Another One Bites the Dust

Well, it’s happened again. A powerful man is revealed to have been engaging in an extramarital affair. In this instance—the story of General David Petraeus—is a touch unusual. Instead of two women being involved, there are three—the wife, the “other” woman, and the “other, other” woman. So, not a triangle but a square? Rectangle?

The ingredients are so painfully predictable—the man is older, powerful, well-known.  The wife is also older, but for her age does not lend a cache of charm, but a burden of being (perhaps) past her prime.  She has been the home base while the general fought wars overseas.  True, she has her own career, and has made contributions working on alleviating the needs of military families.  Oh, how ironic. 

The other woman is younger, in need of a mentor, and—I wouldn’t be surprised—adept at charming the older man with flattery.  As the story is told, she made the initial contact with the general, and eventually got herself embedded (the irony piles up) with the military in Afghanistan while she worked to expand her doctoral dissertation into a full length book.  With the recent revelations of “the affair” sales of the book have soared. 

As for the other “other” woman, nothing is known—except that she apparently received threatening anonymous emails.  Because of their nature, it seems she contacted the FBI.  And thus began the investigation that unraveled the situation.  Of course, her presence does raise a niggling question—why was she perceived as a threat to the erstwhile mistress?  Don’t even want to go there.

Do you hear echoes of similar recent stories?  The New York Times chronicled the sad litany of some of the name of those involved in these affairs—Alexander Hamilton, Warren Harding, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Lyndon Baines Johnson.  And that doesn’t even bring us to the current transgressors—Gary Hart, William Clinton, David Vitter, John Ensign, Mark Souder, Anthony Weiner, John Edwards.  I even edited this list to shorten it!

So, what’s the lesson? That power attracts? That forbidden fruit is just too tempting? That great men fall? That we are all flawed? That in a digital age, there is no such thing as secrecy?

The truth is—I don’t know.  I do know that this particular revelation made me especially sad—sad for all involved.

Burying Caesar

There are so many circumstances in life where some of the first words that come to my mind, to frame my response to a given situation, are those penned by Shakespeare.
As the continuing tragedy of what happened at Penn State over several decades unfolds, heroes once held high are thrown down and their memories trampled on.  With the sanctions decree of the NCAA being announced today, the words of Mark Anthony came to mind.

As with so many of the long speeches Shakespeare penned for his characters, this one is filled with nuances.  It gives, and it takes away.  I could almost read this speech and substitute Paterno's name for Caesar.  I don't know who would fill in for Brutus, for there have been many who have rendered judgment, sometimes in hopes of claiming higher moral authority than what they believe Paterno possessed.

Paterno has now been cast as the villain.  I don't know if he was or not.  It is all an ex post facto indictment to my thinking.  Since we know the outcome, we look back and at each step where we think Paterno "could have or should have" we render judgment as though he knew the end of it all, even at the beginning.  Of course, that is not possible.  Paterno himself indicated that he wished he had done more.

The Freeh report has painted Paterno as virtually all-knowing and complicit in every way from the beginning.  I am not convinced.  Reading a trail of emails, with indefinite references at times, can cause the reader to reach false conclusions, and having reached those conclusions can then give the reader the framework upon which to build a searing indictment of culpability. 

One administrator writes "after talking with Joe..." and the Freeh report concludes that Joe then knew.  But did he?  Do we trust the third hand report?  Too many questions. 

In case you have forgotten the Mark Anthony speech that you may have memorized in school, here it is.  You can substitute Paterno for Caesar, if you wish.  There is a certain resonance in doing that.  And while you are substituting, perhaps the name Freeh stands in for Brutus.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

Rest for the Weary

With the horrific line of storms that moved across the U.S. over this past weekend, our area ended up with record breaking rain. The previous record of rain for the day of April 16 had been just shy of 2 inches. Until this past weekend...we had three and a half inches on Saturday--on top of several inches so that in several days we had 5 inches of rain, in a very wet spring. The effect was very much like pouring a full glass of water on top of an already soaked sponge.

On Saturday evening, my husband went to our basement around 9 p.m.--and I heard him say something like--that's bad news. What? Well, our basement floor is getting wet. We have lived in our house for 30 years and have only had water in basement once before--when it bubbled up through our french drain. This time, water was coming in at the edge of the basement floor.

