Surprise Me!

I am not a part of any group of friends gathered in one location. Although there have been periods in my life when I have been blessed with such comfort and convenience, the passing of time has seen friends move away, ideologies change, and saddest of all, the deaths of several people I have held dear. So I don't have a large social network in my own backyard to grant me the routines and dependability of "belonging."

What I DO have is an assortment of friendships around the country, sometimes extending into other countries as well. A road trip, for me, is not just to see the sights; a road trip is a chance to visit these dear friends whom I only see very occasionally. I have enjoyed wine with friends in the Napa Valley, gone to the markets with a friend in Costa Rica, spent time with a friend on a front porch in Montana, and gazed in awe at the Giant Sequoias while staying with a friend who actually lived in Yosemite National Park. These long-distance friendships are, indeed, a blessing.

And so this week, my travel itch put me on the road again for a brief visit into New England. Responsibilities at home limited me to only two destinations, each home to people who make me feel so welcome and comfortable, I could happily stay for weeks. But that, fortunately, is not my style. I am a firm believer in Ben Franklin's famous quote: "Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days."

My first stop was Old Lyme, Connecticut, where I visited a woman I have known since childhood. Angie and I were only together when she and her sister visited their Aunt Margaret, my next door neighbor. We were probably six or seven years old when we met. Although we share the same memories of that time, memories which involve Ginny dolls and ghosts in the basement, we both know that our sentimentality about those early years has evolved into an adult friendship that we both cherish. And it almost seems that her husband, John, was with us in that childhood, as the three of us can chatter on for hours about anything and nothing, just comfortable in one another's company.

My "entertainment" on the drive up was listening to the Senate Judiciary Committee hearings regarding Dr. Ford and Judge Kavanaugh. I am a political junkie (in case you hadn't noticed), so the radio broadcast made for a riveting drive through New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. My arrival in Old Lyme occurred after Dr. Ford's testimony, but before Judge Kavanaugh's. I was conflicted by my anticipation at seeing my friends on one hand and my having to give up listening to the hearings on the other. Perhaps Angie and John were having the same thoughts. It took us a nano-second after our welcoming hugs to agree to watch the proceedings together. And so, our afternoon progressed with attention paid to the TV, made even more interesting by our shared commentary.

But perhaps the highlight of the visit was the surprise of another visitor . . . a hungry young black bear at the bird feeder outside the kitchen window! Now, I'd been bemoaning the fact that I had not seen a black bear at home all summer, an unusual nonoccurrence. And Angie and John claim to have NEVER seen a black bear in the seventeen years they have lived in their home! But there he was, a foot away from us, on the other side of the glass. While Angie panicked (sort of), I grabbed my cellphone and quickly and quietly went outside, eager to catch a picture. John, admiring my bravery, followed. We got a view shots of the bruin before he sauntered off into the woods. Our joy at this event replaced our anger and despair over the hearings, if only briefly. I'm pretty sure that, over time, our memory of this visit will be of the bear, not the political angst.

Yesterday, I continued my mini-roadtrip through Massachusetts and New Hampshire and into Maine. Again, my entertainment was made up of the summary comments by the Senate Judiciary Committee and the surprise move, initiated by Senator Flake, to agree to a request to reopen the FBI investigation. It helped make the rainy-day drive seem to move more quickly, and my arrival in Kittery Point coincided with the surprise move.

My hosts for this visit were George and Ruth, whom I have known since my early teaching career. George was my department chair, a brilliant and forward-thinking educator who encouraged his staff to be creative, innovative, and humanistic. The twelve years I spent under his tutelage are reminders to me of what education can and should be, perhaps a far cry from the focus on standardized testing that takes up so much time in today's classrooms. Ruth, who joined our staff several years after I did (and years later became George's wife), has also become a cherished friend, inspirational for her many talents and her calm and patient demeanor.

After fish and chips at an Irish pub in Portsmouth, we went to a small community event at Pepperrell Cove, back in Kittery Point. A fundraiser for the arts, the event featured a concert by Scott Kirby and Gabriel Donahue and Friends. The music was wonderful, the presentation warm and homey and totally enjoyed by the small crowd of Mainers (and me). But here's the surprise: a guest performer was Tom Rush, the iconic folksinger whom I have loved since I found his album in a record store in my college town back in 1970. (I'd never heard his music, but I liked the picture of him on the album cover. This is the same way that I discovered Tim Buckley. Don't tell me appearances don't count for anything.)

