All It Takes Is A Little Love

I have a brilliant friend who answered a request for her views on the war between Israel and Hamas by noting that “the situation is nuanced.” While some might see this kind of response as being enigmatic, a “both sides” unwillingness to take a stand, or even a non answer, I understand the wisdom in her brief remark. Wars don’t tend to instantly begin. Instead they occur after years of disagreements between people, nations, ideologies. Study of the Middle East is a complex history dating so far back that it is often difficult to keep track of all of the issues that have plagued that part of the world. 

In truth the recent attack by Hamas was barbaric and sickening. It is impossible to see the images of bullet holes in baby carriages and bodies of innocents without feeling visceral anger. Since the attack Hamas officials have made it clear that the carnage was intentional. One of their leaders has appeared on Russian television boasting that Hamas has patiently and purposely lulled Israel into complasence with the goal of mounting this surprise attack. Little wonder that the people of Israel are more determined than ever to defend their nation, but the complexity of the situation is to be found in the reality of the history of the Gaza strip. Everyday Palestinians have suffered in crowded conditions, walled in on three sides and unable to leave without enduring a difficult and complex process of applying for the freedom to depart. The last election they had was in 2006, and since then they have in essence been human pawns in a geopolitical chess game in which they have had little voice but much misery. While there is no excuse for the bloodbath produced by Hamas terrorists, it is also true that innocents on both sides of the conflict will pay the horrific price of war.

Wars are political and more often than not produced by groups of individuals rather than the populace. In most cases ordinary men and women simply want to be left alone. They hope to live their lives in peace and harmony. Now both Israelis and Palestinians and are instead caught in the vortex of war, losing loved ones and any sense of security.

Evil lies in the ill conceived notion that might makes right and in the lust of power hungry strongmen who are unwilling to lose. Many such actors on the world stage are manipulating the current situation from afar. Hate and jealousy are the fuel for wars and those emotions have coursed throughout human history from the time that Cain murdered his brother Abel. 

I pray for the people of Israel and cannot imagine how they presently feel, but I also grieve for the horror that the innocent families living in the Gaza strip who have nowhere to go to escape the hell of war will no doubt endure. I admittedly feel naive in wishing that we might all just get along, because I have witnessed the dark side of humanity more often than I might wish. I have seen instances here in my own country that have made me weep. I find it difficult to understand why we have to fight with each other even as I admit that it happens all the time. 

History is filled with wars over borders, shifting alliances, human efforts to parcel peace one square foot at a time. As a modern world we believe that such disagreements should be brokered with reason rather than force, but there always seems to be some person or group or country that is unwilling to follow our rules of diplomacy. The dark side of human nature overcomes patience and willingness to compromise. So it is with the shocking nature of the attack on ordinary Israelis by the forces of Hamas.  

After the murder of George Floyd there were protests all across the United States. Most of them were peaceful but a few became violent and destructive. Emotions became unhinged. The result was loss of property and even loss of life. The eye for an eye response by only a handful of the protestors was not helpful. The message at times became lost in their acts of violence, resulting in an even greater rift rather than a solution for the very legitimate concerns of the vast majority of those who rallied to demonstrate their frustration. The trouble makers may have had very good reasons to be angry but they derailed a powerful movement that might have elicited needed changes had they not alienated much of the citizenry and opened themselves to being used for negative propaganda.

It always saddens me when we are unable to join in common efforts that cross borders, beliefs, and differences to peacefully broker solutions. Sometimes we manage to do so, but other times we seem to be mired in the concrete of our unwillingness to see, hear and understand other points of view. Right now our own country is broken by divisions and we would be wise to note that if we cannot begin to mend our own disagreements we might easily find ourselves in a chronic state of chaos. 

At a time when we should be coming together to defend freedoms everywhere we are hurling insults at each other and weakening the bonds that we should feel with our fellow citizens. We know full well that the “Cains” among us are fomenting hate and distrust. They are labeling each of us as though we are not unique. They are turning refugees into criminals and fomenting fears that only lead to unreasonable anger. If we learn anything from the situation in Israel it should be that our best pathway is the one of inclusion of the many voices that comprise our nation without the hatred that sometimes taints our willingness to get along. We can certainly root out evil doers. We know they exist, but we would do well to avoid the lazy temptation to see everyone as either a hero or a villain. We should understand that life is much more nuanced than that. 

