All It Takes Is A Little Love

i remember when people had cookie jars or candy jars in their homes. My Grandma Minnie had both and she managed to keep them filled for the times when we visited her house. My mother never had a cookie jar until my brothers and I put together the money we had made from doing odd jobs like babysitting or cutting grass. We found a small ceramic jar that was shaped like a little house. It was painted in pastel colors to resemble a sweet shop. It had a little handle crafted from woven strips of wood. We thought that it was magically delightful as only children would.

We were so proud of that gift because we had usually just made something for our mom. She seemed to like the pictures that we drew, so that was often our present of choice. One time we traced the image of a little boy onto a block of wood. Then we used a hand jigsaw to cut out the figure. One of my brothers used a magnifying glass and the rays of the sun to burn the boy’s features into the wood. We stained the whole thing and put a hook on it so that Mama would be able to hang it on the wall. She proudly displayed in the kitchen for many years until she finally stored in a drawer.

Having an actual store bought present was a big deal for us, so we chose that cookie jar very carefully. We wanted something nice that we might afford with our very limited budget. I can’t remember where we purchased it, but it most likely was from the local TG&Y. Mama treasured it for many years, but I don’t recall her ever using it to store cookies. She was afraid that the lid was not tight enough to keep the ants at bay. In all likelihood she was exactly right about that. 

Today that cookie jar sits on one of the shelves of my secretary desk. The doors are made with glass so it is visible to all who sit in the area that I call my sitting room. It is where I talk to friends on the phone, write my blogs, read and plan the math lessons for my students. The room is my refuge and I have filled it with things that make me happy. Knowing that my mother treasured the cookie jar, even if she never used it, is a wonderful feeling. It was not much, but she understood how hard we had to work to purchase it for her. 

Next to the cookie jar are two pieces of children’s china that were Mama’s when she was a child. Generally she did not have toys but she had that little plate and cup from a set that somehow survived the wear and tear of a house full of seven rough and tumble siblings. I can almost imagine her hiding the precious pieces so that they would not get broken. I have no idea what happened to the rest of the set or if there was even more at all. It simply is precious to me to have something from my mother’s childhood.

I have a small Eleanor Roosevelt doll tucked in the corner of the top shelf of the secretary. I bought it for myself because I have always been inspired by First Lady Roosevelt. I suppose I became a fan when my mother so vividly described how important both of the Roosevelts had been to her family. She literally gushed when she told us how President Roosevelt had save the nation. She proudly recalled how she stood on the corner of her street to watch Roosevelt  and his entourage pass by when he visited Houston. She shed tears when speaking of his death. She always insisted that Eleanor Roosevelt had been the greatest First Lady ever and told us stories of listening to her speak to the nation on the radio.

When I read books about Eleanor my mother’s opinions of her were confirmed. I fell in love with that remarkable woman and when I look at the doll representing her I always think of my mother. In fact, my mother’s name was Ellen, which I think is beautiful. Ironically Mama often commented that she would have preferred being known as Eleanor. At birth her parents named her Elena as would have been a more customary name in Slovakia. Any way I look at the different versions of my mother’s name, I find them to be wonderful and much more pleasing than my own. I suppose we all dream of having a different, more elegant name.

My mother used to collect salt and pepper shakers on her travels with my father. Her collection was abruptly finished upon his death. Nonetheless they had packed a lifetime of seeing the country in their eleven years of marriage. Mama’s tiny mementoes filled a small bookcase and I had to dust each one of them every single week. I remember carefully wiping down the tiny shakers that represented so many different places. What might have been a tedious task became fun as I imagined all of the wondrous cities and towns and National Parks she and Daddy had visited. 

Sadly something happened to all of those little treasures. Perhaps my mom grew tired of them and gave them away. Maybe she accidentally broke some of them. For whatever reason only two sets were still intact when she died. I was so proud of them that they ended up in my curio shelves as well. One day I accidentally broke one of the sets as I was cleaning. It shattered my heart, but I had to remind myself that they were only things. I still had the great memories of all of the original pieces, and nothing would ever take that away. I recalled the replicas of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. I thought of the tepees from a Native American reservation and the Cacti from Arizona. There had once been birds and bears, canoes and trains.

