I grieve with you

Whoever and wherever you are I grieve with you.

I read the New York Times online every morning. This morning I read the article “Man Down: When One Bullet Alters Everything,” an account by Damien Cave of a street fight in Baghdad and the death of a young soldier. I wept as I read it. There was no information about the family of the young man who was killed. He was 27 years old. He may have been married. He may have been a father. He is someone’s son. Are there brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins? How many friends are there? How many are grieving the death of this young man? My heart grieves with them. And I wonder yet once again. Why are we fighting this war? Why are we sending our sons and daughters, our children, our grandchildren to fight and die?

We are all going to die. Why do we hasten our deaths by fighting wars?

Why do we accept that it is OK to send other people’s children to war? Yes, they volunteer to serve their country. It is their duty. Yes. But it is our duty to not recklessly place them in harm’s way by sending them into battles that perhaps we shouldn’t be fighting.

We cannot evade responsibility by blaming our government without blaming ourselves as well. In a democracy we elect our leaders. If they are not acting in our best interests then it is our responsibility to hold them accountable. Silence and failure to act gives consent. We are all responsible for our current state of affairs.

What if it were your child?

Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me. [Hymn]

Cluttered

Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind

Memories, sweetened thru the ages just like wine,

Memories, memories,

sweet memories
Sung by Elvis Presley

My home is cluttered. I live in a small condo with a 72-year collection of stuff.

Thirty-two years ago I met a woman who had a fascinating collection of Staffordshire dogs. I was so taken by it that I decided to start a collection of my own. I thought about what I wanted to collect for quite a while and then, on a trip to Italy, I discovered a small frog figurine and decided to collect frogs. As a child I was always enchanted by the story of the princess who kissed a frog and the frog became a prince.

I collected indiscriminately in the beginning. I saw a frog; I thought I had to have it. After a few years, I began to focus on finding unusual additions to a collection growing by leaps and bounds. Family and friends frequently added to my collection. Although all my children now shudder at the thought of inheriting my collection, they continue to give me frogs and “complain” to others about the impressive number of frogs in my collection. I have assured them that, if one of my grandchildren is clever, they will sell all my frogs on eBay and earn themselves a nice chunk of change. It truly is an impressive number of frogs. I have collections within the collection – frog mugs – frog pitchers – frog greeting cards – frog jewelry, and on and on. Frog is part of my email address and a part of my identity.

My condo is also cluttered with books. Every room in the house has books in it. An entire wall is taken up by bookshelves in the living room and there are several baskets filled with small collections of books on the floor. I have always loved books and reading and have always wanted a library of my own. My idea of heaven is a library containing all the books ever written and the authors themselves roaming around available for conversation.

I keep thinking that I really should eliminate some of the clutter but nearly everything in my home is a reminder of someone or something in my life history. How can I clear out my life history? The desk in my living room was my father’s desk. On the top shelf is a figurine of an angel, lion and lamb that my daughter gave to my mother. Next to it is a beautiful carved box that my son brought home to me from Afghanistan. The flag presented to my mother by a young soldier “from a grateful nation” at my father’s memorial service sits on top of the entertainment center. Paintings painted by my mother hang on my walls and a gallery of family photographs line the walls of the stairs.

In my bedroom, the quilt that covers my bed was made by my son and daughter-in-law. The carpet on the floor was my father’s favorite. My mother’s Hummel figurine of the Madonna sits on my dresser and next to it is my grandmother’s figurine of the Madonna. Needlework done by my daughters is displayed in my bedroom.

On one wall there is a large gold frame containing the long christening gown, made from my wedding gown, worn by my children and grandchildren at their baptisms. Next to it is a wedding portrait of me wearing my wedding gown on my wedding day. Beneath it is a large round table covered with family photographs.

There is a memory attached to nearly every thing in my home, a memory that reminds me of the wonderful life that I have lived. These memories are the story of my life. And not to be cleared out just yet.

