All It Takes Is A Little Love

This is a love story about people from the class of nineteen sixty seven at Mt. Carmel High School. 

Once upon a time they came together to grow in wisdom and age and grace before God and man. They were a cute bunch of kids who met as freshmen and graduated as young men and women Among them was a couple that seemed so cute together, so perfect, but perhaps it was just a high school fling because after graduation they went their different ways leading often exciting and even adventurous lives without each other. 

She loved horses and rode them in competitions. He went to medical school and became a highly respected doctor. Both of them would marry other people, become parents, continue to follow their passions and seemingly move farther and farther away from each other. The sweet photos of them dancing together as teens would age inside photo albums and somehow only be nice memories of a long ago past, or so it seemed. 

Fifty years later they were both single again. Their children were grown. The members of the Class of Sixty Seven were planning a reunion, a time to reminisce and check to be certain that everyone was still doing well. Perhaps that’s when a spark was ignited between them once again or maybe it had always been waiting in the back of their minds for a moment when they might get to know each other again.

At first they were simply two people joining other classmates for dinner dates or celebrations. Before long they were riding horses together on the beach or meeting up for baseball and football games. Everyone saw how happy they were when they were taking dance lessons or just laughing and telling each other stories. It came as no surprise when they announced that they were in love and planning to marry. Their buddies from high school were overjoyed to hear the news. it seemed so right, as though the world had purposely adjusted to make sure that their union happened. 

When the day of their life as man and wife finally came she was beaming with joy and beauty that literally radiated in every photo. The girls from school who were now mature women had stood by her and decade after decade. They were overjoyed to see their two friends coming together. The children celebrated that their parents could find such joy and love even in their seventies. He was handsome and so sweetly smiled at her. It all would have been perfect if he had not become ill on that day. Nonetheless nothing seemed capable of reducing the happiness that their expressions confirmed. 

As time unfolded they went on cruises, hosted wonderful parties, became more and more part of each other’s extended families and circles of friendship. Being around them was revitalizing. The energy released from their devotion to each other was palpable. It felt good just being in the same room with them. Somehow the old saws about the purity and everlasting essence of first love seemed to be confirmed in their partnership. I was a joining of two spirits who seemed meant to be together. 

Just when life seemed so perfect for these two and for the old friends who supported them he was diagnosed with cancer. He could not have asked for better care. She lovingly walked hand in hand with him every step of the way during his medical journey. She kept that brilliant smile on her face and demonstrated her total devotion to the vows that she made to him on their wedding day. She was in it for sickness or health and he once again appeared to be well. 

They celebrated every single day of life with so much gusto that I wondered where they got all of their energy. They seemed to be everywhere doing everything wonderful, hugging and kissing each other with unabated wonder. It was delightful to see them together and to literally witness the power of love. 

Then came a shock for those of us who found our own joy in celebrating their love. He had died. It was devastating and bitterly emotional, but their romance that had seemed more intense that any ever created in fiction continues on in her heart and in the memories of him that she so generously shares with us even in her grief. 

I have cried for her but also understood the great gift of love that the two fo them gave each other. Romeo and Juliet have nothing on Punch and David. Theirs was a very special relationship that mellowed like a fine wine over time. She was a princess and he was her sweet prince. She may wish him goodnight but I know that he will not be gone. His memory will be a blessing to her for the rest of her life.  

None of us sit high enough to look down on anyone.— Author Unknown

I saw this quote on the wall of one of my high school friends. Ironically she and I only glancingly knew of each other back when we were teens but have become closer through the magic of Facebook. I find myself in awe of her wisdom and kind outlook on life and people. Because she lives about fourteen hours away we don’t get many opportunities to visit in person. Nonetheless I just happened to be traveling through her small town in west Texas a while back so I stopped in to talk with her over lunch. 

I have to admit that I had as much fun being with my friend as I enjoyed on the remainder of the trip. She’s a genuine soul who has experienced some hard times in her life but just keeps going strong with the one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen. I felt so comfortable with her as though we had been soul sisters for a lifetime. I suppose that it is because the two of us think very much alike due to the kind of life experiences that we have had. 

I grew up in a bubble that my mother tried to create for me and my brothers after our father died. She purchased a modest home in a family friendly neighborhood and essentially devoted herself to sheltering and caring for us. In spite of her efforts was just old enough to understand how difficult her economic situation was so I sometimes worried about her and my brothers. I never brought my fears to the surface because I knew that she would not have wanted me to be anxious. I did my best to help her by trying not to ask for things that would stretch her budget too much. I studied hard to earn a scholarship to the private school that I attended. The bonus in going there was that I wore a uniform and did not need to worry about having stylish clothing. My five blouses, two skirts and blazer took care of my needs for years. 

