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.
Several days before July 4th we were invited by dear neighbors to attend a showing of the movie, The Sound of Freedom, with them on our nation’s birthday. It is not a movie I considered attending had Suzanne not extended the offer. I avoid TV shows and movies with violent topics in order to save my peace of mind. It is not that I am unaware of the terrible scourge of human trafficking, it’s that I feel helpless to do anything so prefer to bury my head in my pillow and dream sweet dreams. This movie gave me hope and a way to help. It is well done with no gratuitous scenes that make you turn your head away.
I did not know that the movie is the true story of an American hero. It is a genuine heart-thumping thriller, the story of a necklace that connects two children with their rescuer. I am so very glad I went and extremely happy to tell everyone I meet to see the movie. It is an amazing story and one that should be shouted from the mountaintops.
The movie was written and directed by Alejandro Monteverde. I read that it surpassed Indiana Jones on July 4th at the box office, with $14.2 million for Freedom vs $11.6 million for Indie. It was an uphill battle to get the movie made and distributed. It was dropped by 20th Century Fox and Disney Studios and finally taken up by Angel Studios. It took more than ten years to get the movie to the public. It has been virtually ignored by the press and main media outlets.
Quote from Jim Caviezel who portrays Tim Ballard in The Sound of Freedom.
“I want this to be so huge that they’re forced to look at this. I lost my agents over this. Yep, 17 years, 15 years. I lost my lawyer over this, and now I understand why all these actors didn’t want to do the movie because of this. Listen, you do Schindler’s List fifty years later, you’re a hero. Try doing Schindler’s List when the real Nazis are right there. Understand how that becomes more dangerous? I don’t understand why people are willing to let children be hurt, but in this time, Hollywood says, ‘No, no, let’s kick that down fifty years from now and then [see where we’re at]. That’s crap.”
The Nitty Gritty. There are 40.3 million trafficked persons globally today and 25% of them are children. * Sources: Child Liberation Foundation, International Labour Organization. Every year approximately 350,000 children are reported missing and an estimated 100,000 of them are being trafficked; reported in all 50 states. *Source: National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. According to the 2021 Human Trafficking Report, 57% of human trafficked victims are minors. The U.S. is one of the top destinations for human trafficking and among the largest consumers of child sexploitation. Human trafficking is a $150 billion-per-year business, more than the NFL, NBA, MLB, and NHL combined. It has overwhelmed the illegal arms trade. The U.S. current border situation makes it even easier for children to be trafficked. God’s children are NOT for sale.
Tim says that he would not have been able to start O.U.R. if it wasn’t for the unwavering support of his wife Katherine. Actors Jim Caviezel and Mira Sorvino portray the couple in the movie.
Tim Ballard initially worked for the CIA for a year, then for twelve years as a special agent working at the border for the newly formed Department of Homeland Security. At one point he quit his job in order to complete his mission to save children. Without giving away the beautiful, tearful ending to the movie, I just want to say Tim Ballard is an American hero. At the time the movie was made, Tim and his wife Katherine were the parents of six children. Now they have nine, two of whom were adopted after Tim helped in their rescue. He and his wife founded an organization called O.U.R. – Operation Underground Railroad, a non-profit organization to search out and rescue children who are victims of this vicious global business that turns innocent children into commodities. If you go to their website, linked below, it tells how you can help. Stay until the very end of the movie to see photos of the real heroes and to download a QR code to participate in “pay-it-forward”, an opportunity to pay for someone who cannot afford to go to the movie. This movie needs to be seen by as many people as possible. It is a cautionary tale for parents and children. Not all their stories have happy endings as this one does (spoiler alert).
I have written about memories of my dad. Although dead for over five decades, he is a constant in my life. As I contemplated what to write about this week, I read an essay and poem by Tom Chester. The essay was published yesterday on Father’s Day in the Arizona Daily Star. The poem is published on Tom’s website. I found both to be very moving and a fitting tribute to fathers on their special day.
Tom Chester
A Father’s Letter
On Father’s Day, people often write letters and essays about their own fathers. In contrast, I want to offer a father’s perspective in this letter to my two daughters.
