LEAVING

The first time I left my mother, I was five years old. She told me I couldn’t go out to play until I picked up my toys. Who could tolerate such treatment?

“I’m running away,” I announced.

“Oh dear, I’ll miss you,” she said, shaking her head, “But if you really want to go, I guess I shouldn’t stop you.”

Mother got my red coat from the closet and tucked my white mittens in a pocket. “You’d better wear these,” she said, “It’s just mid-afternoon, and it’s already chilly out there. It’ll get really cold tonight.” She walked me to the porch, kissed me goodbye and closed the door behind me. I heard the dead bolt slide into place.

Off I stomped. My footsteps slowed, as I passed the house next door. It struck me for the first time that I had no idea where I was headed. After a moment, I turned around. Plopping down on our front steps, I began to consider my immediate future. As the afternoon wore on, I didn’t stir from my spot.

Mrs. Ford, our neighbor, took out her trash and called, “Hi, honey. How you doin’?”

“I’m running away,” I said, and my lips started to tremble.

“You are? Well, I won’t bother you, then,” she said, and went back inside.

As darkness fell, I decided to be generous. I knocked on the door, and when Mother opened it, I strolled past her.

“I’m giving you another chance,” I said, as she wrapped me in a warm hug.

“May I have a kiss then?” she asked. Not yet totally forgiving, I replied, “My kisses haven’t come in today.”

“I love you,” she said, “Come on, the meatloaf’s already on the table.”

After supper, I climbed into her lap and covered her face with kisses. “They just came in,” I explained.

“I’m so glad,” she said, “Now, go and pick up your toys.”

I never ran away again.

But I left, and that’s different. When I left for the first grade. I didn’t have far to go; we lived just across the street from my school. The first day I ran home at lunch, filled with excitement. “Mama! You’ll never guess what’s happened. I can read the words, ‘I can run,’” I shouted.

She enveloped me in a hug. “That’s wonderful!’ she said, “I can’t wait to see what you’ll learn this afternoon.” I hurried back to school. I couldn’t wait to find out either.

Next, I left for college. She waved until my train pulled out of sight. She had helped me pack my bag, and when I got to my destination, I found she had tucked a note among my sweaters. It said, “We’re so proud of you!”

I was beginning to grow up and break away. Yet, when I was lonely, I could phone to hear her voice. Our conversations always ended with, “I love you.” The mail brought peanut butter cookies she had baked, clothes she had made for me, letters full of news from home. I always felt her by my side. Soon after I came home from school, I married and left again to move far away. She remained my touchstone. At first, I phoned to ask trivial things, “Mom, how do you fix that chocolate cake with fudge icing?” She wrote out the recipe and sent it.

Then I phoned to sob out the news that broke my heart. “Mom, I lost the baby.” She came the next day.

Finally, I phoned with words I dreaded to say, “Mom, my marriage is over.” She didn’t pry, assigned no blame. She simply said, “I love you.” I went home to my parents, and got well inside.

Each time I left, she sent me off with a smile and words of encouragement. She never clung, though sometimes she couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes.
I always felt her by my side.

The day came when it was time to leave again. In the past, leaving was a matter of choice, a part of getting on with our lives. Before, I was the one who left. We always knew we’d see each other again soon. Not this time. Mother died ten days after she was diagnosed with cancer. It was not an easy death, but in the midst of pain, she managed to tell me one more time, “I love you.”

I went on living, because that’s what people do. Each morning, I got out of bed and did whatever was necessary. I returned to law school classes, knowing I would soon become an attorney, but that she would not be there to share the day when my dream came true. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t sense my mother by my side.

One evening, as I was going through her things, I found a quotation she had written in the margin of a book, “Love is a very agreeable passion, and sometimes it is stronger than death.” She believed that, and I realized it was true.

Mother never really left. The way she lived her life remains my moral compass. Born to privilege, she didn’t complain when her fortunes changed, but simply dug in and found ways to keep her family happy and secure. During the Great Depression, she stretched our food each day, to save a little for tomorrow. Yet, when those with no food at all came to our door, she passed out sandwiches. With grace, she played the hand life dealt her. Poverty, war, Dad’s death and cancer, she faced them all and managed to find joy, despite them. Her faith in God never wavered.

I see her smile in my memory. I hear the echo of her thoughts in my own. I find her love when I love others. I feel Mother always by my side, for, “Love is a very agreeable passion, and sometimes it is stronger then death.”

WHEN SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS CANCER

I woke that day to wonder if life would ever be the same for either of us. The doctor walked into the room, and I knew that it would not. Dick had esophageal cancer.

Back home again, I scrubbed and dusted and swept. Every room, every corner, frantic to exorcise the word that faced me everywhere I turned. Then, furious at treatment being delayed even a day, a moment, when every hour might count, I dashed from one place to another, collecting records and reports. Because I had to do something, I did a silly thing. I spent $250.00 to buy him gold toe socks, enough to last a lifetime, a normal lifetime, and willed him to need them. He still has loads of unworn socks.

The ghastly statistic echoed in my thoughts. People with esophageal cancer, they said, have a 5% chance of living 5 years! I thought of all the people, warm, alive, also beloved, who would lose the battle. Even though I knew it wasn't the prayer I should say, "Please, God," I prayed, "Please, please, not him."

But Dick said, "If such things must be, well then, why not me? I've been so lucky."

We had been warned about all of the terrifying possible consequences of both chemo and radiation, yet there was no choice but to get on with it.

Dick's throat had closed to the point that he could only swallow liquids, and getting enough nutrition was a challenge. I coaxed endless cans of Ensure down him. He was losing weight and the tumor was growing. I panicked each time he choked.

We pictured the molecules of poison being pumped into his body as little warriors, swords in hand, marching forth to destroy the evil, to wipe out every trace. The radiation, skillfully focused on his tumor, left his back burned and his chest raw. I rubbed them with salve.

Dick made no concessions to the treatment. He went about his life as he always had until the final week of his treatment, when the plunge in his red blood cells sent him to the hospital. His body had reached its limit. We have found a treasure of information and support on the EC-GROUP Digest website as it has grown from nine members when we first found it, to thousands from around the world. To send a message to the list mailto:EC-GROUP@LISTSERV.ACOR.ORG  To reach a list owner mailto:EC-GROUP-REQUEST@LISTSERV.ACOR.ORG  The experience has reminded us how the love of family, the courage with which people face the unthinkable and the triumph of the human spirit is the same among all peoples.

As he underwent the radiation and chemotherapy, Dick uttered no complaint, nothing was altered in his soul. Each day, he simply lived, and trusted that God would provide what he needed for that moment. As I slowly became able, so did I.

Had cancer not invaded our lives, I would never have known what shining courage he has and found yet another reason to love him. I would never have had such vulnerability to lay before him as a gift, loving him completely, heedless of the chance of loss. We would never have known how unimportant most things are, what a treasure each day is, and how blessed we are. We're at 13 1/2 years and fully, joyously, in this moment, living. God has been so good to us.

EDITH HAMILTON

When asked which woman author I most admire, my immediate answer must be, “Edith Hamilton.” There is no contest. Other authors come and go, but her works are classics.

Her book, “The Greek Way,” is one of those few works of literature that was life-changing for me. It draws parallels between who the Greeks were and who we are today, in great measure thanks to them. Hamilton describes the ancient Greek approach to life as “The extraordinary flowering of the human spirit.” The names we have heard all of our lives, Socrates, Themistocles, Homer, come to life, and one understands why they still matter to us today.

Hamilton admired the Greeks’ search for freedom of mind and spirit and their pursuit of excellence. Not only does this book provide an intellectual work-out, the language flows like poetry. It is a gem, a joy to read.

Edith Hamilton was born of American parents in 1867 in Germany. She grew up in Indiana, educated in her early years by her parents. She began learning Latin when she was 7, added French and German, and at the age of eight, she was reading Greek. In 1895, she graduated with an M.A. degree from Bryn Mawr College. She then went to Germany, where she was the first woman to be admitted to the University of Munich.

She returned to become headmistress of Bryn Mawr Preparatory School, a post she held for twenty-six years. Ancient Greeks were the first to recognize the worth of the individual, and Hamilton adopted that philosophy in her job. One of her students called her class, “the crowning intellectual experience of my life.”

Hamilton retired in 1922 and began writing on Greek drama. In 1930, when she was sixty-three, she published “The Greek Way,” her first book. It became an instant classic. It continued to earn many honors. In the 1950s, it was a Book of the Month Club selection. Seven more books followed, which were also highly successful.

In 1957, when she was ninety, Edith Hamilton traveled to Greece, where King Paul presented her with an award and named her an honorary citizen of Athens. She watched as her translation of Aeschylus’ tragedy, “Prometheus Bound,” was performed before the Acropolis.

At home, she was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters and was awarded honorary degrees from four universities.

Edith Hamilton died at the age of ninety-six, one week after completing her book on Plato.

LETTER TO MOM

I’ll always regret that you died so soon and I grew up so late. You were gone before I was able to do things for you that I could have done just a few years later. I could have given you season tickets to Oklahoma football games and pretty dresses in bright colors and a real gold bracelet. I could have taken you with me to see the pyramids of Egypt and Paris ablaze with lights and London on New Year’s Eve, as Big Ben chimed midnight. I thought we had forever.

You were gone before I knew the questions I would one day ache to ask. My life was still so much about me that I never realized how much I didn’t know about you. What were your dreams when you were young? Did you ever love a man other than Dad? What would you have done differently, given a second chance? Who was the person you most admired? I have thousands of questions now, but only you had the answers.

I matured too slowly. When I raised my hand and took my oath as an attorney, you were gone. When I learned that I could be both vulnerable and strong, you were gone. When I helped to build a marriage that has lasted for decades, you were gone. When I wrote books and learned to bake a chocolate cake that is almost as good as yours and found peace within myself, I longed for you to know, but you were gone.

You were gone before I realized what a remarkable woman you were.
Do you remember the day we wanted to buy two ice cream cones at Demar Drug store for a nickel each? We hunted everywhere, but all we could find was nine cents. Somehow, you made that seem funny. We laughed till our sides hurt, and you taught me that sharing a laugh and being with someone you love were the most valuable treasures of all.

Do you remember when I was five and decided to run away? You asked me to pick up my toys before my nap, and I said you were mean and I was leaving. You told me you were sorry to see me go, but if that was what I wanted to do, you wouldn’t stop me. You helped me into my red coat, stuffed mittens in my pocket, hugged me and opened the door. I heard the dead bolt slide into place behind me. I sat on the front steps all afternoon. At dusk, I knocked on the door and said I’d decided to give you another chance. You kissed me, said you were glad I was back and told me to pick up my toys. I learned that running away from problems doesn’t solve them.

Do you remember the day I raced in from first grade, shouting that I could read the words, “I can run?” You listened, and you knew that was important, and you said, “How wonderful! I can’t wait to see what you’ll learn this afternoon.” Your enthusiasm fed my own, and from that day forward, I loved school, loved to learn.

Do you remember the evening during the Depression when a man who was hungry knocked on our door? You fixed him a sandwich. We had hardly any food for the next day, but you said, “I can’t turn away someone who has nothing to eat.” You taught me that, no matter what, you must be able to live with yourself. 

Do you remember when I told you I loved a man, and later when I told you love had ended? You listened, as always, but you never pried, never judged. Your arms just opened wide, and you said, “I love you.” I learned that listening with an open heart is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give, and that love imposes no conditions.
 
My mother has been dead for forty years. I don't know if other people do such things, but I still write letters or talk to her sometimes, and in my heart, I know she hears. I know she is hearing me now.
 
I want to tell her how the sky looks in East Texas on this clear winter night. Showers of stars seem close enough to graze my fingertips. The dark eternity in which they shine makes them gleam that much brighter.

We have come for the weekend to our cabin in the woods by a small lake. From the back deck, I search the heavens. The wind's crisp chill sweeps away whatever separates us from the glow that has traveled thousands of light years to touch us in our time. Away from the city and its lights, alone with the world that God created, it isn't just the stars that seem clearer.
 
Will we ever know how many billions of stars are glittering out there? Are we alone in the universe? Somewhere, amid a million far-off worlds, is there a planet where someone looks toward our sun and asks the same questions?
 
Is there a limit to our universe? And what are our own limits? I don’t believe stretching toward whatever seems beyond our grasp is like trying to touch the stars. I think it is God’s plan for us. The winter sky always leads me to such thoughts.
 
The wind is still now, and the only sounds in the forest are the rustle of some wild creature and the plaintive call of an owl. I snuggle into my warm jacket and breathe deeply, taking in the scent of pines and fallen leaves and wood smoke from the fireplace.

Stars are distant suns, rocks, gas, with no life of their own. I know that. Yet, their truth also lies in the beauty and magic which they own, the possibilities they make us stretch to see.

Looking to the heavens, I feel part of a universe where time and distance have no meaning, where galaxies whirl forth in harmony with God's great plan. You understand it all now, Mom. I can only catch a glimmer, like the light of some far distant star, glimpsed for a moment, that I cannot find again.

I begin to search for a special star, the one that's different. I never learned its name, but we chose it as our own when I was eight. It's not impressive, as stars go. We didn't want to share it, and we thought if we just picked this little minor one, tucked close to the Big Dipper, maybe no one else would claim it. Besides, we could always find it there.

We wished on our star, and you hugged me tight. "Each time you see that star," you said, "each time for all the rest of your life, remember how I love you, and remember I will always be there, watching over you."