In spite of vexing about how Mama was going to stretch her meager budget I was never afraid in the neighborhood where I lived. The people were kind and wholesome and always doing things for our little family. We were the recipients of so much kindness from people who were not that much better off than we were. From them I learned to respect hard working folk who repaired cars, installed plumbing, answered phones, delivered mail. They may not have had a great deal of formal education but they were schooled in life. 

Later, when I was a young mother in my twenties I would live in an apartment project surrounded by what I respectfully called the good ole girls. They were women who had PhDs in common sense. They taught me how to cook up a great meal from scraps and what to do if something broke. They were unafraid and able to stand up for themselves in any situation. They were the type of people who would literally run into a dangerous situation without hesitation. I know this is true because I witnessed them standing up to wife beaters and chasing away a man who had assaulted a woman. They were fearless and my own college education paled in comparison to their greatness.

I have worked with children whose families were described as low income or under served. I learned as much from them as I hope they learned from me. They were rich from a wealth of love and attention from their parents who sometimes spoke no English but came to help nonetheless. I saw courage and determination in them that was impressive. 

A story that I have often told is of a time when we visited my grandmother’s neighbors in Arkansas. I have never again witnessed such poverty firsthand but my grandmother insisted that I look beyond the superficial and see and hear them for their inspiring grit. She helped me to see their souls which were rich with goodness and I saw that nothing else about them mattered more. 

My grandmother herself was unable to read or write but she carried a wealth of knowledge in her head than I have acquired. She had no trouble surviving with or without electricity. She was one with nature, showing a reverence for all living creatures that I have never forgotten. 

I have been fortunate to encounter wonderful souls throughout my lifetime. I learned long ago not to judge them on superficialities but rather by the content of their character. I love that my west Texas friend reminded me of that with her quote lest I slip into to bad habit of looking down rather than into a person’s eyes. I love knowing that each of us has something wonderful to offer. 

My mother came from a large family of eight children. She was the youngest and often liked to boast that competing with her brothers and sisters made her wise and resilient. The truth was that she fiercely loved her siblings with every fiber of her being. They were a close knit lot who gathered at my grandmother’s house almost every Friday evening. 

Those visits became a kind of bedrock of certainty for me after my father’s untimely death. As a child being with my loving aunts and uncle and my many cousins was the highlight of growing up. It was in their midst that I felt safe and secure. I knew their love and concern for me and my brothers with every encounter. I suppose that they molded the person that I would ultimately become. 

We had so much fun on those glorious Fridays when the adults played cards and kibitzed with each other as siblings so often do. It was noisy but happy in the smoke filled rooms. Much of the time I wondered if they even noticed what we children were doing while they bonded as though they had never left home. We were gloriously on our own, playing games outside on Grandma’s front porch or in the middle of the street. 

My grandmother lived in a tiny house on North Adams Street only a few miles from downtown Houston. Her neighborhood had changed from the time when my mother was a child. We kids saw the industrialization of the area that had left only a few homes surrounded by office buildings and manufacturing. A few steps took us to the intersection of Navigation, a wide road leading to the Houston Ship Channel. 

Across Navigation there was a corner bar that was always lively on Friday nights but none of those things kept me and the cousins from having a glorious time. Somehow the scene seemed a bit more delightfully adventurous with its colorful array of humanity adapting to change. We were having too much fun to be fearful that maybe we should be a bit less daring in a place that was not as uneventful as our neighborhoods back home. It was all just part of the ambiance that was wonderful in our kid world. 

We were not particularly creative but we did set rules for a game that we called hide and find. Of course somebody had to start the fun by pulling the short straw and becoming “it.” That person would close his/her eyes and count to twenty five before searching for the others. The trick was to get back to the front porch without getting discovered and caught. With only one person peering in the corners of the backyard and in hiding places up and down the street most of us made it unscathed back to the free zone never imagining that maybe running around in the dark and hiding behind the fences of warehouses may not have been the safest thing to do.

We were young, innocent and without worries. The world seemed to be such a safe place back then. Our naivety both endangered and protected us at the same time. We had not yet noticed how dangerous the world might be. Like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn we were free ranging children who somehow never encountered a single problem on our Friday night adventures. We embraced each other and only competed to get to that porch. Otherwise we simply loved everyone who was part of our special family group.

As we grew older we often went our different ways on Friday nights until one day those times were no more. Our grandmother died and our parents mostly talked on the phone rather than gathering together. We were busy being teenagers and then adults. We married and began our own families, only meeting on Christmas Eve or sadly at the funerals of our aunts and uncles. 

Now we are spread all over the place and many in our ranks have left this earth. Each of us miss those wondrous days when we were young and the love we forged back then has never dimmed. When we find ways to be together again we pick up right where we left off and feel as comfortable and natural as ever. We have an unbroken bond that even our spouses and children will never quite understand. We shared a golden time of life that somehow cemented our relationships forever. 

