Then Tears

I’ve struggled the last few months just motivating myself to write.  Funny.  I thought when school was out last spring that I’d make time to do lots of writing over the summer.  Guess I enjoyed my summer too much.

Today, on this 10^th anniversary, on Patriots' Day, I have to do something.  It occurred to me that this poem that I turned into song lyrics (I’m hoping my son will write a tune for it some day), sort of fits the mood of the day.

Then Tears

Lines storm across the page

that grows too heavy to hold

stealing away from trembling hands

two lives shatter and grow cold

Then tears.

I’ve numbered each unwelcome drop

mapped out every stream

sailed too often from that shore

sought an elusive dream

Dial tone hums a lifeless line

the silent rending of a heart

final warning, long distance longing

connection torn apart

Then tears.

I’ve numbered each unwelcome drop

mapped out every stream

sailed too often from that shore

sought an elusive dream

Cold embrace pushes love away

emptiness fills the broken space

when hands and hearts no longer touch

lifeless, loveless, careless face

Then tears.

I’ve numbered each unwelcome drop

mapped out every stream

sailed too often from that shore

sought an elusive dream

Perhaps because I know the way

this time there’ll be no tears at our

“Goodbye”

11/19/10

Summer Solstice

June 21^st.  The earth stops and the sun is suspended in the sky longer today than any other day of the year.  In the Midwest, this can mean a long, beautiful day of sun and fun or more daylight to get a better look at clouds and wind and rain.

I remember several days long ago when I thought the day would never end and didn’t want the sun to set.  One day in particular stands out.  I was in summer school at Tarkio College in 1970.  It was such a gorgeous day that hardly anyone went to class.  The large grassy area behind the girls’ dorm, Hopkins Hall, was the place to be for impromptu Frisbee contests, softball games, maybe some soccer, and lots of just sitting around in the sun with friends.  I think everyone on campus was there most of the day.  It was one of those perfect days, too.  The cloudless sky was also calm and a perfect temperature—not the possible unbearable heat and humidity. Lunch and supper from the cafeteria or snack bar were takeout.  No one wanted to leave.

Eventually the sun approached the horizon and we watched the azure sky become pink, rose, reddish-purple, deep blue.  We watched stars appear in the clear sky.  Millions.  Billions.  Even the rising moon couldn’t diminish the showy constellations.  The Milky Way was a creamy streak.  Still we stayed to watch the shifting pinpoints and chase their reflections in the lightning bugs that zipped across the yard.  We wanted it to last, but that day blended into the next with all the promises the future holds.  A perfect memory.

Today—forty-one years later—was much different.  Last night storms ripped through the area.  High winds brought down tree limbs.  A tornado destroyed buildings nearby.  Heavy rain and hail pounded the area.  The Missouri River, already well over flood stage, rose another destructive foot.  The day brought more clouds, cold wind and rain, and the promise of more devastation.  The day seemed like it would never end, but we wanted to put it behind us.  Whatever could go wrong seemed eager to oblige.

I spent the day with my father in the hospital.  Nurses and doctors were in and out of his room, attaching tubes, running tests, exchanging grim faces for reassuring smiles.  Aneurism, weakening valve, decreasing heart function.  Eighty-one years taking their toll.  The sun was out there, behind the clouds and the rain.  The promise of tomorrow was still in the air, but our conversations were more about yesterdays, and plans for “tomorrow” were “what ifs.”

It was the longest day of the year.  I thought it would never end and let me could go home and try to sleep and forget for a time.  Too many memories were vying for my attention.  I had too many phone calls to make to marvel at the ferocity of the storms or wonder where the stars were hiding.

As I drove home, thinking about the day’s events and another summer solstice, I kept remembering Dylan Thomas and wondered if he might have written, on the longest day of his year,

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“Beyond the Barricades”

We went to see Les Miserables again today; our fifth time, I think.  It’s such a great story and play.  Every time I see it, it gets me to thinking about so many things—love, sacrifice, and patriotism most of all.  I guess those are three very closely related abstracts.  Today I found myself thinking historically.  It’s a natural connection to a historically-based drama.  The various iterations of the French Revolution were directly connected to the American Revolution.  Most revolutions around the world since 1776 have had that connection, at least those in which the populace has risen up to demand liberty, equality, fraternity.

