All It Takes Is A Little Love

I suppose that my favorite parable is the story of the Prodigal Son. It encapsulates my feelings about the people that I love. A son turns away from his family and is estranged from them for a very long time. When he decides to return his father greets him with love and forgiveness without question. I tend to very much be like that father. I value my relationships so much that even when someone has hurt me, I am willing to take them back into my good graces if they decide to return. My commitment to family and friends is for life, but I am also realistic enough to understand that there are some situations that make reconciliation almost impossible. 

In my work I have heard of unbearable abuse of women by their husbands, and children by their parents. There is no reason to think that those who have been maliciously hurt should welcome their tormentors back into the fold. Some people are so toxic that the only healthy thing to do is to cut them off like a cancer. Freeing themselves from either emotional or physical battering is a necessary step in asserting their own worth. Nobody should ever have to endure the pain and hurt of bad behaviors that tear them apart. It’s important that we support those attempting to extricate themselves from horrific situations. 

I have never had to endure either verbal or bodily beatings so I can only imagine what it is like for those who have been badly injured by someone who should have loved them. I saw only glimpses of uncontrolled anger in the moments when my mother’s bipolar disorder lead to a mania so debilitating for her that she raged with words that she would never have uttered when she was well. Such times were a sign to me and my brothers that she needed medical help to still the demons of her diseased mind. I knew to ignore her outbursts because they were only an outlet for the fears brought on by psychosis. Medication promptly returned her to her usual loving self. 

In most cases we lose friends or family members because they simply move on to a new phase of life, not because of a disagreement. As we grow and change so do our relationships. We may find that we don’t feel as comfortable as we once did with someone who had been very close. We drift apart and are lost to each other before we even realize what has happened. Sometimes people who have been far away from us suddenly return and we realize that it is possible to pick up the friendship once again without effort. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

So it is with my friend, Nancy. She and I met in high school and felt a strong connection almost immediately. Both of us had lost our fathers when we were quite young. Both had beautiful caring mothers who worked hard to keep us safe and happy. We went to the same university and spent time dreaming of our futures which ultimately took us in different directions. Time passed so quickly that we were retired before we connected once again. The magic of our friendship was still very much intact. We picked up our conversation exactly where we had left it forty years before. Our reunion was as smooth as if we had only been apart for a few days. 

I have a cousin who moved away from the family years ago. I have only seen him at funerals for the past fifty years. He comes to honor those who have died and then promptly returns to his life in another state. He is not much for writing or talking on the phone. He does not even send Christmas cards, but my love for him is as deep and warm as it always has been. I sometimes worry that he does not realize that he is forever in my heart. I know that he has his reasons for staying away and I respect his decision, but I find myself hoping that he does not think that I have forgotten him or that my feelings for him have weakened in any way. 

I fight for some relationships and let others end because I know that it is best to halt them. People come and go and sometimes come back again. It is the way of the human experience, and yet like the father of the prodigal son, I am always open to welcoming them back into my life whenever they choose to return. The magic of reigniting a long lost friendship is one of the most beautiful feelings that there is. 

My first best friend was Lynda Barry. We met when we were only six years old. She lived across the street from my house and we hit it off instantly. We spent whole days playing childhood games and making pinky promises to never desert each other. Life and our careers took hold and sent us in opposite directions but now and again we call each other on the telephone and converse for hours just like we did as little girls. We seem to have a mind meld that is unbreakable and ours is an understanding that we will love each other forever even if we do not see each other again. 

In this Christmas season I think of the people I have known and loved. I can’t begin to describe how important they have been to me. Some have gone to other places to live their lives, others have died, most are still very much present. All of them have been worth fighting for, worth loving with every bit of heart that I have. 

When I was a child my grandfather seemed to be an imposing almost unapproachable figure, a strong man with a no nonsense demeanor. He towered over my grandmother who was a tiny woman not even five feet tall. When he worked in the fields of his farm he wore heavy work boots, flannel shirts and denim overalls. As soon as his labors were done he showered and donned khaki trousers ironed with a sharp crease, a dress shirt neatly tucked into his pants and dress high top perfectly polished oxfords. I don’t think I ever saw him looking sloppy. 