Years after you were gone, when I no longer believed stars make wishes come true, I still looked for our star. I find it now once more and smile, comforted, warm in the midst of December.

I started to talk about the sky and what it makes me think and feel, the questions it makes me ask on this winter evening of my life. It led me to our little star and you. So what I really want to talk about isn't the great questions of the universe, but love, which you taught me is its one great answer.

Do you remember how I used to write poems? They were never very good, but you always thought they were wonderful. This is the poem I wrote for you.
 

STAR LIGHT, STAR BRIGHT
 
A small, steady star lights the Heavens,
In a place that knows no lies,
Where I'm a child forever,
And memory never dies.
However far I wander, it never disappears,
And there your love shines, waiting,
True North for all my years.

LETTERS FROM ROSE STREET
 
The following group of letters to friends was written when we moved to Rose Street in Crowley, Texas.
  
A COUPLE OF LIBRARIES AND A WAITRESS IN A DINER
 
Dear friends,
 
If you come to visit us in Crowley, you’ll see a bright purple building on your right, just off Main Street. It isn’t very big, but you can’t miss it. It’s the Public Library.

Crowley Library . but not for long!

One of the first elections the town held after we moved here was to decide whether to build a bigger, better library. The vote was yes, and a big painted sign in the librarian’s front yard said, “Thank you, Crowley!” I knew we’d love it here.
 
People who treasure books know the importance of ideas. Tyrants have always feared books, because they understood power of the written word to change minds and inspire people to take action.
 
People who cherish books place a high value on educating their children. They build for the future. The summer reading program here in our library is one of its proudest accomplishments.
 
People who love books are citizens of a civilized society. It’s true today, and it has always been.. The Great Library at Alexandria in Egypt, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, held hundreds of thousands of volumes. It was among man’s greatest achievements before the time of Christ. The burning of the library was one of the tragedies of the ancient world, which scholars mourn to this day.
 
The crisp paper of a new book, it’s ink-not-quite-dry smell, it’s never-opened cover hold the promise of a new adventure, new insight, the discovery of new friends. A worn, marked book, often read over time, is an old companion. Dependable, familiar, it still holds the capacity for surprise.
 
Penny’s Diner in Hearne, about halfway between Houston and Crowley, is an old-fashioned silver diner, looking like something out of the fifties. They make a scrumptious hamburger, and we stopped there the other day.
 
I began talking with the waitress. A thin woman in her thirties, she wore a bright pink Penny's shirt and cap. She told me she was from Bremond, just down the road.
 
"It only has 800 people," she said. Then she gave me a big grin, "But we have a library!"

I expressed amazement that such a small town would have its own library.
 
"Well, we just have seventeen books," she admitted, "But we'll get more. We have to start somewhere."
 
She said she still has to come to Hearne's library when she wants to pick up a book to read. I asked what kinds of books she likes.
 
"Not romance novels! They're just a waste of time. I like learnin' books," she said, "Learnin' is more fun than anything.”
 
My visit with her had me smiling all afternoon. I decided on our next trip, I’d pick a few books to add to the shelves of the Bremond Public Library. What happened was my writing club took the library as a project, and we collected over 300 books to add to their shelves. A few of us took them to Bremond, and what fun we had! We even made the Bremond newspaper.
 
If you don’t have a card for your local library, I urge you to get one. Learning really is more fun than almost anything.
 
Love,
Ramona
 
 

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
A CHANGE OF SEASONS
 
Dear Friends,

 Fall is almost here. Dick laughs and shakes his head when I say that. He points to the thermometer, which still hovers in the nineties any time after noon. I don’t care. Trust me on this, I know such things. Summer is just about over.

A hint of coolness in the air, early in the morning and at dusk, says autumn. The birds know. Their babies have left the nest, and the adults seem to be just hanging around, gathering strength for a long flight south. They remind me of guests, lingering after the party is over, hating to leave, because it has been so much fun. The trees know. A few of their leaves are starting to lose their lush, deep green. Days are growing shorter.

I’m excited about the coming of fall. I want to see the leaves of our big sycamore all golden and bright as the sunlight itself. I want to put away the tired cottons of summer and unpack colorful sweaters and wool pants. I want to turn on a TV one evening and be greeted by something other than re-runs and movies like “Revenge of the Nerds II.”

Soon it will be football weather, and I can root for the Crowley Eagles, the high school team whose stadium is only a couple of blocks away. Everyone is pulling for them. They may have a chance to win the state championship this year, but in any event, they’ll be fun to watch.

Skies are never as blue as they are in October. It’s a time of harvest, of gathering the fruits of your labor, to use and enjoy. It’s a time to hope for a chilly evening, when you can light the first fire of the season in the fireplace.

But right now, I will enjoy the last days of summer. I will listen to the cooing of the doves early in the morning. I will let Greta romp outside in the sprinkler, even if she does get muddy. Before I say goodbye to summer, I need to paint the glider in the back yard. I’ve been meaning to do that ever since I bought the can of bright green paint last spring. I need to eat lots more cantaloupes and plums and watermelons. Nothing ever tastes quite so much like heaven as a sweet, fresh peach. Before you know it, they’ll all disappear for another year. We need to cook more hamburgers on the grill and have the family over to share them. When summer ends, not sooner, and not later, it will be time to move ahead to fall.

I had a friend named Ella, who was the happiest person I have ever known. Her hours seemed to sing with joy. I asked what it was that made her so relish every day of her life.

She told me, “Why, I guess it’s just that I always live this moment, not the last one, and not the one to come. Each time, each season of our lives offers its own blessings. I don’t waste my days longing for yesterday. I don’t wish away today, waiting for what tomorrow will bring.”

Ella aged gracefully. She always kept her zest for life. And she remained an active participant in whatever each new moment brought until the end. I think she was a very wise woman.

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
DICK'S REUNION
 
Dear Friends,
 
Dick just got home from his fifty-fifth high school reunion. He visited
with people he hadn't seen for decades. Then he drove around Tulsa, to
see the houses where he grew up, his old neighborhood and his schools.
The changes in people and places shocked him. He said he couldn't wait to
return to Rose Street. I know how he felt.
 
Thomas Wolfe was right. You can't go home again. But if you could, what
place would you pick?
 
In the late 1930s, my folks rented the upper floor of a house on
Fourteenth Street from Miss Hostettler, for $22.00 a month. I was five.
We lived there ten years.
 
As you entered, the stairway led up to a landing with a stained glass
window, the only one I'd ever seen outside of church. At sunset, when
mother called me in from play, the sunlight shining through the glass
cast rainbows on the stairs.
 
One bedroom was Grandma's. At night, she pummeled her plump feather bed to its greatest height and eased into its depths. In the morning, she
covered it with the wedding ring bedspread she had sewn with even, barely
visible stitches.
 
When she came to live with us after Grandpa died, she brought along a
square black clock, which she wound every evening. Its chimes marked the
hours of our lives.
 
The other bedroom was Mom and Dad's. They had to rent it out once in a
while to get the money for Miss Hostettler. Then they slept on an iron
bed in the dining room. Their closet was small, but their clothes never
filled it.
 
I slept in the living room on the rollaway bed. On cold winter nights,
Mom would heat a brick, wrap it in a towel, and tuck it next to my feet
to keep me warm. We stored the rollaway in the big walk-in closet at the
top of the stairs.
 
My dresses hung there in a neat row. Mom made them from flowered feed
sacks Dad brought home from the store where he worked. She often sewed
until late at night, trimming them with rickrack, so they'd be pretty.
 
Once, she bought some pure white organdy to make a pinafore for me. I
liked to look at it, hanging slightly apart, and touch the tiny pink
flowers she embroidered across its ruffles. On the special days that I
wore it, Mom tied a pink taffeta bow in my hair.

When I wanted to be alone, I perched atop the rollaway, pulled the chain
to turn on the light bulb and closed the closet door. In my private
world, I cut out paper dolls and read "Big Little Books" and dreamed.
Dusty, the little dog of questionable origin I brought home from the
SPCA, usually squeezed in beside me.
 
Every summer afternoon, Mom made a pallet of quilts for me on the living
room floor, and I took a nap. A light breeze stirred the curtains at the
open windows and "Claire de Lune" drifted in from the soap opera on the
radio next door as I fell asleep.
 
An old Steinway piano stood in the corner of the living room, a carryover
from pre-depression years. Dad could never afford lessons, but he played
by ear. Lifting his hands high, he pounded out "Turkey in the Straw" and
"Red Wing" and "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain." I sat on the bench
beside him, singing along to hymns like "The Old Rugged Cross," learned
on Sundays at the Olivet Baptist Church.
 
Mom did our washing on a scrub board, filling two big tubs with water,
which sometimes splashed onto the linoleum floor. She added Ivory flakes
to one tub, and used the other to rinse. After wringing out the wash by
hand, she carried it downstairs to the clothesline. When everything
smelled sweet and fresh from drying in the sun, she carried it back
upstairs and sprinkled it for ironing. She pressed everything, from dish
towels to clothes, with a heavy iron that she could only turn on or off.
 
At the round kitchen table, covered with oilcloth, we played Old Maid or
Monopoly or Chinese Checkers. We'd gather around the radio to laugh at "Fibber McGee and Molly" or to hear Mr. Roosevelt speak. After his fireside chats, we said our bedtime prayers, reassured by the knowledge that he was in charge of the country. It was there that we heard him declare war on Japan, after the Pearl Harbor attack. The news of his death shocked everyone. Somehow, we never thought of him as mortal.
 
When the war ended, it was there that we learned the news.
 
Grandma did most of the cooking, and I often came home from school to the smell of chocolate cupcakes baking. I knew she'd made them just for me.
 
She canned green beans and corn relish and piccalilli, and when the man
who sold big, purple concord grapes in wooden baskets came to our door,
she made jam and jelly.
 
Dad worked at the grocery store his uncle owned, and there was always
food in our cupboards, though sometimes it was pretty basic.
 
We dyed eggs at Easter and made presents for each other at Christmas. We celebrated holidays joyously. The fact that money to observe them was
scarce just didn't matter.
 
Dad earned $250 a month. Mother's salary was even less. Grandmother's
monthly Old Age Assistance check was $12.00. Out of that, she took care
of her own needs and remembered us on holidays. On my birthday, she
always folded a crisp dollar bill inside a card and made an angel food
cake with creamy white frosting and candles.
 
Years after I was the only one left, I went back to see the house. Its
paint was peeling, its banisters sagged, and it was being used as a day
care center. A decade later, I returned one more time. Only a vacant lot
remained. Today, a playground sits where the house once stood.
 
Nothing stays the same. Just as people die, the passage of years changes
places, and they no longer exist as you knew them. The time that was is
gone, too, and even the person you once were is no more. Time's one gift
to keep is memory.
 
And it is there that I still see Mom bending down to tuck me in, as I go
to sleep. And hear the echoes of "Red Wing." And smell cupcakes baking. I
still find my way home to those I loved, through the rainbows on the
stairs.
 
But that is the past, alive only in memory. This is today. I'm so grateful to have Dick home again and to be sharing moments and hours of this day with him.

Love,

Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

A BED FOR JAKE

Dear Friends,

Jolly Jake arrived in our household this week. Lord help us.

Our German shepherd, Greta, had been part of a nightly play session with neighbor dogs before we moved from Houston. We thought she must be lonely without others of her kind around. It was easy to see that she missed friends and familiar surroundings, because we were feeling the same way. We decided she needed us to find her a pal.

We asked Dr. Ogden, our vet, whether he had any idea where we might find an older male dog, fully grown, who probably wouldn’t be adopted, unless by us. It just so happened he had one at his office. The people at the local pound had a full house, but they had fallen in love with this guy and refused to put him down. Instead, they were giving him a temporary stay by boarding him at the vet’s and hoping for a miracle. The women at the vet’s office babbled about the dog. “He’s such a jolly fellow,” said one.

The vet encouraged us to take the dog, who, he said, was, “about a year old.” But he assured us, “he’s full grown.” Maybe, but this sixty pound dog is pure puppy, with all of the traits of a three-month-old. He’s a load. If he does grow any more, he may resemble Howard Huge. The vet thinks he’s part Rhodesian Ridgeback. I can’t help thinking “a cross between Marmaduke and a Great Dane.” Whatever, we fell for him.

The pound had us fill out an application comparable to one the government probably requires of applicants for a job at the Pentagon. When the inspector came over to check us, our house and our fence, I was downright nervous, but we passed. We headed straight for the vet’s to collect the newly examined and vaccinated dog and named him Jolly Jake. There was no turning back. He became the fourth member of the pack along with Dick, Greta and me.

Jake’s start with us was a little rocky. With a mighty, playful bound, he knocked Dick flat. Another bounce, and he was walking around on the dining room table. Ingenuous as only a puppy can be, he came strutting in to bring us clothes from the laundry, papers from my desk, treasures from the trash can and anything else that fell within his extensive reach. The good thing is, once told “no,” he hasn’t brought the same thing twice. The bad thing is, you have no idea how many different items his explorations have brought to light.

Our kids are giving us long, solemn looks. After all, we are retirees, in our seventies, and we should have better sense than to take on this big hunk of a dog at this point in our lives. We tell them . "Sure, age and illness may affect us , but right now the four of us have each other."

We tell ourselves, if we hadn’t taken Jake, maybe no one would have been there for him. The pound had received no inquiries. No one had come looking for him. Even though we’ve known him such a short time, thinking about what might have happened to him breaks our hearts. Cornell School of Veterinary Science estimates that over twelve million healthy dogs and cats must be euthanized annually in the United States. Over 56% of dogs and puppies that enter shelters are killed.

