Category: Commentary

I still remember the slumber parties that I attended when I was in junior high. A group of us girls would get together for an evening of pure silliness, usually for someone’s birthday. There were never more than half a dozen honored guests because we had to fit inside the small bedrooms of the era. Being invited was a great honor that required a willingness to conform to the traditions. 

There would always be lots of eating, chattering and giggling. In the early part of the evening if the weather cooperated we might pretend to be going for a walk only to find a house to wrap with the purloined toilet paper rolls we had hidden away in our overnight bags. When it became later we usually convened in the living room of the hostess’ home to dance to the latests hit tunes and catch up on the latests schoolyard gossip. There was always a great deal of loud talking and laughing at jokes that only we enjoyed prompting a bit of “shushing” from moms who no doubt were fighting headaches at that point and wondering why they had agreed to entertain a house full of giddy adolescent girls.

Eventually we made our way to the birthday girl’s bedroom where we changed into our jammies and made pallets on the floor with the pillows and blankets that we had brought for the occasion. It was all quite ceremonial including making a pledge not to fall asleep lest there be consequences for being a slumber party slacker. 

Someone would invariably keep the spirit of the occasion going by telling a scary story of young girls being attacked by grotesque marauders. By the time the tale was done at least one of the attendees would be crying and insisting that maybe she needed to call her mom and go home. Most of the time we were able to convince the frightened soul that she would be alright and that we wanted her to stay. Then we would whisper more details of horrors that we swore were true as our nervous friend attempted to appear calm with eyes that gave away her true state of being. 

I never allowed myself to be the first to fall asleep because doing so was never a good thing. Whichever girl lapsed into dreamland before the rest of us would find herself being sprinkled with water or smeared with toothpaste by the more aggressive members of the party. I was more frightened of being the butt of such torture than I was of the murderous tales that I knew were only the product of someone’s vivid imagination. The harassment for surrendering to sleep was real and I wanted no part of it. 

Once the unfortunate sleeper had received her comeuppance the girls would one by one drift off into dreamland until the only sound in the room was rhythmic breathing. We had by that time run of things to say and so we did our best to stay awake in the dark but it never worked. At some point each and everyone of us would fall into a deep slumber that was only broken by the voice of the mom who had prepared breakfast for us before the appointed time of our departure. 

There have only been a few times in my life when I have actually stayed awake all night long. Two of them came on days when someone was dying. Those were brutal experiences inside hospitals where I had lost track of time, unaware of whether it was day or night. My body was both numb and in a state of exaggerated energy at one and the same time. I would not have been able to sleep even if I had tried to do so. In fact I remember feeling as though I might never sleep again in those solemn. 

In 2019 I traveled to London. I had found what appeared to be a bargain basement price on airfare. I was saving so much money that I paid an extra fee to choose my own seat along the aisle so that I would be free to move about whenever I felt the need. It ended up being an horrific experience. 

The seats were so small and so close together that I felt as though I had been bubbled wrapped and packed into a crate. Ironically the passengers who had refused to pay extra for priority seating ended up on rows all to themselves so that they were unconfined like I was. Because my seat would barely recline there was no way of getting comfortable once the lights were dimmed for sleep time. Besides there was a constant flow of people brushing against my seat as they walked up and down the aisle.

The group behind me reminded me of one of those slumber parties of old as they chattered and giggled incessantly. To make matters worse the temperature in the cabin was so cold that I had to retrieve a jacket from my carry on and even then I was shivering. There was no way to get comfortable enough to surrender to sleep so I spent the entire night watching movies and wishing that I was one of the people stretched out over entire rows and snoring under blankets that they had been wise enough to bring. My predicament bordered on torture. 

When morning did finally come I felt as though I had been the victim of slumber party pranks. My joints ached and my head seemed to be filled with cotton. I worried that I would have to spend my first day in London recuperating in my hotel room but once I was freed from the cramped conditions of the plane my head cleared and the walking eased my soreness. I knew that I was going to be just fine and I was. 

