All It Takes Is A Little Love

I spend my early mornings leisurely eating a light breakfast, drinking tea to jumpstart my brain, working on the new “Wordle” puzzle, catching up on posts from my friends on Facebook, composing birthday wishes, and scanning the headlines of the latest news. Recently I noticed that Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall are supposedly divorcing. Reading about their lives in the world of the rich and famous made me realize how much I enjoy my own quiet life. The two of them seemingly have it all, but for whatever reason are unable to find the kind of contentment that I have experienced for most of my life. 

I suppose that most of us who are ordinary people have sometimes dreamed of being so comfortable that we never again have to worry about money. We imagine how nice it would be to just relax and enjoy the ride through life with the financial ability to help others, travel the world first class, live wherever we wish, never think twice about how an emergency will impact us. It’s a kind of pipe dream that drives lotteries and makes us believe that just a bit of good luck will change our worlds. 

The truth is that save for those who inherit wealth, most folks who store up riches have worked very hard to get them. They probably worry more about their bottom lines that we ordinary folk do. They are under continuous pressure to keep things going and their spouses and children are often under a microscope that can be unflattering. People have unbelievable expectations for them. Where they live, how they live, what they do with their money becomes public fodder. 

Personally I drive through the wealthiest areas of my city and I think of how horribly exhausting it must be to have to keep up a front. I’m such an introvert that I’m certain that I would be crushed by the expectations, the constant need to look and act just right. I would not trade my anonymity for their notoriety for any amount of money. 

I love being able to disappear into a crowd. I like that I can walk around in my yard in my bare feet without being scrutinized. I enjoy being able to go to the store wearing no makeup and boasting a head of unkempt hair. Nobody cares about what I do or how I decide to do it, and I like that. I’ve learned that with fame and fortune come responsibilities and expectations that I would be loathe to endure. I can speak my mind and it does not much matter whether I agree with the people around me or not. An ordinary life grants me much more freedom than someone in the limelight enjoys. 

I suspect that nobody has ever achieved all that they have dreamed of doing. Contentment comes not so much from having it all, but from feeling good about the choices we make as we encounter all of the challenges and opportunities that appear before us. Living well is a process and an attitude. It takes continuous introspection and adaptation. We are going to make mistakes, but our goal should be to admit them and change according to whatever is needed.

I spent most of my adult life caring for my mother during her recurring episodes of bipolar disorder. I often cursed my fate and then disliked myself for being selfish. I had to learn to forgive myself for being human. I had to sluff off guilt whenever I made wrong decisions and simply learn from them so that I might do better the next time around. I had to stop being my own worst enemy and be as loving to myself as I tried to be with my mother. 

I often marvel at my own good luck. We don’t choose our parents, but in spite of my parents’ flaws they were excellent models of how to live life well. I was fortunate in that regard. I never knew abuse of any kind from them. I understood every single day how much they loved me and guarded my well-being. I was surrounded by quirky aunts and uncles who nonetheless constantly displayed their concern for my welfare. My grandparents were hardy people who smiled even as they had to sacrifice. They all taught me to be flexible and optimistic while tackling the kind of problems that seem to plague us all. I also learned from them that sometimes even our most well intentioned efforts fall flat and the only thing we can do is learn from the muck ups we have created. 

There are things that I would like to do if there were no barriers to my dreams. I would pay for my grandchildren’s college and encourage them to go as far in earning degrees as they wish with my financial support. I would gift my children and grandchildren with as much as the government allows without taxes. I would set up scholarships and foundations for deserving students from all over the world. I would donate funding to St. Thomas High School, the KIPP Charter Schools, the University of Houston, Rice University, Trinity University, Bowdoin College, Texas Tech, the University of Notre Dame, Texas A&M University and the University of Texas. I would provide funding for research in the Texas Medical Center. My focus would be on supporting the efforts young people who might otherwise be locked out of achieving their goals. 