It isn’t as if we don’t know what it means to bring a dog into our home and our hearts. We’ve always had dogs, and each has brought us great joy. That’s why we’re willing to accept what we know from the beginning -- that like the others, Jake will be given just a few short years to live and that losing him will bring us shattering pain.

Greta isn’t certain yet about Jake. The two of them play until they’re exhausted, but she seems downcast, as if she isn’t certain how his addition affects her position in the family. We keep assuring her that we love her as much as ever. She is being a perfect lady about the whole thing, but when Jake took over her bed, that was a little much. They’ll work it out, and soon, they will be friends. We’re off to Petsmart to buy a second bed.

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

OUR NEW DEPENDENTS

Dear Friends;

We have a whole new group of dependents. Doves as big as pigeons, sparrows, blue jays and cardinals all have discovered the bird feeder on our back deck. They empty its contents in a day. Then they fluff out their feathers and settle down on the railing below, silently demanding that we come and fill it again. They look so reproachful that I swear we are beginning to feel guilty each time the food is gone. I'm off to the store in a few minutes to buy more bird seed. Surely, others around the neighborhood have bird feeders, so I don't know why the entire avian population of this end of the county insists upon perching on our fence. Actually, I'm glad they have come to visit, but I can't help wondering if anyone has ever gone broke trying to keep a bird feeder filled.

It's such a temptation to rush spring, when trees are budding out, and everywhere the earth seems to be stirring again, ready to burst with new life. Our grandchildren were over a few days ago and helped me plant a few little miniature roses and shamrocks and yellow marigolds in the front yard around a bird bath. But it has dropped below freezing the last couple of nights, so I'm wary of doing any serious planting yet.

Dick and I have a new hairdresser, (the same one----you don't have a wide choice in Crowley), and she has decked us both out with new, shorter hair cuts. We'll present a downright spiffy appearance for Easter. We'll be joining the rest of the family for lunch and an Easter egg hunt after church on Easter Sunday. I haven't dyed Easter eggs in decades, but it looks as if I'm about to try my hand at it again.

Speaking of which, I hope the coming spring is a time of renewal and joy for you, that any little green things you put into the earth grow, and that you have someone to share an Easter egg hunt.

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

FISHING

Dear  Friends;

Since we moved here, I’ve been complaining that we never go fishing any more, and today the moment had come. Dick spent an hour yesterday untangling fishing tackle that hadn’t been used in years, and this morning I made us a picnic lunch of tuna sandwiches, baked beans, chips and cookies.

Fifteen minutes away is Rocky Creek Park on Lake Benbrook. As we drove the winding country road that leads to the park, I chattered away, my mood soaring. The nice old gentleman who opens the gate to the park waved us through without even charging us.

We found a perfect spot, where a small creek feeds the lake, and set up our chairs beneath some trees at water’s edge. It felt like spring. I took deep breaths of air that smelled of earth and green grass. Cardinals flew between trees, mockingbirds sang, and hawks circled above. The sky was deep blue, brushed with soft white clouds. Dick spotted deer tracks. Far from houses and cars and people and close to nature, my spine unshriveled.

Casting a lure is something you never forget how to do. We fished for about an hour, and never got a strike. It didn’t matter. Fishing isn’t really about catching fish anyway. My stomach was growling, and it was picnic time.

We drove to a different area of the park, thinking the fish might be biting better there. By the time our lunch was laid out on the table, the gentle breeze had turned into a gale. But as Dick said, “I can stand it if you can.” The peaches I brought were tasteless, we were freezing, and things kept blowing off the table. Dick scurried to retrieve them as they blew into the edge of the lake. The final indignity came when his paper plate went sailing into him, covering him from shirt pocket to pants with gooey baked beans. We knew when we were defeated and retreated to the car. We got out the Oreo cookies, sat munching them, and laughed and laughed. What a great morning! We may go again tomorrow. If there’s no wind, that is.

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
SUNDAY AFTERNOONS AND PEACH ICE CREAM
 
Dear friends,
 
Sunday afternoons in the summer, years ago when I was a child, we sometimes made ice cream.
 
Fresh peach was everybody’s favorite flavor. Grandmother peeled the fruit and cut it into small pieces. Mother made a thick, creamy custard, stirring constantly to be sure it didn’t stick to the pan. When it coated the spoon to her satisfaction, Dad took over.
 
He poured the sweet mixture into a metal can, inside a green wooden bucket. I held the screen door open, and he carried the freezer to the back steps, where the melting ice could run off into the grass. He packed ice and rock salt around the can and fastened the lid. Then, I began cranking the handle and watching the can move round and round. The ice crunched and clacked and grated as it started to turn the sweet liquid inside into ice cream. Water from the melting ice trickled out a hole on the side of the bucket, and Dad fed more cubes into the freezer.
 
As I turned the crank from my seat on the steps, I could smell the roses and honeysuckle that grew just outside the window. The cicadas hummed and the sun beat down. I hunted for a piece of ice not covered with salt and sucked on it to feel cooler. The crank turned easily at first, but it grew harder and harder o move, until finally, Dad had to finish the job,
 
Later, when the ice cream had a chance to harden, we got bowls from the cupboard and spooned them full to the brim. The first taste was always so cold it gave me a headache. I held the rich sweetness in my mouth as it melted, and savored every delicious bite. It was worth each crank of the handle.
 
Summer still means homemade ice cream to me. Dick and I have an old freezer, which we haven't used in years. Life was just too busy for a while. We dug it out of the garage a few days ago and found it had a part missing. After hunting everywhere, we gave up. No problem. We’d just buy a new one.
 
Wal-Mart and Lowe's both had only an odd-looking round machine, which bore no resemblance to the ice cream freezer we had in mind. It was not a freezer, but an "ice cream maker," which might turn out a pint or so on a good day. We were beginning to get the idea that Braum’s and Marble Slab have replaced ice cream of the homemade variety. Kmart was our next stop. A perky young woman said they had dozens of ice cream freezers until a few days ago. She added that they sent them back to the warehouse, because they were a seasonal item. What could we say? Privately, we wondered when the season for making ice cream might be, if not now.
 
We were determined to press on. Someone, somewhere, must have the freezer we wanted. Once, that would have meant a tour of every likely retail establishment in a fifty-mile radius. But we live in the 21st century. Dick resorted to today’s most amazing resource, the Internet. And there he found a little hardware store in Indiana, which had exactly what we were looking for. They packed the freezer and sent it on its way to Rose Street.
 
We live in an incredible time, one that would have been impossible to imagine on those summer afternoons so long ago. Today, the freezer arrived at our front door. Next Sunday afternoon, the kids are coming over, and we'll make ice cream. Fresh peach, I think.
 
Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

THE GATES OF TIME
 
Dear friends,
 
Last weekend, Dick and I drove up to Oklahoma City for the first time in a number of years. I wanted to see the spot where the Murrah Building had been and the memorial that stands there now. In the wake of September 11th, it’s easy to forget the victims of the first awful act of terror in our country, but not once you have seen the site where it happened.

On a sunny, bright morning, April 19, 1995, a man named Timothy McVeigh parked a yellow Ryder truck filled with explosives outside the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City and walked away.

In a nearby day care center, children were being given orange juice. At the church across the way, the organist was practicing. In the offices of the Murrah Building, co-workers were meeting to make decisions, and visitors were being assisted with their requests. It seemed a normal day.

The time was 9:01, and those are the numbers carved on the monumental stone gate by which you enter the Oklahoma City Memorial. It is the first of twin gates known as the Gates of Time.

At 9:02, a mighty explosion ripped through the Murrah building, tore it apart and shook stores and offices for blocks around. The day care center was demolished. The church was damaged. And people died.

Decent people everywhere were in anguish. That grief was written on the face of a fireman, whose picture appeared worldwide. Tears ran down his cheeks, as he carried the body of a little girl from the rubble of the day care center.

Oklahoma City is not very big, and almost everyone knew someone who died or was hurt. If not, they had friends who did. I grew up there, and even after I left and years passed, it seemed like home. For me, the town and its people stood as proof that there was still a safe, secure place, deep in our heartland. There, the important values never changed and the smiles were open and real. How could such a vicious attack come in this place, against these people?

I searched the list of the victims, and a couple of names seemed familiar, but I wasn’t sure. Still, these were the sort of people who lived in the happy memories of my childhood. Maybe they were even some of the same people. I had to return to see the memorial for myself and to stand silent before it.

As you pass through the first gate, you face in the distance its twin, with this difference: the numerals carved on the second stark structure are 9:03.

Forever frozen in 9:02, the minute between the two Gates of Time, lies a field of 168 empty stone chairs. Each is set on a crystal base, into which is carved the name of the one who died. The nineteen small chairs are those of the children. Nearby is a reflecting pool of gently flowing water. Across the way, the Survivor Tree, an American Elm, rises as a profound symbol of the indestructible human spirit.

The tragedy that took place here should have alerted us. It should have made us realize that even here in America, safety can never be taken for granted. There is no inviolate haven. It should have warned us that we live in a world that is different now.

I walked out of the gate and saw, stretching a block on either side, the memorial fence. Hung in profusion along its length I saw intimate, wrenching tokens of grief: photographs, an OU Sooners cap, flowers, jewelry, trinkets whose significance was known only to the ones who left them there and the ones who were lost.

I wrote a verse to leave on the fence:

In a world where they are left without you,
They will go on, for people do,
Get up tomorrow, work and live
And give what love they have left to give.
And the years may ease their hearts’ deep ache,
But this is true, make no mistake,
Never, for anyone, nevermore,
Can anything be as it was before.
 
Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
I REMEMBER PORCHES
 
Dear Friends,
 
Dick and I are really getting into the swing of things. Do you remember front porches? Well, we have one. It's not very big, but it’s definitely a front porch. It has room to sit and watch the world go by. But then, everybody has a front porch in Crowley. And they all sport green or white lawn chairs. A few even have swings. And people sit on them. Neighbors wander by and sit for a while to talk. We bought a pair of green Adirondack chairs and joined the crowd.
 
One of my earliest memories is of falling off a banister on Grandmother's front porch in Missouri. Mrs. Forrester, who lived next door, promptly soothed my skinned knee and injured dignity with homemade peanut butter cookies. Mrs. Forrester would be astounded to know that she and her cookies have lived so long in my memory. It's strange and downright unpredictable, the little things we remember.
 
Porches were part of my life as I grew up. Our porch was our refuge in the ‘30s and ’40s, when people believed air conditioned houses were about as likely as flying to the moon. We thought they might both be possible sometime in the distant future.
 
Oklahoma summers were not for the faint of heart. On sweltering August nights, Mom and Dad and I sat on our porch, rocked in the swing and watched the fireflies. And we talked, the way people did then, before TV and computers, before everybody led such busy lives. We fanned ourselves with cardboard fans that had ads on the back and a picture of Jesus on the front, which we got at church.
 
Sometimes, when I was little, Mom turned on the hose and let me play in the water. I ran back and forth, splashing and giggling, till I was soaked to the skin. It was pure pleasure. We finally went inside, when a breeze stirred, and it was cool enough to sleep.
 
We had the last front porch that I remember when I was a teenager. It was a special porch. There, in our swing, Ron Pitts gave me my first real kiss. We were in love, oblivious to everything but one another, and soft spring nights were made for us. We walked to DeMar drug store, two blocks way, for chocolate sodas. Then we came back to sit on the porch and dream and kiss until we were dizzy. It never went beyond that, because I was a "Good Girl." Besides, we were right there on the front porch, and who knew when Mom or Dad were peeking out the window at us.
 
Now at last, here I am with a porch again, and I feel as if I have come full circle. But I don't think Dick and I will sit out there and kiss until we're dizzy. The neighbors would consider that suspicious behavior. Come to think of it, I haven't noticed any teenagers kissing on a porch lately, either. What a shame!
 
Love,
 
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
LILACS AND MORGEN’S ROSE
 
Dear friends,
 
I’ve been planting things. I had forgotten, if I ever knew, how satisfying it is to watch things you put into the soil grow and blossom.
 
Our grandchildren came over to help me set out marigolds and mock roses and shamrocks around a concrete bird bath in our front yard. We dug and planted till we were all dirty from head to toe. What fun, especially with them beside me.
 
Earlier, I bought two lilac bushes, and the man at the nursery promised me they will thrive and bloom in our little North Texas town. That may not sound like a big deal, but when we moved to Houston 35 years ago, I learned lilacs would not grow there, and I have longed for them ever since.
 
I remember a beautiful spring day when I was a little girl in Oklahoma. Mom and Dad and I drove out into the country to buy some eggs from a lady who lived there. While they talked with her, I played outside. Birds were singing, and some robins were building a nest. At the corner of the house, I discovered a huge lilac bush, loaded with purple blooms. I had never seen such beautiful flowers, and I crawled up as close as I could beneath the branches, just to sit and breathe their perfume. When my folks were ready to leave, the lady cut a couple of lilacs from the bush and gave them to me. I buried my face in them, drinking in their fragrance all the way home. It was a perfect day, and I can picture it as if it were yesterday.
 
Maybe my passion for lilacs began then. Ed, our yard man, helped me plant the white bush in the front yard, just outside my window, where I can keep an eye on it. The purple one is by the deck inn the back. I can barely wait to see if they bloom in the spring.
 
Ed also helped me plant Morgen’s Rose. I once had a German Shepherd named Morgen. We have always had dogs, and I have always loved our pets. But Morgen was special. Gentle and loving, he was also intelligent, and how he loved to play. His universe revolved around me.
 