Although Tom only performed two songs, that voice and that presentation were the same as the Tom Rush I'd seen so many times before. How sweet to see him, by chance, at a tiny venue on the southern coast of Maine. I considered how my road trip had been delayed by a couple of days due to rain, and that, if it hadn't rained, I would not have been at this place on this night to be so joyously surprised.

I still have another day and night to spend in Maine before I head back home. I wonder what further surprises await me? Watch this space.

So I Totally Missed National Daughters Day

Yep. Asleep at the wheel. But I'm not going to beat myself up about it, because, as so many of you have noted, every day is National Daughters Day.

I have two of them. In very different ways, they have made me crazy. And they have made me proud. And happy. Mostly, they just make me amazed that I actually birthed these smart, kind, and motivated human beings. In reality, I think they would be who they are with or without any influence from me. I think the best thing I ever did was have a whole lot of books in the house.

Rather than elucidate on all the wonders of these two young women, I want to focus on the factors at play in determining the character of our offspring. Having taught teenagers for thirty years, I have had students who came from the very best and loving homes, and yet became drug addicts or petty thieves or just mean and cruel human beings. On the other hand, I have had students whose childhoods were compromised, miserable, and sometimes downright horrid, and yet they became productive, kind, and admirable persons. So, yes, a nurturing environment is essential to character development, and yet, it is no guarantee of raising a responsible adult. So what else is at play?

Karma? I am intrigued at the idea that we are reincarnated in order to correct offenses from our past lives. If we robbed banks and tortured kittens in one life, there's another chance to make amends for past behavior. A do-over. But is there a reverse of this? Can one lead a good life, only to have to relive it with bad behavior? I don't have the answers to this, just as I don't have the answers for anything. Except that I've been lucky.

My daughters (and my son) are good people. They suffered a terrible experience at tender ages . . . the untimely death of their father when they were 17, 14, and 10 years of age. I know all too well how they might have gone in a completely different direction, one driven by anger, sorrow, and hopelessness. Instead, it seems that they have lived their lives to make their father proud. And, of course, as a side effect, they have made me proud, too.

So what would I say to the parents of daughters? Do the best you can. And have lots of books in the house. And no restrictions. If your ten-year-old wants to read The Universe in a Nutshell by Stephen Hawking, let him/her. And even though I had to hide my copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask, I would suggest that you buy your teen a copy of it. Knowledge is power.

And given that this life is all a crapshoot, hope for good luck.

From the Standpoint of Water

This is a tough hurricane, one of the wettest we've ever seen, from the standpoint of water."
  ~ Donald J. Trump, President of the United States of America, September 19, 2018

The dictionary definition of the word "standpoint" is as follows: "the position from which someone is able to view a scene or an object." So I guess that, as President of the United States, one is in a position to determine how wet a hurricane is. Wait . . . it's the water's standpoint! So water is able to determine how wet the hurricane is? Oh, damn, I am so confused! But at least now I am reassured that water is, indeed, wet.

So, from the standpoint of water, here are some fun facts:

~  I make up 73% of your brain and heart.
~  I make up 83% of your lungs.
~  I make up 64% of your skin.
~  I make up 79% of your muscles and kidneys.
~  I even make up 31% of your bones!

Well, now I'm on a roll (from the standpoint of water). A watermelon is 92% water. Watercress is 95% water. The earth's surface is 71% water. But don't get too excited here: only 2.5% of that water is fresh, and only 1% is accessible. (Sorry, Puerto Rico and Flint, Michigan.)

I have lots of water here at my country home. Some of it has decided to come in from the rain and fill up my basement. Seriously, I'm wringing out a dozen soaked heavy-duty bath towels a couple of times a day. I am trusting the excavators to find a solution, but last week's digging and drainpipe replacement did not do the trick. I am practicing patience and optimism. "How's that going, Terry?" Not so well, thanks.

Let me switch from the standpoint of water to the standpoint of peace. Today is the International Day of Peace, a declaration by the United Nations. This year's theme is "The Right to Peace - The Universal Declaration of Human Rights at 70." Yes, it was 70 years ago that the United Nations stated that "Everyone has the right to life, liberty, and the security of person" (Article 3). That's everyone, all races, creeds, genders, ages, ethnicities. Secretary-General Antonio Guterres said it best: "It is time all nations and all people live up to the words of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which recognizes the inherent dignity and equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human race."

