All It Takes Is A Little Love

I live close enough to Galveston beach that I can be there in under an hour. I feel a calm when I gaze out into the water that appears to continue infinitely. I often find myself wondering how many people have sailed from far away places into the harbor. I know that my grandparents once did just before the outbreak of World War I. There are also stories that German submarines may have stealthily navigated nearby in World War II. A bunker looking out into the sea still stands as a reminder of the dangers of that time. 

Mostly though, the beach near where I live is a place for swimming, fishing and fun. We don’t have the soft sand dunes of the Pacific coast nor is the water clear and shades of blue like in the Caribbean. Instead there is only a narrow strip of sand that has to be replaced periodically lest the beach disappear altogether due to the massive seawall that protects the city of Galveston from the wrath of hurricanes. Therein lies a lesson in history as well. 

Whenever I visit Galveston my thoughts always turn to the many souls who lost their homes and their lives in the 1900 hurricane. Before that fateful day in September Galveston had been one of the fastest growing and most prosperous cities in the United States. It had been described by some as the Wall Street of the south while also being a kind of heaven on earth, but nature asserted itself and literally tore the place asunder leaving it to become mostly a tourist town and eventually a port for cruise ships. 

I have grown up understanding the power and danger of hurricanes even fifty miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico. I have great respect for the power of wind and flooding rain. I know the story of Galveston by heart and the resilience of the people who chose to stay there even after enduring so much loss. I admire the courage of people who so love the beach that they are willing to risk the possibility that another hurricane may one day take aim at their property. Luckily these days most of them understand that they must leave until the danger is over, so the loss of life is rarely a consideration. 

The people of Galveston are a hardy lot. They enjoy celebrating life and they do so with great joy. They plan celebrations like Mardi Gras and Dickens on the Strand. They know the incredible beauty of the gulf waters in the cold of winter when it seems that only the most dedicated souls walk along the beach. Most of them have caught a kind of sea fever that keeps them tethered to the sunrises and sunsets that have to be seen to be believed. 

I prefer to be a visitor, an interloper who appreciates the beauty and the soul of living near the sea, but in the end I am a landlubber who seeks higher ground. While I understand those who feel a visceral attachment to the seaside, I am  not one of them. Nonetheless I feel the pull of the tides and a need to smell the salty air. I want that vista that seems to meld the earth with heaven. I feel the healing essence of sitting quietly on the seawall doing nothing but gazing into the magnificence and power of the water. 

My father often dreamed of living by the sea. He was drawn to the water as though it had a magical power over him. He was happiest when he sat on a pier with his fishing line bobbing up and down. I literally felt the joy radiating from his soul whenever he was near the ocean. I suspect that some speck of daddy’s DNA landed in my brother who has lived in Galveston for many years now. He found a bride who shares his love of living with the water in his backyard. Together they have created a pleasure dome of serenity, at least until the storms come. 

My personality is perhaps more reserved. I would not mind living by a placid lake or on a mountain top. I don’t want to have to worry about moving when storms brew offshore and threaten to come in my direction. I won’t even stay in my inland home when such threats are dire. I head for the Texas Hill country and enjoy a sojourn there until the danger passes. I often wonder why I became this way because the history of my family is one of adventurous spirits, not careful over-thinkers like me. Perhaps it is my caretaker personality that causes me to want to keep myself and my family safe. 

The only person whose way of doing things seemed to align with mine was my grandmother, Mary. Once she crossed the ocean and settled into a tiny house in Houston, Texas she never again wanted to move. In fact, she did not even have a desire to leave the house. She was perfectly content to live out her days caring for her children and tending her garden. 

I am somewhat more balanced in that I love to travel and I continue to work outside of my home even in my retirement years. Still, it would not take much for me to spend more and more of my time simply enjoying my home and the neighbors around me. I feel quite comfortable and safe here. I don’t feel the need for excitement. I prefer the quiet of living a routine life. 