Drawing that line brought me to current events, of course, especially what’s happening in Libya.  The successful events in Egypt spilled over across northern Africa, but the history of the United States with the country now known as Libya is long and violent.  As the “Marine Hymn” denotes, “the shores of Tripoli” were the first beaches stormed in the history of the Corps.  The Barbary Pirates were the problem then.  The new United States Navy and Marines were called on to clean up the seas and help make it safe to travel and ship goods; in 1805 our country was only a few years old, but we were already demanding the world be a better place.

Not everyone wanted us there then.  Some of the countries that stood and watched wondered where this upstart nation found the wherewithal, the brass…to take matters into its own hands.  Some thought we were sticking our nose in where it didn’t belong and that we had no right to throw the bastards out.

Interesting, isn’t it?  Think about how many times we’ve done the same thing in the 206 years since then….  I’ll give you a minute to Google that.

Those who do think about the many times we’ve stepped in usually have no trouble getting into a variety of arguments about the reasons.  We’ve driven out pirates, solidified our borders, pulled things together in two world wars, went to Korea (not for the kimchi), went to Viet Nam to stop the dominoes of Communist aggression (really?), listened to Van Halen in Panama, vacationed in Grenada, capped an oil well in Iraq, did some mountaineering in Afghanistan.  OK.  I shouldn’t joke about that.

Why do we make these trips?  We really aren’t sending our young men and women on vacation in exotic places.  Tens of thousands of our best don’t come home.  Tyrants still pop up all over the place.  Communism “fell” all by itself.  We still need oil.

Look out there, though, beyond the barricades.  They’re still there, you know…the barricades.  People are still piling carts and paving stones and their bodies in the streets to stop the armies of the dictators.  And they’re still looking this direction for help.

They’ve read about 1776.  They’re reminded every four years that change is possible without bloodshed.  They read in our newspapers and now on the Internet that we agree to disagree and defend the right to speak of those who spew the most outrageous slogans, even those who maliciously slander the soldiers who protect them.

We keep sending our soldiers into the thick of it whenever any people need our help.  Sure, too many times we get a worldwide black eye from the ones we want to help.  It costs billions of dollars that we could use here at home.  It costs thousands of lives.  And sometimes it doesn’t seem to change anything.

But we can’t afford to stop trying.  When we turn our backs on those who need our help, whether it’s to fight against slimeballs like Mommar Khadaffi (hey, you try to spell it!) or to clean up after a tsunami…when we turn out backs, the bastards win.  And we lose.  Not fighting is losing. 

We have to keep disagreeing with one another.  We have to keep demanding the best from ourselves and refuse to settle for anything less.

We have to pledge allegiance to that damned bloody flag because when it stops flying, the world starts dying.

A Recipe for Bullying

We're hearing a great deal of debate and conversation about bullying in our schools.  Many wonder where it originates and what its later effects might be if it isn't curtailed or, worse yet, allowed to fester.  From where does it come and how volatile can it be?  Here's a recipe I think I've seen stirred up frequently.

BULLYING

4 parts Ignorance

2 parts Brutality

1 part Mob Mentality (Peer Pressure)

add Passion to taste

Begin with a “clean,” uncorrupted container. Do not add Education or Experience that would dilute the Ignorance. Add to the Ignorance 2 parts Brutality and 1 part Mob Mentality and stir, seasoning with Passion.

This mixture creates one human Bully at any age above two years. Starting early increases the yield; it grows with age.

Serves one or a multitude; historically has led to one-on-one playground battles, gang fights, lynchings, witch hunts, clan feuds, border wars, civil wars, and World Wars.

