When Death Comes

(This is a blog post I first wrote in January, 2007)

I visited with my father today. While I don’t visit as frequently as I should, perhaps, I do try to get out (meaning to the retirement village where he lives) on a fairly frequent basis. At 87, he is in wonderfully good health and, as they say, in complete possession of all his faculties. I know it frustrates him when he can’t pull a word up as quickly as he would like out of his mental memory banks, but neither can I.

He has always been handy with things mechanical. When my mother died almost sixteen years ago, one of the things my husband and I did was buy my father a word processor. He had talked about writing up his memories in an autobiographical form, so a word processor seemed like a good way to facilitate that. He did set to work on his autobiography, vowing to “keep lying to a minimum.” As a former missionary, he has lived a full life with many experiences. One of the things that amazes me is his recall of place names and people names from decades ago.

It didn’t take long for him to outgrow the word processor and he got his first computer. He joined the Golden Mouse club at his retirement village and soon was learning the ways of the computer world. And like many seniors, he also moved into the cyber world of email.

When I visit, he frequently has a computer question. I certainly understand his reluctance to do some of the computer updating that needs to be done. Luckily for me, most of what he asks I can do. Several Christmases ago, he asked for help getting a new computer, and together we went shopping for his current desktop.

All this leads me to our conversation today. Understandably, my father is mindful of his mortality. His elder brother died almost two years ago, and my father knows that his life is not limitless. While we were talking today, he said that he would like me to do something upon his death. After my mother’s death, my father did remarry. I am very thankful for the wonderful wife he has, but she is not computer savvy. So, my father asked that, when he dies, would I please use his email list to inform all his email contacts of his death. It is a simple enough request for me to acquiesce to, and, of course, I did.

But I did think of that wonderful poem by Mary Oliver, When Death Comes, and hence the title of this blog. Oh, I don’t know when my father will die, and frankly, it is not a morbid subject for me. I know we are all dust—as the words in Scripture remind us. And, my father is a Christian, so his death, when it occurs, is not cause for sorrow. I wish him as many more years of health and happiness as he has. And I will inform his email friends when he is gone.
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My father died June 25, 2017, at age 98.

Post Oscars...and, no, I didn't hope La La Land would win!

Usually, I write my second (or in some cases third) post on prepping for the upcoming Oscars. This year, obviously, not.
But we did redouble our efforts and saw three more of the nominated movie.

Here are ALL the nominees (small print--we didn't see; all caps--we did):

Arrival
FENCE
HACKSAW RIDGE
HELL OR HIGH WATER
HIDDEN FIGURES
LA LA LAND
LION
MANCHESTER BY THE SEA
MOONLIGHT

OK, so we only missed one. And maybe I will yet see it--thought, I don't know, sci-fi futuristic time-bending movies are not my cup-of-tea.

The movies in red text above were the second round of what we saw. First, a quick run-down on each.

HACKSAW RIDGE--a riveting TRUE story, a sound and visual effects triumph, a Mel Gibson project. To the true story I say KUDOS. To the sound and visual effects triumph I say OK, but movies need more than that to be great. To Mel Gibson, I say--meh, although the directing was fine.  
I truly enjoyed the story--my own family background in a denomination which was strongly pacifist deepened my understanding for the Desmond Doss story. However, lengthy portions portray the inconceivable violence that is true of any and all battles, but particularly so in the Pacific front of World War II.  The protracted battle for  Okinawa was VIOLENT, squared. It was for me eye-averting violent...hand in front of my face, peeping through my fingers occasionally.

HELL OR HIGH WATER was a surprise--a very pleasant surprise. My pre-viewing take was "oh, great, another modern Western."  Well, yes, it was BUT very good. First, any movie with Jeff Bridges  has to be good, if only to watch him at his acting craft. He is the quintessential Texas Ranger who wants one more triumph to cap his career. He gets that opportunity when a rash of small time robberies occur in  banks in west Texas. 
Through his long experience he has a finely honed sense of what the robbers are like. The movie goes back and forth between the two robbers--brothers with a particular goal in mind for their robbing, and the Texas Rangers on a trail to catch the robbers. No more plot--you can watch it for yourself.  But the acting is superb, the scenery spare and somewhat depressing portraying the impact of economic downturn on a part of the U.S., and the plot is compelling.  
Having seen it, I thought this movie would have been every bit deserving of winning any Oscar nomination it received--including best picture, which--of course--it didn't.

MANCHESTER BY THE SEA--well, what to say? Sad--oh yes, unquestionably. Moving--indeed. Depressing--sure, it has to be.  But the best actor award Casey Affleck received was most deserved. He portrays a loner--Lee Chandler--who works as a handyman in Boston.  He snaps at the people who call him to fix whatever needs fixing. In turn they are nasty to him. He is cut off from any positive human contact. 
But one day, he gets a call that his older brother, Joe--who lives in their hometown of Manchester by the Sea, has had a heart attack, and dies.  Lee goes to tell Joe's son Patrick that his father has died. When Joe's will is read, it turns out he named Lee as guardian for Patrick, as well as executor. While in Manchester, Lee sees his ex-wife. The reason between the division between them becomes revealed--and I won't divulge it--but it is enough to say that Lee is a bundle of inchoate grief. Cut off in every way--human interaction, emotion, love. 
The dual tug of caring for his nephew and dealing with his painful past that involves his ex-wife--that is the engine for the plot at the movie unfolds.