I pray for peace in our world and in our nation. The times are tumultuous and may get worse before they get better. Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me. Pray for the innocents across the globe who are victims of war.

I was at a teachers’ conference when my cell phone vibrated and I saw that Catherine was calling me. I excused myself and walked to a less crowded area as I accepted the call. It was February and she sounded ecstatically happy. I assumed that she was just going to tell me that she loved me because it was so close to Valentine’s Day. Instead her words tumbled forth like an avalanche. She was many weeks pregnant with twins. Her fertility doctor had successfully helped her to both conceive and keep the pregnancy viable. It was a miracle that made us both cry with immeasurable joy. 

I was hardly able to wait until summer when I would be able to visit Catherine and Jeremy in Chicago. They lived in a cute two bedroom apartment near Wrigley Stadium. It was a third floor walkup with gleaming wood floors and steam heaters. It looked as though it had been built in the nineteen twenties or thirties. It was a cozy place that Catherine had already begun to decorate for the babies that were to come around the end of October or early November. 

Before we had an opportunity to even plan a summer visit, a fire broke out on the second floor of Catherine’s building during the middle of the night. She had been having difficulty sleeping so she was able to hear noises and smell something burning. When she peeked outside the door to her place she saw smoke rising up the stairs. She immediately awakened Jeremy and the two of them grabbed their dog, Maggie, and raced out of the building using the fire escape. Jeremy called 911 and then reentered the building to awaken as many residents as he was safely able to do. The only person who did not leave the building was the man in whose apartment the conflagration had begun. Luckily the fire fighters came quickly enough to save him, but he was badly burned. 

In order to control the blaze the firefighters had to break through the roof of the building. Since Catherine’s apartment was on the top floor virtually everything that she owned was damaged even though the fire itself never got that high. She stood on the street watching the action in her bare feet, three months pregnant hugging her little dog and feeling thankful that she, Jeremy and her neighbors had all escape mostly unscathed. She was homeless at a time when she had a strong nesting instinct but thanks to her father’s advice she and Jeremy had carried renter’s insurance so they would have at least some compensation for setting up a new household somewhere else. They hoped that the unborn babies had not been adversely affected by the smoke. 

As it so happened our nephew, Daniel, was graduating from the University of Chicago in early June. By then Catherine and Jeremy had found an apartment in the suburbs that was closer to his work. We gathered there along with my brother, Mike, and sister-in-law, Becky to celebrate Daniel’s graduation and to help Catherine and Jeremy to get resettled. We made dozens of trips back and forth to Babies R Us purchasing cribs, bassinets, and other supplies. We has sessions filled with joy as we put all of the gear together. We were sharing so much love and happy expectation in spite of the tragedy that had occurred.

Later that summer it was my good friend, Linda, who once again hosted a baby shower for Catherine. There were so many gifts that they would not all fit into the car that she and Jeremy had driven down to Texas. We had to help get all of the gear back to Chicago. 

It seemed as though Catherine’s dreams of a family were coming true when she went into labor far too early. The doctors did everything in their power to stop the process but their efforts seemed to be in vain. They were warning Catherine and Jeremy that the babies were not yet ready to enter the world and if they were born they might be riddled with very serious health issues. They might even be unable to breathe or be blind or deaf. It was a punch to the gut for all of us to hear such things. I have never been so anxious in my life.

Just when it appeared that an early birth was inevitable Catherine’s labor stopped. She went on bedrest for many weeks and eventually reached a point at which birth would be safe for her and for the babies even if it came a bit early. On October 1, 2003, Ian and Abby were born in Chicago. They were tiny babies who had fought hard to be in this world. Even though they were still a month early, there was nothing seriously wrong with them. They were breathing. They were not blind. They were two bundles of joy who instantly brought happiness into our world. This Gammy was overjoyed as I held them in my arms and rejoiced that they were well.

Catherine was another story. She developed a serious infection from her Cesarean section. I had returned home but had to hop on a plane immediately to care for her and help with the babies. A home healthcare nurse taught me how to clean and dress her wound several times each day. I was afraid of hurting her at first but soon overcame my squeamishness. I was actually rather proud when the nurse returned after a week and complimented my efforts. The part of me that had once dreamed of being a nurse silently wondered if I might have done well in that profession after all. More importantly Catherine was feeling well again and ready to become a supermom with her little ones. She would dedicate herself to that task with all of her heart and soul.

