Thinking about Neighbors

It is late (or early morning perhaps) when I write this. It's been in my mind for days now as I attempt to absorb the tragedies that surround us.  Eleven people shot down as they prayed together in a Pittsburgh synagogue, two killed in a Kentucky grocery store, all taken from their families and from all of us because they were somehow different from their killers, thus targeted.

I am thinking of what it means to be neighbors.  Is it necessary to know the politics of those with whom we live?  Does it have to make a difference if those who live next door believe in a different god, think differently about politics, have skin that is a different hue?  If they nod to us politely or smile when we pass on the sidewalk, is that not enough to believe that we inhabit the same space and are thus interdependent?

I wonder what makes us neighbors.  Is it just the proximity of our homes?  Or is it that we share this city, this country, this planet?  How do we grant each other the respect and the kindness that allows us to live together despite our differences? How do we find the gift that is, in fact, our differences, those unique qualities that we contribute to the overall quilt of humanity?

When I think of neighbors I remember two little girls who came to live next door to us and allowed us into their lives.  I see their faces as they sit on the hearth in our living room and tell us about their day, words falling out so quickly as they tell us about their dreams, one imagining a life as a marine biologist, the other more reticent, but sure that horses are in her future.  I cherish these memories and remember their glowing faces as they sat on our hearth and spun their dreams like webs into the future. 

I think of the neighbors that shared our cul-de-sac and celebrated holidays on our driveway because ours was the only flat one in a hilly neighborhood.  I remember shared hot dogs and hamburgers and the time we set the neighbors' bush on fire with a bottle rocket gone astray.  They were not angry, just grimaced, then laughed because we were neighbors and there was no harm intended.

I think of the neighbors who cooked dinner for me and my voracious young son when I was a single mom, taking us into their family, teaching us their secret to cooking barbecue pork so that it melted in our mouths, comforting us when we were burglarized, always there for us.  They were open-hearted, protective and loving, the epitome of the neighbors one would always hope to have.

I remember the neighborhood of my childhood, when we shared home-grown tomatoes and eggs from backyard chicken coops that were common in South Georgia in the 50's.  We were not in lock-step, but attended different churches, came from different places, yet accepted one another because we shared a street and an alley, played as kids in each other's yards, understood our interdependence.

It's a powerful concept, this definition of a neighbor.  It can be unfortunately exclusionary, shutting out those who are different.  Alternatively, it can be the glue that binds us together in a way that benefits us all.  When we look beyond our individual hopes and fears, embrace our differences and find the common good, a neighborhood can enrich and strengthen us all.  When we expand that concept to include the broader neighborhood of humanity we will find the best of us in all of us.  I dream of that day when we lose our fear of what makes us different and embrace what makes us neighbors and enriches our lives, our humanity.

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, 

my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. 

You will always find people who are helping.'"  Fred Rogers

Fall Afternoon Musings

Fall is my favorite season.  I have always felt the magic of the leaves as they turn from green to an array of yellows, reds, oranges and golds.  It is a season in which we retreat from the heat of summer in the South to share cooler weather and the spirit of holidays from Halloween through Christmas to the New Year.  Though I'm not much of a football fan, I still love the way family and friends gather to watch the games together, cheering through the wins, bemoaning the losses.  Fall seems to me like an annual winding down time to gather around the fire and hunker down into the slumber of winter in anticipation of the rebirth of spring.  It's the season that suits me best.

This fall is less restful.  Our country is in a time of political turbulence that I can't remember since the 60's.  We are a people divided.  That's not a new thing as we are so diverse and ever-changing, rarely in lock-step unless attacked from without by storm or threat of war.  What seems new is the vitriol, the viciousness in the expression of our differences.  This week it's pipe bombs, but there have been too many disturbing stories, too many hurtful and hateful times over the past year.  It's disheartening.

So I turn away from the hatred to think of those things that I love, the people and the moments that inspire me and bring balance to my brain and nurturing peace to my soul.

I think about the innocent joy of a small child, just perfecting her walking skills enough to bend and pick up, one at a time, the fallen leaves on our deck.  She carries them to the railing and carefully drops them to watch them flutter to the ground below.  She turns and I see the thrill in her little round face, her mouth a perfect oval of amazement that becomes a smile.  I am renewed by that smile, given hope by the innocence.

