All It Takes Is A Little Love

We spend our lives attempting to make the most of ourselves and the people around us. We wear many hats, play many roles in life. We are sons and daughters, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, grandparents.friends, coworkers. neighbors. We give much of ourselves to others while also attempting to fulfill what we believe to be our own destinies. We attempt to use the talents that we have to make the world a better place but often we mostly live from day to day simply hoping to overcome the challenges that stress our best laid plans. Even the most optimistic and happy souls around us falter in their resolve from time to time. Simply surviving each day can become brutish. We have to learn how to take the bitter with the sweet and keep pushing on with the dawn of each new day. 

I have lived long enough to have observed the imbalance of opportunities for the people of the world and the amazing courage and resilience of some who are beset by more difficulties than many of us will ever endure. The courage of heroes among us is often unnoticed or undervalued. Their stories are usually untold. Their lives quietly blend into history without fanfare. 

If you follow my blog you may be familiar with the heroes’ journeys of my family members and friends who have inspired me to push forward even when my energy and optimism are flagging. They taught me to navigate the good days and those that are really bad. They showed me how to love and how to determine what is ultimately the most important aspect of walking on this earth for my allotted time. They taught me that while we all need money, wealth does not hold the key to happiness. The best of the people who have most impressed me lay in their deeds, how they treated the people that they encountered. 

I have yet to meet a perfect person but some have come very close. Sometimes it was in their most daunting hours that I realized the extent of their courage. When they seemed to lose all faith something incredible stirred within their souls to spur them forward inch by inch, step by step. They overcame illnesses, failures, losses, addictions to emerge gloriously determined to defeat whatever kind of suffering had temporarily overcome them. I have felt humbled with admiration for them and have also seen how it is often a tiny army of people who stand by with us as we each fight the demons that plague us. What they all seem to share is compassion for their fellow humans that is so deep that sometimes it threatens to derail them with great sorrow. They flounder for a time and then rise again like the phoenix. 

Even now as I write this blog I think of my good fortune in knowing them or just knowing about them. Recently I spoke with a young woman who is a recent immigrant to our country. Hers has been a difficult journey and yet she manages to focus on her good fortune more than the battles that she still has to fight just to be accepted and understood. She ignores the prejudices of people who don’t bother to take the time to realize how remarkable and good she actually is. She plants a smile on her face and just keeps moving forward.

My thoughts wander to a work colleague and friend who is beset with multiple health issues that seem almost unfair given her nine year devotion to her rather young husband who developed dementia far earlier than is usual. She gave every ounce of love that she had to help him when his mind slowly deteriorated. Only recently had she found a kind of calm once again in her life. Her respite from suffering seemed so short and her current situation seems so unfair but she is showing those of us who know her just how strong and courageous she is. 

I find daily inspiration in people who are unafraid to love and laugh even as they seem to navigate through figurative and actual landmines. They remind me daily that in spite of the selfishness and evil that dominates the news, the vast majority of the unnamed and unknown people of the world are good. 

I enjoy watching documentaries. My streaming accounts know my habits well and often recommend series that might interest me. Among them was a short feature called The Five Who Came Back which chronicled the experiences of five famous film directors who agreed to serve in the armed forces during World War II. Their jobs were to create films that would help the American people understand what was happening in Europe and the Pacific during that difficult time. They brought their brilliance and talent to bear in films that demonstrated both the horrors and humanity of war. All five men were inescapably changed by what they saw. They were humbled by the goodness of the people that they encountered, nameless souls who might otherwise have been invisible to them. One of them created a classic movie about just such a character in It’s a Wonderful Life.”

George Bailey is the everyman, the hero who lives among us without much notice. We may not pay particular attention to people like George but we would no doubt miss them if they never lived. It’s the guy across the street who always helps everyone in the neighborhood who is most impactful in our lives. It’s the mother who gave us more opportunities than she ever had just by going to work everyday, sometimes to a job that she did not particularly like, who has influenced us the most. It is in the George Baileys around us that we see what is most important in life. 

In a year of political noise and wars in many parts of the globe it is easy to lose faith in our fellow humans, to feel as though the world is going to rot. If we take a deep breath and look around we will see the everyday heroes toiling dutifully among us. They may be mowing our lawns or teaching our children. They may care for us when we are sick or encourage us when we are feeling down. They may be swimming across a river to give their families a better shot at living or ministering to the the sick and dying in places torn apart by war. Mostly we may never see them, but we should remember that they are always around us trying to create a wonderful life for themselves and for us.

