All It Takes Is A Little Love

I’m certainly not one who should be writing about how to have patience because I admittedly sometimes have strong tendencies to hurry things up. I injured my ankle and pushed the envelope of healing by doing to much too soon. I found myself having an even longer period of healing than might otherwise have been the case. We humans all too often expect things to happen more quickly than is possible and then we get upset when they do not. I see this in so many aspects of society.

The whole world was affected by the pandemic. Many people died before we began to take hold of the situation. Doctors and scientists were sharing information to get things under control. It took time and as with any such situation mistakes were made. Sadly far too many people insisted on rushing as quickly as possible to return to normal, ignoring protocols suggested by professionals simply because they quickly grew weary of the sacrifices we were all being asked to make. More lives might have been saved had we demonstrated a bit more patience with the situation instead of expecting perfection from the get go. 

A situation resulting from the pandemic was the loss of learning among students. It was only natural that the youngest members of our communities would be negatively affected. They had more on their minds than just learning. As my mother wisely counseled me when I first began teaching, if the child’s situation at home is troubled they will have a very difficult time paying attention and focusing.

So many youngsters were experiencing the deaths of family members and struggling to adjust to remote learning. Little wonder that schools are still attempting to make up for the gaps in knowledge. Nonetheless, some states like mine insisted on very quickly testing students and holding entire school districts accountable for low scores. It seems as though nobody thought that it might have been more appropriate to be patient as the return to normalcy was taking more time than expected. Instead my state took control of a major school district when the better response would have been to support and encourage even small signs of growth. 

Our nation has been suffering from inflation but so has virtually every other nation in the world. In fact, our inflation rate is much lower than those in Europe. Instead of being thankful that people are working and that the worst is over we grumble that the improvement in our economy is not as fast as we would like it to be. Once again the lack of patience causes us to overreact to the slowness of recovery. 

I remember working in a school that was struggling to get decent student scores on the state test. The subject area supervisors came to our campus to help us devise a plan to raise the scores and improve the learning environment overall. They spent the whole first year teaching us how to analyze the testing data to know where our students’ difficulties lay. Then we had cross campus meetings with the schools in our feeder pattern to share what we had learned so that they might also emphasize our areas of concern as they taught their students. The second year we received extensive training in methodologies designed to make our teaching more focused and interesting. We also had long meetings to redesign our lesson plans and our pacing. By the end of that year our students were indeed performing better but we were not yet where we needed to be. It took about four years for our school to meet expectations and by the fifth year we were exceeding goals in all subjects. We did this because the district understood that getting to that point would take time. They were patient in watching our progress and not asking us to perform miracles overnight. 

Our world is riddled with problems but they are rarely solved by quick fixes. The revolutionary war that resulted in the United States appeared to be a hopeless cause initially. If those fighting for independence had lost their will to keep going simply because it was taking too long there would be no United State of America. The same can be said with the Civil War. Abraham Lincoln was not willing to accept defeat even as his army lost battle after battle in the beginning of that conflict. The willingness to stick with the plan to keep the union whole was not hurried or abandoned and we reclaimed the United States.

There is very little worth accomplishing that comes out well without patience and determination. We can improve education with patience and hard work. We might stop the march of climate change by patiently working to rid ourselves of habits that damage our environment. There are so many problems that take time and sacrifice to change. Ankles can heal only if there is not a rush to overwork them too quickly. So too it is with most projects that are worthwhile. We can solve the problems of mass shooting but not if we only say a few prayers and add more locks and gates to keep out the bad guys. Life demands that we do things right and sometimes that means we have to also make mistakes and rectify them in the process of moving toward a good solution for problems. It is much like the scientific method. It’s okay if we go down the wrong path as long as we find our way back to where we need to be. Everything requires patience. We would do well to learn how to develop a willingness to do things at the right pace. Most of life is not a race. 

When my grandchildren were young I enjoyed having them at my house for sleepovers. I told them stories that I created just for them. They were silly little tales designed to make them laugh which they almost always did. We had lots of fun together and I always hated when it was time for them to return to their parents after a fun time together. 