Ending his life when he was old and sick and couldn’t walk was the only kind thing I could still do for him. But it was so hard. We buried his ashes beneath the tree in our back yard, where he had often played. That was more than a decade ago.
 
A year ago, I noticed a little green twig, forcing its way up through the bark around the base of the tree, where we had left Morgen’s ashes. As it grew, we realized it was a rose. We had no idea where it came from, because a rose had never been there. But it just kept growing. A wild rose? Perhaps. But I think of it as a gift from Morgen. When we moved to Rose Street, I refused to leave it behind. Dick dug it up and it traveled north with us. It is a hardy plant. Snow covered it in January and the August sun beat down on it.

Yet, today it is nearly twice as big as when we came here. Don’t you love things that endure? They reassure me and make my heart glad.
 
Love,
Ramona
 
 

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

MOVING

Dear friends,

Dick, and I often wind up doing things backward. When they retire, most people move from a house to a townhouse. After thirty five years, we sold our townhouse in Houston and bought a small house in the north Texas town of Crowley. We wanted to be closer to our kids, and we are now about fifteen minutes from them. Close, but not TOO close.

908 Rose Street

We found a house on two-block-long Rose Street.. The brick houses are small, but well kept, with lots of tall trees and carefully tended yards. We had the feeling that no one moves away very often.

Because the townhouse sold far sooner than we expected, I had no time to be scared. Since we were so rushed, we also were really disorganized. Without a plan, we just flailed about, putting out fires as they erupted. As a result, we made far more work for ourselves than necessary.

If we ever move again, and I can’t imagine offhand what could possibly induce us to do that, I’d do some things differently.

As I got ready to move, I'd look at all of my belongings . If an item once belonged to someone I loved, or that person gave it to me, I’d keep it. If an item reminded me of a time or a place that made me smile, I’d keep it. If the item made my life easier, if I used it with some frequency, I’d keep it.. If I REALLY didn't want to live without it, for whatever crazy reason, I’d keep it.

Then, I'd look at all of the things I'd been hanging on to, intending that they go to the kids "some day." Unless I still wanted to use them myself, I'd call the kids before I moved and say, "Some day is now. Come and get this stuff." I did that, but AFTER we moved. Additional work.

I’d check with Dick to be sure he didn’t want anything I was discarding Then I’d give everything that was left to the Salvation Army, sell it or throw it away. We’re STILL getting rid of things, and that's after we packed and unpacked and found a spot to keep or store them. We created all of that extra work for nothing.

We got rid of tons of stuff, and the thing is, I can't think of a single item we disposed of that I miss.

I'd have someone take measurements, so we could figure out, before we moved, where we wanted every piece of furniture to be placed. We were so hurried that we couldn't do that, and after the movers left, we were shoving stuff from one corner of the room to another for days.

I'd have someone watch the movers closely enough to be sure that they packed and labeled things in a way that made sense.. We didn't do that, and the results were bizarre. I had no idea what they meant in 90% of their labeling efforts. So when they came pouring into the new house asking, "Where does this box go?" I had no idea. The result was, 128 boxes were stacked on top of each other in the guest room and the garage and the kitchen Until we opened them, we had no idea what they contained. For some unfathomable reason, I even found one of my shoes and kitchen pans in the same box. Garden tools showed up with spices,

The great thing is, no one is holding a stop watch on us as we get settled. There are still things we want to do to the house, but we’re taking our time. The bottom line is, it has all been so worth the effort. We love our new life here.

My mother’s name was Rose. The first time we turned onto Rose street, I seemed to feel a gentle shove from her, a whisper that said, “This is right for you both. Go for it.”

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
REMEMBERING SEPTEMBER 11TH
 
Dear friends,
 
Our little neighborhood wears its heart on its sleeve, (or maybe its front porch.) I'll bet you won't find more flags flying proudly on any two blocks in the country than on tiny Rose Street in Crowley, Texas. Maybe as many flags waved over our land before September 11th, but I don't remember that being so.
 
It's been almost a year since that unspeakable tragedy, and I've been thinking about it a lot recently. The astonishment and grief we felt have eased with time. We have changed some.
 
We're a young nation as nations go. Like young people, our young country had the charm of innocence, the naive belief that we were invulnerable. We took for granted that we were secure from attack in our own back yard. We never were, and we know that now. We have changed. We won't ever again believe that death and destruction can't touch us here. We're spending billions on security, trying to regain a sense of safety in our homeland, but we can never spend enough to buy it back.
 
We have always thought of ourselves as the good guys. No, we have BEEN the good guys. Like children, our young nation couldn't accept the idea that anyone could hate us enough to strike such a devastating blow. We learned differently. Finding ourselves the focus of such venom sobered and saddened and bewildered and angered us. We have changed. We look at strangers more closely now. We are wary of large crowds. We are patient about standing in line for security checks; we welcome them. But we have become far less patient with corporate thieves and lying politicians. We have no stomach for them in today's world. They have no place in this country.
 
We were shocked into looking more closely at what matters to us most. We felt a new surge of love and a new desire to protect what we hold precious and irreplaceable. For the majority of us, that means family. That prompted our move from Houston, where we had lived thirty-four years to this little north Texas town. We wanted to be closer to our kids. We have circled the wagons, drawn closer to those we love.
 
We treasure more than ever the gift of friendship. Our eyes fill with tears when someone sings “The Star-Spangled Banner." It reminds us of the image of firemen raising our flag above smoking ruins. It calls forth the passionate pride we feel at being Americans. We vow a deeper commitment to those values which are at the core of our nation and of ourselves as individuals. We turn more often to our faith in God.
 
We have redefined our heroes, looking for courage and compassion, not celebrity. We no longer have the marks of a young nation. We have grown up. We discovered in ourselves a strength we didn't know we had, a fearsome resolve that no one and nothing shall defeat us. We became sadder, wiser, more determined. We refused to be intimidated. We board airplanes. We go to football games. We are getting on with our lives.
 
We reclaimed a unity we had forgotten that we owned. An attack on New York and Washington was an attack on Denver and Miami and Topeka and Los Angeles, too. On that terrible day, we wept as one people. Young and old, we clung to one another. Rich and poor, we refused to be destroyed. Black and white, we raised our voices together and sang of the love we share for this blessed land, this diverse, quarrelsome experiment in freedom for all, this big, beautiful country that is our home. Nowhere are voices more proudly raised than here on Rose Street. God Bless America! And God bless Americans, every one of us.
 
Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
GRADUATION
 
Dear friends,
 
We had, what for us, was a unique experience last night. Our step-great-grandson, David, was graduating from Glen Rose High School, and we went to his commencement. Glen Rose is a small and very Texas town. There was an invocation and a benediction. (They never heard that the Supreme Court said you can’t do that, and if they did know, they just ignored it.) Before each prayer, they announced, "Gentlemen, please remove your hats." Baseball caps and cowboy hats came off immediately.
 
Hats play an important role in this North Texas culture. Baseball caps are worn by working men, cowboy hats by everybody else. It starts before puberty. I have the impression that in some cases, they are worn to bed and in the shower. Hats almost seem to be a symbol of manhood in these parts.
 
The school board members were introduced, together with the announcement of their church affiliation, (if not Baptist, certainly Methodist). I'm not sure members of other faiths are permitted to remain in town overnight.
 
They did have a single black kid in the graduating class, obviously the star of the football team. They announced he was going on to college on a football scholarship.
 
One moment left me with tears in my eyes. The legislature passed a law letting schools award a high school diploma to veterans who left high school to join the service before they graduated. In 1944, a Glen Rose man left the high school to enlist in the army. Last night, 58 years later, he received his diploma. His granddaughter, a member of this year's graduating class, helped him into his gown and placed the cap on his head. His son-in-law, a member of the school board, handed him his diploma. The crowd gave him a long, standing ovation.
 
The community seems to be a close-knit one, where the parents and grandparents of many seniors are Glen Rose alums.
 
I liked one feature of the commencement. As each senior walked across the stage, the principal read a short description of the graduate's future plans. The great majority were going on to college, almost always in Texas. Some were headed to trade schools, and a few were ready to leave for military service. Only one graduate wanted to be a lawyer, and one a doctor. I loved the kid who planned to become "A famous novelist." Who knows, maybe he will.
 
The principal said had a list of what he wished for each of them. He led the list with, "A warm,. supportive relationship with someone you love," and went on to, "work that brings you joy," and "balance in your life'" and "something you believe in enough to die for it, if need be." I would second that, wouldn’t you?
 
All across the state last night, seniors were leaving the protected environment of childhood to move on to the futures awaiting them. Like relatives and friends of each of them, I felt a surge of sadness that the little boy I knew has grown so tall, and a sense of pride in the sweet, decent young man he has become. And I knew a moment of fear for him, now that he is ready to pass into adulthood. But that is the natural and right order of things, and none of us would want it any other way. Life moves on, and a new group of freshmen is just starting high school.
 
Love,
 
Ramona
 
 
 
  
LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
DEBTS AND DUTIES JULY FOURTH
 
Dear friends,
 
What a debt we owe to the courageous founders of our country! But not only to them. How much we owe all of those who, throughout the ages, have defended the ideal of freedom with "their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor."
 
It was such a long time ago, and those people were so far away, that we sometimes forget it was the Greeks, in the 5th century B.C., who fought the first of mankind's battles for freedom. To a man, they sacrificed their lives at Thermopolae, delaying the Persians long enough for Greece to prepare for the battle of Salamis. There they soundly defeated the mighty king from the east. It was new to the world then, this novel idea for which they gave their lives. They died to protect the dignity and worth of the individual and the right of men to live free. Had they not been willing to pay the high price for what they believed in, the concept of freedom might have vanished from the earth. Think how different our lives would be today.
 
Our own grandfathers and fathers spilled their blood in trenches and foxholes and jungles around the world to hold fast to the ideals the founding fathers of our country gave us. Our young still go forth to stand in harm's way, that freedom may live. We are a generous and compassionate people, and we believe not only in our own right to be free, but in that same right for everyone, everywhere. We know that no man's freedom is assured, until freedom is a reality for all men, and so we fight for the freedom of others, as well as our own.
 
The magnificent courage of all who have stood watch over our liberty demands our gratitude and our respect. Heroes have always stepped forward when we needed them. Thank God for them.
 
But I believe we ordinary Americans play our own roles in preserving our liberty. Each time we get out in the rain to go vote. Each time we serve on a jury, when we'd rather be elsewhere. Each time we speak out in public, when we know others will disagree with our opinions. Each time we participate in the activities of our community. Each time we reach out to help someone less fortunate. Each time we teach our children to judge others as individuals, not members of a group. Each time we embrace and live the truth that every individual has the right to choose his own pathway to God, or even to choose no pathway at all. Each time we exercise the freedoms this country bestows upon us, we strengthen the American Dream. Such little day-to-day acts by people throughout our land keep democracy alive.
 
I wish you a holiday of joyous celebration of our freedom, of solemn remembrance of its cost, and of profound gratitude to those who passed it on to us and those who protect it still. I wish you firm resolve that we will hand down our heritage of freedom, shining and whole, to our children.
 
Love,
 
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

SPRING!

Dear friends,

Once again spring has come to Rose Street. The doves wake me with their gentle cooing in the morning. The leaves on our trees are turning that tender shade of lime green. (Except for the sycamore, which, like a cranky, arthritic old lady, always takes its own sweet time waking up. I can relate to that.) And garage sale signs are popping up everywhere. Spring is definitely back.

It is reassuring to be able to experience again how dependably the seasons follow one another, because more and more I value those things I can count on. Not that surprises aren’t exciting, but in a world gone topsy turvy and sometimes filled with menace, there is real pleasure in knowing what’s coming.

And I love the message that comes with April: After death, life springs forth anew. That truth is a recurring theme throughout nature.

Besides, spring means it’s time to examine my closet and see what I absolutely have to order from the dozens of clothing catalogues that stuff our mailbox. What fun! I wonder if these online marketers have dogs that sniff out likely shoppers or if they just know from past experience that I’m good for a few purchases. (Maybe that’s another of those dependable events.)

Greta and Jake must have mixed feelings about the recurrence of warm weather. They go everywhere with us now, but soon it will be too hot to take them. They love the four of us being together, doing whatever, going wherever. We are a tightly bonded pack. But when the car rides are out, they will be able to spend far more time dashing around the yard, chasing squirrels, communing with neighbor dogs, and lying in the shade dozing on a lazy afternoon. Well, life’s full of trade-offs, and I guess that’s true for dogs, too.

They are both fine. Greta is getting older, which that makes us sad. She is all a German Shepherd should be and a real joy. Jake has grown up some. He’s 80 pounds of muscle now, but in many ways I think he will always be like a puppy, and that is endearing. It’s touching to see how hard he tries to do what we want. And he has made great strides... no more leaping in the middle of the dining room table or chewing up down filled jackets and scattering the down throughout the house. Hey, that’s progress. Greta gets impatient with him sometimes, but she just doesn’t understand that not all dogs have the intelligence God gave a German Shepherd.

For me, 2005 was a year of pesky ailments. Gall bladder surgery, a bad fall that injured my back, arthritis, some heart problems and hospital stays to regulate changes in medication. But I am definitely better, and should soon be once again back to normal. Dick continues to enjoy the robust good health of a forty-year-old. We are truly blessed.

I hope later this summer to be frisky enough for us to spend some time fishing at a cabin in east Texas, and we plan to spend a few days in Oklahoma City visiting an old friend a couple of months from now.