So, nothing to do but go to work. We grabbed towels, put them on the floor and in very short order the towels were soaked. We got out the wet/dry vacuum and began sucking up the water. What with my husband running the wet vac, and me throwing towels on the floor until they were soaked, then I would wring them out, throw them down again, wring again--repeat, we kept the water from encroaching all the way across our basement. We confined it to one third the total basement. But we worked for four hours.

Finally, the rain stopped, but by then, the hydrostatic pressure underneath our basement floor had sent a spidery network of minute cracks across the basement floor, and little bubbles gave away the leak source. Vac, mop, vac, mop.

We declared victory or defeat around 1:15 a.m. and went to bed. Now--two days later, I am slowly recovering from aches and weariness. Rest for the weary.

I note, somewhat ruefully, that this tendency to feel overwhelming weariness is increasing with my age. That realization makes me recall the two most significant senior women in my life--my mother and my mother-in-law.

When I first met my husband, and would spend time at his house, it did not take long for me to feel very much at home. And, his parents must have been comfortable with my being there. His mother had worked most of her adult life, so not surprisingly when she came home in the evenings--after the dinner dishes were cleaned up and put away--she would get into her nightgown, and come sit with us as we watched television. And she would frequently fall into a light sleep. Then she would awaken, get up and go to bed. Rest for the weary.

I think of my mother who, as she began to experience the consequences of a defective heart valve, would sometimes slip upstairs to her bedroom to lie down and rest. She was a most amazing woman who was seemingly indefatigable in every day life. But you could tell that her energy would flag when she slipped off for one of those little naps. Rest for the weary.

One more thought on weariness. Since we are now less than a week away from Easter, it's time for my husband and me to engage in one of our Easter preparation rituals--playing Handel's Messiah. We began doing this several years ago, and have enjoyed listening to this great uplifting music.

Perhaps that is why, as I contemplate the weariness of body, I suddenly found myself humming the marvelous aria from Handel's Messiah: Come Unto Him, All Ye that Labor.

Well, I trust that if you overdo your labors this spring, as I have recently done, you will find rest for the weary.

Come unto me, all ye that labor...and I will give you rest.
Matthew 11:28

Alexander the great

It is fashionable these days among some political circles to speak disparagingly of the country's debt. One of the most commonly repeated bits of "wisdom" is--we wouldn't run our own finances that way; how can we allow the country to go into debt?

To which I usually respond--poppycock. Of course, we all do (or most of us do)--we borrow money when we have need to buy some item for which we do not have the ready cash. How many of us have ever borrowed money? If you own a house on which you are paying a mortgage, you borrowed money. Or if you own a car that you bought on time. Or if you use a credit card and do not always pay the balance due at the end of the month. All these are ways in which we do, on our own small scale, what the country does.

Of course, we can argue the merits of how MUCH debt the country should have. But, really folks, arguing whether or not the country should have any debt is just plain...silly.

It was Alexander Hamilton who, though he was never president, did as much as anyone in those heady revolutionary days, to make it possible for the young country to succeed.

I would venture that if I were to ask you to rattle off what you know about Alexander Hamilton, you might say--in this order--

• he was killed in a duel with Aaron Burr


• he was a most important aide to George Washington, both during the American Revolution and also in Washington's cabinet


• he was the bastard child of an Scottish father


• he was born in the Caribbean


• he was the first secretary of the U.S. Treasury


• he was denied admission to Princeton (because of his bastard birth), and was then admitted to King's College (which became Columbia)


• he was one of the primary authors of the Federalist Papers

All those things are true of Hamilton.

There are some slightly more obscure things about Hamilton.

He fought actively during the American Revolution, including leading troops in battle--the Battle of Monmouth.

He also had an affair which resulted in the U.S.'s first sexual scandal of a prominent politician--he admitted it publicly and since it was determined NOT to have any connection to his political position, it was eventually forgotten.

He had two sons named Philip. The first one was killed in a duel in 1801; the second son named Philip was born in 1802, not long after his elder brother had died, so he received the name of the deceased son.

He had a contentious political career, including a falling out with Washington, with whom he had worked so closely. In the presidential election of 1800, he worked against the candidate of his own party--John Adams who was the sitting president. When the election results were basically tied, Hamilton ended up throwing his support behind Jefferson (over Aaron Burr), giving Jefferson the win. Needless to say, Burr was not happy, and the enmity between him and Hamilton began to grow. Of course, we know it ended with the infamous duel in 1804.

