Funny, but I am not sure I've ever written it all out. Maybe it took a few years. I know details and chain of events are smudged. I think this is a pretty good combination of emotion, effort at factual recitation, and enough years to try to do both.
The day recalls the reality. The truth unfolded slowly as we attempted to live our normal lives.
I had an important meeting. It wasn't about money or regulations. It was about what I and the State of Texas and CPS was going to do about a mother with three kids under 3 who were temporarily living with a couple of really hands on, interfering Good Samaritans.
And they were good samaritans. If they hadn't taken her in, as part of what they saw as Christian duty and love, she and hers might have been separated with the kids in foster care.
She wanted to pack up her and hers--including an incredible amount of stuff she had gotten from local charities--and head for family in Arkansas, just over the state line. The couple would have to pay for some of it.
It was a life-changing decision and it had to be made today. Otherwise, and maybe anyway, the state of Texas would do its meager best to care for the whole family. And I was very worried.
No matter what, you don't miss a meeting like that.
I got up earlier than usual to drive to the home, about 45 minutes from home. I always listened to Dallas Radio KVIL news and music.
As I dressed, Andy McCollum, news manager, said something about a plane hitting the US Trade Building Tower.
"What was that?" Jody Dean asked. (I remember his saying this after the first crash, not the second. I may be wrong.) My memory says McCollum answered he didn't know, maybe a small plane.
I do remember the small plane comment, but maybe Dean asked "what was that" after the second crash. In Dallas, they still had no information. It was evident something truly bad was going on.
I thought, "terrorists!" But who? From where? Was I simply panicking? That unknowing remains a remembered frustration. I wondered if I were simply freaking out.
SOMETHING BAD was happening in New York. I had a family in Denton County to settle. I got in my car and drove. Maybe it wouldn't affect me much, but be something horrible somewhere else.
The third plane hit the Pentagon.
I screamed at my radio. "What is happening?" and I didn't know. I kept driving.
We were under attack. By then I knew that. But I didn't know who was attacking. And that made it even more frightening.
I don't know the sequence when Flight 93 crashed, or we started hearing what happened. Was it before or after the government ordered all planes to land? I think after. Some reports of portable phone messages from Flight 93 appeared. Also the info of scrambled US fighter jets. I drove on a highway parallel to DFW airport and saw some planes land, and I thought, "Those are the last planes I will see in the sky for awhile." And I was right. It would be four days, I think. It was surreal.
I was a journalist for many years. When I heard about the crash in Pennsylvania, I was not only broken-hearted, but even then, relieved. I wonder if we will ever publically acknowledge these heroes for more than foiling further attack. US fighter jets would have had to destroy them, which would have done irreparable damage to our spirit as a country, but it would have had to be done.
I reached my destination. They let me in, and they had the TV on. The mother was restless, excited with the action, more so when the buildings came down. At that time I feared maybe 50,000 were dead. I saw the people jump. I saw the people run in the smoke and dust. I saw the police and firemen--I guess--I've never heard of a woman on those teams. I watched them almost swagger as they marched in to help, and then to die.
So much more was going on, some I didn't hear for years, like the private boats ferrying people out of the chaos and morass.
For the first time, we had a national catastrophe on television for everyone to see almost from the first minute. It was horrifying. It was riveting.
When the buildings fell, the couple, the mother and I prayed. We choked back our tears. We pulled our socks up, and then we had our meeting. I think, actually, we made some good, rational decisions. All of us were satisfied. By the time I left, it was almost noon.
I stopped by Kentucky Fried Chicken for a take-out order, which I often did. (2 pieces dark meat and cole slaw, iced tea.) The woman I saw so often was there, and I realized what a hard morning I had had, and knew she had too, but she had to keep working all the way through.
For the first time, I asked a personal question.
"Are you okay? " I asked.
"I'm doing all right," she answered, then her face crumpled. "But it's hard, you know?" She shoved my sack over, credited my debit card. I kept eye contact, I nodded. I said,"I know."
And I watched her pull herself together for the next customer.
Staff without morning appointments had been watching the television in the staff room. They had left to eat.
I sat with my KFC lunch and tea. I ate. And I continued to find out what was going on. If I filled out more agency forms and narrative the rest of the day, I don't remember it.
It was the next day before we had a clue who the enemy was.
Like so many others, I had never heard of Osama bin Laden before, nor Al Quada. When I did, it wasn't real.
