The Medlins

Four boys walked barefoot down a damp sun-warmed red clay path from their house to the river.  Each had a cane pole in his hand, fishing line securely tied to the end, hooks and sinkers swinging from side to side with each step they took.  It was early morning, but not too early.  Charles was up at dawn to milk the cows and it was he who woke his brothers and urged them toward the well-worn byway to their favorite fishing hole. They spoke in thick Southern drawl, laughed about the usual things in which boys find hilarity.  The brothers were friends, thick as thieves but more honest than most young lads their ages.  Their mother trusted them to behave themselves, to respect their elders and show respect even for what belonged to others.  Their father, a small sinewy man who stayed awake all night in a guard shack at the Singer plant, had once been a harsher man.  Their younger days acquainted them with the consequences of addiction, the devastation of loss and its power to transform.  Their father had not touched alcohol since the death of their little sister, three years ago.

As a family, they were what all families want to be.  They were loyal, honest, talented.  Each member had a space to fill and each filled his or her space completely.  They were guitar pickers, gardeners, fishermen, singers.  They were faithful to God and to one another, their love of music strung them together in a way that lent harmony to the life they made together.

About half-way down that well-worn red clay pathway between their house and the river stood an old abandoned house.  It had once been inhabited by a husband and wife, an elderly couple whose years of child-rearing and farming had long since passed.  The Curtis boys passed it by without a second thought, not to honor or respect it in any way, but because being malicious was the farthest thing from their minds.  They walked the path with a singular goal: To see who would catch the biggest catfish.

Along the way they met up with the Medlin brothers.  Three adopted boys who lived in a house on the other end of that worn pathway, with a father who never quite got a handle on them.  They were known for causing trouble, stealing cars and vandalising property.  For a few minutes the seven boys mingled, talked about fishing, and then went their separate ways.

At the end of the day, fish caught, boys tuckered out, they headed back home dangling their catch on a stringer, one boy carrying all the cane poles.  Charles was the tallest, was always the stoutest of the boys, so he carried the fish and walked a good stride ahead of the other boys.  In all aspects it seemed a pretty ordinary summer day for a bunch of poor farmer's boys, but in days to follow, that day would become an indelible memory for all of them, especially for Charles.

It all started with a phone call from someone else's son; the son of the elderly couple who used to occupy the farm house that sat between the Curtis's and the Medlin's on that trail.  The Curtis boys had been spotted that morning, making their way to the river and someone, that very day, had thrown rocks through the windows of the old house, shattering every single one of them.  Chris Curtis listened as the act of vandalism was described, anger and embarrassment rose up inside him.  He found it hard to believe his boys would have committed such an offense but they were seen near the house, and the house was left windowless shortly thereafter.  All four boys were therefore summonsed to the woodshed and whipped accordingly for their alleged crime.  They all protested, "We didn't do it!" they told him, but their father wouldn't hear them.  It had to be them, he thought, and he couldn't let them get away with such a deed.

Meanwhile the Medlin boys kept quiet.  They let the Curtis kids take all the blame, let them work to pay for all the broken windows and continued on with their wicked ways.

Twenty years later, Chris Curtis spotted a hitchhiker along a back road in Pickens.  He pulled over and let Tate Medlin climb in the passenger side of his Chevrolet.  They exchanged greetings, talked about the weather, then fell quiet along the way.  As Chris drove along he noticed that Tate was giggling to himself.  "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking about that time me and my brothers broke the windows out in that old house and you whipped your boys for it.."  At that he gave a big guffaw, and my grandpa's foot quickly found the brake.

He stopped the car.  "Get out of my car!" He demanded.

Tate was dumbfounded.

"Why?" He asked.

"You caused me to whip my boys for something they didn't do.  I'm not taking you anywhere, you can walk, you sorry jackass."

Tate, shaking his head and still chuckling to himself, opened the car door and got out.  He stood frozen as Chris drove away, leaving him in the dust.

It nagged at him, the memory of the day he whipped his sons behind the shed as they claimed their innocence.  He should have listened to them.  He was wrong to have punished them.

Before he went home he drove to Charles' house and found him working on a lawnmower outside.  He told my dad how he'd picked up Tate Medlin, how the truth had been revealed and how sorry he was for punishing his sons for a crime they didn't commit.  Of course, so many years later it was water under the bridge, but Chris knew it was never too late to try to set things right.

His humility and honesty won him the unconditional respect of his sons.  It won him a legacy that even his grandchildren admire, though some of us never knew him.

My father told me this story over and over again during the last few years of his life.  It stood out in his mind as a pivotal point in his life--a part of his life that shaped him into who he became.

We start down our well-worn paths every day, always thinking we know where we are going and what results we will acquire, but life throws us curveballs sometimes.  Life isn't fair.  We take on the transgressions of others, watch those who should get punished go scott free.  We often don't get the apologies we feel we deserve, and we fail to give apologies we owe.

The truth is, no matter how clear you've made your pathway, you'll still encounter some Medlins along the way.  My father and his brothers never lost their respect or confidence in their father's judgment, even though they knew he was wrong.  They were hurt, more by his lack of belief in them than by the whippings they received, but their love and respect for him won out in the end.  They knew their father was not composed merely of his mistakes, no more than the songs they played together on the front porch on Saturday nights were composed of flat chords or broken guitar strings. They learned a hard lesson--that Medlins happen, it's how you carry on after them that counts.

My dad got an apology he never even expected, it was almost like a reward for his long-suffering confidence in his father's judgment.  We don't all get the apologies we'd love to hear, but we do all get the opportunity to forgive.  Forgiveness is freedom, it is growth and strength.  It allows us to find new paths to wear clear of debris and softens the clay under our bare feet, just enough to keep us from growing weary of the journey.

Whatever lies at the end of your trail, never stop seeking it.  Don't let the Medlins get you off track.  Sooner or later, they'll be left standing in the dust watching you drive away in your Chevrolet, wondering where they went wrong.

Black History

Sometimes the world is too big.   It's struggles and injustices swirl around us with such power that escape becomes the primary goal at the end of every day.  I can't count the weeks that I've anxiously awaited the arrival of Friday, an end to the fight, a chance to see the light at the end of the tunnel that is reality.  I get caught up too frequently, in the idea that my life is too hard, but once in a while, I get a profound reminder that my struggles in this life are among the least difficult.

Ronald Edens is a tall dark skinned black man in his mid-sixties.  He looks much younger than his age, his skin smooth and his walk, an easy balanced stride. He is quiet but pleasant, a good conversationalist.   I met him less than a year ago when he showed up at my senior center with his friend.  He was shy at first, only looking me in the eye for a few seconds at a time when I sat down with him to fill out the membership forms.  He brought in his computer one day and asked me to teach him how to email.  Once we had that down, I asked him if he wanted to learn Facebook.  "We'd better wait on that." He said with a grin.  "One thing at a time!"