So, now, reordering my original pick for top movie, after seeing the three described above (in order of which one I liked the best):

Hell or High Water
Fences
Manchester by the Sea
Hidden Figures
Lion
Hacksaw Ridge
Moonlight
La La Land

I don't want to suggest there is any correlation between what I enjoy, and what wins best picture, because many times I have been out of step with the Academy.  Some years, more spectacularly than others.  But that's another blog...

Mini Prep for the Oscars

If you are a long time reader, you know I love the movies. And you know each year my husband and I try to see at least some of the nominees for Best Picture of the Year.  Since the Academy has expanded the number of movies which could be nominated--from 5 to up to 10--that has gotten more difficult.

First, we don't go to THAT many movies. Second, some movies, even though nominated, are just not my "cup of tea."

So, here's what we saw this year--in order of seeing them.

Fences, Lion, Moonlight, Hidden Figures, La La Land


Yes, I know that means we missed Manchester by the Sea, but that will just have to do.

Our favorite among these--in order of enjoyed the most to the least.

Hidden Figures
Lion
Fences
La La Land
Moonlight

...although between the last two, it's a toss up.

And now why.
We loved the story of Hidden Figures--an aptly named movie about African-American women who were highly talented, and eventually able to work on the early U.S. space program. A revelation to me, having never heard of any of these women.  Hidden indeed.  Their jobs--well, mathematical computation and computing. In fact, there was a whole room full of "computers"--not machines, but people, working on mathematical computation using figure. And they were all "colored" in the jargon of the day.  When the one woman who was from her childhood a math wizard gets an opportunity to move into the main mission control room, she is understandably elated and incredibly challenged. Not by the scope of the work--that she can do--but by the arrangements. While she works side by side with white co-workers, when she needs to go to the bathroom, she is told "there are no colored bathrooms in this building."  So she has to run across the sprawling complex (a half a mile, we learn later) to use the "colored bathroom" in her old work space.

When another one of the heroines, Dorothy Vaughn, seizes an opportunity to do programming on the gigantic computer (think a whole room that is the computer)--she is mistaken for a janitor and is told where the trash is. She has learned how to program on her own by reading instructional books on programming in Fortran. And a third heroine, Mary Jackson, has to go to court to get permission to attend night classes at an all-white high school in town, just so she can meet the entry requirements for the job.

These women fill me with wonder, awe, gratitude and anger. While never the point of the movie, I can't help but think of our country's regression to a time like the early 1960s, before the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1965.  Racism is never far below the surface in our country. And this movie is a reminder of what we lose when we make outcast a whole group of people--whether women, people of color, people of different ethnicity or religion.

This post will get entirely too long if I tell you how I felt about the other movies--
Lion, a triumph of incredible perseverance for an orphan from India who is adopted by a family in Australia to find his birth home through use of Google Earth (!).
Fences--a masterpiece of American literature by the late playwright August Wilson, which explores the triumphs and defeats of an African-American family in Pittsburgh in the 1950s. The movie is a show case for Oscar worthy performances by Denzel Washington and Viola Davis.
La La Land--a popular favorite and presumptive winner about the dreams of a young couple who want to make it big in Hollywood. Their dreams are realized and dashed in equal portions. Oh, and it's also a musical, presumably an homage to big Hollywood musical productions with a plot overlay of modern disappointment.
Moonlight--a story of one African-American young man from his childhood where he contends with being bullied, having a derelict drug-abusing mother, and a stand-in father figure who turns out to be a drug dealer to his maturing and regrets which have brought him to a lonely existence. As if that weren't enough, he also works through coming to an understanding of his sexuality as a gay man.

There you have it.
We'll be watching on Sunday night.

Now it can be told...

Have you ever had an experience where, after the fact, you proverbially kick yourself and say DUMB DUMB DUMB?  To yourself, of course.  Well, I have.

I recently helped rescue a dog. I mean REALLY rescue.

Here's the back story.

A couple of weeks ago, when my husband was on his morning walk with our dog, he encountered a neighbor of ours.  She too was walking her dog, but behind her was another little dog, tagging along. My husband came in and told me, so I went out to see.  (A quick note to indicate my husband was leaving, right after the walk, to take our dog to the groomer--so our dog missed all this excitement.)

Our neighbor, Sharon, said the little dog had followed her the whole way around our block and seemed very drawn to her dog. But the little dog wouldn't approach her.  She also said she had an appointment and had to leave--but that she was concerned what the little dog would do--the worst, of course, being that it would run into the street and get hit.

So, brightly I volunteered--let's get it into our pool area (which is fenced in) and then maybe I can catch it.  Meanwhile, Sharon could leave for her appointment.  So we did--predictably, the little dog followed us into the pool area. Sharon and her dog slipped out and it was just me and the little dog.

She was cute--looked a bit like a cross between a terrier and a chihuahua. 