I enjoy the moment in the bookstore with an 8-year-old who loves to read and, though often a child of few words, speaks excitedly when we find two books by one of his favorite authors that he has not yet read.  His eyes are alight and he begins to read one of the books as we wait in line to pay for them.  I am reminded of my own love of reading and I am reassured that this young one is filling his mind with the words that will spur his imagination and love of learning.  His excitement continues when we get a coupon for a free cookie at the bakery.  Life is not just about books and he's a kid who loves sweets.  We have a good afternoon and I have a special memory to cherish of our time together, made even better with the lingering scent of the ginger cookie he chose.

Happiness is just a click away on a rainy Saturday as I return to the playlist of music that reminds me of days long gone, the parties that old favorite songs filled with fun and dancing to exhaustion. I can almost smell the smoke of those days when we didn't know that smoking would take such a toll.  I can savor again the taste of rum and Coke, the drink of choice long before we could imagine a taste for the wine that supplanted it.  I remember the bell bottoms, the mini-skirts that scandalized my father, the long hair that fell into my face in the exuberance of the dancing.  It seems funny to me now that I am accessing these old favorites on my laptop when we heard them on our stereo, sometimes causing the needle to jump if there were enough people bouncing the floor with the frenzy of the dance.

As I listen to the music, one of my favorites from the Youngbloods plays.  Its refrain seems apropos for this time:             "Come on people now

                              Smile on your brother 

                              Everybody get together

                              Try to love one another
                              Right now."

Recorded by the Youngbloods and released in 1966, "Let's Get Together" had been performed by the Kingston Trio as early as 1964 and recorded on the first Jefferson Airplane album in 1967.  But it is the Youngbloods version that  has lasted, used in a number of movies, most notably "Forrest Gump." For me, it brings to mind the anguish of the Vietnam era , a confusing time when many Americans questioned our government's decisions, a time something like today. 

I will vote my conscience on November 6 as I hope many others will.  My rainy day musings end with a hope that we will come through these difficult times to a better place where we can "get together."

Father's Day 2018

As Father's Day 2018 nears, I am reminded that my dad would have turned 110 years old this year. Though he died more than 30 years ago, he remains so present in my life that I can almost smell the blend of Old Spice and cigarettes that surrounded him most of my life.  When I enjoy fresh tomatoes or asparagus, I remember how he loved puttering in his gardens and fussing when we wanted to take the tomatoes before they ripened so that we could indulge our love of fried green tomatoes.  There are so many memories to be cherished.

            My father was a contrarian through and through.  He formed his opinions through his own filters, reading voraciously, listening to what was being said around him and making his own unique judgments.  He had opinions about almost anything one could name and was never shy about sharing his perspectives.  He would often position himself in conversations as the devil's advocate, forcing others to defend their positions.  Their defenses would be tested, because he could wear a saint down before yielding.

`           Some of my earliest memories are of listening to the radio, not just for the dramas and comedies of the day, but for the news as well.  Daddy never censored what we heard there nor did he do so when we got a television. Of course, we were children in the 50s so there weren't many "racy" offerings, but he didn't worry about whether we heard something in the news that might distress us.  He wanted us to be informed.  He expected us to ask questions if we had them and he had answers.

            He was not just a contrarian in words, but in the way he lived his life.  Unable to finish college because of an illness and the financial demands of the Depression, he went to work and tried many jobs, from a brief stint as a jack-of-all-trades at a newspaper to time overseeing a road gang to the one that lasted, a postal service worker moving the mail via the railroad. 

            He was a bachelor until he met my mother and married her when he was in his early 30s.  From the beginning of their marriage, theirs was a partnership in which roles were exchanged according to time available.  She was a working woman most of their years together,  gone from home during the day.  His day often began in the wee morning hours and ended early as well.  Thus, he was the one home when we came in from school. 

            He also cooked and cleaned as needed.  There were few expectations in our home that were based solely on gender.  We were given chores to do and learned the ropes from both parents as both took them on.  Perhaps the only thing I never saw my father do was to iron clothes, but I might just have missed that.  Mama was the more inventive cook, but he enjoyed cooking on the grill and could muster up breakfast, lunch or supper when needed.  He took his cooking skills into his work with the Boy Scouts, always ready to cook over a fire when camping.

