All It Takes Is A Little Love

I really really really want to be optimistic about the state of the world, but it sometimes seems as though a significant number of humans have gone mad. I find myself wondering if this is how it felt to be alive during the period of time between 1914 and the year of my birth in 1948. People who were alive back then witnessed a war that was supposed to end wars but did not, a worldwide depression, climate induced droughts, the rise of fascism, a second world war and the birth of communist China and the Soviet Union. Little wonder that my maternal grandfather often openly cried about what he witnessed happening across the globe. 

I never met Grandpa Ulrich but I saw his library of books and heard snatches of his biography from my mother and one of my cousins who was old enough to have met him. He was apparently a learned man who found refuge in the United States of America when the politics of his homeland became unbearable. He created a good life in Houston, Texas with back breaking labor and determination. In spite of his worries about the ultimate fate of the world he was optimistic enough to make plans for one day retiring and moving to land that he owned where he would finally be able to farm. A fatal stroke ended both his dreams and his life before I even entered this world. 

As a child I felt a kind of spiritual connection to the books that my grandfather had once read. I would run my fingers over the dusty tomes with a grand variety of titles. I was quite impressed with the idea that the man I had never met had devoured the contents of so many different genres. He must have indeed become a very learned man in spite of his lack of formal education. It did not surprise me at all to discover from my cousin that our grandfather had purchased and read a book every week which he enjoyed discussing with the eager lad who was his grandson. The titles suggest that he had a scientific bent as well as an interest in world history and politics. 

My mother often described listening to programs on the radio with her father and her siblings. She noted that Grandpa demanded silence during news broadcasts when the President addressed the nation. He kept up with global political movements and often lectured his children on the need to always be vigilant and protective of freedom. He also constantly worried about the political patterns that he saw unfolding in Europe and fretted over the human tendencies to ignore warning signs that things were amiss. He urged his children to watch situations carefully and learn from them.

I suppose that both my father and my two grandfathers inspired me to keep tabs on the past, the present and the future of the world. My teachers further ingrained the importance of carefully analyzing the unfolding of current events to make predictions about where the world was heading in the future. The ignorance and innocence that might have made life easier for me faded rather quickly when I followed their lead by voraciously reading more and more to determine truth. Sometimes the conclusions that I have reached have not been so happy and I have more and more understood why the grandfather that I never met had often cried about the condition of the world and its people. 

As we are poised for a year in which wars are raging, sabers are rattling and an important Presidential election will happen, I find myself fretting over what all of this will mean for the future. Like my grandfather I am keeping close tabs and even optimistically hoping that somehow we humans will join together to create a better future. I still believe that the goodness that is innate in all of us will ultimately triumph, but I worry about who will suffer as the human race gets its act together. There are so many reasons for concern.

We seem to be unable to agree on much of anything these days. We either believe that climate change is one of our  major issues or think that the whole concept is a political hoax. We are on the side of freedom, but we seem to have different definitions of what that actually is. We want guns to be heavily controlled or freely available. We think that January 6, 2020 was an insurrection designed to incite a coup or a peaceful protest over a stolen election. We are sorrowful over the massive loss of lives during the pandemic or we think it was never really anything more than a case of the flu. We want to hear the unvarnished facts of history or move beyond the mistakes of the past by ignoring our transgressions. We can’t even decide who is the victim and who is the invader in the wars being fought across the globe. Our inability to agree has led to a standstill in which nothing ever happens to alleviate problems until we explode into a state of tragedy. This is what keeps me awake at night. 

I really want 2024 to be a year of hope and peace and love. I know that we will never reach perfection but just seeing some signs of progress will help. It’s long past time for the people of the world to come together. History shows us that we never agree totally but there is room to consider all of our needs and desires. The dreams of my grandfather haunt me and give me hope. 

Throughout my lifetime there have been surprise attacks on the stability of my family. I suppose this is true for most people. Horrific things tend to happen without warning and I have had to learn how to adjust my course. At the same time good surprises also come, often at the very times when I feel as though my resilience is waning. After seventy five years of enduring both storms and sunny days I feel both battered and blessed. Often it is in the seemingly most insignificant moments that I find enormous helpings of sustaining joy. 