I sometimes drive down Navigation Street to North Adams. Amazingly my grandmother’s home is still there. It belongs to a stranger now and is the only house left on the street. It’s windows and doors are protected with bars but somehow I manage to see past all of the changes whenever I go back there. I have a picture in my heart of a house bursting with joy and love. It is a comforting thought that reminds me of my good fortune. I think of my cousins and how few of us are left. I hope they understand how much they mean to me even when I don’t take the time to get in touch with them. They were my extra brothers and sisters who shared in the glories of childhood. They are me and I am them. 

We all have our habits, good and bad. I’ve already discussed my tendencies to be a cleanliness freak. Some would consider my sanitary habits to be a good thing. Others might complain that it can be annoying when I immediately rinse their cups or move items that they have left on the kitchen counter to their normal spaces. I won’t lie. I tend to be almost fanatical about keeping things tidy but if we happen to discuss my junk drawer all bets go out the window. I learned long ago from my friends, Pat, that every home should have a place where we can just throw things in with abandon. Mine is the drawer at the end of the counter where I store odds and ends that don’t seem to have a logical home. Right now it looks fairly organized because I straightened it up a few weeks ago. Give a few more weeks and it will be obvious that I just toss everything in with no rhyme of reason other than getting it all out of the way. 

Another of my habits is rising early in the morning to enjoy my tea and breakfast before anyone else wakes up. I like the silence because I have never been a morning person. The best days are the ones when I have a couple of hours before anyone else joins me. I play all the different word games in The New York Times and then check Facebook to see whose birthday it is. After that I visit the site of my email account and end up reading articles from various newspapers and magazines. I love the mornings most when it is cool outside and the sun has not yet peeked over the horizon. I enjoy listening to the children in the neighborhood eating for the school bus. I miss them whenever school is not in session. 

When someone interrupts my morning habit by getting up earlier than usual and begins talking and turning on lights the dark side of my habit comes through. I am as grumpy as can be and I don’t mind letting people know that I don’t do conversations until later in the day. Most of the time I try not to over sleep so that I manage to get enough “me” time to be quite pleasant when the house eventually fills with sounds. 

I mostly run my days by calendar entries and lists that I create weeks in advance. I can’t seem to get past the idea of carefully planning each hour much like I had to do when I was still working as a teacher. It seems to be baked into to my very personality even though I have been retired for quite some time now. Scheduling and making to do lists keeps me centered and makes me feel useful. My mood becomes quite blue when I have nothing to do. I have to keep exercising and writing my blog each day. I have to learn something new, reach out to friends, keep meaning in my life. I suppose that the downside of it all is that I have always been obsessive about accomplishing goals and just relaxing is very difficult for me. 

When I was a child I had Saturday chores that I still relegate to that day of the week. I get up in the morning and clean all of the bathrooms and the kitchen until they are sparkly. I remember how my mom taught me to get under the rim of the toilet and how to reach behind the commode to clean the floor and the the tile on the wall. I am machine like in my attention to details, so everything is pristine when I am done. Then I treat myself to shopping or a trip to the beach or some other fun place just as my mother rewarded me way back in the day. Some habits never die once they are imprinted on our psyches. 

I seem to be the most prolific on Mondays. I get so much accomplished that if doing so were an Olympic sport I would earn a gold medal. On Sundays however I allow myself to be a slug. I can remember when all the stores were closed in honor of the Sabbath. Sundays were for reading the newspaper from the front page to the last page of the last section. Of course there was always first going to church. Now I can pick and choose many different times for worshipping and if I am feeling a bit under the weather I can still view services online. 

My husband and I used to catch dinner whenever the urge to eat prompted us to cook. We might sit down at five in the afternoon or wait until eight or nine in the evening. Our habit was to have no set habit. Since my father-in-law came to stay with us we have lived by a rather strict routine. He likes to sit for a bit of wine and conversation at five followed by dinner at six. We rarely deviate from that now and I have adjusted even though I am one of those people who might even forget to eat if I were on my own. A formal meal each day truly has little or no appeal to me but I’ve been responsible for my husband and my children over the years so changing my ways for my father-in-law is working out fine. It has kept my on my toes serving healthy meals that are really better for all of us. 

I don’t drink too much and I’ve never smoked. I have never once taken any kind of illegal drug. I suppose that some would see me as being uptight. In defense I would argue that I really do adhere to the idea of minding my own business. I do my thing and advocate for everybody else to do theirs. As long as we all get to do the things that make us happy without overdoing or hurting someone else, I’m good. Habits are personal and I admit to mine. Whether they seem good or bad they are just the way I am. As far as everyone else goes, my motto is to each his or her own. I am who I am and so should you be.

