All It Takes Is A Little Love

My grandfather, William Mack Little, was born on a November day in either 1878 or 1879. There is no clear document to confirm the actual moment of his birth just as there seems to be no sign of his parents in a census or other official document. I simply know that he existed and what I know about him came from his own lips.

According to his story his mother died three days after he was born from complications. I’ve often thought about that because I was in hard labor for over eighteen hours with my first child. Later my doctor would almost casually note that I might have had a difficult time giving birth in an earlier era. In fact he conjectured that I might even have died without expert medical care. It was a shocking statement to which I only reacted years later when I thought about the implications and how I may have inherited certain problems from my great grandmother, Marion.

I have been haunted by the thought of this woman. I find myself wondering how old she was when her son was born. I try to imagine her having a difficult time during the birth and ultimately succumbing to death before having a chance to love her baby boy and watch him grow old. I have been unable to find any documentation regarding her existence and yet my grandfather is the evidence that she was indeed once alive and hopefully happy at the prospect of becoming a mother. 

My grandfather remembered his mother by naming his daughter after her. I wonder if he longed for his mama when he was a boy growing up somewhere in the backwoods of Virginia. Was the grandmother who raised him the mother of his father or was she the parent of his mother? These are questions that I did not think to ask when I had the chance. My queries came too late and somehow public records provide no clues as to this mystery. 

Ironically my grandfather lived to the age of one hundred eight. His mind was clear and brilliant until the final weeks of his life. He was a strong man who was still building things and remodeling the home where he lived when he was in his nineties. He was so sturdy that my brothers and I seemingly took for granted that he would always be with us. 

Grandpa’s stories of his boyhood in the nineteenth century were vivid and illustrated the hardships that the common people endured during that time. He spoke of the graft of presidents, the poverty of vast numbers of people, the depression that overtook the land. He vividly described the ravages of smallpox and the time when he was quarantined with his father who seemed to be dying from that dread disease. 

As a young adult Grandpa traveled the United States doing carpentry work. He marveled at the inventions that he witnessed in their infancy. He remembered the first time he saw a town lit up with electricity. He breathlessly described learning about the flight of the Wright Brothers. He spoke of the changes in the lifestyle of Americans that brought wondrous inventions into homes. He was alive at the time of invention of the first cars, the first movies, the advent of television, the astronauts walking on the moon. He understood without question that progress had made the world better and for him the idea of going back in time was ridiculous. He lived to see the nineteen eighties and to know that me and my brothers were doing well. 

Grandpa was a happy and optimistic man whose mantra was that “these are good old days.” The very idea that the world was better at an earlier time was ridiculous to him. He understood all too well how dark and difficult life had been for everyone in the past. He had lived through those times and seen the suffering including four wars. I suppose he realized that in the modern times his mother might have lived long after his birth and been able to love him as much as he loved the thought of her. 

Grandpa lost all of his money when my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer in the early nineteen sixties. There was no Medicare back then so he had to use his own money for her care. She was so ill that her medical treatments drained all of the resources that he had saved over time, including his house. He ended up in a rented room with a landlord who became his best friend. When he finally grew ill at the end of his life Medicare paid for his needs. He more than most understood how wonderful the idea of helping the elderly was.

I suppose that if Grandpa were alive today he would see a kind of return to the Gilded Age of his boyhood in which the so called robber barons held most of the wealth and power. I suspect that he would warn us of the problems that might occur when the guardrails that keep us healthy and secure are removed. He would worry about the incredible influence of the wealthiest among us who seem to be in league with our politicians. He was not just a student of history. He had lived it and in the process he understood that progress was not a bad thing but that turning back almost always is. 

I was a docile child. I suspect that there were times that teachers hardly noticed that I was in the classroom. i genuinely liked all of my classmates, even the ones who did their best to get a rise out of me with brutal insults. I did my best to be calm and kind toward everyone. I preferred being in the background with a few close friends rather than dealing with the limelight. 

When my mother first became ill with her bipolar disorder I had little idea how to advocate for her. Once I had found a psychiatrist to treat her I mostly went along with his recommendations until he suggested a treatment that really bothered me. My attempts to shut down the therapy were unsuccessful probably because after the first session he legally only had to answer to my mother. Nonetheless I learned the important lesson of speaking up forcefully and immediately. Waiting to see how things go when I see that something is very wrong has rarely gone well for me or anyone for whom I have advocated. 

The turning point in my development occurred when I was twenty years old and I learned how to use my voice and my grit. From that point forward I would never again be willing to sit back and accept behaviors from others that seemed to be harmful to me or the people for whom I was responsible. As a mom I diplomatically spoke to teachers when I witnessed unfairness. I assumed that they wanted the best for their students but nonetheless suggested that perhaps their actions were not appropriate for the given situation.