I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that Christine Blasey Ford has the right to her dignity in calling out someone who abused her human rights through a sexual assault. And that the man that abused her must have been absent the day that his prep school taught the concept of human rights. Clearly, there will not be peace on earth until this bad behavior is exposed and stopped.

From the standpoint of peace, namaste.

MeToo

No, this post is not about me, although I do have my own MeToo story. Mine might be unremarkable in comparison to many of the testimonies of sexual assault on record since the movement began nearly a year ago. It's a sad commentary on our culture, but a necessary awakening to initiate change in regard to an illness that spares no age, no race, no economic status, no educational accomplishment, no political affiliation.

Unremarkable, but still something I have never forgotten and likely never will. It is as much a part of my teenage experience as pajama parties, first dates, sports events, dances, crushes, heartbreak, and insecurity. I was fifteen years old . . . the same age as Christine Blasey Ford, the woman behind the accusations against Brett Kavanaugh, the Trump administration's nominee for the Supreme Court, when she claims she was sexually assaulted by him. Of course she has never forgotten the incident. She was fifteen when she experienced her MeToo moment . . . the same age as I was.

While memory can distort, exaggerate, minimize, and refine our recollection of pivotal events, it rarely loses sight of the enormity of the event. If you were sexually accosted at a young age, the memory will remain, no matter how much you try to repress or deny it. My memory will still call up the exact location and time of my MeToo moment. I can still see the furniture, hear the voice, smell the dinner cooking in the kitchen, and relive my confusion at what was happening to me. I can also recall my attempts to alert my mother to what had happened, and I will never forget her dismissal of my story, assuring me that it never happened.

So, yes, I believe Christine Blasey Ford, despite the fact that I do not know her. We were both fifteen-year-old dreamers whose innocence was shattered by an act of abuse by a man who wanted to believe that he had some power over us. Our story is one shared by so many of our sisters.

So here is a moment. We are 27 years past the Anita Hill - Clarence Thomas hearings, although that seems like a lifetime ago. We have another chance to hold an abuser to account, and there is no doubt that the stakes are high. If testimonies give credibility to Ford's recollection of events, should Kavanaugh serve a lifetime seat on the highest court in the nation? A court that might consider overruling Roe v. Wade or determine that a sitting President cannot be indicted? Yes, the event happened 36 years ago. Yes, Ford remembers it. The question is: does Kavanaugh? If he doesn't, then it is obvious that the double standard is very powerful. And if he does, then it is obvious that he has lied.  And while lying may be in vogue in the Age of Trump, I don't think any of us wants a liar to serve on the Supreme Court.

Whichever way this goes, it will leave a mark on our culture. Either we will get yet one more dismissal in the form of the "boys will be boys" mantra, or we will have an opportunity to change the cultural message that says women are dispensable and unworthy of protection from predators.

Which will it be? Stay tuned.

My Turn

Back in the days of print magazines, I was a Newsweek junkie. I looked forward to my copy coming in the mail each week, and I read it cover-to-cover. Each issue had an essay written by some everyday person, submitted to the page titled, "My Turn." I wrote an essay and submitted it, but it was never published, and then Newsweek gave up its print editions and I gave up my addiction to Newsweek.

In confronting the anniversary that greets us every year on September 11, I recalled that essay and searched for a copy of it. I found it and read it, and I still believe that there is some merit to what I had to say. At the risk of offending anyone, I am offering it here. I think I wrote it in 2007, but my thoughts on the topic are the same today.

And so, here it is:

My husband was killed by a terrorist. After being held hostage for four years, and despite the pleas of many to spare his life, he died on December 20, 2002.

Unlike the victims of September 11, 2001, there are no memorials being planned to honor my husband. There was no government-issued monetary compensation for me or my children. There was no trial held to judge the terrorist responsible for his death. And "12/20" has not become a mantra like "9/11." My husband was only one out of a half-million victims that year, and his killer has continued to terrorize families with no "war" dedicated to preventing further carnage.

The terrorist that killed my husband was Cancer. Like many victims of 9/11, my husband was young (45), physically fit, and healthy before he met his killer. He left behind a wife, three young children, and a community of friends and colleagues who loved him and are still struggling to deal with their loss.

But the media did not seek us out to ask what we think of the monuments and memorials planned in his honor. They did not ask our opinion about the latest Hollywood film that documents his death. And they do not write human interest stories about how his children are coping in their fatherless world.

My heart broke with the rest of America when the lives of nearly 3000 innocent victims were lost on that clear September morning. I mourn for the children who lost parents on that day. And I feel a connection to the husbands and wives left behind, knowing first-hand what it is like to face a future without the one person you thought would always be there with you.