I never was one for all nighters. I preferred to rest even as a child. I’ll leave driving all night to the truckers. I will rethink the way I travel on a plane whenever Covid-19 is tamed and we are allowed to travel again. Sleep is a good thing. Slumber is a true party for me. When the witching hour comes I am a party pooper. I say goodnight and go to sleep.

When I was quite young and television was still in shades of black and white and grey I remember being fascinated by a program called The Millionaire. The premise of the show was that a generous and enormously wealthy benefactor would select individuals to receive a check for one million dollars. We never saw the donor because the transactions took place through his executive secretary. The premise of the show was to demonstrate the ways in which humans react to becoming suddenly rich. That million dollars of the nineteen fifties would translate to about nine and one half million in today’s world which would certainly make a difference in somebody’s life.

I remember fantasizing even as a child about what I would do with a million dollars. Back then my ideas centered on fostering my own selfish interests but my thoughts on such a matter changed as I matured. Like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof I often considered what I might do if I were a wealthy woman. I even joked with God insisting that I would be a wonderful candidate for a sudden infusion of riches because I would still live a very simple life and be more inclined to share my money than many of the people who actually have it. 

Much of my focus would be on education. The return from helping promising young people to follow their passions and earn degrees is stunning. I think of my former students and the contributions they have made to society that may not have been possible had not someone first donated to to the programs in the schools where they first began their learning journeys. Then as they matriculated to the various levels of university life the kindness of strangers made it possible for them to become engineers, doctors, nurses, teachers, counselors, computer specialists, engineers, lawyers, business men and women. Perhaps there is no other investment that pays such huge dividends as helping a bright young student to become expert in some area of study without the worry of incurring huge debt in doing so. 

I have been following Bill and Melinda Gates’ efforts in furthering education for many years. On one occasion I had the privilege of actually addressing them when they came to visit the high school where I was the Dean of Students. They were both humble and dedicated individuals whose intention to raise the level of educational excellence in our nation’s schools is backed by huge financial investments and not just critique of a sometimes struggling system. 

I saw them once again when I attended the graduation of one of my students from Stanford University. They spoke on that occasion of their work in global public health. I was actually moved to tears by the stories that they related and the realization that they have consistently used their good fortune to fund worldwide programs designed to eradicate ignorance and disease. Now as we face the prospect of launching a massive vaccination program that may have the power of ending the scourge of the Covid-19 virus I realize that their foundation’s funding has created the kind of environment that made Operation Warp Speed possible. It tells me that these are the sort of things I would want to to if I also had a great deal of money to share.

I really don’t need much in the way of possessions. If I suddenly became a multi-millionaire from my writing (a pipe dream for sure) I would make a few repairs and enhancements on my home and buy a Tesla for my husband. I might invest in a small cabin in Colorado where I would spend my summers and maybe a little beach house in Galveston for watching sunsets over the ocean. I would travel while I am still able. Beyond that I would pay for all of my grandchildren to attend college for as long as they wish. From there I would find worthy causes in education and public health and make investments in revitalizing areas of the country where despair has left a trail of unemployment and addiction. 

Of course it is as unlikely today that I will suddenly find myself sitting on a small fortune as it was when I was a little girl. I am an ordinary soul with a middle middle class way of life. I live comfortably and count my blessings. I suppose that my contribution to the betterment of the world has been more intangible than financial. I have taught people “how to fish” so to speak rather than buying them a fishing pole.

We each have roles that we might play in spreading whatever wealth we may possess. The important thing to remember is that we have choices in how to distribute our riches to make the world better for more and more people. Each bit of generosity multiplies exponentially when we all make it a priority to choose to share. We don’t have to be millionaires to make a difference in someone’s life.   

I am feeling pensive these days. I recently celebrated by seventy second birthday and this year of 2020 has kept me rather isolated at home for many months. It appears that it may take at least another six months before I may be in line for a vaccine for Covid-19 so I have lots of time for looking forward to the future and backward on my own evolution as a person. 

