This Above All...

If you studied Hamlet in high school (or wherever) you can finish the quote: "to thine own self be true."

Sounds like great advice, doesn't it? What is ironic, however, is that the character who speaks these lines is Polonius, who is--to put it rather bluntly--a big windbag. He is constantly interfering with affairs that he should leave alone.

So, how does this connect to the writing challenge of the week--what advice would I give my younger self? Well, I suppose just this: advice is not always helpful.

As I get older, I find myself doing the reminiscing bit. You know, going over events from the past, wondering what would have happened had I...fill in the blank with a "this" or "that."

But I always come back to one conclusion: while I am well aware that things in my life aren't perfect, and I certainly am not perfect, in the main--I like the way my life has turned out and I like myself.

So for fear of altering the course of my life in some unforeseen way, if given the chance, I would most certainly decline to tell my younger self anything.

Except...

There are a few dumb things I did. Perhaps if I had been forewarned, I might have done better.  Such as:

--remember the time I stopped going to movies? Well, that was dumb. Plain and simple. I love movies and I made no great moral point by avoiding them.

--then there was the time that because I had a migraine, I decided not to go to a concert. My husband had gotten tickets for us to go to an Eagles concert--I am a big fan of that group. Turned out the concert was superb--part of their comeback tour.  To this day, my husband has the tickets tucked away. And every so often he mentions it. Wish I had told myself--go to the concert. The headache won't last; the experience of a great concert will.

--swimming. Yup, just that. I wish I had learned to swim properly when I was a child. I had lessons, and regularly went to the public pool (in Bulawayo) where we had instructions. But I just couldn't get the hang of it. I loathed diving--putting my head underwater. I never mastered breathing. I can't float. Seriously--I just sink. So I wish...

--And one thing I most certainly would have told my younger self--take advantage of the places where you live and absorb as much as you can. For example. having grown up in southern Africa, I never even tried to learn any of the languages. I missed out on the experience of a lifetime simply because I couldn't be bothered.

That's it, folks.

Perhaps, as Polonius advised, I was being true to myself. Too impatient, too distracted, too young and immature. But, isn't that what it means to be young? Even if I had been able to advise my younger self, I doubt if I would have paid attention.

Leaving Home

A number of years ago, I was doing some research on my paternal grandparents. They had been missionaries in southern Africa (from 1920 to 1929), so there was a wealth of material on which to draw. You see, I was writing a short biography for a small historical journal.

Not only did I read letters they had written to each other and various church publications my grandfather had written for, but I also interviewed their children--my father, my aunt, and my uncles. When I posed a question to one of my uncles, he gave an interesting answer.  The question was: when did you leave home?  His answer was--Leave home? I didn't leave home, home left me.

Well.

Leaving home has been a repeating occurrence in my life.  And those times--having to say goodbye--are what I think were the events that moved me from childhood to adulthood.  I can't really say--as my uncle did--that home left me. But my first leaving home was something precipitated by choices my parents made.

(Click to enlarge...I am the one in the yellow dress. Apparently I didn't get the message to wear a blue dress.)

When I was 5 (turning 6 in a month), I first went to boarding school.  You see, my parents were also missionaries in southern Africa. One of the dilemmas that my parents had (as did many people who were "aliens" in a country and culture not their own) was what to do about educating their children. For the first two years, my mother taught me, using correspondence material. But, soon it became clear that as the only missionary child on the mission station, I needed a different environment. I only recently learned that part of the impetus for my early departure for boarding school was the fact that I began to be "too bossy" around the African students at the mission school.

So, my parents took me to a boarding school. That was the first of several such schools. Each time, I was away from home with holiday stretches in between terms.  Then, when I was 15 we returned to the U.S.  However, my parents did not stay here. After a year's furlough (kind of a working vacation) they returned to southern Africa. 

My parents asked me if I wanted to stay in the U.S. I was in 10th grade, and college would be the next stop on my educational pathway, which would mean either I stayed in the U.S., or returned. I chose to stay.

That was, as I now reflect, the moment when I crossed over from childhood to adulthood. Oh, there were other gradual maturations along the way. But once my parents were on another continent, I had many decisions to make on my own.  My uncle* and aunt had accepted guardianship for me, but I did much on my own.  For example, I opened a bank account...which was at a bank in a town 5 miles away from where I lived. No such thing as on-line banking.

Even though I turned 16 about the time my parents returned to southern Africa, I did NOT learn how to drive. My uncle was not too keen on a teenage "daughter" learning to drive. Oh, I forgot to mention that my uncle and aunt had no children of their own, so suddenly having a teenager on their hands was a real shock.  

For two years, I lived with my uncle and aunt  where my uncle was college president. Then I went to college at that place. One year after I began college, my uncle accepted another position, and moved half the country away. I stayed put, of course, being in college. So my self-reliance increased. 

When the college was closed for holidays, I had to find a place to be. Very kind dear friends at times invited me home with them. Or I was in college choir, and we toured during spring breaks. Summers were another challenge. For 3 summers, I traveled to near Fort Erie, Ontario to work in wealthy folks' summer homes along Lake Erie.  How did I get to Canada and back? From central Pennsylvania? I have no idea, except somehow I managed to arrange rides.

So, did I leave home? Or did home leave me? Whichever (or both) I certainly had to grow up.  Not long before her death, my mother expressed to me her regret that she and my dad had agreed to allow me to stay in the U.S.  I thought for just a few moments, and then said to my mother--don't. Don't regret a decision you thought you had to make. I like who I am now, and obviously part of what made me who I am is a consequence of the life I have lived. So don't regret your decision.