I am very content. I might have done more, made more of a difference, earned more money, but I can’t complain about my life. Most of the people of the world would see my lifestyle as being incredible. I live in a nice home with a big yard filled with plants that I have nurtured. My family is well educated. I have food in my pantry and good doctors to care for me when I am sick. My friends are many and my relatives are close. Nothing about me is perfect, but I am perfectly satisfied with what I have. If I could change only one thing it would be to realized my lifelong desire for unending peace on earth, or at least a reasonable facsimile of that. Even though it seems naive to ever expect that to happen i still have hope. It’s never too late to dream. 

There are two little boys working hard to wash cars on my street. They charge a ridiculously low price, but they seem to have a great deal of fun earning their money. They are about as close to being a modern version of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn as two youngsters might be. It makes me smile to hear them laughing as they work and I find myself thinking back to lazy summer days of my own childhood. 

Where I grew up and continue to live it is always hot in the summertime. Somehow I seem to notice it more than I did back then. I remember as a child racing outside each morning eagerly searching for other kids who might be ready to plan adventures for the day. I never knew exactly what to expect but there was never a dull moment on my street.

My mother was quite popular with everyone in the neighborhood because she brought out a huge thermos with a spigot each morning and placed it on a stool near the garage. She filled it with water and ice and set cups next to it for times when we got really thirsty. She often cautioned us to hydrate. We did not quite understand her reasoning back then. We drank the cool liquid to make her feel better without realizing that she probably prevented us from having heat strokes as we ran and rolled around on the grass. 

Much like the little boys on my street today, we were always conspiring to come up with ideas for making some extra cash. We did little jobs for people, created shows that our parents would pay to see, and designed newspapers with the latest information about what everyone was doing in our little corner of the world. 

We built forts and sprayed each other with the hose. Whenever someone turned on their sprinkler a horde of kids would converge in the yard to run back and forth through the spray. Nobody ever seemed to get mad when we came. In fact we always suspected that the adults turned on the showers just to allow us to have some fun. 

There was bike riding and game playing and climbing trees. Sometimes when the temperatures reached their highest point we would all go inside our respective homes and lie in front of the windows in our bedrooms with the attic fans moving hot air across our faces. That’s when I would read the books that I had checked out from the bookmobile that came to the neighborhood just across the bayou from ours. 

Other times we would meet our cousins at one of the city swimming pools. The lifeguards kept the crowds down so we only got to swim for an hour before we were ushered out while the next group came in. If we were lucky our moms let us goof around on the playground for a while, but most of the time the ladies were getting hot and wanting to get back home to take care of chores. 

There was a place not far from our house called Peppermint Park. It featured an assortment of kiddie rides under a red and white striped canvas tent. There were boat rides and cars and even little airplanes. I never got to go there but I would often look longingly at the place dreaming of one day going there to find out if it was as much fun as it appeared to be. 

When I got a bit older Astroworld opened up and my mom would treat us to a day of fun there once each summer. We arrived as they were opening the gates and stayed until they were shooing us out at the end of the day. It was a world unto itself where we forgot about any form of reality. I remember always feeling a bit strange when we walked across the big bridge that spanned the freeway and ended up in the parking lot near the Astrodome where Mama had left her car. It was like a shock to the system to end up back in the ordinary world. 

Speaking of the Astrodome, my mother loved baseball and particularly the Houston Astros. She had a friend whose cousin was a manager for one of the teams in the National League. He sent her passes to get into the ballgames and she shared them with my mom who excitedly took us often to watch the hometown heroes. That was some really good fun there and it only cost us the price of parking and a bag of peanuts to go.

My mother was a sucker for drive in movies as well. All we had to do is suggest that a good feature was showing somewhere and she would hurriedly pack sandwiches, drinks and popcorn for our evening fare. We brought along our pillows to boost our height and also in case anyone got sleepy during the second feature. We had lots of drive in theaters near where we lived, but Mama usually chose whichever one had a special admission price for a whole carload. When we went to the Trail Drive In where my aunt worked she would wink us through and we got in free. 