I don't know what got me to thinking about Hamilton lately. Maybe it's because we recently passed his birthdate--he was born on January 11. Or maybe it's because I read a fascinating biography of him a year or so ago (written by Ron Chernow).

I think it most likely that I think of someone like Alexander Hamilton as I despair, listening to what passes for deep thinking from members of the so-called Tea Party on how to manage the country's economy. Alexander Hamilton, who helped create the U.S. Mint, who founded the first national bank, who recognized the need of the infant country to set tariffs, would roll over in his grave.

The talk of not raising the debt ceiling--so the country defaults on its debt obligations--would have garnered Hamilton's scorn. Hamilton took the mishmash of the financial system that had emerged during the period of the early confederacy of states, and honed it into a national unified system that stabilized the country and gave foreign investors the confidence to invest in the U.S.--in us.

There are many maddening by-products of the degree to which some politicians fail to know the history of our country. A few years ago, someone wanted to change the portraits on the U.S. paper currency, by placing Reagan's picture on the ten dollar bill. Part of the rationale was--we only have presidents' portraits on money--so get rid of Hamilton on the $10. Never mind that Benjamin Franklin's portrait graces the $100. It certainly wouldn't hurt if people today would pay a bit more attention to someone who was never president. Were it not for Hamilton--our Alexander the great--the United States might not be at all.
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Source of engraving of the Burr-Hamilton duel: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/duel.htm

The graphic of Reagan and Hamilton: http://money.cnn.com/2004/06/08/news/economy/reagan_hamilton/

The Fairer Sex

This date--June 4--is the 91st anniversary of the passage of the 19th Amendment to the Constitution, which gave women the right to vote. The first election, then, in which women were allowed to vote was the national election of November 1920 when Warren G. Harding, who was from Marion, Ohio, beat Ohio Governor James Cox. It has been opined that part of what helped Harding win was his good looks, and women voters who were swayed to pick him. No one seems to have considered that women may also have been moved by the fact that Harding supported women's suffrage.

Well! An inauspicious beginning for more than half the population having the basic right in the U.S. to vote.

This anniversary seems like as good a time as any to ruminate of the state of women in the 21st century. Relax--I have no intention of tackling the sweep of challenging issues today. I guess I am in a somewhat saddened and reflective mood. Last week, our local paper ran an editorial--one of those "my turn" type--entitled "The Pill: Are women really better off with it?" The writer suggested that birth control has several adverse effects on culture. To support her premise, she cites a particular study. Her support points are three-fold: contraception leads to more divorce; contraception leads to more infidelity; and contraception leads to more abortion.

Oh my. I won't try to tell you how she (or the study she cites) reaches those conclusions. It is enough for me to rue the fact that as we forget where we came from, we will risk losing all the advantages we have gained. We, incidentally, means women AND men.

I wonder how many people know that it was not until 1965 that birth control was declared to be legal, within the privacy of marriage. Certainly there were many methods for birth control, particularly with the development of vulcanizing rubber (making condom development possible) as far back at the early 1800s. But such birth control devices were no sooner developed than they were declared to be illegal.

One of the issues the early feminists focused on, in addition to securing the vote for women, was birth control. It is difficult to control your life when you can't even control what happens to your own body. One of the real heroes of this early era was Margaret Sanger. When she disseminated information about birth control (a term she coined) by sending it through the mail, she was charged with violating obscenity laws. She opened the first ever family planning clinic in Brooklyn. Nine days after it was opened, the police raided it and Sanger went to jail.

So, when was birth control declared legal? Not until 1965 did the Supreme Court finally decide, in the seminal case of Griswold v. Connecticut, that using birth control was a right that was protected by "marital privacy." (This right to privacy has been the hook upon which other subsequent Supreme Court cases have been decided, most particularly abortion which the court ruled should be a PRIVATE decision between a woman and her doctor.) If you are now 45 or older, when you were born, birth control was NOT a right for your parents. The 45 years between 1965 and now is a whisper of a blink in the recorded history of humanity.

If you think we can't or won't go back, think again. There are people today actively working to once again deny women the right to control their bodies and what happens to them. Goodness, might "they" even decide women should not have the right to vote?