We had been attacked, as surely as the bombing of Pearl Harbor. But we didn't know who. We didn't know where they lived or were. We had no idea how to strike back.
The emptiness of it. The sheer tragedy of malignant action with no way to strike back or retaliate.
In the recorded history of the world, did that ever happen before?
I don't think so.
And that made it all the more frightening and frustrating. National leaders handled it well.
President Bush said, "They win if you cower in your homes."
That helped. So we continued to live, and go about.
Maybe we hugged a little more.
I remember Johnny (my ex-husband) insisting that all of us get together for a meal together, crowded into a booth at a local Italian restaurant. He insisted we take the time to celebrate each other, and that we loved each other. While he and I were friendly, this was unusual.
He was right.
One of my sons wrote today it was the single worst day of his life. I thought about it. Was it the worst day for me? Well, not quite. Because no one I knew personally died. Disaster is extremely personal.
Living in Dallas as a college student when President Kennedy was shot was personal in so many ways. Dallas was affected deeply. I don't remember hearing a single laugh for 3 days.
My father's death when I was 19 was another deep blow. I developed a deep impatience with funeral processions then, looking out the window of the funeral limousine as cars pulled over or tried to get past when we headed for the cemetery. We were a grieving family, and the world was getting larger and more populous. I thought the custom was ridiculously self-important for modern cities.
I have not changed my mind.
Both events greatly changed my expectations from the world, and those changed expectations indeed shaped my life. Sept. 11 horrified, frightened, and grieved me. It did not disillusion me.
That had happened earlier.
This is personal. I am not commentating on the world.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Monday, September 5, 2016
When September Reminds Me I am Rich Indeed
My computer and I have been arguing for months now about this site, but now I can write again.
It is September, when I am most homesick for the New Mexico of my youth. The mountains are still there, and most of the trees. The skies are still clear. From New Mexico, you can actually see yonder, into the universe. Aside from one atomic bomb explosion, New Mexico hasn't interfered too much with the environment, from what I hear.
We never did have lightning bugs. But I guess you still can see the Milky Way from many chairs in the Tularosa Basin and beyond.
In my childhood, not so many people, and irrigation schedules through the not-too-deep ditches through the population meant we had soft grass to lie on and stare at the moon and stars and that milky pathway in the dark night I learned looked that way from so many, many more stars. If you lay on your back and looked at the sky at night, you did get an idea of exactly how big and important you were in the scheme of things. And you knew, somehow, you still mattered, like the mountains and the trees, the desert and the stars. At least, I did feel that way. I understood the universe was vast, the world was huge, and somehow I was a part of all that.
Apparently, you don't have to live there to experience that oneness with the universe. I will always believe it is easier in New Mexico.
I say "there" because all my adult life, I have lived in North Texas. I have found so much to love in what is, actually, my birth state. But I will always miss the mountains. It's been a few years now since I have driven that way, but in the past, every single time, several hundred miles from Dallas/Fort Worth when I saw the Davis Mountains, tears would spontaneously spill from my eyes. The first time really startled me. I expect it these days. (As I sit here writing, I am about equi-distant to the seashore or the mountains. Either way, it is 600-700 miles. Maybe more. I don't cry when I see the sea, joyful though I am.)
So now I live on the edge of a 9-million population metropolis. I have open fields and ranches around, and the Big and Bigger cities right down the road.
In New Mexico, the air is crisping in mornings and evenings. Later on--are any cottonwoods left? They used to drive me delirious with the deep blue of the sky somehow dipping into the leaves and turning them, branch by branch from the tip-top, golden with the pure blue sky and frosty air. It was like watching flames take the green leaves one by one and leave them glowing before they fell.
Oh, yes. I loved my home. I loved the Tularosa Basin. I loved New Mexico. I always will.
I remember the broken voice of a dear older woman I knew whose voice was failing her, but she forced out the words. She said, "The mountains, I ...could not....live...without ...the mountains." She knew where I lived, and she smiled when she asked, voice still crackling," "how...do...you bear it?"
And I can only answer, I have the people I love most all around me.
Mountains, however omnipresent, cannot hug, say, "I love you", or laugh. Nor can the sky.
I am far enough out of the Metroplex I can see my favorite constellations. I have the smell of fresh. And if the petrichor of longed wished-for rain on the prairie and trees here is not quite as entrancing as when the rain falls first on the pines, then the cedar, then the greasewood (creosote) bushes that perfume the air like maybe a Turkish harem might have smelled like in our dreams, the smell still is alluring, transforming and delightful. It is the smell of life, and promise of more.