I drove a long way to work each day in the late nineties and early in the twenty first century. I was the Magnet Coordinator at Revere Middle School which was a good thirty miles away from my house in Southeast Houston. I had to rise early and fight traffic for an hour just to get there. I had followed my principal to the school after he asked me to come help the faculty just as I had at South Houston Intermediate. I quickly learned that there was a great deal of suspicion about why I was there. The teachers either embraced me or pushed me away in fear that I was more about threatening their jobs than actually assisting them in their work. It was difficult to be disliked because I had always had excellent relationships with my teaching colleagues. I knew I had to prove myself by first learning about what is it like in a large urban school district.

There always seemed to be some kind of turmoil in progress in Houston ISD and within the walls of Paul Revere as well. I was working longer and harder than I ever before had. On Friday afternoons I picked up my mother for dinner and shopping. We usually had fun together but she was beginning to be more and more anxious whenever I met up with her. At first I thought that she was just dealing with the stresses of being retired and living on a rather small fixed income, but soon it became apparent to me that she was devolving into a psychotic state. 

When my mother was working her boss would call to warn me when Mama was showing signs of needing help. Now there was nobody to keep me apprised of her daily habits and she had sadly become incredibly ill. When I tried to make an appointment for her to see the psychiatrist that had kept her well for so many years I learned that she had left his care and was relying on her primary care physician to provide her with medication which she apparently had not been taking. Her psychiatrist told me that he was too old to deal with a noncompliant patient and despite my pleas he refused to see her. I had to find someone willing to take her as a patient quickly, but that proved to be an almost impossible task. 

I found out the hard way that the state of care for mental health in Texas is chaotic at best. I literally spent days in my office at school with the door locked and the blinds drawn calling one doctor after another hoping to find someone willing to see. her. Some wanted only cash for their services, on Medicare, no insurance. Others specialized in younger patients. Some had practices that were full. I followed one lead after another only to be turned away again and again. I ended up sobbing uncontrollably while talking with yet another doctor who had insisted that he would not be able to give my mother an appointment. He kindly talked with me for over an hour until I was once more in control of my emotions. He provided me with the names of two more doctors that he thought might be willing to help. Sadly neither of them had opening for my mother but one of them gave me one more name, Dr. Jary Lesser, head of geriatric psychiatry at the University of Texas Mental Health Institute. It was there that I would find the miracle worker who would make my mother whole again. 

Once I had an appointment for Mama it would take me and both of my brothers to coax her to see the doctor. She was paranoid and manic all at once and fought us with everything she had, even threatening to run naked down the street if we did not leave her alone. With the help of one of her neighbors who told her that she should trust her children to take care of her and the quick thinking of my brother, Pat, who got her into his truck, we managed to get her to Dr. Lesser who finally diagnosed her illness correctly and provided medications that made her seem like the incredible mother who had sacrificed so much for us when we were children. She would live with my brother, Michael for a time while she recovered. 

Not long after that terrorists flew into the Twin Towers in New York City and chaos ensued at our school as parents worried that there might be attacks all over the country. it was a crazy time when I watched the beginnings of fissures and distrust in our nation. Those same things were present on a small scale in our school as well. Everything felt just a bit more difficult but the bright light was Maryellen’s announcement that she was once again pregnant. This time it would be twins. 

Immediately after her call I reached out to Catherine. I knew that she had been trying desperately to have children and I sensed that Maryellen’s news would compound her worries that she was never going to be a mother. When I called her she burst into tears. She had been seeing a fertility doctor, giving herself painful injections, working so hard to conceive and carry a baby to term. She was inconsolable in her fear that she would never have a successful pregnancy. There was so little that I could say to make her feel better. I knew not to try to give her false hopes. I only told her that I understood her concerns and that it was too early to give up. 

When the time came for Maryellen’s twins to be born Catherine surprised her sister by flying home overnight after working until midnight at the hospital. The two sisters embraced and cried when they saw each other. Soon after I had two more incredible grandsons, Benjamin and Eli who looked so much alike that Maryellen would have to dress them in different colors for people to know which was which. Ben would always wear blue and Eli would be donned in green. They were set to become more incredibly delightful that any of us might ever have imagined. Catherine would learn from Maryellen the art of successfully mothering two babies at once. it was something that she might need in her future.  

