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Secret Music

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What is marriage? It is secret music heard by only two people. What keeps a couple together? Children, common beliefs, love, lust, that indefinable something? Two people sing their song together with a repetitive chorus that they both know by heart. Their song is sometimes in harmony, sometimes not. This story is not taken from real life …but it could be.

“Do you want toast or English muffins with our omelet?” Lila asked. She and Winston were sitting on their front patio, he with the Daily Star and coffee, she with her Sunday mimosa. Actually, it was her second. They watched the sun spill its radiance over the mountaintop like a bright scroll unfurling down toward the valley. This summer morning was slightly cooler than usual, but the heat was beginning to build.
“What?” Winston leaned toward her cocking his head.
“Do you prefer an English muffin or toast?” Lila spoke sharply louder.
“Don’t yell at me, just don’t mumble. I’ll have whatever you are having.”
Lila shrugged and muttered, “English muffin.”
“What?”
“I’ll fix us both an English muffin. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Do you want to eat outside on the back patio or in the kitchen?”  She faced him, carefully enunciating each word.
“Are Jen and Mike coming over this today?”
“Yes. Jennifer said something about bringing the kids to swim around three. We’ll eat breakfast out back. The day’s starting so beautifully. I want to enjoy it as much as we can before it heats up. I’ll set the table out there.”
“Are they staying for dinner?”
“I didn’t ask.” She turned and walked into the house.
“What?”

Lila went into the kitchen to cook the omelet. Winston folded his paper, picked up his cup, and followed her into the house. Bowl, pan, eggs, salt, pepper, butter, cheese, green onion, muffins, Lila began to prepare breakfast.

“Wanna watch the CBS Sunday Show?” he asked.
Lila split the English muffins and put them in the toaster oven. “Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. It’s DVR’d, so let’s wait until after breakfast. Take some silverware and napkins out back to the table and I’ll bring the water.” Lila made sure he was looking directly at her as she spoke.
“Oh, we’re eating outside this morning?”

Lila nodded whisking the eggs until fluffy and adding a wee bit of sour cream. Winston dampened a washcloth and went out the sliding glass door to the back patio to wipe off the table. Birds were chirping in the trees, a mixed choir. He returned to get the silverware and napkins, giving Lila a peck on the back of her neck as he passed her in the kitchen.

“Who loves ya, baby? he said with a wink. Then, “Beautiful morning.”
“Really?  I hadn’t noticed.”
“So are the kids staying for dinner?”
“No, I think they’ll just be here for an hour or so.”
“I could barbecue.”
“I’d rather not have the commotion this evening. Let’s just have a quiet day, just us two.”
“But you said they were coming to swim this afternoon.”
“Only for an hour or so.”
“Do you want to go to a movie?”
“Not especially. I want to enjoy a quiet day, maybe read, a little nap. You know …a lazy Sunday.”
“What?”
“I said no, not especially.”
“I miss those kids. We haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks.  We used to see them every weekend and even during the week.”
“They’re growing up. Jen and Mike have their hands full getting them to all their activities. Grandma and Grandpa don’t fit into their schedules as much as we used to. You remember what our lives were like with three active kids at home. It’s hectic.”
“Well, I remember seeing my folks and your folks every weekend.”
“It may have seemed like it to you, but we were lucky to see them once a month except at soccer or basketball games.”

“Maybe they’re spending time with Jen’s parents,” he said.
“Maybe.”
“Did we do something to tick them off?”
“Win, there is nothing wrong with our relationship with Jen, Mike, and their kids. They’re just busy.
“I miss them.”
“I know.” She added, “You need to get a hobby.”
“What about Bobby?”
“I said you need a hobby.”
“Bobby is such a good little golfer. Maybe I could take him out on Saturdays and give him some tips.”
“Mike is doing a good job, just like you did with him.”

After breakfast and the obligatory Sunday news program, Lila started the weekly laundry. Then she sat in her favorite cane-backed rocking chair to read. Winston turned to the Golf Channel with the sound off to watch the final round of a tournament he had followed since Thursday.  He dozed in his recliner.