I am able to hop in my car and travel to the sea on any day. I can spend as much time there as I wish and then go home knowing that the worst a hurricane may do to my home is toss a few shingles off of the roof or take down my fence or one of my trees. In fact, I know that my city is the metropolis that it is because of that hurricane of long ago. When the winds devastated Galveston the progress and commerce moved inland. Houston was far enough away to take advantage of the shift. They built a ship channel and used bayous and railroads to grow a city in a fairly unlikely place. 

Now it is my home and I love it, but I am beginning to worry. As the climate changes and storms become stronger I have witnessed the devastation of flooding more often than I like. So far I have been spared, but my cautious nature makes me uncertain. One day I may feel compelled to move north to higher ground.

This is a perfect morning. I awoke early, finished my Wordle puzzle quickly and enjoyed the laughter of children gathering on the corner across the street from my home as they waited for the bus to convey them to school. I’m sipping on my tea and thinking of my grandson Andrew whose birthday is on this day. He’s become a fine man who watches over his younger brothers and works fifty hour weeks on his job designing and managing the engineering of constructing schools and medical facilities. He’s come a long way from the days when he was a cuddly little baby boy who liked to be rocked and entertained with songs.

In an hour or so I will be leaving to teach Algebra to a couple of delightful young girls who are already proficient in rather difficult mathematical concepts. I look forward to seeing them because they provide me with so much optimism about the future of the world just as grandson Andrew does, as well as those youngsters on the corner who serenade me with their laughter and antics each morning. Still, there is a circle of life that is inevitable but sometimes just a bit frightening.

My ninety three year old father-in-law is still slumbering in his bedroom. He has worked hard to adjust to his new life without his wife and away from the comfort and familiarity of his home. For a time he hardly slept here in my house, but now he has begun to relax and adapt to the flow of our routines and the unfamiliar sounds. I can tell that there are times when he longs for his independence and the joys that he experienced with his wife. While the young people around here are just beginning their journeys he realizes that his time is slowly approaching its close. Nonetheless he takes very good care of himself and he may have another decade or so in his future. His mind is sharp and he becomes physically stronger with every new day.

This afternoon my brother and sister-in-law will pick me up for a journey that we all wish did not need to take place. One of our beloved cousins, who is only months older than I am, is now living in a residential care facility after dementia began to overtake his mind. We don’t know what he will be like but we are determined to show him how much we love him even if he does not know who we are. 

It has been a shock to our family to hear of his declining health. He is perhaps the sweetest among our large brood of cousins who grew up together. None of us can remember a single time when he was unkind. We used to joke that he was destined to be a priest or maybe a living saint. His love of people and his country is bottomless. He has quietly entertained us with his wit and his ability to spin a tail. He has always faithfully taken the time to be a presence in our family whether it be to celebrate or grieve. 

I am heartbroken that his mind has been undone. I know that such things sometimes happen as people grow older, but it does not make the realization that he has been afflicted any easier. I have known a number of people have suffered from dementia and it is such a frightening disease for the persons whose mind become jumbled and for those who love them. In a sense they almost become strangers to one another as the disease progresses to a point where the person does not even remember how to get dressed or even to breathe. 

My cousin appeared to be just fine only a year ago. He had retired from his job after decades of service. We saw him at the funeral of another cousin and he seemed to be as fit as ever, maybe even more so since he was not working everyday. It has been shocking to hear the news that dementia seemingly overtook him so quickly. We find ourselves looking for clues that we missed that might have warned us that he has been carrying this illness longer than we even knew.

Life can be up and down and sideways. Sometimes it makes little sense. It can be beautiful and tragic. There are aspects of it over which we have no control no matter how hard we try. It can feel like river rafting on calm waters and then being flung over a waterfall. If we work together we can keep our tiny boat upright and moving forward. It takes teamwork to navigate together. It also requires a willingness to go with the flow and master the methods for keeping afloat. There can be joy but also danger. The thrill of our ride through life is in hanging together and enjoying the good times whenever they are present.

My daughter tells me that there was once a vacation when she and her sons embarked on a river canoeing adventure. They were laughing and enjoying the views when one of the canoes overturned. Her second son became trapped under the boat as the waters kept carrying him and the canoe forward. Luckily he was a strong swimmer and eventually extracted himself from the trap. Still, they all realized how close his call with death might have been. It was a sobering moment for everyone. 