Once inside the pool area, and cut off from escape the dog began to panic. Along about now, having done a cursory visual inspection, I decided the dog was a female--so from here on, I will say SHE.

She ran all around the perimeter of the fence, jumping trying to see if she could get over it. And she failed. So I just sat down and watched her.  As I sat, she timidly began to approach me. She was shivering, from fear and cold. I had put a dish of water in front of her and also food. But she wouldn't touch them. After a few minutes, she actually approached me, and put her front paws up on my leg.

AHA--my moment. I grabbed her--only to come up with nothing. But in her fear and panic, she nipped me.  And that's when I thought--DUMB DUMB DUMB.  I mean, how many times have I read Julie Zickefoose's cautions about being careful handling animals who may be carrying rabies.  I cursed my stupidity in not slipping on some gloves.

When my husband returned from dropping off our dog, he called our local police. First one officer came out--very promptly--and tried to catch her. He at least had gloves on. But he too failed to get her--she was quick. So he called a partner to come with a catch pole. When that officer arrived--who happened to be the community officer--he did bring the catch pole, but it was too big and unwieldy for the poor dog.

In her desperation, she retreated to the middle of our pool cover and stood there shivering even more.

Then he spied our swimming pool net, and asked if he could use it.
Sure. And presto, with a little effort he caught her. She struggled mightily, but he was able to get her (note: he also had on gloves).  Now the question of how to get her to the Humane Society.

We volunteered one of our carriers we use for cats--so off she went.  The community officer left with her and the original responding officer began to write up his notes.  Just then, I said--well, she did nip me.  STOP EVERYTHING.

He suddenly flipped the page in his note book and began writing--asking me questions, then writing. He indicated any time someone gets bitten by a stray dog, the police must inform the Health Department.  Oh, boy.

It wasn't all gloom. As we chatted with the officer, he told us this dog had been on the run for more than 2 months and that many people had tried to catch her.  In fact, a local rescue group had plastered the surrounding area with posters.

The dog had been sighted in early September, and it was now mid-November. So, at least I felt good about that.

Once the dog was gone, and the police, things settled back to normal.  UNTIL.  Until, the Health Department called. They asked the right questions. And I said--well, it is just a slight skin break, no puncture.  The Health Department nurse said--the dog should be observed for 10 days and if nothing develops then I would also be in the clear. I did ask--so what about rabies? Her response was almost cheery--don't worry, she said, rabies moves an inch a day from the entry point until it reaches the base of the spinal column.  GREAT--I calculated I had at least 36 days!  

The story ends much less dramatically. First, the dog was quarantined for 10 days and nothing developed. She was fine.

But, and here the story turns a bit sad, her original owner suddenly came forward and reclaimed her. He had not reported her missing, and in fact he had previously had charges brought against him for abusing animals, but for whatever reasons the charges were thrown out in court.

This last detail puts a damper on my feelings of accomplishment for having help rescue the dog.  First, she was scared, hungry, cold and tired. And had she continued to run, she could very well  have been hit and killed. But to be returned to an abusive owner--that certainly tarnished my good deed.

I did learn a lesson though. Always have a pair of gloves handy and put them on before trying to catch a stray dog.a

The Pottery Barn Rule

Remember that expression--you broke it, you bought it? Well, that's how I feel today. And who, you might say, broke it?

Well, this day after the U.S. presidential election, like many people I am scratching my head and wondering what happened. But more so, I am wondering WHY did it happen.

This is a very simplistic commentary--of course, there are many many reasons why we find ourselves where we are today. One particular reason stands out to me: people are fed up with Washington, DC and the sense that "government" is broken.

And they are right; it is broken. But it was broken intentionally.

Do you recall what Senator Mitch McConnell said in the lead-up to the mid-term elections (i.e. two years into President Obama's first term)? In response to the question what was the top job for Republicans in that mid-term election, McConnell said:

The single most important thing we want to achieve is for President Obama to be a one-term president.

He went on to say that the objectives that the Republicans had then could not be realized as long as President Obama could veto legislative efforts.  So, he was urging Republicans to present every obstacle to any of President Obama's initiatives. (As an example, consider the 60 some times Congress tried to repeal so-called "Obamacare.")

In this election of 2016, many analysts are pointing out how disgusted people are that the government  is dysfunctional at best or broken.  When you have the leader of the U.S. Senate saying, in advance of any legislation, that Republicans should work against President Obama "if he didn't meet them half-way" how can you have a government that works?

So having sown the wind, we now inherit the whirlwind.  And that's where I get to the part of this blog that explains the title.

One of the great motivations for the choices people made in this election was broken government. When I read a statement such as Senator McConnell's, I can't help but think "you broke it; you bought it."

There's no ducking responsibility here. In one of the commentaries I heard leading up to this election, as pundits were discussing what effect a win by Hillary Clinton would have on Congress, someone said "well, Congress would have to find a way to work with her" working across party lines.  And then, in response to the query how Congress might work with Donald Trump, the commentator paused and then said--"that's going to be a lot more difficult because Trump is in their party."

Think of that--a lot harder to work with your own candidate than to work with the opposition candidate.  I can envision what the next four years will be like. More broken government? All too likely. And the American people will keep on being angry. Who knows what their next response response to broken government might be.