Later, Lila pulled out the pool toys from the backyard shed.  Winston took the cover off the pool, checked the pH levels, and swept off the patio.  A little after three o’clock Mike’s family drove up and the cacophony of a nine, seven, and five-year-old broke into the Sunday quiet.  They moved quickly through the house to the backyard tossing beach towels onto the chaise as they passed.

“Say hi to grandma and grandpa kids,” Jennifer hollered.
“Hi Grandma, hi Grandpa,” came the chorus of cherubs as they swirled, swiveled, and flew into the pool.

Jennifer shook her head and gave Lila a hug.  Mike and Winston took patio chairs into the shade to watch the mini-Olympic challenges as they developed. Carla, being the oldest, was of course the director.  Bobby and Kyle followed her lead lining up on the edge and diving to swim helter-skelter toward the opposite end of the pool.

“How has the week been?” Lila asked Jennifer as she got the iced tea and lemonade out of the refrigerator.
“Oh, you know the typical mad dash from event to event, friend to friend.  I swear, I’ll be glad when school starts again and we can have a routine that doesn’t involve six hours a day in the car.” Jennifer got glasses and napkins and put them on the big tray.
“Well, you know we can help out.  If you guys need an extra set of wheels, we’d be happy to take one of them to a something, whatever.” 
“I know you would and often I think of it but most things are so spur of the moment I hate to call.  Maybe we can ask you to take one of them to lessons.  They have tennis, swimming, and horseback riding.  I’ll talk to Mike about it.  It would be a big relief to have at least one of the bases covered.”
“Who has what?  Doesn’t Carla have horseback riding?” 
“Yeah, and swimming but not on the same day that Bobby and Kyle have it.  Bobby and Kyle take lessons together on Thursday morning.  Carla has horseback riding on Thursday morning and swimming on Tuesday morning.  Both Carla and Bobby have tennis on Monday morning.  I usually take Kyle to the park while they have lessons.  And interspersed with all that is friend time.  I’m either dropping one of them off at a friend or picking a friend up for the day.  It really does get crazy.  I know that Mike is very sensitive about getting you guys involved in the whole thing so I’ll talk to him first.”
“Why?”
“Honestly?” Jennifer stopped and put down the tray, turning to face Lila, “He may be mad at me for saying this but I think honesty is the best way to deal with it.”

Lila perched on a seat at the kitchen counter bar. “What’s up?”

“Mike is concerned about Dad’s hearing and he thinks he is a bit unsteady driving.  He knows how much Dad doesn’t like to be told he can’t hear and he sure as heck doesn’t want to bring up driving skills with him so he just said he doesn’t want the kids to be in the car with him driving.”

The air sighed out of Lila’s lungs.  She knew it was just a matter of time before this conversation would happen.  She remembered having the same talk with her mother about her dad when his driving became questionable. 

“Jen, you know we wouldn’t put the kids in danger.  Ever.”
“I know you wouldn’t purposely do it but it has crept up so slowly we didn’t think you noticed.”
“Oh I’ve noticed but I guess I haven’t really made….”
“I know, I know.  It’s hard.  If you would promise to do the driving, I think Mike would be okay with it.  He’s just really worried about Dad.  The hearing thing, you know.  He misses half of what is said to him and that could cause a problem with directions or instructions for taking the kids somewhere.”
“We finally have an appointment with the audiologist.  He agreed to go because I said I was having trouble hearing. He set up an appointment for both of us to have a checkup.  I’ll talk to Win but I may need Mike to man up and back me up.  If he says something I think Winston will pay more attention.”
“My dad stopped driving completely and mom only goes back and forth a few blocks to buy groceries once a week.  I’ve been running errands and taking them to an appointment here and there but I just don’t have the time to do it all the time.  We found a car service that will pick them up and take them to some things.  They’re ten years older than you guys and they don’t get around like they used to.  For fifteen to twenty dollars they can get most anyplace they need to go and back home. It’s a small price to pay for their safety. And they only use it a couple of times a month. There is even a free public bus service for seniors, if you don’t have to go at a set time.”
“Good to know but we’re not there yet.”
“Of course not.  I’m just saying there is help when the time comes.”
“Too bad it’s not for transporting active kids all over tarnation,” Lila quipped.
“I like to go to their lessons and stay to watch but sometimes it’s just too much and I take that time to run errands so I don’t have to drag them with me.  Mike helps when he can in the evenings especially after school starts but on summer days it’s mostly me.”

