Writing – Page 8 – All It Takes Is A Little Love

These Are The Good Old Days

Published on February 24, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

il_340x270-1167766621_5l2m Back in the nineteen seventies my mother and one of my brothers took a Sunday afternoon ride to Galveston Island which was about fifty miles away from where I lived. I was recovering from hepatitis and it was meant to be a relaxing excursion. My mama always believed that the ocean air was good for whatever ailments one had. Going down to the sea was one of her most frequent destinations.

We rode along the seawall built by heroic Galveston residents who refused to be chased away by the 1900 storm that killed more than 2000 people in one dark night. It was a lovely early spring day and it felt wonderful to escape from the confinement that I had endured for many weeks. My mother always knew exactly how to nurse me back to health.

Mama wasn’t much for driving on freeways so we took an old highway back home that was less traveled at the time. Along the way her car broke down, a not so uncommon occurrence for her because she tended to keep her autos until the wheels fell off. There was no sign of life anywhere near where we were and of course there were no cell phones back then. We had to rely on our own ingenuity to find a way out of our dilemma.

For quite some time we pushed the car hoping that either it would spontaneously come back to life or that we might encounter a phone booth or service station where we might find help. I soon grew quite weary. I had been instructed by my doctor not to over exert myself and the effort of moving a heavy object down an asphalt runway soon sapped what little energy I had. We decided to simply get the car out of the road and walk until we found signs of life.

It felt as though we had to travel several miles before we finally found a place of business where we were able to call my husband who rescued us quickly after that. He drove us back to Mama’s car and noticed that she had run out of gasoline which he remedied as well. The incident became one of those laughable family moments and a memory of life in times past.

I can’t help but think of how much easier it would have been for us to find the assistance that we needed if only there had been cell phones back then. It is highly likely that at least two of us would have been able to take care of the problem with a few keystrokes. The modern world with its many inventions has made our lives so much easier than it has ever been.

I often see photos of what it was like when I was young on Facebook. My friends sometimes reminisce about the good old days. We even had a politician who won the presidency with the promise to make America great again. The problem that I find with such nostalgia is that going backwards in time is not generally something that we should want to do. I like the progress that we have made and I see little point in turning back the clock. Instead I try to enjoy the days that I have right now.

My grandfather was born in 1878 and did not die until the nineteen eighties. He often laughed when people asked him to tell about the good old days. “These are the good old days,” he would always insist. He easily recalled the hardships of living without refrigeration or electricity. He remembered the first time that he saw a town lit up with lights and the sense of wonder that overcame him. He read the headlines cheering the first flight of an airplane and watched with elation as a human walked on the moon. He remembered how his grandmother treated illnesses with herbs and what it was like watching people die of terrible infectious diseases that were eventually eradicated by modern medicine. The level of comfort that he experienced in his later life had been unimaginable when he was a child and he appreciated all of the advancements that had made the world a better place to be.

I hark back to the nineteen fifties and sixties, a time of great scientific exploration that changed the way we live and work at rocket speed. I am able to tell horror stories about attempting to type a long research paper without mistakes on an old typewriter with keys that would stick and smear ink on my fine white paper. My efforts were always so homely because I had to cover my errors with blobs of liquid paper that dotted my manuscripts like droplets of snow. If I had to have multiple copies that meant using carbon paper that left purple stains on my fingers and anything else that it touched. Creating documents was a time consuming and onerous task for me that thankfully is a thing of the past.

Like my grandfather I might list hundreds of examples regarding the difficulties that existed simply because the solutions to the various problems had not yet been invented. Any of us who did research of during the nineteen sixties shudder at the thought of spending hours combing through a card catalog in a library only to find that the very book that we needed had already been checked out by someone on a similar mission. Almost everything was in hard copy form back then. Sometimes documents were photographed and stored on little reels that had to be read using a machine that invariably broke in the middle of the process.

If I were to begin to list all of the changes that have occurred in my own lifetime it would require pages and pages. Man’s ingenuity has indeed been an engine that has driven progress inevitably forward and there is little reason for us to wish to turn back the clock which, by the way, we don’t have to wind anymore like we did in the past. The history of mankind is one of advancement with a few hiccups along the way but inevitably we seem to find better and better ways of enjoying life. I suspect that my very wise grandfather had it right all along when he would insist that these are the good old days.