Over time the storytelling changed. They wanted to know about me and the members of our extended family. They interrupted my dialogues to ask questions as they probed into the information about my own childhood and the people in our family tree who came before them. They liked hearing about their great great grandfather, William, who died long before they were born. They asked about their great grandfather, Jack, who was little more than a phantom in the past in their eyes. They wanted to hear more stories about my free range childhood spent in a neighborhood environment that sounded strange to them. 

When we had enough time Mike and I drove them to see the houses where we grew up. Somehow the run down neighborhoods of our youth and the tiny homes in which we resided did not jibe with the tales of joy and adventure that we had described in those places. I saw that it was difficult for them to connect the weathered neighborhoods with our fairytale stories. Times had changed. The areas had gone out of favor. Our former homes seemed to be too small for families. Their rundown appearance was difficult to reconcile with our newer and more modern abode. They had a problem imagining the innocence of our own youth when faced with the reality of how much had changed where life had once been idyllic.

Even I struggled to understand how it was possible for my childhood home to seem so small. Surely the tiny structure sitting on a small lot was not the place that I remembered. My recollection was of a yard so large that it rivaled a city park. We played our games like lords of the estate. The house itself and those around felt spacious and lovely in the recollections that I had conveyed. Instead I spoke as thought describing a fairy castle but what I saw a little wooden structure in need of repairs and several coats of paint. The place seemed so forlorn and not at all like the home that had been filled with the laughter of family and friends. My grandchildren quietly stared at the scene as though it had revealed the calumny of my accounts of my Tom Sawyer like childhood. It was difficult for them to believe that I had felt safe in the area that seemed to have become neglected and forgotten. 

I never again took my grandchildren back to the old family homestead. I wanted them to believe in my memories and it was too difficult to explain to them how the area had not weathered well in the decades since I walked out the front door of my childhood home to start my new life as an adult. Seeing the reality of time and change had even made me question the memories that seemed so crystal clear in my mind. It was as though the world had moved on from that house and the neighborhood in which it stood just as I once had. It was painful to view the reality of what had happened to the little place. 

A time came after I had retired from my decades as a teacher and school administrator when I volunteered to tutor students in mathematics at a high school that had been created in the building where I once learned my pre-college lessons. Once or twice each week I returned to the scene of my youth and now and again I drove slowly down the street where I once rode my bicycle and played ball with my friends. The home that I so loved seemed to get more and more dilapidated as time passed. It was painful to see, so I began to avoid my nostalgic journeys and instead went straight to the school to interact with the teens who needed an extra push to do well in their classes. 

During breaks I told them of my own adventures in the venerable building where they were learning about mathematics and science and history. Since the school had been gutted and remodeled in beautiful ways they had no problem imagining me enjoying my teen years in the same rooms where they now learned. It was only when I spoke of living on Belmark Street and walking to school that they seemed to be confused. One day they mentioned that they were not able to reconcile the disconnectedness of someone like me living in the neighborhood that now seemed to be so downtrodden. I laughed when I told them that they instead needed to imagine a time when the whole area was shiny and new and filled with young families with children playing in yards up and down every single street. Somehow I felt as I spun my magical memories that they were still in great doubt that such a place had ever existed but they humored me nonetheless. 

After I no longer tutored at the school in my old neighborhood I did not see my family home again for many years. Recently I took a deep breath and traveled through the familiar streets to see how the place was doing. I almost shouted for joy when I saw that someone had graced the house with a bit of love and care. It had a brand new roof and a beautiful coat of paint that made it almost seem to smile. The yard had grass again as well. It was a beautiful and welcome site that told me that somebody had decided to take care of the building and turn it back into a home. It warmed my heart and became the image that I choose to hold when I think of the place now and then. It was beautiful again just as I had described to my grandchildren. It had come back to life as vividly as I had remembered it. I seemed to be the mansion that I remembered in the way that only children see things. Maybe one day I’ll take my now grown grandchildren back to see it again. For now I’ll just tuck that image in my heart.