I think I once met one of "them." This incident in my life counts as one of the stranger conversations I have had. At the time, I was working for the state medical association. I had been assigned to staff the newly created Committee on Bioethics. I loved this assignment, and eagerly looked forward to meeting with the physician chairman and crafting the agenda we would have for our first meeting. I drove to Philadelphia to meet with him--he was a radiologist working in one of the many suburban Philadelphia hospitals.

As we walked through the halls of the hospital, we got to talking. We discovered that we were both Presbyterian. Upon that revelation, I told him that I was, in fact, an elder (in the Presbyterian church, elders constitute the governing body for the church). He stopped, and looked at me. Then, he said--I've never met a real life woman elder. I was stunned. I asked if his church didn't have any. No, he said, they did not. Then I asked, how did they meet the national church body's requirement to have a governing body that reflected the general composition of the congregation? Well, he said, they didn't.

Well, why not? I asked. Well, he said, Jesus picked only men disciples. And, further, he asked, how did I answer the fact that the Bible always referred to God as Father. With that, I gave him my final response. I said--I don't think the term Father for God means that God has a penis. And, further, I don't think a person needs to have a penis to be an elder.

Silence.

The halls of the hospital went totally quiet. The radiologist said no more. Either I had just revealed something unimaginable to him, or I had doomed our working relationship before it even began.

I am so grateful that I know many men who do not think as that physician thought. But I worry when young women think as the editorial writer did. No, birth control did NOT set back women. The right to vote, and contraception--two hallmarks in the universal struggle for women to be valued.

June 4 may not rank up there with July 4, but for women it is every bit as important.

On Not Going to the Movies. . .

For long-time readers of this blog, you know that I love going to the movies. Would you believe there was a time when I stopped going altogether?

Why, you might ask? Well, I went through a (ahem) religious period during my college years when I was attending a small liberal arts Christian college. The teaching at the time was that movies were at the very least questionable. In fact, they just might be. . .immoral.
Anyway.

One incident from my childhood illustrates this antipathy toward movies. When I was about 8 years old, my parents and I (and younger brother) were staying with my paternal grandparents. At the time, my favorite aunt was living near by, and she had me with her for a day of entertainment. Somehow, she decided to take us to the movies. She swore me to absolute secrecy, as my grandfather sternly disapproved of "the movies."

I have NO recollection what the movie might have been. She might remember. Whatever it was, it thrilled my small girl self. And, the moment we returned to my grandparents' house, my promise of secrecy went right out the window. As my aunt recalls it, we got back to the house and I ran inside and PROMPTLY announced--guess what, Grandpa, we went to the movies!

My sternly disapproving grandfather sternly disapproved indeed.

That antipathy did not really spill over into my personal choosing to see movies. I recall seeing the Walt Disney movie "Fantasia" when my parents and I (and younger brother) visited California, during this same time. And, as a student attending boarding school when we returned to (then) Rhodesia, I went to see movies on our Saturday outings.

But, for some reason, when I began as a freshman at college, I was seized with the conviction that movies were immoral. I eschewed them for quite some time. And, then the movie "The Cardinal" came out. Some of my college girlfriends were going. Did I want to go? Did I?

I must have worked around in my reasoning, because I decided--OK, after all the subject matter is religious. I went. I found the movie most entertaining, if not somewhat maudlin. What I particularly remember about this movie is one scene where the central character, who is by now a cardinal (hence the title), learns that his sister is pregnant. When she is due to deliver her child, she learns that the baby's head is too large for the mother to safely deliver. The cardinal is faced with a decision. Give permission for the fetus's head to be crushed, and the sister thereby saved OR refuse permission in which case his sister will die.

He chooses the latter course. At the time, I was thunderstruck. How could someone make such a choice? Choose an unknown infant's life over the life of his own sister? As a confirmed Protestant, I was also quite relieved to not have that burden as part of my own religious understanding. I might give up movies for a time, but giving up your own sister? Never.

So, what triggered this rather peculiar memory and walk down memory lane? The current news--that's what.