The Dallas Mavericks have thrilled us this season and we are eagerly awaiting the playoffs. We’re looking forward to their winning the championship!

I see a couple of grackles eyeing the sycamore, which means it’s time for Dick to go beat on a pan with a stick to drive them away. (When we first came to Rose Street and a neighbor did that, I thought it must be some kind of weird local ritual, and I was prepared to give him a wide berth.) If we don’t make the grackles move on before they build a nest, they’ll be here for weeks. I have nothing personal against them. I wish them well... elsewhere. But they are such messy birds that it’s an adventure trying to scramble from the front door to the mail box.

I’m filled with hope. It’s spring.

Love,
Ramona




LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

TURNING 70

Dear friends,

An incredible thing happened to me today. I turned 70.

I can’t let that milestone pass without reflection. Indulge me. If I make it to 80, I promise no philosophizing. I’ll just have a big party and invite you all. We’ll drink champagne and dance like we were sixteen.

The older I get, the less I know. But the things I do know, I REALLY know. Here goes:

One of life’s big questions for us all is, “Who am I ?” I know I am a beloved child of God, and so is everybody else. I lose sight of that sometimes, but it’s a central and eternal and jubilant truth. The paths we take to find Him may differ, but the God who loves us all is the same. He’s real, and He’s there.

As for the rest of the answer to that question, I‘m discovering who I am all the time, aren’t you? We’re evolving. We keep experiencing defining moments. But these things I know about who I am:

I have loved and been loved and that’s the treasure of my life, which can’t ever be taken away. I’ve never loved any two people in quite the same way, but love has always been a gift. It has come as a whisper and as a whirlwind. It has sometimes enriched my life for a only a brief moment, but that did not diminish its value. Loving a man deeply enough throughout the years it takes to build a marriage has been a challenge, and ultimately, a miracle. It hasn’t always been easy, loving and being loved, but it has been the ultimate answer to every question. Without the love I‘ve given and received and the love I feel today, my soul would wither.

I know that Mom and Dad remain one of my life’s greatest blessings. They first taught me to love, and are my cherished role models today. Whatever is good in me originated with them, but I can never achieve the strength or kindness or generosity of spirit they lived every day.

I know that “family” doesn’t depend upon biology. The heart knows who it loves, and they are its real family. Children not born of my body are my family. The birth of love for them that grew in me and the love they came to feel in return are even sweeter, because they were not owed, but earned.

Dogs have brought an irreplaceable warmth to my life. Their unconditional love ignores the barrier between species.  

I know that friends have been God’s way of taking care of me. Some friendships have lasted only a season, long enough to fill a mutual need for that time. Others have sustained me for decades. I‘ve shared laughter and tears and insights with friends. I’ve worked with them, played with them and grown with them. They’ve forgiven me and encouraged me and brought out the best in me. They’ve helped to ease my sorrows and made my moments of joy more intense, because they shared them.

I know that work gave purpose and affirmation to my life. It sustained me through difficult times. As a lawyer and a judge, when I did my job well and the outcome was right, I felt deep satisfaction. I gave my work the best I had within me. If I am proud of one thing in my life, it is the integrity and diligence with which I practiced my profession. Yet, work has always been only what I do, never who I am.

I know that God has placed a thousand blessings along my path and given me seventy years to experience them.. I have found joy in the change of seasons, and in watching children grow. I have enjoyed casting for a fish. I have loved reading poetry before a fire, as snow fell outside. I have cheered at the top of my lungs for my football team on October afternoons. I have listened to spring rain, as I fell asleep. I have felt awe gazing at the Matterhorn and the Pyramids and the Grand Canyon and the Acropolis lighted at night, atop that lonely hill in Athens. The changing colors of the sea at Mykonos have mesmerized me.. I have relished becoming familiar with the streets of Paris and the Canals of Venice and every foot of a little cabin in east Texas. I have listened to the great truths that thunder forth from the music of Bach and that of Willie Nelson. I have wept as I stood before Michelangelo’s Pieta in St. Peter’s.

I know I have grievous flaws, and I ache remembering them. For the hurt I have sometimes brought others, I will always be deeply sorry. God forgives everything. Forgiving myself is not so easy.

If I could choose a bag of gifts for those who follow, these are what I’d bring: faith in God that grows stronger as time passes; curiosity about the world and willingness to go out and explore it;. a sense of humor, especially the ability to laugh at themselves; an open heart, willing to love again after being hurt; pleasure in music and art and good books, self respect and respect for others; the wisdom to follow their passion when they choose the work they will do; a great desire to learn, and drive enough to satisfy it; balance in their lives; love between themselves and another that endures, whatever happens, for a lifetime, and something they believe in strongly enough to die for.

The last thing I know is that it's easier to know these things than to consistently live from their truth. I also know I must keep trying.

“Why am I here?” I’m still working on that one.. Maybe I’m here to search for God. Maybe to become the highest and best “me” possible. Maybe to live fully and joyously. Maybe just to love. I’ll let you know if I figure it out. Please tell me, if you find the answer first.

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
WORRY WITH ME
 
Dear friends,
 
Here in the quiet, little town where we live, you'd think there isn't much to worry about. Not so. Thanks to TV and the Internet, even Rose Street offers no haven from the world's problems. If it isn't one thing, it's another. You may as well worry with me. Here is today’s agenda:

The people in the Middle East just keep on killing each other. They have been doing that for centuries. However, advances in technology let them wipe each other out lots more effectively now. And the modern miracle of the big screen brings it right into our living room. Who needs “reality shows?” “Fear Factor” is for wimps. The other Arab countries want us to straighten out that mess, which makes our president downright snappish. Who can blame him? Why would anybody think he’s capable of unraveling any knotty problem, much less the tangled snarl in the Middle East?

Speaking of bigger and better weapons, both India and Pakistan go on hinting that they’re about to fire atomic weapons at each other. Iran wants to take out Israel and the Israelis want to return the favor. Iran doesn’t like us very much either.

 In times past, if one side plunked a few cannon balls at the other, they were the only ones who took the hit. The atomic age puts a whole new spin on things. We can’t let anybody, anywhere, unleash the horror of nuclear blasts. That would have far-reaching effects on us all. Poor Colin Powell. He keeps racing back and forth, trying to reign in everybody: India, Pakistan, Israel, Palestine and, oh yes, the White House. When does he sleep? Then there are the Chinese. I’m not even going to go there.

Washington’s Wise Men seem to have abandoned their search for Osama Bin Laden, who the president vowed to capture, “dead or alive” after September 11th. Now, excuse my whiplash, but did they just say they don’t know if he’s dead or where he might be, and it really doesn’t matter? To no one’s surprise, the tribes in Afghanistan are right back to warring with each other, just as they have done for centuries. Why is it we never seem to take into account the culture, history , religion or customs of another nation before we go barging in to change them in ways we think are best for them?

The evil-doer that tops our bad guy list is Saddam Hussein. Okay, he is a bad actor. I wish we had moved right on into Baghdad and taken him out a decade ago, when we were on a roll. But the Prez wants us to invade Iraq now, when the Iraqis have not attacked anybody, us included. He keeps going on about weapons of mass destruction, but none of the inspectors have found any.

I thought we went to war only to defend ourselves or others, that we never struck first. Isn’t Congress supposed to agree to a war before we go marching off to fight it? Most important of all, do the people of this country want to go to war against Iraq? Nobody has asked us.

What about the war we’re already fighting, the War on Terrorism? As part of that war, we’ve detained hundreds of suspicious characters, (at least I guess they are), for months We haven’t charged them with a crime and we haven’t even released their names. Now I don’t know about you, but that worries me big time. What about our Constitution?

And John Ashcroft wants us to keep an eye on each other. Well, I’m a good American, so be advised I’ll be watching all of you a lot more closely. Wouldn't want any terrorists living next door. In the name of national security, we search the shoes of old ladies at airports. Meanwhile, our borders are like sieves. When we locate people who have overstayed their student visas and never showed up in a class to begin with, we just warn them to attend school regularly. It must make sense to someone.

And those moral leaders from both parties in Congress just rejected help for seniors, whose prescription medicine bills force some to eat dog food if they take their medicine. You don’t even want to know the amounts of money the legislature did approve to further the interests of big business.

I feel better, now that I’ve shared this with you, but I probably haven’t improved your day. So what can we do about all of these worrisome situations? In some cases, nothing but pray. However, we do have a say in what happens here at home. Elections are coming up, and that’s our chance to take control of our destiny. We should find out how our elected officials voted on issues that concern us. Then we must head for the polls, every one of us. If we don’t like the stands they took, let’s toss the rascals out.

In addition to everything else, there’s an asteroid out there in space hurtling toward us.

I’d sure like to go back to worrying about my roses.

Love,

Ramona

(This was written, as you see, before we invaded Iraq.)
 
 
 

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET

WAR ON THE GRACKLES

Dear friends,

For the last three nights, Dick has been out in the front yard banging on a pan with a stick. He picked up the behavior from a neighbor, who had been out banging earlier. At first, we thought he was just performing some quaint local ritual, but we soon learned he was driving away the grackles.

Grackles are not nice birds in the first place. It isn't that they are squawky and clumsy and unattractive, though they are. The problem is twofold. First, these large bullies drive away other birds. Second, you don't just have a grackle or two, you have a flock. I'm talking a couple of hundred big, black birds perching outside in our sycamore tree, strutting around on the ground and swooping overhead. Starting at about five in the morning, they screech and whine and quarrel with each other.

And oh, how they poop! (We aren't talking about little sparrows here, either.) You haven't seen bird poop until you see what a grackle can do. Our cars and the sidewalk and the chairs on our porch require hosing down daily. A trip to the mailbox at the curb becomes an adventure. We bend low and scurry out, hoping we won’t become a target from above.

The Internet has all sorts of suggestions for getting rid of grackles. You can rent phony owls, some of whom even hoot at intervals, and bright lights to shine up into the trees and loudspeakers with various threatening sounds. One of our neighbors takes aim with his pellet gun. Ed, the yard man of Rose Street, says we are wasting our time, if they have already nested. He assures us that sycamore trees are their favorite nesting spots.

We knew that Crowley would offer some challenges. Who knew that grackles would be the first among them? I try to remember these ungainly birds are God’s creatures. I think about how all creatures have a purpose. I tell myself they can’t help being grackles, instead of cardinals. It’s no use. I can’t stand grackles.

I do think there are fewer in the tree this morning, but maybe they are just out doing whatever grackles do when they are away for the day.

My friend, Polly, who has a ranch and knows a lot about all sorts of animals, tells me our grackles, with their iridescent black feathers, are beautiful birds. I reply that I never said their feathers aren’t pretty. She says that bird watchers come from far away, just to see them. I respond that they are welcome to take the grackles home with them. She says that their courtship ritual is fun to watch. I tell her that I hope they come and poop on her front steps.

Bu wait…. this story isn’t over yet. I just went out to water the roses. A baby grackle was hopping around the yard, and an adult bird was frantically squawking at it. The baby just kept making little fluttery motions, but nothing happened. Finally, it flapped its wings and flew, first onto a bush, and then up into the tree. I found myself cheering. Go figure.

Love,
Ramona
 
 

ROSE STREET IS A MEMORY

Dear friends,

Randol Mill Road is where we live now, but I think it will be a while before I feel in my heart it is home. Home is still on Rose Street, where we left the ashes of our beloved shepherds, Max and Breezy, buried beneath the lilac bushes we planted that simply wouldn’t grow. Home is where on a cold night like this there must be a fire glowing in the big stone fireplace I had always dreamed of. Home is where I could look out my study window and watch for the gold of fall in our sycamore tree and eagerly wait for its first hint of green in the spring. Home is where I left behind Morgen’s rose bush and the little peach tree we managed to transplant from Houston. Home is the house that seemed to be waiting to embrace me the moment I turned onto Rose Street.

But we did what we had to do. We have grown old, and we can no longer physically maintain a house and yard ourselves or afford to pay someone to do it for us.

So here we are at Arlington Villa, which is part of a retirement community in Arlington, between Dallas and Fort Worth. The setting is beautiful, a lovely residential neighborhood, with plenty of shopping and good restaurants nearby. The grounds of the community are spacious, with lots of big trees. We are in one of the fourplex units they call cottages, where those who can live alone unassisted are housed. From our front window about the length of a football field away, is an Alzheimer Unit with a tall fence around it to keep patients from wandering. A rehab hospital, assisted living quarters and a hospice complete the cheery setting.

Our apartment defines the word tiny. The good thing is we were allowed to build a fence in the back yard for Greta and Jake. We are the only people on our street who are ambulatory and from the looks of the others, I think they’ll soon be moving on, out or up. People have just left the two units across the street. I don’t know whether they died or moved into nursing care.

There are activities taking place here, such as gospel sings and bingo, so when we get settled, I’ll have to search for something, anything, to keep me sane. It won’t be gospel sings or bingo, however. Don’t they have any poker games going on?

I tried starting conversations with two women here. I asked one where she lived and she replied that she didn’t know, but her husband would be along soon and he could tell me. The other woman told me she wasn’t sure how old she was, but she was born in 1913. We decided that made her ninety-four. She said she had lost her husband long ago. He was in his thirties, but she wasn’t sure how long he had been gone. There seemed to be little to say in either case.

Ambulances come regularly to cart people away, though they return less often. As I said, our life now is what it is, and I will find purpose and meaning in my days. But it will take a while.