Goes with all forms of Prejudice and is usually served any time opportunity arises, most often when something does not go as planned, and someone—other than oneself—is needed to Blame.

Also known as Racism, Ageism, Sexism (all other “-isms” of this nature), Bias, Bigotry, and, sometimes, plain Stupidity.

Taken in large doses, this mixture can produce Insanity, Torture, Capital Punishment, Coups d’Etat, Genocide, Cultural destruction, and other forms of human perversion.

A Fish Story

Albert Einstein once said, "Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid."
Can’t you just see it?

“Now you stop whining and get up that tree! Everyone else in this school is climbing the tree. Some have already reached the top, but you haven’t even gotten off the ground!”

“No, I don’t care who your parents are or that you’ve never seen a tree before. Stop talking gibberish. Everyone else speaks ‘cat,’ so you should, too.”

“This new kid must be mentally challenged. He dresses strangely, can’t speak the language…even walks funny. If he won’t even try to do something as simple as climb the tree like everyone else, he’s going to be in real trouble when we hit the pool next week!”

…. I wonder if Einstein felt like a fish out of water when he was failing algebra…? Maybe “x” isn’t just an unknown number.

My teacher friends recognize this lesson, I’m sure. We don’t want to leave anyone behind.

Dancing On the Road Together

We mark our journey through life with milestones labeled “Joy” and “Sorrow.”  Our individual paths intersect with the trails of those we meet and become one road with those with whom we choose to share our lives.

People we love, our friends and families, are part of our climbs to the joyful heights.  We push and pull and prod one another to successes, and we celebrate the many wonders of life together—finding our way, discovering the one who shares our daily journey, marveling at our children.  Going this way together makes those peaks of Joy seem so much higher than if we go alone.  We invite others to our celebrations and swell with pride and cheer for those we love in their triumphs and times of Joy.  The road, however, is rarely smooth, nor is it a constant climb to those summits of happiness.

Although the descents into Sorrow are made less terrifying when we have a hand to hold, unlike the bliss of shared Joy, even in a crowd Sorrow is a lonely stop along the way.  Maybe it’s that we want to spare those we love from the pain and heartache, and so we put on a brave face and, whether we stride boldly or go with timorous steps into the darkness, we seem to prefer traveling this part of our path alone.

When enough time has passed that looking back reveals a long journey, it is a good thing to notice those many other roads that intersect with ours.  Sometimes it takes close scrutiny to know that the “one” path that is ours actually bears the footprints of so many who have chosen to go the same way.  Now and then a nearby trail will join ours for quite some time.  Surprisingly, often those intersections come at Sorrow and continue with us in the long climb back out of the depths.

I guess I’m feeling my age today.  The road behind me is now much longer than what lies ahead, I know.  But it’s good to look around and see all those who are accompanying me now.  Even more I am glad to travel for a while with those who are just beginning their journeys.  Hopefully I can help them along, celebrate with them, but most of all, hold them up when their path drops into the shadows of Sorrow.  Usually it is a darkness I recognize.  Maybe I can provide a bit of the light of experience and the strength of perseverance.  I know that when my way tends down, my steps are lighted up again by their hope.

One thing I know, no matter how often the markers of Sorrow have been left behind on my own road, with the help of my many friends and my family, I have always been climbing.

I like Garth Brooks’ song, “The Dance,” and the line, “I could have missed the pain but I'd have had to miss the dance.”  It’s a fun way to travel.

Valentine

Last week the sun struggled to raise the temperature above zero.  The earth slumbered, pulling the white comforter of almost a foot of snow over its head to drown out the howling of the wind.  We worried that Phil would stay in his burrow; refuse to even come out and look for his shadow.  Another Midwestern winter had us all in its grip, only this time it seemed like only Hawaii was avoiding the chill.  We set up a collective whine, pleading for the return of spring.

Today I’m sitting in a pool of sunlight and looking out my window at the front yard’s maple tree.  I can almost see the buds swelling in the warmth.  The forecast is for temperatures to reach almost sixty by mid-week.  Except for the shadowed places and the drifts or accumulated piles, the snow is gone.  Puddles are growing larger by the minute.