Grandpa never left home without wearing his fedora which no doubt kept his bald head from burning in the summer or freezing in the winter. He walked with the air of a man who knew where he was going and who he was as a person. He garnered respect that only increased as he grew older and it became apparent that he was going to reach a century of experience as a human on this earth. I was in awe of him, but often felt a bit shy around him, choosing instead to interact with my grandmother and listen to her tales of old times. 

When I grew older and more confident I realized that while my grandfather followed a rather formal routine, he also had an impish side that softened his aspect in my mind. I learned much about his boyhood and the pranks that he played on his grandmother who raised him. He confided his sorrows and struggles and became very human and wonderful to me. In fact, I often found myself dropping by to visit with him whenever I was feeling a bit down. I did not have to tell him of my troubles. All I needed was to listen to his optimistic take on life to feel revitalized. Just hearing how he had overcome hardships with determination and a sense of humor taught me that we can endure great suffering and make it back to a happy place. 

My relationship with my grandfather grew better with age, not because he had changed, but because I had grown in confidence and maturity. I suppose his descriptions of his own evolution as a person convinced me that I too was on a journey that might lead to a better sense of fulfillment. In many ways he taught me how to make the best of a difficult situation and that material wealth was not akin to real success. 

His stories were a conduit into his mindset which admired courage and compassion above all else. He spoke of understanding law officers and kind uncles who showed him what it means to be a real man. He described his grandmother with reverence for being a bright and take charge kind of woman. He saw the difficulties of native Americans and felt sorrow for the sins committed against them that he had witnessed. He forgave his father who had abandoned him and given in to self indulgent habits. He was a man who understood our human weaknesses and fought hard not to give in to them, but remained loving toward those who did. He became my surrogate father after his son, my own dad, had died. 

Grandpa lived to be one hundred eight years old and it was only in his final months that his mind faded and he seemed detached from reality, and yet he knew who I was when I came to visit and he smiled past his pain upon seeing me. I suppose that I knew that I would soon have to rely on the lessons and memories that he had given me to progress through the years that lay ahead. Somehow I’ve been able to remember all of his tales that had inspired me to find joy even in the most horrible moments and to look forward to progress and a future that would only get better according to his beliefs. 

My admiration for my grandfather has only grown since his death over forty years ago, not because I have lionized him, but because of his beautiful humanity and honesty about the good, the bad and the ugly aspects of his life. He seemed so content with how things had turned out even as he demonstrated how tough times had been. He was literally a role model for the ages, especially for me and my brothers. 

I sometimes think of how I am an amalgam of my mother and father and my grandparents. There is a bit of this person and that person who show up in the way I look and the way I approach life. Perhaps in many ways I am in reality the most like my grandfather who taught me that we have total control over how to feel about the ups and downs that come our way. Pain and sorrow are an inevitable aspects of life, but how we face down those things is up to us. In Grandpa’s world that means seriously facing responsibility but also finding the good in people and laughing even as we feel like giving up.  

My grandfather seemed to get better and better over time because he had a great philosophy about life. He passed that on to me and my brothers so that each of us has also been able to keep smiles on our faces and determination in our hearts no matter what the fates have brought us. Grandpa was a rare gift that we often enjoyed. As I too grow older I find myself referring to his words to guide me more and more often. It is as though his voice is still crystal clear in my mind as I realize I too am not just getting older. I am getting better all the time. 

I always loved going to visit my Aunt Opal. I was enchanted by her name which sounded so old fashioned. She was my father’s older sister and by the time he was born she had already married and had children of her own, creating the crazy fact that he was an uncle to people who were older than he was. It always boggled my mind to think of such a thing, but I also saw it as something fun and unique about our family. 

Aunt Opal lived on Wakefield Street with her husband, Harold. Their home was set on a huge lot that featured handmade lawn furniture and an enormous swing set that Uncle Harold had built in his huge workshop. Their home was one of his creations as well. He had built it with some help from my grandfather and it was quite different from most houses in Houston with its stucco exterior that seemed more suited for Arizona, New Mexico or California. 