I suppose that anyone looking inside my secretary might wonder why I have such a hodgepodge of items. Nothing in there is particularly rare or of monetary value. It is the memory associated with each piece that is important. My treasures are of the heart. Gazing at them almost make moments from the past come alive. That makes them priceless for sure.  

I got a late start with my writing on the morning of January 17, because it was quite cold and I did not want to leave the warmth of my covers to arise, so I slept in just a bit. It was very quiet in my neighborhood due to being the Martin Luther King holiday. There were no children laughing on the corner, no buses shuttling them to school. The cars of the working folk on my street were still parked on the driveways and streets well after ten. I suspect that everyone was enjoying a slower beginning to the day thanks to Dr. King. 

I had decided not to write about my hero worship of Dr. King one more time. I seem to address that theme every single year and it felt as though I had said as much as I needed to express on that topic. Somehow when I finally did awaken and begin my morning routines, I felt compelled to compose a blog centered on Dr. King and the work that still must be done to fulfill his dream. As I read that his family wants us to take action to insure the rights of all Americans rather than just attend parades or run in marathons or post quotes from the great man, I realized that the journey to the Promised Land continues. Like the Israelites wandering in the desert we still have miles to go before the job of ensuring justice and equality for all is done. 

I was a fortunate soul back in the days of Jim Crow. Because I had white skin everything was open to me, including opportunity. While my family suffered economically after my father died, I was able to attend private school through scholarships and ultimately because the religious community there gave my mother a job and free tuition for me and my brothers. With a uniform like those everyone else wore I blended in with no effort. Nobody knew how we lived on the edge of an economic razor and few realized that I came from a single parent home. With hard work I rose to the heights in the ranks of my peers and easily gained admission to virtually any university of my choice. Only finances and troubles at home kept me from launching myself into the high society of the Ivy league, but I nonetheless received an excellent education that led to a wonderful career. 

I was a fighter for the civil rights of the Black citizens that I did not really know because I had been segregated from them for all of my life. I knew where they lived and I had an occasional interaction when I visited the home of my aunt and her maid was busy cleaning her home. Other than that, I only saw that our treatment of Black citizens was wrong even as I understood so little of what was really happening to them. It was only when I entered college and actually had classes with Black students that the veil of ignorance began to fall from my face. 

It was long after the Civil Rights Act of the nineteen sixties had passed that I began to understand even better what life had been like for my Black colleagues at work. It was then that I realized that my belief that we had done all that needed to be done was false. In my teaching career I met brilliant men and women who had spent their childhoods at the back of buses and in homes and schools tucked away from the white population. I learned of their struggles and determination to become an integrated part of American society. They were real and wonderful and I so admired them just as I had Dr. King. 

I taught students of color who had economic struggles that made those of my own family seem trivial. They had no print matter in their homes, no Internet, no computers, no transportation to libraries. Sometimes they had to care for younger siblings while their parents went to second jobs in the evenings. They told me stories of mothers coming home in the early hours of the morning while it was still dark to catch a few hours of sleep before dashing off to their main jobs. Even then their income was so low that it barely covered the basic necessities. 

These parents were unable to to attend open house or teacher conferences. Missing a few hours of work might result in loss of a much needed job. They never came to band or choir performances. Their children accepted academic awards without a cheering section. They were good mothers and fathers trying hard to keep their children fed and under a secure roof. The luxury of holidays and evenings at home were not always available to them. 

I began to see how the sins of slavery and segregation had a compounded effect on generations. I saw that it was going to take time for them to catch up to the rest of us, and that this would only happen if everyone supported them in their efforts to be welcomed into an integrated society. We have certainly come a long way, but we are not there yet. If we are honest we see the racism that still exists both overtly and under cover. We know that our Black friends and neighbors still suffer from many prejudices and ugly beliefs. 

The John Lewis Voting Rights Act addresses some of the problems, but not all. I know that the simple act of voting is exceedingly difficult for many people who work multiple jobs. They do not have the time to stand in long lines or even to get to those lines without endangering their jobs. They do not get holidays on which they might vote. They cannot chase down voter registration offices that are only open from nine to four. They do not deserve to be gerrymandered into districts that dilute their voting power and representation. 

Dr. King’s family is correct. If we sincerely want to honor the great of Martin Luther King we will continue the work that he and others began even before the slaves were freed. Dr. King wanted all men and women to live in a fair and just society. We are still working our way toward that goal.

