They, as all young couples, thought there was no greater love than theirs. It felt truly magical. But the love had never faced a challenge. It was fresh and urgent. So they married at an early age while still in college. The first ten years flew as they continued their studies and jobs were started. Their love was not stale but a little of the fervor waned. They were at a new point in their relationship of settling into love instead of discovering love. They had had no conflict or difficulties; the road remained smooth. But they had used all the goodness of fate and now for the first time fate was cruel. It was a car crash. They had been t-boned by a truck; their small environmentally friendly car was turned into a pretzel. The driver of the truck was drunk, speeding and unaware of their car and so he never slowed down until the impact. They were fortunate in that they both survived. But the wife’s arm was mangled and caught between the door and the engine that had been rearranged and was placed in her lap during the crash. Her arm was three quarters severed and to save her life the doctors saw no way but to remove the rest. The husband found himself strangely effected by this. He could not shake the loss of a hand to hold or an arm to complete an embrace. He knew this was wrong and he knew that if he loved her this should, in the big picture, make no difference. He felt guilty and covered his feelings of the lost of the arm. The good news was the doctors were going to replace the lost arm with a bionic one. They said they would connect the nerve endings to the computer chips so that she would have total control of the arm. It was the cutting edge of technology and would ensure that she would be able to carry on with life just as she had before. She was pleased with this news. He was again happy for her but the fact that it was not a real arm repulsed him. He was not sure what this meant. He felt small and was disappointed in himself. But still the feelings would not leave. All of this he would try to hide from his wife. The arm worked brilliantly; you could not tell any difference in her body. And the flesh-like covering did not reveal the difference. The arm had totally became one with her body. It was her body. Yet he would, on long walks on the beach, position himself on the original arm’s side so that when they held hands it would not be the bionic hand. He was constantly placing himself on the original arm’s side to keep from having to touch or deal with the artificial arm. They lived like this for another fifteen years. Their love was strong and even with all the foibles they saw in each other they were in it for the long haul. It was then that the cancer came to visit her. It would eventually take her body and ravage it. She would lose her hair and in the end she would be left a physical shell of her former self. Yet her spirit never failed her. Surprisingly he found resources inside himself to be her caretaker that he never knew were there. They were a team as when they first met and as then more in love than any other couple in the world. They had been together over twenty-five years. When she died he was devastated. The memorial service was attended by family and many friends who had loved her along the way. His eulogy spoke of the lost the world would experience, ‘A great loving soul had been taken from us, ‘he proclaimed. He could barely stand but he did the eulogy because that is what she would want. The usual condolences were offered and the service was the beautiful one they had planned. The next day he went to the funeral home to pick-up her ashes. She was cremated. When he arrived he was met with the unexpected. Her ashes were in the nice funerary vase they had chosen and he would spread them on the beach they had once walked. This was as planned but the bionic arm was not something he had planned for. He did not know they gave arms such as these back to the family member who usually would donate them to a hospital. The funeral director said some people kept them as they did often with the ashes. He reluctantly took home the arm. He would decide later what to do with it. He was exhausted after the funeral home and when he at last came back to his house, he opened the door with vase and arm in tow. He threw the arm on his bed as he changed into his pajamas. He wanted to sleep even though it was early afternoon. He went into his private den and placed the vase on the shelf he had so diligently made for it until he could spread them on the beach. He fell asleep in his favorite chair, looking at the vase. He did not know how long he had been there when he awoke and slowly trudged to the bedroom to sleep for the night. He walked in the dark in a trance, climbed into the bed, pulled the covers up, and started a deep lonesome cry. It was sometime in the night that he felt her gentle almost reluctant touch on his shoulder. This was always followed by the hand resting on his shoulder and then a gentle kneading of the back. It had been her way for years. Whenever he was stressed or depressed it was always there, her gentle hand reaching out to comfort him. Sometime in the night he realized it was the arm he had rejected that was applying the touch. But it felt so soothing and comforting and was so much her signature way of gentle touch that he could not be repulsed by it. He reasoned that the arm had for so many years been at her command that its circuits had memorized neural paths she had created. It was in fact her touching him now. The part of her he had rejected was now the part that comforted him. The next day when he awoke the arm laid on the bed inert. Probably the last surge of electric energy had left and now it was only a motionless arm. He would take the arm to donate to the hospital today. It was no longer repugnant and he realized how much a part of her it had become. But he knew she would want to give someone else the chance she had. He returned it.