Since then he has gotten internet access at home and I don't know if he ever figured out Facebook.

Today he brought in his high school yearbook and gave me a lesson in history that I didn't know I was missing.  As I thumbed through the musty-smelling pages I noticed only black kids in the photos.  "Was your high school segregated?" I asked

"Yeah, it was." He answered after some thought, and then a discussion about exactly what year desegregation started erupted.

In 1954 South Carolina temporarily suspended its desegregation efforts in the wake of the Brown vs. The Board of Education ruling. Eventually Governor James Byrnes re-engaged in the process after consulting with other state leaders, but desegregation in the South remained slow and painful.  Most schools began by allowing only a few black kids to attend all-white schools as a gesture to show they were "integrated"; however, few black schools were integrated by white students.

 Officially, segregation ended over a decade before Ronald Edens and three other black students entered the doors of Slater-Marietta High School in August of 1965.

"They had the whole school together in the gym," Ronald said, "and then they brought us in.  Boy they showed out!  It was somethin'."  He gestured with his arms in a way that signified how huge the crowd of angry white students were in comparison to him and his peers. Racial slurs were shouted, objects thrown.  They were told to go back to where they came from.  Ronald and his friends were left with no doubt as to whether they were welcome at Slater-Marietta High.  They knew they were not wanted and for the remainder of ninth grade Ronald was reminded daily.

"You'd just say 'Lord let me have one good day.  Just one easy day,' but it never happened. It was every day.  They'd hit us in the back of the head, come up from behind us and knock our books on the floor, call us names, throw stuff at us.  It was terrible."

"Did the teachers not do anything about it?" One senior asked.

"They wasn't nothing they could do.  And some of them were racist too, to tell the truth, so they didn't want to try to stop it.."   Two elderly black ladies sat at the table with us, nodding in agreement, remembering what those years were like for them and their children.

"Nope, didn't nobody try to stop it." One of them said, shaking her head and looking to the floor.

"I had a nervous breakdown." Ronald admitted.  "I told my mama 'I can't go back there anymore.' but she talked me into just staying for the rest of the year.  She said if I finished the year at Slater I could go back to Lincoln for the tenth grade and that's what I did.  I never went back to Slater after that.  I finished the year and went back to my old school.  The band teacher put me right back in there as Band Major, just like before and I did fine in tenth, eleventh and twelfth grades."

I listened to his story and noticed that it caught the attention of other people in the room.  All of us white folks sat dumbfounded at the experiences of this tall, gentle black man.  We would have never guessed that in his lifetime he faced such adversity.  He described years of internal struggle, trying to see the good in white people, and then eventually figuring out with age, that good people come in all colors, as do bad ones.

Ignorance, as it turns out, knows no race, but if whites wanted to corner the market we probably have made a good start.  We all sat and listened with sympathy for what Ronald endured for that year of his youth.  It was a year of adolescence that should have been filled with sports and girls, dances and school clubs, but instead stands forever in the history of this man as a coming of age story from hell.

"It was hell."  He said.  "Every single day being treated like that."

How apropos that on February 24th, the middle of Black History Month, he chose to bring a piece of his own history and share it with us.  Google changes it's homepage to honor black people who accomplished big things, NPR spotlights a different influential black person every morning, and at school my boy has been learning about black influences in the history of our country all month long.  We so often forget that history is not made by one or two, but by many working together to create change.  We credit the Civil Rights movement, its protesters, marches and leaders with the progress we've made thus far, and rightfully so--but the true change?  The true change happened in little schools like Slater-Marietta High where four black kids were marched into a crowd of angry, ignorant, racist white kids to be verbally dismembered.  It happened in hallways all over America when the black kid ended up trying to pick up his scattered books off the floor in the hallway and make it to his next class on time.  It happened in classrooms where kids like Ronald at 14 years old, had to push the hatred and anger aside just so he could focus on learning.  Ronald and those like him, who were bussed into schools as a symbol of integration, made the first small cracks in the facade of segregation.

Because of their bravery, their sacrifice, their pain, I never knew a world where black and white were two separate castes of humanity.  I played on playgrounds with black classmates all my life.  I ate lunch with them, called some of my black classmates my best friends.  To me they were just other people, not lesser people.  Because Ronald and others took on the verbal, physical and mental abuse of ignorance, I grew up in a changed world.

"So Ron, let me ask you this." I said.  "Have things gotten better since then, or have you just learned to ignore or accept that this is how people are?"

"Oh, things are a lot better than they were back then, for sure!" He replied with an incredulous smile.  "There are good white people and bad white people, and there are bad black people and good black people.  There are people of my own race that I don't want to have anything to do with them, and there are white people that are bad too.  I had a hard time for a while, thinking I should hate white people because of what happened to me, but I learned white people can be good too.  Just like black people can be bad.  Race don't matter."

As he packed his yearbook away in a yellow Dollar General bag and got ready to leave, I walked over to him.  Standing beside him I feel very small, not only because he's so tall but because now I know something of the man he is and the adversity he faced to make it to today.  I put my arm around his middle and he rested his across my shoulders.

"You are black history." I told him.  "We hear a lot about the black heroes of the past, but we need to hear more about people like you."

He teared up a little and with his arm still around me said, "You're right.  Nobody knows what we went through.  All of us are black history."

With that he was on his way out the door clutching his Dollar General bag, his history and our country's, to priceless to keep under wraps.

The Power of Our Presence for Non-Verbal Elders

I don't spend much time on this blog delving into the finer points of my career.  When most people learn what I do for a living they expect to hear some amusing anecdotes about the senior shenanigans I've witnessed over the last (nearly) 20 years.  There are plenty of those stories, both humorous and heartbreaking that I could share, but lately as I meet more and more people who are new to the scene I find myself reflecting on one of the most important aspects of the job. It seems like such an insignificant, unimportant part of what we do in our facilities and senior centers, hospices and hospitals every day, but often it is THE most important thing we have to offer our elders: Our complete, undivided attention in the form of our presence with them.

Years ago I worked in a long term care facility where a man with dementia often would fall into a deep, deep sorrowful period of grieving over the loss of his late wife. The wife I knew was still living but the wife he grieved had passed away many years before.  Each time the grief overcame him it was, for him, as fresh and new as it was when it first happened.  At times he was inconsolable.  Many a staff member sat with him, held his hand and tried to distract him from his ruminations, but nothing worked.  He would grieve until he was done grieving and then he would be back to his usual self again.  After a while I noticed that our staff had become impervious to his crying jags and agony over the loss of his wife.  I was even guilty of patting his shoulder, saying, "I'm so sorry, Bert," and then going about my business.  We became so immune to his suffering that we barely noticed it anymore. Then one day I realized, his living wife never visited anymore.  His children never visited.  He was very alone, even in a facility where he sat all day with other residents and staff all around him.  No wonder he longed for and missed the familiarity of a close relationship long-gone.