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*Not the same uncle as in the story in the first paragraph.

Stories in Stone

Nearby where we live there is a cemetery. With an atmosphere that is park-like it has become a favorite go-to walking place for me and our dog.

Years ago, two dogs back I used to walk our dog there.  That dog--an English setter (show not hunting) loved to see the squirrels there. One day, she spotted a squirrel who had not seen her, and for at least 15 minutes she inched up on that squirrel. Our dog's muscles were all aquiver as she silently inched one paw in front of the other. I think the squirrel must have had a near-heart attack when our dog suddenly pounced...but the squirrel got away.

Anyway, after a time, there came a day when the cemetery posted a big prominent sign you could not miss:  NO DOGS ALLOWED.  I was annoyed, and bemused. I thought--ok, no dogs. But squirrels, chipmunks, Canada geese, and foxes all running amok.  But, no dogs.

About a year ago, I decided to see if the dreaded NO DOGS sign was still there...by now, we had another dog, a lab mix--our sweet Ziva.  She gets many daily walks, so adding the cemetery aka park

would be an asset.  Sure enough, the sign was gone. So our walks there have commenced.

Since dogs like to take their time--sniffing every tree, or blade of grass, or whatever--we spend some time there. And I have taken to reading cemetery plaques.  These plaques or stones are flat on the ground, some made of marble and some of brass.  Whatever their composition, they all tell a story.

Herewith some examples:

--A name with a birthdate in the late 1890s, but death date. Someone was forgotten? Or didn't die (unlikely). Or the family either did not know or had not recalled where that burial plot was.

--Many graves with death dates in the late 1960s, most of them of young men in their early 20s.  Most likely killed in Vietnam--my generation's war.

--Two names side by side--or actually a double stone but with a name removed from its prior place. The one side has birth and death date, the other...blank. No doubt, the surviving spouse found someone new, remarried and decided to be buried elsewhere.

--several small stones with birthdate and death date the same day.

--finally, a stone with four names on it, all one family: mother, father, daughter, son.  What happened? Some tragedy. But what? An accident? or some other untimely end?

Whatever the circumstances, every stone a story.

Autumnal Musings

As the growing season draws to a close, I am often drawn to thoughts about growth. Growth in the plant kingdom is something I observe every year--I love to plant annual flowers and then revel in their blooming glory all summer long. Growth abounds in the summer, but growth is not an ever outward process--the end of summer comes.

Of course, then comes autumn. Much as I love autumn, I always rue to impending death of the flowers I have enjoyed. Of course, as I garden I observe, and muse, and draw conclusions about life...about living.

Much of my time of late has been taken up in continuing to help my father and step-mother as they age and transition. In many ways, it is like the life cycle I observe in the flowers.  (Before anyone takes offense, I am not suggesting that people aging is the same as plants aging,  but as in everything nature has much to teach humanity.)

Since my parents live in a retirement village, and are now in sheltered care, transitioning to nursing care, I observe many facets of what it means to age.  Frequently, when I am visiting I encounter other elderly people--people I don't know. But I always try to be cheery, to be helpful, to say a kindly word. And it is the reactions that amaze and baffle me. 

A few people simply don't/can't hear me, and so my cheery comments fall on "deaf" ears. A few reciprocate--smiling and responding, even if briefly.  It is the other portion of responses that always surprise--the people who harrumph, and complain and are downright unpleasant.  One day, as I was exiting the elevator, I caught and held the door for an elderly man on a motorized scooter who was entering the elevator.  Rather than say "thank you" to me for holding the door, he snarled I CAN DO IT FOR MYSELF.  OK, then. So much for being nice.

While that example is somewhat extreme, it is not an isolated example.  And what it has made me do is examine my own aging process and the way I respond to people.  Of late, I find myself very intentionally cultivating an attitude of being grateful, of expressing thanks.  

In every encounter I have at this retirement village, especially with staff, I try to say--THANK YOU. Thank you for the work you do, for the care you give, for the thorough professionalism you display while you are also showing great care and compassion.  Maybe my efforts of overdone--but given that I have observed so much ingratitude I feel my verbal affirmation is the least I can do.

As I deliberately try to show gratitude, I am hoping that it is also cultivating in me a growth tendency--as the twig is bent, so the tree's inclined.  If the day comes that I am a resident in such a facility, I hope the attitude I display will not be curmudgeonly and grudging. 

Maybe by now you are scratching your head and thinking--wasn't she talking about fall flowers.  Well, yes I was.  The way a flower grows, even as it draws near the end of its season, is greatly influenced by the encounters along the way.  I know, I know--the analogy is imperfect. A flower can't decide to water itself to enhance its growth and beauty. But it can make the most use of the water and sunshine it receives.

Where does that take me? What I have determined for myself is that I will cultivate gratitude and thankfulness. I do not want to be the person who pushes away help with a curt--I CAN DO IT FOR MYSELF.  I want to be more like a flower that blooms in its time, in response to water and sun. The beauty of that flower remains long after the petals have fallen.

Too soon old; too late schmart!

Confessions of a 70 year old.

Today is Søren Kierkegaard's birthday. That is note-worthy for this blog as it was Kierkegaard who noted that “life must be understood backwards. But then one forgets the other principle: that is must be lived forwards.” 

To put that philosophic thought another way, we have the Pennsylvania Dutch expression: we grow too soon old, and too late schmart.