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She was as a matriarch of old. She had erect posture with refined ways. Even when she was doing physical labor she remained perfectly groomed. Her manner was calm, and her speech was erudite with a strong dash of authority. She came from money and married a lawyer which increased her status. She viewed herself as one of the people and yet she dined with the other crowd.
There was nothing wrong with her. She had a conversion of sorts that had made her leave the Baptist Church during the sixties. She was uncomfortable with their stance on integration. She had noticed the Unitarian Universalist Church was active in the Civil Rights movement. So one Sunday she walked out of her Baptist Church leaving husband and children behind and joined with the Unitarian Universalists. This would be her great act. One day she called upon me to mediate the meeting. I was told I was there to work out a negotiated reconciliation between the two parties. A member had caused quite a ruckus with his persistent and unnecessary confrontational way. She and the wife of the other party had agreed to me as the grand mediator. The matriarch and the wife had been friends for many years. The wife was hurt and angry. But at the crucial moment of reconciliation the matriarch balked. The conversation turned on whether she could agree that even though wife's husband was a pain and wrong that he still had value as a person. Her back stiffened and the words were chosen carefully. She had morphed into the frozen chosen before my very eyes. She could not say anything of the sort. He was to take the consequences and if he did not like it he could stay away. I am sure she was in her mind acting as the mother hen protecting the church. But to the wife she had proven a statement she had made at the beginning of the conversation that when they had disciplined her husband ‘there was no love to be found in the room.’ And now all she asked was a recognition on the matriarch’s part of the worth and dignity of her husband. Yet this was a bridge too far. It was then I realized that even though her professed reason for the meeting was reconciliation with an old friend it really was to put closure so she and her church would no longer have to deal with this problem. Love of any kind was not going to be in the air. I felt used. In essence I was to make it easy for her to be cold-blooded but to ensure that her cold-blooded was not too much. She needed me there to make sure she was not too inhumane and to pick up the pieces that she left broken on the ground. I was to be sure that the wife remained loving even when she offered stones for bread. This was a new finding for me. The matriarch would always choose authority and the church over love. Love was a quaint emotion that left you weak and not with what you wanted. After the meeting the matriarch looked at me as I was locking up the building and said, ‘I thought that went well.’ I looked at her astonished and said, 'I did not think so.’ She smile in her paternal way ‘you have so much to learn’ she turned and left. She was right I had a lot to learn. Another time she insisted she wanted to be part of a meeting to work out the details of a gay group’s use of the church building. No one thought anything about it and I thought it would be good to have the matriarch at the meeting. But at the meeting she had an agenda that disagreed with the board’s decision. The board in a long but civil discussion had voted unanimously to accept the group’s money. Money it appeared was more important than their fears and the urge to do right. But the vote was the vote and everyone had come on board. That is why I was astonished that I was listening to her tell the leaders of the gay group that there were many who did not want to rent to them. In fact if they accepted it might split the church. She noted that they could find a better building. I noted vehemently three times it was a unanimous vote and our only job at this meeting was to welcome them and to in essence close the deal. I was once again caught unawares by the matriarch. The vote apparently had not gone her way so she thought she would ‘chase’ the group away. Her love for the church was truly amazing. After the meeting I called the church president of the board and told him what had transpired. He was a little unsettled but in the end asked if I could set up another meeting with the group. At that meeting he stated as president that there was no internal dissension and they were welcomed with open arms. The meeting was a celebration of the new relationship we were forging with each other. They elected to come. The relationship between the gay group and the church was a good one. The church never had a complaint. Regretfully, this was only two of the times I was to experience her matronly style. The matriarch through the years always projected an image of openness and love. She had made a decision long ago to do the right thing as the narrative was told. But the conversion as they seldom are was not complete. The head had accepted a liberality but the heart was stuck in an old way. The matriarch is admired and thought of highly for her actions are always for the good. Even if behind the loving mother is cold steel. Joined in Giving is a small non-profit I helped start a few years back. It is centered around the concept that people like to eat and socialize, and when they have a meeting (which most people hate) they like to go away from the meeting having accomplished something. So we meet once a month to eat and socialize. After dinner, we have a meeting where two members present a non-profit in our community and we choose one to whom we give money. We have, up to this point, given over $25,000 dollars away. We are a small group but when we join our resources together we can give more money. We also give more intelligently as we learn from our study and discussion of various non-profits in our community.