I always marvel at how distinctly individual my brothers and I are. It is difficult to imagine that three people who grew up together in the same house with the same family experiences would turn out to be so very different from each other. I consider it a testament to the wisdom and love of our single parent mom that we each became our own persons without any efforts to clone us into duplications of each other. Our mother seemed to understand how important it was to allow us to develop the way we each needed to do in order to find our individual happiness. She was not inclined to influence or direct our thinking in one way or another. Our talents unfolded and she supported our choices in using them to become the persons that we are. 

I sometimes watch the world at large and feel confused by the efforts of individuals and groups and nations to classify and even rank people. I cannot understand why humans so often are inclined to see each other as indistinguishable members of groups rather than the unique people that they are. Sadly even in the seemingly more advanced and educated modern times there are still those who see people only through the lens of skin color or location of birth or even religious affiliation rather than celebrating the vast variety of the human experience. It is as though some people are unable to distinguish between the labels they have placed on us. They judge humans based only on where they were born and who their parents are.

We humans are still not quite able to curb our tendencies to favor certain groups over others. We speak of the relative value of the east versus the west. Some even go so far as to speak of “good immigrants” versus “bad immigrants” based on superficial criteria like incomes, levels of education and places of origin. Prejudices still abound even as people like me assumed that things were better than they once were. I admit to falling into a state of naivety now and again only because it can be exhausting to admit to the work that we still must do if we are ever to become a worldwide community of acceptance rather  than one in which our attitudes toward each other seem to be predetermined by age old stereotypes. 

My mother’s parents came to the United States over one hundred years ago from Eastern Europe. It would be an understatement to say that they were fleeing prejudices in their native country. At that time they were thought to be lesser than Europeans living farther west. They were under the dominion of the Austro-Hungarian Empire where there were active efforts to eliminate their culture and language to reshape them into what was then deemed to be a more superior way of living, thinking and believing. They chose instead to move to “America” where they would have the freedom to be themselves. Sadly they often times encountered as much prejudice in their new world as they had experienced in the old one. 

My mother spoke of having rocks and insults hurled at her as she walked to school. The taunts she heard accused her of being dumb, dirty and unwanted. Luckily her father encouraged her to ignore the ignorance of others and to hold her head high. She and her siblings eventually blended into society without markers of skin color or manner of speaking differentiating them and relegating them to lower status. Others who have come here either by choice or by force have not been as fortunate. The sad truth is that there are still people whose prejudices determine how they see others. 

I have honestly never been able to understand why we humans have had tendencies to view one type of person as being innately better than another. I know that not everyone thinks in restrictive terms but the mere fact that such ideas exist anywhere has been the cause of disagreements and wars. Somehow there are still too many people who cannot get past the concept of rating and ranking people with superficial and mostly false ideas. Quite recently someone told me that Eastern Europeans think that they are white but they are not.

When I was teaching I witnessed the magnificence of my thousands of students who haled from virtually every culture, background and nation in the world. While their origins did indeed affect the colors of their skin and hair and eyes, their essence lay in their hearts and minds which were as beautiful and diverse as nature. I learned as much from them as they learned from me. I began to see people without the superficialities of their appearance or the way that they spoke. I even recall the exact moment when I was able to look past the scars of a young girl who had been severely burned and left with what might be seen by most as a hideous body. Once I got to know who she really was she became so lovely and wonderful in my eyes. I have often wished that we might all be able to transform the way we view the people around by looking past what we might otherwise have seen as flaws. 

There are indeed bad actors within every group. They do not define each individual. Beauty is not a singular set of characteristics. Intellect and talents vary from person to person. The engineer is not more valuable to us than the artist. We need everyone to make our world wonderful and exciting. Humans are not machines to be rated as good, better or best or even no good at all. The sooner we learn how to set our prejudices aside, the better our world will be. 