Indeed.

This year, I celebrated my 70th birthday. I was born in February, just months before the close of World War II. Of course, I don't remember that event, but the proximity of my birth to the end of the last world war helps frame the span of my life.  It also means that I was on the cusp of the Boomer generation.

So by now, I should have the “understanding life” part down.  I do have a few confessions that perhaps have come with looking back over life and understanding it:

1. I don’t feel 70.  While I have no desire to be a 20 or 30 year old again, and while I have certainly matured, my inner sense is not all that different from what it was decades ago.

2. I don’t look 70. I recently had a conversation with someone who had come to do some work at our house. In the course of the conversation, I noted that my husband and I have lived in our house for 35 years--whereupon the worker asked how old I was. I replied--70. In response to my reply, the worker burst out--NO WAY. Then he asked how I managed to not look 70. The answer is:  good genes; good luck; and no smoking.  Of course, I could be like a well-preserved antique car that, suddenly one day, has all its wheels fall off.

3. And I feel 70.  OK, so this contradicts # 1 above.  Let's just say my MIND feels young, while my body throws in an occasional creak and moan to say "Not so fast."

OK—enough of confessions.

Here’s another part of growing older.  There is a somewhat tired joke that the first thing one does in the morning is read the obituaries—if your name isn’t there, go ahead and make a cup of coffee.  Well, I do confess to reading the obituaries. Having lived in one place for 50 of these 70 years, there are many names I recognize.  And occasionally, someone’s death is recorded and I write a note to the ones who remain behind.

It isn’t so much that growing old makes you think more often of death—although of course you do because—well, because it’s inevitable. That’s one of the understanding life insights.  What I do think of is that the passing of a person from this life leaves behind a void. And for a time, loved ones and acquaintances remember. And then we fade from view.

I want to note in particular a recent death of a blogging friend—Philip Robinson. I never met Philip in person, but through his blog I learned to value this singular person. His blog—entitled Tossing Pebbles (which is still available to read) reveals a man with a wide array of interests. Through his blog I learned that he was a father who raised a son virtually alone; that he was a very proud grandfather to three accomplished grandchildren. I learned that he was interested in and dedicated to subsistence living—I shuddered every year when I read his blog about chopping enough wood to see him through a northern Canadian winter. He was passionate about history and about politics. It was always a delight to read his thoughts in any given blog post.

Now, he has died. He learned in January that he had pancreatic cancer, and even though he had surgery and received good medical care, this aggressive disease overwhelmed the best efforts. 

Living life forward, understanding life backwards. Thus it ever was. Or as my Pennsylvania Dutch ancestors might say “too soon old, too late schmart."

Fledging Time

It's that time of year, again.  The time when the sweet young people that parents have been nurturing get ready to leave home to go to college.  Or get ready to launch out on their own, having graduated from college and now on their way to that first job.

It is indeed a bittersweet time.  That time was for us, my husband and me, some years ago.  Usually, I am not so aware of this rite of passage--buying up the supplies, figuring out how to pack and load all of it, stuffing the family car to the gills with the entire contents of a child-becoming-adult's bedroom.  But this year, I am more aware as two young people in our neighborhood are launching out.  One is on her way to college, the other on her way to her first job more than half-way across the country.

We have watched these girls grow to women, and have cheered them on their way, from a distance of course.  What we are now particularly watching is their parents as they go through all the letting-go agonies that parents before them have experienced.  The agonies that we too experienced a decade or two ago.  In talking with these parents, it is evident they are feeling those mixed emotions--pride and worry all intermingled.

I especially recall when our older child, our son, went to college that it didn't "hit" me all that much.  First, he was going to a college somewhat nearby--close enough that if either we or he needed to, we could drive to see him.  I recall that I did not cry or even tear up when we--his parents and his younger sister--got in the car and drove away leaving him to make new friends, meet new challenges, and live on his own.

I do confess that four years later, when he had graduated and was now heading to graduate school, it did "hit" me--my son was REALLY leaving home.  Graduate school was in another state, and his then girlfriend (now wife) was going along with him.  That surely meant that we had been replaced as the central figures of his life and that he really was "leaving home."  And, as they pulled out of the driveway to begin what became a life journey, I did cry.

I faced the emotion of separation with our daughter in a different way.  Her first college was further away from home, and as it turned out not the right place for her.  So, after a successful semester, she asked for and received our permission to embark on an even bigger adventure.  At age eighteen, she went to London for a half a year.  She found a job in London and found a city that she loved (and now calls home).  Of course, she returned to the U.S., transferred to the right college for her, and finished her undergraduate education with a flourish.  

This spring, a robin built a nest in our next-door neighbor's hanging flower pot.  First there were four lovely blue eggs, and then four scrawny absurd baby birds.  They turned into four constantly open mouths.  It was fun to watch the dutiful parents flying back and forth bringing beakfuls of food for these ever-hungry babies.  Then we left on vacation.  By the time we returned, the robins had fledged and were gone.  I was sorry to miss watching that wonderful transition--when the baby robin first leaves the nest, and the parents flutter around for several days watching, guarding, squawking encouragement or last minute instructions.  

While we human parents may not do so much fluttering around and squawking, we do completely share the nervous anxiety wondering and worrying--will she make it? what if she needs something and I'm not there? does she remember to....?

My blogging friend, Julie Zickefoose (who is far more eloquent than I) has her own fledgling child who heads to college this year.  Read her lovely blog post here.