I never understood how Aunt Opal’s seven children had managed to squeeze themselves into the tiny place that only had three bedrooms and one bath. Six of those youngsters were boys and only one was a girl who played the piano so beautifully that she might have been featured in Carnegie Hall. Aunt Opal’s sons were tall and lanky and adventurous souls who were as entertaining as their sister with their outrageous stories of life along the bayou that meandered near their home. Most of them were grown and gone from their parents’ watch by the time I was a young girl visiting with my mother and father, but invariably word would spread that we were there and one or more of them would drop by to talk with my father who was more like one of their siblings than their uncle. 

Aunt Opal knew how to cook like her mother, my grandmother Minnie Bell. She often invited us into her kitchen where she would literally whip up a couple of pumpkin pies while sharing steaming hot cups of coffee for the adults and glasses of milk for me and my brothers. She worked away as though the process of baking had become second nature, like breathing. Before long the spicy aroma of the ingredients would fill the kitchen and our anticipation would mount. We knew how good those pies would be. 

Uncle Harold often pried my father and brothers away for a visit to his workshop. It was a sight to behold with its incredibly organized array of tools of every conceivable kind. I sometimes thought that his work area was cleaner that the interior of the house. He was adamant about keeping the area pristine. Nary a speck of dust escaped his eye.

My brother still gets a warm glow on his face whenever he speaks of Uncle Harold’s workshop. He tells me stories of our uncle instructing him on how to repair most everything. Mostly he learned how to use each of the tools. According to my brother, Uncle Harold was more interesting and informed than the builders on the program This Old House. Building things was indeed how he had earned a living and cared for his great big family. His hands were as beautiful and adept as a sculptor’s. He was an artisan of the craft.

After my father died Aunt Opal became an important link to our family history. She told us about his boyhood and how special he was to her and the whole family. She brought out photo albums with images of him and my grandparents that I had never before seen. She was a chronicler of family folklore and I loved her stories which she always told while sipping on heaping cups of coffee. 

One time Aunt Opal came with our little family on a trip to see our grandparents. My mother was only newly widowed and a bit leery of traveling alone with three children, so Aunt Opal happily agreed to be our guardian angel. I soon learned that taking a trip with her was fabulous because she insisted on stopping for snacks and stretching of legs every two hours or so, unlike my father whose method was to make time driving down the road without relief for hours. With Aunt Opal we became acquainted with tiny cafes from Houston to Hot Springs where waitresses wore little uniforms and called everyone “Honey.” 

I never thought to ask my Aunt Opal questions about our family even as I realized she was attempting to provide me with our history. I wish I had thought more about what I would one day want to know. Over time I saw her less and less as I launched my own life with a family and a career. My mother would become too ill to consider visiting Aunt Opal and so our link to her slowly faded. One of the most devastating moments of my life was to learn that she had died and none of us had been informed. I felt guilty that her children had come to believe that we were not interested in our beloved aunt.

Aunt Opal and Uncle Harold’s home is no longer where it once was. The land where it had stood was valuable and her many children sold it after she died. The new owners tore down the place that had been hewn with Uncle Harold’s hands. His workshop and the swings and all of the quirkiness of the place was gone along with those wonderful tales that Aunt Opal so loved to tell. Somehow though, her spirit and Uncle Harold’s as well seem to hover over the spot even to this day.

I find myself wondering what happened to all of Uncle Harold’s tools. I think of the antique phonograph that was a prize possession of Aunt Opal. She so delighted in turning the crank to operate the machine and play records for us from a time early in the twentieth century. Mostly I think of sitting in her kitchen watching her work on those pumpkin pies like a master baker while enchanting us with her never ending tales of long ago. I can close my eyes and feel those moments as though they were happening in the present and I think of her every single time that I make pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving and Christmas, an art passed from my grandmother Minnie to my Aunt Opal and eventually down to me. Now it is my grandson, William, named after his great grandfather who sits and talks while I spin my magic on those pies and tell him of his ancestors and how wonderful they were.