I just hope that, after the whirlwind, there isn't a tornado. Right now, my feelings are too raw to dismiss that dark thought.
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If you like the looks of the vase featured in the photo, you can go here.

Going Home

I was reading a Facebook post by a cousin of mine this evening. While he lives on the East Coast, in a large city, he had returned to his home when he was a youth in a small Midwest town.  He wrote:

"The seduction of this town of my youth epitomized in that when I go out walking in it at night a startled wild rabbit runs across the lawn I am walking past and the nearest traffic I can hear is a quarter mile away."

That brief post got me to thinking about the allure of going home.

Of course, great literature has been written on this theme. One of the oldest classics is The Odyssey, which is ALL about Odysseus returning home, or trying to, after the Trojan War. That was a long trip, a very l...o...n...g trip home.

There are dramas about losing the sense of home. King Lear comes to mind. Lear is not so much trying to return to the home of his youth; he is trying to find home in his old age. In his waning years, he suffers the ravages of aging, including being outcast by his daughters one by one. He has, of course, complicated matters by promising his kingdom to his daughters if they will first say how much they love him. The two older daughters flatter him with glowing effusive declarations of love. The youngest--Cordelia--refuses to reduce her love for her father to honeyed words.  She loves him more than words can express.  Lear mistakes this refusal for her lack of love and disowns her. 

Well, I don't want to tell you the whole King Lear story--let's just say it ends badly with Lear losing everything, including his home.

Robert Frost's poem "The Death of the Hired Man" contains these haunting lines about home: "Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."  That is certainly a spare, and somewhat sad definition of home. But it does resonate.

Home is understandably a place. My husband grew up in a small town in central Pennsylvania. If he wants to, he CAN go home again. He can go right back to the town, to the street where his grandparents lived, and the street where he and his parents lived in the house his father built. Of course, all of those dear ones are no longer living, but the place can still speak their memories.

But when I think about going home, I think of the part of Africa where I grew up. In particular, the one mission station is in the country of Zimbabwe, and even though the mission still stands, everything has changed. I have seen photos of the house where we lived, and it has changed in so many ways.  (The photo above is one of the mission house as I remember it.)

I am left with a sense that I can't go home again. Not for lack of thinking about home where I grew up. But because of the vicissitudes of time having completely altered the geography of my memory.

What say you--can you go home again? 

Precious Memories?

Last week, I selected the topic of reunions as the subject for blog writing. And, frankly, my first intent was to write about family reunions. I come from a family where reunions have been a many decade tradition--at least on my mother's side of the family.

But then, I turned my attention to a non-family reunion. See, I was about to return to my college alma mater and celebrate with fellow graduates our 50th college graduation!  Golden Grads! Yup, that's us.

Oh, there are so many advantages (disadvantages?) to returning to the college where you began your adult life. Good memories, bad memories. Recognizing college friends, not recognizing college friends. Seeing old professors, not seeing departed professors. 

Any reunion is a mixture of joy and sadness. Of sweet memories and bittersweet memories.

Our mortality is ever present--classmates who joined us for the 40th reunion now gone; classmates who were hale and hearty now wheel-chair bound, classmates who were dear friends and now barely remember you.

My recollections focus both on the personal--things we did in college--and the universal--things that happened to our country while we were in college.

So, walk down memory lane with me for a short while as I revisit a major event from the four years of my college days.

1962-63: no sooner had we begun our freshmen year than the world plunged into threats of war. It began on October 22 with the start of the Cuban Missile crisis.  What I recall is the terror we felt as we lived through during those 7 days in October, from October 22 to October 28. Frankly, we thought we were living on the brink of a nuclear war. From the beginning of the crisis when our spy satellites saw the build-up of nuclear missiles in Cuba, to the response of President Kennedy to place a blockade around Cuba, to the Soviets insistence that they would  send their ships anyway, running through the blockade to the final stand-down resolution--I can say we lived through days of terror. 

Particularly visit it the time I was riding along with some girlfriends in a car, as we listened to the radio coverage of the U.N. debate.  We waited to see if there was the launching of a nuclear war between the U.S and Russia.

I do not want to live through such an event again--the world hovering on the brink of nuclear war.

1963-64: our sophomore year began...calmly. Oh, there was the traditional reconnecting of couples or uncoupling as the case may have been.  There were higher level classes we were taking, with the attendant increase in academic rigor. But what dominated that year was the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  The news came over the loud speakers in Old Main. I was on the college debate team and we had assembled, preparing to debate for a weekend tournament at Fordham University.  Suddenly the news "President Kennedy has died" came over the loud speakers. 

The nation plunged into mourning--a president so young, so full of bright promise, a widow only 33 years old, two photogenic children, a nation stunned.  

Some of the members of our class, particularly those who had access to cars (a rarity in those days) traveled the hundred plus miles to Washington, D.C. to attend the funeral. 

I do not want to live through the collective grief ever again--a nation mourning a leader struck down by a soul-less assassin.