In wonderfully diverse nation it’s time that we considered the circumstances of everyone, not just those like ourselves. We have to take off our blinders and be willing to finally see that many of our voting laws work against hard-working and honest people. Our goal should not be to make voting more difficult, but to provide the vote to as many of our qualified citizens as possible. It’s our duty to break down the barriers that keep them away. Both Democrats and Republicans need to work together to get this done.

I have to admit that I am someone who enjoys the calmness of routine. I like red beans and rice Mondays and taco Tuesdays. I always thought it was cool that my cousin was able to look forward to hamburgers every Saturday. I suppose that it is boring to some people to always know what is coming next, but I have often found such a situation to be very comforting. Perhaps it is because there is always a good share of uncertainty in all of our lives, so clinging to a routine at home feels nice, even if it is just designating a certain day of the week as a time to eat a particular food. 

My friends Pat and Bill always had a Thursday night date. They regularly scheduled a babysitter to watch their children and took a few hours each week just to celebrate each other. They might go out to dinner or find a movie to watch. Sometimes they just drove around and talked. They were certain that this routine kept their love and affection for one another alive even through difficult times. 

The visits to my grandmother’s house every single Friday night of my childhood kept me going and made me certain that I was never alone. I loved those raucous evenings with my cousins. The sound of my aunts and uncles arguing over poker games in a smoke filled room still make me smile. The vision of my grandmother with her enamel cups of sugary coffee is one of the most wonderful memories that I have. 

My mother saw to it that we went to church every single Sunday. The people in our parish were my extended family as far as I was concerned. Many of them are still very much part of my life. I always understood that they were good folks upon who I would be able to count in even the most horrific times. 

I suppose that we humans enjoy adventure, but most of us need a bit of order as well. It is a kind of safety net, a way of reminding ourselves that ultimately everything is probably going to be okay. I suspect that the lack of fixed way of doing things is part of the reason that so many are confused and depressed these days. Having to constantly switch gears and adapt to new protocols can be daunting, but in reality doing so is a part of life. Nothing ever stays exactly the same. Those who know how and when it is time to change are the healthy and happy ones among us. It really is possible to be adventurous while clinging to beloved ways of doing things.

I saw a post about a famous athlete who was spotted with a phone that had a cracked screen. When asked why he did not just get another one, given that he earns enough to have almost anything he might want, his answer was that he did not desire his fame and fortune to be used for luxuries that he did not really need. He preferred instead to share his wealth with others who are suffering. He insisted that he was going to continue to follow the frugal ways that he had always lived 

I remember reading that Katherine Hepburn lived for most of her adult life in the same small apartment in New York City. She might easily that found a bigger and more modern place, but she saw no reason to do so. She was comfortable and liked her neighbors. Her home was a place of solace for her. She could see no reason to rock the boat just to impress others with her wealth. 

As a teacher I found that my students liked a semblance of order in the classroom. They wanted me to list the date, the objectives for the lesson and the homework in the exact same place every day. They liked that I had a designated area for turning in work. They appreciated that I graded papers quickly and gave them an updated average each Monday. They knew what to expect and it brought them a sense of well being. Given that many of them were living in highly dysfunctional conditions at home, my little corner of the school was a kind of refuge for them. 

Boring can sometimes be very nice. Schedules provide us with a sense of continuity. The world seems to be spinning off of its axis these days and most of us are weary. So maybe it’s time to find little things that bring us a sense of control. What that is will be different for everyone, but always important. Read that book for an hour each day. Have that meal around the table. Have bedtime routines for everyone. Eat ice cream on Sunday. 

We have to take care of ourselves and the people that we love. We may not get what we want, when we want it, for the price we wish to pay, but we might have that little slice of peace. Routine provide us with the patience that we need in these times. Adjust, adapt and then choose something to do regularly that makes you happy.

I’ve alway loved to write. As a child I often created little newspapers that I crafted on eight by ten sheets of paper. I didn’t have access to a typewriter so I carefully printed the words and headlines. Sometimes I even drew illustrations to go with the stories. I imagined myself one day being a journalist for one of the major newspapers or magazines, so when I got the opportunity to be on the staff of my high school newspaper I leapt at the chance. 