I delved into his history a little more, found out that his second wife did not visit because she was frankly, relieved to be rid of him.  Doesn't that sound harsh?   We don't always know the whole story when elders come to us after having been cared for by a worn out family which has hit a proverbial wall in caring for them.  As I learned more about this man, I learned things that weren't so flattering.  I found out that he, throughout his second marriage, was abusive to both is wife and his children from his previous marriage.  His family explained how, after he came home from serving in Germany during World War II, he had become a different man.  He brought home a European wife who was kind and nurturing to his children, but treated her very poorly for years.  She took care of him as long as she could before the family convinced her that placing him in a skilled nursing facility would be best for everyone involved.

There is a huge benefit for those of us who only meet seniors where they are when they come to us.  We are able to merely see them as human beings in need of care.  We often have no knowledge of who they once were, which allows us to accept them and care for them in the present moment without a shred of ambivalence.  At first, when we saw Bert grieving for his wife our empathy was engaged but over time we became hardened to his suffering and more concerned with moving on to the next patient whom we felt we could help, rather than spending time with one who seemed stuck in a loop of bereft helplessness.

Armed with so much more knowledge of his life, his character and his relationships with family, I found I was able to let go of some resentment I was harboring towards his wife and children for not visiting him.  The reality is, they were traumatized by this man and that trauma made it difficult for them to be at his side as his mind drifted away and he frequently got emotionally immersed in the far away past--a past that they had no memory of themselves and could not connect with him over.  We were in a unique position then, as his facility caregivers, to be able to meet him where he was in his journey and be the positive presence he needed to find comfort and healing in his last days.

Eventually he became too ill to sit in the dayroom and became bedridden.  I would drop by his room every day and speak to him about the weather, try to comfort him on days when his grief was at fever pitch.  I would try to not think about the stories his family shared with me and just be with him in that moment of time, even if just for a few minutes, to allow him a chance to embrace the man he once was and the love he lost before the war.  As I sat with him, often in silence, I would try to concentrate on his life, the experiences he had that changed him over the years.  What must it have been like to go off to war and find out his wife had passed away while he was fighting for his country?  What human suffering had he witnessed?  Did anyone ever even try to help him process those traumatic events, or did he suppress his sorrow and traumatic memories only to have them ebb out of him in a way that caused his family to take on his suffering?  There were days when I sat quietly,  reading a book to myself, or maybe reading aloud to him.  Days when I sat in silence and tried to clear my own mind of all the racing thoughts that filled it up, so I could make room in my own head and heart for his suffering.

Bert passed away eventually, in his sleep one night.  His wife and children never reconciled with him but I hope that somehow, in some small way, the quiet connection we had brought him some form of healing before he passed away.  I know that experience taught me some important lessons about living in the moment, about being mindful and present not only for every minute of my own life but for those who are distant, alone and perhaps suffering in silent isolation.

As a Volunteer Coordinator, I trained many a volunteer who was extremely uncomfortable visiting patients who were non-verbal.  We fill our worlds with so much mindless chatter, meaningless small talk and unproductive communication that we are utterly beside ourselves when we are forced to sit with silence for a few minutes.  Most skilled care facilities have at least a handful of residents who are no longer able to carry on a conversation and sometimes they seem to not even register the words someone else is speaking to them.  Those are the very residents who get ignored, forgotten, left in their rooms in front of TVs or rolled out into common areas where people are constantly walking by, averting their eyes because they don't want to see the helpless old person who can't talk or even understand conversation anymore.

Silence is not an evil.  Silence is not the absence of intimacy or communication, but it takes an effort on our part to reach past our comfort zones and embrace it, make the most of it.  For elders who are isolated due to health limitations, like loss of vision and/or hearing, we often have to reach far past an assessment to find a connection.  We have to learn how to build positive relationships with elders who may be distrustful, uncomfortable or even embarrassed by their limitations.  Just like my experience with Bert, sometimes we have to let go of or preconceived notions and allow our elders to guide us into a closer connection with them.  We have to open ourselves up to the idea that our constant chatter, our insistence that "you'll love this activity!" is the best intervention for every single person, and just allow them to be who they are.  You may never be able to connect with an elder based on a previous hobby or life experience, but sometimes, you can build a bridge to them by approaching them with something new.  Something that inspires you or fascinates you might very well inspire or fascinate them as well.  There are times when opening ourselves up to others in a professional setting and with proper limits, is a good thing.  It builds a sense of authenticity and trust that encourages our elders to connect with us.

 You know the silent resident.  She sits in bed with contracted, drawn up hands.  Maybe she drools and stares off into space, never making eye contact with you.  Walking into her room is uncomfortable for you because you don't know what to say or what to do.  You feel useless, ineffective, you wonder what's the point?

The point is, that person lying there with little or no control over her body is still a human soul.  Whether or not she ever looks you in the eye or answers a question or even gives you a half-smile, she is inside that human shell and she needs someone to reach for her.  We can't connect with a non-verbal patient if we allow our own discomfort to distract us.  We cannot make a difference for her if we hurry by her room with a pat on the hand and a quick smile.  That elder needs our time, perhaps even more than the one who meets us in the hallway every morning for a ten minute conversation about the weather.  People who cannot reach out need us to reach in, to bridge the gap that hey cannot fill for themselves.

To that end, here are a few ideas you might want to try with your non-verbal or severely limited elders or people with disabilities:

1. Learn about Mindfulness and practice it, both on your own and with your elders.  Check out Mindful.org's Five steps to Mindfulness and practice these alone and with your elders who are not able to carry a conversation.  The practice of Mindfulness helps us keep our lives in perspective, helps us remain in the moment, both with ourselves and those for whom we care, and can forge a bond between two people without either ever having to utter a word.
2. Learn to meet your elders where they are in their journies.  You might be privy to an unflattering history of an elder for whom you provide care.  By practicing mindfulness and by accepting a person for who they are NOW, you can create an atmosphere of peacefulness and support that could lead to healing, even in the latter years of a person's life.  Radical acceptance of others is an imperative when working with seniors and their families.  You cannot change the past, you cannot change who they are, but you can be a catalyst for the healing process.
3. Engage your empathy in tactile ways. I know that sounds kooky, right?  Using your empathy tangibly for another person as a way of silently connecting and supporting them can be cathartic for both the elder and the caregiver.  You can try breathing exercises along with mindfulness and empathy. As you sit with the elder, focus your thoughts on him.  How must he feel in this moment?  Is he in pain, physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually?  Can you imagine what that pain must feel like for him?  Can you feel his losses, his grief, or even is inexpressible joy?   In your breathing exercises you can either hold his hand, or sit beside him, and imaging that with every breath you inhale, you are taking his pain into yourself.  Hold his pain for a moment, empathize with his struggle, and then as you exhale imagine that you releasing that pain back into the universe.  You do not have to spend hours on an exercise such as this, even 15 minutes a few times a week can make a huge difference.  Your PRESENCE is the goal--your undivided, focused, mindful positive presence is the best intervention you can offer for an elder who is isolated from the rest of the world.
4. Read aloud.  Many staff and volunteers find that bringing a book, a magazine, a book of poetry or even scripture that aligns with the elder's beliefs is an easy and comfortable way to be present with a non-verbal or non communicative resident.  One volunteer brought a copy of J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan and read a chapter aloud to her resident every few days.  The resident didn't always respond, but we knew that she enjoyed the sound of the volunteer's voice because she would close her eyes and lie back as she listened.  After a few weeks we caught a sparkle in her eye whenever the volunteer came in to read to her, and on weeks when the volunteer didn't come she was more lethargic and unresponsive to the rest of our staff.    If reading aloud is not your thing you can bring a book to read silently as you give your physical presence in the room.  Sometimes all it takes to break the cycle of loneliness is to have someone else nearby who is accessible, but comfortable with complete silence.  
5. Employ appropriate spiritual interventions.  This is where you will need a solid assessment of your resident's spiritual past and belief system.  Playing church hymns for a patient who grew up in a church that did not sing hymns would not be comforting to that resident.  Saying a Catholic prayer with a Baptist resident would likely not  garner you any points with that person. Find out what spiritual beliefs give your resident comfort and then search out ways to provide experiences that enrich their spiritual lives.  Can you read to them from the Bible?  Could you arrange a visit from a Rabbi or Priest?  Are there other sacred texts, art, or rituals that you can make available to them?  Do you have other residents or staff members who share the same faith who would be wiling to spend some time with them reading or singing or just silently meditating with them on the things that give them strength and connection to a higher power?  

In order for anyone to effectively use any of these suggestions, we must get past our own discomfort with silence.  Once we are able to set aside our own feelings of awkwardness in silence, we can become more available to our elders as a supportive, caring presence that gives them strength and encouragement.  We pressure ourselves and give in to pressure from administrators to get more bodies into group activities, when often what our elders need is just a little of our uninterrupted time. This is what person centered care is all about!  

I hope that you will find some things here that are helpful to you and your elders.  Learning stillness and mindfulness benefits us all, especially those who are not able to communicate their need for companionship or intimacy.  It's worth building these life skills both professionally and personally.

So get out there tomorrow and find that resident that you tend to avoid and spend a few quiet moments with her.  Give her your spirit, your empathy, your time. Know that in every silent moment that you spend with your elders, you are making a difference.

New Beginnings

There are days when I miss my parents more than others.  The last 24 hours I thought about them a lot.  I remembered when I was laboring and giving birth to my daughters, and how I kept my labor a secret from my mother, who truly could not emotionally bear to see her children in pain or struggle.  At the time, I felt I was being tough, even mean to not allow her into the room with me when I was in labor, but last night as I watched my daughter in agony, working so hard to bring her son into this world, I understood something more about my mother.  I understood the agony of watching your child in agony.  Every time Hannah took a deep breath in and got ready to push, I found myself breathing in with her, holding my breath as she pushed with all her might.  I wanted to help, but I was feeling pretty doggone useless.

I spared my mom that heart wrenching experience because it was too much for her, but I wouldn't trade one minute of the time I spent with Hannah, encouraging her, breathing with her, holding my breath for her.  It was my chance to be her cheerleader, to keep reminding her how strong and amazing she is, how miraculous the female body is, and how worth it every second of pain and struggle becomes the moment you see your baby for the first time.

I thought about my dad, the smile he would have had plastered on his face from ear to ear at the sight of that little chubby-face bundle in Hannah's arms.  I wished so much that he could have been there.  I wished my parents could have both seen him, seen how wonderfully strong Hannah was and heard that sweet little cry as Liam made his grand entrance into the world.

Sometimes in life, we all need a cheering squad and sometimes we ARE the cheering squad.  I'm so grateful that in every tough situation, someone has always been there to remind me that I could get through it, I could keep going.  If not for that kind of encouragement and support, I might never have lived to see my second grandchild born.  I might never have gotten the chance to cheer my daughter on as she fought the toughest physical battle of her life thus far.

I know I'm partial, but I couldn't be more proud of the woman she has become.  She's a strong woman with a deep reserve of peace, calmness and abiding love deep within her soul.  She has overcome some obstacles over which many might never have been able to hurdle and I am in awe of her resolve.

I am in awe of this new life, this gift of a brand new chin-dimpled dark haired baby boy that will change all of us even more as life moves on and our love as a family grows deeper.

I so wish my parents could be here for it all, to give him their love and to glow with pride the way I feel I am glowing now.  But they left us that kind of legacy--a legacy of love and pride in family, and I'm grateful for it.  We will keep it and tend it, nurture it and allow it to flourish between the hearts of all our kin.

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; today he gave to us abundantly, and continues to give to us from the legacy my folks left behind.

Happy Birthday Liam!  Your Mammo loves you so very much.

Me Too

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What's the Deal with MLK Day?

I was born in 1970.  Yeah, I'm putting that out there.  To many who read this I will seem old, and to some of you, young and maybe still needing to learn a lot about the world.  I didn't live through the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960's.  I never saw riots on the news.  I never saw a black person made to use a different restroom, use a different water fountain or go to a different school than me.  I grew up with the results of the Civil Rights Movement, and I am thankful that I did.

In first grade I had my first little friend who was brown.  I didn't know that black people were actually brown until then.  Sure, I had seen black folks out and about, but not up close.  I had never had a conversation with a black kid or played on the playground with them.   I was fascinated by Benita's skin.  It was so smooth and soft, the shade of brown so lovely, and I thought she was so lucky to get to wear all those cool beads in her hair.  My mama would have never taken the time to do my hair like that!  Then there was the boy named Talfred who was quiet but smiled a lot.  One day he had an accident on the playground and my teacher had  me walk him inside to change his clothes.  He was embarrassed, but I put my arm around him and said, "It's okay.  I won't tell anyone." And then we walked arm in arm back to the playground smiling and chanting some silly song about being friends, and we were friends from that day forward.  Benita was in my class almost every year in elementary school.  I don't know what happened to her after that, but I've never forgotten her.

I grew up feeling quite comfortable around my classmates of color.  I saw no difference really between me and them.  However, as I matured and listened more closely to the adult chatter around me, I kept getting the feeling that there was something bad about black people.  It was never anything bluntly spoken, but it was alluded to in those "you know what I mean" comments that adults would banter about in my presence.  I grew up in the South, South Carolina to be exact, where slavery was fought for and where basic human rights were considered only for the white util just a few short years before my birth.  The laws had changed by 1970, but attitudes had not.

I remember my dad and my pastor making comments about Martin Luther King Jr.  He was called a heretic, a troublemaker, a bad man.  Imagine my confusion in third grade when my teacher played the "I Have a Dream" speech for us at school.  I thought it was beautiful.  I thought we had already made that dream come true.  After all, there I was in my classroom with Benita.  There was a fourth grade teacher in our school who was black.  Black people used the same bathrooms and water fountains and rode the same busses as us.  My simple mind thought everything was fixed.