And, if you are anywhere where you see a nervous set of parents fluttering around their daughter or son, send a couple of helpful thoughts and prayers their way.  It is, after all, fledging time.

November 22, 1963

I am 18 years old.  My sophomore year in college has just begun in the small college I attend.  Friday afternoon, our college debate team of which I am a member will be leaving some time mid-afternoon to go to Fordham University for a debate tournament.

I am standing in Old Main, on a small flight of stairs leading to some classrooms.  Suddenly, the news comes flashing through--whether a student or staff member had heard it on the radio, I do not know.  But the word comes and it is shocking, earth-shattering.  President Kennedy has been shot and killed.

That breathless moment when everything seemed to cease.  Our world suspended. What to do? Not just what to do personally.  But what to do for the whole country, maybe even the whole world.

Television was still in a kind of infancy--even though President Kennedy's appointee as chair of the Federal Communication Commission Newton Minow had pronounced its being "a vast wasteland."  Our small college had only ONE television set available for public viewing.  That television was in the Commons area of Old Main.

For the next few days, while the country plunged into inarticulate mourning, we students gathered around that television.   CBS had made the decision to begin broadcasting and continue until the president had been buried.  So we watched while Walter Cronkite led the country in an extended wake.

We students did not spend the entire next four days in front of the lone television.  We went on with our student lives.  The debate team missed any Saturday news--we had agonized over whether or not to go to the Fordham tournament but in the end we went.  On Sunday, the college choir had a church service to attend, and so we were in the house of one of the church parishioners to have Sunday dinner when we saw on that television a man, named Jack Ruby, step up to Lee Harvey Oswald and shoot him.  The dissolution of any meaning in our world seemed complete.

On Monday, when the President was going to be buried, some students with cars drove to Washington, DC.  Most of us stayed on campus and continued our television vigil.  

This 50th anniversary--November 22, 2013--also a Friday.  As the grainy black and white footage from those four days of continuous broadcasting, sometimes interrupted by a few splashes of color footage from film, are replayed--I am transported back.  I am once again a college sophomore, standing on the steps in Old Main, conversing with fellow students on the Debate Team--the President has been assassinated.  

Now, fifty years later, I know how very young eighteen is.  How very innocent.  Yet on that day, November 22, 1963, our world changed.  And we were suddenly older--not old, maybe--but the brightness of life had been dimmed in an inexpressible way.  Things would never be the same.

And, of course, we were right--we still had so many fresh tragedies to go through--Vietnam, more assassinations including Jack Kennedy's brother Bobby, civil rights struggles, dogs lunging at people trying to secure the right to vote, Kent State, Watergate...

On and on.  What was lost that day was bright-eyed innocence. 

November 22, 1963.

Arm chair witness to history Part II

Continuing the musings on being an arm chair witness to history.

The Democratic Convention (1968)

By 1968, my political affiliation was beginning to turn toward the Democratic Party (and it fully turned to my registering as a Democrat when Richard Nixon revealed his true nature).  So, once again, I was glued to the television watching the raucous, highly entertaining and downright scary Democratic Convention in Chicago.  All but lost in this chaotic convention was the actual nominee—Hubert Humphrey (who was defeated by Richard Nixon in the general election).  

What riveted me and the country was the rioting in the streets.  The country was gripped with full blown dissension over the war in Vietnam.  Richard Daley, Mayor of Chicago, had ordered the police as well the National Guard to suppress any kind of demonstration.  Daley had bragged that no demonstrators would take over Chicago’s streets.   Predictably, the demonstrators rose to the challenge and streamed into Chicago.  The result was full scale rioting in the streets of Chicago with the demonstrators chanting “the whole world watching.”

I was watching the scenes unfold late at night, waiting for the important speeches, which by now were far past prime time coverage.  Senator Abe Ribicoff was actually nominating George McGovern—when Ribicoff deviated from prepared remarks and looked straight at Mayor Daley and blasted his handling of the demonstrators.  Daley rose to his feet, shouted back, and could clearly be seen mouthing obscenities.  The Democrats went on to lose the election.  While being a witness to the unfolding of this history was exciting, there was also something very sad about watching the unraveling of hopes of people to bring the ill-advised destructive war to a close—and to know that the demonstrations likely doomed any chance Humphrey had to win the general election.

The “Explosion” of the Challenger (1986)

Sometimes the location where we watch the video of an event unfolding is sufficiently unusual as to magnify our sense of the event.  I was attending a meeting of a governmental board, and during lunch break went to a department store to pass the time.  As I walked past the television section, I saw people standing watching some evident catastrophe. The look of their faces conveyed the gravity of what they were seeing—the space shuttle Challenger had blasted off on its mission—and had “exploded.” 

People may now recall that they watched the Challenger blow up, but in fact what we all saw was a video replay of the event.  The networks had begun live coverage of the launch, but by 1986 space shuttle launchings had become. . . routine.  Just a few short minutes into its flight, it quickly became apparent that something disastrous was unfolding, and the networks switched back to cover the disaster.  The shuttle had begun its ascent with the usual thunderous roar of engines, but less than two minutes into the launch, it began to break up resulting in two white plumes.  What had actually happened was that the “external fuel tank had collapsed, releasing all its liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen propellants. As the chemicals mixed, they ignited to create a giant fireball thousands of feet in the air.”  (Source: National Geographic).

Of course, in addition to being horrified and riveted with the endless replay of the disaster was the fact that seven people died, including the first teacher in space, Christa McAuliffe.