Love,
Ramona

~~~

KEEPING KIDS OUT OF TROUBLE
Lessons Learned as a Juvenile Court Judge

It's human nature to seek simple answers to frightening problems, because uncomplicated explanations imply ready solutions. What we understand, we believe we can fix. Following today’s all too frequent outbreaks of violence by children, many have rushed to pin down the cause. Some blamed the tragedies on the availability of handguns, objectionable music or violence on TV.

One flaw in such suggestions is that they claim a universal origin for aberrant behavior. People are individuals, and what contributes to destructive outbursts in one may not in another. While I certainly don’t advocate exposing kids to them, not all children who watch violence on TV or listen to music which promotes violence become violent themselves. Not all kids whose parents own a gun take it or use it.

Further, actions rarely result from a unilateral cause. Multiple events and experiences over time program children’s character and behavior. I believe the explanations offered confuse causes with catalysts. Catalysts merely create the spark of ignition, but causes provide the fuel, without which no fire can burn. Remove the cause and catalysts are harmless, but where a cause exists, any number of catalysts might light the flame. Catalysts arise in the present, but causes are deeply rooted in the past. Any permanent solution to violence must focus on prevention, and prevention is only possible if we address causes.

Society's protection demands that children be held accountable for their actions, that they experience the severe consequences of violent behavior. Yet, punishment after the fact offers no ultimate solution. Prevention is the infinitely preferable goal. The question is how to accomplish it.

The twenty-seven years I served as an attorney, then judge of a juvenile court, convinced me that children whose needs are met in the following ways rarely become violent. Are there exceptions? Sure. Is what I'm suggesting the whole answer? Don't I wish. But it's a start.

Children learn how to behave by watching the adults in their lives. Parents should look in the mirror for reflections of what their children are likely to become. Being a positive role model is a parental responsibility, but when parents fail, mentors must fill the void. It is the plain truth that children tend to imitate the adults closest to them. It is also true that if a child has one responsible adult in his life who cares about him and spends time with him, his chances soar for turning out okay. If you have kids, be that person for them. If you don’t, (or even if you do), be a mentor for a child who isn’t lucky enough to have parents filling that role.

Without love, children can't thrive emotionally. Hug your kids, tell them you love them, praise them for doing well. When you correct them, be sure they understand it's their behavior you dislike, not them. The development of self-esteem, essential to emotional health, begins with the realization that one is loveable. Accept children for who they are, without comparisons to others, and make sure your expectations of them are realistic. Kids who become violent often have low self-esteem.

Rules give children security by telling them what's expected of them and showing them someone cares enough to set boundaries. At home, at school and elsewhere, children need fair rules. They must experience just consequences for breaking them, and they must be consistently enforced, starting when children are very young. It’s no favor to children to allow them to break the rules at home. That may give them the idea that they are free to break society’s rules, too.

Parents must communicate with children about the things that matter. Tell them why you're so concerned about drugs and weapons in their hands. Discuss putting sex on hold until they're old enough to accept the responsibility it imposes. Don't just talk, listen. Trust generates intimacy, and children believe in you if you're honest with them and keep your promises.

Reject violence. Participating in an abusive relationship, either as the abuser or the victim, provides your children the pattern for their own behavior, a far more persuasive model than any on TV or in music.
Abuse destroys trust. Children who are abused or neglected learn early to trust no one, and may never be able to do so. They have problems developing empathy or compassion, making their violent behavior toward others easier. If your family has experienced abuse, seek counseling, especially for the children.

If you suspect a child is being abused, report it to the authorities. You could be the child's only hope for safety, and abuse really is everyone's business. An incredible number of inmates incarcerated for violent offenses were abused themselves as children. Being hurt generates in children, even infants, a helpless rage. Left untreated, it can explode years later, claiming more innocent victims. Children who see others being abused, even if they are not abused themselves, often develop the same problems as abused children.

Children need to belong. They deserve happy memories of time and experiences shared with their families. Learn to laugh together, play together. Such moments create closeness, and build the child's sense of identity and loyalty to the family. Attend activities in which your child participates. It’s important to him whether you show up for his ball game or to her whether you are there for her performance in the class play.

Adolescents require the structure, sense of security, and opportunity to relate to others which peer groups provide. Parents must guide them toward positive groups and away from gangs, for fulfillment of those needs.
Know your child's friends, encourage them to come to your home. Familiarize yourself with your children's whereabouts and plans. Provide children with sufficient, age-appropriate supervision. If you need help to do that, get it.

Hatred breeds violence. Children learn from watching adults whether to judge others as individuals or members of a group. Teach them by what you do and say to value the diversity of people around them and not to stereotype others or reject entire groups because of a single person's behavior.

Express your beliefs to your child, and do your best to live them. We're all spiritual beings, with the need to trust in a power greater than ourselves, however we may define it. Expose your child to opportunities to develop religious faith.

Let your children know what you consider right and wrong, and why. Children with no value system lack any foundation on which to base their behavior, possess no moral compass. Most children know their parents' favorite car, brand of beer or TV show, but how many are able to respond clearly when asked what their parents believe in?

Whatever it takes, keep children in school. As prime targets for gangs and criminals who prey on the young, those who drop out increase the odds that they will commit or become the victims of violence. If your child dislikes school, find out why and address the problem. Education is one of the strongest assets you can provide your child for living a successful, happy life.

When they're old enough, help children find part-time jobs. Work builds self-esteem and self-reliance. It teaches children they can earn the money to buy what they want, and a child who worked to pay for a DVD player learns respect for others' property.

After a child admits misbehaving and accepts the consequences, let it go. Re-hashing accomplishes nothing. Acknowledge your own mistakes, too, and make amends. All of us sometimes make the wrong choices. Kids need to understand that their parents are human, too.

Encourage children to dream, to examine the choices awaiting them in their lives. Help them to set realistic goals and work toward them, to believe in tomorrow and plan for their place in it. Many children in today's dangerous world actually doubt they'll live to adulthood. Children who believe they have no future have nothing to lose and become a threat to themselves and others.

Can we prevent all violence in children? A tragedy of our time is that we can not. But we must save those children we can, for their sakes and our own. We can’t afford to lose the contributions they will make to our society as responsible citizens. We can’t afford the cost of imprisoning them the rest of their lives if we fail. Even more important, we can’t accept the toll of suffering they could exact from their future victims. They are the fabric of our tomorrows, our act of faith. It's unthinkable to abandon our responsibility to them. Adults must work to eliminate the causes which feed the fires of violence.

 

~~~

LOOKING AT RACISM

I wish to God that Colin Powell was still part of the Bush administration, where he provided a voice of sanity. I would vote for him for president today. And Condoleeza Rice is a gem. We are lucky to have her as Secretary of State. And I adore my black friends. But I am sick of those who would lay a guilt trip on me because my ancestors brought their ancestors to this country as slaves. Does that make me a racist? No doubt about it, for one human being to enslave another is despicable. But I didn’t have any part in it. For our generation to be asked to pay reparations to today’s blacks because of our ancestors’ actions is ridiculous, Furthermore, would the descendants of slaves really prefer that their predecessors had never been taken from Africa, leaving their descendents who complain so bitterly about the past to be born and raised there today?

I grew up in a time when blacks were not allowed to use the same water fountains, rest rooms or waiting rooms as whites. They couldn’t eat at the same restaurants. I once invited a black friend to lunch, without even thinking. When we were denied service, I cried because I was so angry and hurt for her. She comforted me, and said she was used to that sort of thing. But I wasn’t, and I was outraged. Blacks were treated shamefully in those days,

When, simply because he is black, a person is denied a right or privilege that would be granted to him if he were white, racism exists, and it is a terrible thing. When, simply because he is black, a person is granted a right or privilege that would be denied to him if he were white, racism also exists, and it is just as evil.

Whether it consists of a boost upward or a shove backward, racism manifests itself in unequal treatment based upon the color of one’s skin.

Women suffered many of the same kinds of discrimination as blacks in America. Less than one hundred years ago we could not vote. Until recent decades, women could not serve on juries. We could not serve in the military. We were barred from many kinds of jobs, and the Glass Ceiling still exists in many places.

When I became a lawyer in 1971, large firms were still not hiring women. A representative of the Justice Department contacted me to ask if I would serve as a test case, apply to a large firm, and when they refused to hire me, file suit under the new law that said they couldn’t discriminate because of gender. I refused. She pointed out that my grades and my bar score made me the perfect candidate for such a suit. The thing was, I didn’t want to work for a large firm, even if they would hire me. I wanted to be a trial lawyer, and I knew it would be years before I arrived at that goal with a large firm. Even more importantly, I didn’t want to force anyone to hire me. Whatever I achieved, I wanted to do it on my own ability. and I believed in myself enough to think I could reach my goals without help from the government. I have never wanted any special break because I am a woman. All I have ever wanted was an even playing field.

To me, Being equal means minorities, including blacks women, and Hispanics, all of whom have been victims of past discrimination, must accept the same risk of failure everyone else faces, and deal with it if it comes, rather than blaming their lack of success on discrimination. If minorities insist upon special treatment, they are either proclaiming that they are not quite as capable as those who don’t require an extra break to succeed, not in fact equal to them, or they are bidding for an unfair advantage. One would think they would consider the offer of such special treatment an insult.

Because African-Americans suffered discrimination in the past, should today’s African-Americans should be given special breaks? Past slights, the ugly result of racism, undoubtedly hindered the development of many black Americans. But what was done cannot be changed. Neither granting special breaks to black Americans nor denying equal rights to white Americans today can make up for it.

Blacks want equality. Yet they divide themselves from the rest of us by such things as Miss Black America pageants and Black History Month. Can you imagine the outcry if whites held a Miss White America pageant or announced White History Month?

Hyphenation also sets minorities apart. In my opinion, one is either an American, whether by birth or naturalization, or one is not. To be an American means one’s loyalties are undivided. How many African-Americans have ever been to Africa or speak any of the languages spoken there or for that matter can even name ten nations on that continent? And are Mexican-Americans Mexican or American? As far as I’m concerned they need to choose one or the other. Citizens with split loyalties weaken our country at the very time it needs its greatest strength.

In the past, people have come here from other countries and have been assimilated into this culture. They learned to speak English, and while they brought with them the rich heritage of their countries of origin, they stirred it into our melting pot and became a part of the great strong people called simply Americans.

Colleges should stop worrying about promoting “diversity” and start concentrating on achieving excellence, which minorities are as capable of attaining as anyone else and I don’t think they need coddling to do so.

And what of the need to give special treatment to African-Americans, to make up for slavery and its legacy? The sad truth is, life isn’t fair and there is no way to make it so. One person may have a healthy body, while another struggles with life-long illness. One person’s parents may be loving and supportive, while another’s are insensitive, even abusive. Everyone must deal with his own set of problems and blessings. One person’s great-great-grandparents may have been slaves, while another’s ancestors came over on the Mayflower. Both are lucky to be living in this country today. The bottom line is, opportunities abound for everyone, and it’s up to the individual, whatever his or her race or background, to create a life from those opportunities.

Will the results be equal? Of course not. Unfortunately, I won’t ever be as beautiful as Charlise Theron, or as rich as Donald Trump or as talented as Eudora Welty. And some people have hurt my feelings and some people have not given me what I felt was my due. But so what? Like everyone else, minorities have the choice of complaining about life’s unfairness and the unequal way they have been treated or getting over it and getting on with the business of living.

We have laws forbidding discrimination against minorities, and for now, they are necessary. But racism lives in the minds and hearts of those who discriminate against others based on their race or gender. Only with education and time can it be eradicated.

PSALM FOR THE 21ST CENTURY

Dear God,

With joy I call out to You and know that each time I do, You hear me, long before I speak Your name.

I sing my psalm of life from the shelter of Your love. It surrounds me. I see it in the blossoming of a lilac in the Spring, hear it in the cooing of a dove early in the morning, and feel it in the summer breeze that brushes my cheek with infinite tenderness. You are love. You created me as your beloved child, and gave me, from your endless store, from Your very nature, the ability to love others and to receive their love in return. Who could even imagine such a priceless treasure? I am grateful, oh God.

You have given me the power of choice, because You love me and want me to be more than I could ever be without it. You know my heart, and I cannot hide from You my weakness, the times when my willfulness leads me away from You. I am so deeply sorry for the wrongs I have done to others and to myself. When I feel hatred, replace it with love. When I feel bitterness, help me find forgiveness. When I feel anger, give me patience. When I feel doubt, erase it with faith. When I feel driven to go my own way, give me instead the strength to trust in You. I pray to You, wipe all the wrong that I have done from Your memory with Your grace. Lead me safely home to You, dear Father, and let me feel whole once more.

Help me to recognize evil when it comes near, to reject it and to overcome it. Protect and preserve all of your people from its darkness and banish it from the earth.

I bring to You each day’s new hopes and dreams and ask that you grant them, each day’s new fears and ask that you ease them, each day’s new knowledge and ask that you increase it. Yet, I accept that You alone have the wisdom to know what is right for my life, and I am content in the prayer that Your will be done. All I ask is that You give me and those whose names I carry in my heart whatever we need to enjoy life to its fullest and to weather its storms.

The blessings You have heaped upon me know no end. Each day is a new treasure, filled with challenges and opportunities and pleasures and surprises. You have given me the rare gift of being an individual, a person in my own right, to make of what I will. You have given me hours and days and years to be with family and friends I love, to pursue work that gives my life purpose, to enjoy the ordinary experiences that are so familiar, yet so priceless.

Thank you for jokes that make me laugh and hot fudge sundaes and Halloween parties. Thank you for dogs, whose love transcends the barrier between the species.