“Hey, where are the drinks?” Mike shouted from the patio.
“We’re coming. Hold your shirt,” Jennifer shouted back, then turned to Lila. “I’ll talk with Mike tonight, and we’ll all talk later, okay?”
“Yeah, thanks for your honesty, honey. You’ve given me something to think about. I’ll talk to Winston too.”

There was an old woman…

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I was in second grade. My family lived in the Riverside section of Wichita in the 1950s. The neighborhood was mostly small homes built just before and just after WWII. I lived three blocks from Woodland Elementary School and walked to and from every day – rain or shine. Often I walked with my best friend, Lois. There were two turns between my house and the school; at the end of my block I turned right and walked one block, then turned left onto Salina, one more block to school.  On the corner of Salina was a tiny house of undetermined age but definitely built years before the rest of the neighborhood. It looked very old, weathered beyond having color, and slightly tilted as if it was melting into its small corner plot of land. The yard was mostly dirt and sparse grass. I always crossed the street on the opposite side from the little house because a witch lived there. A witch, or a gypsy, or some kind of monster who stole little children. So went the common lore at my school. It was a place to be avoided. I very rarely saw the ancient lady who lived in the house. She would sometimes be on her front porch when I passed by, but I never intentionally looked in her direction in case she put a spell on me.

Life in the 1950s in a middle American suburb was idyllic for a child. My biggest worry was if I could complete double-dutch on the jump rope at recess. Our school had no cafeteria or lunchroom, so we children walked home for lunch, then returned for afternoon class. That meant I walked past the witch house three times each school day. Most of the time I didn’t pay any attention to it – just knew I didn’t want to walk directly in front of it on the same side of the street.

One spring afternoon, Lois had to leave school early so I was walking along by myself toward home. I noticed the lady on the corner was out near the sidewalk of her house. As I approached on the opposite side of the street, I kept my head turned away so she couldn’t see my face and cast an enchantment. I heard a voice.

“Little girl,” came a croaking call.

I ignored the voice and kept my face averted.

Again I heard, “Little girl. Little girl, can you help me, please?”

The chicken skin on my arms prickled. I had been raised to be polite, especially to older people. Torn between politeness and panic, I looked up expecting to be zapped by lightning from her eyes. At closer range, she didn’t look that scary. She was barely taller than me and very lean. She had kinky black hair pulled into a wiry top knot on her head. She wore a print dress covered mostly with an apron, not much different than my grandmother wore. I paused.

“Please,” she said. “Could you come over here and do me a favor?”

Now my hackles were really up. Images of Hansel and Gretel passed through my mind. Didn’t the witch ask for their help just before she cast them into a cage to fatten them for a meal? Would my mother and father guess that I’d been taken by the witch? They had never said anything about her. Maybe they didn’t know she lived in the neighborhood. Would Lois be able to guess what happened to me and tell someone?

“Sweetie, please. Do you know how to read?”

Ahh. That went directly to my pride. Yes, I was the best reader in Mrs. Jones’ class. With halting steps, I crossed the street toward the old woman. She had a paper in her hand.

“My grandson wrote me a letter,” she said. “I don’t know how to read. Would you read it to me?” She motioned me to follow her to the cracked slab porch. Her back was bowed and she tottered a bit as she walked. She sat down on a scratched, partially rusted green metal chair and handed me the letter. It was only a few lines, and it was in a sort of cursive writing, so I had trouble deciphering it. I don’t remember the contents, but I do know that it was signed, With My Love. The old woman had tears in her eyes.

“He’s my only living relative,” she said. “He used to be a boy, young like you. Now he’s in the Army. I don’t never get to see him.”

My heart softened. I didn’t have any words to say to her, so I hugged her. She clung to me, her thin brown arms wrapped around my arms, and looked into my face. I looked back into her dark brown eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “I made cookies today. Would you like one?”