I have traveled widely. It surprises me that I have only lived in two states--both quite large. I have never traveled in the Northeastern states, and that is a wish still hanging. Maybe. The uncertainty of it makes living so much more attractive.
I have chosen family over mountains, and I laugh. In my mind for awhile, many years ago, at a certain fork in the road, there was a contest in my mind. I took the richer road. Mountains don't take much tending. But family takes every part of us. Families take action, love, effort, care, work, and yes, often redemption.
I'm glad for my choice.
In September, especially, I still miss my mountains. I miss New Mexico.
I love my life, and all the memories that enrich it.
It is September, when I am most homesick for the New Mexico of my youth. The mountains are still there, and most of the trees. The skies are still clear. From New Mexico, you can actually see yonder, into the universe. Aside from one atomic bomb explosion, New Mexico hasn't interfered too much with the environment, from what I hear.
We never did have lightning bugs. But I guess you still can see the Milky Way from many chairs in the Tularosa Basin and beyond.
In my childhood, not so many people, and irrigation schedules through the not-too-deep ditches through the population meant we had soft grass to lie on and stare at the moon and stars and that milky pathway in the dark night I learned looked that way from so many, many more stars. If you lay on your back and looked at the sky at night, you did get an idea of exactly how big and important you were in the scheme of things. And you knew, somehow, you still mattered, like the mountains and the trees, the desert and the stars. At least, I did feel that way. I understood the universe was vast, the world was huge, and somehow I was a part of all that.
Apparently, you don't have to live there to experience that oneness with the universe. I will always believe it is easier in New Mexico.
I say "there" because all my adult life, I have lived in North Texas. I have found so much to love in what is, actually, my birth state. But I will always miss the mountains. It's been a few years now since I have driven that way, but in the past, every single time, several hundred miles from Dallas/Fort Worth when I saw the Davis Mountains, tears would spontaneously spill from my eyes. The first time really startled me. I expect it these days. (As I sit here writing, I am about equi-distant to the seashore or the mountains. Either way, it is 600-700 miles. Maybe more. I don't cry when I see the sea, joyful though I am.)
So now I live on the edge of a 9-million population metropolis. I have open fields and ranches around, and the Big and Bigger cities right down the road.
In New Mexico, the air is crisping in mornings and evenings. Later on--are any cottonwoods left? They used to drive me delirious with the deep blue of the sky somehow dipping into the leaves and turning them, branch by branch from the tip-top, golden with the pure blue sky and frosty air. It was like watching flames take the green leaves one by one and leave them glowing before they fell.
Oh, yes. I loved my home. I loved the Tularosa Basin. I loved New Mexico. I always will.
I remember the broken voice of a dear older woman I knew whose voice was failing her, but she forced out the words. She said, "The mountains, I ...could not....live...without ...the mountains." She knew where I lived, and she smiled when she asked, voice still crackling," "how...do...you bear it?"
And I can only answer, I have the people I love most all around me.
Mountains, however omnipresent, cannot hug, say, "I love you", or laugh. Nor can the sky.
I am far enough out of the Metroplex I can see my favorite constellations. I have the smell of fresh. And if the petrichor of longed wished-for rain on the prairie and trees here is not quite as entrancing as when the rain falls first on the pines, then the cedar, then the greasewood (creosote) bushes that perfume the air like maybe a Turkish harem might have smelled like in our dreams, the smell still is alluring, transforming and delightful. It is the smell of life, and promise of more.
I have traveled widely. It surprises me that I have only lived in two states--both quite large. I have never traveled in the Northeastern states, and that is a wish still hanging. Maybe. The uncertainty of it makes living so much more attractive.
I have chosen family over mountains, and I laugh. In my mind for awhile, many years ago, at a certain fork in the road, there was a contest in my mind. I took the richer road. Mountains don't take much tending. But family takes every part of us. Families take action, love, effort, care, work, and yes, often redemption.
I'm glad for my choice.
In September, especially, I still miss my mountains. I miss New Mexico.
I love my life, and all the memories that enrich it.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
A Long Friendship is Good for the World AND Us
I've been off-line so long, this is more testing, testing.
I think I will simply write about friendships, and marriages, that last at least 50 years. They are different from shortterm ones.