But more and more, I ponder the almost-unspeakable questions . . . why is their loss more "news-worthy" than mine? Why is there now a "war on terror," with its horrendous loss of life and limb, and not a "war on cancer," where evil cells would be the only target? Why is taxpayer money being spent on foreign soil when a maniacal terrorist runs rampant here at home, claiming the lives of thousands of victims every week?

My morning paper details for me the ongoing dispute about how to rebuild at Ground Zero. But I grew weary of that controversy long ago. For those of us who lost loved ones in the more conventional ways, "moving on" is, though certainly as painful, perhaps less complicated. My now nineteen-year-old daughter, in a flurry of activity, has found multiple ways to avenge her father's death. Initially, she organized a team of peers to participate in Relay for Life, a fundraiser for cancer research. Next, she swam 1.4 miles into Provincetown harbor to raise money for AIDS. And in her senior year of high school, she devoted countless hours to raising money and awareness to save Darfur. She works tirelessly, in her father's name, to help those who need it. I can think of no monument more fitting to honor my husband than the selfless efforts of his progeny to work toward the better good. I burst with pride, knowing how he would feel about her work.

We live in a world of car magnets and wristbands. Bumper stickers admonish us to "never forget." But beyond the monuments, the memorials, the flag-waving, and the yellow ribbons, there is the real work of humanity -- trying to make the world a better place. While I would never suggest that the families of the victims of 9/11 don't deserve the memorials planned in honor of their loved ones, I would remind America and the world that there are many of us who lost loved ones in an untimely manner and have found ways to honor them without fanfare. Free of the public's inquiring eyes, we manage to build our own memorials to them in our beliefs and actions. And we do so with no expectation of entitlement.

Expected or not, grief is part of life. My grief is no larger than anyone else's, and his/hers is no greater than mine. The most moving memorials are the ones we carry in our hearts, the ones that inform the way we live our lives. No matter the name of the terrorist who claimed our loved ones, we must focus our energy, our talents, our resources, and yes, our revenge on rebuilding the world . . . one act of love at a time.

A Facebook Memory: Fall Ball

A friend recently commented that, despite having posted lots and lots of silly stuff in her early days of Facebook, she is now grateful for the "memories" offered, as they remind her of who she once was. I, too, am often surprised, pleased, shocked, or embarrassed when I encounter my own Facebook memories. "What the hell was I thinking?" is often my response to something I posted in 2009. And in those early days, I must not have known how to post a picture, so all I have are my words to paint a picture of "who I once was."

Yesterday, a Facebook memory made me stop in my tracks and reflect not only on who I once was, but who my son once was. The "memory" was a poem I'd written when my son was off at college, far away, in time and distance, from the young boy that I'd raised. It was a memory of his years as a catcher on a baseball team, a vivid and bittersweet memory for me. While the other kids on the team usually had both their moms and dads (and sometimes grandparents) cheering them on, my son had me. His father died when Sam was ten. I loved watching Sam play baseball, but the sadness I felt that his dad wasn't there was never absent.

Ask any credible poet which of his/her poems is a favorite, and the response will often be, "The one I'm working on now." Poets are harsh critics of their own work, and the exhausting construction of a finished piece renders it to the archives, far away from the current and future work. But let enough time go by, and the poet will often experience the same sentimentality that Facebook users encounter when reminded of their past posts.

I will unabashedly admit that I still love this poem that I wrote all those years ago. It has the power to take me back to a place that, sadness aside, is a place of love and survival and promise. It has enough color and sound and imagery to evoke a time when I did the best I could with the hand I'd been dealt, or at least that's what I'd like to believe. I hope my son believes it, too.

And so, here it is:


Fall Ball (for Sam)

At first, I think it's horseshoes,
that plink of metal on metal.
Until the sound roars up from memory
as something more intimate, more dear.
Fall baseball. It's the sound
of a hard-packed sphere meeting
an aluminum bat. Plink. And then
the muffled yells from all those
parents. And once, not so long ago,
I was one of them. As always,

September grounded in
like Virginia Creeper, non-threatening
at first, then suffocating summer's reign
with a red insistence that defies fair play.
I can harvest the crookneck and butternut,
sauce the tomatoes, celebrate the turning
leaves. But how do I call back autumn's
real beauty -- a boy in catcher's gear,
intent on the call, poised for whatever
comes his way, even if it happens to be
the future?