To my daughters,
On this Father’s Day, I want to tell you how proud I am to be your father. While there is often a close relationship between fathers and daughters, I write this letter to tell you about ours, for after all, ours is special. There is much to say, but I want to avoid any temptation toward sentimentality. Our connection is better than that.
As I compose this letter, I think about my own father, dead now for three decades. I still have a letter from him, likely the only one he ever wrote to me. It is from the summer I turned 19 when I was working away from home for the first time. The letter is mundane, advice on the best route to take when I drove back after my job ended. Yet, it is one of the most intimate connections I still have with him. He exists now only in a few mementos like that letter, some occasional memories that arrive unexpectedly into my conscience, and glimpses of him when I look into a mirror.
Just as I see traces of my father in my features and my personality, so I see reflections of me in both of you. The similarities have been refracted enough by genetics, though, so that we are different in many ways. I wonder what memories you will have of me thirty years on. I am sure there will be brief scenes of family events and I hope thoughts about my values, my views on life, and my ideas on how to engage the world.
Perhaps those things matter little, however. Rather than consider my legacy to you, it seems more fitting to think about what you have given me and the ways you have changed me as a person. I am much different than I would have been had you two not come into my life. You have taught me much about myself, too much to describe in a short letter like this. You also have taught me about life itself. When you were born, you were totally dependent on me (and on your mom as well, of course). As you grew, you began to separate yourself from me, becoming your own persons until you finally broke away and started your own lives independent from mine. I increasingly realize that the process continues and will evolve until our roles will have completely reversed, and in my old age, I will likely become dependent upon you. Already I often seek your advice and help on things.
Being your father has been damned hard — not because of you but because of my emotional connection to you. Someone once wrote that having children means becoming a hostage to fate. Even though you are adults I am still a hostage because I understand clearly that well-being is tenuous and that the vagaries of fate swirl around to intrude without warning.
I know I have made many mistakes in raising you, as with all parents, but I did my best. Fortunately, you are resilient and have not suffered too much from the experience. Despite the temptations, I mostly have avoided giving you advice. I have come to realize that you know more about yourselves and your world than I, and that much of my advice would not apply. Moreover, I have made many errors by following my own advice, enough so that I want to avoid causing you to make mistakes in yours. Finally, I have tried to raise you to think for yourself, so my giving advice would be hypocritical.
It is common for a parent to say to a child, “I love you,” and I certainly feel that way toward you two. Just as important, though, is that I like you. I respect you and admire your character. I trust you with my wellbeing. I trust you with my life, too. As I age, I am comforted by the agreement I have with each of you that at the end of my life you will treat me like a beloved dog—keep me comfortable and if necessary when the time comes, have me put down. I know that either of you would do that without compunction or regret. You understand.
I am proud that our relationship is one of mutual respect and admiration, but also one that accepts that we all three suffer from the foibles and imperfections of our species. I have tried to imbue in you a sense of living intently and intentionally. I hope you will carry a memory of that. I hope also that your memories of me will be touched by laughter and that you will have many stories to tell about your Old Man.
Today I read a moving blog post about a friendship. The author wrote about her friend with the truth of memory, not necessarily the facts. Raising the Dead ‹ BREVITY’s Nonfiction Blog ‹ Reader — WordPress.com. I read another insightful blog post about current political turmoil in France. Out My Window ‹ Reader — WordPress.com. Somehow those two posts melded, although completely different in intent, and made me think about my reality and my memories.
To me facts are incontrovertible, they may be proven false later, but they are the concrete reality that can be proven at this point in time. Facts are objective, the absolute of what we know now through all our senses. Truth is subjective. It is the reality of facts filtered through our experience. We are all human and, as humans, subject to our own prejudices and emotional knowledge. Truth is facts of the heart, our day-to-day understanding of what is going on around us. As memoir writers it is important, on your journey to the truth, not to let facts be stumbling stones. While facts may be important they are not the sum total of the experience or the lessons you learn along the way.
