All It Takes Is A Little Love

One reason that I think of education as critical to our lives is that without it we might be prone to beliefs built on hearsay or our own flawed opinions. Knowledge truly is power, even when truths are difficult to hear. It is important that we get unsanitized versions of the history of humanity so that we will have the opportunity to grow as people. Most universities, though not all, are bastions of information and learning that is important for our progress. I have learned over time through formal classes, continuing education, reading and real time experiences that depending on hearsay is never a good idea. The second day of driving through the south made me more certain than ever that I need to do research before drawing conclusions about people and places. 

I had already learned that Meridian, Mississippi had more to offer than I would have thought. The people there were proud of their history and the were friendly and helpful beyond the ordinary levels of welcoming. We enjoyed our brief sojourn there and began the next leg of our journey feeling upbeat and rested in spite of having traveled five hundred miles.

We continued along Mississippi highways for a time and were impressed by the well maintained roads that were magnificently landscaped. The drive was relaxing and filled with wonderful sights. I almost dreaded inching toward the Alabama border, but once again knew not to be too quick to judge a place without evidence. 

Alabama was just as beautiful as Mississippi and appeared to be thriving in the Birmingham area. As we barreled toward Tuscaloosa we decided that we needed to visit the campus of the University of Alabama, a tradition of checking out colleges that we never fail to continue. I have to admit that we were absolutely stunned by the beauty of the campus. It was very obviously well planned with the same brick on virtually every building. Set on rolling hills, great care has been taken to create a stunning and purposeful landscape. Mike and I both agreed that the overall effect had resulted in one of the most beautiful college campuses that we had ever seen. 

We laughed as we drove around the football stadium with our Aggie Grandma and Grandpa stickers from Texas A&M. We hoped that the rivalry between the two schools would not bother anyone who saw us checking things out. We could not tarry long because we had scheduled this day to be another five hundred miler. Soon enough we were heading in the direction of Georgia which would also prove to be a mostly beautiful drive.

We were stunned and delighted when we saw a Buccees beckoning us to stop for gasoline and refreshment. The Buccees chain began in Texas not far from where we live. Over time it has grown into a phenomenon for travelers. Undoubtedly it has the cleanest bathrooms on the road, but the selection of food, drink and nicknacks is also incredible. There is not vey much that a traveler cannot find in a Buccees and the one we found in Alabama just before crossing into Georgia was no exception. We did have to laugh because it had to be the least crowded Buccees we had ever visited. A clerk told us that the locals were slowly beginning to understand what a wonder they now have. 

While we loved the beauty of Georgia’s highways, as usual driving through Atlanta, Georgia proved to be a nightmare made even worse by a multi car wreck that forced us to sit in over an hour of heavy traffic. By the time we exited the tie up our arrival at the hotel had been moved farther and farther back by both the time change from standard to eastern time zones and the extra time spent in Atlanta.

I have always loved South Carolina from my visits to Charleston, a city with so much history and and culture that I doubt I will ever actually see it all. I suppose that I imagined that all of the state would be as lovely, but that was surely not the case as we headed toward Greenville. It was a long long endurance test that hindered our forward progress with miles and miles of road repairs. Our movement was slow and tedious at a time when we were already quite tired. It did not help that the sights along our way were ugly and depressing. It felt as though the people living in the area had just given up on any efforts to make things more presentable. Mostly it resembled a giant flea market of cars and trailers and lot overgrown with weeds. Eventually we were barely creeping forward as we hit the afternoon rush hour in Greenville. There was no way out of our dilemma but to endure.

I suppose my negative impressions of South Carolina were intensified by displays of Confederate flags and offensive political paraphernalia dotting the landscape . Somehow I felt as though the people there were angry and tired. I’ll never be able to prove my assessment, but I was certainly relieved when we crossed the state line into North Carolina and the environment immediately changed. it was like being released from limbo into heaven.