When I got to Junior High I got an awakening. The N word  was thrown about liberally by older kids, especially the redneck boys.  If it was found out a black person was dating a white person, they would be harassed, bullied, humiliated.  I had a black friend named Terrance.  He was such a sweet boy, intelligent, funny, fun to be around.  Some would tease me that I had a crush on him, and maybe I did but I was always too afraid for him and for me to say so.

I realized we had not come far at all in the hearts and minds of people and I struggled with the dissonance I felt between my own knowledge and experience and what I was being told by my church--my parents even.

In seventh grade I got head lice.  Gross, I know.  I shared a gym locker with a girl who had it and then I got it.  She was white.  My older sister went to the Community Drug store in Liberty to get something to get rid of the head lice for me.  The pharmacist showed her where the products for head lice were and as they chatted she said in a whisper, "We never saw this much head lice until they started letting the blacks in our schools."  Later I found out that black people rarely get head lice.  It's mostly a white people problem.  White people were so desperate to hold on to their belief in being a superior race that they were blaming anything and everything on "those blacks" or worse, "niggers."

It makes my skin crawl to hear that word--even to type it.  But we have all heard it before.  Some of us have said it in not so flattering moments.  Most of us, as children, heard it bandied about like an insult, even used as a put-down when other white people didn't live up to some lofty standard of "whiteness".  We should all be ashamed, we should be ashamed of every time we have sunken to that level of less than humanity, and we should be ashamed for every time we didn't speak up and tell someone else that it's not okay to speak that way about other human beings.

All my life in the presence of white people I have seen the eye roll, the downcast shaking head, the "oh please!" laugh at the mention of Dr. King's name.  No one ever expands on their gestures, expecting I suppose, that I agree with their unspoken attitudes just because I'm white,  too.  In fact, at work a week or so ago, I reminded my seniors that the center would be closed today in observance of MLK day.  One or two of them responded by, "Ugh," and a disgusted head shake.  Not knowing what to say, I said, "We are going more by the school calendar for holidays this year."  That was true, but I should have said  more.

I should have said, "We have people of color in this group.  They are every much of value as each white person here, maybe more since they not only show up here, but they do so much work in the community helping others.  We have a responsibility to them to show them that we support, accept and love them.  They have the right to know that we respect the leader who worked to give us the privilege to come together as a group here every day without excluding anyone."

But I didn't say that and I feel bad that I didn't.  I didn't do my part in dispelling this unspoken attitude among white people that Dr. King was a bad man who did bad things to the world.

I've been thinking about this a lot, trying to decipher those eye rolls I've become accustomed to seeing at the mention of MLK day.  I think I know what they are saying to me when they do that.  They are saying they don't think black people deserve basic human rights.  They don't think black people are as human as white people.  They don't think Dr. King did a good job, they think he ruined things for them by creating change that made it possible for me to have Benita as a friend in first grade.  They see him as a man who sowed discord and caused riots and civil unrest.  I see him as a man who did what he had to do to change the world, and there are too few of us who are as brave as him, who would take on the cause of the underdog and stay true to the death to that cause.

I am happy my employer decided to give us this day to observe Dr. King's legacy.  I'm grateful that the doors of our schools, playgrounds and community centers are open to ALL.  I want to do better.  Today, I vow to to better by my fellow human beings by standing up for Dr. King and all the great activists who made it possible for me and my children to share our world with all kinds of people; not just other white people.  I want every white friend and family member I have to be so uncomfortable with their racism around me that they don't even dare make a vaguely racist comment in my presence.  I am a tolerant person, but I have a growing intolerance for ignorance and hate, even among the elderly population I serve.  I simply cannot stand by and let the comments be said without my rebuttal.  It's my duty as a human being to stand up for other human beings--no matter their race, religion, gender.  No matter what differences we have, we are all one in the eyes of God.

I graduated high school in 1988.  I remember walking out of the Gym at Liberty High, in alphabetical order.  James Cheeks was in line ahead of me.  We sat next to each other in homeroom all through high school and in every other class we had together where we were seated in alphabetical order.  He was the first person I saw as I stood there feeling kind of lost and bewildered at the thought of never coming to school again with these people I had grown up with.  He looked at me, smiled and embraced me, the hug of a friend that was so comforting I've never forgotten it.  I didn't think for a second about the color of his skin.  To me he wasn't a just some black guy.  He was the guy who sat in front of me, laughed at my silly drawings and was a great football player.  He was a friend.

If the Civil Rights movement did nothing else, it gave me wonderful opportunities to cultivate friendships with people that without it, I would have never known.  It taught me that human life is human life, people are people, love is love.  And now as we embark on a time period in America where those hard-fought for rights are being threatened again, I realize I have to take a stand for the people I love.  For women, for gay people, and for my friends of color I have to be brave enough to speak up.  Maybe it's not too late to keep making changes happen.


I will hope.

Avanelle

There's a lady, short and sturdy-built, limping out the back door of her house which sits perfectly situated on a big hilltop facing a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  She's seen the view so many times by now that it is burned into her brain--she knows every curve, every dip and jutting edge of it as though it were a part of her.

Avanelle's eyes are the bluest blue, like the morning sky in early April when the winds of spring have blown back all the clouds and the sun shines bright from that Eastern corner of the heavens.  She smiles with them, showing you the sparkle of light and love that still burns inside her.  Her face is worn with time, her hair, soft and white.  Her hands are stiffened with arthritis, and she often says her fingertips are numb from years of Diabetic Neuropathy.  Sometimes the numbness keeps her from doing things she used to love, like crocheting a new pattern or tying tiny bows on Christmas presents. Mostly though, she stays busy despite her infirmities.

She walks about as best she can on a bad knee, with the help of her cane which she gleefully refers to as her "horse."  Occasionally, she leaves the horse stranded by a table or a chair, forgetting that it depends on her to get about.  "I think you forgot someone." I'll tease her.

"Oh, I better not abandon my horse!" She'll tease back.

On the day I met her I never once imagined how she would change my life for the better.  She was another person at the table, filling a seat at the Senior Center.  Another friend for the members there, another elder for me to look out for.  I was happy to have her, happy to see her become a part of the group and to see them all come to love her, to see her grow to love and depend on them.  I expected nothing more.

We were at the Bay Breeze, a seafood restaurant with gaudily painted walls and models of ships adorning the dividers between rows of tables, when I overheard her say that she was getting a house ready to rent out.  My ears perked up.  I was coming up on the renewal date for my lease at my apartment, facing a rise in my rent and had been commuting uncomfortably far every day.  I had been considering looking for a place closer to work, but hadn't seriously started the search just yet.  On the way home I asked her questions about it.  By the time we were back in Slater I had made an appointment to come look at this place. The next week, I paid the deposit and was getting ready to move.