If you plant a tree and plan to stay there, you nurture the tree, water it, do what it needs. In 2011, I had a pecan tree in the back yard only a few years old, and we were in drought, and I watered it. But the crown died, and I had it cut down. Its companion, a burr oak, survived and is thriving. The weather has been much better. But I watered it, too. It was more stubborn or resilient. Anyway, it survived.
Today, the lower limbs were trimmed so the man mowing my lawn isn't life-threatened every time he tries to mow around it. He told me it wouldn't hurt the tree, but I had to Google, and read up. It decreased the canopy in a rainy year, and he and Google assured me the canopy will grow--but not the height of the remaining branches from the ground.
I want this tree to make it, and eventually shade the back deck, and someday I want a kid to be able to grab a limb and climb that tree. Texas has a fair number of trees. Most aren't good for climbing.
I won't be here then. But the tree will, if I can take care of it. And some kid may climb it.
A year ago, I went to the 50th wedding anniversary of friends whose wedding I had attended. And that is special. I was there when they started out, and celebrated their 50 years.
They, and a few other friends, have kept in touch for 50 years or more, and those friendships are more mellow than everyday. Don't know what it would be like if we visited regularly during the year, but I really don't think any of us have time for that. Some people have a group, which is good to remember. I'm not a group person, so I have these friends.
At church recently, a delightful couple in their nineties organized a renewal of vows and celebration of their 70th anniversary. They provided cake. and yes, THEY provided. Their daughter wanted something more elaborate.
I enjoy the American Life Series of PBR. Recently, I caught part of a segment on long-lived marriage, and the man said, "If you have periods, after years, where you really don't like each other and have nothing to say, keep going. Your marriage is normal, and can continue." I laughed when the moderator said this was the most honest look at marriage he had ever heard. And he agreed. You CAN get past the grumble part.
The couples with the 50 and 70 year anniversaries have learned unconditional acceptance, and the joy it can bring with longevity.
I never was married long enough. Dad died after 27 years. My parents were heading that way. I remember my grandparents' 50th.
These long friendships and marriages? They matter to civilization, I think.
My three college friends and I did NOT have a casual, social relationship. It was visceral when it began. Maybe that is why the roots are so deep. We saw each other through life-altering events, some exciting , some scary some fun.
Maybe not all friends our age have had that advantage, because whatever it was then, it grew roots, and is a joy today.
But I see so many lifelong friends with grey hair. Don't think most of our politics are the same, or our other friends, our work, our passions.
We have found a way at our ages, to be friends, no matter what.
Does it take age?
No, it doesn't. And younger lives should have friends from a lot more places in life.
Continuity is important, though.
We can change all we want so long as we mean it when we say we're in this life together, as unscathed as possible.
That's pretty hopeful.
I think I will simply write about friendships, and marriages, that last at least 50 years. They are different from shortterm ones.
If you plant a tree and plan to stay there, you nurture the tree, water it, do what it needs. In 2011, I had a pecan tree in the back yard only a few years old, and we were in drought, and I watered it. But the crown died, and I had it cut down. Its companion, a burr oak, survived and is thriving. The weather has been much better. But I watered it, too. It was more stubborn or resilient. Anyway, it survived.
Today, the lower limbs were trimmed so the man mowing my lawn isn't life-threatened every time he tries to mow around it. He told me it wouldn't hurt the tree, but I had to Google, and read up. It decreased the canopy in a rainy year, and he and Google assured me the canopy will grow--but not the height of the remaining branches from the ground.
I want this tree to make it, and eventually shade the back deck, and someday I want a kid to be able to grab a limb and climb that tree. Texas has a fair number of trees. Most aren't good for climbing.
I won't be here then. But the tree will, if I can take care of it. And some kid may climb it.
A year ago, I went to the 50th wedding anniversary of friends whose wedding I had attended. And that is special. I was there when they started out, and celebrated their 50 years.
They, and a few other friends, have kept in touch for 50 years or more, and those friendships are more mellow than everyday. Don't know what it would be like if we visited regularly during the year, but I really don't think any of us have time for that. Some people have a group, which is good to remember. I'm not a group person, so I have these friends.
At church recently, a delightful couple in their nineties organized a renewal of vows and celebration of their 70th anniversary. They provided cake. and yes, THEY provided. Their daughter wanted something more elaborate.
I enjoy the American Life Series of PBR. Recently, I caught part of a segment on long-lived marriage, and the man said, "If you have periods, after years, where you really don't like each other and have nothing to say, keep going. Your marriage is normal, and can continue." I laughed when the moderator said this was the most honest look at marriage he had ever heard. And he agreed. You CAN get past the grumble part.