Later as a teacher, I watched over my students like a collie trained to protect them. I was gently firm, so much so that one young man with a limited ability to express himself proclaimed that I was the nicest mean teacher that he had ever encountered. I translated his words to mean that I was firm while being kind and understanding. Nonetheless I never allowed my students to cross moral red lines with each other. I made certain that they understood the rules of working together and avoiding malice and lies.

I was a free range kind of mom. I suppose in the seventies and eighties when my daughters were growing up the world was a bit gentler and less hazardous than it sometimes seems to be today. I grave them a great deal of freedom but still wanted them to be able to escape from dangerous situations. I made a pact with them that I would never ask them any questions if they called me and insisted that I come pick them up immediately. I wanted them to be able to leave a desperate situation without worry that I would then chastise them for getting themselves involved in a sticky situation. 

I only had to rescue one of them on one occasion. I kept to my word and never asked why she had sounded so anxious when she called. I learned later that the party where she had been got way out of hand with a drug orgy in which she had no desire to partake. She simply wanted to remove herself from the pressure her peers were placing on her. 

I am quite realistic about the world at large but I still maintain a mostly live and let live attitude about how people comport themselves. I’ve never minded if someone enjoys loud parties as long they don’t make me be part of them. I enjoy my Catholic faith but would be loathe to push my beliefs on others unless they asked to learn about my religion. I am the same about the variety of lifestyles that people choose to follow. As long as they are not hurting anyone I feel that it is none of my business to lecture them or to attempt to take away their rights to do certain things. 

I look at the gatherings at Mar a Lago and know that I would never want to dress like the women who go there, but have no problem for those who do. The only thing that irks me is when they join together to push ideas that prohibit people from enjoying differing lifestyles. 

I have to admit that I have grown quite weary of the posturing of individuals who in one breath claim to be God centered but in the next moment make statements that are very unreligious. My thinking is that we should all do our best to get along by accepting our differences rather than dictating one way of living. I’m ready to speak up on behalf of anyone who is being neglected or bullied or misunderstood for being unique. That is what defines freedom for me. 

People keep suggesting to me that I need to tone down my blogs that advocate for a kinder gentler more all encompassing way of living together on this earth. I suppose that I will only do that when I stop seeing vast swaths of people being mistreated because their politics are wrong or they choose to enjoy their sexuality in ways unlike the majority. 

I used to let the bullies insult me with their poison by attempting to ignore them. I am no longer willing to do that. If we are ever again going to be able to get along with each other without the threat of judgement and rancor we really do have to become more willing to appreciate our differences and I intend to school people on how that is done. I learned with my mother that there are times when the only right thing to do is to boldly speak up. I won’t go back to pretending that ugliness is ever okay. 

“Through your actions, you have embarrassed us in the eyes of our children, humiliated us on the world stage and, worst of all, divided us as a nation.”  Retired Naval Admiral William McRaven

I have cried multiple times this morning. I have spent the weekend attempting to deal with the utter shock of the Trump administration’s dramatic abandonment of our European allies. I have sobbed in realizing that the confidence in which we have relied on members of NATO and that they have relied for eighty years is now gone. I have felt gut punched by the audacity of our president in planning to hold peace talks regarding the Ukraine war with Putin in attendance but without the presence of either Ukraine or members of NATO. This is not the country that I was taught to cherish by my mother and father. 

My parents spoke often with great pride of the role of the United States of America in defeating the fascist Hitler and in helping the war torn countries of Europe to develop and strengthen democracies in their nations. As we approach the two hundred fiftieth anniversary of our own independence there are more democratic countries than at any other time in the history of the world. We helped fight for those freedoms and we made sure that the countries who worked so hard to fight dictatorships would always know that we are an ever loyal and ever vigilant friend. 

When our own nation was attacked by terrorists on September 1, 2001 those countries responded without hesitation, pledging their help in the battle against those who would dare to threaten any of us. Ours has been a long and mutual friendship in which we have been confident of reciprocal loyalty. In one fell swoop both our Vice President and our Secretary of Defense have made it clear that Europe is now alone and that we can no longer be counted upon in the event of takeovers by authoritarian figures. 

Adding insult to injury was our Vice President having the temerity to insult the German people by charging them with stifling free speech simply because they will not allow the kind of hate speech and lies that led to the deaths of millions of people during the Hitler regime. His visit with the far right party of Germany while snubbing the official governmental officers was a slap in the face and a clear indication of how rancid our narrowly elected leaders have become. 

I was a child who came to be at the end of World War II in 1948. I witnessed the rebuilding of Europe and understood the implications of the Cold War with the USSR. My parents openly discussed such things at the kitchen table. My father was a student of history who emphasized the importance of being well informed of the truth. He filled our home with books and magazines that told me the stories of our own struggles to undo the evils of segregation. I ducked and covered in bomb drills and heard the sirens being tested every Friday at noon. 