1964-65: our junior year--now we were taking upper level course and choosing majors (if we hadn't already)--once again national events dominated our thinking. It was an election year. The candidates, Barry Goldwater and Lyndon Johnson, presented two vastly different world views. Goldwater wanted to use "low-level" atomic weapons in north Vietnam. Johnson ran a political ad which showed a sweet child pulling petals off a daisy counting. Her little voice then morphed into a countdown voice--10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.  And then a mushroom cloud. At no time was Goldwater's named used, but the implication was clear.  

I recall being on a debate team for an all-college debate: I along with a partner arguing for Johnson, and two other students arguing for Goldwater. The only other thing I remember about that election campaign is that Goldwater made a stop in Harrisburg. He came into town on a train, which stopped on a bridge over Market Street.  The crowd gathered below to hear him. At the time, I was so struck at how mob psychology worked--people who may not have been his supporters being swept up into the crowd chant. (Shades of a future campaign!) Well, we know how that race turned out: Johnson won having partly campaigned on not expanding the war in Vietnam.

I do not want to live through another populist candidate fanning the populist sentiment with dangerous and impossible ideas.

1965-66: President Johnson's promise to not expand the war in Vietnam was quickly broken. Retaliatory strikes had begun in late 1964 after reports of an attack on U.S. ships in the Gulf of Tonkin. The Congress quickly passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution which effectively gave the president authority to expand the military effort in Vietnam. And with his election secure, President Johnson did exactly that.  

When we graduated in 1966, several of our classmates were drafted or volunteered and were deployed to Vietnam. Within one year of our graduating, one of these young men--Larry Houck, who had been our class president one year--was killed. That experience of loss was repeated in town after town, in school after school, in college after college. It is something that I still grieve today, as do many of my generation who began the 1960s with such a hope of a new order--the age of Aquarius. 

I do not want to continue to see bright men and women with their lives ended prematurely because of ill-advised wars.

 Of course--if you look over all the things in this post that I said I do not want to live through again, you may note that in fact we HAVE lived through all of these again.

Reunions? A time for reconnecting, for regretting, and for remembering.

What's the Matter with Kids Today?

Do you remember that song from the musical Bye Bye, Birdie--KIDS?

"Why can't they be like we were, perfect in every way?
What's the matter with kids today?"

It's an amusing song. And it expresses the frustration and confusion that older generations feel about the younger generation.

A great deal of the misunderstanding results because of the tribal markings* each generation uses. 

When I first returned to the United States, having been in southern Africa where my parents were missionaries, the ways in which my fellow classmates dressed was very different from what I had just experienced. I had attended boarding school, a necessity when the mission station where we were was a day trip from the nearest school for me. Boarding schools required students to wear uniforms. So everyone clearly belonged to the same "tribe" by virtue of those uniforms. And it was easy to tell when we saw other school uniforms that other "tribes" were close by.

High school in the United States did not require students to wear uniforms. And yet they did. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, I encountered girls who wore blouses with Peter Pan collars, wide skirts decorated with poodles, and crinoline slips. And I so envied that new style uniform. I never did get a poodle skirt**. Of course, now I have to laugh at

myself.

Once the 1960s moved into full swing, I was able to adopt the uniform. I had long hair, and wore long "hippie" style dresses. My husband, who I married in 1967, had shoulder length hair and a mustache. We looked like we belonged in the '60s. And, of course, there were people who shook their heads and said "Kids!"

Fast forward a couple of decades. When our daughter was a young girl, she began to bug me to let her get her ears pierced. All or almost all of her friends had their ears pierced. I resisted. After all, at the time, our daughter was pre-teen. My answer was--yes, you can get your ears pierced when I get mine pierced. NOT FAIR--of course, as I had never had mine pierced.  But I now understand her request was part of wanting to belong to the tribe.

There are many ways today to young people mark themselves as belonging to the tribe. When I taught at the local community college, at the end of my working career, I was amazed at how many students had tattoos. And then I began to note how many students had body piercings. And I am talking about more than pierced ears.  Occasionally, I would note that a student was "playing" with her tongue ball.  OK--a tribal marking, but not one I could appreciate.

Thus it ever was--adults who had their own tribal markings shake their heads and ask--"Kids, what's the matter with kids today?"
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* As I was preparing to write this, I searched my blog to see what I might have said on this subject before. (I confess, I do find myself repeating some ideas.)  Herewith is an earlier entry on the topic--written about my teaching time.

** Photo of the poodle skirt comes from a website where you can get your own pattern to make one.

What's the Matter with Kids Today?

Do you remember that song from the musical Bye Bye, Birdie--KIDS?

"Why can't they be like we were, perfect in every way?
What's the matter with kids today?"

It's an amusing song. And it expresses the frustration and confusion that older generations feel about the younger generation.

A great deal of the misunderstanding results because of the tribal markings* each generation uses. 

When I first returned to the United States, having been in southern Africa where my parents were missionaries, the ways in which my fellow classmates dressed was very different from what I had just experienced. I had attended boarding school, a necessity when the mission station where we were was a day trip from the nearest school for me. Boarding schools required students to wear uniforms. So everyone clearly belonged to the same "tribe" by virtue of those uniforms. And it was easy to tell when we saw other school uniforms that other "tribes" were close by.