The couples with the 50 and 70 year anniversaries have learned unconditional acceptance, and the joy it can bring with longevity.
I never was married long enough. Dad died after 27 years. My parents were heading that way. I remember my grandparents' 50th.
These long friendships and marriages? They matter to civilization, I think.
My three college friends and I did NOT have a casual, social relationship. It was visceral when it began. Maybe that is why the roots are so deep. We saw each other through life-altering events, some exciting , some scary some fun.
Maybe not all friends our age have had that advantage, because whatever it was then, it grew roots, and is a joy today.
But I see so many lifelong friends with grey hair. Don't think most of our politics are the same, or our other friends, our work, our passions.
We have found a way at our ages, to be friends, no matter what.
Does it take age?
No, it doesn't. And younger lives should have friends from a lot more places in life.
Continuity is important, though.
We can change all we want so long as we mean it when we say we're in this life together, as unscathed as possible.
That's pretty hopeful.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Rules of Behavior for a Feminist, 1965 -Now
today I am not sure how I got here. Google seems determined to give me a Gmail account I do apparently have but have never used. Whatever.
So much I could talk about. I think I will choose the subject that I am a feminist. An elderly one. At age 9, I objected when my father took my elbow to cross the street.
"Why are you doing that?" I asked, wresting my elbow away.
"A gentleman always takes a lady's arm to cross the street," he said.
And I replied, "Then I am not a lady."
That has worked for and against me ever since.
At 18, I was at a dinner party with family friends and one of the older men commented, after something I said, that "I thought like a man." I was flattered. Only later did I hear the bon mot by a woman I don't remember who quipped, "Which one?"
I wanted to be a journalist, and my parents supported me. In 1965, when I graduated from college, most newspapers would not accept a woman to do "real news." They were "society writers". But I interned at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram in the newsroom, and they hired me. I was an anomaly. I still remember the day when the male reporters clustered in a corner and one marched up to me and said,"We aren't going to change the way we talk because you are here."
"Fine," I told him. "I will probably learn a lot of new words." And I smiled. They relaxed. And I did, indeed, learn some new words. And I loved the camaraderie.
There WERE no rules, social or business. So I made my own. I pretty much still use them.
If a man opened a door, I smiled, unless I was competing with him and then I tried to get there first.
If a man was carrying packages, I opened the door for him, and expected the same if I had some. Socially? I went first.
If we went out to eat, I didn't go first. I went in line. We were equal, and that was fair. At a table, whoever was ready first. After work? Social rules and I went first.
Car doors? At work, my problem. Socially going out? My date opened the door.
I saw no reason not to be equal at work. I saw no reason not to go with social mores at play. I was a pioneer, and these were MY rules.
Pay? At the time I was hired, women were hired at $70 a week, men at $80. I came in at $90. Sorry, but I am still proud of that. I did pretty well in my internship.
I read something recently about a modern woman who felt obligated to take the door a gallant male opened even if it cost her steps. Uh-uh. I ALWAYS thank a man or woman--often at my age now they are young people--who offer a hand. And if I refuse, I always smile. I tell them I appreciate them and for whatever reason, I'm not accepting, and I say thank you. Because they are trying to do something good. And we should always reward that effort, even if we don't utilize it.
A feminist needs to be so secure in her boundaries she can be friendly even if she's not gonna do what they want.
Forgot about marriage and child care.
I am stunned when I still meet professional women who ALWAYS take off when the kid is sick instead of trading off with the father. My sons had a dad who would work with me on the relatively few times our kids were sick. We would alternate days, or even share days--he had court in the morning, I had a meeting in the afternoon. Most couples still aren't doing that. I think they should, but then, my marriage didn't last all that long. I don't think that was the problem, though.
The Glass Ceiling exists. Too few women are reaching top positions.
Despite all the changes in society, and work, I am amazed at how many women are still asking for a little more gruel in the bowl. We are better than that.
It is a different society, in many ways.
It is funny that the rules of behavior I crafted individually still work so well today.
So much I could talk about. I think I will choose the subject that I am a feminist. An elderly one. At age 9, I objected when my father took my elbow to cross the street.
"Why are you doing that?" I asked, wresting my elbow away.
"A gentleman always takes a lady's arm to cross the street," he said.
And I replied, "Then I am not a lady."
That has worked for and against me ever since.