Finding Courage

Published on February 13, 2017February 10, 2017 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

confusion I have written a book. It has essentially been finished for more than two years and yet it languishes in the memory of my computer and in a distant hard drive that is protecting it lest my laptop suddenly crashes. If I were to take the time to do so I might have it uploaded as a Kindle or Apple book in less than a week. I would be a published author albeit by dent of my own initiative rather than interest from a company. For some reason I have been reluctant to take the final risk of revealing my story to the public. Upon self reflection I realize that my procrastination comes from enormous fear. Even though I place my ideas on public view five days and week, when it comes to my most personal essay ever I feel anxious about being misunderstood.

We live in a very contentious society. Words are continually being parsed and twisted into meanings that were never intended. Good people are all too often portrayed in very misleading and untrue ways. We take sentences out of context and figuratively burn people at the stake for having the temerity to suggest something with which we do not agree. We place our own interpretations on all utterances often to the detriment of what is actually true. Our sense of self-righteousness and judgmental natures have no bounds. It takes great courage to come forward in a very public way and so far I have to admit to being somewhat of a coward.

The topic of my book is quite delicate. It outlines my family’s journey through the tragedy of my father’s death and into the despair of my mother’s battle with bipolar disorder. Because we each perceive reality in different ways I have little doubt that my telling and interpretation of events my vary from others who shared some of the moments that I describe. They may disagree with how I have seen things and even feel betrayed that I have even spoken of some of our very private moments. I suspect that there will be those who do not understand that the intent of my book is to inspire and comfort anyone who has ever had occasion to deal with the complexities and difficulties of mental illness. It is not to embarrass or be disloyal.

Even in our very modern era we tend to have somewhat primitive reactions to mental illness. We do not understand the many forms that it may take. We still hide such diseases and too often treat them as personal defects rather than medical conditions. Our ignorance is indicative of our unwillingness to bring discussions of mental difficulties out into the open. If I mention that my husband has heart disease nobody recoils but if I speak of the bipolar disorder that so tragically invaded my mother’s brain I can visibly see the discomfort on people’s faces. Such conversations often stop abruptly because as a society we are not yet ready to face the realities of conditions that cause our brains to work differently.

There were times when my mother’s illness was quite frightening. She was consumed with paranoia and unable to complete even simple tasks. She became a victim of the delusions that raced through her brain and it was exhausting for her and for those of us who attempted to help her to get the care that she needed. She was not bipolar, she had bipolar disorder. The difference in the wording is significant. She was never defined by her illness. There were times when she appeared to be a very different person but she was merely exhibiting symptoms of her diagnosed disorder. Her true essence could only be found when she was doing well and the ravages of the depression and mania were not affecting her thoughts and actions. Most of the time with diligence on the part of everyone she was able to function in what we often describe as a normal fashion. At other times she experienced setbacks much like anyone with a physical problem might have. It often took time to return her to good health. Her condition was chronic. Like diabetes it could be controlled but it was never going to just miraculously go away.

My mother did nothing to create her illness. It did not come from bad habits or wrong choices. It was a disease that infected the chemistry of her brain without her consent. Her psychiatrist once told me that she might have never had a psychotic experience had my father lived. She may have just appeared to be a bit eccentric, a little manic or melancholy now and again. The stress of losing her husband and being a single parent to three small children only increased the likelihood that her bipolar disorder would become more pronounced without intervention. Since none of us had any idea that she was walking around with a time bomb slowly building up pressure inside her. We were all shocked when she had her first breakdown. It was an event that none of us were able to understand. We would have known what to do if she had been diagnosed with cancer but our knowledge of mental diseases was nil.

For years I was silent about my mother’s condition. Only those closest to me knew the extent of her countless breaks from reality and our efforts to get her the help that she needed. She herself denied that she had bipolar disorder, instead insisting that my brothers and I were being brutally cruel and unfair to her. She was very good at hiding her symptoms from other people but doing so was tiring for her. She often missed work because she worried about being unmasked. She did not realize that her coworkers had figured out what was happening and they quite lovingly allowed her to play out her charade. They were exceptionally good people who alerted me each time that she began to show signs of becoming ill again. They were courageous allies in our family’s fight to keep our mother as healthy and independent as possible.

These are the kinds of things that I want my book to portray. I want people to understand that mental illness is a legitimate medical condition and that each person afflicted with it responds differently. I believe that if we are ever going to effectively treat such disorders we have to become very honest about the mere fact that they exist. We have to teach the public how to cope with such situations in loving and rational ways. Right now we are a long way from being where we need to be but I believe that the more we are willing to learn, the more likely we are to bring such diseases out of the shadows.