High school in the United States did not require students to wear uniforms. And yet they did. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, I encountered girls who wore blouses with Peter Pan collars, wide skirts decorated with poodles, and crinoline slips. And I so envied that new style uniform. I never did get a poodle skirt**. Of course, now I have to laugh at

myself.

Once the 1960s moved into full swing, I was able to adopt the uniform. I had long hair, and wore long "hippie" style dresses. My husband, who I married in 1967, had shoulder length hair and a mustache. We looked like we belonged in the '60s. And, of course, there were people who shook their heads and said "Kids!"

Fast forward a couple of decades. When our daughter was a young girl, she began to bug me to let her get her ears pierced. All or almost all of her friends had their ears pierced. I resisted. After all, at the time, our daughter was pre-teen. My answer was--yes, you can get your ears pierced when I get mine pierced. NOT FAIR--of course, as I had never had mine pierced.  But I now understand her request was part of wanting to belong to the tribe.

There are many ways today to young people mark themselves as belonging to the tribe. When I taught at the local community college, at the end of my working career, I was amazed at how many students had tattoos. And then I began to note how many students had body piercings. And I am talking about more than pierced ears.  Occasionally, I would note that a student was "playing" with her tongue ball.  OK--a tribal marking, but not one I could appreciate.

Thus it ever was--adults who had their own tribal markings shake their heads and ask--"Kids, what's the matter with kids today?"
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* As I was preparing to write this, I searched my blog to see what I might have said on this subject before. (I confess, I do find myself repeating some ideas.)  Herewith is an earlier entry on the topic--written about my teaching time.

** Photo of the poodle skirt comes from a website where you can get your own pattern to make one.

Thin Skinned

Some people have childhood injuries they recall, or perhaps some trauma from teen years. And me, well, a memorable injury for me occurred just last summer.

In fact, there were two injuries. And they both occurred while we were visiting our daughter and her family.  We were in London for the birth of one of our granddaughters.  Among other things, I was occasionally preparing an evening meal. One evening, as I was heating a casserole in the oven in our daughter's family flat, I  pulled the casserole out to examine how "done" it was. Unfortunately, the whole dish began to slip. Since I envisioned the entire family's dinner going on the floor, I grabbed the metal casserole dish with bare hands.  Standing right next to me was our oldest grandchild--who was 2 and 1/2 years old. I said to her--Anna, grab the hot things.  Thankfully, she was quick thinking and knew I meant the hot pad holders.

The result was that I burned all but three of my fingers on my two hands.

Of course, with time I healed. But for months that memory was seared into my granddaughter's mind. She would retell the event, or ask to see my hands, even when we were talking by Face Time.

That same summer, I sustained one other injury. Thankfully, this one, while it occurred while I was with the same granddaughter, she was unaware of it.  We had gone to a carnival in a nearby neighborhood park. And there was a carousel!  What child can resist a carousel.  So I went to the man operating the carousel, gave him the necessary tickets for my granddaughter to ride it, and proceeded to help her choose a place to ride.  OH NO, said the man--you can't just put her on the carousel; you have to ride with her.  So in a panic (the ride was ready to start) I quickly climbed up. The side of the carousel was much higher than I expected, and I scraped my leg.

I knew instantly I was injured, but I kept the news from my granddaughter. After all, she already had the searing memory of my burning my hands.  As we rode up and down on the carousel horse, the man next to us looked over. He exclaimed--you're bleeding.  I quietly replied--I know.

And, that is how I found out that I am now "thin-skinned." This is one of the less than thrilling side effects of growing older.  I now work very hard to avoid bumping my extremities--arms or legs.  And, yes, in the photo above you could see my injured leg.  But, I won't point it out.

Not very memorable injuries, except of course, I remember. More because I don't want my granddaughter to have such memories of Nana being a klutz, or being hurt.

So, You Want to be a Doctor?

When I was 12 years old, and at boarding school in Bulawayo (now Zimbabwe, then Rhodesia), my parents came to collect me for one of the regular holiday breaks. One of the school officials took them aside, and suggested that I see a doctor. Apparently, I had been showing signs of occasional uncontrolled spasticity.  My left arm would suddenly flail out, with no warning.

Once we reached the mission station, the missionary doctor was contacted. She came from a nearby mission and examined me. The diagnosis: rheumatic fever.  And the symptom, commonly called St. Vitus Dance, was medically called Sydenham's chorea.

What causes rheumatic fever and Sydenham's chorea is a streptococcal A bacteria. The treatment then was complete bed rest and penicillin.  Thus began my six weeks stay in bed. I have written about this event before and particularly focusing on the doctor who treated me.

I so admired this doctor. She was a very good doctor, and maybe more importantly to me at the time: she was a WOMAN.  No doubt during the time I spent convalescing, I developed an idea--I could be a doctor.

So, that's where my career was headed.  I recall a conversation with my father where I told him I wanted to be a doctor. I also recall his response--he affirmed that he and Mother would help me in whatever way they could.

What they couldn't help me with was Chemistry. Once in college, I took the requisite Chemistry course and promptly began to have doubts about my future career.  I limped through the first semester of Chemistry, getting a C in the course. And then, with the second semester, I realized that my career goal of becoming a doctor was simply not going to happen. I got a D in the second semester, and immediately began to redirect my career goals.