Sundays were the best because after church we always went to the beach to meet our aunts and uncles and cousins. We would spend the entire day splashing in the water, fishing, and watching the water skiers go by. I got many a terrible sunburn on those outings so it is little wonder that my skin is so damaged in my older age. Even knowing what I know now, I’d do it all over again. It was glorious.

The children are gathering under the shade trees in the yards around me right now. I like seeing them planning their games, setting up lemonade stands, and riding their bikes. I’m too hot to go outside to join them before the evening when the breeze here cools things down. I remember the joys of summer just watching those little ones and I feel young again. I never got to go to Peppermint Park and that’s alright. I can attest to having a blast just the way things were. My summers were so simple then and the kids on my street seem to be experiencing exactly the same kind of spectacularly unspectacular lazy days as I did. I suspect they are making memories that will one day make them smile as happily as I am doing now.  

I recall the days of old when most young men followed rules for being what we then called gentlemen. They opened doors for ladies, walked on the right side of women near the curb, pulled out chairs at tables, helped women into cars. While all of these things were nice they are not the most important aspect of being a gentleman in my mind. For me, a true gentleman is someone who demonstrates respect for all people. A gentleman encourages women to reach for their desired goals without limits. 

I happen to be married to a man whom I think of as a gentleman. He is willing to openly cry and show his emotions. He supports gay marriage because he believes that we should always be happy to see more love in our often uncaring world. He is proud to be the father of two strong women and he always supported me in my efforts to become educated and successful in my work. He listens with interest to what I have to say even when he does not totally agree with my ideas. He believes in treasuring every human and sincerely likes people. He has a generous and inclusive heart. 

While I eschewed all the little niceties of old style chivalry years ago my gentleman husband still considers it his duty to be certain that I am safe and secure. We are a team that works together in a spirit of kindness and love. We compliment each other in the ways we do things but also give each other the freedom to soar. He has celebrated all of my accomplishments without any sign of envy. 

I shudder when I see a man sucking the oxygen out of a room, demanding to be the center of attention. I abhor boastful men, bullies who make a joke of the appearances of women. I prefer my very gentle husband who sees people for what is in their hearts. He is loyal and trustworthy to the nth degree. 

Women have told me that they are afraid to become more educated than their husbands or to earn more money. Some have meekly adopted the political views of their husbands rather than studying issues and thinking for themselves. Others tell me that they simply give in whenever arguments ensue because the men in their lives insist on being right. Luckily I have never had to endure such limitations.

I only have one granddaughter and I am happy to see that she has no trouble asserting herself. She is a leader by nature and inclined to speak her mind. I cheer her because I think that too often in the history of the world women have had to accept an inferior role to men. Some people see that as a godly traditional role that is to be desired. I see it as a belief that women are somehow inferior to men, a myth that has stalked us for far too long. 

Both of my grandmothers were tiny women but their hearts were bold and strong. Grandma Mary sailed across the Atlantic alone to find a new life in America. She left behind everyone and everything that she had ever known. I can’t think of anyone I know who is more adventurous than that. My Grandma Minnie was a young widow who had to make her way with her daughter by hiring out as a cook in a boarding house. She eventually met my grandfather and remarried but her spunkiness never waned. She could hunt and fish with the best men and she was fearless when it came to fording a swollen river during a flood. I come naturally by my independent ways and I handed them down to my daughters who in turn have taught their sons and the one daughter to respect the intellect and dignity of women. 

My father-n-law is somewhat quaint. He still insists on holding doors for me and making sure that I enter a room before he does. He treasured his two wives and diligently cared for them through illnesses and surgeries. His every thought was for their comfort. I suppose that my husband learned from him but when all is said and done it was his mother who made him so great. She insisted that he show the utmost respect for all women. His encouragement and support followed him to work where the women hailed him as one of the best bosses they ever had. 

I hope that my grandsons will follow the example of their grandfather, my husband. If they treat the people they meet with the same level of respectful behavior they will find true and healthy partnerships whether at work or in matters of love. When speaking of gentlemanly behavior key words are trust, honesty, encouragement, respect, appreciation and gentleness. Men with those qualities are treasures. Men like that are strong.