What seven-year-old would pass up a cookie? She got up, opened her front door, and beckoned me to follow. The house was very dark. It had only one room with a kitchen area at the back and it looked like there was a bedroom next to the front room. Only a little light came through thin old curtains. I could smell the fresh baking. I took a step in and was shocked. The floor was dirt. She had a rag rug in front of an old rocking chair and one under a small round dining table that had one chair. The dirt floor was packed. It didn’t look like outside dirt, it looked clean and swept. I took the offered cookie then told her I needed to get home. She thanked me again and said I could come visit anytime.

I never went back to her house, but I did always wave if she was outside. And I walked on her side of the street when I wasn’t with Lois. I told Lois the story and I think she thought I made it up. I didn’t tell anyone else…until now

Thursday is Tuesday?

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I know it is probably one of those “age” symptoms. It could also be related to the fact of retirement when weekdays don’t have the same definition as when I was employed or with kids in school. I believe many retired people can relate. However, I think more than anything there is a missing cog in my brain.  I have trouble keeping days of the week in their proper sequence, time in steady check, and my location relative to my destination.

Thursday is designated clean-up day at our house. I was sitting on the patio enjoying this beautiful morning unfold at sunrise, watching the birds and having my tea thinking of the quiet day ahead and Ken said, “We better get started for our walk. I want to get back so I can get the vacuuming done early.”  

Clean up? Today? It’s Thursday again? I was thinking it was Tuesday. What happened to Tuesday? Oh, yeah – it was a busy day and flew by very quickly. Then Wednesday happened and here we are at Thursday with things to do and dinner plans with friends.

I wrote a post last November about weekends. In it I wrote about the dowager Countess on Downton Abbey played so brilliantly by Maggie Smith. The family was having a discussion about the weekend and she piped up, “Weekend? What is a weekend?” Of course, in her world each day had its own significance related to social duties, but they were not put in categories of weekday and weekend days. Days were all the same – another day. I’m not a countess and I struggled to manage life within those weekday boundaries, but I slipped those bonds since retirement.

Ever since I can remember, I have had a tenuous relationship with time and space, so keeping track of days, times, and place are a challenge for me. Ken, who I labeled Steady Eddie in an earlier post, has always been my tether to those things that are assigned the when and where in our life. He reminds me of earthbound values that I easily forget in my spacey way. He likes to be places early and I am apt to be late. Between us we are usually on time. He knows the directions to every place he has gone before and magically knows how to find his way to destinations he’s never been to before. It is difficult for me to find my way out of our cul-de-sac. You can ask any/all of my friends and family who fall into two categories. They either laugh with me being lost or late, or they get very annoyed. Fortunately, we laugh – a lot. If I am the designated driver, I always need a co-pilot to navigate even to places with which I am familiar or I will most definitely be late.

So here we are at Thursday. I did enjoy Tuesday; and, Wednesday was a quiet day, reading and writing. Tomorrow, I have an appointment mid-day that Ken won’t let me forget. It will be Friday.

Six Sentences

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Our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum recently challenged the members to write a story in six sentences. I took up the challenge. It is fun to practice writing in a variety of ways. There were no restrictions as to genre or topic. Below is my story.

In the darkness of the midnight hour, the lines clang against the main mast as the little sloop, Step Two, is released from anchor and begins to float out of the cove in a rising tide. The jib unfurls in the freshening wind from starboard. She sets the wheel aiming toward open waters, then bends to her task. Her back and shoulder muscles strain as she heaves the body overboard, head first, and watches it slice through the inky waters into the deep along with the bloody knife. She exhales a deep sigh of freedom realizing he’ll terrorize no more. Light from the quarter moon creeps from between clouds casting shadows across her scarred face.

A few months ago I wrote another six sentence story for an on-line challenge. This is that story. It is titled Bi-polar. I feel I must add that it is not auto-biographical. I shared it with some in my writing group and they immediately expressed sympathy for me. I had to explain it was made up but comes from observation, reading, and listening to other people’s stories.