By the time I was a senior I was a seasoned reporter. More than anything I wanted to be the editor-in-chief of our student publication. To my dismay that honor was given to a young man. In retrospect it was probably a wise move on the part of our sponsor because at that point in my life I was still lacking in the confidence needed to lead a staff of students with varied personalities, talents and work ethics. It would be later when I learned how to diplomatically get things done. Nonetheless, I had firm opinions about things even then. I had so desperately wanted to write the editorial pieces that were the favorites of the students. Instead I became the news editor, an honor only in that I was in charge of the front page.

I was filled with visions of becoming the next best-selling author of fiction back then. I saw myself more as a poet laureate than a newsie, but there I was. My creative bent was hemmed in by the realization that news should only contain facts, not opinions. It all seemed so sterile, but I kept the pledge to keep editorials out of the stories that I featured. 

In today’s world of journalism there are outlets that call themselves providers of news when they sprinkle opinions throughout their stories without noting that they are simply editorials. I have to say that I prefer the old days when news and opinion pieces were clearly delineated. I want to read or hear the who, what, when, where and why of a news story. Viewpoints belong on another page or in another venue and should always be presented as such. 

Back when I was a cub reporter Walter Cronkite was the master of reporting. I can only think of a few times when he lost his cool and uttered his personal opinions. Usually he simply used the old school rules of keeping the public informed of what had happened without any kind of prejudice. We never really knew what he actually thought about anything until his voice cracked and he shed a few tears on the occasion of President John Kennedy’s death. 

I doubt that I am alone in thinking that all of the talk, talk, talk on virtually every single channel purporting to deliver the news is tinged with bias of one kind or another. I don’t mind shows that advertise themselves as a haven for differing viewpoints, but when those things tinge the reporting of various events I grow angry. I think that many of the problems plague the world today derive from the propaganda that is flooding our airwaves and printed information. We used to be more forthright about what was news and what was nothing more than a personal way of looking at things. This blurring of reality is literally confusing people and making our world sick. People have a general distrust of the media because stories are so often presented in ways designed to skew them toward one belief or another. 

A perfect example is the reporting of a disaster. The news should simply give the pertinent details of what happened, where it happened and to whom it happened. Any theories about blame or negligence and so forth needs to be clearly labeled as opinion. This was once the way we did things and it worked out well. Firing Line was created to provide a venue for debates from the various sides of an issue. The Sunday morning shows provided the same kind of discussions, but in an earlier time the hosts of the programs did not interrupt or debate the guests who spoke. If there was bias it was miniscule. 

Today editorials and opinion pieces dominate the airwaves and creep into printed matter. I don’t mind such things when they are clearly described as what they are.The PBS Newshour has a feature each Friday evening that allows David Brooks and Jonathan Capehart to discuss their political beliefs on different topics. It is clearly identified as an editorial part of the programming. This, to me, is the way it should always be done. Instead we hear about totally slanted news outlets as being “fair and balanced” when the reporting all day long is filled with editorials. Little wonder that we hear so many complaining about fake news. Unless a person takes the time to do extended research it’s often difficult to determine what is fact and what is opinion.

The voices of newspapers, magazines, television and radio that used to be our source of information have all too often become megaphones for political ideologies and even hoaxes and conspiracy theories. Little wonder that we the people are at odds with one another even when it comes to our safety and health. When a renowned medical doctor is accused of being part of some deep state darkness, we have to know that our reporting systems have jumped the shark. Too much of what we read and hear is little more than a tool for some particular point of view. Thus we politicize even the diagnoses and treatments of our healthcare community. We demonize our teachers and our schools without taking the time to actually know and understand what is happening in them. We distort the meaning of a democratic republic and the definition of liberty. 

I ultimately enjoyed my time as the news editor of my high school newspaper. Sometimes my creative side felt a bit constrained by just reporting the facts, so I played with the fonts of the headlines and the overall look of the front page. What I never did was allow the editorials to creep onto that page. I understood the importance of knowing the difference between reporting and inserting opinions. Today’s media would do well to get that straight as well. They might want to study Walter Cronkite to see how much better news is when it just sticks to the facts.   

Family meals and the food served at them were extremely important to my mother. She was a child of the Great Depression who often proudly noted that she and her siblings never went without a meal. She boasted us that her mother would eat whatever was left after everyone else in the family had a share of the fare on the family menu. She told us of the many times the my grandmother would eat the head of a fish, the neck of a chicken or just suck on the bones of a roast. For my mom, providing food for the family was one of the most important things a good parent might do. 