When I was a little girl and my father had died I remember sneaking into what had been my parent’s room, opening the closet door and lying on the floor next to my Daddy’s shoes. It was like having him near me once again. While his clothes returned to their original state after laundering or cleaning, his shoes retained the imprint of his feet. I suppose that if I had filled them with plaster and then taken out the resulting sculpture it would have been a perfect rendering of the feet that once moved him from one adventure after another in his very young life. Somehow his shoes were incredibly personal and so much a part of him and his personality. 

When my mother finally found the courage to remove his belongings I was quietly devastated. I did not want anyone to know how silly I was to want to keep his shoes for all time. I cried in the confines of my bedroom, knowing that another part of him was going away. 

Years later when my mother died, it was not her clothing that was the most difficult to send away, but her shoes. Once again her footwear became emblematic of her life. On her slippers and flats I saw the indentations that reminded me of her life. 

There is something so intensely moving about the shoes of a person who has died. It is as though the coverings for feet somehow retain the essence of the person who wore them. Perhaps that is why there was once a trend to take a baby’s first walking shoes and bronze them as a keepsake for all time. Maybe it is why the enormous pile of shoes in the National Holocaust Museum brought me to tears. Each set of footwear was a person, someone who had walked on this earth with all of the human feelings and experiences that were so normal until that terrible moment when everything changed. 

I have a pair of reindeer slippers that my friends Egon and Marita loaned to my daughter Maryellen when she was a toddler. They had purchased the shoes in Norway and were saving them for the time when they would have their own first child. In the meantime Marita was not successful in conceiving a baby so she sweetly suggested that Maryellen use the furry slippers until she outgrew them. 

Maryellen loved those slippers. She wore them all day long and threw enormous fits of anger whenever I tried to replace them with sturdier shoes. They seemed to be permanently glued to her feet until her toes began to curl inside because her feet had grown. Only then did she surrender the slippers. When I attempted to return them to Egon and Marita, they suggested that I keep them until they needed them. Sadly, they never had children and the tiny slippers remain in my cedar chest as a reminder of my loving friends and my independent minded daughter who has grown into a magnificent woman. 

Those slippers look as good as new save for the imprint of Maryellen’s tiny feet in the folds of the fur. They also are slightly damaged due to an encounter with a curious dog who seemed to think that they were actually a chew toy. Luckily I rescued them before they were totally ruined. Now they bring a smile to my face each time I glimpse them among the other treasures stored away inside the chest that was a gift when I graduated from college.

Some people are willing to wear hand me down shoes. I’ve never wanted to do that because it almost feels like a desecration to use them after someone else has embossed them and defined them. Besides I suspect that they would not be particularly comfortable because of the imprint of another person’s foot. The comfort of the original owner may not be the same for someone new. 

My Grandpa Little often told tales about shoes. Perhaps he had the same kind of reverence for them that I have. He once spoke of owning a pair of lace up boots as a young boy that were becoming ever more painful to wear because he had outgrown them. His grandmother insisted that he had to use them just a bit longer until she was able to afford to purchase a new pair for him. He laughed as he related how he solved his problem by taking a knife and cutting off the toes of the upper leather to free his feet from the cramped area. He admitted that he must have looked rather strange with his open toed boots, but his inventiveness allowed him to use them for several more months until his feet were literally hanging over the soles of each shoe and his grandmother agreed that it was time for some new ones. 

My mother often boasted that she was the youngest of eight children. She was proud of her ability to adjust to any situation which she believed had resulted from having to defend herself from her raucous siblings. She told me that until she learned how to sew and got a job to earn some money to purchase cloth she had never owned any article of clothing or pair shoes that were brand new. In fact she recalled that her shoes had often been used multiple times before they finally came to her, often with holes in the soles. She marveled at her mother’s ingenuity in finding cardboard to place in the bottom of the shoes to cover the worn spots of leather. Still, she took great joy in providing me and my brothers with brand new well fitting shoes that where often her greatest extravagance and gift to us.