One evening I was sitting with my husband and father-in-law talking about this and that before preparing dinner. I was only half heartedly participating in the discussion. My mind was actually far away, thinking of of how I longed for the days of my childhood and the Friday night visits to my Grandmother Ulrich’s house. Somehow I found a way to weave my memories of her into the conversation. Before long my husband, Mike, was showing his father photos of my grandmother holding cups of the weak sugary coffee that she always offered to her guests. She was the quintessential hostess padding across the floor of her home in her bare feet and worn cotton dress with a welcoming expression on her face that said everything about her generosity and love. 

As Mike and I delightedly described gatherings at Grandma’s house one thought led to another until finally we had decided to hop into our truck and travel to her old neighborhood just east of downtown Houston.  On a whim we all wanted to view the tiny house that my grandfather had paid to be built one room at a time, the home where my mother and her seven siblings had grown up, the site of some of the most joyous moments of my life. We quickly gathered ourselves and jumped into the truck in pursuit of a random and unplanned adventure. 

Our short journey was like a mapping of my life as we left Pearland where we now live and headed down the beltway to southeast Houston where I pointed out the places that had once been so integral to my history. I had stories to go with landmark after landmark. There was Almeda Mall, St. Frances Cabrini, the church where I had worshipped and worked, my mother’s home, the site of the first house that Mike and I purchased, places where I had plied my skills as a teacher. It felt as though every square inch of the area through which we passed was home to sacred memories that reminded me of all the good people and good times that had dominated my life. It was impossible not to associate this place and that one with so much joy that I felt a kind of reverent gratitude for the people and places that had filled the hours and days and years leading to the present time. 

Before long we left the freeway and drove along Broadway Boulevard. We showed Mike’s dad apartment projects that we had found too expensive for our budget when we first married. I spoke of how much I had enjoyed working at St. Christopher Catholic School. We missed seeing the old Chuck Wagon where we bought the best hamburgers imaginable and the DPS building where I had nervously tested for my driver’s license. Driving on we saw the turn for my Aunt Valeria’s former home and pointed out the schools that had sat on the land even when our mothers were teenagers. We drove past the turning basin of the Houston Ship Channel and adjusted our course to head down Navigation Street where my mother once stood waving at President Franklin Roosevelt as he motored down the street. Finally we drove past the little house that had been the site of so many glorious childhood memories with my aunts and uncles and cousins.

Nowadays the house on North Adams Street is surrounded by businesses and industrial complexes. Only one other home has survived the march of change. There was a time when it was a quiet little refuge for sweet people who had lived there for all of their lives. Now they were gone, victims of progress and the changing use of land in the shadow of downtown. It was nice to see that the present day owners of my grandmother’s home were keeping the place in fairly good repair. It was painted a bright blue hue that made it look happy. There were plants and flowers indicating someone’s care. it reminded me of a favorite childhood book about a little house that ended up between two tall buildings in the middle of downtown. It made me smile to look at it and I wondered if the people living there had any idea of the remarkable joy that had been so much of the essence of the place. 

We had decided celebrate our little trip with dinner at a restaurant owned by one of Mike’s high school classmates. It is so close to the downtown area that it has become a favorite haunt of people who work there or attend ball games and concerts nearby. The area closest to down is enjoying a bit of gentrification but leaders with an historical bent are attempting to keep the essence and culture of the area intact. I thought of my mother’s stories of her father taking a bus to work at the Houston Packing Company which was once just down the street. It was the place where my grandfather spent most of his work life. 

After enjoying a delightful TexMex meal we ventured into downtown, passing by Minute Maid Park, the home of the Houston Astros. My grandfather lived in a rented room near that site of the ball park when he first arrived from Austria Hungary just before World War I. He worked on a farm in those early days, saving to send for his bride. I almost felt his spirit reminding me to work hard and be proud of my freedoms in this country. 

It was a wonderful evening that distracted me from the hardships of the world and reminded me of my heritage and the long arc of history from which I have come. I need to follow that pathway now and again to remember who I am and how much I have been loved. It was indeed a glorious evening more valuable to me than a journey to foreign places. Along that drive lay the so much of the story of my life and it was good.

Christmas celebrations with family and friends are quite lovely and magical for me, but a few days after the high point of revelry I generally find myself feeling exhausted and even a bit disoriented. I have trouble remembering what day of the week it is and I begin to engage in quiet activities like reading and taking afternoon naps. The introvert in me needs to step back just a bit to recharge my batteries and prepare for tackling all of the resolutions I have created for the new year. I love parties and gatherings, but I can only take so many before I begin to whither into a wall flower. Sitting in the dark on a recliner while watching a movie at a theater is my kind of post celebration activity. 