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I had planned to add a final disaster most recent in our memories—that of the attacks on the U.S. on September 11, 2001, but I suspect you have your own recollection of watching those events unfold.  The September 11 attacks were to the 21st century what the attack on Pearl Harbor was to the 20th century.  Many people of my father's generation can recall exactly where they were when they heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor--of course what they experienced was hearing the news, not actually watching the event unfold.  With September 11, 2001, we heard the news and watched the news unfold, complete with each of the World Trade Center towers collapse.  What a horrific seemingly slow-motion disaster that was--as the towers began to implode, floor collapsing on floor, then watching the rolling cloud of debris engulf parts of lower Manhattan.

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Television has made us arm chair witnesses to so many events.  Some events are simply not important—e.g. watching the slow police chase of O.J. Simpson—and are obviously fueled by the 24 hour 7 day television marathon that runs on a constant loop.  Other events have been defining ones—ones that we can truly say we will never forget where we were when we first watched the event of _____ unfold.  We are arm chair witnesses to history, true enough, but making sense of it all—now that’s another story all together. 

Arm chair witness to history (Part I)

For all the excesses and waste of television (a subject on which I sometimes muse), there is an undeniable benefit: television gives us the opportunity to be arm chair witnesses to history.

One  of the almost trite statements is “Do you remember where you were when you heard the news that …” (you can fill in the blank).  The most recent that struck me as almost irrelevant was Brian Williams, anchor of NBC Nightly News, intoning “We will remember where we were when we learned that James Gandolfini died.”  Now, I grant you Gandolfini may have been a fine actor—I was not one of the legion of viewers of “The Sopranos” so I can’t say.  And by all accounts, he was a genuinely fine man.  But, really, was his death earth-shaking? I think not.

In the course of my lifetime, thus far, there have been earth-shaking events.  And many of them were televised as they happened, so that I was an arm chair witness to history.

Here’s a sampling.

The Assassination of JFK’s killer (1963)

One of the ironies of events being televised is that even if they are not televised “live” people who see a video believe they saw the actual event.  Such is the case with the assassination of JFK.  When Zapruder came forward with his famous 8-mm film, and when that film was shown, there were thousands of people who swore they saw JFK’s assassination live.  Of course, Zapruder—who was a witness in Dallas, who happened to have his camera handy—filmed the assassination and that film was then shown after the fact.  Its constant replaying and its verisimilitude is what gave people the sense that they saw JFK’s assassination live.

What we did see live was Lee Harvey Oswald being led from jail; we watched Jack Ruby step up close, then suddenly produce a small gun and shoot Oswald in the stomach.  We saw Oswald grimace, and grab his front, and then collapse.

As it happened, that event occurred on a Sunday.  I was a college sophomore, and was touring with our choral group. We had just sung in a church service, and then went to various homes of members of that congregation for a Sunday dinner.  It was in such a home, where the television was turned on, that I saw this snip of history unfold.

The Republican Convention (1964)

…or the short-lived effort to have someone other than Barry Goldwater become the party standard bearer.

During the summers, while I attended college, I was employed as a maid and/or cook in the homes of wealthy U.S. citizens who had summer homes along Lake Erie, on the Canadian side.   So, that meant I was live-in at these homes, with specific work tasks but a fair amount of free time.  

During the summer of 1964, the Republican Party held its convention to nominate its candidate to run against President Lyndon Johnson.  That was in the days when party conventions really meant something, and actual ballots were taken that would result in a candidate that was not a foregone conclusion.  While I was too young to vote, I was intensely interested in politics. Plus I hailed from Pennsylvania, whose then Governor William Scranton was an honorable and decent man.  

Since the groundswell clearly favored Senator Barry Goldwater, who I thought had disastrous policies on Vietnam, I was thrilled to watch as a sudden flurry of activity on the convention floor made it appear as though Scranton actually had a chance.  And all of this activity was occurring right before my eyes as I sat glued to the television.  As it turned out, he didn't—he wasn't nominated, Goldwater was, and in the fall election, Goldwater was soundly defeated.   

The Assassination of Bobby Kennedy (1968)

It was the first day of summer vacation for me, in my first year of teaching college English.  So, I slept in.  When I awakened, I turned on the television, expecting to watch a few minutes at the end of the Today Show.  Instead, I turned in to the late-breaking news that, immediately following his victory in winning the California primary, Senator Robert Kennedy had been shot and had died.  

Of course, like so many people during the turbulent 1960s, I had mourned the untimely deaths of political leaders—of course, JFK was the “first” followed by Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., and now Robert Kennedy.  The song, recorded by Dion, “Abraham, Martin and John” captured the deep sadness these assassinations evoked in many people.  And, of course, the final stanza captured the horror of one more assassination including Bobby.

I don’t recall what I did the rest of that day—all I can recall is sitting for a long long time trying to absorb and make sense of yet another senseless death.

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To be continued

The Human Experience

Something about Nora Ephron’s death has touched me deeply.  I think it’s partly her wonderful snarkiness which is being remembered, and the way she celebrated women’s experiences as captured in her screen plays and movies.

But, the most touching detail of all about her life to emerge is her list.  Her collection of essays entitled “I Remember Nothing” included two lists: things she will miss and things she won’t miss.  Among the things she won’t miss are—dry skin; taking off makeup every night; panels on women in film; Clarence Thomas…read the whole list for yourself.  Among the things she will miss are—her kids; fall; reading in bed…

The list ends “Taking a bath; Coming over the bridge to Manhattan; Pie.”  That closing raises such a lump in my throat.  And, then I realize—what she is saying she will miss is the human experience.