After my father died Mama had a very small food budget with which to create breakfast, lunch and dinner. She strictly forbade us to eat anything without permission because often the ingredients that we might choose for a snack were intended for one of our meals. She was a wonderfully creative cook who eked every drop out of the food that she purchased. Even bones became the foundation of broth that he used for delicious soups. 

My mom often bragged that she had taken a Home Economics class while she was in high school and that it was probably the most important and useful learning of her lifetime. She credited her teacher with showing her how to create vitamin rich and healthy meals with very little money. She was quite proud of noting that we always had nourishing and tasty meals. 

My friends often commented on the uniqueness of her culinary creations. Best of all they were wonderfully delicious. At bake sales and potluck dinners people would flock to her offerings first because her of her reputation of being a gifted cook. I have to admit that she was masterful in the kitchen without ever having expensive cuts of meat or fish. Somehow she knew exactly what to do to bring out flavors that melded perfectly together. 

The only cookbook that my mother ever used was an old World War II era Good Housekeeping treasure that is unique for its recipes that required very few ingredients that were rationed. There is so little sugar even in the instructions of sweets, that it might almost be designated safe for diabetics. The same is true of eggs. I often felt that the book was a godsend to my mom who was always attempting to find ways of saving money at the grocery store. Nonetheless, she mostly invented recipes of her own, some of which have gone down in the annals of our family lore. 

It was only as Mama grew older and her health began to fail that her cooking lost some of its luster. She’d forget that something was on the stove and it would burn. She would put a bit too much spice or salt and ruin the taste. She’d accidentally leave some important ingredient out. Nonetheless, she was the gravy making queen for thanksgiving and her baked beans were legendary all the way to the end of her life. She holds those titles to this day.

I suppose that I should be a much better cook than I am. Not only was my mother worthy of being a five star chef, but my grandmother Minnie was known far and wide for her cooking. It’s amazing to me that neither lady depended on printed recipes for their dishes. Collectively if they had published a book with the best of their recipes it would have been a sensational success. They actually complemented each other with the favorites from their repertoire.

My grandmother made fluffy biscuits, incredible pies, the best strawberry shortcake ever, melt in your mouth fried chicken, yummy fish, and a variety of vegetables to die for. My mother was a cake and cookie baker extraordinaire. She made delicious soups out of anything that she had. Her meat dishes were always unique and tasty. She created wonderful sauces and gravies and knew how to open a can of something and transform it into a gourmet meal. Sadly neither of them left recipes for posterity. In my grandmother’s case it was because she was illiterate. As for my mother, I suppose that she was so busy creating that she never had time to write things down. 

I tend to repeat the same recipes again and again. I don’t have the same natural feel for cooking and in truth I don’t enjoy it as much as those who came before me. I just want to quickly dash something together and eat mostly to stay alive. The cooking gene appears to have skipped over me somehow but of late, my grandson has shown the same kind of interest in preparing fine meals that his great great grandmother and great grandmother had. In fact, his favorite gifts are cooking tools and certificates to take cooking classes. Perhaps the kitchen genius is still alive and well in him.

If I have one regret it is that I never wrote down the recipes of the best dishes from either my mother or grandmother. It would have been an easy thing to do. We all wish that we knew how to make her famous fudge. I’d give anything to be able to reproduce my grandmother’s biscuits. It’s sad how we don’t seem to think of those things until it is too late. 

My husband’s Aunt Elsie made a flaky Christmas pastry that she called whiskey cakes. None of the recipes we have found are anything like what she made. Nowhere in all of her things did anyone ever find her recipe. The deliciousness of those wonderful delights is gone forever. On cold days we think of her because she had to have a certain cool temperature to create the layers of pastry. It took her hours and hours of rolling paper thin dough and lovingly putting the little cakes together. Sadly she never wrote down exactly how to do it.. 

I have a few recipes that my children and grandchildren enjoy. They’ve already wisely asked me for the recipes. I do a mean seafood gumbo and my arroz con pollo is a winner. I use my mother-in-laws instructions for creating yellow split pea soup and I’m rather well known as the bean queen. Beyond that anything that I cook is easily found in one of my dozens of cookbooks. Still, we’d love to find the secrets of the real chefs who once tantalized our family with their food. Alas the secrets are gone.