It comes without warning, unexpected, expected, furious, fierce, brittle, hateful. It goes the same, expected, unexpected as sweetness returns. calm consideration and laughter. My lover is possessed by a djinn called by many names, bi-cycles, bi-polar cycles, stealthily stealing love. I am thrown as from a swiftly moving car into brambles of pain, reason unknown, known, unknowable. My heart is calloused, trust gone an unbridgeable distance, leaving shredded tatters of love with only a gossamer thread remaining. The darkness of her despair, unreachable, unclaimed grasps my helpless heart building an unbreachable wall between.

Fiction is based on so many things from a writer’s experiences, reading, and research. While there may be tiny pieces of me in my fiction writing, it is mostly made up in my head. It is the inhabiting of other realities that makes writing fun for me. Some of them are dark. Some are ridiculous and some are funny. These two examples are on the dark side. I don’t think anyone thought the first story was autobiographical…but you never know. I have owned a sailboat.

Change * My Last Post on A Way with Words blog

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As my dear husband reminds me whenever I am flummoxed by events that modify my circumstances, “The only constant is change”. The world is always in flux. Change is life. We are not the same, day in and day out, because our lives are not static. We live in an ever-modifying world, shifting conditions and changing views. As we get older our bodies transform as do our wants and needs. Change brings growth even when we don’t immediately realize it. Change is a catalyst for learning about ourselves, others, and our world.

What I’m getting at is there is a change on the horizon with me and the A Way with Words blog. This is my last post as a regular blogger. With the permission of Sally and Jackie, I will occasionally be a contributor. Our friendship remains intact. I will always be grateful for their generous friendship and their mentorship. We spent many years learning to write together and now we are going separate ways as writers.

I established my own blog site Wonkagranny, a grandmother’s perceptions of the universe through stories, poems, and life observations. I will write posts on that site beginning September 1st.  I do not feel that I can maintain an effective presence on two blogging sites at the same time. I am writing short stories and essays that may or may not ever be published. Publication has never been a goal for me, but some of those stories and poems will be linked on my Wonkagranny site. My past posts from A Way with Words are archived on Wonkagranny.

I deeply appreciate all those who read and comment on our mutual website and I hope you will join me on my personal journey with words.

What I’m getting at is there is a change on the horizon with me and the A Way with Words blog. This is my last post as a regular blogger. With the permission of Sally and Jackie, I will occasionally be a contributor. Our friendship remains intact. I will always be grateful for their generous friendship and their mentorship. We spent many years learning to write together and now we are going separate ways as writers.

I established my own blog site Wonkagranny, a grandmother’s perceptions of the universe through stories, poems, and life observations. I will write posts on that site beginning September 1st.  I do not feel that I can maintain an effective presence on two blogging sites at the same time. I am writing short stories and essays that may or may not ever be published. Publication has never been a goal for me, but some of those stories and poems will be linked on my Wonkagranny site. My past posts from A Way with Words are archived on Wonkagranny.

I deeply appreciate all those who read and comment on our mutual website and I hope you will join me on my personal journey with words.

Friendship

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Linda – Sally – Diana – Jackie

A friend can tell you things you don’t want to tell yourself ~ Frances Ward Weller

Friendship isn’t one big thing. It’s a million little things ~ Anonymous.

Friendship is built on mutual respect and trust ~ Stieg Larsson

Working hard together on our book
Out to dinner in Steamboat

Strangers at first, we built a friendship word by word. Words we spoke and words we wrote. We learned about ourselves and each other over decades of sharing ideas, personal memories, and experiences. It did not happen immediately. It took time to build our relationship, a bond of trust. There were four of us, Sally, Linda, Jackie, and me, at the core of our writers’ group that lasted years. A few others joined for a brief time and left for a variety of reasons. The group has now run its course, but the friendship endures. Over the years we had many dinners, lunches, and breakfasts together. We shared millions of gut-busting laughs and quite a few tears. We had overnights and out-of-town trips together. We slept on the floor next to each other. We shared beds in unfamiliar cities. We explored cities, towns, and countries, attended workshops, and took classes together. The tapestry of respect and love is tightly woven thread by thread.