Herewith, the barest of details: a 27 year old woman was admitted to a Catholic hospital. She was eleven weeks pregnant with her fifth child. She was diagnosed with right heart failure, and doctors told her that she had 100 percent likelihood of fatality if she continued with the pregnancy. A hospital administrator who was a nun, Sister Margaret McBride, gave approval for an abortion to be performed, as permissible under Catholic guidelines that allow some procedures that may result in a fetus' death to save a maternal life. When the bishop heard about it, he AUTOMATICALLY excommunicated the nun.

That story yanked me back in memory to my reaction in seeing the scene from the movie "The Cardinal."

With all due respect to faithful and deeply sincere Catholics everywhere, what kind of morality is it that instantly excommunicates someone who exercised her best judgment within the confines of her religion in order to save a life? And, further, how is it that the particular bishop could instantly render swift retribution when we read daily of other bishops who dither and dally and seemingly are unable to do anything about persistent and endemic abuse of children by priests?

My short-lived determination that movies were not moral has long since ended. Most things are neutral--it is the use in the particular instance that is moral or not. I make no claim to have the moral fortitude that Sister Margaret McBride has. Her decision has cost her a life-long call. My decision to forgo movies only cost me a season of new movie releases.

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

A Cup of Water

Every Sunday, when our pastor begins to preach, he takes a sip of water from a glass that has thoughtfully been placed on the pulpit. Last Sunday, he noticed the glass of water was missing, so he came down into the congregation, during a hymn, and asked one of the members of the congregation to get some water for him.

Thus it was that we learned that the church sexton, who was on vacation that week, had for years been unobtrusively performing a loving service.

Many years ago, the church custodian--who preferred to be called the sexton--was a somewhat elderly man named Harry. We really didn't know what he did, except look disapproving at almost everyone who entered the church. He seemed to project a sense of ownership of the entire church building, and looked as though he alone decided who entered the church and who did not.

Since Harry was so senior, he needed helped with some of the more physical tasks--and that's how Jim came to be hired. He first began on a part time basis. Thus began a long term love affair between an unassuming man and the marvelous church structure that is our church home.

Jim used to tease and joke with my husband--he would say: be careful what you wish for because you might get it. The part time job, you see, had become a full time job when Harry finally retired. Jim became the church sexton.

The decades rolled by. Jim saw pastors come and go. If there were any mystery in the church--what's behind that door? where do we store the supplies to fill the bathroom towel dispenser? how do your turn on the air conditioning in the sanctuary?--Jim knew the answer. He probably had crawled over every square inch of the structure of the church. The church structure was built in the mid-1800s and has undergone significant renovations and additions several times. So there are lots of nooks and crannies--Jim knew them all.

While we didn't panic when Jim went on vacation, there were always little things that got overlooked. His presence was so subtle that people didn't really know all he did--like placing a glass of water on the pulpit for the pastor.

Last Friday, while he was on vacation with his family in Virginia Beach, Jim--now in his mid 70s--suffered a heart attack and died.

What a huge hole this leaves in the church's life. Of all the things he did, the one church activity that gave him the greatest joy was participating in the Easter Sunday service. He would wear a white robe, and lovingly carry the cross in as part of the processional.

It is easy to imagine him now--robed in white--laying down that cross.

Farewell, Jim.

In Praise of Famous Men

For the longest time, I listed James Agee's and Walker Evans' seminal work Let Us Now Praise Famous Men as my favorite book. I still like it very much, though I would not be able to narrow the choice of favorite book down to ONE favorite.

But the title has such an evocative ring to it that it gets me to thinking of famous men I have known.

One such man was a friend of ours. I first met Fred Speaker--that was his name--when I worked for the state medical society. He was the legal counsel for that organization. Even though he was an attorney whose legal career was very successful, perhaps he would have preferred people to identify him as a Penn State football fan. I don't know why he was so crazy about Penn State football, but he was. In fact, he converted--an appropriate term, since it was a near religious experience--my husband and me into becoming Penn State football fans.

When Penn State was playing Notre Dame during its 10 year series in the 1980s, Fred saw to it that we got tickets to all the games Penn State played against Notre Dame, including those at Notre Dame's campus. Sometimes he used his connection with a priest friend of his, who called upon a bishop in San Fransisco (or somewhere) to get tickets. For that particular game, we sat with Father Dan, who seemingly forgot he was supposed to cheer for Penn State. When the Notre Dame band marched onto the field, Father Dan was excitedly yelling--GREAT KILTS! Not your average football cheer.