We limped into Charlotte with mixed feelings about the day’s travels. We had truly enjoyed Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. My guess is that we simply found a dull part of South Carolina so I am not ready to write if off as a place to avoid, but we decided immediately that we would not be returning home on that route. With great relief we checked into another wonderful hotel and blocked out the negativity with sweet dreams of the good places we had seen. Tomorrow would be another day.

The early part of our journey centered on the south once we left Texas beginning with Louisiana. There is always something mystical about the drive down Interstate 10 through Lake Charles, Lafayette and Baton Rouge. Even the manner in which people speak is so different from the rest of the United States. The Cajun accents abound, sometimes making it difficult to even understand what the people are saying without paying careful attention. It is a delightful articulation that speaks to decades ago when people left Acadia in Nova Scotia and headed to the land along bayous and rivers in Louisiana. 

I’ve always had a fondness for Louisiana and its people. Somehow they seem like cousins or perhaps even siblings to those of us who live near the Gulf Coast of Texas. We have a blending of cultures and foods from travels back and forth. We have kept our Texas drawls and they hang on to their unique phrase and pronunciations. It’s always fun to visit with them if only for a time.

Driving across the Beaux Bridge never ceases to enchant me with its swamps in which giant Cypress trees grow in the water. Now and again there is a fishing shack hidden along the shore line which can only be reached by boat. There is a whole world out there that feels mysterious and untouched by time. 

Eventually we began heading north into Mississippi along beautiful highways bordered by lush trees and grass. It is apparent that the soil is rich there, a place where plants grow into magnificent specimens. The red dirt is filled with iron that boosts the blooms of crepe myrtle and azalea bushes. Driving is a tranquil experience without the constant distraction of fast food restaurants and businesses blighting the view. 

By mid afternoon we arrived in Meridian, Mississippi, place that I had never before thought to visit. It was once known as Queen City and was founded by a man who thought that the word meridian meant zenith. When General Sherman swept through the south during the Civil War most of the town was burned to the ground. Dates on buildings in the town square mark the rising from the ashes of that terrible time in our history. 

There seemed to be hope in the aftermath of the war that Meridian would become a center of business and culture. Great care was taken to create the structures that still stand, but the reality is that progress has left the town without the growth that it may once have hoped would come, for the erection of a naval air base. Nonetheless there is a beauty to the downtown area for a few blocks. I liked that the people repurposed old building rather than tearing them down such is most often the case in Houston. There is a reverence for history that is very apparent in Meridian

We were tired and hungry and ready to rest for the night. We found a Tru Hilton hotel that was staffed with a remarkable young man named Jordan who gave us a special welcome. Our room was modern enough to have lots of outlets to plug in our phones, watches and laptops. The air conditioner was a welcome relief from the extreme summer heat and everything was spotlessly clean. 

After doing a bit of research we learned the Meridian boasts the oldest restaurant in Mississippi. Weidmann’s was found in 1870 and is still going strong. The lovely dining room features a brick wall dating back to its beginning that is festooned with art work from local artisans. The tables are decked out with white linen tablecloths and the sounds of jazz play in the background. It was a relaxing environment for dining after traveling five hundred miles from home.

The menu was incredible and made it difficult to decide on which entree to order. Mike decided to try Catfish Belvedere and I chose crab cakes. We had our choice of a side but we should not resist trying the Hoppin John since neither of us had ever eaten it before. We both judged our side to be so good that we might have quite willingly only eaten the combination of blackened peas, onion, jalapeño peppers and rice. It was indeed delightful as were our entrees which provided us with way more food than we are accustomed to eating. With the homemade rolls fresh from the oven we were two satisfied customers who felt that our dinner had been both a delightful surprise and a gourmet adventure.

We returned to the hotel noting that all of our preconceived notions about Meridian had been wrong. Then we settled into one of the best sleeps that either of us have had in over a year. Our next stop would be Charlotte, North Carolina and our journey would provide us a glorious view of Alabama and Georgia. We both agreed that our expectations had underestimated the beauty of the places that we had already seen.