I suppose that I have a kind of shoe fetish. Somehow of all the things that we wear, shoes seem to represent the most personal aspect of who we are. Shoes tell stories and whisper memories of the persons who wore them. It’s always difficult to let them go. They speak to us in such very personal ways.

I have a nephew who likes to have special dinner parties. Not only is he an exceptional cook, but he also likes to create a theme around his gatherings. He’s invested in a round dining table that comfortably seats eight people making the occasions intimate and interesting. He brings out his finest china and creates food worthy of a five star chef. He would literally be able to write a book on how to entertain and probably should consider doing such a thing. 

For quite some time I have felt quite special each time he has invited us to his beautifully appointed home for one of his “fancies.” I felt that I should reciprocate but was never quite brave enough to ask an entertainer of his caliber to enjoy my more humble fare. Then one day I blurted out that I wanted him to come to my home for dinner for a change. I suppose he sensed that he needed to seize the invitation before I lost my courage and found excuses for cancelling. He quickly suggested that we meet only five days later if I was available. Even though I was a bit stunned, I heartily agreed and immediately began to worry that I had bitten off more than I might be able to chew. 

I spent the following day attempting to decide what to cook. I wanted something that I might prepare early in the day and then just pop out of the oven shortly after my nephew’s arrival. I found a fabulous recipe for a roast that would slow cook for hours along with vegetables. The only last minute cooking would involve preparing gravy. That sounded just right because I wanted to focus on my guests rather than be skittering about in the kitchen like a mad woman attempting to do multiple tasks at the same time. 

I cleaned my home from top to bottom so that it looked well kept and purposeful, if not worthy of a decorating magazine. My friend, Pat, had taught me that people feel more comfortable eating if the dust is gone, the floors are swept, and the kitchen looks pristine. I made sure that the garbage can was emptied and the disposal was not harboring some old remains that left a strange odor in the air. Step one in my planning was rather easily secured.

I decided to set a pretty table with a cloth, candles and chargers under my dishes. I took out my best water glasses and wine stems and used my white linen napkins that had been dutifully washed and ironed. The effect was lovely so step two seemed to be a success as well.

Meanwhile my entree was slowly filling the air with a delightful bouquet of spices. The timing of every aspect was under my control so I was even able to don makeup and a nice outfit to make me appear to be a composed and confident hostess. Still, I knew that the test of my efforts would come in the final execution of the tasting once we sat down together to eat. 

When I told my daughters who was coming to dinner they wished me luck and mentioned that I was brave to host such a gifted entertainer like my nephew. They mentioned that it would be like inviting Emeril to dinner. Then the eldest assured me that I was a good cook in my own right and that all would go well. 

The doorbell rang and there stood my nephew and his spouse. There were hugs all around and comments about how lovely my home was looking. We all sat for a time in the great room sipping on wine and then I excused myself to make the final preparations while they enjoyed a conversation with my husband and father-in-law. 

Everything was looking good so I announced that dinner was ready. We took our places around the table and the gayety continued as we filled our plates and began tasting my efforts at cooking. To my delight everything seemed perfect and the compliments began to flow. I felt less and less nervous as the clock ticked. When my guests went back for second helpings I knew that I had succeeded. Nobody was just being polite. They actually liked what I had made. 

We never left the table that evening. The conversations went on and on and everyone was having a very good time. Even the dessert which was store bought apple strudel seemed to be a hit. Best of all there was a high level of comfort that filled the air. My father-in-law who generally excuses himself to go to bed no later than nine at night, stayed through the extended evening. 

We said our goodbyes after eleven and expressed our wish to enjoy such an evening again. We already have a date on the calendar for later this month. I felt good as I tossed the plates and utensils and cookware into the dishwasher and wiped down the countertops. I may not be a five star level hostess but I had put together a very successful party. It finally occurred to me that all of it was more about the people who were there than any skills I might possess or lack. Gathering at a table is one of the most intimate activities that we humans do. It is the stuff of memories and love.