I’ll take my days as they come and hope that I will have the strength of my courageous second grandson to deal with the dangers of life when they happen. I understand how important it is to soak in the laughter that comes from the corner where the children are gathered. I realize the necessity is to celebrate life just as I herald the birth of my grandson. I know that one day even the best among us may be nearing the end of this journey like my cousin. I am not any more exempt from the reality than anyone. I am in what some people call the last quarter of life and with each passing year I inch closer to the end. There is no other way to live than to enjoy the ride. I plan to grab it when it’s good survive it when it becomes dangerous. I’ve learned that the secret to a happy life is in enjoying each precious moment as it comes. Today is no exception as I ride the river of life.

Just for fun I recently watched an old Vincent Price movie, House on Haunted Hill. I told my husband that I remember seeing it at a local movie theater back when I was a kid. Every Saturday the theater hosted a “Fun Club” that featured games, cartoons and movies. One Saturday the film they showed was House on Haunted Hill and I remember feeling terrified as I watched it. I wanted to see how it held up as a thriller over sixty years later. 

Aside from the horrific acting and slow moving story there was very little to recommend to anyone who might want to watch something scary. I had a difficult time imagining why I had been so frightened when I watched this as a child. It was so hokey that I find it difficult to think that anybody would find the story to be spine-chilling, but it was definitely horrifying in the sense that not much about it was entertaining. Even the ending was flat. 

I grew up on a dose of Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. My cousins and I got together whenever our parents were playing cards. While they were occupied we quietly watched whatever we wanted to see. Of course we chose the scary shows over those that were more child friendly. We’d sit in the dark staring at the flickering of the black and white images on the screen. The stories on those shows were amazing and unforgettable. Great writing and a modicum of good acting made such a difference. That’s why those shows are classics.

Modern day horror films are so creative that they put me into a state of extreme anxiety. I literally worry about the safety of the characters and jump at every sound and shadow. Sometimes I can hardly breathe as the action unfolds. Twists and turns of plot are shocking and even the endings are often a total surprise. Is it possible that human imaginations are actually better than they once were or is it the visuals that are better? 

I never cease to be amazed by the stories that screen writers and novelists create. Not only am I hooked on certain plots from beginning to end, but I find myself feeling a kind of awe that someone is capable of writing such tales. I suspect that I have indeed come to expect more and more from entertainment, but over and over again there are geniuses who surpass what I had hoped to see. I wonder where these ideas originate.

Long ago I decided to write a murder mystery. Mine was about a serial killer who was traveling up and down an interstate highway abducting and killing young girls. He had a certain physical type that he hunted and even though the deaths piled up, he was cunning enough not to be caught or leave clues that might implicate him. Without revealing who this person was I wrote general descriptions of the thoughts going through the his mind. I had to become that monster as I described the evil that coursed through his brain. It was mentally exhausting and I literally had to cease my writing after a time because I began to feel untethered. My story telling sessions became too painful to continue. I threw my manuscript away. 

I’ve read that really talented writers sometimes become so involved in their stories that they begin to lose their hold on reality. They literally get carried away by their imaginations. I found that to be debilitating when I was penning my mystery. I wonder if I would have done better if I had created a happy inspiring character and story rather than a tale of evil. If such a story is the creation of someone else I am able to distance myself, but to write about violence and killing I have to imagine the tiny details of both the victims and the evil doers. Such exercises make me feel as vile as the make believe that I am attempting to describe.

As a teen I really enjoyed reading Agatha Christie mysteries. They were more cerebral and investigative. Solving the puzzle of the crime was the goal. I liked those very much, but I learned that even Ms. Christie had some quirky behaviors that made her a bit of a mystery herself. I wonder if writing so many of those tales had the same kind of effect on her as my one foray into murder did with me. Maybe it is such a taboo topic that it is best left alone. Not even the imagination should go to certain places. 