I settled on being an English major, and not only earned my bachelor's degree in English but also a Master's degree.  And then, by a fortuitous interaction with a favorite former professor, I ended returning to my alma mater to teach English.

But this change--from pre-medical to English--was not the only career change I experienced. After I had been teaching for 8 years, I needed to seek other employment. I had been full-time, then part-time when our son was born. When I wanted to return to full-time, the college dean informed me there were no positions for an indefinite time. So I went to work in a professional association representing doctors!  Yes, I was finally working every day with doctors.

Along the way, I picked up much medical knowledge.  From that professional association, I went to work for the State Health Department, and from there to one of the Blue Cross/Blue Shield organizations in the country.

Along the way, as I have interacted with people, I am sometimes asked--are you a doctor? The question makes me smile. But I answer--no--I just work with a lot of them. I don't even bother to say--but I wanted to be a doctor.  Truth is, I am much happier having been an English major.

You see, after my sojourn in medical organizations was over, I returned to college level teaching--English.

The Fall of Icarus

Having come up with a prompt for our group of intrepid bloggers (aka Comeback Bloggers) on the seven deadly sins...I confess to a temporary bit of sloth--not getting to writing my blog. And now the next prompt has been posted.

Oh dear, oh dear.

And NO--sloth is not the sin to which I would confess.

So, here's a quick primer--in early Christian church thought, the church fathers (those jolly guys) came up with seven sins they called deadly, presumably because committing such a sin put one in mortal danger.

As a point of fact, the enumeration of seven deadly sins is extra-biblical. You will not find such a list anywhere. But, certainly there portions of the Bible which highlight some of the seven: lust, envy, greed, sloth, gluttony, anger and pride (or hubris).

While several variations of the list may be found in early church fathers' writings, it was Pope Gregory I who revised and cemented the list into seven. (Thanks, Greg.)

While I could confess to having "committed" most if not all of these, the one against which I personally guard is pride. I like the Greek word "hubris." It is a recurring theme in many of the Greek tragedies, as well as the Shakespearean tragedies. Briefly, hubris is defined as "overweening pride"--pride that goes far beyond being proud of something--your accomplishments, your family...your whatever. The qualifier "overweening" makes this pride something that goes beyond--to be SO proud that you really think you cannot be instructed, that you are far superior to many people, that you are the top, the best, the brightest...add your superlative.

I have been richly blessed in my life--good parents, happy childhood, loving spouse, the world's best children (oops--no, very good children--got to watch that "overweening" thing), and on and on. In addition to this list, I have benefited from a good education, lucky breaks in my career working life, generally good health. It becomes easy to be proud of these things--as though they have come to me because I deserve it.

Ah, ah--caution there for me.  Thankfully for me, there are some literary reminders not to allow one's pride to rise too high.

There is the wonderful Greek myth of Icarus and Daedalus.  The "sin" that dominates is the sin of pride. And the myth is an excellent example of hubris. A mere mortal thinking himself god-like rises too high, either in power, or--as with the myth--too high literally.  And the gods, wanting to remind the mere mortal that he IS mere, smack him down. (Or her... of course...though the classics usually feature men.)

Pieter Brueghel "The Fall of Icarus"

Musee des Beaux Artsby W. H. Auden  About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.  --------------------------

Are you wondering why I included the Brueghel painting, and the W. H. Auden poem "Musee des Beaux Art"? Well, they are both about the fall of Icarus. Can you find Icarus in the painting? And can you figure out why Auden says "About suffering they were never wrong/The old masters"?

When I was teaching, I used this poem and the painting. It was fun to ask the students  first what they saw in the painting. The overall scene is a bucolic one--a ploughman, a clear blue sky, a ship sailing somewhere.  But where Icarus was in the painting?

Once they found him, I would ask--why did Brueghel so place him?  

Discuss among yourselves.

That Time of Year*

Not surprisingly, literature abounds with images and themes of aging. Aging is presented in literature as something to be celebrated, something to be avoided, something unavoidable to be lived.  That about covers it.  

For instance, Shakespeare has multiple sonnets on the theme of aging (a favorite of mine is Sonnet 73).  And one of his most powerful play focuses entirely on the ravages of aging: King Lear.

While I could focus this whole blog on literature as it deal with aging, where my thoughts take me on the subject of growing older is more personal.

Over the past several decades, I have been the primary responsible party for various members of my family.  The first family member who named me the "person to contact" was my step-grandmother. She had married my grandfather and enjoyed a brief marriage, as he died after they had been married 7 years. I visited her in the retirement home where she lived, and when there were special opportunities, she turned to me. For example, when a photographer came to the home, she could have her portrait taken with a family member. So she asked me...and I sat along with my son for a portrait with Grandma Mary.  When she suffered a stroke some years later, she was asked who should be called--and she said "Donna."