It is a simple concept. Yet somehow we want it to be more complex. Humans often feel as though something is not important if we can understand it. So we have had great discussions about how it is too much of a contest between the two presenters and how else can we do it. We have had several discussions about this. Amazingly people who serve on other boards or organizations would never question the fairness of their methodology. I guess those organizations are complex enough. We want Joined In Givine to be the perfect one. Another time a member said how do we ‘really’ know what these agencies are doing? The presenter, who happened to be an award-winning investigative reporter, said “Well their website was wonderful.” The other member then said, “Well anyone can have a good website.” The Presenter said I also interviewed the director. He scoffed at this too, even after I reminded him that she does investigative reporting for a living. This was not the best case scenario for his argument. Finally, he announced he was leaving JIG, giving the impression somehow we did not measure up to his standard. I guess we were not complex enough. After our first two years we had our first tie vote. We had no rules for this. I laughed at the situation of why we had never considered this possibility. People seemed perplexed over what we should do. There proceeded a long discussion over what was fair and what should we do. Many thoughtful and complex ideas were discussed. I thought it was 1787 at Independence Hall by the serious tenure with which we all were endowed. In the end we divided the money between the two groups. We have not had a tie since. As for myself I keep trying to make us a little bit more complex with new programs but the group is not that interested in expanding. We have an “invite a friend” event twice a year. Someone once discussed having these “invite a friend” meetings\dinners in some big locale and invite everyone. It sounds good on paper but did not make sense in the particulars. So we keep meeting and keep giving; it’s quite simple. Sometimes people have ‘better’ options and do not make a meeting, and we are barely able to have good cash flow. We never have over $2,000 in the bank at one time. Our bank account is quite simple. The board meets twice a year and we do not discuss a lot but we enjoy our time together. And this is the funny thing we sometimes forget because it is a simple thing: how what we do is a good thing. We forget how we enjoy the meals together; how it is fun to leave feeling we made a contribution to our community at large. We forget how it feels so good to present the check to a non-profit and say we have noticed the good thing you are doing and this is a small token of our appreciation. Oftentimes the non-profit did not even know they were under consideration. All of this is so simple. To give and to create community is simple; we only need to quit making it so complex. I first met Jan many moons ago. She was a cohort in many misadventures in the world of social justice. She was born in a family of privilege. But she would not be privileged with good health. She would become legally blind at an early age. Though this would be a hardship for her the blindness may have been her salvation. She remarked that at an early age, even though she grew up in the South in the Jim Crow era, she knew racism was wrong. Her own suffering made her more understanding about the suffering of others. The fight against racism would be the passion of her life.
When she was a teenager medical science developed the technology to give her sight. Because of her privilege she could avail herself of this new program and once again she could see. She was able to drive and have a career as a nurse and educator in the prevention of diabetes. She married a government lawyer and life was good. And although the good life continued for her, she continued to advocate for a better life for all. She would hold a reception for a recently married gay couple many years before gay marriage became legal or even popular. She worked with various groups through her church and community to help advocate for civil rights for all. But then her sight failed once again. She was no longer able to drive or be as independent as she had become accustomed to. This almost broke her spirit. She became pessimistic, even needy for a while. Her words always had a tinge of self-pity and ongoing complaint to them. She was angry at the universe. She was scared how dependent she became on her husband. She would up, to this day, chase sight. She would have surgery and rejection of the cornea implants and surgery again in an endless cycle. The cycle would improve her sight but she would always be legally blind. Yet through this personal turmoil she never gave up her advocacy. She was chair of her Unitarian Universalist Social Justice Committee, she participated in the Interracial Interfaith Community, she was on the board of Parent University that worked with poor parents to be better advocates for their children in the school system, she helped to start a Unitarian Universalists church that was social justice oriented, she belonged to a neighborhood community group in a predominately black neighborhood, she helped start a non-profit group called Joined In Giving. She was everywhere one could hope a social justice advocate could be. She was always present bringing her attitude: sometimes caustic, sometimes plaintive, and sometimes pessimistic. But she became inspirational that even in her great personal loss and physical difficulties she was always pushing for a better world. She refused to slow down on her quest. She knew she would never in full see it. But maybe what she could not see was that she was continuously surrounded by those who she advocated for and a semblance of groups and communities that were living out the world she wanted. Her life was emblematic of the perseverance of the movement toward a just world. Her life was full of disappointments, anger, pain, but also a deep seated need for the beloved community. Aging stops for no one so she has slowed a few steps but she can still be seen most weeks in a meeting giving her money, offering her opinions, and forever chasing a glimpse of the world a child once dreamed of. I stopped ending my prayers by saying “we pray these things in Jesus’ name.” It was not that I did not believe in Jesus anymore. It was the presumption of Christians that unless you included these words at the end of your prayer it was somehow invalid. A similar thing happens with Christians’ sermons: unless you shout and quote scripture you have not preached. So I went from preaching to speaking without even knowing it. I stopped doing prayer always on bended knee and decided to sit and listen to my breath to clear my head and heart so I could hear God’s voice, only to find out I had stopped praying. I stopped going to church and started immersing myself in the glory of God found in nature only to find out this made me godless. I decided not to belong to places that were the poor man’s country club, nationalist cultural associations, or self-improvement societies. I decided to meet with people to do good things and expand my mind and somehow I became a dreaded humanist.