I’d no doubt do well to write a few scripts for Hallmark movies, but where is the challenge in that? A friend and I once created an entire outline for such a story in about fifteen minutes as we sat around his pool sipping on wine. I am convinced that our tale would be embraced by those who enjoy such things, but somehow it felt as trite and silly as that old Vincent Price movie that was only scary to a child. 

I’d like to create an idyllic world but something would have to happen there for anyone to be interested in reading about it or watching it on a screen. I’m searching for a remarkable idea like the plot of Field of Dreams. Now that was imagination at its best! I haven’t thought of anything to equal it yet, but I am working on it.

I suspect that many of the world’s people feel adrift in uncertain waters since the pandemic overtook the globe. We humans tend to like our own personal routines, and things like mysterious viruses don’t jibe with the normal flow of life. Our recent brush with a deadly infectious disease revealed our differences in very dramatic ways. Some people needed to look away from the dying, the cries for justice from minority citizens in different countries, the problems that arose in virtually every sector of our society. Others saw an opportunity to shine a light on issues that have always been present, but were less noticeable when we were all bustling about as usual. A kind of worldwide unrest has punctuated the painfulness of the last few years. 

We tend to crave instant solutions for our problems and answers for who is to blame, when in reality nothing is ever as simple as it seems to be. It will take years of hindsight and research to fully understand what we humans did right and what we did wrong. To blame one particular person or group for our recent trials would be foolish and unfair. Sadly our misery is being used as a political cudgel by people who are less interested in coming to common agreements than gaining the power to push their own agendas. In the end our current angry climate will do little to calm the march of challenges that the entire world faces. 

I love people. I think it’s fine for each of us to have different ideas about how we wish to live but I also believe in learning from past mistakes and listening to experts. I also believe that in general we have become more accustomed to having what we want, when we want it for the price we want to pay, especially here is the United States. To believe that things will remain that way after the cataclysm created by the pandemic is not just naive, but dangerous. It creates anger rather than sacrifice for the short term and ignores the steps we should take for the long term. It really is not idealistic or whatever someone wants to call it to be willing to step back for a time from the ways things were three years ago. It’s instead time to examine how we can adjust our behavior as needed to get through the effects of a worldwide pandemic coupled with wars.  

Are there fascists on the far right? Of course there are. I knew one of them back when I was in college. He was a friend of my mother’s and belonged to the John Birch society. His political ideas were disgusting and frightening and I was relieved when my mother pushed him out of her life. Sadly many such people are coming out of the woodwork these days and attempting to peddle their racist and authoritarian tropes to a public that is looking for comfort. On the other hand there are most assuredly Communists on the far left. They too have been around for decades. Both groups are too radical to run a democracy, but they have the right to their opinions in a democracy. We just have to be able to identify them properly when they seek power. We would do well to spurn them and look to moderates from both parties to guide us through our current problems. We too often fall victim to the rants of people who do not have the interests of everyone in their hearts. They prey on our fears rather than our better spirits.

I think that much of the problem lies in judging people and their motives for believing the way that they do. Often if we walked in their shoes we might understand why they think the way they. I’ve said before that we all need to stop, take a breath and allow people to have a voice without rebuttal. Sometimes just listening helps to explain behaviors that we do not understand. 

I recently listened to a lovely broadcast on NPR that featured two women who were seemingly from opposite ends of a spectrum. One of the ladies was from a family that had once owned slaves. The other was a descendant from one the slaves that the family had owned. Both had heard stories from about that unfortunate time that made them cringe. At some point one of the women contacted the other and asked if they might get together to talk and hopefully heal wounds. 

In fact they began a years long conversation that ended with the white woman apologizing for the hurt that her ancestors had inflicted on the black women’s family. Both women learned about each other in the most intimate of ways and ultimately became close friends. They decided to write a book about their experience in the hopes that others might be willing to find some level of understanding with those whose histories and views seem to be at opposite extremes. 

I found myself sobbing as I heard the stories of these two women and heard the emotional journey that they were willing to take with each other. Somehow such honest conversations have seemingly gone out of style. We don’t allow people to speak openly about who they are and how they became that way. We seem to default to anger and insults when someone differs from ourselves. 