I have been quite fortunate to receive an amazing education during my lifetime, beginning with my elementary, junior high, and high school years. My teachers instructed me to ask questions before blindly accepting or following any idea or philosophy or group. They taught me how to use the process of critical thinking. It has sometimes been both a blessing and a curse to approach the world with objectivity. As my mother often noted, ignorance can be bliss. My choice has been to research, challenge, weigh pros and cons and base my conclusions on a willingness to learn about opposing views. Thanks to the influence of my teachers I continually seek understanding of different ways of living and thinking. 

There is a movement in my beloved country known as America First. This philosophy certainly has merit in that we have many individuals in the United States who are suffering and need assistance from those of us who have more than we really need. As with a family unit, we have to take care of our own and not place them in danger because we foolishly give away help that we cannot afford, but I also believe that we do indeed have enough plenty to share with people across the globe who are longing for the freedoms and opportunities that we so often take for granted. We may be a kind of island unto ourselves, but we have enough wealth and hopefully compassion to share.

I have been greatly inspired by a local doctor who created a vaccine for Covid that does not require refrigeration like the ones that most of us have received. This new vaccine makes it possible to bring immunization to even the most remote areas. The inventor of this miracle, Dr. Peter Hotez, might have become enormously wealthy by selling his vaccine, but instead he gave away the formula to any country that wanted to have an inexpensive and easy to use vaccine for its citizens. At this moment millions of people around the globe have benefited from Dr. Hotez’ largess. 

I have not forgotten the people of Ukraine during the many months that they have endured a war that was forced upon them by Russia. Winter will be long and difficult for them. Russia has destroyed much of their infrastructure leaving then without heat, water and or electricity. Some here in America complain that money sent to them by the United States might be better spent on people here in our own country. I beg to differ. We cannot abandon the people here, but it would also be a travesty to cease helping Ukraine when the souls there are freezing and starving in hopes of defending their freedom. We can cinch up our own belts just a bit and find the funds to send aid. 

I remember when we had the horrific floods of Hurricane Harvey here in the Houston area. There were people from every state in the union and places across the globe sending contributions to help those whose homes had been destroyed. I was comforted to be reminded that we humans come together in times of great need. There are always heroes who ignore borders and allegiances to help the afflicted. 

I have exchanged gifts with my dear friend, Linda, for years. Last Christmas she pointed out that we both have all that we need and suggested that instead of giving to each other, we choose a charity to support in one another’s names. I loved that idea and we plan to do the same thing again this year. There is so much need that I am having a difficult time deciding which group to choose, but I feel so good about being able to do this. I have the wherewithal to be generous, something that my mother did in spite of being poor in every sense of the legal definition. 

Upon my mother’s death we found thank you notes from dozens of organizations to whom she had sent donations. While she often turned off her heat in the winter to save money, she eagerly gave to the children at St. Jude’s Hospital. She may have eaten thin soups to save on her grocery bill but she regularly gave money to missions, Habitat for Humanity, soup kitchens. She owned her home and felt great compassion for the homeless. She often spoke of her mother providing food to people who came seeking sustenance during the Great Depression. She understood so clearly that each of us has something to give even when we have very little. 

At this time of year I always count my many blessings, among them the wonderful education that I received that has led me to meaningful work and enough income to live better than most people in the world. I try to remember those who have not been as fortunate as I am and I believe that it is our moral duty to help them wherever they may be, rather than seeing them as a problem that we must remove. 

I think of the power that we each have if we were to change just one tiny habit of indulging ourselves and instead use those funds to help our brothers and sisters all over the world and even in our own backyard. The power of such a movement would be enormous and would also bring us together in the kind of love that was born on the first Christmas morn. I pray that we will come to our senses and come together in understanding and generosity in the coming year. That is what the true meaning of Christmas should be. 