I have a friend, a brilliant sculptor, who exhibits regularly at art shows around the country. I’ve watched her, in an hour or two, turn big lumps of clay into miniature animals – wolves, horses – so realistic that you expect them to move toward you at any moment. A magical experience. Many years ago, I traveled with her to an art exhibition in Montana that included her work. During our time there meeting artists and enjoying the art world, we had an on-and-off weeklong discussion on religion. What is the soul, what is spirit, can God be proven, etc? The discussion continued as we packed up and left Great Falls. I was driving her van. Somewhere along the highway, we passed a gas station where a large dog was sitting close to the edge of the road. We are both dog lovers.
I interrupted our discussion with “What kind of dog was that?” as we zoomed by.
“Dog?” she replied, “What dog?”
“The one we just passed,” I answered.
“We didn’t pass a dog, we just went by a Circle K,” she said.
“Ah, you didn’t see the dog, but it was there.”
“You’re making it up to change the subject.”
At the next turnable place, I maneuvered the van across lanes of the lightly traveled highway in a most illegal U-turn and headed to the gas station possibly five miles back, hoping the dog hadn’t been run over or run away. Sure enough, the dog was still sitting by the road.
“There,” says I, “that dog.”
“Oh, I guess I didn’t see it. It looks like a shepherd mix to me.”
“And that was my point,” I said returning to our discussion about belief. “Your reality is that the dog didn’t exist because you didn’t experience it. Your truth is different from my truth. My truth could be based on an illusion or on my five senses, but it is my truth. It is what I know to be true and the same goes for you. Had I not turned the van around, we would have totally different memories of the same experience.”
What would my essay be today if the dog left, disappearing around the side of the building or into its owner’s car? It would be of a dog I swear I saw but then disappeared and her story would be of a crazy friend who made a U-turn in the middle of a highway to show her a phantom dog. Both would be true.
I write fiction primarily. Fiction contains elements of a writer’s truth. To my many memoir writing friends I want to say, write YOUR truth. There are no video or audio recordings of your day-to-day activities or relationships and the memories they engender. Your memory IS the recording and it IS filtered through your experience. Write what is in your heart because that is the truth and that is more important and much more interesting than all the facts listed in order as years evolve. Don’t let the fears of others block your truth. They cannot convey your story and should not arbitrate it. They are bit players, you are the star. What you learned is of value to those who are not able to express their story in words. Your truth may inspire or may help someone, even in your family, understand their world better. Write your story as it is for you. Don’t wait to let someone else tell it because it will then only be your story filtered through their experience, their story of you. Be Brave.
I was given this reminder in 2008 and I refer to it often. I hope you find it helpful.
1. Exceed expectations and do it cheerfully.
2. Remember the three R’s: Respect for self; Respect for others; Responsibility for all your actions.
3. Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
4. When you lose, DON’T lose the lesson.
5. When you say ‘I love you’ mean it.
6. When you say ‘I’m sorry’ look the person in the eye.
7. Believe in love at first sight.
8. Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt but it’s the only way to live life completely.
9. Be engaged at least a year before you get married – know the person through all seasons.
10. Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.
11. Never laugh at anyone’s dreams. People who don’t have dreams don’t have much.
12. In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling. Speak your truth without rancor.
13. When someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, smile and ask, ‘Why do you want to know?’
14. When you realize you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
15. Talk slowly but think quickly.
16. Don’t let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
17. Remember memories are made with people, not things. When all is said and done, it will be the experiences you have and people you love that will be important – not the car or jewelry.
18. Don’t judge people by their relatives.
19. Don’t believe all you hear, use your common sense; don’t spend all you have, give some away; don’t sleep all you want, just all you need. Life is short – be part of it.
20. Smile when you answer the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.
21. Be kind to animals, we share their planet.
22. Say ‘bless you’ when you hear someone sneeze.
23. Daily – Spend some time alone. Spend time with God.
A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
It is almost like I’ve written this before. Maybe I have, maybe not. My stacks of journals are witness but I haven’t the patience to cruise them all – it would take hours, days, months, etc. The story as old as the ages. What age does. I’m seventy-seven. It is a startling revelation each time I say it aloud. I remember thinking sixty was the end game when I was thirty. What is seventy-seven? I know many people in my generation, my age group. Some are old, some not. I put myself in the latter category. I certainly don’t feel old. My body does occasionally, but I disabuse it of that notion as quickly as it complains. ‘No, it’s not age, it’s what you ate-drank-did yesterday that is the cause of complaint,’ I tell the federation of bone, fat, and muscle that contains my spirit. ‘Be more thoughtful in your choices’.