Ben’s Bells Logo

Two weeks ago, I wrote a post about a memory I have of a dinner celebration the three of us, Sally, Linda, and I, had together. We went to a restaurant and in the parking lot we found a token of kindness hanging from a tree, Ben’s Bells. I wrote that I retrieved the token from the tree and had it hanging above my desk as a reminder of that time together. Sally later reminded me that it was she who retrieved the bell from the tree and had it in her studio at home. The next week she gave each of us, Linda and me, a ceramic token in remembrance of that date. The token that hangs above my desk is even more precious to me because Sally wanted us to keep that memory as she did.

I have a great memory for experiences, but I do not necessarily get all the details right. I remember the sensory aspects, the emotions, like pictures in my head that can be easily misplaced in time and space. My husband and children often correct me when I tell a story. Yes, the event or experience happened but it happened in a different place at a different time. I’ve gone to other relatives to corroborate some of my earliest memories. I’m so happy to have witnesses to my life, but it does not preclude my enjoying memories in my own way.

Sally, being the chronicler of our group – she has a scrapbook of all our escapades and calendars kept over time – is the go-to person whenever I want to authenticate a memory. I love that about her. I treasure her ability and willingness to keep things straight. She knows me and laughed when she read the post, then reminded me of the facts. Thank you, Sally, for being my tolerant friend.

Summer Legacy Project

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Our grandson, Henry, just began his first year of high school. Oh, the nostalgia that bubbled up in me. Our daughter, as a single mom, gave us the opportunity to be a big part of his childhood. Instead of putting him in daycare, she asked if we would be willing to have him at our house during the week while she was working. Willing? We jumped at the chance to be part of his growing up. What a privilege! He was the focal point of each weekday from the time he was one (she stayed home with him for his first year) until he started school full-time at age six. Then he was with us after school and holidays for several years until he was in middle school. Thereafter we became traditional grandparents, seeing him once or twice a week. We have settled into a lovely routine for Sunday mornings – brunch and a visit weekly to catch up on his news.

Final seat wall

For this past summer, Henry spent part of each Friday with us. He had a job Monday through Thursday as a camp counselor at Steam Pump Ranch archeology camp. He had been a camper there for a couple of weeks every summer until he aged out at thirteen.

I had a special project for him. I asked him to build a brick seat wall on our front patio. I wanted a legacy project that would be a permanent part of our house – something he contributed that would be functional for us and would occupy those Fridays. I always wanted more seating for guests on our front patio, a place we sit with coffee or cocktails to look at the mountains and enjoy the activity in the neighborhood. He was in charge from conception to finish. We had final say on design and materials; he planned and built it, and we reviewed it and paid for the materials.

Henry began with internet research – of course, he’s fourteen and everything begins with the internet. He came up with a plan and put it on paper showing us the front, side, and top scheme of what the wall would look like. He made an interlocking pattern for stability. Then he researched materials, where to buy, and what adhesive to bind them together. Finally, he was ready to order materials for delivery. That was a biggy since he was then spending real money. Bricks were delivered (not without drama over missed shipments and duplicate shipments). A pile of bricks then had to be made into a real structure according to his plan. There were only three bricks left over – now I call that great planning.

Measure for sure
Following the plan

Amazing! It worked. He built it just as he envisioned it. Now we have exactly what I wanted, and his brain and hands created it entirely. What a legacy!

Partially built

Things That Matter

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

In the hustle bustle of our everyday life, we lose sight of things that matter, even if they are right in front of us.  I was attempting to clean up my office area in the library/cat grotto. It is one of those tasks that never really ends, just begins – again and again. I get it mostly done then find something I meant to read or something I want to ponder or write and there goes an hour or two. By the time I’ve come back to the task, I’ve lost momentum and the remaining mess is shuffled to a corner until tomorrow or mañana, whichever comes first.

Along the way, I rediscover treasures. They are treasures of the heart. Part of the beauty of having a special place of my own to write, read, and think is that I surround myself with what my husband calls stuff. Photos, cherished books, posters, artwork, and objets d’art that have meaning for me. If piled all together they wouldn’t have the market value of a head of lettuce.