One of the most wonderful aspects of my mother was that she did not attempt to impose her will and ways of doing things on me and my brothers. Of course there were rules to follow and common manners that she expected us to use, but insofar as developing our personalities and our interests she very wisely encouraged each of us to follow our own dreams. As a result the three of us are unique individuals who share many traits and a strong love of family but are otherwise very different. 

My father was absent from my life after I was eight years old but somehow his spirit seemed to influence me on every step of my journey. I embraced his love of music and reading and learning and it ultimately led me to a career in education. My middle brother also felt his influence but seemed to foster more of our dad’s mechanical, mathematical and engineering traits. While my youngest brother was only two when Daddy died he inherited our father’s gregariousness, wit, and love of sports and the outdoors. It is as though we each emulated a piece of the man that he was.

My mother was devoted to home and family but she also had a brilliant mind that drove her to be a lifelong learner. She was the kind of person who lit up a room whenever she arrived at a gathering. She had a big personality with a heart to match. I tended to be quieter, more reserved. I suppose I always felt as though I was more like my Grandma Minnie than my mother. People would tell me that I was the image of my mom but I have photos of my grandmother that put a lie to that thought. 

For a time I wished to be more like my mother who was bold and beautiful, but eventually I came to embrace who I was. I blend in with a crowd. My voice is soft and there is nothing particularly exciting about my appearance. This has become a kind of gift to me because it allows me to observe the world around me without much notice from others. I have become quite comfortable with myself and my thoughts. I watch the world and then record what I see in my writing. I actually enjoy not being noticed. 

My mother taught me to be flexible and determined. She showed me how to deal with setbacks and unexpected changes. She helped me to retain my optimism even when the world around me felt dark and uninviting. She convinced me that every person has a purpose and when he/she finds it life becomes gloriously happy. She showed me that money and things were transitory. 

I remember a time long ago when my grandparents and aunts and uncles were arguing over whether I was more like my mother or my father. It was a debate that was never resolved because I am in fact a little bit like each of them but mostly like myself. People tended to see what they wanted to see in me but I know that I have carefully become the kind of person that I wanted to be, a hybrid of my DNA, my upbringing, my education and all of the people that I have known. 

I love that my brothers and I have stayed true to ourselves and that my mother never once attempted to mold us into clones of either her or my father. She was happy with us just as we are. I tried to be the same with my daughters and I think I did a fairly good job in that regard. I learned how difficult it is to maintain a balance between creating a foundation of moral character for my girls and encouraging them to follow the dictates of their own hearts. Ultimately each of us has to be our own person and sometimes we make choices that those closest to us do not understand. 

Over the course of my lifetime there have been those who have wondered why I did not become a lawyer or a doctor or someone who might have acquired more power and money. I certainly had the intelligence and skills to achieve virtually anything I desired. In truth those things did not excite me like teaching has always done. In many ways I feel as though I was born to be an educator and I always wanted to stay as close to the classroom and the students as possible. I made a conscious decision to forgo a high income to do what I believed to be a vocation. My mother always supported me in that regard. 

My parents gave me and my brothers many gifts but more than anything our mother most especially was always overjoyed to see us just being happy. Her unconditional love and support made us strong and confident that our choices were exactly right. I did not have to be just like either my father or my mother, and neither did my brothers. We are able to celebrate how different we are and know that it is good. I love being myself.

Back when I was still a working gal if it was Friday it meant ending the school day earlier than the rest of the week. Instead of hanging around until after five everyone was gone no later than four, including me. I joined my colleagues in a race from the parking lot and jumped onto the Beltway with glee, heading in the direction of my mother’s home because Friday meant our time together. 

It was a long ride from southwest Houston where I worked to southeast Houston near Almeda Mall. I always felt a bit of anticipation as I drove over the high bridge that connects the Beltway with Interstate 45 heading north. Because of my mother’s illness I never knew exactly what her frame of mind would be but I faithfully went to see her week after week. If all was well I knew that the two of us would have a wonderful evening together.