I still dream of making peace with one another, but evidence is making me weary of waiting for that time to come. We can’t look away from our problems nor can we rant so loudly that nobody gets a word in edgewise. What the world needs now is a mega therapy session and a whole lot of love. 

Several years ago my daughter and grandchildren were visiting my home during their summer vacation. We saw the sights around town during the day and usually settled in to watch a movie in the evening. I noticed a film that I knew nothing about called Hachi: A Dog’s Tale. It is a movie based on the true story of a famous dog in Japan named Hachika who was so loyal to his master that even after the man had suddenly died, the pup waited for him each afternoon at the train station just as he always had. Hachika continued his loyal watch for nine years and in the process became a celebrity of sorts in Japan. The movie transfers the story to the United States but the theme of the pup’s undying commitment to his human companion is the same. 

I’ve always been fascinated by tales of determination to reach a destination or accomplish a skill or a certain task. I have the highest regard for people who refuse to give up even when failure seems inevitable. Literature is replete with heroes like Ulysses who kept their eyes on goals of one kind or another. Whether fictional or factual the individual who creates a goal and sticks with it regardless of obstacles is a source of great inspiration to me. 

I suppose that I might be considered to be a bit of a romantic when it comes to life, not so much in the sense of finding a true love, but it the belief that each of us is capable of accomplishing great things if we are steadfast in our willingness to keep trying even in the face of failure and disappointment. Sometimes the most remarkable people are the ones who initially appeared to be fools for believing that they might achieve something that seemed beyond their grasp.

In the world of education we call this kind of determination “grit.” I’ve seen that grit is one of the best indicators of future success. The young man who struggles with mathematics but works tirelessly to finally understand may not have the most natural talent, but he has something even better. He is a person who will hit a wall and then find a way around it. This is someone who will ultimately succeed while others are simply accepting what they see as their fate. 

I was often the last person to turn in my tests. It made me question my intelligence because my brain seemed to work so much more slowly than others. Sometimes my fellow students would even groan a bit as they had to silently wait for me to finish my work. I had to learn to ignore not just the implied pressure being place on me, but also my internal doubts about myself. I took my time and allowed my mind to work at its own unique pace. I always did well, but the lingering thought was that somehow I just was not as bright as the people around me. It took me years of growing in confidence and studying how humans learn to realize that I was not less than, just different. 

As a society we have a tendency to rank almost every aspect of life. We like to quantify everything from intelligence to happiness. In doing so we forget that numbers really cannot define an individual. While swiftness is critical for a race, it should not be a metric for determining the value or rank of a person. What does it rally matter if someone is able to learn how to simplify radicals in ten minutes or ten days as long as each person ultimately understands the concept? Some of my very best students, who are now also the most successful adults among their peers, were the ones who chose to come to every one of my tutoring sessions because they had been unable to master concepts during the confines of a single lesson. 

One such student became the valedictorian of her class. Graduated with high honors from college and slowly but surely worked to earn a PhD. I still remember other teachers commenting that she wasn’t the brightest person in the class but was simply someone who worked hard. Somehow they made her deliberate determination sound like something bad. Instead it was an early indicator that she is a person who is willing to push herself no matter how difficult the going may become. Isn’t that how we should actually be urging everyone to be? Having a willingness to work hard to accomplish something is the most noble of goals. Our loyalty to excellence should demand that each of us pushes ourselves just a bit more and then a bit more with everything that we attempt to do. 

I see the faces of students who overcame bonafide learning difficulties, poverty and even abuse by never becoming complacent. Some of them may have taken years to earn college degrees but they never gave up. Then when they found jobs their willingness to work harder than anyone else just as they had always done became a valued trait. They spent so much time learning that they never stopped and eventually even in a world of ranking, they emerged at the top. 

When we see the child who struggles in the beginning, but refuses to simply cease the effort, we need to commend him/her. In fact, that person is demonstrating exactly the kind of grit that makes leaders, inventors, creators. Watch for them in your midst and treasure them, for they are the ones on whom our future depends.