I’ve lived awhile, so if I told my entire story it would take quite a chunk of time and most likely become rather boring or at least tiresome. I’ve brought my readers to a particular moment in my life, but now I sense that it’s time to speed things up, get to the present, think about something more interesting. I’ll do my best to wrap things up in the coming days, but there are still important moments that simply can’t be ignored.

I have dedicated the bulk of my existence to looking after members of my family, surviving the slings and arrows that have come my way and attempting to find meaning in the things that I have done. I have slowly but surely marched to my own drumbeat even as I adjusted my dreams to accommodate the people who have been so much a part of my personal story. I find most of my happiness in people, not the least of which have been my husband, daughters and grandchildren. 

I officially became “Gammy” when my first grandson Andrew began to learn how to talk. He crowned me that very special name. Not long after he was born my daughter, Catherine, married her beau, Jeremy, and they moved to the Chicago area. Once again I had to travel to the midwest to see one of my children. Unfortunately Catherine’s health declined after a series of infections. She spent her first year of married life with doctors who advised her to leave her job as a science teacher in a private school to focus on getting healthy. Unable to work and far away from family and friends she understandably also nursed a case of the blues. Because she was an incredible artist her sister came up with the idea of gifting her with tuition for art classes at a local community college. Together we both understood that she a gentle push to get back into the living of life.

Catherine was quite excited to have something to distract her from her illnesses, but when she leafed through the course offerings she was drawn to the nursing program for which the nearby college was quite respected. She asked if we would be okay with her registering for a class in nursing instead of fine arts. Of course we were happy that she had found classes that piqued her interest whatever they might be. Thus began her goal of becoming a registered nurse. 

While Catherine threw herself into her studies, Maryellen became pregnant again. Soon after my second grandson, Jack, was born. Named after my father and my husband, Jack Michael Greene, was a beautiful and serene baby from the start. He was one of those children who seemed to be eternally happy and undemanding, easily fitting right into the family. He made us smile with his sweet personality. He was also incredibly smart with an impish sense of humor. 

Catherine really discovered her passion in her nursing classes, especially when she began working with patients in the different areas of healthcare. She was particularly drawn to cancer patients, those with mental illnesses and the elderly. She possessed a level of compassion and patience that impressed her professors as well as the people that she nursed. Because she already had a degree that was focused on science, it took her almost no time to become a registered nurse. I was particularly proud of her accomplishment and happy that her health appeared to improve enough for her to do the demanding that comes with ministering to the sick. With her exceptional grades and glowing recommendations from her professors she quickly secured a job at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in downtown Chicago.

She was working on a Med/Surge floor with some of the sickest patients in the city. Her twelve hour shifts rotated between the day and the night. I loved hearing her speak about her job with such enthusiasm. Every patient meant so much to her and losing one of them always deeply touched her heart. She quickly rose in status on her floor when her supervisors witnessed her dedication and grasp of the knowledge that she quickly acquired. She was incredibly happy save for the fact that she wanted to start a family with Jeremy but had experienced difficulty with pregnancies due to her earlier health problems. It was slowly beginning to appear that she might never have children of her own. Miscarriages had become a nightmarish reality in her life. It broke my heart that there was so little that I was able to do to help her.

Changes abounded with me and my family. I soon followed one of my principals to the largest school district in Texas, Houston ISD. The move was a massive culture shock given that I had always worked in either private schools or a much smaller district where everyone knew everybody. Suddenly I was part of a big machine where I had to toughen up or get chewed up. It was the biggest professional test I had yet endured and the rush of challenges would become relentless.

Happily Maryellen and Scott moved back to Houston just when I seemed to need them most to keep my sanity. It was fun to have my grandsons, Andrew and Jack, so near and I took full advantage of being able to have them come our home for sleepovers and fun days. They were just the happy balance that I needed to curb my worries about Catherine and be a welcome break from my exhaustion at work.

I would need such moments of joy because life was about to rain on our family with the vengeance of a hurricane. I had been so busy adjusting to my new job that I had hardly noticed that my mother was slipping into one the most horrific phases of her mental illness that I had ever before witnessed. Dark clouds were gathering and somehow I had not seen them. It would take the combined efforts of me and my brothers to bring her back to health. I had to dust off my spinning plates, balls, and rings so that I might become a masterful juggler of my many responsibilities once again.  