At 18, I was at a dinner party with family friends and one of the older men commented, after something I said, that "I thought like a man." I was flattered. Only later did I hear the bon mot by a woman I don't remember who quipped, "Which one?"
I wanted to be a journalist, and my parents supported me. In 1965, when I graduated from college, most newspapers would not accept a woman to do "real news." They were "society writers". But I interned at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram in the newsroom, and they hired me. I was an anomaly. I still remember the day when the male reporters clustered in a corner and one marched up to me and said,"We aren't going to change the way we talk because you are here."
"Fine," I told him. "I will probably learn a lot of new words." And I smiled. They relaxed. And I did, indeed, learn some new words. And I loved the camaraderie.
There WERE no rules, social or business. So I made my own. I pretty much still use them.
If a man opened a door, I smiled, unless I was competing with him and then I tried to get there first.
If a man was carrying packages, I opened the door for him, and expected the same if I had some. Socially? I went first.
If we went out to eat, I didn't go first. I went in line. We were equal, and that was fair. At a table, whoever was ready first. After work? Social rules and I went first.
Car doors? At work, my problem. Socially going out? My date opened the door.
I saw no reason not to be equal at work. I saw no reason not to go with social mores at play. I was a pioneer, and these were MY rules.
Pay? At the time I was hired, women were hired at $70 a week, men at $80. I came in at $90. Sorry, but I am still proud of that. I did pretty well in my internship.
I read something recently about a modern woman who felt obligated to take the door a gallant male opened even if it cost her steps. Uh-uh. I ALWAYS thank a man or woman--often at my age now they are young people--who offer a hand. And if I refuse, I always smile. I tell them I appreciate them and for whatever reason, I'm not accepting, and I say thank you. Because they are trying to do something good. And we should always reward that effort, even if we don't utilize it.
A feminist needs to be so secure in her boundaries she can be friendly even if she's not gonna do what they want.
Forgot about marriage and child care.
I am stunned when I still meet professional women who ALWAYS take off when the kid is sick instead of trading off with the father. My sons had a dad who would work with me on the relatively few times our kids were sick. We would alternate days, or even share days--he had court in the morning, I had a meeting in the afternoon. Most couples still aren't doing that. I think they should, but then, my marriage didn't last all that long. I don't think that was the problem, though.
The Glass Ceiling exists. Too few women are reaching top positions.
Despite all the changes in society, and work, I am amazed at how many women are still asking for a little more gruel in the bowl. We are better than that.
It is a different society, in many ways.
It is funny that the rules of behavior I crafted individually still work so well today.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Bonnie and Clyde still seem familiar (Wikipedia if you never heard of them)
Drag Link/Photos/Video HereDrop LinkDrop Photo/VideoDrop Photos
I wish I had had time to post about the KERA public television documentary tonight on Bonnie and Clyde. I knew some of it. Working at the Fort Worth Star Telegram, I saw the old pictures, read some of the stories. This was really well done. Descendants were part of it, so it was sentimental with the realism. If you get a chance to see it, do watch. A fascinating window on the 1930s, and a couple who loved each other killed the good guys, and knew they would die for it.
Their devotion was romanticized, but not their killings or robberies.
As I watched this, I thought of how much of the past, including this, I saw in the old newspaper "morgue," the open files of photos and old stories from years past. Sometimes someone who had been with the paper for decades before you would wander in with you and direct you to some of "the good stuff." And as you read and viewed, they talked about what they knew from decades before you came along.
The past should not be dry and factual, a perusing of dry materials, but should include the side stories, the anecdotes, the reality of what is now the past. The people are still around, even when the pictures and info is on the computer.
I liked the bias in the documentary of the family emotions and thoughts. The descendants had a lot to overcome with the names they bore, and also, the family dynamics they came from.
It was real.
Okay, I'll go back to my blog now.
AND, after a great discussion with my computer, which keeps wanting me to sign in on GMail, which I have never used, I'm in. I think. Sort of.
We'll see.
I started writing as a journalist when I was 16 years old, at the end of my junior year in high school. I had started submitting high school news to the town newspaper, and I was offered a summer job. I was offered $1 an hour when the legal pay was $1.10. My dad and I fought about it all day. He was furious I wanted to work all summer, and he was furious the pay offered was below the legal minimum pay. He knew my wings were growing. He wanted me around for summer vacation, and whatever he and Mom wanted me for.
My mother would never have let us fight like that. She was at a teaching seminar for the day. Which was why I picked that day to tell (ask for permission)him my plans.