Vetustior humo

That's “Older than Dirt” in Latin.

A good friend of mine for many years just emailed me a “History Exam,” a questionaire about the past. My score is: “You are older than dirt!”

I remembered that in the 1940s:
Automobile headlight dimmer switches were located on the floor board, to the left of the clutch – The top of Royal Crown Cola bottles had holes in it to be used to sprinkle clothes before ironing them – Due to rationing during WW II women painted their legs with a “seam” up the back – Roller skates were attached to your shoes with a clamp and tightened with a skate key – A Duck and Cover Drill was hiding under your desk in school and covering your head with your arms during an A-bomb drill – That “ammunition” was the last word in the song title “Praise the Lord, and Pass the Ammunition” – That the Inkspots sang “Cabdriver” and Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco.

There are several versions of the test making the rounds. If you remember Wax Coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water – Candy cigarettes – Coffee shops with tableside jukeboxes – Home milk delivery in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers – Party lines – Newsreels before the movie – 45 rpm records – S&H Green Stamps – Metal ice trays with lever – Drive-ins – then you are old.

Instead of being viewed as elders with wisdom to impart to those who are younger, I sometimes get the feeling that in our society being old means being beyond redemption. Having no value. No purpose. We are over the hill and out to pasture. Long in the tooth and older than dirt. Those older persons who are still contributing to society are considered exceptions rather than the rule.

John Mc Cain, who celebrated his 70th birthday in August 2006 recently described himself as “older than dirt but not too old to be president.” Seventy seems to be the age at which we achieve this dubious honor of being older than dirt. Most of the people I know who are my age and older are still living active lives and making valid contributions to the communities in which they live. We have not yet reached our expiration date!

Another piece of the quilt..

My Christmas card was returned and next to the address it was stamped, “Vacant.” I was overcome with sadness. My father’s cousin Snooks, who was in her late nineties, no longer lives in the tiny house in Blackwell that she had lived in ever since she married. It is possible that she has been moved to a nursing home but I think it is more likely that she has died. The family of her husband, long since deceased, checked on her periodically but I never met them and I doubt that they know my name, much less my address or telephone number.

Snooks given name was Emma but I never heard anyone call her Emma. She was always Snooks or sometimes “The Old Broad!” She was not what the name implies but she had an earthy sense of humor and enjoyed referring to herself as the “Old Broad.” She even had mailing labels printed with that name.

We didn’t see Snooks often because of moving a lot. But whenever we did go back to Blackwell she was always one of the first people we visited. Snooks loved my father and mother and was always thrilled to see us.

On my last trip to Oklahoma to visit my parents, who were both in a nursing home, my son and his family who were living at Ft. Sill, and I took my parents to Blackwell to see Snooks and to visit all the family tombstone’s in the cemetery. Three living generations of the family visiting previous generations. It was a great visit and afterwards I started writing to Snooks. I became interested in the genealogy of my family and Snooks was a wonderful source of information. She had numerous physical difficulties but she was still mentally sharp in her late 80’s when I last saw her.

Although I remember her only as an old woman, I think she must have been quite beautiful as a young girl playing drums in her father’s band. I have only a vague memory of her husband. He served in WW !! and died in middle age. Snooks lived alone the rest of her life, faithful to his memory. She lived in very modest circumstances, in a tiny shotgun house with a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen and bath, but she never complained. She laughed a lot and spent most of her time helping others. She did volunteer work at the hospital for many years, doing very menial tasks. Her language was often ribald and she had all of the prejudices of her generation but she had the proverbial heart of gold. Even though she didn’t go to church she was a believer and she frequently expressed gratitude to the God of her understanding. She was a good woman. A strong woman. Another "feisty" woman in our family history! A survivor.

Snooks, the old broad, is another piece of my quilt of memories. A very colorful piece.