Because of the worldwide pandemic it has been quite some time since I have done such a thing. This year a few days after Christmas I was more than eager to find a good film to lazily view while munching on popcorn and sipping on a Diet Coke. I was surprised to learn that there was not much out there that caught my attention. The available fare was lacking in imagination with so many of the film titles seeming to be reinventions of old stories. I did not think that I would be up to spending four hours watching Napoleon and titles like Wonka or The Claw were not what I had in mind for chilling while charging my emotional batteries. The Color Purple sounded more like a movie I would watch with a woman friend rather than my husband, so I landed on a flick that I knew nothing about. 

The Boys In the Boat is a film based on the book of the same name by Daniel James Brown. The nonfiction bestseller from 2013, seemed to be a winning concept for director George Clooney who was enthralled by the inspirational true story. Set during the Great Depression of the 1930s it follows the unlikely rise of a team of eight young men who formed a rowing team at the University of Washington. Ultimately they would find themselves representing the United States at the 1936 Olympic games in Berlin. 

While the book had more time to develop the background of each team member’s journey, the film hit the highlights of their incredible accomplishments. It focused on their dedication, hard work and the all important requirement of teamwork. Director Clooney demonstrated how difficult it is for eight different people to come together in unison to propel the boat forward as though the individuals had become one force. The film also showed how athletically demanding rowing actually is. 

Unlike many critics I found the movie to be quite wonderful. I have seen the blockbusters of the year like Barbie, Oppenheimer and Killers of the Flower Moon. I truly enjoyed each of those films and felt that the stories and the acting were top of the line, but I found The Boys In the Boat to be a relaxing, feel good experience in a time when there is so much negativity and uncertainty in the world. I liked the themes that Clooney chose to showcase with likable characters who possessed characteristics that are all too often dismissed as being old fashioned. Mostly I loved the idea that even during very hard times the team and its coach worked together in a spirit of cooperation where no one person was better than another. 

Perhaps my greatest sorrow as we enter a new year is the breakdown of goodwill and relationships that I witness all over the world. In a time when we should have worked together there were all too many people whining and attempting to throw a wrench into the efforts to overcome the devastating effects of the pandemic. The lack of understanding and cooperation has saddened me. Seeing that it continues in the halls of government and in terrible wars around the globe is one of my greatest disappointments. 

There was a time in the very beginning of Covid’s hold on the world that we actually seemed to be working in unison, but there were far too many people who turned the illness into a political football leading to divisions that are not yet healed. The Boys In the Boat demonstrates the joy and importance of real teamwork. It is a metaphor for the kind of hopefulness and love that we all wish to enjoy. The irony of that incredible University of Washington team was the power of their humility and determination in defeating a German team of athletes hand picked to demonstrate the twisted beliefs of a fascist dictator. It was an old fashioned contest of good versus evil, something that has somehow become difficult to clearly find in the present time. 

We need heroes, so we search for them. Sometimes they are found in the most unexpected places. The United States eight man rowing team of 1936 was just what the world needed. Watching their story unfold on a big screen was a panacea for me, a reminder that goodness is always alive. We only have to hear stories about good people like the Washington rowing team and surely we will know that working together we will overcome the challenges that we face. What better theme might we embrace at the dawn of 2024!    

After a few years of reduced participation in holiday revelry due to the Covid pandemic we decided to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into celebrating both Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Much like the vacationers who crammed the sites of Europe this past summer we found ourselves in crowds wherever we went during the days just after Thanksgiving and right up to the end of the year. It was as though everyone was ready for a bacchanal unlike anything they had seen since 2019. The world was anxious to get back to normal and in the process we seemed to create an abnormal situation. 

The stores were filled with shoppers who descended on the goods like moths in a closet filled with wool. By mid December it looked as though looters had stripped the shelves of anything that might be used in the season. There were long lines at checkout stations that demanded both patience and fortitude. Amazon vans and their drivers became so familiar on neighborhood streets that we began to wave at the drivers as they delivered the boxes filled with gifts for friends and family. It felt as though the world had come back to life with a vengeance. 