I read some time ago, old is ten years older than whatever age you are. When I was ten, twenty was freedom. When I was twenty, thirty was unimaginably far in the distance with countries like marriage, continents like parenting to explore. In my thirties, there were career challenges. There was so much to do between ten and twenty and between twenty and thirty and beyond. Seeming lifetimes of choice were encapsulated in each decade. What did I know at fifty, that I didn’t know at forty? The blurrrrr of years, forties, fifties, sixties and now seventies, whizzed by. Here I am looking ten years down the road. What will eighty-seven bring? How will I evolve in that space of time? Who will I meet? What questions will be answered? What fresh questions will arise? What different territories will open? I am ever curious. Each day brings something new. Nothing is static when you are alive. Change is the only constant and change brings opportunity. Embrace each day for the treasure that comes with it. Even difficult days reveal nuggets of discovery, maybe more so.
Painting by Sally Rosenbaum
It is never too late for surprises in life. Not in a million years would I have thought I’d be a published author. A writer, yes, but not published. My stories and poems have always been for my own amusement. Yet here I am in league with two other writers having a published book, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets, a journey of friendship through words. Published at age seventy-seven! It is a book I believe in because it is meant as an encouragement to those solitary writers who want to be heard by the world at large or those who want to have their voices heard in a smaller way. Writers’ groups can be a support for both.
This week we hosted a reunion of our family and former neighbors.
Our fourteen-year-old grandson, Henry, met two neighborhood children when they were all two-years-old. We were his full-time caregivers while his mom, our daughter, worked. Henry was at our home every weekday and grew up with the kids in our neighborhood. As time passed, changes were inevitable. Jill’s family moved to Washington DC and Bobby’s moved to a different part of Tucson. We kept in touch sporadically during the years as the kids grew. Our grandson was, for a while, in the same school as Bobby, when he lived across the street. But by the age of seven, they were all separated with Jill being the farthest.
2012
The boys get together several times a month and remain close friends. Our daughter took Henry to Washington DC one summer to visit Jill and her family. Another summer, they met halfway in Chicago. Jill’s family visited Tucson once and all three kids got together.
2013
This year they made the trip to Tucson for a short visit. We hosted the reunion at our house. All the adults wondered how the teens would react to each other after a four-year separation. By noon the boys sat by the window watching for Jill’s arrival. It was an amazing greeting. All three kids moved right into the space of their friendship as if only a day or two had passed. They chatted non-stop. In the afternoon they took a two-hour walk while we, grownups, were fixing dinner. They bought sweet rolls for our dessert.
2017
After dinner, the kids went into the room that we keep for Henry’s occasional overnights; the room that once housed his toys and where he napped as a baby. On his walls are photo posters that I made each year from when he was two until seven. All three kids are in those posters. They stayed in the room reminiscing over their pictures, laughing and talking for quite a while. I know those memories meant something to them.
Greater than any wrapped present, purchased or made, is the gift of friendship. We know these three will maintain their relationship as they become adults. Each is on the brink of adulthood now, each has their own interests, their unique set of talents, their own friends at schools but they will always remember the closeness that came of their time as children. Another reunion, possibly in California, is being planned for summer. Henry has no siblings, Bobby has no siblings, and Jill has a sister seven years younger. The relationship the three teens created is very like brothers and sister – family.
This prose poem was written during the excesses of Tucson’s summer heat but the sentiment can be applied to any of God’s seasons. Today, preparing for Thanksgiving this week, I remain grateful and aware of the treasures of nature and the love of family and friends. Wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving and the gift of gratitude.
Unfolding from sleep I turn toward the open window.
A desert breeze puffs gentle kisses across my eyes and lips.
Sage and desert broom play luscious harmony for my nose.
With feline grace dawn arches blue-gray-pink over the mountaintop
Bringing another day.
Thank you for the new beginning.
I walk the park path in the cool dawn air.
Desert heat will rise soon.
A voyeur, I listen to the gossip of palo verde leaves
Am I the topic of their soft whispers?