You have given me the chance to listen to the music of Bach and Willie Nelson and Frank Sinatra. You have let me gaze upon the Pieta of Michelangelo, and the bright beauty of Monet’s paintings. You have made the Matterhorn and the Aegean Sea and the Grand Canyon and given me the ability to be awed by their glory. You have given me abundance to
enjoy, so that I could prosper and grow. You have brought me pain, to plant the seed of my understanding, so that I might reach out to others with compassion.

Oh God, source of all good, all light, all tenderness, comfort those whose hearts are broken, those whose nights are long and lonely, those whose fears threaten to overwhelm them, those who have lost hope and see no end to pain. Though we are living in a human experience, remind us that we are spiritual beings, and spirit can transcend all that is physical, all that is temporary, all that is flawed. Grant us Your peace.

Amen.

THANKSGIVING PRAYER

Dear God,

Our hearts overflow with thanks. Thank you for life, for each moment we feel and see and hear, and for each breath we take. Thank you for the amazing truth that we are Your beloved children, and one with each other. We are grateful for the gift of love, for the ability to experience it and to receive it, as it flows among us, our families and friends, and even those we may never meet, who are also part of Your great family. We know that You are the source of all love, and we are in awe.

We recognize the privilege we enjoy of living in this country. We give thanks and ask You to guide and bless our nation and its leaders, directing them toward Your pathway. Let them be motivated by a desire to serve, and let them be moved to act with integrity and compassion and wisdom. Ease the sorrows and pain of our troubled world with Your love.

Thank you for those beautiful things we take for granted, like the winter’s first snow and the ability to laugh and the hugs we give one another. Thank you for those rare moments we carry always in our memories that time can not touch. Thank you for green hills and quiet country roads and lilacs and chocolate-covered cherries and puppies and music. Thank you for words that speak to others of who we are and what we feel and draw us closer to one another.

Help us to forgive those who cause us pain and to forgive ourselves for our own mistakes, remembering that You have forgiven us already.

Help us to remember that happiness comes not from having what we want, but wanting what we have. And help us to understand that You will always provide what we need, even if it is not always what we want.

Thank you for those who went before us, from whose lamps our own lamps were lit. Bless the spirits of those we love who have passed to the next experience of being. We know that they live in Your heart and that they remain close to us through You. We pray for those who are ill in body and in spirit. Touch them with your healing assurance and your peace. Grant comfort to those who grieve and rest to those whose hearts are weary. Teach us to live with the joy that You meant to be our birthright, and let us walk always by Your side.

We are grateful, dear God.

Amen.

 
 
THE NILE

Time is a river, and its name is The Nile.

Oceans away from a familiar voice or any face I know, I sit on my balcony at Cairo's Shepheard Hotel and sip fresh-squeezed mango juice. Below me, heedless of man's activities, the river pursues its journey to the sea.
Thousands of years ago, it carried the first great historian, Herodotus the Greek, far to the south. He looked with wonder and wrote, "Egypt is the gift of The Nile."

The river was old when man first arrived to be cradled between its banks and the merciless desert beyond. It gave life to his crops and satisfied his thirst. It sustained the tribes who painted the dawn of history when they scratched the first written words on the walls of their tombs. Man began to speak to all men who would follow him, not only in his lifetime, but for millennia to come. Along its valley, the seeds of art, philosophy and religion were sown. The river was a god then. They called him Hapi.

Reeds along the Nile sheltered Moses from death by Pharaoh's command.
The river bore Cleopatra's barge as she sailed with Caesar to Luxor, to proudly spread before him the ruined splendor of Thebes. And later, this same river saw her nights of passion with Antony.

Jesus came and found sanctuary here with Mary and Joseph, who fled to the safety of this valley to protect Him from death in their homeland.
Octavian, Alexander, Napoleon, the great conquerors, all stood beside this river and coveted the fabled land it nourished.

The Nile has awakened to more dawns than man has known. And still it rises from the heart of Africa, the longest river in the world, gathers strength as it comes and pushes northward to the sea. Together they follow their relentless course, time and the river.

Today, luxury hotels grace its banks. Great bridges carry traffic across its waters. A huge dam harnesses its power.

Tomorrow, I will fly above the winding ribbon of green and the stark desert beyond to visit the tombs at Luxor and the temples of Abu Simbel. And soon, I will move on.

Everything flows. Life. And time. And the river. But what once was, forever was. In some far corner of your memory, oh mighty Nile, remember me.



SNOW WHITE AND STEP-MOTHERS

The guy you love finally asked the important question, and you’re so happy you’re daffy. Soon, you’ll be Mrs. Hunk. Wait a second, though, he has kids. That'll make you a step-mother, just like that wicked woman in Snow White!

As the long-time step-mother of four delightful kids, let me tell you what it's like. Step-parenting is tough, and preparation is usually limited to on-the-job training. You might try parenting classes.

Get to know your prospective step-children. Unlike a birth-mother, you don’t wake up one day with a baby on the way and have to do the best you can with whatever tiny person arrives. You can say, "I don't think so," and exit gracefully, if they present problems you'd just rather not tackle. They have a prior claim, and they won’t disappear.

Kids sometimes fantasize about their parents getting back together and believe they would, if only you weren't in the way. Children’s security is shaken when parents divorce. They wonder, since Dad loves you now instead of Mom, if he'll stop loving them and leave them, like he left her. Resent you? You bet they may. Can you blame them?

Others sometimes feel the same way. Get ready to be twice as competent, loving and kind as a “real” mother to be an acceptable step-mom. Whatever you do, you may never receive the love, respect, and acceptance automatically bestowed upon a birth-mother. If you do, it may take years. I’m convinced it’s far easier to carry a child for nine months, lie down and give birth, than to struggle for years to achieve the status of a beloved stepmother.

Even if you reach that goal, letters from the kids will always be addressed: “Dear Dad and (fill in the blank.)” And even if you are the one who shopped for, selected, paid for and wrapped every gift, he is the one they will thank first. Even if you are the one who thought of inviting them on a trip, planned it and paid for it, guess who they will thank. Petty stuff? Sure. But over time, it can hurt. You’ll have to learn to ignore it.

Some days, you’ll feel like an outsider, because you can't share memories, aren’t in on long-standing jokes, and are unaware of family traditions. While your man and his children are related by blood to one another, you'll never be. Such loneliness goes with the territory. Even when your step-children have come to love you, there will always be times when you feel like a beloved afterthought in the family circle, one who hasn’t quite the same status.

Members of your own family will never be your step-children's ancestors, and your family’s history will never be theirs. That can be lonely years down the line, when you are looking for someone to share that interest and to mourn the ones you’ve lost. It isn’t anyone’s fault, that’s just the way it is.

All step-mothers occasionally feel angry or impatient with their step-children, or just want a short recess from them. Others may seize upon those fleeting impulses as proof of your true, negative attitude toward the kids. Don’t buy that nonsense. Birth mothers have the same feelings.

Your fiancé may feel guilty about his divorce from the children’s mother or his inability to spend as much time or money on his kids as before. Be patient and loving. After all, only sensitive, caring people feel remorse, and that’s the kind of man you want to marry, isn’t it? But he may need counseling before you say "I do."

Now, here’s the good part. A woman can't do a more loving thing for her man than to be a generous, affectionate step-parent to his kids. That's a gift from the heart, one of substance and lasting value. You have the chance to establish a bond with your step-children that will enrich your whole life and theirs. If you do, you'll especially cherish the relationship, because it was earned, not bestowed as a right upon giving them birth.

Here’s how to begin. (Did I do all of these wise things? Of course not. But maybe you can benefit through what I learned from my mistakes.)
Before marrying, be certain your guy agrees that just as you'll share responsibility for the children, you must share the right to set their rules, enforce them and decide upon methods of discipline. If he's reluctant to accept that, call the whole thing off. You’ll thank me, because without his unqualified support of your role as step-mother, the marriage won’t last.
When you disagree, don't do so in the children's presence. Present a united front, to prevent them from playing you against one another.

Learn what kids need from parents. It's not complicated. They need love, consistent enforcement of reasonable rules, good role models, and such basics as food, shelter, clothing, education and medical care. Throw in some shared fun.

Once you’ve mastered that, remember we’re talking step parenting here, which is somewhat trickier.

Be patient with your step-children and yourself. It’s enough at first if you're kind, sensitive and open. Love takes a little longer. Don’t try to force them to show affection for you. Insist only that they show you courtesy and respect, and treat them that way, too.

When kids feel insecure, they find comfort in the familiar. Let everyone get settled before you make unnecessary changes.

Never make derogatory remarks about their mother. It hurts, and to develop their own self-esteem, kids need to believe their parents are decent people who love them. They must be allowed to love both parents in return. Don’t try to deprive them of that right. You're the big person; they're just little people.

Don't urge your step-children to call you Mom. If they ask what name you’d prefer, encourage them to find their own special name for you. I wish I had. It’s a little thing, but when they call you by a different name than the rest of the world does, it’s an indication that a special relationship exists, and oddly enough, it matters. Still, that’s their decision to make.

Hang on to your sense of humor. You’ll need it. My mother-in-law used to bring over pictures of my husband’s wedding to his ex to share with the children and me, as she reminisced about happy days gone by. If you can laugh at such incidents, life will be easier. My mother-in-law and I came to love one another, but when even well-meaning people do such thoughtless things, imagine what malicious people can do.

You'll make mistakes, but birth-mothers do, too. When you’re off-base, admit it, apologize and make amends. Then, move on.

Sooner or later, you’ll hear, “You can’t tell me what to do -- you’re not my real mother!” Simply reply, “No, but I’m your real step-mother, and you must follow my rules, because I'm responsible for you.” Kids naturally test limits when a new adult enters their lives. They have to know the boundaries of that person’s authority over them.

Rearing kids takes money. Spend what's needed, without complaining. Make sure your husband spends quality time alone with his children, because they need that. Plan your own separate time with them, to develop your relationship. But also see that you and your man have time alone, and that the budget you work out is fair to you. Being generous doesn’t mean being a doormat.

If your husband’s nervous system can take it and his ex isn’t truly a beast, try to make her your friend. Why should you? For your step-children’s sake. It’s easier for them if the most important adults in their lives can get together without the onset of Armageddon. Friendship with their mother is one way to tell your step-children you love them.

Eventually, your heart may ache with the wish to be, not step-mother, but mother. You may believe you love the kids more than she does, would be a better mother than she is and can somehow make that wish come true.
Spare yourself that pain. You're not their mother, you never will be. But as their step-mother, you can share with them laughter and pain, love and joy. Your relationship with them can become one of the treasures of your life, and when that happens, it will be worth whatever price you have paid. As for them, you can make “step-mother” among the dearest words they know, Snow White notwithstanding.
 

THE SEASONS OF THE CABIN
 
For twenty-five years, we had a cabin on a small lake in the piney woods of east Texas. When I spotted an ad in the Sunday paper offering it for
sale, it wasn't a cabin yet, only the shell of one. The exterior walls, roof and floor were standing, and it did have electricity, but it was just the promise of a house. Still, the setting was idyllic, and I could afford it.

At Christmas, the whole family occasionally gathered at the cabin amid joyous chaos. With the little ones, I strung popcorn to hang on the tree and made decorations from construction paper and pine cones covered with glitter. We all sang carols and basked in those perfect days.

But changes came. We could replace a rotting board on the deck and repaint the porch rails, but we could not stay the hands of time. Children scattered. Neighbors died or moved away. And we grew older.
 
We cherished our seasons at the cabin. It gave us what we needed of it. But for everything, even the cabin, there is a season. The day came to release it and move on. We sold it to a charming couple, who seemed as excited by its promise as we once were. I hope that the little cedar
cabin, with its paneled walls and cathedral ceiling, brings them unexpected gifts, as it did us.
 
They’ve invited us to visit them and see the changes they're making.

It’s kind of them, but I don't think we will.

TWILIGHT FOR ELLEN JOYCE

My cousin Ellen Joyce is twelve years older than I, and when I was little, I wanted to be just like her. She was beautiful and kind, and she drew the sweetest sounds I ever heard from a violin. She married a handsome soldier during World War II, creating the most romantic story of my childhood.

She lived with my parents and me while she got her degree in music from the local university. Afterward, we never lived in the same town, but kept in loose touch and saw one another occasionally over the years. The two of us are the only surviving cousins from Dad’s family, and as time passed, that became more important.

When I learned she was in a nursing home in a little town only a few hours away, my husband and I went to visit. I called twice in the days before we came, to let her know when we would be there. She didn’t remember I had phoned, but she did know me.

We hugged a lot, and sometimes her conversation seemed almost normal. Then she would tell me about her brother Bill, who she said is a Methodist minister. In fact, Bill was a drifter, who died of alcoholism many years ago. She repeated information and asked the same questions over and over. She had forgotten that I’ve been a lawyer for over thirty years, and didn’t recognize my husband of forty years.

We took her for a ride and laughed about old times. As we drove through the park, we spotted where, as children, we enjoyed picnics with our folks and swam in the creek. We took her to supper, and urged her to order whatever she liked. She said she was hungry for a hamburger, which they never had at the nursing home. She ate only a few bites. But she wolfed down peach cobbler.

She is 82 now, and Ellen Joyce has scores of friends, acquired over a lifetime of living in the same small town. She is well-cared for.