I have to admit that I am a germaphobe. I am constantly cleaning the surfaces and floors in my home. I wash my hands so often that they seem to always be dry even though I use tons of hand cream to keep my skin from cracking. I wash dishes and clothes all day long. I check the condition of restaurants before I feel comfortable eating in them. In many ways I’m turning into my mother who always carried packages of tableware in her purse in case the condition of knives and forks and spoons in an eatery was sub par. 

Nothing turns me off more than unsanitary public spaces like bathrooms that reek from lack of improper cleaning. I love the Buccee’s chain of pit stops along major highways because I can always count on finding a pristine ladies room there. In fact, those roadside oases seem to have workers on duty twenty four seven to make sure that no toilets are left unflushed or spoiled with trash on the floor or empty soap dispensers. 

My family jokes that I grab up dirty dishes so quickly that they sometimes don’t have time to finish whatever was on a plate or inside a glass. I can’t stand the thought of crust forming on the bottom of cup or foul smells emanating from my sink. I use more soap and cleaning products than a building filled with hundreds of people even though there are only three occupants of my home. 

I remember a fellow teacher once warning me to watch what my fellow female teachers did in the bathroom before eagerly gobbling down goodies that they brought from home. I was intrigued and a bit confused about her remark until I began to notice several ladies exiting the rest facilities without stopping to wash their hands. Before long I was carefully picking and choosing what I ate at those festivities when everyone brought a potluck dish. I began to better understand and appreciate the teacher who wiped down the table in the teachers’ lounge with bleach before she would sit down to enjoy her lunch each day. 

I have to watch my father-in-law who is old and shaky and has never had to take care of kitchen duties in his life. I have caught him filling the well of our Keurig with his hand inside as the water goes up to the rim. I have learned to keep the water level high at all times so he no longer has to do such a thing. The image of his hand tainting the water keeps me on my toes. It’s an obsession that I can’t seem to overcome. 

My favorite people in doctors’ offices and hospitals are the members of the cleaning crew. I like the clean smell of disinfectant filling the air. I am impressed when I see a worker checking the garbage cans and almost instantly mopping up spills. If I see evidence of neglect I don’t want to be there. I find another doctor immediately just as I did years ago when I noticed debris on the floor as I scanned his waiting room with revulsion. On a recent visit to a very busy hospital emergency room I received fabulous care but I was turned off by the overflowing trash cans and spills of urine and blood on the floors. I wondered why they did not have a cleaning staff working behind them to keep the place pristine in spite of the overflow of patients needing to be seen as quickly as possible.

I’ve walked out of restaurants immediately after entering if the tables have been left with dirty dishes and the floors are littered with crumbs. Nothing turns me off more than seeing an insect skitter by my table. I will not eat in such a place no matter how good the food is supposed to be. I literally begin to dry heave at the very thought of ingesting anything from a place that does not value cleanliness enough to keep things looking fresh and sanitary. 

I’ve been to hole in the wall places that were impeccable and to big name restaurants that failed my white glove test. If the owners do not care enough to keep things tidy in the public area I don’t even what to imagine how nasty the kitchen might be. It does not take much to keep a place looking ship shape but somehow my standards are all too often left disappointed.

Years ago my mother and I often enjoyed dinner at a Panera Bread restaurant where a disabled man toiled constantly to keep even the tiniest crumb from marring the pristine feel of the place. He kept the trash bin from overflowing and wiped down tables with abandon. He kept a broom nearby to sweep up spills and scurried in and out of the restrooms making certain that they were clean and pleasant. We watched him taking his work seriously to the point of assuring us that we were not going to encounter any germs. We often gave him extravagant tips and bragged about his work ethic to the manager. We knew that we could rely on a hyper clean environment whenever he was there. 

I worked for many years in the Pasadena Independent School district. Even the oldest buildings in the system were beautifully maintained by a fleet of janitors and handymen. They arrived early each morning and stayed late making sure that every inch of their territory was ready for even the most demanding inspection. It felt good to be in such a well run and well oiled place. I appreciated their efforts that made my days more pleasurable. 

I have worked in other schools where so little care was taken that there were always broken systems and disgusting smells. Even fairly new buildings were already falling into a state of disorder and disrepair. I often got sick in such places and even had horrific migraine headaches from the mold that seemed to be literally growing on the walls. 