We embarked on a four thousand five hundred mile round trip journey early one August morning. Knowing our limits for sitting inside a car we broke the trip down into five hundred mile increments. Our final destination lay far up the east coast in Maine where we had long ago traveled with our friends, Egon and Marita. Later we would begin a return trip that would lead us to the site of our honeymoon but first our goal was to reach Maine like we had done before with our friends.

On that trip we rode along the eastern coast ultimately ending up in Falmouth just outside of Portland where we visited Egon’s uncle who also happened to be my husband Mike’s favorite professor from college. Even though Dr. Monsen had long before moved from the University of Houston, he and Mike kept in touch via quick phone calls on special occasions and by exchanging Christmas cards and letters each year. It was fun to think that we would actually get to sit with Dr. Monsen and his wife in their quaint New England home near a small lake. We already knew from past encounters how entertaining and enlightening Dr. Monsen would be. Listening to him was like taking a mini course in sociology and life. 

On that long trip with Egon and Marita we indeed had a wonderful time eating lobster rolls from Town Landing and viewing the local sights. Of course we also took a side trip to the LL Beene store in Freeport and marveled at the loveliness of Bar Harbor. I started a Christmas ornament moose collection as well. The truth is that the visit with Dr. Monsen was still the highlight.

Our recent trip was very different. Egon and Marita are gone and so is Dr. Monsen. Retracing the epic vacation of long ago has reminded me of how much fun we had with these three remarkable people. All of them were brilliant, so conversations were rarely shallow. I did more listening than talking when I was with them because I have always enjoyed learning from people who have had unusual experiences. 

Egon from was Bremen, Germany. His mother and father met during World War II when his father was stationed in Norway after Germany invaded that country. To say that he was and his fellow soldiers were disliked would be an understatement and yet love bloomed between him and Egon’s mother who was a Norwegian from a family that was very active in the resistance movement. While her brothers were doing everything possible to wreak havoc for the Germans, she was secretly falling in love with “the enemy.”

When the war ended the two lovers married and moved to Bremen were Egon was born. He often told us about his boyhood adventures in the rubble of the bombed out buildings in his town. He would grow up with a multicultural background that left him speaking many languages with pitch perfect  pronunciation. He ended up coming to the United States and into our world when his Uncle Henry  Monsen suggested that Egon join him to study at the University of Houston. It was Dr. Monsen who introduced Mike to the young man who would like a brother to both of us. 

Eventually Mike and Egon enrolled in graduate school together and met a young woman from Chicago named Marita. She always joked that she sized up the two of them, thought they both looked quite handsome, but realized that Mike was wearing a wedding ring which put him out of contention for her heart. Soon a new love story began with the girl from Oak Park and the guy who mostly thought of himself as a Viking. 

Mike and I were fortunate to call them both our friends and also to spend hours being intellectually entertained by Dr. Monsen who had found his way to Houston by way of universities in Florida, California and Texas where he earned a PhD in Sociology. Along the way he had met a girl from New York City who would prove to be his equal and a devoted helpmate. Houston was too hot for a Norwegian, so when the University of Maine had an opening he applied and left for the kind of climate that he adored. It was as close to Norway as he was ever going to get.

This time around we were journeying with a different purpose. We had a job to do moving our granddaughter to new digs for another year of college. When she reached out for assistance we jumped at the opportunity to travel again, something that we have been unable to do for a year now. Finally we felt comfortable leaving Mike’s father under the watchful eyes of our daughter. We knew that we might be gone for two weeks and he would still be in good hands. 

I suppose that all of us have needed this vacation. I looked forward to all that we would see on the long journey. Getting close to the people and places in our nation ons is always a valuable experience. I’ll be posting my a chronology of how we rocked along. There was so much to see along the way.

Lately I keep encountering stories about “highly sensitive people.” They describers persons who are hyper connected to the sensory aspects of being human. Being a highly sensitive person can be both a phenomenal way of viewing the world and an exhausting way of connecting with sights, sounds and people at one and the same time. 