That, in part, tells my spiritual journey. I am now a godless, humanist who does not pray and speaks occasionally at gatherings of people who want to hear truth and grow in spirit, mind and body. This is my lot in life. But that is okay. I feel more honest and have less spiritual hubris. I will always have that good ole time religion in me though. On long trips as I drive along by myself I started singing old hymns in the voice my daughters mock as my “preacherly voice.” Loud and pronounced. I even preach to myself and report, since I am godless I will have to say to the universe, all my failures, successes and complaints. I must look quite the fool as people pass me on the road. This is of course is my version of a revival service. But I have a lot of new-fangled religious ideas too. I believe truth can be found in all sorts of places, not just in Christianity. I love me some Jesus but Buddha, Gandhi, and atheists have a few things to say too. I do not think God cares one iota about sexual orientation except maybe as one of the varieties of life that “she” appreciates. If sexual orientation was so important would not Jesus have had something to say on the subject. These two ideas are considered heretical to some. I have learn that loving your brother and sister around you is more important than loving a God you cannot see. And that is where I spend most of my time these days: trying to love people. I have learned I am not a natural at this. I want to love people but my head wants to judge or fix them. I am a little selfish in that I prefer my company to others. Certainly I enjoy the company of a specific type of person but all others I have to strain to bide time with them. I work on this very hard and fail quite easily at it. I would imagine most people think I am a little pious if not an all-out prick. But more than likely they do not think of me at all. It is odd to be thought of as pious and godless at the same time but is what it is. When I enter debate with people with opposing views from me it is me who is always striving to grow more deeply and widen my knowledge of things. It is me who, though I am usually the most confident about things I believe, will question and obsess over: was I kind and am I right? They probably never think of it again except remembering how disagreeable or wrong they think I was. I grow older. The stardust of which I am made has lost most of its star and is mainly dust these days. But I am convinced that this salvation I seem to be working out is my call. So in an age where the laws of immigration rule over compassion and the alt-right is determined to demonstrate hate I will think logically but will demand I love greatly. At least that is my prayer, but who knows, maybe that is not valid anymore.
I had heard about her years before I knew her. I married her college roommate and she told me of stories of sitting in bed crying over the way the world was run. They discussed the tragedies of college life. They ruminated about the terrors of what the future might hold. I also was told how beautiful and soulful she was. She was the perfect roommate and friend for my wife at that time in her life. Mary Beth was an Italian beauty who life seemed waiting to christen her with delight. She had been a star of her high school choir and theater. Now she was going to a little Ivy college in Pennsylvania. She had tried out for the theater and choir and was rejected. This had crushed her. She was not quite sure what to do with this new thing called rejection. She was accustomed to adulation. So she packed up the dreams of singing and performing in a bag marked yesterday. She met her husband in college. They had an idyllic life. He worked for a corporation that provided well for their family. She had two daughters she adored. They were the zest of her life. She was happy for many years. But on occasion the shadows of her rejection would haunt her. Not just the rejection but the fact she had let this rejection shape her. Her daughters grew and needed her less for the everyday functions of life. Her husband’s career continued to prosper. Age had made her re-evaluate the rejections that life offered. She had always been known for telling it like it was. She had a fiery personality. But there was a part of her that felt it was all show. She was directed in life by external happenings and not the take charge person she presented. One day at the grocery store she became aware that she wanted to sing. She was more afraid of what that might mean for her life than the actual doing of it. She could see the road ahead and it would cause a disruption in everything she currently cherished. She only hope that somehow the family she loved would not reject her. So she began her new adventure in life. She sang and played in bars and clubs anywhere that would take her. She was learning more and more how to play her guitar and write music. Writing was not something she knew was inside her. But the words and music poured forth. But she was a married woman of over twenty years. She