I love this annual ritual and can’t imagine living somewhere that the change of seasons isn’t this climatic and climactic shifting, the curtain rising and falling, one act to another, a frantic rearranging of the set.  The symbolism of it has been part of my consciousness as long as I can remember.

Struggle…growth…change…solemnity…jubilation…despair…hopefulness…peace…chaos…rest…exuberance….

The earth continues to remind me that my life is a revolving, evolving change of seasons, but one that stays the same despite the storms, despite the drastic fluctuations, because some things remain constant—sun, rain, hope, love,

you.

American Phoenix

Twenty-five years ago today--January28, 1986--the nation suffered another in a long list of tragedies when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded 73 seconds after liftoff.  This event was especially tragic in that school children around the nation were anxiously watching New Hampshire teacher Christa McAullife become the first "Teacher in Space."  She and her six crew members never made it.  The following, written that afternoon, is my tribute to them and the spirit of the nation.

"American Phoenix"

We stood and watched our brave young eagles dare
to see how high, how fast, how far they might
wing outward to the limits of the air
and then beyond, into the starry night.

With courage and with joy each one flew on,
a challenger of the unknown and all
of those who fear and cry that we have gone
too far and now, with wings aflame, must fall.

And with the triumphs that we all would share
will come the ashes of the times we fail.
But to succeed then we must greatly dare,
for in new victories our lossses pale.

This eagle, like the phoenix, folds its wings,
then from the fires bursts forth and soars and sings.

My Favorite Season of the Year

I’m sitting here looking out my windows at the sun shining off another five or six inches of new snow.  The neighbors are out, clearing it from walks and driveways, and the sound of snow blowers drowns out the nearby traffic noise.  If it were a school day instead of Sunday morning, we’d probably have another snow day.

I’ve always loved snow.  When I was a kid, of course, I liked snow because I liked to play in it and there’s really nothing better than waking up in the morning and hearing that school has been cancelled!  Come to think of it, these are still good reasons for me!  I like skiing, even if I don’t get to go very often—it’s been almost twenty years since I went last.  And snow days are probably more appreciated by teachers than by students.  We like to catch up on our sleep, too.

Students have asked me many times about my favorite season of the year.  That’s an easy one for me.  Winter is my favorite season because I love snow, my birthday is the first day of winter, and, of course, there isn’t a better holiday than Christmas.  And I like “winter” foods and clothes and activities.

The winter months seem to have more special days than other times of the year.  In my family there are several winter birthdays and Christmas is a big holiday for us, too.  My family gets together several times during the year, but Christmas is the best.  It’s more than exchanging gifts; we give one another support, good feelings, even suggestions when we’re complaining about work or kids or colleagues.  Of course, the food is wonderful.

Winter food is delicious.  And fattening.  From Halloween through Easter, especially if the winter is cold and snowy—everyone cooks the best food.  My wife, our sons’ families, in-laws and friends, and even I can get into the act when I’m on vacation . . . we all cook and bake: roasts, turkey, ham, cake, breads, pies, pastries, cookies, candy.  It’s an awful thing for someone trying to diet or keep his cholesterol down!  But it tastes so wonderful!

It’s a good thing winter clothes are usually baggy or there are several layers.  Something has to help hide the extra inches from all that good food.  But I like layering, especially wearing sweaters when it’s cold.  Wool and flannel are so comfortable, too.  Unlike many people, I don’t mind the hassle of coats and gloves and scarves and hats and boots.  I guess I like winter fashions.  My wife says she’s never known anyone who had so many coats and hats.

That’s me.  I’m a winter person.  When the first frost ices the grass and leaves, I break out my winter clothes and start asking about oatmeal cookies.  By the time the crocus pop out in the early spring, I’ve enjoyed myself thoroughly.  Then it’s time to clean my golf clubs and consider losing a few pounds.