My mother told me about the bombing of Pearl Harbor and she sang about the joy of D-Day in Normandy. My father spoke of President Truman and President Eisenhower with reverence. He explained the Marshall Plan and how it would help to create a freer Europe that would guard against authoritarians and make the world a safer place. 

I have a chunk of the Berlin Wall that a friend from Germany collected for me when the team of Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush helped to bring down the USSR. I watched my grandparent’s homeland of Slovakia become independent and free. I saw one despot after another being toppled. All the while the United States kept its promises and stood by its allies. 

When Putin boldly invaded Ukraine I began sending donations to organizations like World Kitchen and any others dedicated to helping the people in the worn torn country. I was so proud of the United States for standing up to Russia and offering help to Ukraine. I symbolically purchased a sunflower wreath in unity with the people of that country. It has stayed in my home ever since. I have sunflowers on my kitchen table to remind me of the courage of President Zelensky and the Ukrainian people whose country is right next door to the homeland of my grandparents. 

I feel shame and anger and sorrow that President Trump would only agree to keep supporting Ukraine if they gave us mineral rights. His was a disgusting bribe, brute force to get what he wants without any thought of what that would mean for the people both in Ukraine and here in the United States. I totally agree with the concise analysis of Retired Naval Admiral Willam McRaven. Donald Trump and his unAmerican crew have embarrassed all of us. I do not know what to say to my grandchildren who are puzzled and angry over what has happened. I don’t know how to deal with my grave disappointment that so many of my fellow countrymen don’t seem to care and so I weep and wonder if this is how democracy dies.

I have many moments seared into my memories that were so important that even many years later I am able to remember them with uncanny clarity. One of them happened when I was a chaperone for a summer Civil Rights tour with the Class of 2010 in the high school where I worked. 

As someone who recalled the days of segregation and the efforts to bring equality and justice to Black American citizens it was an honor to be able to visit the places where great things happened. We visited locales where individuals literally risked their lives to tear down all of the barriers that had kept Black people in the shadows of our democracy even after slavery had been abolished. I felt quite emotional standing in front of the hotel where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. I almost cried as I walked across the William Pettit Bridge with my students.I remembered the segregation of my childhood as I sat on the bus where Rosa Parks so famously refused to move from her seat. It was at the parsonage where Dr. King and his family lived that I had my most spiritual experience. 

I had wandered through the house with my students while a sweet lady told us the history of Dr. King’s stay there. I saw his children’s rooms and recognized the design of his 1960s era furniture from that of my own childhood. In the kitchen I witnessed a formica topped table so much like the one where I broke bread with my family. I wanted to sit down, close my eyes and imagine Dr. King and his wife smiling and conversing at the end of a day the way my mother and brothers and I had once done.

The guide told us the story of the bomb attack on the house. Someone had hope to blow up the place with explosives planted underneath the front porch. Luckily the power of the blast was not big enough to do the damage it was intended to create. Nonetheless it rocked Dr. King and his family so much that those who loved him were urging him to leave his civil rights work and move back to his hometown of Atlanta where he could work in a church with his father.

Dr. King was torn as to what to do. Long after his family retired to bed he sat at that kitchen table reading his Bible and praying to God for guidance. By morning he had come to believe that he had been called by God Himself to be a leader in the civil right movement. He would stay and face whatever dangers lay ahead. 

I was mesmerized as I stood staring at the table where such a great man had once made his momentous decision. I lingered after my students left the building with the guide. I needed to be alone in that moment and when the guide walked back inside she found me meditating and somehow feeling the spirit of Dr. King himself. She read my mind and quietly asked if I wanted to touch the table. I simply looked at her, smiled and nodded my head. She gave her accent wordlessly as I leaned over the barrier separating me from the table. When I put my hand on the cold top I closed my eyes and somehow felt that I had been granted a great gift of understanding. I literally felt how much moral courage it took for Dr. King to decide that he had to continue his work regardless of how frightening it might be. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I somehow fully comprehended the importance of what had happened there.

I’ve often spoken of reading about the lives of saints when I was a young child. I was not able to relate to most of them. They seemed to be too perfect for me to even consider emulating them. With Dr. King I found a true human who I believe overcame his faults to courageous do the work of a saint. He was admittedly imperfect but he nonetheless kept working to take down the barriers that subjected his people to prejudice and hatred. He knew the risks, but took them anyway because it was the true work of a Christian minister. He literally laid down his life for his fellow human beings. 

It is difficult to find people with moral courage these days. Alexi Navalny, a Russian lawyer who fought for freedom for his fellow citizens, had it. He was no doubt killed while in prison. He understood what his fate might be but publicly protested in spite of the dangers. Liz Cheney has stood up to the political party that once enshrined her father as Vice President of the United States. They turned on her because she was unafraid to speak the truth about Donald Trump. She and Nalvany are exceptions in today’s world. People look away when they witness wrongdoing. The carefully parse their words and fall in line with bullies and dictators rather than risking the consequences of doing the right thing. 