was so behind in the life that called her. The friends were different. The hours were different. Then one day she woke up and knew in fairness to her husband and being honest to herself she would have to leave. The journey called her to places he could not follow. But the girls would be heartbroken and confused. The happy family was now changing and would never be again. She only hoped they would not reject her and somehow understand that to live who she was was the biggest gift she could give them. But as she had doubted herself when she had been rejected so she now knew life was all a question. Was she doing the right thing? Was it fair to her daughters? Or Husband? She was older now and lived with the doubt of her life. She now knew she was free to make choices for herself that did not necessarily satisfy others and even sometimes did not satisfy herself. But choosing to not be chained by rejection or expectations was the freedom she desired. Her career started with raves from the critics but the initial new voice soon became the older to be criticized voice. She realized she was behind decades in her career. Whatever magical thinking she may have had were quickly doused with cold water. But she was on a journey now that rose above criticism. But always the questions were there. This was the spitfire who was now in my living room letting me listen to her ‘dress rehearsal’ for a gig she had in a couple of nights. She had decided to see her old roommate and thus had made our home her base for the next few weeks as she performed in neighboring states. She was at the top of her craft of playing and writing her music. She was a performer with charm and a beautiful voice. But a dark cloud hung over her visit. She was battling cancer and was expected to die in the next year. Her body seemed to be rejecting her. She was thinner than the pictures I had always seen of her. Her battle with this last rejection was well on the way. The evening had been magical as she had shared her music. I felt now that I had heard her perform I knew much about her. The cynic, the lover of life, the no holds barred woman she was came out in her music. The next morning she awoke and her lip had swollen to ten times their normal size. I made a poorly timed joke about she needed to leave off the collagen. This was not helpful. I then tried my expertise with impaired immune systems by saying that this was all a part of dealing with cancer. She looked at me horrified. My bedside manner was lacking that morning. She was concerned she would be unable to perform looking like this. There was also the underlying motif to her words what all did cancer have in store for her. I agreed to take her to Immediate Med to avoid the crowded emergency rooms. On the drive there I saw both her fears and strength revealed. She wanted to perform as long as she could. She did not care what cancer had planned. She could handle her body’s rejection. But her music was her life force. She knew her daughters who were now in college would be fine. ‘They were strong and had survived her’, she grinned. It was an allergy the doctor said. On the ride home from the doctor she laughed at how scared she had been this morning. I could hear in her voice she would not let cancer rule her life. She was going to live and play until she could not. Her body was not rejecting her but was calling her to somewhere new. The fire had been relit. She would live for a year after her visit. She performed in one of the local clubs by her home even in the final stages. She looked anorexic, her hair was thinning, she did not have the energy she once had but she still had something to share. My wife was able to see her perform in New York for the first and last time. Mary Beth wanted her to see that she was not crying in their dorm bed anymore. She was living her questions and doubts and had become quite the woman. She died in her apartment, by her bedside were her sister, high school friend, and college roommate. Her daughters who lived in Germany were on their way. When I heard she had died I was blessed with the memory of how she would have loved to be remembered singing in my living room vulnerable but strong, sharing her music free and alive. Links to a memorial for her and one of her songs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJ7Jm6DkV68 www.youtube.com/watch?v=WR0JRQSnJpY Once a long time ago I spoke often at various conferences. Now conferences are those gatherings where some people who have done a little get to pontificate to those who are not quite as far on the path as they are. Now having been reared as a Southern Baptist I was always looking to convert people from their errant ways. Otherwise I would never speak to them. Conferences always seem to be for the needy. Those who need to be heard to feel worthwhile. Those who need to live vicariously through the hard work of others. Those who need to be seen. I am none of these and thus have never been a fan of conferences and usually view a conference as entering behind enemy lines.