I’m not exactly a Howard Hughes with phobias that make it difficult for me to trust anyone other than myself with preparing the food that I eat, but I am perhaps a bit more demanding than most. I have not yet copied my mother’s habit of bringing her own utensils and hand wipes to a restaurant but I am very careful about where I will agree to eat. I seem to drive the two men in my house a bit crazy with my insistence on maintaining a ship shape home. I suppose its in my genes. I’m also totally reluctant to indulge in foods prepared by people that I do not know. I eschew buffets even when they have sneeze guards. Cleanliness is the red line that I demand. If it is not there then I am gone.

With streaming there is now a cornucopia of British programming from which to choose. I particularly enjoy the mysteries and detective shows but I’m open to romance and history as well. I’ve virtually gone through the streets of London to follow the antics of Sherlock and looked back in history at theories about who Jack the Ripper actually was. I follow several different guides who design walks through different areas of the English countryside. I’ve become familiar with terms like “bent cops” and even learned how to unravel Scottish and Welsh accents with the help of closed captioning. I smile whenever a character asks, “Would you like a cuppa?” knowing immediately that they are offering my favorite beverage to still the beast in any situation.

A cuppa seems to be the panacea for virtually any difficulty. It soothes the anxious or terrified soul and brings friends together in peacetime and war. It’s the national drink of Englan and my all time favorite beverage as well. I never have a day without a nice brew of hot tea. Sometimes I cheat and just pop a pod in my Keurig or push the button for hot water to use one of my many different varieties of the elegant brew born in the east but I know that taking more time brings far superior results.

When I am really invested in the moment I bring out one of the many teapots that I have collected or received as gifts over the years. I take time to heat the water in a kettle and warm the pot before pouring water over the aromatic leaves. I bring out special china cups and cookies or biscuits to accompany the ceremony. 

Over the years I have had teatimes with my grandchildren and my nieces as well as some of my students. We make a grand show out of the experience with lovely linens and tea towels. I have people asking me all of the time to invite them over for a cuppa along with some serious conversation. It never fails to make us all feel better.

One of my students always has a cuppa ready for me when I arrive at his home to teach him Algebra. There I have learned about new blends like Lady Gray and Biscuit to go along with my favorites at home. I think the Earl Grey is one of the best flavors ever and a twist on that idea is Cream Earl Grey. Of course English Breakfast tea is a staple around here and Irish Breakfast tea isn’t so bad either. I have tea from the Empress Hotel in Victoria BC that is to die for and I brought back tea from Yorkshire that was supposedly a favorite of Queen Elizabeth. I enjoy a chai tea latte now and again after being introduced to it by a dear friend from India. I have a ginger green tea that is nice for the evening without the caffeine that might keep me awake. It is also an anti-inflammatory that makes my tummy feel calm and ready to settle down for a long night’s sleep. 

Most of the people that I know prefer coffee over tea. It’s not always easy to find someone who wants to sit with me sipping on a cuppa. I often dream of living in England where my daily pleasure is seemingly appreciated by most of the people there. There is something quite special about the process of making the tea in lovely porcelain pots with a leisurely manner that invites calmness even in the face of murder. (At least that is what is intimated in the programs that I watch.)

My husband’s granny, Mary Isabella, was an immigrant from Newcastle. I never had the pleasure of meeting her but she handed down her tea time techniques to my mother-in-law. She showed me how to brew a perfect pot of tea and she and I consumed many a cuppa together on Sunday afternoons. I have to admit that I was a wee bit disappointed when she told me that her mother’s favorite blend was ordinary Lipton tea. Nonetheless I love to imagine the beautiful woman that I have only seen in photos meticulously following the process for the most perfect cup of tea.

I used to have regular tea times before Covid when all such things came to a screeching halt. The youngsters who used to come seem too grown up to want to revive that tradition but recently I had a request from one of them to recreate our ceremony one more time before he leaves for a job in Austin, Texas. I think it would be a fun way to send him off with good memories and a warm belly.

I laugh when I think of the many times a cuppa tea has save the day on those shows that I watch. I recall one World War II film where a military man was coming unglued because every possible thing was going wrong. He felt as though he was surrounded by lunatics while his men were dying. All the while his equipment had not arrived and chaos was ruling the day when his aide came in with a pot of tea. When the soldier asked what good a cuppa might possibly do, his aide replied, “It couldn’t hurt.” So it is! A cuppa may be just what the doctor ordered in any situation. I urge you to try it out. 

