Category: Commentary

As the new year begins I am weary. The last year was difficult to endure as our president devolved into a self centered ranting lunatic and our most trusted agencies fell into disarray. So much damage has been inflicted on our government and our reputation in the world that I wonder if it will ever be repaired during my lifetime. At the age of seventy seven my expiration date becomes more and more uncertain from day to day, so I do not worry as much about myself as I do about my children and grandchildren who will bear the burdens that Trump and his cabinet have placed on us. 

I have done my best during the past year to protest the cold hearted policies of our president and just when I think that those of us who truly love our country and our Constitution are making headway something more and more audacious brings uncalled for damage to our government. I see the suffering and sometimes feel unmitigated frustration that the trend of destruction seems only to get worse. 

How can anyone watch what is happening and believe that it is alright? Why am I constantly accused of being hateful when all I am attempting to do is warn people of the dangers of what is happening? How is it possible that so many Americans have been mezmerised by a malignant fool?

I find solace in the fact that I am not alone. I have watched the numbers of protestors increase even as we realize that our efforts sometimes seem to be in vain. I have found good people whose devotion to our democracy makes them targets of the president’s foul insults. I have watched them continuing their determination to save our nation even as they become sick and weary. 

I have come to admire brave souls like Joe Walsh a former Reagan Republican who realized that his party had gone astray. I cling to the daily reports from historian Heather Cox Richardson. I tip my hat to Jennifer Rubin and Jim Acosta who had the courage to leave their well paying jobs as journalists when they were being silenced only to rise again as independent broadcasters delivering the truth. I admire Aaron Parnas, a young man with a family who works so hard attempting to bring us the news without editorial commentary that sometimes I worry about him as he looks so tired. I smile at the unfettered truths told by Jo Jo from Jerz and Mary Trump. I tip my hat to the members of the House and the Senate who keep trying to hold the line against the ridiculous policies that the neutered Republicans keep pushing to please their leader. I applaud Mark Hamill and Stephen King for their love of our nation and their willingness to speak truth without fear. I follow the advice of Dr. Peter Hotez who has devoted his life to insuring the health of our nation. All of these people and more keep me sane in a time when it feels as though insanity is calling all of the shots. 

I don’t hate anyone. That is not in my nature but I surely hate what some people are doing in what sometimes appears to be a concerted effort to destroy the core of our democracy. My instinct has always been to protect people. I rise up when I see individuals and groups being unfairly abused. I will always speak my mind whether in my family circle or at work or as a citizen of my beloved Untied State if I believe that wrongs are being carried out if only to burnish the self centered desires of the mad man who demands that we adore him as though he is somehow a king chosen by God Himself to lead us. 

I fear that this new year will be long and dangerous for all of us. I wonder if those of us attempting to right the ship of state will have the energy and endurance to keep trying. We all have personal lives that demand our attention. Some simply carry on as usual and take care of home rather than expending efforts on the broader issues. I wonder of their attitude that this too shall pass is indeed the best way of thinking and then I remember that those who broke away from the king of England two hundred fifty years ago were relentless even as eight years passed before the Revolutionary War was over. I know that I must be patient and vigilant and unwilling to just comply in the hopes that right will one day win the battle.

My wish list for this year is that the war in Ukraine will end without the country having to give up land that is theirs to a madman in Russia who began the conflict to begin with. I pray that we will once again be led by men and women of honor whose goal is to take care of all Americans, not just those that they favor. I want the violence that stalks us to somehow get under control and for our three branches of government to once again work without prejudice or false loyalty to a single person. I want the craven golden fixtures gone from the People’s House and respect for differing ideas to be honored. I long to have compassionate leaders who help us through difficult times. 

I am older and more weary than I have ever been but my will is strong. I will do my utmost to work to protect our beloved democracy for everyone. I will continue to love the people of this nation regardless of their personal beliefs. I will not lose hope. I see the goodness underneath the slime. I am hopeful that it will prevail. 

I have been a movie fan for all of my life. I’m not sure when I attended my first flick but I have a memory of watching a huge reptilian monster destroying the world when I had not yet begun school because I was only four years old. I have a vague image and a sudden feeling of fear that only lasted a moment because I was sitting by my father who appeared to be amused by the whole thing. Later he and my mother would have a small discussion as to whether or not it was appropriate to bring me to view a frightening story. Daddy won with his usual wit as I seemed to be clueless about whatever the story might have been, but in reality I do remember feeling quite terrorized for a moment. 