It is a funny story, when you consider how many parents complain about their layabout kids.
Because I will always remember his capitulation: "Okay! BE selfish! Work all summer and your mother and I will see you when you have the time!"
He left, and I danced a little.
And it was quite an education.
Some of the stories I heard about that summer beat anything I did as a career journalist. Some I wrote about. And some were history.
At 16, maybe I wasn't old enough to know about the alcoholic judge who had to come in, hungover, on a Saturday to adjudicate for extradition the Texas car thief who was recovering from DTs (which I had never heard of) when he and the judge shared a bottle of aspirin as they completed the paperwork.
All I ever knew was that I was seeing real history right before my eyes, and when I heard the history, the old stories, it came alive for me. Real people were involved, warts, good, evil, smart, dumb, caring.
Both my parents loved history so much, but I had a fifth grade teacher who assigned history lessons as a punishment for any infraction. I was slow to come into the fandom.
It happened one day my junior year in high school, with a teacher named Charles Spicer, who taught me history was not about wars, battles, and dates, but people, relationships, and adventures.
AndI expanded it to NOW. I wanted to know how the people around me, with ordinary lives, were making our history today. And I learned. I witnessed.
Today, I am a living archive to the past of many of you. I saw, lived through, felt, managed, voted, made do, reached up, tried new things that all of us did to lead to now.
The Bonnie and Clyde documentary I saw tonight reminded me of second, sometimes third-hand stories of their past.
What we remember, what we pass on to our children and grandchildren, that is the history, the reality we know. We must remember others have different histories and realities.
It will help us learn to agree.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
Do you share your cookies with your dog? If you are diabetic and the cookie is a sugar-free cookie with no chocolate, read the contents. It may contain a sweetener, xylitol, which I had never heard of until last night on the news.
This substance is safe for humans. It kills dogs. It is used particularly in chewing gum and some cookies.
This substance is safe for humans. It kills dogs. It is used particularly in chewing gum and some cookies.
Best gift of all? A positive attitude
Throughout my life, times occur over and over again where people link elbows and march like Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Man in "The Wizard of Oz" and chant fearfully, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" The cacophony is becoming a deafening scream as the possibility of real monsters around us becomes more and more a real possibility.
Being read, a real goal of mine most of the time, has gone by the wayside for six weeks.
It hasn't been because of a paucity of things to write about; on the contrary, too much has been happening for me to settle on one topic.
I am appalled by the ugliness I am witnessing not only by ISIS, but fellow Americans. It just happens that this is the time in MY lifetime when fear has been greatest. And fear leads to anger leads to mob mentality. It isn't pretty. I reflect that since I have more than seven decades of life, I've done a lot of living. I don't necessarily have a lot of time I would lose. I figure I may as well go on living as I always have. I have always found being embedded "with my own kind" to be rather boring. I like the richness of cultural diversity. At base, if both persons are open to it, we have common ground. And the wonderful foods provide such a rich, varied banquet.
No, I'm not afraid for my kith and kin. Frankly, living in a gargantuan Metroplex with sparse public transportation, we all are at risk any time we drive anywhere. And frankly, I continue to be more concerned about environmental issues because they will have a greater effect on my-great grandchildren some day. Enough clean water to survive comes to mind. And yes, I've done a lot of research. In that regard, people drive me nuts.
It is Christmas time. This has been a difficult time for me throughout my adulthood. In the past year, I have been in counseling with a talented young woman who has helped me review my life realistically. I have failed significantly at several goals, you see, and was having difficulty seeing the worth of what I have accomplished. Oh, yeah. There's more to come. I'm still starting new projects. I am still working to lead my life, not just manage it. And yeah. It's a lot more fun than giving up.
Any way, Christmas. I'm smiling--apparently quite warmly--at everyone I meet. I intuit this because I am getting really warm smiles in return. I didn't frown at Christmas music in the stores after Halloween--though it did not encourage me to start shopping. I started shopping this week. Last year I discovered the wonder of online shopping one afternoon and having it all delivered to my door. I had better get busy.
I have given myself the gift of deciding that, warts and all, I would rather be me than anyone else, no matter how successful. I coulda been a contender! Well, I'm not. Warts and all? A LOT of warts.But I'm a pretty good me, and knowing that allows me to laugh, to smile, hug when I can, help when I notice the need, and in all ways, share as much as I possibly can. And sometimes what I share is the chance to be silent, and peaceful.