When I was a very young child my family lived next to neighbors who seemed to be almost as avant-garde as Auntie Mame. While my parents purchased classic furniture much like that of their parents the Wright family was very much into mid-century modern chic. Instead of purchasing mahogany, oak or cherry wood they chose what was then called “blonde” accessories. Their chairs were low slung and built with strange curves and dark canvas seats. Their tables used wrought iron and glass to create a sense of visionary fluidity. Their artwork was more akin to Picasso than the old masters. Their color palette  mostly consisted of blacks and greys and reds. 

I think that both Mr. and Mrs. Wright were artists of some kind and before they finally had a child of their own they often invited me to their home for lessons in drawing and using color. I adored Mrs. Wright who very patiently worked with me to develop my first artistic skills. She constantly boasted that I was quite advanced in drawing and creating works of art given my age. I’m not so certain that I actually had any talent, but I did enjoy being with her and letting my eye wander through the rooms of her home. It was so very different from anything that I had ever before seen and somehow I understood that it was a lovely expression of the creativity that she and her husband so delightfully shared with me.

We eventually moved when I was six years old. My memories of the Wrights themselves are fuzzy, but I can still see their furnishings with great clarity. I am also able to hear Mrs. Wright’s voice encouraging me to follow my own creative instincts using words that a child would understand. While I never again saw either of the Wrights I have somehow never forgotten what I learned from them or the impressions they made on my pre-school mind. 

My own home is rather old fashioned due to the quirk of inheriting antiques from the older members of my family. I am a firm believer in taking care of fine pieces of furniture that still have life in them. I am a recycler of the highest order. Thus my house is as eclectic they come. I somehow pull together a hodgepodge of hand me downs into a cohesive mix that makes it seem as though I prefer the old over the new when in fact I simply don’t believe in letting anything that is still useful go to waste. I have very few items of furniture that I have actually purchased aside from sofas and upholstered chairs. I use most of those things until they are hopelessly outdated and their cushions are sagging, so I often miss the fashions of some decades. 

There really is no theme in my decorating other than voicing my independence. I color outside of the lines of trends either old or new. I use what I have and accent it with whimsy or whatever makes me happy. I mix the old with the new and care not whether I am up to date or behind the times. I just delight in being me just as Mrs. Wright once counseled me to be.

I like to think that I took the advice of Mrs. Wright to heart in all aspects of my life. I may appear to be old fashioned and conservative but my essence is forward thinking. I often identify more with young adults in their twenties thirties and forties than my older peers. I see so many possibilities in the future and have no desire to fall back on a time that was somewhat flawed. I’m a believer in progress and exploration of new ideas. At the same time I know that it is possible to combine the best of the past with the innovation of the future. I’ve been successful in melding these elements in my home and in my beliefs. Maybe it’s because Mrs. Wright taught me to really look at the world around me without filters or restrictions on my thinking. 

Even as a child I was able to see both the beauty and the ugliness in differing ways of viewing the world. I was aware of loving kindness from the adults that I knew while also overhearing some of their prejudices and flawed thinking that bothered me. I have moved with the inevitable tide of modernity while also treasuring the best aspects of what I experienced in the past. I am not one who looks at the younger generation as being irresponsible, To the contrary I am certain that they are ready to take on the reins of guiding us into brighter days. I really do believe that the best is yet to come. 

Most people don’t seem to realize that so many of the things we have today are far superior to the things from the past. I remember televisions that constantly needed repair whereas the ones I now own seem to keep going forever without any need for changing parts. Our cars are safer and more efficient than ever, especially the ones that are electric. We have windows that actually insulate our homes, appliances that use less electricity that the behemoths of the past. We have mostly embraced the delightful diversity that makes the human race as brilliant as it is. We have eradicated diseases that made me very sick as a child. Our school curriculums are more advanced than ever. 

I suppose that when all is said and done I may be looking more and more like an old fuddy daddy along with my home, but appearances can be deceiving. I’m may be as thoroughly modern as Mr. and Mrs. Wright once were. Thanks to their enduring influence I am an independent thinker who sees problems as possibilities, the past as a lesson, a blank sheet of paper as a space of wonder.   