Back to Fred. Besides being a Penn State fan, Fred had two things stand out in his distinguished legal career. He was appointed by President Nixon to run to National Legal Services program, for a time. At some point while serving in that capacity, he crossed swords with Vice President Agnew, who tried to use his influence inappropriately. Rather than give in to political pressure, Fred resigned in protest.

But the pivotal event of his career was his order to dismantle the electric chair in Pennsylvania. The story of that event is told in Fred's obituary that appeared in the New York Times. He had occasion to visit the state prison at Rockview, where the electric chair was housed. Herewith the rest of the tale from the Times:

(He entered the) state's death chamber, where he saw the big wooden electric chair sitting starkly in a room with an overhead exhaust fan to remove the stench of death and holes in the floor so the official witnesses to an execution could have a place to throw up.

As Mr. Speaker later recalled, it was all he could do to keep from throwing up himself, as he suddenly realized that for all the legal trappings and statutory authority, executions, which he had previously supported, were no more than premeditated, cold-blooded ''administrative murder.''

''All I had to do was see that electric chair,'' he said. ''I looked at the place where somebody pulls the switch and burns somebody to death. That just wiped out all the great philosophical views that I had.''

Biding his time until the day in January 1971 when Governor Shafer was replaced by a Democrat, Milton J. Shapp, Mr. Speaker, who was planning to drive to Washington with a friend, listened on the car radio until the new Governor had been sworn in.

Then, mindful that he would be Attorney General until his successor had been approved by the State Senate and sworn in, he got out of the car and mailed an official letter to the Rockville prison warden, ordering him to dismantle the electric chair and citing an accompanying legal opinion he had signed declaring the death penalty unconstitutional as ''cruel and inhuman punishment.''

This bold act was something that I always admired about him.

One time, when Fred was talking with my husband, he remarked that he didn't want only to be remembered as the person who stopped the death penalty (for a time) in Pennsylvania. My husband asked why--and Fred demurred that he hoped he would do other great things. He even ventured to say that his obituary would read--the man who ordered the dismantling of the electric chair. He was most prescient in that thought. My husband reassured him that that deed alone was great and worthy as anyone's life achievement.


Fred has been long gone, having died some 13 years ago. Hundreds of people attended his funeral, held in the local Catholic cathedral. I suspect one thing would have meant more to Fred than all the accolades spoken about him: among the floral arrangements sent to honor his memory was a wreath from Coach Joe Paterno.

The Woman Makes the Clothes

You know that expression--clothes make the man? Well, I believe where Michelle Obama is concerned, the expression should be--the woman makes the clothes.

It is so incredibly refreshing to see a wonderfully self-possessed common sense intelligent woman in the White House.

Recently, Essence magazine released their latest magazine with Michelle Obama, and her mother, gracing the cover. As she has before, Michelle is wearing an off-the-rack dress--in fact, a T*lbot's dress. Here is our nation's First Lady, wearing this store's clothing, presumably of her own volition. She is not wearing high-end designer labels that are loaned for a one-time use; she is wearing the kind of clothing many of us wear. T*lbot's--a store where I have been known to shop--should be thrilled.

So, when I was in T*lbot's the other day, I spied the dress. I had no intention of buying it (not my kind of dress), but it was fun to see it in the store. I mentioned something to the sales clerk about the Essence magazine cover photo. Well, she said, here it is--as she handed the magazine to me. Then, she continued, but I don't like the sweaters Michelle Obama chose to wear with the dress. The colors are off.

WHA. . .? You are kidding me. The First Lady wears your dress. She is on the cover of a national magazine. And you don't like her color choice for the accompanying sweaters? Puh-lease.

Anyway.

It has been fun catching the various news stories about the Obama family settling into a living routine in the nation's home. Michelle's incredible sense of the right thing to do--inviting members of a cooking class into the White House kitchen to watch the chefs at work; planting a garden with children; praising a group of young girls at a school in London--makes me catch my breath.

Add to these stories of the obvious fun President Obama seems to be having in the lighter moments of being president--helping children roll eggs on the White House lawn, running with the new first dog, Bo--and I am left with nothing but gratitude that at this moment, Obama is our president, and Michelle is his wife.

Why do bad things. . .

. . .happen to good people?

This question is as old as humanity. An entire book of the Old Testament is devoted to this question: the book of Job.