It is such a trite and obvious observation that it hardly seems worth noting but the only way we experience anything is through our existence.  We are born humans and that is how we perceive and know all we know.

A while back in this blog I posted a poem I had written in 2006.  Herewith—

Knowing

This is a road on which
The only detour is death.
The body ages undeniably
There is no turning back
So helplessly you watch—
As skin sags
And flesh congeals
But you keep on living
The lure of living is knowledge
In death there is no knowing
So you live because you want to know.

By Donna F. W.
© March 2006

Among the comments I received on that post was one from my father who suggested: “how about writing a sequel to "Knowing", about life after exchanging this land of the dying for the land of the living, one pointing to eternal death, and eternal life?”

Well, I never did write such a poem.  I am firmly planted in this life’s experience.  I do not deny that some people believe in another existence to come.  It simply is for me that whatever we believe is born out of our human experience and understanding in this world.  We can’t really KNOW if there is anything else.

So, Nora Ephron’s list touches me deeply.  When the human experience draws to a close, there will be things we will NOT miss and things we do miss.  Perhaps the most compelling thing is the ability to experience any of it.

A Simple Matter of Fairness

I am grieving tonight.  

This evening, I attended the viewing of an acquaintance of mine.  This man was one half of a couple I have known for quite some time.  He was too young to die--well, he was 60 but that is too young.

He had lived for more than 30 years with a debilitating illness--multiple sclerosis.  But even so, his death was unexpected.   I didn't even know he was sick enough to be facing death.  But for my husband happening by chance to read the obituary in our local paper, I would have missed the news altogether.

But it is not his death that has me grieving.  I am privileged to consider this man's partner a dear friend of mine.  And that is why I am grieving--perhaps you guessed it.  This couple happen to be a gay couple.  The particular cause of my grieving is that when the man died, he was in the hospital.  And his partner of more than 30 years was not immediately allowed to see his "significant other" until after five hours had passed.

My friend told me in so many terms--"because I wasn't family, I was not allowed to see him immediately."  

A simple matter of fairness.  If you are reading this, and you are married, when you die or when your spouse dies, you will be allowed to see your departed loved one.  Why? Because you are married.

Why couldn't my friend see his partner?  Because he wasn't married.  Why wasn't he married?  Well, you know the answer.

What a cruel inequity our society imposes on people such as my friend.  And it grieves me.

Lower the Bucket Deeper into the Well

I find my musings are coming to me fewer and farther between...thus, I post less frequently than I did when I first began blogging.  I also note I am slowly approaching 600 posts.  Perhaps that is a good time to draw to a close this venture into self-publishing.

I know that I could turn my blog into a collection of essays and self-publish.  However, I am not so egotistical that I give that thought much attention.  I am trying to save past postings, in an electronic file, so that someone--my children?--may some day re-read them.  There's a difference between being egotistical about the value of what one writes, and wishing dear ones to be able to peruse writings in their own time.  My writing is my voice.  And someday someone might wish to hear me speak again.

We--in our family--have had just such an experience.  I have shared the story of my mother's journey in the final six weeks of her life.  She died after having had heart surgery which led, inadvertently, to her acquiring a staph infection that eventually killed her.  But just before she went into the hospital, she led a seminar.  Someone taped it, and after her death, gave my father the tape.  He passed it along to me.

When I received that tape, now 20 years ago, I listened to it.  It was bittersweet to hear my mother's voice--and her laughter.  I learned things there that I had never known--for example, her favorite color was blue.  I didn't know that--such a little thing, yet I did not know it. 

Recently, we were preparing to go to the annual family reunion that my mother's family continues to hold.  Part of the event includes an auction of items on which family members might be willing to bid.  My husband had the idea to convert that tape of my mother's talk and burn it on a CD--which he did.  We made 4 copies--one for me, my brother and my sister.  And then one to take to the family reunion. 

Well, the ensuing bid between two of my cousins ran up to $30--this in comparison to other items that were bringing $1 or $2 or maybe $5.  The winning cousin, who had been named after my mother, was pleased to get the CD.  But, it turned out, my oldest cousin was greatly disappointed.  So, I asked her if she would share the bid cost, which she agreed to--and another cousin piped up "me too".  So they all chipped in, and we made 2 more copies and shipped them off.

My mother's subject--Living Fully in the Autumn of Life.  How wonderful.  And how ironic.  I am now in the autumn of my life.  And I can have my mother giving me advice and pointers.   

This year has made me more aware of my own mortality more than any other year I can recall.  The recent bout with atrial fibrillation made me think how thin the gossamer web of life is, and how fragile.  I find myself thinking, worrying, remembering, regretting, rejoicing--all at the same time, practically. 
There are still things I want to do--things that I look forward to.  So, I will lower the bucket deeper into the well of inspiration.  And keep on keeping on.

A Voice in the Wilderness

A friend of mine (on Facebook) recently suggested that I should write about the current goings-on regarding Keith Olbermann and MSNBC.

Now, long time readers here will know that freedom of speech is one of those topics I return to at times: here, or here, or even here. So, why does my mind turn immediately to freedom of speech as one of the sub-texts in relation to Keith Olbermann. Partly, because I don’t know exactly what’s going on here. And also, because I found Olbermann’s voice to be one of those critical voices that we need during a time when far too few people on the airwaves look at issues deeply. Without his voice, our vaunted freedom speech loses some of its luster for me.