Right now there are millions of people suffering needlessly simply because neither they nor those who love them understand that mental illnesses can affect anybody and that they are not signs of weak character. Having a mental illness does not mean that someone is doomed to an abnormal life any more than having cancer is a death sentence. We still have much to learn about how and why such illnesses affect individuals. I believe that with determination we may one day eradicate many of the mental disturbances that now wreak havoc on so many lives, but we have to have open minds and a willingness to honestly dialogue about the realities of mental illness if we are ever to bring the kind of relief and understanding that we need. We have to have courage, something that I am attempting to find inside myself so that I will be willing to share what I believe to be a very important and inspiring story.

Truth Is Stranger Than Ficton

Published on November 1, 2016October 31, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

authors I’ve often thought of writing a novel. I have a number of ideas but honestly make believe is not as crazy as real life. Sometimes you just can’t make up stuff that is as good as reality. I’m a big fan of House of Cards but often it feels as though the writers have jumped the shark. I mean, really, the plot seems a bit far fetched but then so does our present political scene. Nobody would believe the story that is unfolding if I were to write a fictional story about it and yet it is the truth.

Imagine my creating a character who never held political office, had been married multiple times and was known as an audacious blowhard. Would anyone truly consider such a person as a potential candidate for President of the United States? What if I further demonstrated his lack of manners by writing a scenario in which he boasted of his predatory sexual conquests? Who in their right mind would be able to accept my premise that he had a rabid following of supporters?

Even more unlikely is the idea that his opponent would be a rather uncharismatic older woman who has a reputation for sometimes bending the truth and a problem with keeping matters of national security safe. Nonetheless like her buffoonish counterpart she has a loyal following who refuses to see her flaws.

Add to the mix accusations of sexual assault by the fledgling politician and a probe by the FBI into the dealings of the more established candidate and you have a freaky story that seems impossible to accept. I would be a fool to even consider writing such a plot. I suspect that I would be laughed out of the ranks of serious authors unless I somehow managed to sell it as humorous satire, which makes the reality of our present election so strange.

I keep thinking that I will wake up one morning only to find that everything has been only a very bad dream. Out of the millions of people who might have thrown their hats into the ring, how is it possible that we are faced with such a dilemma? Has being president become such an onerous job that only a few souls have the courage to even try? After all we tend to try to destroy the reputations of anyone who even considers the possibility of running. Think of the horrid accusations that have been hurled at George W. Bush and Barack Obama. Recall the terrible things said about Mitt Romney and John McCain. Who would want to even put the members of their family through such a wringer? Those ultimately willing to endure the verbal beatings are far stronger than I would ever be.

I’ve often joked that I would make a great President of the United States. Still, I think of the many ways that my sterling character might be defamed. Someone would surely find the photo of me sitting in the big middle of a gathering of the Students for a Democratic Society back when I was a freshman in college. That group went on to have a rather unhealthy reputation. I’m certain that there would be those who would suggest that I am a Communist or rabble rouser at heart.

Then there is the matter of mental illness. Both my mother and my grandmother suffered from mental breakdowns. Would my quirkiness suddenly become a sure sign of my own disorder? There would certainly be whispers that I am unfit to hold such a demanding office even though I have never personally shown any signs of having the same genetic predisposition to nervous diseases as my ancestors.

I have surely made someone angry along the way. That person will suddenly appear with a story of my anger or unfairness or other such complaint. What kind of dirt would anxious reporters find on me or members of my family? Would that quarter that I stole when I was seven become a national scandal? How would I be able to explain that I returned it four fold and confessed to my sin at least seven times?

There would no doubt be infractions that I don’t even remember. Such is the way of modern day campaigns. I doubt that I would last more than a month without withdrawing my name from the contest. I enjoy my privacy far too much. I really don’t want to become an international pin cushion in the blood sport of politics.

I suppose that there has always been a bit of nastiness associated with holding the highest office in the land. Mrs. Lincoln was all but driven insane by a press that never liked her. They had no pity when she lost her children and witnessed the murder of her husband. The public was happy enough to rid themselves of her when she quietly went away to live out her remaining days in poverty and sadness. We have a very bad habit of being rather cruel to those who live or want to live in the White House.

I don’t know where all of this drama will ultimately lead. I suppose we will have a few answers in about a week but I fear that the story will drag on for years regardless of the outcome. I don’t know about everyone else but I am a bit tired of the anger. I much prefer fairytale endings but doubt that we will see one of those for some time. I’d like to think that as people we might choose to be a bit nicer when it comes to our political thinking but that doesn’t make for much of an exciting story and right now everyone who writes is hoping for the big surprise. This election certainly doesn’t disappoint anyone who revels in irony and uncertainty. I truly wonder where it will all lead. At this point nothing seems to be out of the question. My usual ability to predict the way that people will react is out of whack. I’m just as confused as anyone. God help us!