I have lived here for one year now.  I've had plenty of ups and downs, especially in the last six months.  This year has proven complicated, difficult for me in various ways.

Late May, after our birthday cook out, and Memorial Day.  After fickle Spring had given way to balmy Summer-type days, I got an early morning call from a friend.  It was not a call I ever expected--not so soon anyway.  Our friend James was gone.  He died suddenly, unexpectedly and alone.  He was young, hopeful, sometimes misguided, but always passionate.  He was the friend who called me up at random times just to tease me about my age or tell me he loved me; sometimes he did both.  He made me laugh, made me angry, made my heart break for him often when I witnessed his struggle.  Saying a permanent goodbye to him was not easy.  It opened old wounds that I thought had healed over--calloused even, to the point of being impenetrable.  I was wrong.  Losses have a way of coming back around to haunt you, even years later when you think you've done a proper job of assimilating them.

In early June I was in Charleston at MUSC, waiting for the lab to draw my blood when I got a message from work.  One of my most beloved senior members had passed away.  Back at home, tired from the trip and overwhelmed with decision-making, I dragged myself to work and started the process of getting used to my days without Bea.  It was more difficult than I expected.  I missed her at all the concerts and parties, missed her when we were decorating for Christmas and even today, when I witnessed the blossoming love-affair between two newer members and wondered what she'd say about it, if she were here.

Loss became a theme for me this year as it has in other years gone by.  I suppose with time, with age, I mean, what we have lost starts to take up more space inside us than what we've gained.

Two years ago on October 11, I said the final goodbye to my mother.  That was also a year of loss for me, but those losses were mostly of the material kind.  The material kinds of losses that feel devastating at first, but fade with time and with the gaining of newer things, fulfilling experiences.  I've lost people before.  People with whom I was close, that I loved intensely.  None of those losses affected me in quite the same way as the loss of my mother.  In the last two years I have reflected more on who she was, how she lived and what she experienced than I ever did when she was alive.  I cried at her grave on her birthday--Easter, this year, and cried again at her grave in October, when my dad was laid to rest beside her.

They both died on early October 11th mornings, exactly two years apart.  Their bodies rest side by side on the hillside behind the church where I used to run and play with my friends after Sunday services when I was a girl.  The same hillside where my dad walked beside me, holding my hand when I was 12, as we marched behind the casket of my aunt who lost the war with cancer.  I walked away from that hillside, changed.  I was like a ship without an anchor, a watch with no chain, a traveler who could never go home again.  My parents were home, without them the home I once knew became a mere memory.

Life sets us all adrift from time to time.  A year ago I felt like I was finally coming into shore, the sight of home in the distance, a peaceful haven in the countryside awaiting my presence, waiting for me and my boy to fill it up and make it all that home should be.  I was tired, worn out from a year of healing from deep hurts and big setbacks.  I was ready to leave something of that roughness behind in favor of the soft comfort of home I would create out of this little empty house.

Late on a Summer evening Avanelle and I sat by the flowerbed waiting for the Moonflower to bloom.  She told me about the day her husband died, just a few feet away from where we sat.  I had heard the story before, but I listened again.  We sat on common ground, for even though I never watched Moonflower bloom before I met her and she never was left on her own to look for home again, we shared a deep connection.  The sting of loss crosses generations, it crosses even the widest divides between people--casts its shadow over all of us, like those clouds that block out sunlight over the Blue Ridge, leaving it shaded here and there, every part of it being touched by darkness before the day is done, as the wind blows over the ridges and carries the clouds with it.

On Christmas Eve Charlie and I stopped by to see our friend, our Landlord, I suppose.  She was standing outside, picking greens off turnips, already thinking about the New Year's Day feast.  It was unseasonably warm and the sun burned my back as I stood watching her open the gift we brought, anxious for her response.  It was perfect, she said.

We talked for a while about nothing important, then hugged her tight before we took off to finish our shopping.  There were no words to tell her all she means to me.  I cannot articulate  how powerfully her spirit, her determination, her kindness has influenced me; so all I said was, "I love you."

Life can be cruel.  It can be hard and unfair.  It gives and takes, often in unequal measure--thus the ever growing importance I find in cherishing every morsel of kindness and humanity that comes my way.  They may be few and far between, but they do inhabit my world; they are the light and warmth that keep me going, day after day.  The Good People.


Late at night, if I look out my back window, I can see her kitchen light on.  I know she's probably still up, lost in a book of some kind.  The glow from her window comforts me.  It reminds me that good people are everywhere, but that they often aren't easy to see.  They come to us so often in disguise.  An elderly lady, walking with a cane changed the paths I wear every day.  I would never have expected so much of one so small and unimposing, but here I sit safe and warm on a winter evening because of Avanelle.

The Ghosts of Decembers Past

Back when my dad still drove a lot, my folks would randomly pop up at my door on Sunday afternoons to visit.  They never ever called first.  A few times when I was married, they'd come by and we wouldn't be home from church yet.  We'd pull in our driveway and the kids would get all excited to see Granny and Papa's car sitting in the driveway, waiting for us to get home.  We'd spend the afternoon sitting around the living room.  My mom would fill me in on all the latest church gossip and my dad and Billy would talk football.  The girls would sit on papa's lap and show Granny all their new barbie stuff.  After a while, I developed a sort of sixth-sense about when they were going to show up.  I'd wake up on Sunday morning and think to myself, "Mamma and Daddy are coming over today."  Sure enough, they'd be there about an hour after church.

After the divorce, we moved to our little house in Greer.  The Greer Christmas parade was always on a Sunday afternoon, right around Hannah's birthday, which of course, meant a Sunday visit from Granny and Papa.  The parade route followed Poinsett St. and then cut through Pine street at the end, so most of the floats came zooming by our house right after the parade.  Traffic leading onto Wade Hampton would back up nearly all the way to the end of our street.  Whether or not we walked to the end of the block to watch the parade, it was an exciting day.

One such parade-day afternoon, the girls and I were getting bundled up to walk up the hill and find a spot on Poinsett to watch the parade when I heard a knock on the front door.  My mom was standing on the front stoop, my dad slowly making his way up the steps, his rigid body fighting him all the way.  They came inside and too their places, Dad in the rocking chair as always, and mom on the loveseat.  We had our usual chat while we listened to bands tromping the street outside the house, having already walked the entire parade route, they just stomped and made lots of noise.  We listened to cars full of kids laughing and singing, parade floats zooming by too fast to really be able to appreciate.  I remember feeling as though I were a kid being kept inside for recess because I was missing out on all the fun to sit and talk with my parents about such mundane things as fishing trips or hunting victories, or who was behaving badly in the family that week.