So I transitioned into being effectively her "power of attorney" family member. (She had no such document, but had named me.) As I slowly took over some of her affairs, I discovered that she had stopped paying the monthly charge at the nursing facility where she was. And I discovered that she was really "broke."  For a few months, my husband and I paid her monthly charge. But when it became clear she would not be returning to her room where she lived independently, I did all the work which got her on to Medicaid, a program for indigent people.  

When she died, immediately after the funeral the family was gathered to celebrate and remember her life. In addition to her step-family, she also had nephews from her birth family. The subject arose--who would take care of settling Grandma Mary's affairs--and again, someone said "Donna."

Some 20 plus years ago, my mother died. While she and my father had moved to a retirement village and were independent, her death meant that my father needed someone to turn to in every day circumstances.  So, he confided some of his deep grieving, and when he began to think about remarrying, I heard about his hopes. Thankfully, he did remarry.  

But as my father and step-mother have grown older together eventually they have had to live in two different levels of care, in the same facility. And once again, I have been named as power of attorney for each of them.  Given the care that nursing facilities render, that means every time there is some untoward event--a slight fall, an inadvertent nick--I get a call. When it is more serious--a trip to the hospital--I also get a call.

Recently, it has occurred to me that I am now the age that once was seen as old age and I am still being the "responsible party" for people older than me.  It has been a long haul--from the time I was first named by my step-grandmother (I was about 34 years old) until now, when I am 71.
  
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*Sonnet 73 
by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Yodel-ay-ee-hoo!

Favorite vacation, eh? That's the question this week.

Summertime is, of course, the time for vacations many places in the world. In the U.S., we don't really close down for the month of August...which seems to be the pattern in much of Europe.

Of course, those of us who live in the northern hemisphere tend to think of summer as vacation time...which is, of course, winter in the southern hemisphere.

Anyway, to my favorite vacation memory.  While we have had many vacations as a two-some, then three-some, then four-some, and with our children marrying, six-somes, my favorite vacation memory is when all five of us visited Switzerland.  Why five? Well, as of that year our daughter had yet to meet the man who became her husband.

It was the year 2000. An auspicious year to be sure. Remember the fuss about Y2K?  No? Well, you can look it up.  Understandably, decadal years are significant to we humans who are born time-keepers. One way the decade is marked is that every ten years, the village of Oberammergau performs the Passion Play. The legend has it that in the 1600s when the bubonic plague was raging, the village leaders prayed and promised that, should they be spared, they would forever after tell the story of Jesus and his life. Thus was born the Passion Play.

Now, we didn't go to Switzerland just to see the Passion Play.  No, we went to Switzerland because the family name is WENGER. In fact, one town we visited was Wengen, from whence Wengers wandered. (Sorry, couldn't resist the alliteration.)  So, we were returning to our roots.  

The trip took us to lovely places around parts of Germany and Switzerland--we sailed along the Rhine; we visited a Mennonite community (our family heritage is Anabaptist); we went to the cathedral in Worms where Luther delivered his famous "Here I take my stand" speech; we visited the Black Forest; we hiked to Wasserfalls--a 500 meter water falls;we saw places where Taufers* worshipped; we also saw hidey-holes where persecuted Anabaptists hid; and we went to Wengen which is "up the hill" from Interlaken.

Wengen is at the base of the Jungfrau, a towering mountain of some 4,158 meters (13,642). The mountain is a PRESENCE. It was everywhere--looming over all. One morning we got up at 5:30 a.m. to watch the sunrise which touched the mountain face with gold.  We rode a cog train up the Jungfrau, a one and a half hour ride at a 25 degree angle. All around we could see deep blue sky. The altitude made walking around quite arduous. 

As the tour was planned, the highlight was the visit to Oberammergau. In 2000 the Passion Play was a revised version. Over time, the play had been criticized for being strongly anti-Semitic. So, this version had addressed those content concerns.  As the play was a day long (seriously) and featured lots of singing as well as dramatic scenes, it was something of a tour de force. 

I can't say that our family enjoyed this tour "highlight."  We had a different event as our highlight.  One of the charming things we noticed was the great number of various festivals. One of the little towns we passed through just happened to be having a parade. So we watched as people in local costumes marched by.  On another day, when with a free day we traveled to Lucerne. And once again we encountered a festival parade.

So, our highlight event was the night we went to a Swiss folk festival--musicians playing accordions and a home-made bass with a single string were the first entertainers to come. Singers then entered, singing yodeling duets. Next eight dancers did several Swiss folk dances, followed by one man playing the alpenhorn. Suddenly we heard a clanging sound, unidentified until seven young men came into view, each carrying and clanging a large (make that HUGE) cowbell. They played these cowbells by rocking back and forth rhythmically.  Quite a sight, and most humorous.

Then there was time for audience participation. One of the events was playing, or attempting to play, the alpenhorn. AND our son won! He was the only one who actually got the alpenhorn to sound--after which our daughter yelled out "RICOLA."

The ingredients for this most memorable vacation--the whole family, breathtakingly beautiful scenery, dashes of history about our family origin, local entertainment! 
Yodel-ay-ee-hoo!
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Taufers--this was the name given to the early Anabaptists, who preached and practiced adult baptism. Taufen is the German word for baptize, so the people who practiced that were known as Taufers. 
Come to think of it, there is enough material here for a separate blog.