Three years ago I was hunting for a really good gift to give my husband for Christmas. He wants very little aside from an electric car and a trip back to London, so each holiday season I have a difficult time finding a present that will bring a big smile to his face. Three years ago we were planning a trip to Scotland in the spring, so travel was already in the bag and I was not inclined to purchase an automobile without his inspection and approval. Out of the blue I saw an announcement that Elton John would be coming to Houston the following July for his Yellow Brick Road farewell concert. I instantly knew that I had found the key to a great surprise for my sweet and always generous man. 

I rushed to Ticketmaster and found two great seats, reserved them with my credit card, and printed the confirmation. I placed the exciting paper inside a lovely box and wrapped the treasure for Christmas Day. I was a ball of excitement, feeling certain that my husband was going to be incredibly happy with the prospect of seeing Elton John perform. When the day for opening gifts finally arrived I could hardly wait to see his reaction. I was not disappointed and neither was he. The gift was a hit and he immediately put the date and time of the performance on his calendar. It seemed like fun times lay ahead in the coming year.

Of course, the rest of the story is wrought with twists and turns. The whole world became undone with Covid in late February. By early March cancellations began all over the globe. Not long after that we got notice that Elton John would be staying home until further notice. All of his concerts were temporarily cancelled, but our tickets would still be good whenever it appeared to be a better time for assembling large crowds. We were assured that we would receive notice far in advance of the new date when new arrangements were settled. 

We waited and waited, wondering if Elton might eventually decide to scrap the whole project. Month after month went by with no word alerting us to a new date. So much time elapsed that we almost forgot about the concert that had once filled us with so much anticipation. I’d check my texts and email, but nothing ever came. 

One evening I was flipping through posts on Facebook when I saw photos of my daughter and son-in-law wearing glittery glasses and crowing about how much fun they were having at Elton John’s concert in Houston. I was stunned and immediately checked and rechecked my email hoping to find that there had been some kind of mistake. In fact there was no communication at all. The concert was happening and we were not there. I was devastated and had little or no recourse for compensation. I simply took my daughter’s word that it was a fabulous night of world class entertainment and fun and chalked it up to one of those crazy things that happen from time to time. 

A few days after the Houston concert Elton John came down with Covid and cancelled dates in some cities once again. I comforted myself with the thought that my husband and I might have become sick if we had gone to the musical extravaganza. I decided that it was probably too early for us to risk our health no matter who was performing. I put my disappointment behind me and moved on to other more important things. 

Lo and behold, almost one year after we should have seen Elton John in concert in our city and three years after I purchased our tickets, we learned that Disney +, which we have, was going to live stream his concert in Los Angeles. We would get to see what we had missed after all. Even better was the fact that we would be able to enjoy the music in the comfort of our home. 

We were unable to use our large television with a movie theater sound system because the concert would not start until ten in the evening and my father-in-law’s bedroom is adjacent to our great room. He has come to live with us since the time that we had so many grandiose plans for 2020. We set him up in the master bedroom so that he would not have to climb the stairs. He retires for the evening at around eight thirty because he is ninety three years old. We have become accustomed to using our upstairs television which is small, but useful for the video games that our grandchildren play when they come to visit. It would have to do for our viewing pleasure of Elton John and it did the trick. We donned our pajamas and reclined on our couch rocking along with Elton into the early morning hours.

Elton John at age 76 performed with only minimal breaks for all of the almost three hours. He demonstrated why he is revered all over the world in a tour de force of his many great hits. He is a bit stiff in the knees these days, but his fingers still glide across the keyboard with precision and joy. His impish ways are still there and were emulated by the huge crowd donned in sequins and feathers. He was in perfect form as he performed songs that made us smile and dance with joy back in the sixties and seventies and even unto this very time. For three hours we were young again and everyone was happy and loved and understood. Elton has uniting people with his wit and his talent and his compassion. It was a moving performance that left us smiling and sometimes shedding a few tears.

My husband finally received his gift, albeit in a very different fashion than he had imagine and it was okay. We were okay. Somehow it felt good that in spite of all that has happened to change our lives and the world we are all still standing and walking with one of the greats of our time beyond the yellow brick road.