I have to stay organized or I completely fall apart. My students almost always discovered that if they moved my pen or shuffled my class notes I would become a mess until I sorted things out. This was often their way of get a slight reprieve from instructions in mathematics every once in awhile. I usually just laughed it off and recovered my composure as quickly as possible.

I’m somewhat old fashioned in the way I keep track of things that I must do. I still make pencil and paper lists to carry to the grocery store. I scratch off items after I have place them in my shopping cart. My husband rolls his eyes at my way of doing things as though I am carrying a slate tablet along with a hammer and chisel. His whole world is on his phone and computer. He uses all kinds of apps to get things done. He can’t imagine why I need actual paper anymore. 

I do type up “to do” lists and save them on my desktop. I delete tasks once I have completed them. I also keep an electronic calendar that reminds me where and when I am supposed to be somewhere. It works well as long as I think to actually check it once each morning. Mostly I follow a routine, so there is very little that I have to be reminded to do. 

My husband almost always uses an app for directions, even to places he has been to hundreds of times. When I ask him why he would do that he claims that he is getting traffic updates and learning when to change his route to avoid delays. That sort of thing drives me crazy so I often end up sitting in standstill traffic cooling my heels. I’m just not that into up to the minute technology for navigating around town. Such things remind me too much of stringent lesson planning rules or those ideas for taking good notes in a college class that teachers sometimes made me follow. I have my own ways that seem to have worked well for me and my temperament even if I do drop the ball once in a blue moon. 

My husband was a banker and I suppose his management tasks required him to be more on the money if you will, than my job of creatively inspiring students to enjoy learning about mathematics. I was more inclined to punt when I saw their eyes glaze over. Being tied down to an ironclad plan rarely worked for me. 

The same was true when I mentored and supported teachers. Each of them was an individual with differing skills. I quickly learned that some of them were as devoted to organization as my husband and I treated their need for step by step guidelines with deep respect. Others had everything under control in their heads. I understood that I could always count on them to get their jobs done magnificently without the minutiae of complex planning. I learned to adapt to a panoply of needs rather than any one way of doing things. 

My house is a kind of mirage. Everything in view appears to be very carefully placed because it is. Rarely is their a feeling of chaos in my rooms, but behind the closed doors of some of my cabinets and closets is a hidden world of utter disorder. My junk drawer might win first prize for the most disarrayed accumulation of worthless items on the planet, but my countertops are spotlessly clean and uncluttered. In fact I drive my husband a bit batty because he seems to think that I should have more items sitting ready to be used rather than stuffed away behind closed doors. 

The funny thing is that I know people who are just the opposite. I might open any enclosed space in their homes and find an organized system worthy of the container store. At the same time they feature an array of items seemingly thrown randomly into corners of rooms and on the surfaces of tables and counters. While I would go crazy with all of the visible mess, they would faint at the thought of some of my closets.

I had a friend who kept everything in perfect order save for one room in her home that nobody ever entered. She once revealed it to me and it was a jumble unlike anything I have ever seen. She laughed at my shocked expression and gave me a tour to demonstrate how she knew exactly where to find whatever she wanted. In the meantime. it was a better storage space that a hot attic and nobody ever needed to see it unless she chose to let them in on her secret. 

I have often found that a person’s organizational bent corresponds with their talents and skills. Accountants are generally quite systematic and linear while highly creative souls often seem not to follow any strict guidelines in their lives. I suppose we need all kinds of skills in this world and it would be really boring if we were all automatons who robotically behaved alike. 

I get things done on time and in good order so I don’t think it matters whether I do so with old school paper and pencil or technology. My home is clean even if it has some junky spaces. I consider myself to be organized in my own way so it really should not matter that much to anyone else how I get there. I’ve gotten pretty far doing it my way. I don’t see much point in changing things now but I might take time to clean out that junk draw because I’m having a difficult time finding anything in there..