On the wall above my desk is a homemade birthday card from my grandson when he was eight or nine. Homemade in every respect. He made the paper and then printed the greeting on it. It reads Happy Birthday Grandma. You have a heart of pure – there he glued some gold fragments in the middle of the paper. It is signed Love Henry. There is no currency that can equal the value of that piece of handmade paper.  

On the wall next to it is one of Ben’s Bells that I found one evening when I was out with friends. It is a pay-it-forward symbol of intentional kindness. The story behind it is of a two-year-old boy who died suddenly in 2002. His grieving mother and family began making ceramic wind chimes to heal their grief. They were joined by others who helped. Four hundred bells were made and distributed around Tucson in random places on the first anniversary of Ben’s death. The one I found was hanging on a tree branch in a restaurant parking lot – it says “Be Kind”. Thousands of people joined the effort to make and distribute the bells. The movement grew as a non-profit educational program of kindness in schools and businesses all over the world. Every school I’ve been to around Oro Valley has a kindness program with the Ben’s Bells logo at the center of it. The green Be Kind symbol is displayed on school walls as a reminder. Awards are given at the end of the year to students who have displayed kindness toward others.

Those are just a couple of items that make my fortune more valuable than gems, or gold, or silver.

We Must Risk Delight

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I read a lot, usually two or three books at a time. I’m now reading the Collected Poems of Jack Gilbert, The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World by Laura Imai Messina, and The Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett. I’m also rereading Rules of Civility by Amor Towles for book club. Prompted by the poetry of Jack Gilbert, I am finding much needed messages in each book. Our world is in turmoil. Human beings are being cheated, chained and tortured, enslaved and murdered, and there is still good in the world. We must celebrate those pockets of delight. It is not about denying the strife of living, it is about acknowledging the wonder of life. I am alive. I have pain, I am alive. I have problems, I am alive. There will always be human suffering, but even the poorest barefoot women at the public fountain in a war-torn country find occasion for laughter. Celebrate the wonder of being alive.

In Jack Gilbert’s poem A Brief for the Defense, he says, “We must risk delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.”

I finished reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. I was reluctant to start reading it after learning the topic, thinking it would be a complete downer. But it was for our book club, so I dove in. What made a story about the downtrodden and drug-addicted in Appalachia an enjoyable read was the resilience of Damon, the main character. No matter what life threw at him, he found a way to make lemonade from lemons – to survive, even thrive. A victory of the soul over circumstance.

The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World explores grief, seemingly unrelenting sorrow without being overly sentimental or self-pitying. It is about two survivors of the tsunami of March 2011 in Japan who lost their dearest loves and find hope and laughter in their memories and in their survival.

I finished rereading Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. In it the storyteller, Kate sees two photos of a former lover in a gallery. The first shows Tinker dressed in a suit looking very dapper and successful; the second is of Tinker in rags but with a light in his eyes. A glow that the first photo did not show. It was a riches-to-rags story. Kate explains to her husband that the second photo, taken years after the first, was of Tinker happy without the chains of society’s expectations dampening his spirit. Tinker’s character is summed up later by his brother Hank. “Wonder. Anyone can buy a car or a night on the town. Most of us shell our days like peanuts. One in a thousand can look at the world with amazement. I don’t mean gawking at the Chrysler Building. I’m talking about the wing of a dragonfly. The tale of the shoeshine. Walking through an unsullied hour with an unsullied heart.” Tinker rediscovered delight. I love Amor Towles’s way with words.

Another poem Falling and Failing by Jack Gilbert is about divorce. He opines that divorce should not be considered a failure. It is the memories of the love and time together that are celebrated in his poem. The first line reads, “Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.” The last line is, “I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.”

“Life is just a bowl of cherries” as the song says. Some are sweet, some sour, and some have pits. “Don’t take it serious, life’s too mysterious.” Stubborn gladness is more than happiness. It is a choice, the decision to see the juicy wonder in life and toss the pits.