I pray that she is reunited with all her loved ones. Her husband. Her sister. Her parents. All the cousins. And my parents. May they rest in peace

Father of all, we pray to you for those we love, but see no longer: Grant them your peace; let light perpetual shine upon them; and, in your loving wisdom and almighty power, work in them the good purpose of your perfect will; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (BCP)

A quilt of memories

I remember my Aunt Bubu (she was my father’s aunt) standing in her kitchen beating cream until it turned to butter. She was always called Bubu (Boo Boo) by the family but other people called her Ruby, her real name. Her sisters were named Diamond and Pearl. I don’t know how she got the name Bubu. I remember the old ringer washer that she used to “worsh” the clothes. “Worsh” was the way everyone pronounced it.

Uncle Rusty looked a lot like Randolph Scott, a movie star who was popular then. He was a quiet man. Aunt Bubu did the talking. She was “feisty,” a word we don’t hear so much nowadays. Like ornery. Aunt Bubu and Uncle Rusty lived in a tiny town called Three Sands. It was founded around 1900 as an oil boom shanty town and my Uncle Rusty worked for the oil company. It had been the largest oil field in Oklahoma and is now a ghost town. Oklahoma had a lot of little towns with names like Tonkawa, Chickasha, Shawnee, Anadarko, Ponca City.

Their home was very small, a living room, a kitchen with a table in it, and two small bedrooms, barely big enough for a bed in them. They had a small black and white TV in the living room. Their yard was, to be expected, mostly sand but I do remember hollyhocks blooming there. And I remember the wash hung on clotheslines and blowing in the wind. The wind is nearly always blowing in Oklahoma. And I remember playing with horned toads in the yard.

I remember staying with them when my mother left to be with my father for a few weeks. Daddy was in the National Guard and when the National Guard was called up for World War II, he left and his unit was stationed a lot of different places. My mother and I went with him whenever we could.

I know now (I didn’t know then) that we were very poor. Almost everyone was very poor then. I remember the pretty pillowcases Aunt Bubu embroidered with a crocheted edge on them. I still have a few of them. She also crocheted potholders and afghans. Everyone made things then because anything “store bought” was expensive and beyond most people’s means.

Oklahoma did not become a state until 1907. It had been Indian Territory and it is still home to more Indian tribes than any other state and 39 of those tribes are federally recognized nations. "Oklahoma" is two Choctaw Indian words meaning "red man." I love the names and I have always loved the Native American spirit that is still strong there. And even though we traveled a lot and only lived in Oklahoma for short periods of time, I keep a clay pot made from the red earth of Oklahoma on my bookshelves and it is filled with the red earth that I brought with me.

Being older does have its advantages. One of them is having a lot of memories. One of the tasks of the last stage of our life is introspection. Recalling our experiences and what we have learned from them. And remembering pleasant experiences brings pleasure once again. Sharing our experiences also brings pleasure. Remembering is rather like making a mental quilt of all the bits and pieces of our memory. And, like a quilt, all the pieces of our life, when brought together, create a special and unique beauty and provides comfort.

Old is when

Old is when:

The best man in your wedding doesn’t remember being best man.
The first house you lived in is burned to the ground as practice for the fire department.
There is no one left to remember you as a child.

On most days I do not feel old. I feel like the younger woman who still lives in me and is wearing the costume and mask of an older woman. But there are moments of great clarity when I fully realize that I have lived a long time. My reaction to that realization can range from amusement to deep sadness and sorrow.

One amusing instance occurred when I accepted an invitation to attend a dinner during my former (now deceased) spouse’s 50th reunion at the United States Military Academy. We had married the year of his graduation and the best man at our wedding was a fellow graduate. During the cocktail hour, I saw our friend and best man in the crowd. I approached him and, having not seen him for many years and realizing that I might not be instantly recognizable, I told him that I was the first wife of my husband and made some comment about his being the best man in our wedding. He looked at me strangely so I asked if he remembered (name of my husband). He said, “Yes, of course!” We asked the usual questions, “Where are you living now? What are you doing? How is the family?” and then wandered apart greeting other people.