Once I was asked to speak at a conference of fathers and sons. The idea was noble trying to make the world better through better fathers. This seemed to me to be a good and safe place to be. So I agreed, not because I thought I was a great father to my son but to meet other men who were going through similar things. In my talk I told of growing up next to Birmingham and never hearing a word about the years of Bombingham and Martin Luther King Jr. How I lost something when my parents, who were sympathizers to King and his movement remained silent about those times.so I grew up and never heard about MLK Jr. even though I lived a few miles outside of Birmingham. I now know I do not want to avoid the mess of our country and i want to share that history and my views on it with my son. I wanted him to know the full me, flaws and all. The talk went well and I was even asked by a few ministers to give a sermon on the topic at their churches. It was also good I felt that my son was there with me. The next speaker, a local minister, who I had heard a lot about and was looking forward to his presentation. It was then I realized I was behind enemy lines. His sermon was about fatherless homes created sissy men who thought they loved each other. Fathers should raise their sons so they would not be infected with the cultural disease of gayness. It was a very judgmental speech. It was told with vigor and animation that only a black pastor on fire of God? could tell. One of the many problems I had with such a harsh judgment was how he came to the stage. After a grand introduction two young male adolescents came onstage bearing a bench. Then the great pastor with a man at his side came on the stage. He was humungous Four hundred pounds at least. He struggled to the front of the stage and sat on the bench with the two young men at his side as he delivered his fiery speech. After the service we ate and both young men brought him plates filled to the brim for his lunch. The young men, who were the pastor’s assistants, would never learn about the sissified way but I could not help but think he was teaching them something else that was not that great. At another conference I was to talk to a gathering of fifteen to twenty Black Baptist pastors on the Bible and homosexuality. We were in small room with a podium and a table. It was my white self on my favorite island: Jekyll Island. This was one of the main reasons I had agreed to the suicide mission. But in this small room with these ‘moderate’ pastors there was none of the beauty of the island, only homophobia, except one minister who had arranged the whole affair, who was not married. I started the conversation with the question: did they know all of the places homosexuality was mentioned in the Bible? Even among these people of the book I received the same answer I usually did: no. My next question was why do they speak with such confidence on a subject they had not fully vetted? So I proceeded to help them discover this subject that is seldom talked about in scripture. As I went along I noticed the challenges to my interpretation came more frequently. But although they had evoked and revoked homosexuality from the pulpit they knew very little about it. This made the discussion curve toward my concepts that had been built in the fire of homophobic seminary students. Tired at last with losing the repartee they fell back on their spiritual mentor. This was an older, more experienced minister who acted as the spiritual guide. He intoned his wisdom that basically said take me with a grain of sand. I thought: I am a white boy in the midst of these black ministers who give reverence to this older pastor. I knew this was not a situation in which I would likely do well. A white younger man challenging the older black minister on his home turf was not a recipe for success. I was once again behind enemy lines. After two hours of this discussion I came away with a commitment from them to not join the cultural wars against homosexuality and give it as much prominence as the scriptures: seven passages amongst seventy two different books of the Bible. I also suggested they take the advice of Jesus, who never mentioned homosexuality. I also suggested we were to give everyone as much love as Jesus demanded we have for our neighbors. I left this meeting feeling dirty and sad. So I took a long walk on the beach in the dark with nothing but the moon and stars to light my way. I listened to the constant rhythm of the waves beating the shore. And wondered would that be my fate? A wave constantly beating the unremitting beach. As I walked on the beach I watched by the light of the moon the crashing waves. Once the wave crashed it returned to the great ocean taking with it a little sand. One wondered what happens to the sand after the ocean captured it? Was the ocean changed or the sand? After a couple of hours in the darkness I drove home. I never received a thank-you. We all have stories of our moms. If things go right they are the first to nurture us. We are totally helpless when we enter this world and our mothers are the first bringers of food, smell, touch, and sound we become accustomed to. But we knew them even before we took our first gasp for air in this world. We were held inside of them for nine months and through a glass darkly we were able to perceive their lives and even their characters.