My next memories focus on the movie Shane which premiered in nineteen fifty three when I was around five and a half years old. I remember that story as though I had read it word for word in a book. I loved Alan Ladd as much as my father did. I remember thinking that I had seen something amazing which was probably supported by my father’s animated discussion of how great he believed the film to be. It was much like the film High Noon that was another of my father’s favorites and which I only partially recall watching with him and my mother. I only knew that there was a gunfight at the conclusion of that story and that the hero was brave and willing to stand up for what he believed was right. Such characters always reminded me of my mother and father.

Only months before my father died he took the family to see The Mountain with Spencer Tracy. Daddy boasted that Mr. Tracy was perhaps the greatest actor of all time. His favorite movie was The Old Man and The Sea which I also vividly remember.  If a movie came out starring Spencer Tracy we were certain to attend a viewing. So it was with The Mountain, a story of two brothers making a treacherous climb in search of a crashed plane. It was an intense tale that I was able to follow because by then I was eight years old and my father had told me many stories that were probably somewhat adult for a child. I felt as though he was part of a secret world that only grownups enjoyed because of my father’s honesty.

For a time after Daddy died we mostly watched old black and white films that came on the local television channels late on Friday and Saturday nights. My mother made a big deal out of those times with popcorn that she made in her iron skillet and snacks that were not allowed during the week. We gathered on the floor of our living room in our pajamas bundled in blankets while the stories unfolded in the darkened room. I finally got to see a few romantic offerings since my mother enjoyed that kind of entertainment much more so than my father had. I learned from her who the heart throbs of her day and been and listened with great interest as she described going to movies in downtown Houston with only twenty five cents needed to cover the bus fare, the cost of the ticket and a small snack. She made those days sound wonderful in the gilded theaters where the stars jumped off of the big screens. 

Eventually a local movie theater featured a Saturday Fun Club that allowed my mother to have some free time to run her errands without three children tagging along. She would drop us off with fifty cents which is all that we needed to enter the theater, buy some snacks and settle into four hours of games and double feature movies. It was a glorious time!

Later my Aunt Polly took a second job as the cashier at the Trail Drive In. She would wave our car through at no cost and since my mother prepared all of our food and snacks for the evening we never had to spend a dime. Of course we took advantage of that perk and spent many many evenings in the humid weather of Houston viewing one great movie after another. Mama would pack the car with pillow for anyone who grew wear and wanted to sleep but I always stayed awake with her to the very end. We ate sandwiches and munched on a grocery bag full of popcorn. We sipped on sodas that came from our ice chest and sometimes even enjoyed candy or cookies in the mix. 

Now and again Mama let me bring my friend Linda Barry along. She and I were like sisters back then but eventually she went to public school while I stayed at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Catholic School. We developed new friendships and interests and drifted farther and farther away from each other. Much later when we were adults we got back together and laughed at our antics at the drive in and reconnected through our mutual memories. 

My love of movies continued with my friend Pat who suggested movies that neither my husband or hers would have attended. We hauled our children along and became frequent flyers at nearby theaters. After a flick we often went to the Fifty Nine Diner for a late night snack. She became like a sister to me and a fabulous aunt to my daughters. Those were truly glorious times.

Once our children were grown Pat began searching for movies that the men would also like and so we became a foursome laughing and crying and thinking about the stories that the features told. When we were not in the mood to go out Pat often rented videos to watch while we munched on homemade snacks that brought me back full circle to those nights of my childhood with my mother and brothers. 

I don’t go to movie theaters as often as I once did. It can be a very expensive kind of entertainment. A quarter or fifty cents would no longer get us in the door. We can wait to view the films that we want to see on our big screen television with speakers that make us feel that we are in a luxurious theater. Only once in awhile do we treat ourselves to a night out where we lounge in comfortable seats and have that glorious feeling that always runs through my mind when the lights are dimmed and the feature begins. 

I suppose that I will always love movies and the creativity that makes them. They form a link from my earliest memories to the present that I have so enjoyed. I hope that they will remain an important part of my life. It is so wonderful to escape into other worlds for a time and to feel as though nothing matters but the story being told.   

My mother was well known for her chocolate cakes. They were always so moist and flavorful with a butter cream frosting that seemed to be the work of angels. She liked to top off her creation with pecan halves that she placed on the confection with the greatest care. Her cakes always sold quickly at church bake sales. There was even a time when her chocolate delight fell apart while traveling in her car but still sold for a very good price.