The Early Bird Catches the Worm

Published on September 14, 2016September 7, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

beautiful-sunrise-images-hd-photos I used to wonder about my early rising friends. You know the kind of people that I am thinking of, the ones who arrive at work at six thirty in the morning and boast that they have already been to the gym and vacuumed their living room. They come bearing hot muffins that they popped into the oven while they were getting dressed. They are overly perky given the time of day and more than ready to go. I always had a hard time fathoming how anyone might push themselves out of bed before six on a weekday and nine on the weekend. I have always needed my beauty rest and I have taken it with gusto whenever possible. Then something happened that changed my entire outlook on life.

For the past several months I find myself sleeping peacefully until about four in the morning. I awake and begin to toss and turn for an hour. By five I have come to the conclusion that I am not going to be able to fall back into a peaceful slumber so I lie uncomfortably in the dark closing my eyes in the hope that maybe my body will surrender. It doesn’t happen. I’ve finally decided that the only thing to do is to begin my day before sunrise. Since I don’t want to disturb my husband I use the time for quiet endeavors. It has been a remarkably freeing experience.

I check the news on my laptop to see what happened around the world while I was dreaming. I send birthday greetings to friends on Facebook and look for important emails. Then I write my blog. The words flow readily with nobody around. It is a perfect time for reflection and for going quietly within myself. As the minutes tick by the world outside slowly begins to awaken. I hear the cars backing out of driveways as my neighbors head for work or school. Children wait for the bus on the corner right in front of my house. Those on the early route are still sleepy and make little noise while the ones who leave when the sun has lit up the sky are frisky and mischievous. I keep my blinds open so that I might see the activities taking place all around me. They somehow make me happy.

I eat my breakfast and sip on my Diet Coke while I compose my essays. Sometimes I get quite excited because I sense that I have written something important that might influence the way people think. At other times I laugh at my own platitudes and Pollyanna imitations. I enjoy my little corner of the day and love that it is uninterrupted by robocalls or knocks at the door.

I have a dear friend who routinely meditates. She has often told me of the power of silence. I have always had difficulty stilling the voices in my head. They seem to be constantly scolding me and reminding me of all that I must do. My early morning alone time has brought me a newfound peace and I find myself able to become completely relaxed. I hear the beating of my heart and feel the breaths that I take. Somehow I feel in sync with the universe without the clatter of everyday life that begins with regularity as soon as the sun is on the horizon. I am beginning to experience the beauty of silence and meditation.

For the first time I understand why the early morning risers are so happy and even a bit self righteous. I don’t plan to look down on the sleepers like some do because I have been one of them for all of my life. I will instead rejoice in learning the wonders of greeting the day in the dark. I will enjoy this new phase of my life for as long as it lasts for I fear that one morning my body will revert to its old ways and I will awake to find the sun streaming through the spaces between my curtains and the clock registering a warning that I must hurry or fall behind.

I hate to admit that my newfound ability to wake up before the chickens is a measure of my age. My mother used to tell me that she was sometimes awake at three in the morning once she entered her senior years. She and one of my aunts would talk on the phone in the dark of the early morning hours because neither of them were able to stay in bed. Research tells me that I am supposed to get eight hours of uninterrupted slumber but I can’t seem to push it past six no matter how hard I try.

I sometimes wonder if we are creating a nation of insomniacs with the constant barrage of sights and sounds that overstimulate our brains. There is rarely a time when I do not hear a car driving past my house or a siren in the distance. Planes fly overhead and my phone makes little noises indicating that someone has sent me an email or a text. People are always checking their computers, reading from screens, playing fast moving games. It will be interesting to one day discover what the effects of all of this have been besides an epidemic of pinched nerves, frozen shoulders and numb fingers. We are caught up in a brave new world in which we eliminate the sounds of nature by shoving earphones into our heads so that we might escape to loud music instead. Air conditioners are humming, clocks are ticking, appliances are buzzing and we think that we have managed to ignore them but somehow our brains are taking note and perhaps even changing in ways that make it more and more difficult to simply relax.

I still consider myself a night owl rather than a morning person. I find it difficult to go to bed before eleven. I enjoy staying up late to finish a good book. I sometimes have my most eloquent ideas after everyone else has retired. I plan to enjoy my newfound morning hours for now. Who knew that I would one day be joining the early birds that I used to think were obnoxious? Life is certainly full of surprises and maybe even a few extra worms.

One Picture, A Thousand Words

Published on May 27, 2016 by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

minnie bell85759993_133385194360 A former colleague and friend has agreed to help me include photographs in the body of the book that I have written. I’ve spent a great deal of time to that end sorting through boxes and albums containing images of family members that tell as powerful a story as the one that I have related with phrases, sentences and paragraphs. The old saying is that a picture is worth a thousand words and I have been reminded of the truth of that statement as I study each of the snapshots from my family’s history that have been forever captured in black and white, Kodachrome and pixels.