Not long ago I read a lovely and important column by climate advice columnist Michael J. Coren entitled Why You Should Tell Your Children About Vanishing Fireflies. Mr. Coren pointed out that youngsters only know the world as it is today. They often do not realize how different it may have been even twenty years ago. Their baseline for judging the health of the planet is in the here and now. Accordingly they all too often have no idea what they may be missing. They are unaware of the losses of creatures and seasonal weather patterns that have changed over time. He suggests that we must open the eyes of the younger generations to what has been but no longer is. The idea is to begin to plan for an even better ecosystem than now exists by making critical changes in our human habits. 

The summer was particularly unbearable where I live. We had incredibly long stretches of one hundred degree and higher days beginning in late June. There was so little rain that lawns began to die and plants wilted within an hour of being watered. The ground was parched and the air was oppressive in ways that it had never been when I was young. Records were set day after day and even our electric power was threatened by the massive use of air conditioning to keep us all cool. Our summers are hotter and longer than I ever remember them being. 

Even people with swimming pools said that the water was sometimes too hot to enter. The chemical balance went out of whack leaving unsafe conditions. The decking burned feet that were not protected by shoes. Nature was speaking to us and some of us still were unwilling to listen.

It’s always been hot in the summer where I live, but not this hot. We were able to survive in homes and cars that were not air conditioned through many summers. We played outside and hydrated ourselves with garden hoses. Back then there were butterflies everywhere and in the evenings when the sun went down the night was lit up by hundreds of fireflies. There were bees humming all over my mother’s flowers and birds serenading us with their songs. 

Now I can honestly say that most people would die from today’s heat if they did not have some method for cooling themselves. I haven’t seen fireflies in a very long time and while we have an occasional butterfly or bee they are more of a surprise than something that we once took for granted. There is concrete overtaking so many of the forests of trees that used to be everywhere. We appear to be taking down nature without thought, making way for our human creations that are spelling the doom of flora and fauna that once filled our world with delight. 

I suspect that I would enjoy being like my Grandma Minnie Bell who served as my teacher about nature. She knew the names of every bird in the sky and even spoke to them with calls that mimicked their chirps. She respected them and made efforts to remember their needs whenever she designed a garden or cleared land for some purpose. She lived her life in Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma when they were wild and green. She had witnessed the damage done by over eager farmers who plowed up the land without thoughts of what the destruction of native grasses might do to the soil and the creatures who lived on it. She understood the importance of conserving resources and paying attention to messages that nature was sending to humans. She told us all about our duties to cherish our earth because we all depend on it for our very lives. 

The more I witness, the more I understand my impact on the environment. I want to be a steward like Grandma was. She worked hard and purposefully to make her footprint on the land as small and forgiving as possible. She lived to be eighty years old without an air conditioner even though she always resided in places with hot summer temperatures. She used every scrap of paper, cloth, food that she had, so as not to waste. She recycled clothing into quilts, table scraps into compost, flour sacks into dresses. She used glass jars and containers that she could clean and reuse instead of plastic. She created natural  potions to scare away pesky bugs rather than spreading toxic chemicals. She was frugal because she understood how her relationship with the earth should be. 

I wish my children and grandchildren might have met Grandma Minnie Bell. I think that Mr. Coren also would have enjoyed all of her stories about they ways of her childhood and how she learned to live in harmony with nature rather than tearing it apart. Her love of the land was almost spiritual and left a lifelong impression on me. I find myself measuring the damage we humans have done with her baseline of a world that was still untouched by our sometimes destructive ways.

I remember proudly wearing the dresses that Grandma sewed by hand from the sacks of flour that she used to make her biscuits and pies. I smile at the thought of the warmth I felt on cold nights when I lay under the quilts that might have once been parts of shirts or dresses or trousers. I wish for her spirit to inspire all of us to do better for she often cautioned me about what might happen if we forgot to cherish the blessings of nature. Sometimes I fear that we have done far to much damage and don’t seem inclined to stop any time soon. We need to keep thinking about her stories or then passing them along. The children will learn from her wisdom and then maybe the earth will begin to heal.