They ended up staying longer than usual because their route home was blocked by parade traffic.  We had a good visit overall, and the kids as usual, collected their dollar bills and distributed plenty of hugs to Granny and Papa before they left.  I remember that day, in particular, because I had been feeling so down, and I remember that moment when I put my arms around my daddy's big middle and squeezed him tight.  He hugged me close and reminded me that he loved me, and I felt like he loved me in spite of all the ways I had let him down.  It was a bittersweet hug that left me teary-eyed as I watched them descend the steps back to their car, watched them drive away, feeling like I should have turned out to be a better person for them.

As time went on and age caught up with them, the Sunday visits ceased.  I began to never wake up with that sense that my folks would be knocking at the door come 1:30 on Sunday afternoons.  The only time they made it to my house in those last few years was when my sister brought them over on Thanksgiving day.  Those are precious memories to me now, the way my dad always got the best seat at the table, how my mom would be almost giddy because I made her favorite side dishes.  I still feel proud that they always bragged on my turkey roasting skills.  I piled them up with leftovers to take home after I sat on the couch and dozed off with my dad watching football for a while.  Then they were off, out the door for another year.  I never treasured that enough when I had it.  Never imagined that the last time they made their way down the steep front steps from my front door to their van, it would be their last time to visit me.

Parades come and go every year, and really, what are we missing out on by not seeing a bunch of strangers in tacky floats throwing candy and singing worn out Christmas tunes?

My parents are both gone now.  I can't go put up Granny's tree for her, can't bring her a poinsettia.  I can't buy my dad his umpteenth flannel shirt for Christmas, or watch the joy on my kids' faces as they crawl up in his lap to show of their new toys.  I won't get to hear his voice crack as he tears up while saying the blessing before we eat.  I won't get to see my mom all happy and joyful over the little trinkets we found to give her for Christmas--her angel collection has all been donated here and there, parts of her scattered over the Earth like so much dust in the wind.

They were the ever-present comforts in my life, the faces and voices that I have known since the dawn of my existence.  I never quite understood how surreal it would be when they were gone and I, a forty-something child, left feeling rather displaced in the world without my anchors.  It really is like being set adrift now, with no "home" to return to for Christmas.  Sure, the house is still there, but they are not in it, and they were what made going home for Christmas feel like going home.

They've each gone to their final home.  They believed so firmly in the power of eternal life--that they'd be reunited with their own parents, their siblings, the people who left them anchorless and adrift here on Earth.  I hope with all my might that they are truly home for Christmas now, in the presence of one another and all their loved ones who have been waiting there for them.  I hope their faith bore true, and I hope that someday, I might find that same kind of strength to believe the improbable--to embrace the seemingly impossible.  I hope that when my time comes, I can find them again somewhere and sit and chat for a while, just like we used to do on Sunday afternoons.

Merry Christmas y'all.  Hold your loved ones close, even when you'd maybe rather be doing more exciting things than listening to their stories you've already heard a million times before.  The day will come when you'll wish you could hear them speak those tales just once more.  Love them, cherish them while you can.

November Haze

Driving home from town, just before I reach the turn to my road from highway 25, I catch the most breathtaking view of the Blue Wall.  Mountains that are often shrouded in summer humidity, giving the horizon a graceful curve of peaks and valleys against a canvas-like light blue sky.  It reminds me of a painting, really, with the perspectives laid out to scale, colors chosen and blended to perfection.  They call those mountains the Blue Ridge for very good reason; despite all the color of fall that usually takes our breath away, for much of the year they are the bluish hills that define the very edges of the sky under which we live, work, worry and play.

November is usually a month of color.  A coolish mix of grey skies and wet leaves, gold and garnet, orange and brown.  This year though, the rain has abandoned us, leaving the ground scattered in brown crunchy leaves, our trees looking sadly barren of their usual Autumnal show.  Far worse though, are the thick clouds of smoke masking the view of our mountains in the distance.  Some days the fog hangs so thick we nearly forget there are mountains out there in the distance.  The edges of our sky have become shapeless, thick with smoke that fills our lungs and burns our eyes.

It seems that somewhere, someone decided that destruction should win over beauty.  That smothering smoke and hazy skies were more important than a breath of fresh air and the complete awe of viewing sunlight through the canopy of a tree covered in yellow leaves.  Someone decided that for us.  They gave us no say in the matter and now we lament our loss, shake our heads in bewilderment wondering who could possibly be so ignorant, so evil, so irresponsible.

We walked outside today, the cool, dry November air nipping at our fingers as we explored our own backyard.  Thirteen acres of meadows and woods, a few trees standing resolutely off to themselves in the middle of a freshly mown field, straw crunching at our feet, we found ourselves right at home in nature.  A few birds scurried from under bushes, probably wondering what we humans might get into while in their territory.  We found a huge old rock and scaled it for the view, took some pictures of the vastness of all the untarnished land.  I looked up at the sky, big and open, no power lines or big tree limbs blocking the view and thought that field would be the perfect place for star-gazing some night soon.  The sun was sinking fast behind some trees, it's welcome warmth leaving us too soon as we tromped our way back up the hill, through the neighbor's back yard and back to ours.

We discovered piles of brush, piles of bamboo all dried out and stacked neatly together, for what purpose, no one knows.  My boy climbed on old tractors and ran up a mountain of crushed asphalt, thrilled that he'd found the perfect boyhood playground for pretending he is fighting wars and hiding from the enemy.

Eventually we came back around the last building and into our own back yard.  I stood for a moment in awe, looking down the hillside, across the huge field that faces the driveway.  I took in the beauty of Autumn's art-work, searched in vain for the mountain tops above the trees.  I could barely make out the silhouette of one rounded mountain top, shrouded in the November haze of a fire burning miles away.

Isn't it just like life?  We go about our business, smelling smoke, noticing something just isn't right, but never really fretting over it because, after all, what's happening is happening far away.  Sure, we might get a whiff of smoke or miss out on a beautiful view for a while, but really what does it have t do with us?

Meanwhile firefighters are spending days and nights away from their families.  Forest animals are scurrying to try to find new homes.  People are being evacuated from their homes for days at a time--likely worried that they might not have a home to go back to.  Kids are banned from going outside because the air quality is so poor.  No one will sit by a campfire this Thanksgiving night.  But we still carry on as though it doesn't matter.  After all, the fire will eventually go out.  It will rain again.  We'll get our fresh air back and our pretty mountain views, though singed and spoiled for a while, will grow back lush and green in a few years' time.

Our willful ignorance and our incontrovertible hopefulness, things we cling to so tightly and want to call virtues, do not allow us to see the real damage being done.

I speak of course, of our forests, our mountains and wildlife.  But I speak also of the many human spirits who suffer at the hands of injustice, prejudice, hate and ignorance.  I speak of our willful blindness to the plights of our fellow man, the ones whose entire lives consist of struggle, a kind of hardship most of us will never know.  And why should we concern ourselves with them?  Sure, we know they are there, we see the signs of their presence, but we like to believe they are miles away from us.