My mother’s mother had died from childbirth complications when she was ten on Mom’s birthday. Her little brother, whom she loved dearly, would share her birthday. But now birthday cakes and celebrations would always have an after-taste of grief over the loss of a mother who died way too young. Her father, as was customary in that day in the rural areas, buried his first wife and left to go to town to find his second wife. He was a farmer and though he loved his children, he knew nothing about how to care for them. He brought home the woman I would know as Grandma. She would always be to my mother a second class mother. It would have been disloyal to her birth mother to make her more than that. And Grandma would have her two children. Try as Grandma might even if she was not biased, my mother would always look for the slights to her and the favoritism to her half-brother and sister. My mother would hold a place of grief for the mother she lost for the rest of her life. She loved her father and clung to him mightily. He was the source of her feeling of place in the world. She lived her life to please him. She picked cotton, fed the hogs, shucked the corn, checked the chicken houses. She also was homecoming queen and valedictorian of Horton High School. She was a looker said all the boys in the class but she was also going places. None of them, try as they might, could catch her eye. It took the tall, forever boyish Marine to sweep her off her feet. They were going places. Horton would always be home but they were going out into the big wide world to stake their claim. He would become a military bodyguard for Jackie Kennedy, serve in two wars, become a decorated hero, and in his day a legendary soldier. The military life was different from the farm. Washington DC made life big for someone who grew up on a farm in a community with less than five hundred people in it. They may have lived in small military apartments but they were close to the corridors of power. Life went on for her; she became a mother. Three boys who were the pride of her life. But death always lurked around the corners of her life. Her older brother Dean, who drank too much, shot and killed himself. Suicide was a forbidden topic. By the time she knew better than to obey those social mores she had nothing to discuss only a puncture in her heart. Her father had an unexpected heart attack in his sixties. The farm would be sold to her half-sister and her husband. They would lose the homestead as farming became a way of life that had come and gone for most. Her home was lost forever. The last place her mother could be found was now only in her childhood memories. She was the good military wife. They made friends; he regaled her with stories of his Drill Sargent day. She raised three boys who would be her gift to the world. She taught Sunday School for couples and would be the guide for them through hard times. One even would live with us for a few months as she divorced her husband. Everyone was amazed at her compassion and her wisdom. She would run a daycare out of the church that helped financially struggling families. The daycare became so popular people who had financial withal wanted entry. She fought and kept the place for those who were struggling. She ran restaurants. At one time she and Dad ran four different food businesses at the same time. Everyone sought her out. She was the life of the party. She was the nurturer and she was the wisdom. My friends would come to my house after dates and we would play cards. If we did not have enough players for a game or sometimes even if we did they would demand I awake her to play with us. They loved her. Everyone sought her out. She was a conservative Christian. Yet she lived to not judge. She did not agree with the gay life of her employee but was determined to treat her fair. Mom made her manager even after she was alerted by concerned citizens of the employee’s gayness. She thought gayness was a sin but God was the judge not her. She was to love her neighbor as herself. She kept a strong faith in life and God despite the Vietnam War delivering her a broken husband, who would wake up in the night screaming in anger or terror. A broken husband who would have a scandalous affair that broke her heart. A broken husband who would disappear without a trace for a few months. A detective and some unusual phone calls led to her finding him in a small trailer in rural Arkansas. He was broken and battered but she embraced him and nurtured him back to health. Of course none of this left her unscathed. She developed a bitter edge to her. Her life was not as perfect as she thought when she set out from Horton those many years ago. But she pressed forward. She would say that in the last twenty years of her marriage my Dad became the man she married. But then life delivered her death again. Her oldest son, who seemed in good health, died when an aorta burst from an ulcer and he bled to death. She never intended to outlive her children. This broke her heart. She would struggle to be the same but she could not understand why God would be so ruthless. She had always been the good daughter, wife, mother, friend, and worker. She lived her church and faith. Why so many untimely deaths? She never came to a conclusion. She just struggled through it. Dad would die a few years later. She no longer understood why she was left. She loved her grandkids. Gave hell to her two remaining sons. She still sparkled and loved to play cards. She was always the darling of the assisted living facilities. But she was ready to move on and this life kept clinging to her. She never lost her mental faculties but her mind, when she was tired, would on occasion visit unseen places and times. She thought she was having friends over for dinner. She would be worried about the health of someone long dead. Asked for Dad and then, an apparent realization that this request was somehow wrong. But when she was not tired she ruled. She was the mother supreme, homecoming queen, valedictorian as always. She died in a hospital. I was not there. I, who had been there for so many others at death, was not granted the privilege of being present for her. My brother, who lived in the same city, in denial or confusion, assured me she was going home the next day. I was taking vacation to visit her the next week so I waited. But time waits for no one. My nurturer died without me. For an observer who did not know her Mom’s life may have appeared as if it was in shambles. Her mother died young. Her brother committed suicide. Her husband had a scandalous affair. Her son died too young. But to those who knew her she was always the feisty, smart, homecoming queen, and loving mother dealing gracefully with the ruthlessness of life. I love China. The food is wonderful, plentiful, and cheap. Their food for the most part is healthy. Cheese is treated as a delicacy instead of a necessity like here in America. Thank your local Dairy lobbyist for that. Deep fried is almost unheard of instead they choose stir fry. Thank their local wok lobbyist for that. They love their mangos here and they have stores that only cater to your mango desires. We have stores that only cater to our cupcake desires.