I live in the fourth largest metropolitan area in the United States and to say that the holiday traffic was congested would be an understatement. It did not seem to matter what time of day that I chose to travel, I was unable to avoid traffic jams on both the freeways and side roads. I was so happy to see things coming back to life that I decided just to enjoy the realization that perhaps all of the terrible illness, loss and suffering of the last few holiday seasons had mostly come to an end. I simply smiled at the thought of so much life still brimming every place that I went. 

Our family was finally able to get everyone back together on Christmas Eve. It was wonderful to see all of the people on the many branches of our family tree in one space. The celebration was only tinged with a bit of sorrow because one person was still at home battling a very serious illness and another had died early in the fall. Otherwise we were one big and happy group hugging and celebrating that most of us were still here. Somehow nothing meant more to us than reuniting with all of the old traditions and trappings. 

Mostly life was feeling quite wonderful to me in spite of injuring my ankle while decorating my home. I was getting around nicely with a medical boot on my foot and I had managed to prepare a reduced version of my Christmas Day celebration with family. I realized that I was so out of practice with the mega revelry that I had enjoyed during the entire month of December that I was somewhat exhausted but determined to keep up the pace. After all, it was time to set aside the past and look to a brighter future. 

I decided that a bonafide celebration of New Year’s Eve was in order. We had always done something special on that evening over the years. For quite some time we had parties with my cousins and their spouses. When they began to move to different parts of the country we started a new tradition with our friends, Bill and Pat. Each year we met them at a restaurant and then chose a movie to see. After the film we gathered at their home and waited for the countdown to the new year. We’d toast each other with wine or champagne while hugging and kissing each other and believing that we would surely follow the tradition well into our old age. Sadly Pat died and then Bill also left this earth. It was time to do something new once again.

For several years Mike and I had dinner on New Year’s Eve at a lovely restaurant called Nino’s.  In 2019 we were there not knowing how much things would suddenly change. We enjoyed a delicious meal and exchanged greetings with the owner of the place. A few weeks later that sweet man would be dead from Covid. Shortly thereafter his restaurant would close forever. We would sit at home attempting to make sense of it all and hoping that somehow the next year would be better. It was not until this year that we had a sense that normalcy had somehow finally arrived. My response was to make reservations for dinner on New Year’s Eve with a restaurant located near a waterway. It seemed as though it would be a great way to demonstrate our hopefulness and gratitude for our many blessings. 

Our first hint that something was not quite right was the traffic jam that made us thirty minutes too late for our reserved time. Luckily the people at the restaurant were understanding and assured us that we would still get a table whenever we arrived. I smiled inside at the thought of everyone wanting to just be normal again, so I relaxed as we inched toward our destination. Then I saw thousands of people jockeying for a place to park in the popular area that includes an amusement park, bars and a number of restaurants. When we finally reached the perimeter of the place I got out of the car to claim a place at the eatery while my husband searched for a spot to leave our automobile. 

Just moving through the unbelievable crowd was difficult, especially with the clunky boot that I  wore on my mending foot. With determination I finally entered my destination which was a madhouse of people simply showing up and hoping to get a place to eat. The harried workers smiled through the turmoil and assured me that I would be seated in a few minutes so I felt relieved and sat down satisfied that all would be well, only it was not. After thirty minutes of hunting my husband had still not found a place to park. He told me to give up and find him somewhere on the side of the road in a no parking zone. 

I sadly informed the lovely folks that we would not be able to use our reservation after all just at the moment when they were ready to take me to a table. I walked out wondering if this was a sign that the new year would not be so great or if it was simply a way of noting that the past was behind us and new ways should reign. I glumly got into the car while my husband and father-in-law joked that we might find something frozen at home that would do for dinner. Nonetheless I was determined not to surrender to a ruined evening. I suddenly remembered that a Cracker Barrel where I often took my mother on Friday nights was not that far away. Surely we would be able to get in there. After all, who chooses Cracker Barrel on a celebratory night?

Surely enough the place was almost empty. I felt silly walking inside with my red sequined top but I was hungry and I knew that the food would be good. We had a lovely waitress named Jenny who doted over us so pleasantly. Our dinner was wonderful and best of all it was quiet. There was even good music playing in the background. Somehow I thought of my mother and her simple ways of enjoying life. I felt her spirit and optimism telling me to go with the flow and just have fun. She would have noted how blessed we were to find such a wonderful place to sate our hunger. Nothing about the evening would have stolen her joy, so I instantly decided that it was not going to steal mine either.