My husband and I had seen our friend on several occasions when stationed together in Washington, DC. Later in the evening the gentleman in question approached me and said, “I think you must have mistaken me for someone else. I was not the best man in your wedding.”

Now, my memory is sometimes tricky but in this case I knew for certain that this man had been our best man and I offered to send him photographic proof! I was amused by the whole encounter but, on reflection, a little saddened also. Sad that his memory is fading (I can identify with that) and sad that he did not remember my wedding. And, yes, I did dig out my wedding album when I returned home and made sure that my memory was accurate. I never did send him a copy of the pictures and I wonder what he thought about a crazy lady who thought he was someone else!

A few years ago I returned to the small town in Oklahoma where I was born, with my oldest daughter. I wanted to show her my very first home. A very small, very modest duplex. I guess the old adage is true, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home” because I felt a kind of affection for the house that had been my home for the first six years of my life. and that contained my very earliest memories. I drove down Florence Street, turned around at the corner and drove very slowly down the street again. My house had disappeared! I parked and we walked to the spot where it once had stood. There was a small patch of burned ground. A patch that looked too small to have been home to two families. I was overcome by a great sadness. I learned later that the fire department had used the small abandoned duplex for training purposes. So, at least, my first home had met a worthy end.

I was an only child so the death of my parents meant that my childhood is now remembered only by me, like the memories of living in our first home on Florence Street. My aunts and uncles predeceased my parents and I did not grow up with any cousins. As we grow older and the previous generation begins to die we lose not only our loved ones but also pieces of our own history. Perhaps that is why we begin to think about leaving a legacy to future generations of our family, lest our history disappear altogether.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance
Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

Ode to my hands

Hands are the heart's landscape. Pope John Paul II

As a young woman my hands were small, slender and smooth.
Now my hands are looking old, wrinkled with visible veins.

I fell several years ago, my hands reaching out to break the fall, and broke my wrist so severely that my hand became swollen and I could not use it for many weeks. After the pins and then the cast were removed, I spent several months in therapy with a hand specialist. With her expertise and encouragement and exercise I eventually recovered the full use of my hand much to the surprise of my orthopedic surgeon and my therapist. They did not expect me to regain full use.

Since that time I have been mindful of my hands. They took care of my children when my children were babies and held their hands, as they grew older. They have held the hands of my grandchildren and now, my great-granddaughter. They have washed many dishes (I actually married before the advent of the dishwasher), folded many clothes and fixed broken toys. They have administered first aid to my children and held the hands of my family and friends when they needed comforting.

My hands have been blessed with creativity. They have embroidered, knitted, done needlepoint, smocked and quilted. My hands have drawn and painted, cut and pasted many craft projects, held a camera and taken photographs. My hands have enjoyed the sensual feel of fabrics and have sewn clothes for me and for my children. They sewed and beaded a quilted chuppah for my daughter's wedding. They have made many gifts for the people I love.

My hands have provided me the pleasure of playing the piano. My hands have kneaded dough, baked cookies and cooked for my family and friends and guests. They have arranged flowers and pulled weeds and planted bulbs.

My hands tickled the backs of my husband and my children. My hands held their heads when they were sick and throwing up. My hands have petted many dogs that I have loved.

My hands have held the chalice, offering “the blood of Christ, the cup of salvation” during communion. I have laid my hands on others to pray for their healing.

My hands touched my father as he lay dying and touched my mother as she lay dying.

My hands have worn my engagement ring and my wedding band, the diamond ring my parents gave me when I finally graduated from college at the age of 40, and all the beautiful rings that my father made for me.

My hands are no longer smooth but they have served me well and deserve respect and appreciation. They have been the instruments of my soul. I pray that I will never take them for granted as I used to do.

May the graciousness of the Lord our God be upon us;
Prosper the work of our hands; prosper our handiwork. Psalm 90:17