Keith Olbermann, who has been the host of “Countdown with Keith Olbermann,” announced suddenly on Friday night that this would be his last broadcast. Some of his phrasing could lead a viewer to think he was departing on his own timing, while other phrasing made it sounds as though he had been pushed out.

Whatever the reason, it also makes me ruminate on the nature of being a prophetic voice. While too many people tend to think of future telling as what it means to be a prophet—you know, predicting who will win the Super Bowl, or whether the stock market will go up or down (yes, it will), or when the world will end—being a prophet really means speaking the uncomfortable truth to those who do not want to hear it. It is this speaking truth to power niche that Olbermann occupies. Not alone, mind you, but there are not many such brave voices.

Mostly, being a prophet is a lonely occupation. You don’t get invited to dinner parties, and if you do, the guests tend to scoot away from you, not wanting to sit too close, lest the doom rub off on them. There are many examples through time—of course, the term prophet is most associated with Biblical times. The Old Testament fairly drips with these guys. The one prime example in the New Testament—John the Baptist—fits the eccentric description to the hilt.

There are other examples through history and in literature. The Greek Cassandra appears multiple times—in Homer’s writings, in drama. She has insight into the future, but her utterings are at best ignored, at worst scorned—and she seems mad, insane to mere mortals.

Maybe it is too much to identify Olbermann’s voice as prophetic. After all, he commented with deep intelligence on current affairs. He didn’t really try to warn about what might come. At times, he was strident—perhaps even too strident. But his gaze never faltered. His incisive analysis of current events was not an empty egotistical effort. He put his politics into action. Deeply critical of the on-going absurdity in this country of the lack of universal health coverage, Keith committed his own funds to help underwrite several free clinics around the country. He raised money for these efforts, and helped sign up health providers to provide care.

As you can tell, I am still processing. Trying to figure out what really happened? Was he fired or did he quit? What comes next? Who will raise the liberal banner and bluntly address the issues from “the other side”? We seem to have our surfeit of voice on the so-called right. I will miss this voice on the left.

Staying Alive

A syzygy of events has set me to thinking about time and mortality. First, I am approaching a birthday. Since I have been excerpting portions of my parents' biography, I will save birth stories until then (not much to tell, but at least it fits with the day).

Second, in a recent Facebook posting, a high school friend noted that it was her birthday, and she said--it's my party, and I'll cry if I want to. I know she was referring to the Lesley Gore hit of many years ago, but I couldn't help but respond. I wrote back--No need to cry--just laugh and enjoy staying alive.

While I am not approaching a really ancient age, I am of an age where staying alive is something to be celebrated. Which brings me to the third event in this alignment of inspiration.

Here's the link for a longer version of this sad story. It seems an elderly couple were in our area this past Friday, visiting a daughter. They left at 5:15 p.m. to return to their own home, about 30 miles away. They never arrived. The family contacted police, and a search began. Then four days later, their car was spotted, and then they were found--both dead from exposure. Their car was found in Maryland--some 40 miles beyond their home destination. The conjecture is that they became disoriented and confused, and somehow drove until they ended up in a field. When their car got stuck, they got out and tried to walk to safety. They did not make it.

I have no connection to the people involved in the sad story. But, because of a nearness of circumstance--I too have aging parents about whom I am concerned when they go driving--the story struck a particular chord with me.

It is deeply grieving that the story ended the way it did for them. I am sure they too just wanted to stay alive.

Oh, maybe these thoughts are too disconnected and disparate. I am not at all melancholic about an approaching birthday. In fact, I am grateful to be staying alive.

Perhaps the most fitting conclusion here is to note that my husband and I got back to our local gym (after a hiatus due to holidays and travel). Just all part of staying alive.

(Now, head right over to YouTube and pick whichever version you want of the BeeGees "Staying Alive." Frankly, there were too many for me to choose one to post here.)

Moving Day

Well, not exactly moving day, but more like moving week. My blogging silence is due, in part, to my having been away from home helping my aunt move from her two-story house to an apartment on the ground floor.

For almost a week, my cousin and I have pitched in, moved boxes, gone shopping, built furniture, bought groceries, cooked meals, sorted clothing, set up computers and televisions, plugged in telephones--all in order to help my aunt in her transition to a new stage of life.

So that gets me to thinking. And, here it comes, it also gets me to offering advice.

Some thoughts on life's passages.

1. Think about where you want to be when you can no longer be where you are. The key is to plan. Of course, you can't anticipate everything, but you can at least plan. When my aunt broke her hip, which resulted in hip replacement, she could no longer live in a house where the ONLY bathroom is on the second level.

2. Take note of the things you value--the possessions that you want to take with you to the next stage of life, and even those you want to bestow on family and friends. Someone else looking through things won't know the value, sentimental or otherwise, of a particular item. THEN WRITE IT DOWN--for example, you may not get to tell someone that the strange painting of a child was a portrait your mother painted of you as a child.

3. Declutter. Just that. I recently heard an interesting guide for knowing when to get rid of something--if you haven't touched it for 2 years, get rid of it. That doesn't mean you have to throw it away: donate to Goodwill, or Freecycle it, or even sell it on Craig's List, but get rid of it.

4. Accept the next stage of life as part of the journey. Of course it is wrenching to leave the spot you are now in--geographically, psychologically, emotionally. Transitions are hard. Be prepared for stages of grief. But eventually, accept that the next stage will have joys.