It was obvious that my cousin recognizes the changes that are happening to her. Sparse, thin clumps of grey fuzz have replaced the silky dark mass of hair. Deep lines criss-cross the once flawless skin. And the bright, quick mind is laced with confusion. During one lucid period, it seemed important to her to tell me she knew how blessed her life has been. She said, “I married a good man. We loved each other, and we had 56 years together. My son is a minister, and I am so proud of him. I love music, and I got to do what I liked best, teach piano and play the organ for my church for over fifty years.” That was all true. It struck me that she was not only at peace, but happy.

Sometimes, just before darkness falls, there is a splendid sunset.

Shortly after I wrote this, we planned to visit her again, and when we called the nursing home, we were told she had died a week earlier.




I BELIEVE

1. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. Just as we are fully human, we are also fully spirit. Each of us is a beloved child of God, and His spirit lives within us. We have only to become open to that truth and try to live as who we are.
2. Love is the beginning and love is the end and all that really matters in between is love. Everything thing else is window dressing. Cherish love whenever it comes to you, whatever its source. Never sell it out, because nothing else has anything near its value. And find others to love, or you can never be whole.
3. Seize each day with both hands, and avoid near-life experiences. This is not a dress rehearsal, so when the music plays, dance. Kick your heels and throw out your arms and whirl and twirl and dance. Don’t regret your failures; regret only the times you didn’t try. At the end of it all, your deepest regrets will probably not be for what you did, but what you didn’t do.
4. You won’t get all the cookies in the jar. Nobody does, so get over it. Besides, happiness doesn’t come from getting what you want, but from wanting what you get.
5. The most bitter poison of all is hate, and it can destroy anyone who feels it. Let it go.
6. The one thing you can not buy at any price is time, and it is limited. Savor it. Enjoy each period of your life for what it has to offer, without wishing to go back or speed the future. Cherish your memories and dream your dreams, but this moment is where you live. Each day has its own blessings.
7. Don’t delay and defer experiences you long for, because the time for them may never come again, and experiences you have had can never be taken from you.
8. Love yourself , respect yourself, forgive yourself, or how can you ask others to do so?
9. Don’t keep track of how what you’re given by others measures up to what you’ve given to them. Scorekeepers are rarely happy.
10. Grasp every chance you get to learn. The greater your knowledge, however you attain it, the broader the horizons of your life will be, the greater your opportunities will be, the fewer your limitations will be, the richer your experiences will be, and the more things you will be able to enjoy and appreciate.
11. Work gives purpose to our days, tests us, provides our sense of accomplishment. In times of sorrow, loneliness, or fear of the future, work is a refuge and it sustains us. Follow the work that brings you joy. Life is too short to spend your days at a job you hate. Keep trying till you are prepared for your dream job, then go after it.
12. Marriage is an adventure in faith. It isn’t easy and it has ebbs and flows, and it is never perfect. But a happy marriage is one of life’s highest accomplishments, and it brings life’s greatest satisfaction.

WHAT YOUR LAWYER DOESN’T OWE YOU

As you examine whether your attorney is fulfilling his or her obligations to you, realize that there are some things which you have no right to expect. Your attorney does not owe you:
1. WINNING YOUR CASE.
The lawyer didn’t make the facts or the law which will largely determine the outcome. No attorney can guarantee the results you want, and you should avoid one who makes such promises.
2. FREE SERVICES.
The income of these professionals comes from selling time and knowledge to help people with legal problems. You might expect your best friend to listen to your troubles at no charge, but don’t ask your attorney to do so. He or she has a right to be paid for whatever requires time or legal expertise, whether it’s a court appearance, an office visit, or a phone call. If you fail to pay the fees you owe, your attorney is justified in withdrawing from your case.
3. DOING SOMETHING ILLEGAL OR UNETHICAL AT YOUR REQUEST.
When a client asks an attorney to do something against the law or the Code of Ethics, a reputable lawyer will explain why he or she can’t comply with the request, and if the client continues to insist, will withdraw from the case.
4. WORKING OUTSIDE OF OFFICE HOURS.
Except in emergencies, don’t phone your attorney or expect to schedule an appointment outside of normal office hours. Your attorney has a life, just as you do, and must have time for it. When he or she does agree to meet you after hours, you may be expected to pay a higher rate for that time, an issue which should have been addressed in your fee agreement.
5. A PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP OTHER THAN ATTORNEY-CLIENT.
You may develop a friendship with your attorney which will last after your business is concluded, but it’s unlikely. At least it’s not something you should expect. Throughout his or her career, your lawyer will represent thousands of clients, but establish a continuing friendship with only a few.
That doesn’t mean your attorney doesn’t like you, or take a sincere interest in your case and hope that it ends well. Don’t expect to share details of his or her personal life, because attorneys have a right to privacy. Besides, it’s your nickel paying for that hour. Do you want to spend it listening to your lawyer’s life story? A sexual relationship between an attorney and client can spell disaster, certainly if one of them is married. An ethical attorney will say no to sex with a client while representing him/her, no matter how attractive the possibility. Your lawyer should care about your case and about you, but the wisest ones don’t become emotionally involved. Such feelings dilute the objectivity a lawyer must retain in order to represent a client well.
6. MAKING YOUR DECISIONS.
Don’t ask your lawyer to decide whether you should sign a contract, or seek custody of your children, or accept an offer to buy your business. The lawyer’s job is to advise you of your choices and the probable effect of the law on the facts in your situation, not to make the choices which will have long term consequences in your life.
7. NEGLECTING OTHER CLIENTS.
Unless you can afford the exclusive services of your attorney, he or she must have a number of other clients in order to earn a living. No attorney should take on more cases than it’s possible to handle competently, but there is no way that your attorney’s practice will permit constant availability to you. Realize the inevitable necessity of sharing your lawyer’s time and energy.
8. ACCEPTING VERBAL ABUSE FROM YOU.
Being insulted isn’t part of the deal your attorney made with you. The same goes for behavior toward your lawyer’s staff. You need their good will. If you can’t get along, look elsewhere for legal help.
9. BABY-SITTING SERVICES.
Don’t bring babies or small children to your lawyer’s office and expect the staff to watch them while you talk with your attorney. The secretary has work to do and isn’t being paid to take care of your children. Nor should you take them into your meetings with the lawyer. They are distracting, and they have no place in a business setting. In some instances, matters you are discussing may be inappropriate for them to hear.
10. EXPLAINING TO OTHERS LEGAL ADVICE GIVEN TO YOU.
Your Uncle Fred may be a lawyer in Iowa, your sister may believe this case is just like hers, and your mother may think a proposed settlement is unfair to you, but your lawyer owes them no explanations. In fact, it is unethical for your attorney to even discuss your case with third parties without your permission. You alone are the client. Don’t listen to Uncle Fred, or your sister, or your mother, when they attempt to take over management of your legal affairs. There can be only one attorney in charge. Trust him or her or find another.

HEARTBEATS

I never thought much about my heart, and assumed that it would go right on taking care of me. During occasional past bouts with tachychardia, or irregular heartbeat, it responded well to medication and went right back to ticking the way it was supposed to.

Ten days ago, I was in the middle of an MRI for pain in my legs, when I felt the run-away heart-beat begin. It was very fast and was skipping beats. An MRI is not among my favorite things. I didn't want to do it twice, so I was determined to complete it.

Afterward, I told my husband what was happening, and we headed to my doctor's office nearby. He did an electrocardiogram and confirmed that my heart had gone into aetrial fibrillation. Not good. So, off we went to the hospital.

While I was waiting to be admitted, I felt my heartbeat slow and knew that it had converted, returned to normal rhythm. I felt ridiculous being there, and when the nurse took me into the "express" room, I told her I was ok and should probably go on home. She smiled and said they'd like to just make sure.

Then began the first of many tests. Blood draws, electrocardiograms, echocardiograms, x-rays, blood pressure checks, I had them all. I was chatting with the technician who was doing the echocardiogram, when a man came running in and asked if I was ok, if I felt strange. I thought about it and said no, (though I thought his own behavior was a bit odd). He immediately gave me a shot in my stomach, to prevent strokes. (I kept getting those little jabs twice a day as long as I was there. Then he ran out to look for an IV, which he promptly inserted in my hand.

My heart rate was being constantly watched by the halter monitor they had attached to me moments before, and the thing that had sent him scurrying in to see if I was conscious was my heart rate. Instead of converting to a normal number of beats per minute, somewhere around at least 60, it was only beating 30 times per minute. That is definitely a problem. It just doesn't provide enough oxygen to all your various parts that need it.

I wasn't going home that day.

This episode was different than I had experienced in the past. I knew that arrhythmias sometimes change and you may develop new irregularities. What I was experiencing now was Bradychardia. The problem it presents is that when your heart goes into the very rapid rhythm, strokes may occur because the heart doesn't pump out all of the blood, and clots may form. The medication used to slow it sends it into the dangerously slow rhythm. When you treat one problem, you bring on the other.

My doctor told me he thought the best answer was a pacemaker. I've been his patient for many years. I trust his judgment and I know him to be not just skilled, but caring.

He recommended a cardiologist, who arrived in my room the next day. I liked him at once. Young, a little cocky, but I had a good feeling about him. He decided to closely watch my heart for the next few days, but it just kept beating somewhere around 42 to 45 beats per minute. I was not looking well. Still, as with any surgery, there are risks, and he wanted to be sure a pacemaker was truly necessary. On Sunday, I saw a second cardiologist, who said do it, and the sooner the better.

I told my Doctor when he dropped by Sunday that I was having an odd experience. I found myself reaching for words. names especially, and they weren’t there. It was as if my brain was operating in slow motion. (Several months later, he told me I had probably experienced a small stroke.)

The next morning, I refused the “feel good” pill I was offered, and an orderly wheeled me into the operating room. I had cautioned the cardiologist about my many allergies, and he said they would use morphine as an anesthetic.

The nurse swabbed my chest with betadine and placed a cloth tent over my head about two inches from my nose. All I could see was blue, and I tried to imagine it was the sky. I felt the prick of a needle, and suddenly a great rush of heat and a faint feeling. I had been given a very small dose of morphine, and had an immediate allergic reaction. My blood pressure had plummeted.

They gave me something to counteract the reaction and I asked the surgeon to just do it. I made one request. I asked him to tell me what was happening as the procedure moved ahead. He gave me a local in my left shoulder, and made an incision, just beneath my collarbone.

Over the next hour, he repeatedly asked if I was okay. He first explained that he was threading a wire through my vein toward my heart. There was some discomfort, but certainly nothing unbearable. When the wire reached my heart, I was aware that it was there. He and a technician from the company which manufactures the miraculous little machine tested the wire’s placement on various areas of my heart before determining where it needed to be attached.

At critical points he asked everyone to stay silent, but for much of the time, I chatted with him about a wide variety of subjects. I told him about the first gall bladder operation on a patient in France and about being Miss Watermelon Bust of Sigma Chi.

Once he had attached the wire to my heart, the surgeon hollowed out a space beneath my collarbone large enough to contain the pacemaker and its battery. There was a great deal of pressure on my chest, as he attached the wires to the pacemaker. I could hear the sounds of the work going on and the sheer physical effort which was necessary to complete the procedure amazed me.

When he finished the surgeon said. “Well, I’ll say this. You’re no wimp!”
I had to stay flat for a couple of days, to allow my heart to form scar tissue around the sites where the wires were attached.

A year later, I’m not aware of it’s presence in my chest, and have only a neat two-inch scar to remind me its there. Once a month, the pacemaker company calls for a phone check. From the kit they sent, I attach the electrodes to my chest, place the phone over the machine and position the magnet above my scar. I sometimes feel a few heart flutters as they test the pacemaker’s performance, but so far, the miraculous little machine is working just as planned.

How lucky I am to live in a time and place where my heart can get the help it needs to keep beating a long, long time!

(P.S. It’s been over five years now, and all is still well.)


 

LITTLE ONE

The only time I ever got pregnant, I miscarried. It was early in my pregnancy, the first trimester. I was 19, and I don’t think what had happened fully hit me for a long time. I had been married only a year, and the marriage was not going well. We divorced about two years later. I was saddened by the loss of the baby, but not devastated. It never occurred to me that I might never have another chance to have a child of my own.

The day it happened, I was at work when I started cramping and bleeding. I took a taxi to my doctor’s office, where he told me what was happening and did the medical things that needed to be done. I called my husband at work, and he told me to take a taxi home and he would see me that night. My doctor wouldn’t hear of it. He drove me home and didn’t leave until he was sure I was settled and ok.

As time passed, I thought more about the baby. I wondered if somehow I was to blame for the miscarriage, and finally decided I was not. I wondered why it happened, and in the end, decided that it just did.

The baby had no birthday, so I could not mark a particular day, but I thought of my little one at special times, when he or she, (I didn’t even know which,) would have been starting to school, or going to a prom, or graduating from college.

I thought of all the things my little one missed: life’s small pleasures, like chocolate covered cherries and watching a football game and playing with friends, and life’s special moments like falling in love and getting married and finding work that fulfilled a dream. I wondered if my little one would have loved poetry and traveling and staying up late to watch old movies, as I did. Who would my little one have become? That was the biggest loss of all for my baby. It never had a chance to become a person, to be born, to live its life. It was a unique set of potentials, of possibilities that were never to be realized. I am so sorry, little one.

I still wonder about all sorts of things: how it would have felt to hold my baby close and know it was mine; whether I would ever have been a grandmother; whether my baby would have had a long and happy life.

I’m not sure what I believe about reincarnation, but I hope it happens. If it does, maybe my little one was born to someone else and had a chance to live its life after all. If that happened, in the wildly improbable event that we ever met, would there have been a spark of recognition, a moment of connection, even a flash of love? Or nothing at all?