Friday evenings with family had always been a kind of tradition for me. As a child my mother took us to see our grandmother Ulrich every Friday night. We would meet up there with all of my aunts and uncles and cousins and have a rollicking time. We children would play games mostly outside while our parents gathered around a table for a poker game or just sat together talking in voices so loud that I always felt sure that people miles away would hear them. Those were literally the very best times of my childhood and somehow spending Friday evenings with my mother when I became an adult felt much the same way. 

My husband Mike never minded that I was galavanting with Mama each Friday because he was always exhausted after his long week at work. He liked having a quiet evening at home to recharge his batteries, so my date with my mom became a rock solid tradition that was always an adventure. 

My mother enjoyed getting out of her house for a few hours. Sometimes when I drove up she would already be sitting outside on a little bench that my brother had given her for Mother’s day one year. She would be dressed up in her finest clothing and a huge smile would appear on her face. Those clues told me that she was feeling well and that we would surely have a glorious time.

She always wanted to eat first and the better she felt, the more extravagant her choice of restaurant would be. Of course she was a woman of simple tastes so she rarely wanted to travel too far from her home or to spend an exorbitant amount of money for the food. Her absolute favorite eatery was Cracker Barrel in League City where she tried everything on the menu over time. Eating there also meant spending an hour or so wandering through the country store section where she almost always found a gift to set aside for someone’s birthday or other special occasion. 

We might eat at a Mexican restaurant or feast at an Italian bistro depending on her cravings. Sometimes she only wanted to head for the Piccadilly Cafeteria just down the street from where she lived. She always thought that we should have dessert and she would magnanimously insist that she be allowed to pay for those sweet treats. An ice cream cone or a slice of pie caused her to beam with childlike delight.

After we had filled our bellies I allowed my mother to decide where we would go next. Sometimes she wanted to visit a nearby mall or take a tour of Walmart. Other times she just wanted to get her weekly grocery shopping done. On very rare occasions she asked to go see a movie or take a drive along the seawall in Galveston. Regardless of what she chose I understood that it would take hours to sate her enthusiasm. It would often be nearing midnight before I said my goodbyes to her and headed home. 

My mother was generally filled with optimism. If she was anxious or on the verge of tears I knew that she was heading for a cycle of depression and mania caused by her bipolar disorder. On those occasions being with her was painful and required great patience on my part, which I did not always display as much as I should have. I felt like I was with a stranger when she was sick. It hurt my heart to see her in a state of confusion and to know that others feared her strange behavior. Those were the times when she was disheveled and her eyes darted back and forth like those of someone caged. She would check her food to see if it had been tainted by someone intent on making her sick. She would argue with waiters and clerks in the stores. Nonetheless I knew that getting her out of the oppressive loneliness and darkness of her house was a first step toward becoming well again. It also gave me an opportunity to determine if she was in need of emergency care from her psychiatrist. 

Sometimes I was so exhausted after a long work week that I did not want to spend my Friday evening with my mother but I always forced myself to go see her anyway. The majority of time I found my fun, happy and loving mother and I would quietly chide myself for hesitating to join her. Even when she was struggling with her bipolar symptoms I knew that it was incredibly important to be with her and so week after week, year after year Friday evenings belonged to my mama. 

After my mother died I felt lost when Friday rolled around. I missed those good times that we had shared. I found myself thinking of the pearls of wisdom that she had given me in our many conversations. I realized how much I had even cherished the evenings when she was depressed and in need of my consoling or when she was manic and there was no telling what she might say or do. I longed for all of her and the lessons about life and love that she modeled for me on our little adventures together. 

My mother never had wealth in her life. She was not a woman of substance. We inherited almost nothing from her in terms of worldly riches. What she gave me was an example of how to enjoy and appreciate the ordinary in times both good and bad. She was a treasure and whenever Friday rolls around I find myself remembering how important it is to grasp each moment and enjoy it. 