Sorry to sound so...ponderous. But, I have been doing much thinking. I hope I learn my own lessons. Maybe you have some additional thoughts on how to make life's transitions go more smoothly.

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Top photo--early morning over the Hudson River
Last photo--moon rise near my aunt's apartment

Passages

Yesterday, I took my dad along on a day trip. Our destination? My nephew's graduation; he was getting his PhD in mathematics from Penn State University. For the curious among you, here's an example of a paper he has written on "Multifractal formalism derived from thermodynamics," and here's another on "Bowen's Equation in the Non-Uniform Setting."

Yeah, I thought so too.

Anyway, the occasion gave me pause to think about passages. We sat in the Bryce Jordan arena, families arranged in clusters peering down on the floor below, where rows and rows of chairs were arranged. The masters' students were all arrayed on one side, sitting in small clusters; as it soon became clear, they were seated by their majors. Masters' students had dressed themselves and some had not mastered (tee hee) the fine art of arranging their hoods. Some did not have the velvet sides properly displayed: colors on the velvet denote the major, the inside of the hoods denotes school colors.

Then the procession began, led by the marshal with the official mace. Behind the marshal came rows and rows of faculty resplendent in academic regalia. Most robes were black, dotted with the occasional dark blue. And then there were the splashes of red, green or dusty orange gowns. I even spotted one pale blue.

Finally, in marched the doctoral candidates in their robes, with their faculty advisors interspersed. The doctoral students did not have their hoods on; instead they were draped over their arms.

When the degrees were awarded, first all the masters' students rose and were pronounced as having their degrees. I confess--I relaxed a bit, no individual names, I thought. But, wait. . . The voice on the loud speaker intoned, "We know the family members here are proud and have supported their sons, daughters, husbands, wives and loved ones, but please HOLD your applause until the end, and no yelling out so we can hear the names as they are called."

OH. Individual names. Indeed--called one by one, marched up to the stage, handed the degree, and then the newly minted grads walked down the line of dignitaries' shaking hands.

Then the doctoral students--first, they were all called to rise. Then advisors hooded them, and they were pronounced all doctors. And then the calling of names. By then, the well-behaved families and friends had forgotten the intoned announcement. As some names were called, there were loud cheers--"Go, ___" or "WOOOOOO". Well, I can understand the feeling.

Finally, our doctoral candidates name was called (and properly pronounced). I confess squelching the urge to stand up and go "WOOOOO" myself.

Passages are important. My father had expressed an interest in attending this graduation. I think he has attended the various graduations of all his grandchildren, who chose to participate in their graduation ceremonies. I likely would not have attended my nephew's graduation otherwise. But, it was a rewarding event to have attended.
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Here's a link that has a photo album with a Penn State Graduate School ceremony: it is not my nephew's but shows what the scenes are like.

Photo above of my nephew--contemplating Niagara Falls, from the photo album on my brother's Facebook page.

Naming the Year

When the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey" came out, the title rolled off the tongue so easily. TWO THOUSAND and ONE. It sounded right. It never occurred to me that perhaps that naming was not consistent with other year naming practices, if not downright incorrect.

So, as the millennium approached, and we all began to get caught up in the excitement--or dread--of not only the year changing, but also the decade, and also the century, we all named the year TWO THOUSAND. When the next year rolled around, I was saying TWO THOUSAND and ONE--like the movie title.

But there was one recalcitrant and obstinate soul who insisted on saying--TWENTY O ONE. Charles Osgood. Now, I dearly love CBS Sunday Morning. And Charles Osgood is such a wonderfully quirky host--what with his bow ties, his penchant for composing doggerel and his ability to sit down at the piano and play quite skillfully.

But somehow saying 2001 as twenty o one just sounded wrong. So I persisted with two thousand and one. The next year was two thousand and two. . .and so on until this new year. Charles Osgood pronounced it--TWENTY TEN.

Then I heard other announcers and commentators all saying twenty ten. My insistence on two thousand and ten seemed. . .outnumbered. So I began this reflection--how does one say certain dates.

The Norman invasion of Britain--1066? Ten sixty six. Not ONE THOUSAND and sixty-six. OK.

The last new century--1900? Not ONE THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED.


OK. I am now persuaded. But, still, it just sounds. . .weird.


So, what is it? 2010--two thousand and ten? 2010--twenty ten? Anyone?

She's A Lady

A few brief words to note the passing of a great lady. Mary Travers died yesterday.

She was the M of P, P & M--Peter, Paul and Mary. Striking with her long blond hair that hung like corn silk down her back, Mary had the most wonderful throaty alto voice. I am partial to altos of any kind, since that's my natural voice range-- ;-)

I credit Mary with helping my husband and me fall in love. When we first met, we were counselors together at a church camp. The whole story is here, so I won't repeat it. But it was her song "There is a Ship" that I sang to the young man, who became my husband. Maybe my singing was siren-like (as in Odysseus, not police car...) because he claimed to have thus been ensnared.

Anyway.

Today I received an email from a long-time dear friend. We share many things--politics, an interest in women's issues, and a love of people who have fought to expand human rights.

My friend wrote, in part, that "a huge chunk of my personal heart died last night with the passing of Mary Travers...Their (i.e. Peter, Paul & Mary's) continued commitment to and involvement in issues of social justice all these years, as well as their music, have been such a boon and inspiration during dark times..."

To which I can only add--me, too.

Sweet dreams--Mary. Sleep well.
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Photo from

http://www.wagingpeace.org/menu/about/media-center/2007/08-22_evening_for_peace.htm