Ernest Hemingway once said: In our darkest moments, we don’t need solutions or advice. What we yearn for is simply human connection—a quiet presence, a gentle touch. These small gestures are the anchors that hold us steady when life feels like too much.

I’ve had an interesting week. It has been one of contemplation, a state of mind that I am often compelled to seek. I have asked myself what is most important in this moment of history when I sense that we are heading for some dangerous and challenging times. I have reflected on many aspects of life for some time now and I am feeling anxious and wondering if the foundations of who I have always been are faltering beneath me. I have asked myself if I have been too focused on actions, solutions for the political battle that is driving the citizens our nation farther and farther apart. I see that people on both sides of the spectrum believe that that they are the ones fighting for the very soul of democracy, but how can that be? Is it possible that both are right or even that both are wrong? Is there actually answer built on compromise?

I sat with a lovely woman a few days ago. She did not ask how my ninety five year old father-in-law is doing, but rather how I am doing as a caregiver for him. It was quite soothing to realize that somebody actually understood that the current role that dominates my life might actually be somewhat difficult for me rather than the blessing that everyone tells me I am so lucky to experience. Her tiny change in focus on what is happening in my world allowed me to admit that I am not always at my best when I care for the aging man. I confessed that the situation is not the wondrous joy that everyone seems to think it surely must be. She only listened with rapt attention and told me that everything that I was telling her was so very human and made her admiration of me even more certain. Her willingness to hear me complain and to accept that my sometimes negative thoughts were part of such a difficult job helped me to feel so much better. Her quiet presence and earnest willingness to hear what I was really feeling was exactly what I had needed in that moment. She helped me understand that my fears and frustrations are normal reactions. I left with a new more positive attitude because she had quietly accepted and honored me just as I am.

I began to wonder if we all might return to a happier time in our nation’s history if we were willing to just give each side of the political questions a time to express themselves without judgement or refutation. I suspect that much of our present anxiety about what will happen in our nation has come about due to a constant barrage of bombastic assertions and advice that fills our heads with the absurd idea that there is one and only one person, idea, or party that will make things right once again. We are literally engaged in a civil war of ideologies and at the moment the winner of a small plurality of votes seems to think that this is the moment to demand that we all march to the same drumbeat rather than allowing the multitude of differing beliefs to enjoy the freedom to be ourselves. 

We have been led by power seekers to stop listening to each other. They have filled our heads with so many distractions and fears that we are no longer able to simply sit quietly with each other and make the kind of human connections that I felt with the woman who eased my anxieties by allowing me to admit that I do not always see my care giving as a blessing. She helped me assuage my guilt and shame simply by listening and telling me that it was okay to have angry thoughts now and again. Our nation feels lost and broken because we sense that we have lost the ability to understand each other and to work and live together in harmony. 

We are a nation of many religious faiths and yet at the moment there are those who keep insisting that we must be a Christian nation. While I am deeply Catholic I have never wanted to force my spirituality on others. I know that the vast variety of religious thought in our nation is a clear indication that we each find the guidance for our souls that feels the most real and comfortable. We should keep the ability to choose an individual thing. Our schools and political systems should veer from attempts to adopt one form of religious thinking over another. Freedom to choose should apply to how people should view their sexuality and bodily autonomy as well.

If we are indeed intent on making Christianity the guiding force of our nation we should at the very least follow the example of Jesus Christ in extending his love to all people at all times, not just a chosen few. Perhaps if we were willing to really love one another as commanded we might be more inclined to build a big tent of opportunity for everyone regardless of their race, sexuality, religion, economic status or political views. We would be willing to listen to the progressives with ideas for moving forward while heeding the cautions of conservatives who worry that we may be moving too fast. 

I have lately listened to college professors and teachers who fear that their livelihoods are being threatened by ham handed attempts to silence them from teaching the truth. I have spoken to young women who fear what may happen if they miscarry. I have heard the concerns of people from the LGBTQ community who worry that their right to live in peace will instead return to times of great danger and fear. I have been asked by the children of illegal immigrants if I really believe that they will be deported. I have also heard from earnestly religious souls who truly feel that they have done God’s work in voting for conservatives willing to defend their morals. I have heard from kind people who are struggling financially and wondering how to actually live the American dream. Each of these groups have concerns that we should all be willing to hear. We must listen to them first with open minds and then admit that few problems are ever solved with only one possible solution. 

I’d like to think that we might be willing to just be understanding humans. The world is far too complex to be forced into a single perspective. We would do well to turn off the noise that is working us into a nationwide tizzy and tell our leaders that what we want most from them is just to hear us out and that begins with sitting with each other with understanding and love. If we do that we may begin to realize what is really important is honoring the individuality and humanity of everyone. A quiet presence and gentle touch is so much better than bullying people into accepting one political ideology.