Highly sensitive people react more deeply to sounds, lights and other sensory phenomena. They are often moved deeply by music and paintings, sometimes to the point of becoming highly emotional. They might cry over a great work of art or think about the implications of words long after encountering a passage in a book. They are also the kind of people who are able to look into the souls of the people they encounter. They have an uncanny ability to know when someone is feeling uncomfortable or sad or anxious. They are often more than willing to stop whatever they are doing to console those that they perceive to be hurting. They make wonderful teachers and counselors because of the compassion that is so much a part of their makeup.

On the other hand, activities that are fun and exciting for most people can be physically and psychologically draining for highly sensitive people. They can endure loud music and strobing lights for only so long before they have to leave. They will attend big parties but are often the first to retire for the night. They literally have to be alone after too much immersion into sights, sounds, chaos. They get anxious when forced to perform too many tasks at once or when their routines are changed without warning. Most of them have a quiet place where they go to heal from too much stimulation. 

Psychologists use the abbreviation HSP to denote those who demonstrate the characteristics of highly sensitive people. As with anything there is a continuum of just how sensitive these people are. Some only exhibit a few traits and others are almost always feeling stressed by the demands of being so attuned to sights, sounds, smells, tastes and even the texture of things. The vast majority of those who are HSP are also introverts and many are often made to feel weird because of their needs to turn off the constantly running reactions that are an integral part of their interaction with the environment. 

As long as those who are HSP are fee to recharge their batteries they tend to be some of the most empathetic people they anyone encounters. They really do see and hear the people they are with. They are the artists and philosophers who continually think about issues and how to confront them. 

As I read about this interesting group of people I could not resist noting the similarities between me and highly sensitive people. I have always felt deep connections between both the people that I know and complete strangers. I can simply pass by someone and feel that I know what they are thinking just from body language and facial expressions. I do indeed notice when someone is struggling. My awareness of the pulse of my classroom served me well as a teacher. I was able to literally see and feel pain and suffering among my students and my fellow teachers. I never quite understood why there were times when nobody else was able to be as observant as I was. I thought that everyone felt things as deeply as I do, but learned that some actually think that I am strange and even a bit naive or silly because of the deep level of my empathy. I’m that person who cries in a movie theater or becomes breathless at a concert. 

I have always preferred a quiet mountain retreat hidden in the woods to a sojourn at the beach. I love to dance, eat good food and drink wine with friends, but always become Cinderella needing to leave before midnight. Then I want to spend time in the quiet on the following day. 

Many members of my family are like me as well. I’d say that it was product of our DNA but for the fact that some of those people married into our family. I have a nephew who in an incredible cook and a dynamic interior designer. He has been an actor as well. Nonetheless he eschews the big family parties, preferring instead to have small dinners with no more than four guests. He also has an uncanny ability to know when someone needs to have his friendly ear. Many times he has called me when I was feeling blue. It is as though he possesses some special form of ESP.

Both of my daughters tend to find quiet rooms at raucous parties. They are literally exhausted by noise and too many people talking at once. Now I know that there is nothing wrong with any of us. We are simply different from the average soul. Our minds are filled with deep thoughts. We think everyone wants to solve the problems of the world. It’s okay with us if they don’t because we are busy attempting to make the world a calm and happy place that accepts everyone. 

I suppose that each of us has felt a bit different from others from time to time. It’s really difficult not to think that we are somehow defective when we fall into a category of people who only represent a small slice of humanity. It’s good to know that i’m okay and you are okay. Each one of is simply our own special kind of persons with traits meant to serve society in a special way. We need those who quietly contemplate and those who make the world fun with their joyful sounds. We are all quite wonderful.

When two people are almost complete opposites they rarely connect beyond polite but brief encounters. When those two people are in a situation that forces them to interact regularly their relationship can be fraught with misunderstandings. It takes creative measures to prevent a clash when personalities and cultures are so different. 

We’ve all found ourselves in situations that force us to use our diplomatic skills at work or in personal challenges. Unless we hide ourselves away from the outside world we are bound to find our personalities or beliefs in conflict with someone whom we cannot avoid. When that person is a coworker, a boss or even a family member inherited by marriage it can be crushing to have to deal with a situation that literally feels toxic, especially if we are not in a position to simply ignore the controversy. 