I suppose most of us, including me, would be prone to backing down or staying quiet rather than standing alone for the sake of what is just. It is so incredibly difficult to summon the kind of bravery that might result in losing friends or jobs or even one’s life. We would do well to admit that someone has to step up to the plate when people are hurting. It might as well be one of us. Why not choose to be that person if only in a small way? The challenge is there for us all.

A while back I saw that The Glenn Miller Orchestra was coming to Galveston, Texas to play in the 1894 Opera House. I joked with my husband that it would make a great Valentine’s Day gift to both of us since it was going to take place on February 11. He hesitated for a moment and his father joked that we would be out of place going to a venue featuring music from the World War II era but eventually my husband was nonetheless intrigued by the idea and invested in the tickets. 

When the day of the presentation came it rained cats and dogs and I was nursing the end of illness from flu that had kept me coughing and wheezing for over ten days. I worried that I would not be able to inhibit my croupy cough during the performance and wondered if I was going to be up to sitting for a couple of hours in my weakened condition. With great hope I filled my purse with cough drops and tissue and pulled my pallid self together for the drive from the Houston area to Galveston.

It was still damp and sprinkling when we arrived but I had experimented with the cough drops on the short journey and they seemed to be doing their magic. We arrived in time to dine at the Gumbo Bar where I enjoyed a hearty bowl of and chicken and sausage gumbo. The warm and spicy brew opened my sinuses and seemed to be just the medicine that I needed to boost my energy and soothe my throat. I was ready. 

The 1894 Opera House is a treasure. With its beautifully carved stairways, brass fixtures, carpeted floors and gleaming wooden accents it is a step back in time. I immediately knew that it was the perfect venue for listening to music from the nineteen forties when my mother began the decade as a teenagers and ended it as the very young mother of me. 

I had heard all of her stories about the music of her era and of course the Glenn Miller Orchestra was among her favorites. I knew the songs and cherished the times that my mother would magically become young again and dance across our living room floor to the strains of tunes that became as familiar to me as they were to her. I looked forward to enjoying the music even if none of the original members of the orchestra were still around. As the curtain opened the familiar strains instantly captivated me. 

For much of the concert I closed my eyes and imagined my mother listening to the radio with her family in the east end of Houston, Texas at 517 North Adams Street. I thought of her catching a bus on the corner to ride the few miles to downtown Houston where she learned how to dance from watching the movies. I imagined her wowing her friends when she jitterbugged like a sprite that was lighter than air at Eastwood Park. She would often smile and boast that when she danced the other teens formed a circle around her to watch her skills and applaud her with awe. 

I thought of her listening to Franklin Roosevelt as he attempted to calm the nation in those tumultuous times. Mama always teared up when recalling how grateful she and her family were for the compassion and leadership of the great man who not only eased them out of the dark years of depression but also through the frightening times of the war. She would forever think of his fireside chats as a panacea for the uncertainty that the nation was feeling. She would remember waving at Roosevelt in his open car when he passed by her street on a visit to Houston. He smiled at the crowd and somehow made her feel as though he was looking directly at her.

My mother said that her father, my grandfather, insisted on a kind of reverence for the president and his wife who became like loving parents for the people of the United States. She also boasted that everyone in the nation played a part in sacrificing to save the world from fascism. 

The price of the dedication to democracy not just here but around the world was all too often great loss. In my mother’s case it was the death of the fiancee to whom she had pledged her undying love before she met my father. She would speak of him many times and keep a photo tucked away among her most cherished keepsakes. 

I imagine my mother and all Americans finding great solace in the music of the Glenn Miller Band. It was uplifting and so classic that it is just as good today as it ever was, even to an audience of aging Baby Boomers. Like me they had learned to love the music from their parents. 

Several years back my best friend’s father had died. He was a jolly fellow and I knew how much she was going to miss him and his laughter. I went to his funeral mainly in her honor. I learned so much more about him during the service. At the end of the somber goodbye his granddaughter stepped forward and announced that he had asked that his leave taking be accompanied by some special music. Then she nodded as a worker at the funeral home pushed a button to fill the room with the sounds of In The Mood. 

Smiles burst forth on every face. Some people moved their feet or swayed in unison with the beat. There were even a few outbursts of applause. We understood the man’s message in that moment. We are good people who find ways to get through the most difficult of times. He was encouraging us to carry on.

I saw that again at the concert. For a couple of hours we were reminded of who we are as Americans. We all seemed to understand the need for unity in the fight for what is right and good. Our parents knew what to do. Now we must move forward just as they taught us by example to save the world from anyone who would dare to rule us with anger and hate. We have a job to do and we have the blueprint for how to do it in our history and in our music.