After my mother died my brothers and I spent many hours inside her home dividing up her few belongings. I was amazed at how many cards, drawings, letters, invitations, programs and photos she had saved. I found pictures that I had never before seen that had long languished inside boxes. It appeared that at some point my mom attempted to identify the people and the places so that we might one day have a clearer understanding of her personal history. The best of the lot were the black and white images from the nineteen forties when she was young and her whole adult life lay before her. Many of those images held commentaries such as “Those Happy Days” or “Such a nice person.” It was as though she wanted us to understand who she had been when the road before her was still based mostly on dreams.

I so enjoyed seeing my mother with her brothers and sisters, mugging for the camera, walking arm in arm down 1940’s Houston streets, and looking so incredibly young and beautiful. There were at least two quite handsome young men whose photos she kept, noting that they had purchased engagement rings for her before she had even met my father. One of them was killed during World War II and the other she turned down even as she noted that he was always a gentleman. I mostly loved seeing the pictures of my grandparents when they were younger than I remembered them, younger than I am now. I lingered over the postcards and panoramas from trips that Mama had taken. I laughed to learn that she traveled alone to San Diego when she was only seventeen to visit with a friend, demonstrating the daring spirit that would always define her.

My favorite photos were the ones that showed my mother and father flirting with one another during their courtship and early days of wedded bliss. It was almost shocking to see how young and in love they were. They mugged and teased in the style of the day. Mama vamped on top of automobiles and Daddy leaned on lamp posts gazing at my mother as though he had just won the lottery. Mama carefully recorded her feelings on so many of those pictures that show them in the first blush of their courtship.

Eventually the chronology of their life together led to photographs of me and my brothers. They took noticeably fewer snapshots of each other once we were born. Their lives appeared to shift focus. Their own visages became more serious. Instead of looking at each other they looked adoringly on us. Nonetheless, one image taken only months before my father’s shocking death shows them holding hands while walking down the streets of Hot Springs, Arkansas. It provides a testimonial of the depth of their feelings for one another. It shows one of those rare moments away from their children when they were relaxed and still so much in love.

The remainder of the memories are the story of our family life without our father. Somehow we managed to hit all of the milestones and find our own special kind of happiness. Of course that was mainly due to our mother’s determination to provide us with the safety and security that we needed at a time when our futures appeared to be so bleak. She did a yeoman’s job and somehow found the inner strength to provide us with a show of optimism in spite of our circumstances. I would find notations and writings that indicated the truth of the struggle that she silently and bravely endured.

My mother remained a pretty lady for all of her days. She possessed a radiance and unselfish spirit that drew people to her. Her albums are filled with memories of celebrations and parties and the people who meant so much to her. Eventually she grew tired and her friends became less energetic themselves. Many of them even died. She spent a great deal of her time alone. She collected readings from the Bible and verses that appealed to her. She wrote about the positive aspects of suffering and how enduring pain and loss had only made her feel closer to Jesus.

I discovered aspects of my mother’s personality and life story that I had never before known. I was able to gaze objectively into her world, not as her child but as a fellow human being. She had kept pieces of her heart hidden away and it felt amazing to get to know her in a whole new way. She became more real to me than she had ever been. I began to understand her on an almost spiritual level and I was awash with gratitude for all of the sacrifices that she had made for me and my brothers. It was a truly humbling experience to take a marathon tour of her memories.

We each travel through the modern world recording our own histories with selfies and images of the people that we know and the places to which we travel. Our faces and expressions tell stories of our passages through time. I wonder how many of our most special memories might one day be tossed away or deleted by distant descendants who don’t even know who we are. Will there be no one left to understand the meaning of our poses and our smiles?

Whenever I eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant I find myself looking at the old portraits lining the walls. I wonder who the people are and how their pictures ended up so impersonally decorating a place where nobody knows their names. There is a kind of sadness in knowing that their fate has become being a caricature of an era long past. It seems wrong that their lovely photographs have met such a lonely fate.

I now have a new goal. I plan to organize the thousands of photos that are in my possession. They will be far more meaningful for the next generation and those that come in the years long after I am gone if I take care in identifying their importance. My first step is going to be to include some of them inside the covers of my book so that my readers will have faces to put with the grand story of a little family that did its best to muddle its way through life. I hope that my words will equal the grandeur of how special they really were. Perhaps then the people that mean so much to me will find a way to live on forever.