An Open Letter to Elected Officials

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I started to write about our magnificent monsoons that make life so wonderfully dramatic here in southern Arizona in the summer and tell of another visit by Miss Piggy and her family. Then I saw an open letter on the opinion page of the Arizona Daily Star and decided that even though it isn’t about nature, it is about human nature. I do not like to expound on things political or religious because I believe that, as important as they are in each individual’s life, they are personal. I prefer to relate to individuals as whole humans not as labels, colors, textures, or genders. I am bending slightly to recommend this article, which is political, but I believe written with common sense. Is common sense Idealistic? I think it is an important message to those to whom we have given the responsibility of leadership. We live in troubled times – troubled because of hubris and greed. It is the unfortunate story of humanity as far back as history itself. To paraphrase Spanish philosopher, George Santayana, – What we do not learn from history, we are doomed to repeat.

The author of this letter, Tom Chester, is a fellow member of the Oro Valley Writers’ Forum. I included a link to his blog page where you can read other essays and to the Arizona Daily Star Opinion Page. With permission, I am posting Tom’s letter.

From the Arizona Daily Star July 22, 2023

The following is the opinion and analysis of the writer:

An Open Letter to Our Elected Officials

Greetings:

I am writing about the responsibility that elected officials such as you have to the people, our system of government, and the rule of law.

That responsibility transcends personal ambition and political differences. It is antithetical to the churlish behavior so common in news stories of politicians and candidates for office who say and do outlandish things to gain attention of supporters and to vilify those with whom they disagree.

Your role is to govern and serve, not rule. Your primary obligation is to the common good and to the general welfare of the people. It is not to your own political aspirations, nor to your funders or supporters.

Your constituents are not just those who voted for you or who are members of your party, nor are they only the people in the jurisdiction from which you were elected. Your responsibility is much broader than that. It is also to others whom your votes and actions affect, and moreover, it extends to future generations whose well-being will be influenced by your actions.

There is much you can do to help bring civility and honor back to politics — and to set an example for your peers.

  • Shun tribalism. It is human nature to identify as a member of a group — not just Republican or Democrat, but other categories such as religion, race, ethnicity, or political orientation (liberal, conservative, libertarian, etc.). Despite our obvious differences, we as a people have much more in common, including our wellbeing and the wellbeing of our families, our friends, our communities and our country.
  • Avoid virulent partisanship. Political power follows cycles, and one party does not remain in power forever. If your party is now in the majority, it will not always be. If your party is in the minority, it will return to power sooner or later. As an elected official, you should serve with that in mind.
  • Be open to compromise with those with whom you disagree. Good government requires it. If it weren’t for compromise, the Constitution wouldn’t have been created. Even then, it wasn’t perfect, as evidenced by it being amended 27 times so far. Nevertheless, it was good enough to get this country launched.
  • Don’t sell your soul. In seeking financial support for your campaigns, you must be wary of the lure of money and the temptation to adapt your views to those who offer to open their wallets to you, including lobbyists and special-interest groups. As the famous California politician Jesse Unruh advised fellow members of the state legislature 40 years ago, “If you can’t eat their food, drink their booze, … and then vote against them, you have no business being up here.” The devil’s agents wear many disguises and are more than willing to give you financial support — for a price. Don’t bite.
  • Keep thy religion to thyself. Faith is each person’s own business. Most of us voters believe faith should be a private matter, not something to be proclaimed on the campaign trail or wielded like a truncheon in making legislation. Pharisees are bad enough in the temple much less in public office.
  • Don’t wrap yourself in the flag. While we expect our officials to be patriotic, real patriotism is not empty verbiage about the greatness of this country, but wise policies to help it fulfill the promise of the Preamble to the Constitution to “establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity.”
  • Avoid name-calling and trying to smear your opponents with labels like fascist or socialist, or with gratuitous insults to their intelligence or morals. The body to which you were elected is not a middle school, so don’t act like an unruly teenager.
  • Be modest, admit your mistakes, question your beliefs, and be willing to change your mind.

Although my suggestions may seem too idealistic for the gritty world of politics, the country needs idealistic officials who listen to the better angels of their nature rather than solely to the cheers of their supporters and funders, who understand they have a higher obligation other than just to their party or the next election cycle, who follow the Golden Rule instead of the Lure of Power.

Tom Chester is a retired writer and ne’er-do-well who has lived in the West for 50 years, seven of which in Tucson.

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Tucson Daily Star – Opinion – An Open Letter