I joined a Facebook group called Southeast Houston in the 50s, 60s and 70s. It’s fun to be reminded of what life was like during my childhood, teen years and twenties. I was young then and a whole lifetime lay ahead of me. Houston was far from being the fourth largest city in the country, in fact I actually recall the moment when the population here hit a million people. I watched the city grow and change into a metropolitan area with more than four million people and growing. In fact, some believe that there are many folks who have never even been counted. As more and more folks moved here so much of what I enjoyed as a child is gone forever. On the other hand so much that I never dreamed of seeing has come to pass.

I have to admit to having a grand childhood with the exception of losing my father which made me much more serious at an early age than I might otherwise have been. Nonetheless I was mostly a free range kid who explored the world around me on my bicycle without a care in the world. I played in wooded areas that are long gone. I watched freeways sprout up making it easier to get from one place to another. I saw the flight to farther and farther away suburbs leaving my old neighborhood behind and dampening the economic growth that had always been so vibrant there.

I actually stayed in southeast Houston until 2005, albeit not in my childhood digs. I moved to a house in a neighborhood that stayed fairly stable until the turn of the century. I frequented all of the wonderful places that defined my little section of Houston. One day I looked around and realized that so much had changed. My neighbors were moving away or dying. The stores that I liked were closing. Nothing felt the same and so I pulled up stakes and moved even farther out into the suburbs leaving behind incredibly wonderful times that were no longer what they had once been. 

I love the memories that I made in my childhood and throughout my working years but I am not one who looks backward and dreams of a return to times past. I have learned that most progress takes place for many reasons, to fill gaps that made life unequal and unfair for others. Change is an inevitable part of life and we can’t go back and probably would not want to do so. I suppose that sometimes we recall our childhood with such fond memories because our parents were shouldering all of the responsibilities that left us free to play and explore. Like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn we romanticize our youth when there were actually terrible things happening to people not so far from us as well as in other parts of the world. 

I still wonder how I was able to endure Houston summers in a home without air conditioning. I can’t imagine not having a phone at my fingertips wherever I go and even remember when I once had to walk several miles to find a phone after my car broke down. My laptop has made writing so simple whereas having to type everything back in the day was an onerous task. I recall spending hours combing through a card catalog at the library only to find that the references I wanted were checked out to someone else. I could go on and on about things that now seem essential that I had not even dreamed of having in the long ago.

I would not trade the diversity of my city today for the segregated racism of the past. There were things that I was not allowed to do as a woman back then that we take for granted today like getting credit or working at certain jobs. I was not able to attend Texas A&M University when I graduated from high school because women were still not welcome there. I remember female friends being harassed in engineering classes at the University of Houston in the mid nineteen sixties. We ladies were often told that our choices for life lay between being a housewife and mother or working as nurses, teachers and secretaries. Now girls can dream of being whatever they wish to be with no holds barred. 

I would not give up my memories for anything. They speak of the simple times when I formed friendships and enjoyed roller skating on a Friday night. They tell the story of days spent at the local swimming pool and adventures riding under the shade of trees in Garden Villas. I remember nineteen cent tacos at Jack in the Box but also a salary of eighty dollars a month on a forty four hour a week summer job. Things surely changed just as they were meant to be. If they had not my granddaughter would not be as independent and self assured as she is. She knows that she is capable of doing whatever her heart leads her to do. 

There was indeed a time when things moved more slowly in Houston and the southeast section was as homey as a small town. I still have many lifelong friends from that era and all of us have answered the siren call of the world. We look back and smile as we push ever forward, happy to live in an era that is exciting and capable of shrinking the world down to a size that we can visit and explore. I’m betting that the future will be even better for me and for southeast Houston as well. 

Those who regularly read my blogs may have noticed a staleness about them. I’ve been groping a bit to find good topics. Much of my lack of fresh ideas has resulted from four years of massive changes in lifestyle that have left me spending more time taking loved ones back and forth to doctor’s appointments than traveling to interesting places the way I have done in the past. I’ve had a few health bumps myself that have finally resolved themselves, but I have to admit that I miss my former life before Covid and January 6, 2021, and friends and family members dividing into political camps with little patience for differences. I often feel quite sad about the state of the world with wars in Ukraine and more fighting between Israel and Palestine. I long for calm and a moment when we can all just take a breath and love each other without rancor. Nonetheless I do understand that everyone across the world has been just as affected by the difficulties of the past four years as I have on a personal level. That is why I saw the summer Olympics as an opportunity to bask momentarily in an island of joy. 