She almost went inside empty handed but decided to let the women in charge of the sale decide what to do with the accidental demolition of her masterpiece. As she was sheepishly entering the church hall a man spotted her and announced that he wanted to purchase her cake before it even hit the table with all of the other goodies. At that moment my mother admitted with great embarrassment that the cake was not up to her usual standards because it had shifted on the car seat while she drove from her home. To her surprise the man insisted that he wanted her cake regardless of how it looked. “I have eaten your chocolate cake before and once I cut into it I no longer cared whether or not it looked beautiful. I knew that the taste would be out of this world I don’t want your cake as a decoration. I want it because I know that it will be yummy.” 

I’ve always remembered that moment as a kind of fable with a lesson about life. It’s not so much how something looks that makes it valuable. it’s always about how wonderful it is inside its core. Such can be said about people as well. The superficialities that drive the cosmetic world might create attractive folks but the true worth of an individual lies in the beauty of the heart. 

I’ve written before about a student of mine who had been so grossly disfigured by a fire that she might have been viewed as a monster. I myself cringed when I saw her walking down the hallway on the first day of school and silently hoped that she would not be assigned to my class. I feared that I would not be able to look at her without showing my horror at what had become of her. Of course, she headed straight for me and innocently smiled with an announcement that she was going to be one of my students. 

In that brief moment everything changed. She was confident and self assured which took me by surprise. I would have imagined that someone so disfigured would be timid but she had an air of confidence that immediately changed the way that I had been feeling about her. In fact, she turned out to be one of my all time favorite students mostly because she never seemed to be thinking about herself. She was so kind and loving that none of the students poked fun at her or seemed to be reviled by her appearance. Over the course of the school year I began to see her as beautiful. Somehow what was inside her soul transformed the physical horror that had deformed her. In the process I know that she also transformed me and her fellow students. 

We live in a world that can be very superficial. All too often we let our first impressions of people determine how we think of them. Studies have shown that we humans often choose pleasant looking people over those who are not as lovely to view. We can be quite judgmental of someone who is awkward or somehow unattractive. It is only after getting to know the personality of a person that we begin to see the real presence of the soul who is before us. It is in the moment when we see the content their hearts that we are better able to judge what kind of person they really are. 

Stereotypes abound around us. It is far too easy to assume the character of an individual by appearance alone. We all know someone who is gorgeous who has a selfish heart. At the same time we encounter homely souls who radiate beauty when we get to know them. As the content of their character becomes apparent they seem to become more and more attractive. At least that is how it mostly goes if we are willing to know them beyond the obvious aspects of how they look.

My husband has beautiful hands while mine are stubby and seem to have always been wrinkled like an old person. I laughingly call them my grandma’s hands and tend to keep them by my side rather than drawing attention to them. I am not ashamed of them but I know that they are not my most striking feature and yet there was a moment when a friend grabbed one of my hands and proclaimed that it was beautiful. As I gazed back at her in disbelief she explained that my hands looked like they had done many jobs that nobody else might have wanted to do. She proclaimed that they were the hands of someone unafraid to dig in the dirt or scrub a floor. She felt that all of the wrinkles were like badges attesting to my willingness to labor for others on this earth. 

I am thankful that there are still many people who see beyond first impressions. There is nothing wrong with being a truly beautiful person both inside and outside. I have met many such souls but at the same time I have witnessed the true attractiveness of kindness and generosity that comes from the heart of a soul. Such a person needs no surgery or makeup to be gorgeous. They are as delicious as my mother’s chocolate cakes and fabulous to be around. True beauty resonates from the inside out. We would do well to get to know someone before making judgements about what kind of person they are.

The wind is howling outside on a cold morning as I write this blog and another year winds down. I would be lying if I did not admit that I am physically and mentally exhausted as I look toward a new year and another new beginning in my life. This has been a tough time for me with people that I love suffering from accidents and medical emergencies that struck them down and frightened those of us who care so deeply for them. At this moment everyone made it but the fragility of their lives is in full view and I feel humbled as I realize the good fortune that continues to surround me. Nonetheless I am not the titan of energy and good health that I once was. The years that I have been on this earth are beginning to catch up with me and my stubborn insistence in being all things to all people is slowly becoming an impossible task to perform day after day. I see the limits to my abilities that I have so fiercely attempted to deny. 