I have a tendency to confront people and ideas that I find to be contrary to my core beliefs. Sometimes this trait brings me the admiration of friends, family members, coworkers or my students. At other times it leads me open to intense criticism and misunderstanding. Most of the time I know how to control my windmill tilting, but sometimes I lose my perspective and come across as a nagging control freak. Finding the balance for my vocal commentaries, knowing when to speak my truths and when to stay silent is a tricky challenge. 

Over time I have learned how to defend myself, but mostly to defend others. I’m generally able to quietly work around criticism of my work or my personality, but I become like an enraged mama bear whenever someone for whom I care is being abused. Because I tend to stir up the most trouble when I blurt out my concerns without aforethought, I usually carefully craft a response to the issues that seem to be the most in need of attention. I measure my words with an eye to diplomacy because my goal is not to hurt anyone who disagrees with me, but rather to hopefully nudge them to see my differing points of view. When all goes well, we find mutual compromises even if we do not totally adjust our individual preferences for how to live. 

Now and again I’ve had some clashes that severed any hope of reconciliation because of my bluntness. We all have red lines that define just how much accommodation we are willing to give. When the red lines are crossed we have to be bold in defending ourselves and others. I’ve only had a few such battles and they certainly took their toll on me and the persons whom I had to confront.

This happened many times over when my mother was particularly ill with her bipolar disorder. I could not simply stand back and watch her devolve into psychosis because I was afraid to force her to accept the help that would restore her mental health. I despised those moments and the chasm that they sometimes created between me and my beloved parent. Nonetheless I learned that the bitterness would pass and my mother would survive another bout with the most horrid kind of health issue.

I had to do battle for my students and my fellow teachers as well. Some of those encounters left me bloodied and seemingly defeated, but I kept my honor in tact. On one occasion I became a spokesperson for an entire school when a principal behaved like a tyrant and morale was so low that I expected a rebellion to begin at any moment. I endured the ire of the school leader when I outlined that issues that were creating the mounting discontent. My hope was that my honesty would be viewed as a supportive attempt to create a positive climate for everyone. Instead the woman became downright deranged in a day long interrogation of me that was one of the most unnerving encounters of my lifetime. 

While the school leader would eventually be fired by the school board for all of the reasons that I had attempted to help eliminate, in that moment I was left with no alternative but to protect myself by finding another job and leaving the toxic situation. I have never forgotten how alone and frightened I felt as I realized that the principal was so set in her ways that she was willing to abuse me simply for pointing out her flaws. It was one of the few times that my honesty and diplomatic skills totally failed me. 

I am quite aware that I can be confusing to many people. I am mostly quiet and agreeable. I am highly sensitive to the needs of others, so much so that I often fret over what I might do to help them. I am generally somewhat shy, a person who travels through life mostly observing rather than connecting. I prefer sitting on a bench watching people to walking into the middle of a crowd to converse with strangers. I need lots of space and quiet time but I am also willing and able to stand at a podium and address a crowd without nervousness. I can spend hours conversing one on one, seemingly unable to take a breath between my words. I love parties, but only for so long and then I must rush away like Cinderella or I will surely turn into a pumpkin. I am an enigma to the extraverts of the world and yet I have a kind of connection and understanding of them that they may never have with me.

 I see people’s souls. I feel their hopes and dreams and suffer along with them in their disappointments. Sometimes the weight of noticing makes me weary and I have to back away for a time until my energy and determination returns. I use my writing to be a voice for those who cannot speak. Along the way I am often misunderstood. People wonder why I am not more private in my thoughts. What I know is that there always has to be someone willing to defend truth out loud. 

Each of us is unique. We have individual talents that we offer to our families and friends and sometimes to the world at large. Mine is to see and hear truths that I believe must be spoken. I know this is so because I was once so afraid to reveal what I knew I had to do. I have developed a voice through my experiences. I am battle weary but still standing. Somehow I know that I am exactly who I was meant to be.