This really is how I feel. It sounds saccharine. It's not. Getting here for me has taken determination, sweat and tears. I'm proud of that. I know some optimists who are happy effortlessly. I know, too, that being human, they have their own problems, and yes, I still choose mine.
So much of it comes down to attitude. I was thinking recently, as I wrote one of the occasional checks I still write now and then, that my payment is a way of saying thank you for the goods, the services. I remember when I was fearfully trying to get my budget and the month to come out even. With fear, I wasn't grateful. Sometimes I begrudged. Maybe understanding this is what we call the "wisdom" that can sometimes come with getting older.
I remember the cocky confidence of youth, so certain I had an immeasurably huge bank account of time to live and do what I intended to do. I have absolutely no idea today of the time left. I am unusually healthy for my years, my doctor tells me. Nevertheless, the uncertainty has made each day a gift, and yes, I still squander some of the days.
I needed to sit down and write today. I might even truly get on a regular schedule. I used to want to write with my individual, unique insights. Now I want to write about the common ground we all have in there somewhere.
Whatever holiday you celebrate, and yes, I do have two friends who send me winter solstice cards, I hope it works well for you.
Being read, a real goal of mine most of the time, has gone by the wayside for six weeks.
It hasn't been because of a paucity of things to write about; on the contrary, too much has been happening for me to settle on one topic.
I am appalled by the ugliness I am witnessing not only by ISIS, but fellow Americans. It just happens that this is the time in MY lifetime when fear has been greatest. And fear leads to anger leads to mob mentality. It isn't pretty. I reflect that since I have more than seven decades of life, I've done a lot of living. I don't necessarily have a lot of time I would lose. I figure I may as well go on living as I always have. I have always found being embedded "with my own kind" to be rather boring. I like the richness of cultural diversity. At base, if both persons are open to it, we have common ground. And the wonderful foods provide such a rich, varied banquet.
No, I'm not afraid for my kith and kin. Frankly, living in a gargantuan Metroplex with sparse public transportation, we all are at risk any time we drive anywhere. And frankly, I continue to be more concerned about environmental issues because they will have a greater effect on my-great grandchildren some day. Enough clean water to survive comes to mind. And yes, I've done a lot of research. In that regard, people drive me nuts.
It is Christmas time. This has been a difficult time for me throughout my adulthood. In the past year, I have been in counseling with a talented young woman who has helped me review my life realistically. I have failed significantly at several goals, you see, and was having difficulty seeing the worth of what I have accomplished. Oh, yeah. There's more to come. I'm still starting new projects. I am still working to lead my life, not just manage it. And yeah. It's a lot more fun than giving up.
Any way, Christmas. I'm smiling--apparently quite warmly--at everyone I meet. I intuit this because I am getting really warm smiles in return. I didn't frown at Christmas music in the stores after Halloween--though it did not encourage me to start shopping. I started shopping this week. Last year I discovered the wonder of online shopping one afternoon and having it all delivered to my door. I had better get busy.
I have given myself the gift of deciding that, warts and all, I would rather be me than anyone else, no matter how successful. I coulda been a contender! Well, I'm not. Warts and all? A LOT of warts.But I'm a pretty good me, and knowing that allows me to laugh, to smile, hug when I can, help when I notice the need, and in all ways, share as much as I possibly can. And sometimes what I share is the chance to be silent, and peaceful.
This really is how I feel. It sounds saccharine. It's not. Getting here for me has taken determination, sweat and tears. I'm proud of that. I know some optimists who are happy effortlessly. I know, too, that being human, they have their own problems, and yes, I still choose mine.
So much of it comes down to attitude. I was thinking recently, as I wrote one of the occasional checks I still write now and then, that my payment is a way of saying thank you for the goods, the services. I remember when I was fearfully trying to get my budget and the month to come out even. With fear, I wasn't grateful. Sometimes I begrudged. Maybe understanding this is what we call the "wisdom" that can sometimes come with getting older.
I remember the cocky confidence of youth, so certain I had an immeasurably huge bank account of time to live and do what I intended to do. I have absolutely no idea today of the time left. I am unusually healthy for my years, my doctor tells me. Nevertheless, the uncertainty has made each day a gift, and yes, I still squander some of the days.
I needed to sit down and write today. I might even truly get on a regular schedule. I used to want to write with my individual, unique insights. Now I want to write about the common ground we all have in there somewhere.
Whatever holiday you celebrate, and yes, I do have two friends who send me winter solstice cards, I hope it works well for you.
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