The park is alive with rumors of the coming day.
Thank you for nature’s secrets.
Rabbit romps across the path,
Coyote slinks among the shadows,
Bobcat shelters under the creosote bush,
Quails strut in formation,
Hawk soars in lazy circles seeking breakfast.
Thank you for the companions of morning
Clear skies gather hazy bits of cloud
Building monuments to the midsummer heat.
Monsoons hiss, rumble, boom, crack and clap.
Summer torrents cool, coaxing fragrance from the earth’s bounty.
A kaleidoscope of color frolics among the wrinkles of Pusch Ridge.
Thank you for the intricate interplay of nature’s ensemble.
The sigh as I walked outside to feed the doves, cactus wrens, cardinals, and sparrows that gather in the morning and looked up at the mountains haloed by the rising sun. How beautiful, how peaceful, how enduring.
The sigh when I checked my email, waiting for news of a friend in the hospital with a serious medical condition and found nothing yet.
The sigh when I fixed breakfast and realized I am out of spinach for the morning smoothy. I knew it yesterday but forgot to go to the store.
The sigh when I got ingredients out to make a cake for the tea I’m having this afternoon with friends, still thinking of the one who is in the hospital, hoping he is doing better.
The sigh when I sat down to write this blog. A task I eagerly tackle every Monday morning but there is a shadow over it as I await news.
I know the day will unwind hour by hour and all the trivia of daily life will be tended to. There is another sigh. At this time in my life, I am getting used to having friends and loved ones in medical crises but it doesn’t get any easier, wishing I could DO something, and knowing there is nothing I can do. Prayer is my go-to. Prayer as I walk. Prayer as I cook. It is the refuge, the strength beneath the sighs. All will work out in God’s time.
I recently had a discussion with our eldest daughter about time, specifically weekends. My husband and I have been retired for fourteen years and filled the first six years with the care of our grandson, born shortly after we retired. We were his caregivers on the weekdays from when he was one until he started school while our daughter worked a full-time job. It was the biggest privilege of our lives. A time I wouldn’t trade for anything. It kept us active and engaged watching this little human begin his exploration of life. So much better than when we had our own children and had all the responsibilities of parenthood along with making a living. We had time to enjoy each stage of his development, each triumph from first steps to first lost tooth, in a completely present way. No distractions. He is now a teen with all that entails and an interesting, lovable person. I could brag endlessly but that is for another time, another post. Now we are Sunday grandparents because he is busy with his school, sports, and social life. We all have brunch together and catch up on his activities and viewpoints. I learn something new from him each week.
Back to the discussion of time. I told our daughter we were having friends over for dinner on Monday. “Monday?” she asked. “Why a weekday?” The question took me by surprise. Monday for us is no different than Saturday. We’re retired, as are most of our friends. Our social schedule doesn’t have anything to do with days of the week. It reminded me of Maggie Smith’s question as Violet, the dowager Countess of Grantham on Downton Abbey. “Weekend? What is a weekend?” She is one of my favorite television characters and now I identify with her.
Days are weighted in value by our activity, no longer regulated by an employment schedule. When we were employed, weekdays had a significant importance and weekends were assessed very differently as precious free time. As a retiree, however, the distinction goes away quickly. Each day has its own importance depending on the plans we make. Our social schedule, balanced with workout time (nearly a full-time job for us) and other interests creates a varied shape to weeks and months. A trip to Home Depot or the grocery store can be done anytime, not scrunched into a few hours on weekends. A road trip to Tubac, Bisbee, Patagonia Lake or Mt. Lemmon is a fun outing taken whenever we choose and usually when employed people are at work. So, like the Countess, I no longer recognize the concept of weekend. My life is a weekend.
A few other salient quotes by the Countess:
At my age one much ration one’s excitement.
Don’t be defeatist dear, it’s very middle class.
Vulgarity is no substitute for wit.
Principles are like prayers, noble of course, but awkward at a party.
A lack of compassion can be as vulgar as an excess of tears.
Never complain, never explain
If reason fails, try force.
There can be too much truth in any relationship.
Hope is a tease designed to prevent us from reality.
You are a woman with a brain and reasonable ability. Stop whining and find something to do.
wonkagranny 