I am a gentle person when all is said and done. My whole life has been centered on comforting and supporting the people that I encounter. I like to quietly be the person who fixes broken objects and fractured souls. I do my work outside of the limelight which I despise and find both comfort and joy in being able to make a difference in someone’s life, but of late I witness so much pain and sorrow that I am unable to keep up with the work like I once did. I need more sleep, more rest between tasks and find myself huffing and puffing before my work is done. I have a new role in life as I witness my children and other young people taking the reins in situations where I might have been the leader in another time. I see that they are doing a fine job and that I would do well to step back and allow them to demonstrate their mettle. Passing the baton to them is the proper way of things just as one year passes into another. 

I am still able to achieve things but not nearly as much as I once did. I have learned to forgive myself for dropping out of the marathon to rest before proceeding again. I still make it to the end of the distance but do so walking rather than running, taking my time and lingering along the way. 

I understand better than ever that my impact on the world will be smaller but perhaps more significant that I once hoped it would be. I am but one of millions of souls hoping to create a sense of peace and joy in my little corner. I see the progress that we have collectively made as well as the human tendency to backslide into the kind of habits that destroy friendships and lead to wars. I worry that during the past year we have been led to believe that might makes right when the evidence demonstrates that it only creates more terrible problems. Somehow we have allowed ourselves during this year to sit back and watch as our neighbors have been mistreated only because they seem to be different from ourselves. 

This morning I read Dr. Heather Cox Richardson’s annual telling of the horrific story of the massacre of the Lakota people at Wounded Knee. It was a shameful moment in the history of our nation much as the attitude toward immigrants among us is today. With the boast that America should be first we seem to forget that there was a time when the white Christians that we so revere came to this place and pushed the native people aside as though their claims to the land were insignificant. The warring that ensued as settlers pushed ever westward were as horrific as the use of slaves to build the economic power of our nation. Our history is stained with an original sin that many of us are still unwilling to confess and of late we seem to be determined to fall back into the kind of egregious behaviors that we had worked hard to abandon. Sadly much of what we are now doing hides behind the mask of religious fervor.

I suppose that this is why I feel so weary. For decades it felt as though we were evolving into better people who understand the importance of honoring our differences. Instead we have once again divided into camps nervously watching each other lest our freedoms and our rights be trampled upon. It is an icky feeling to witness the hatefulness and distrust growing when not so long ago we seemed to be capable of understanding that our tent is large enough to shelter even those whose ideas are very unlike ours.

I am not so naive that I do not realize that our relationships will always be imperfect. I know that we still have many troubles that we must tackle together but the constant bickering about how best to solve our problems has created a chasm among us that is far more dangerous than taking time to know and understand who each of us wishes to be. In the long run all any of us wants is to be able to lead quiet lives without fear regardless of the color of our skin, our spiritual beliefs, and ways that we choose to love. 

My wish for the coming year is that we begin to bridge the gaps that separate us from each other instead of allowing our leaders to push us further and further away. We are presently in a state as frightening as the nervous impasse of long ago when fears gave way to the slaughter of the Lakota people at Wounded Knee. It is time to put down our weapons and talk to one another once again without rancor. It is time to work together and to share our bounty with those who are in need. It is time to bridge the ever increasing gap that has been purposely created so that powerful men and women may foist their desires on us. It is time to look to new ideas and to really hear the voices of everyone, not just a chosen few. It is a new year with new possibilities if only we are willing to change our course without rancor and fear. Hopefully we will rise to the occasion.  

A couple of days after Christmas I actually slept in for the first time since May of 2020. That’s when my father-in-law went to the hospital on the very day when his second wife died. That summer was filled with concerns that he was not going to live much longer himself. He spent most of June and July fighting one medical emergency after another in hospitals and rehabilitation centers. When we finally brought him to our home he was barely able to walk into the house with a cane. Many people attempted to prepare us for the worst with him, insisting that he probably had no more than a few months to a year to live. Almost four years later he is still with us even though he recently had a bad fall that left him in a weakened condition once again. 

My father-in-law lived with us until a few weeks ago. We gave him our master bedroom and bathroom and moved upstairs to a small bedroom that we had called the guest room. We crammed our clothes and toiletries into the area and learned how to find a bit of privacy there each evening just before we fell asleep. 

At first I was full of spit and energy and so taking on the care of my father-in-law was an easy task for me. I would arise early each morning to prepare things in the kitchen so that he would have an easy time preparing his own breakfast which he liked to do to prove that he was still healthy and independent. As the weeks and then months rolled by he became stronger and stronger even as my husband Mike and I began to age. 

It was an interesting situation because my father-in-law is only eighteen years older than his son and only nineteen years older than I am. In a sense we became three old people living together. As Mike and I crept closer and closer to the end of of seventieth decade of life we both began to develop health problems that slowed us down.