The last time the worlds’ athletes were able to convene Covid was still taking thousands of lives each day. Everything about the event seemed to only highlight the sadness the we shared the world over. Spectators were not allowed. Athletes wore masks. Watching the pared down events was a reminder of the seriousness of what we humans were enduring. The prospect of seeing a more normal version of the Olympics was exciting given that my days of late have a kind of sameness of tempo and duties. I eagerly tuned in to the opening ceremonies last Friday with a the kind of childlike glee that is usually reserved for Christmas or a Birthday party. 

I found the extravaganza and creativity of the very different way of introducing the games to be refreshing and inspiring. I loved seeing the excited athletes from around the world in colorful boats sailing along the Seine River as thousands of onlookers cheered along the route. I liked the brilliance of the colors and the variety of the the musical acts. The fact that there was so much visible happiness even in a pouring rain made me smile more than I have for some time now. 

Lady Gaga was glorious as usual and so were the many people who were featured in vignettes that showcased the culture and history of France. I felt that I was on a grand tour of Paris, a place that I have often dreamed of visiting. The many hours of the program went by so quickly as I marveled at the inclusiveness of the talent and the themes of brotherhood and freedom that echoed the storied flow of the journey of humans aspiring to be better and better versions of themselves. I was so moved by it all that I posted a simple comment on Facebook to express my delight, “The opening ceremony of the Olympics is beyond fabulous!”

Later when the programming ended with Celine Dion singing her heart out once again I cried in big heaves. The miracle of her presence with her voice as strong and beautiful as ever seemed to me to be a metaphor for a good turn in the destiny of the world. Somehow as she sang and I sobbed I knew that we were all on the right track and that ultimately we humans would move past the death and rancor that has plagued us for far too long. Little did I realize that my post on Facebook would dust up a controversy that shocked and ultimately confused me and made me anxious. 

In the first psychology class that I ever took I learned the importance of perception. We each see the world around us in differing ways depending on our personal beliefs and upbringings. Perception is more influential in determining how we react to any event than actual truth. Even witnesses to the exact same happening will often walk away with dramatically different interpretations of what they saw. It is a fact of our humanity that we are constantly interpreting the input of our senses in unique ways because of our beliefs and experiences. Knowing and understanding the role of perception nonetheless did not prepare me for the volcanic eruption of differing viewpoints that my simple post inspired. 

I was almost immediately chastised by a long time friend for enjoying a ceremony that had supposedly attacked Christianity with an insulting reenactment of the Last Supper with Jesus and His apostles. In all honesty to this very moment I don’t even recall seeing that. I had to look it up in the hopes of jogging my memory but nothing worked. I suppose that it was one of the least memorable aspects of the outstanding entertainment for me. Why would I give much attention to a quick parody when I was treated to a rousing number by Lady Gaga and a tear jerking rendition of the French national anthem by a magnificent mezzo soprano? Somehow that little blip got past me and even if I had seen it I probably would have either laughed or rolled my eyes just a bit. Instead my friend was upset that I was not as incensed as he was. 

Other comments followed in quick succession from friends and former students choosing sides in arguments that seemed only to tell me that we are not yet as healed as I had naively hoped. In our hurt and loneliness of the past four years we have tended to choose sides and envelop ourselves in tribal behaviors which are generally unhealthy for us all. I wanted to be amused by the dust up, but instead the old sadness threatened to encircle me once again. I felt badly for my friends who so earnestly presented their personal points of view. I found myself thinking of the song Imagine by John Lennon and wondering if it is even possible for the world to be as one. As much as I want to be the grand diplomat who loves people regardless of how they choose to live their lives, I wonder if I am chasing a unicorn when I simply want us to try harder to do nothing more that just love each other. 

When all is said and done I have to think of the miracle of Celine Dion’s return to the moment that she has worked so long and hard to achieve. I have to consider the pure joy of the USA’s men’s gymnastic team as they worked together as a real and loving group determined to win a bronze medal. Perhaps it is in such moments that I see the key to bringing us all together. 

I am not angry at my friend for chastising me. I know him and so I understand that he truly wants to help me. I love my friends who so quickly jumped to defend me. I would tell them that all that I am okay. My perception has been fine tuned by years of caring for my mother, teaching students of every possible type, working with teachers striving to make a difference, enjoying incredibly diverse friendships, once again assuming the role of caretaker for my father-in-law. I have seen the hopes and dreams of many people, most of whom were different from myself. The one thing we all have in common is wanting to be valued and loved. That is what I saw in the opening ceremony of the Olympic games in Paris. I witnessed people from the world over celebrating life. That is why I loved it and did not take the time to pick it apart with little critiques. For me the beauty of it all really was beyond fabulous!