            For all his bluster - and there was plenty of that - he was a softie.  He cared about and for people, animals and plants, not because it was expected, but because there was abundant love in his soul.  Like most of us he was not always comfortable with change, not at all sure that  societal and cultural changes were good, especially those of the 60s, those that were affecting the way his children's opinions began diverging from his own.  But he accepted, grudgingly, that he had raised us to think for ourselves.  Even when family bonds were strained by our differences, his love for us was steadfast. 

            On this Father's Day as on all those before, I am grateful for the man I called Daddy.  At least once a day I think of something I would like to ask him or share with him.  And every day I feel the comfort of having him forever in my heart.

           

Thanks to Those Who Have Mothered Me

I have been luckier than many.  I've had four women in my life who have "mothered" me -- given me love and advice, taught me lessons, shown me patience and paved the way for me to become a mother, too.  These women--my mother and the mothers-in-law of two marriages and the older sister who took me under her wing--have given much and made such an impact on my life.

Mama

The mother who bore me gave me her feisty spirit as she pushed and pulled me through childhood.  She knew tough love before they wrote the book. Her intelligence was a beacon and her tireless care a gift for my siblings and me.  The tales of her leaving home and family in Atlanta as a young woman to find work and an independent life in southwest Georgia were part of family lore.  She loved her parents and brothers, but valued her freedom and the possibilities for a career.  She met and married our father.  Their partnership was an example to us all.  Not bound by the "traditional" roles for husband and wife of their era, they were true partners, each strong-willed and outspoken.

She went back to work when I was in elementary school, but there was no sense that we were "latchkey" kids as our father went to work early each day and was home in the afternoons when we came home from school.  Mama was an accomplished cook of southern staples, but counted on Daddy to grill often enough so that we learned our cooking from both of them.  They shared duties around the house and were wise enough to engage we three kids in chores as soon as we were capable of helping out.  For some years, my father's father lived with us, his later life folding seamlessly into our younger ones.  Somehow everybody was fed and clothed, taught to enjoy fun and humor, as well as responsibility.  Looking back, Mama and Daddy's teamwork made it all seem simple when it's clear today that money was tight and our middle-class life didn't happen without struggle.

The mothers-in-law that have enriched my adult life were from my Mama's generation and brought many of the strengths of their time.  These women had experienced the deprivations of the Great Depression and the sacrifices of World War II.  None of them had the advantage of a college education and all had worked to help support their families.  All of them put family first and encouraged their children to value education and a strong work ethic.  My mothers-in-law welcomed me into their homes on the arms of their sons, extending themselves to make me feel welcome and part of the family.  Both became friends to my mother and, interestingly, both became friends with each other.  Long past the end of the first marriage in divorce, my first mother-in-law continued to share her affection with me.

Pat

The fourth mother of my life is my sister, Pat.  Five-and-a-half years old when I was born, she has always been my champion.  She taught me "the ropes" in childhood, motivated me with her grit and determination through my growing up years and has inspired me as a woman.  Always a leader, she shined a light on a path that I have attempted to follow.  It has been an important incentive for me to live up to her example.  She has always made me proud.

In fairness to my four "mothers," I have not been as easy as I might have been to mother.  Whether by genetics or just my own native orneriness, I have challenged them all one way or another.  I have, in fact, resisted all forms of maternal control and admittedly deserve to be seen as the proverbial "ungrateful child" at times.

So on this Mother's Day, I owe them all my gratitude.  Thinking about what they have given me humbles me.  There are lots of schmaltzy greeting card sentiments about mothers that are available in stores.  None of those seem to say enough.  It is not the perfection of a woman that makes her a good mother, but the striving for the best for another.  There is, I think, in that striving, an honest effort to see in one's child his or her particular strengths and needs and guide the child accordingly.  There are no manuals that cover all the particulars of parenting, but I feel lucky that these women and others I've watched and admired, have made their own discoveries, drawn their own maps and given their kids a chance to live happily and successfully.  

So thanks to Mama and to Margaret and to Willie Mae and my dear Pat.  Whatever I am, the brush strokes you've added to the picture of me are the ones that make me better.