Mike has heart disease and not long after his father came to stay with us he had surgery to open the valves of his heart. The process went a bit awry and he had some dangerous moments but luckily eventually turned out well. Next I injured my leg while decorating for Christmas and later developed spasms in my back that sent me to the emergency room twice. Mike was diagnosed with cancer and spent an entire summer receiving daily radiation treatments and my knees reached a point of being bone on bone so that I was limping whenever I walked. Still we were able to take very good care of my father-in-law who seemed to be a man of steel while we slowly fell apart bit by bit. 

I kept to a strict routine of rising as early at five in the morning to prepare things so that my father-in-law would be able to follow his routines. I made sure that he had his favorite foods at all times and created healthy dinners that would not irritate his sometimes picky stomach. He liked to sit down for wine and cheese each evening before having dinner so we timed our days to comply with his wishes. Those evenings of conversation were fun but also began to wear on our energy which was constantly being challenged by new aches and pains that seemed to taunt us. 

In the meantime my younger brothers began to develop serious illnesses that threatened their lives and forced them to curtail their lifestyles. It was quite worrisome for me to consider that I might one day be left without my brothers who were younger than I am and who had always been so strong and healthy. I began to feel greatly anxious for my husband and my brothers who all seemed to be moving closer and closer to a more limited lifetime. I worried about how I would be able to help care for them and also for my father-in-law while limping around on knees that were painful twenty four hours of the day. My doctor finally convinced me that I first had to take care of myself if I were to be of any use to others. It was a bitter pill to face because I have always been a bundle of energy with an almost excessive caretaker personality. 

Not long after my seventy seventh birthday my father-in-law agreed that he would like to go live in a lovely apartment in a senior living facility. He was in such good shape that the nurse agreed that he was fully independent and would not need anyone to provide him with assistance in his daily needs. 

The truth is that Mike and I set things up for him so that his only real tasks were bathing and dressing himself and taking the pills from the bill minders that Mike had been creating for him for the past four years. All of his meals were prepared at the facility and someone came once a week to clean his apartment, change his linens, and wash his clothes. Nonetheless I worried because I knew that we had mostly created the illusion that my father-in-law was totally independent by constantly going behind him and repairing any problems that he created for himself. In truth I worried that he needed to be supervised every single day just as we had quietly done while he lived with us. Not a moment had gone by in which he was on his own. We kept his routine appearing to be perfect with our continuous vigilance. 

Sadly, just before Christmas my father-in-law fell in his bathroom in the early morning hours. He says that he did not trip. Instead he just suddenly fell forward and the damage to his body was enormous. He spent the next almost two weeks in the ICU teetering between life and death but once again made it. 

Life became even more exhausting for me and Mike while we balanced our lives between checking on my father-in-law and preparing for the annual Christmas festivities. I continued to rise early from my sleep and work until very late at night to make certain that things would go well and they did. We had a glorious three days of celebration with our children and grandchildren and extended family. My son-in-law helped with the Christmas day cooking which I appreciated more than he will ever know. Now we have the uncertainty of the days ahead and what will happen with my father-in-law as he leaves the rehabilitation center. 

His condition is such that neither Mike nor I will be able to adequately care for him. He will have to be lifted and bathed and fed. I am not supposed to lift anything heavy and Mike’s heart is strong now but too fragile for such difficult duties. We are both having to admit to our limitations and that is perhaps the most difficult aspect of all. We can take care of ourselves and each other but taking on a frail ninety six year old is now out of our league. In fact, when we visit him at his apartment people think that we are also residents there. 

Two days after Christmas I crashed not just from the busy season but from the culmination of four years of long days and incredibly anxious moments. I became a slug because for a brief time I was able to be so. I slept well past nine in the morning and spent the next three hours reading and writing in a recliner with a cozy blanket on my lap. I let go and admitted that I was not superwoman anymore. It was a lovely and humbling moment in which I felt willing to transition to a new phase of life. I realized that it was truly time for me to relax my grip on controlling every situation that I will encounter and allowing the younger generation to rise to the occasion. 

I hope that all will go well for my father-in-law. He has gifted professionals taking care of him now. He has friends and family who faithfully visit with him. I think that he will even be strong again. In the meantime I am getting ready to fix one of my knees and I am more than willing to finally relax and let my perfectionism go.

Life is truly comprised of phases through which we must go. I’m ready for the next way of living and the challenges that lie ahead. Mine has been a long journey to acceptance of the way that I truly need to be. Wish me luck in keeping the promise to enjoy life just the way it is.