They walk, bike, motorbike, take a subway or bus everywhere. They actually use public transportation. Here we are making sure the bus stops only go to certain neighborhoods. We walk in our neighborhoods not to anywhere. We drive our cars anywhere. We drive down the block if we have to go that far. There are of course some things I will not miss. These Chinese love their museums which means long lines and waits to get in. Here in America seldom do I find a museum with a line unless there is a blockbuster traveling exhibit. The Chinese need less pride in their museums and a little less desire to know things like us. The driving is horrifying. They believe in honking horns and they do not believe in a one car distance between the car in front of you. When you drive here you do not wait for breaks in the traffic to pull out onto the road. You pull out and the break will happen. Here in America for driving like they do we shoot you or at the very least we point out your errors with our middle finger. A horn is such a waste of time. Of course they have a pollution problem. Which is like the type they have we have left behind in Pittsburgh and other places. But President Trump has great promise in filling the pollution gap with China. They have problems with freedom of speech but again Trump is looking into that. Yes I love America but hey sometimes we forget in other countries lovers hold hands, dote on their children, are creative, take pride in their work, share laughter, and try to live good lives. China for me has been in part a reminder when we think of the ‘other’ it should not only be about what we see is their faults but also our commonalities and their successes. If we thought this way more about the ‘other’ there might be less other in the world. I leave the comfort of the hotel and sweat starts instantly pouring out of my pores. I sweat from pores that have never been used before. We go to Old Town Shanghai and the buildings have the architecture for which ancient China is known. There is a famous tea house that sits in the middle of a pond full of koi of all different sizes and colors. It has a wonderful zig-zag bridge that leads to it that causes you to linger to see the koi and the beautiful lotuses. There are fountains with water flowing out of them and a misting machine that creates a specter of smoke over the pond. It is awe inspiring. The tea house in the center has traditional Chinese architecture and stands five stories above the crowd. This is our destination for the day. We enter the building and the beautifully carved door shuts behind us and the crowd noise is no longer. An oasis amidst the tourist throngs. We are directed to the narrow steps that climb to the second floor. The room is an octagon of windows looking out at the pond and the throngs. The quiet is amazing. You can find solitude if you were alone here. But even with my companions a stirring of solitude speaks from a distant corner inside of me. Hot Chinese tea to soothe the body and soul is the stuff of legend. We await the waitress. She is tired, speaks no English. Which means I have to resort to my cave man articulation methods of pointing and grunting at the menu items I want. She gently corrects me when I order four sets of tea for the four of us and politely raises one finger to let me know one is enough. I look at the prices and decide she is a wise woman. We sit at a teak stained African drum-like stool with a table that is similar in style but larger. We are looking forward to the tea. We look out at the crowds on the zig-zag bridge and beyond. We are feeling a little superior as we sit in the calm of the oasis of a tea room. I see our host crossing the room with our tea and accompanying food. We are breathing the thrilling anticipation of the process of having tea. She noisily places the teacups on the table. She looks at me and assumes I have no clue how to use a teacup and wags her finger at me as she demonstrates to me how teacups are used. She again looks at me and no one else at the table to show how the pitcher of hot water is to be used. She walks off with a sigh as if to say she needs a new job. We discuss the various food that has been placed in front of us. We are vegetarians; we have no clue what anything is. Some of it would be challenging to any of my meat eating friends. We spend the next ten minutes discerning what each item may be. One is boiled quail eggs our egg-eating fiend of a child looks at me to say I am not eating that. The other is busy, politely as possible, spitting out the less than delectable food she tried. I have diagnosed one of the items as tofu and dive in. The one whose name shall not be spoken eats an egg and cajoles egg eating fiend child to eat one. Child eats the egg and by the look she gives the one whose name shall not be spoken you can see a certain amount of trust has been lost. But finally there is the tea. Tea-loving fiend child has found at last a tea she does not like. But she is a trooper; she will drink several cups because she loves tea and somehow must love this tea or her whole definition of self will have to be redefined. I am eating my tofu and thinking how silent the place is and how warm tea is so comforting. We are having a let down from our anticipations of what we were expecting from this place. But after the initial let down the conversations start. We laugh at ourselves. We are enjoying the moment. It is here in this moment that I suddenly find myself celebrating and grieving. It is three weeks before the oldest leaves us to go to college and the youngest will be starting high school this year. We will never be family in the same way again. But this moment is us: we are very high minded and soulful but we are also very earthbound. We are able to take a disappointment and make it real and special. Changes are coming but the air we breathe will always be filled with the memories of earthiness and soulfulness we have shared. After a long stay we leave. We become immersed in the crowds keeping an eye on each other so that we are not lost. |
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