I recall taking a silly quiz that one of my friends brought to school when I was in high school. Each question involved making a choice between this or that. I had to indicate whether I preferred the beach or the mountains, warm weather or cold. Ironically I tended to choose all of the answers that described a place totally unlike my hometown which is as flat as any place might be and hot for most of the year. I suppose that I have always thought that it would be lovely to be in a place that gets cool enough in the fall to create magnificent colors and cold enough in the winter to make use of my coats and sweaters which usually become outdated before I have worn them out.

When I was in England not long ago I had to wear a light jacket in May, a wonder to me because back home I would have been wearing sleeveless tops and shorts. One of my journeys on that trip took me well north of London to visit York where we slept at night with the windows open and had no need for air conditioning. In our explorations we journeyed to the coast and explored a little village that lies on the North Sea. It was windy and blustery there as I looked into the vast expanse of the water and imagined Danes landing in their boats in medieval times. I could envision fishermen plying their trade on the often perilous waters. 

The winds from the sea made my light weight coat seem useless but I loved the feel of the frigid air blowing on my face. I felt history in the sting on my cheeks even as I shivered from being unaccustomed to such weather. Luckily help was just up the hill from the water’s edge where a little shop offered beautiful handmade wool sweaters made by local wool weavers. 

I was enthralled by the organic colors and the intricate pattern of the garments. The owner of the shop explained that they were made just like the sweaters worn by the seamen from the town who once launched their boats from the same coves that I had just explored. I learned that every fishing town had its own weave for the garments that the men wore on their journeys on the sea. Because the waters were often rough shipwrecks were commonplace and the sweaters identified the bodies of those who died. 

I purchased one of the beautiful sweaters in a cranberry colored hue. I put it on immediately and felt warm even as the day wore into evening and the temperature continued to drop. I sat at the top of a hill munching on fish and chips and imagining that I could hear the voices of the villagers of long ago. I suspected that in spite of the beauty of the place life had been difficult there. I wondered how many times some poor soul had worn a sweater like mine only to end up drowned in the unforgiving waters during a storm. 

My sweater instantly became one of my favorite items of clothing but when I returned home from my trip I had to store it away because the days and even the nights would be hot for many months. I waited patiently for a day cold enough to warrant donning my sweater and many many weeks passed. Not even December brought the kind of temperatures I needed. It was January before I awoke to almost freezing temperatures that promised to be appropriate for my North Sea gear. 

I wisely wore a thin t-shirt under the sweater in case it became too warm for the heavy woolen clothing. I made it to about noon before realizing that the mercury was inching up and the sun was bearing down a bit too much to remain comfortable. I had to remove my beautiful sweater and store it away until the next frigid day, which has yet to come. 

There was a time when I wore coats and sweaters from late November to the end of February even here in my mostly warm part of the world. The changing climate has slowly eradicated the need for winter gear where I live. Coats and sweaters and boots and gloves last forever because we have to wear them so rarely. I suppose I will be lucky to don my sweater more than half a dozen times in the next ten years. Perhaps I will just need to travel to the north or return to England to find an excuse for bringing it out of storage.

In late September of this year I visited Rocky Mountain National Park. I brought my sweater hoping that I would need it in the high mountains. Even there it was unseasonably warm. The cranberry colored garment never left my suitcase. Somehow it served as a warning to me that our climate is changing in disturbing ways, a thought that was confirmed only a few weeks later when many of the places I had just visited were ablaze with wildfires. 

We humans are continually challenged by nature whether we battle storms on the sea or the ravages of a virus. We study our problems and find ways to either overcome them or adapt to them. We are clever in that way. My sweater reminds me that we are linked together in a long chain that reaches way back into history. We stumble and fight and fall but somehow we always manage to use our wits to press forward. We adapt and progress never losing sight of where we have been. It may take a bit to get there but I believe that ultimately we will be fine and one day I will wear my sweater again.