How many times have you driven past the run-down trailer park, and instead of wondering why the landlord runs a slum, you've judged the people who live there as being lazy, drug users, illegal immigrants, loose women, the dregs of humanity?  How  many times have you shaken your head when you saw a dirty child in too-little clothes, too shy to speak to a stranger and assumed his mother must be bad?  How often do you inventory the groceries of the mom ahead of you in line at Ingles using her EBT card to buy food for her family and silently judge her for what she purchases?

You see the smoke, but you cannot acknowledge the fire.  It's too far from you--someone else will handle it.

But what we forget when we refuse to help fight the fire is that when one of us is struggling, when one of us is fighting a fire that is overwhelming, we all eventually lose.  Why must a struggling young family who can only afford to live in a small trailer have to also live with the stigma of the people in their community assuming the worst of them because a landlord chooses not to keep up her property?  Why can't we fight that fire by demanding better for the families who want to grow and thrive and build big beautiful lives for themselves in our midst?  Why do we choose, rather than to reach out and help, to be flame throwers?

This is our hazy November, and in the coming years, the haze will grow thicker all around us, even long after the forests have ceased their burning.

What will you do in your hometown, in your own little corner of the world to find the flames of destruction and put them out before our whole country becomes engulfed?  You and I, we cannot afford to turn our heads or stay inside to avoid seeing the smoke.  We cannot count on someone else to stamp out the embers smoldering in the underbrush.

You and I, we are the firefighters, and this fight is going to be a long one.

Are you ready to suit up and take it on?

November Haze

Driving home from town just before I reach the turn to my road from highway 25, I catch the most breathtaking view of the Blue Wall. The mountain range often shrouded in summer humidity, gives the horizon a graceful curve of peaks and valleys against a canvas-like light blue sky.  It reminds me of a painting, really, with the perspectives exactingly laid out to scale, colors chosen and blended to perfection.  They it the Blue Ridge for very good reason. Despite all the color of fall that usually takes our breath away, on most days the bluish hills define the very edges of the sky under which we live, work, worry and play.

November is usually a month of color.  A coolish mix of grey skies and wet leaves, gold and garnet, orange and brown.  This year though the rain has abandoned us, leaving the ground scattered in brown crunchy leaves, our trees looking sadly barren of their usual Autumnal show.  Far worse  are thick clouds of smoke masking the view of our mountains in the distance.  Some days fog hangs so thick we nearly forget the mountains out there in the distance.  The edges of our sky shapeless, thick with smoke that fills our lungs and burns our eyes.

It seems that somewhere, someone decided that destruction should win over beauty.  That smothering smoke and hazy skies were more important than a breath of fresh air and the complete awe of viewing sunlight through the canopy of a tree covered in yellow leaves.  Someone decided that for us.  They gave us no say in the matter and now we grieve our loss, shake our heads in bewilderment wondering who could possibly be so ignorant, so evil, so irresponsible.

We walked outside today, the cool dry November air nipping at our fingers as we explored our own backyard.  Thirteen acres of meadows and woods, a few trees standing resolutely off to themselves in the middle of a freshly mown field, straw crunching at our feet, we found ourselves right at home in nature.  A few birds scurried from under bushes, probably wondering what we humans might get into while in their territory.  We found a huge old rock and scaled it for the view, took some pictures of the vastness of all the untarnished land.  I looked up at the sky big and open,  no power lines or big tree limbs blocking the view, and thought the span of Earth would make a perfect carpet for star-gazing some night soon. The sun was sinking fast behind some trees, it's welcome warmth leaving us too soon as we tromped our way back up the hill.

We discovered piles of brush, piles of bamboo all dried out and stacked neatly together, for what purpose, no one knows.  My boy climbed on old tractors and ran up a mountain of crushed asphalt, thrilled that he'd found the perfect boyhood playground for pretending he is fighting wars and hiding from the enemy.

Eventually we came back around the last building and into our own back yard.  I stood for a moment in awe, looking down the hillside across the huge field that faces the driveway.  I took in the beauty of Autumn's art-work, searched in vain for the mountain tops above the trees.  I could barely make out the silhouette of one rounded mountain top, shrouded in the November haze of a fire burning miles away.

Isn't it just like life?  We go about our business, smelling smoke, noticing something just isn't right, but never really fretting over it because, after all, what's happening is happening far away.  Sure, we might get a whiff of smoke or miss out on a beautiful view for a while, but really what does it have to do with us?

Meanwhile firefighters spend days and nights away from their families.  Forest animals are scurrying to try to find new homes.  People are being evacuated from their homes for days at a time--likely worried  they might not ever go back home. Kids are banned from going outside because the air-quality is so poor, but we still carry on as though it doesn't matter.  After all, the fire will eventually go out.  It will rain again.  We'll get our fresh air back and our pretty mountain views, though singed and spoiled for a while, will grow back lush and green in a few years' time.

Our willful ignorance and our incontrovertible hopefulness, things we cling to so tightly and want to call virtues, do not allow us to see the real damage being done.

I speak of course, of our forests, our mountains and wildlife but also of the  many human spirits who suffer at the hands of injustice, prejudice, hate and ignorance.  I speak of our willful blindness to the plights of our fellow man, the ones whose entire lives consist of struggle, a kind of hardship most of us will never know.  Why should we concern ourselves with them?  Sure, we know they are there, we see the signs of their presence, but we like to believe they are miles away from us.

How many times have you driven past the run-down trailer park, and instead of wondering why the landlord runs a slum, you've judged the people who live there as being lazy, drug users, illegal immigrants, loose women, the dregs of humanity?  How  many times have you shaken your head when you saw a dirty child in too-little clothes, too shy to speak to a stranger and assumed his mother must be bad?  How often do you inventory the groceries of the mom ahead of you in line at Ingles using her EBT card to buy food for her family and silently judge her for what she purchases?

You see the smoke, but you cannot acknowledge the fire.  It's too far from you--someone else will handle it.

But what we forget when we refuse to help fight the fire is that when one of us is struggling, when one of us is fighting a fire that is overwhelming, we all eventually lose.  Why must a struggling young family who can only afford to live in a small trailer have to also live with the stigma of the people in their community assuming the worst of them because a landlord chooses not to keep up her property?  Why can't we fight that fire by demanding better for the families who want to grow and thrive and build big beautiful lives for themselves in our midst?  Why do we choose, rather than to reach out and help, to be flame throwers?

This is our hazy November, and in the coming years, the haze will grow thicker all around us, even long after the forests have ceased their burning.

What will you do in your hometown, in your own little corner of the world to find the flames of destruction and put them out before our whole country becomes engulfed?  You and I, we cannot afford to turn our heads or stay inside to avoid seeing the smoke.  We cannot count on someone else to stamp out the embers smoldering in the underbrush.

You and I, we are the firefighters, and this fight is going to be a long one.

Are you ready to suit up and take it on?