Today, I learned some news that took my breath away.

As you recall, I was recently in New Orleans attending a meeting of the Presbyterian Disaster Assistance Advisory Committee, a group on which I serve. One of the people we met on that trip was a retired teacher--Rich Cozzone--who had come from Ohio to volunteer as the overall coordinator of the volunteer villages.

Rich's interest in helping Hurricane Katrina victims recover was sparked by a personal experience:

"Rich Cozzone first became interested in helping the Gulf recover when he was on his way back to Ohio after dropping his son — then a sophomore at Tulane University. Rich had just left his son at school when Katrina hit. Rich said 'He called me from a bus that was evacuating him to Jackson, MS. From there he hitchhiked to Tennessee where I picked him up, safe and sound. I figured that I owed something back and this relief work has become a passion'.”

(Quote and photo from http://www.pcusa.org/pcnews/gulfrelief/001.htm where there is a longer story about Rich.)

In February 2006, Rich came back to the Gulf, this time as a volunteer, not as a parent returning his son to school. He was in charge of training and overseeing workteams. Then in September, 2007, he was put in charge of all the Volunteer Villages. It was in this capacity that we met him.

When we met him, he exuded enthusiasm for the task at hand. He indicated he decided he had to leave his home in Ohio, and come to the Gulf coast area to volunteer--for however much time it took to help with the recovery effort.

Well, his time has now ended--tragically, he was killed in a traffic accident last night.

When I received this news, it absolutely took my breath away.

I do not often ask--why do bad things happen to good people. But this time I did.

There are no other words right now.

Where All the Women are Strong. . .

In the past several weeks, I have had a couple of women credit me as influencing them at some point in their lives. In one instance, a high school girlfriend told me that I was one of the first "progressive" people she had met. She reminded me that as someone who grew up in a Navy family, she had never been around anyone with progressive ideas. The second instance was a chance encounter with a former colleague in a restaurant. We had worked together almost 30 years ago. She was ebullient, reminiscing of our working days together. Then she said--"you were one of the first women I knew who had everything--career, family and home--and kept it all balanced. I really admired that."

Well, I had no idea that I served as such a role model. But these encounters made me reflect on the women who had been my role models.

I grew up with strong women. Among the missionaries were three types of people--at least so classified by my childish brain--men who were married, women who were married, and women who were not married. I didn't know it at the time, but these women were going against the norm of the bland 1950s.

In an era when women were largely defined by being married and having children, these women were different. My guess is that for a good number of them, they might have wanted to be married but were not asked. They redirected their lives--they went to college, became teachers, nurses, doctors, administrators. I don't doubt that some of these women also heard God's call and decided to go into mission work. Perhaps they were asked to marry but when they learned the man asking wanted to stay on the farm, or wherever, these women demurred. They believed their lives held a different path and purpose.

As a young girl, I had a favorite missionary "aunt" (we missionary children called all women aunts) who was a registered nurse. I adored Rhoda. It seemed she could do everything. Having never married, she had an independent career. She was not all work--she could also knit, smock, tat--she knitted various sweaters and smocked dresses for me. When my sister died (written about previously), she helped other women line a simple wooden coffin with fabric.

One time, on the mission station in then Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia), someone brought a dog to her. The dog had been in a nasty fight with another dog--and its side had been ripped open. Rhoda operated on the dog, stitching it up. My recollection is that, in spite of the heroic effort, the dog did not survive.

When my parents were moved to another mission, this time in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), Rhoda was also there. She was the sole medical provider in the small mission clinic. She delivered many African babies--and, given the quasi-colonial atmosphere of the times, she would sometimes allow me to name the babies.

I do remember one specific medical emergency. The mission station was near a major road, and one night word came that a bus had overturned. There were multiple injuries. As the only medical provider, Rhoda was the one who worked to remedy the severe injuries--crushed limbs, crushed bodies.

The marvelous role models of strong independent women who made their mark in the world through their vocations greatly influenced me. I never doubted that I would go to college, that I would have a career. While I certainly hoped to find a life mate, and to have children, the example of these women helped me know that my personal definition did not come only from being someone's daughter, wife or mother. I could be a strong woman in my own right.

Brief addendum: my best role model of a strong woman has always been my mother--some day, I will have to write about her.