lived and of course children congregated there everyday. Our mother taught us how to watch for poisonous snakes after a girl was bitten by a water moccasin but I never encountered one of those creatures in all the times that I played there and imagined myself as a modern day Huckleberry Finn. For me the biggest draw was a swing that someone had constructed on a huge tree that grew right near the banks of the bayou. We would climb up on boards nailed to the trunk and then seat ourselves on a slab of wood tied to the bottom of a long heavy rope. With a little courage and a jump away from the tree we would swing back and forth over the water with the wind blowing on our faces and the kind of exhilaration that belies any concerns about safety.

Each summer we created shows, newspapers, card and game tournaments. We shared stories and jokes and sometimes even played school which was way more fun than the real thing. We pitted one end of our long street against the other in ballgames and serious competitions of Red Rover, Swing the Statue, and Tug of War. One of the moms helped us to create crafts that we always thought verged on high art. The girls played with dolls pretending that we were grownups living in the future. When it was unbearably hot we found shade and lay in the cool grass to read our books. If we were very lucky our parents would take us to see a movie at the drive-in theater on a night when it only cost a few dollars for a carload. On Saturday mornings we all went to the Fun Club at the Santa Rosa Theater where we basked in the air conditioning and watched old films and cartoons while our mothers went shopping. Of course there were also the “boys of summer” who played baseball all suited up like the professionals.

I still think of those days with great pleasure. In some ways it was the end of an era. Few children spend an entire summers creating their own fun anymore. There are planned activities and play dates, exotic vacations and learning experiences. Kids don’t range freely much anymore and the heat keeps them indoors and out of the heat. I suppose that they are still having fun and have little idea of what they are missing. The world moves on and the old ways disappear. I suspect that today’s children will one day be recounting their adventures just as Laura Ingalls Wilder and my grandfather and I have done. Our stories will have the common theme of kids finding ways to have fun.