It was late when we returned home. Our neighbors were celebrating up and down the block. The teenagers who had once been tiny tots waved as they set off fireworks and giggled. There was music and joy everywhere I looked. We went inside and each sipped on a glass of wine while we waited for the ball to drop in Times Square. An hour later we shouted Happy New Year in our own Central Time Zone. We went outside to witness beautiful fireworks lighting up the sky around us. It was a wonderful beginning to a New Year. We had made it and somehow I knew that the future would indeed be good and no doubt adventurous as well. 

I’ve spent my entire life in the same place. I was born over seven decades ago in a small hospital in the Houston Heights on a cold November day. Only briefly did I ever live anywhere but in the Houston metropolitan area when my family moved to California during my third grade year just before my father died. Most of my story unfolds in neighborhoods south of downtown Houston where I have watched the city grow into the fourth largest and most diverse city in the United States. Somehow my lack of experience living in other places has been supplemented by education, travel and a voracious appetite for reading. For someone who has been somewhat isolated in where I have lived, I have developed a much larger worldview than might have been thought possible. 

Perhaps my perspectives were initially influenced by the fact that my maternal grandparents were first generation immigrants to the United States, people who embraced their new country while still possessing the language and traits of their birthplace. They were outsiders attempting to be accepted during a time when prejudices against anyone who was different were running amok on a worldwide scale. They bravely attempted to overlook the slights that they experienced while urging their children to embrace American culture. 

With the back drop of two world wars and an economic depression my grandparents raised eight children who dutifully ignored the taunts and rocks that were thrown at them to become solid citizens who were indistinguishable from Americans who had lived in this country for generations. Nonetheless, my mother would often speak of the hard work that had to be done to place them on seemingly equal footing with their peers. Somehow she and her siblings were courageous and proud souls who also carried the scars of being the first in their line to be born as citizens of the United States. 

My father was an avid reader. Memories of him always include images of him captivated by a book or newspaper article with classical music playing in the background. I often accompanied him to libraries and bookstores where I began to develop the same love for learning that he had. Gifts from him always seemed to include favorite texts and time sitting next to him while he read stories out loud. Even though my life with him was cut short, his influence would follow me to this day. 

Later I encountered teachers who challenged me to think beyond the confines of where I lived and the limited experiences that I had. A seventh grade teacher taught me how to look for evidence of propaganda in the things I saw and heard. A high school teacher showed me how to become a citizen of the world. A science teacher introduced me to the vastness of the universe. A debate coach helped me learn how to approach life from many different points of view. When i became a teacher myself, I saw children from so many different backgrounds and I learned from them how to cherish everyone and their cultures. 

I have come to appreciate the variety of the world in all of its many colors, languages, traditions, religions and ways of living. I understand that the differences between us are mostly superficial. When taken down to our bare bones we all share the same hierarchy of needs. First and foremost is our desire for safety and sustenance. We all seek a place where we might live without want or danger. Once those things are secure we quite naturally use our human intellect to attempt to understand the world around us. 

Humankind has wandered across the globe since our very beginnings. We explore and study and learn how to make things better. It is in our very natures to want shelter from harm but also to ask questions and create new ways of living. Somehow each of us has a particular set of skills and desires that draw us to the jobs that we must do to keep things running smoothly. We need everyone and every idea so that we will not stagnate and become so insular that we are unable to get along. 

Jealousy and prejudices lead first to misunderstandings between individuals and in the worst scenarios to wars between groups and nations. Most of us never want such things but all too often in the history of the world innocents have been caught up in the refusal of powerful political forces to get along. Suffering has been a constant presence in everyone’s life, but some groups have consistently seen more than others. Our human natures can lean toward ugliness when we are unwilling to see the beauty in every individual regardless of differences that confound us. Stereotyping and tribal behaviors have always been the bane of existence. 

I love my world best when we rise up together to help each other. There is a goodness in humanity that eventually trumps the evil inclinations of our species. When we have had enough of hate and war and death we find our way out of the gutter and embrace each other without prejudice or evil intent. We are indeed evolving, but doing so requires us to remove our blinders and rose colored glasses and truly look beyond the ideas that pull us apart. When we can see refugees as people acting out of love for their families instead of criminals attempting to invade us we are on our way to humane solutions for living together as a worldwide family rather than a collection of warring tribes. When I pray for peace on earth I know that it will be up to each of us to help make that happen. Getting there will begin with a willingness to embrace the world and its people by seeing the profound value of each of us.