On Being 78

All the while

I lean closer to hear what a friend is saying

I take the steps one foot at a time

I squint to read the fine print

I search for the name of a favorite writer

     or the name of that beautiful blossom

I consider the fact that my father never reached this age 

I celebrate

that I am here.

that I feel well despite two bouts of cancer

that I no longer hesitate before striking up a conversation with a stranger

that I am still writing--even some stuff that’s pretty good

that I take time every morning to check in with myself, the world, the birds

that, though I have lost many friends, the circle keeps widening

that I still challenge myself to try things I thought I couldn’t do

like dancing or traveling to France by myself. 

Yes, I am growing old

But I'm still growing!

Writing Implements

Somedays

they are not there--

those tiny pieces of graphite 

        with inspiration attached.

Somedays

after you've ground down the pencil

to its last grain of darkness

it's better to try

a leaky pen.

The Sister I Never Met

Her name was Carolyn May—named for our two grandmothers—Carrie Rose Schneeloch and May Reid Gilpin. August 5, 1943, marked both the date of her birth and the date of her death. She arrived full term, but was never able to take in that first breath. 

She was buried in a tiny casket in the Rose family plot in Oak Grove Cemetery. Her name was never engraved on the granite stone beneath which already rested our Rose great-grandparents, Great Aunt Lottie, and Grandma's first husband Joseph Roberts. Later Grandma and Grandpa Schneeloch would join them. 

When I was born two years after Carolyn, my mother would talk about her, and I began to think of her as the perfect sister that I would never measure up to. Carolyn never would have painted the new wallpaper with shoe polish, Carolyn never would have knocked out Mother’s front tooth with a tuna fish can, Carolyn never would have cut a hole in Ann McGinity’s red sweater. Never having lived to make mistakes, she remained free from blame. 

As I grew and heard more of my mother’s story, I gained a better perspective. When I was about two years old, she became depressed, and not understanding these feelings or where they were coming from, she talked to Dr. Leff, our family doctor. He suggested that perhaps what she was experiencing was grief that she hadn’t dealt with over losing her first baby. He comforted her as best he could and encouraged her to find something that brought happy thoughts.

She chose singing. She had always loved to sing, so she began to use this as therapy, starting to sing whenever the dark mood would come upon her. Her repertoire was extensive ranging from Irving Berlin to Nat King Cole to Methodist hymns. 

It wasn’t until she was in her nineties that she told me more details about Carolyn. It had been1943, in the middle of World War II. Nurses were scarce, many having volunteered for the service. It was her first pregnancy, so she relied on her sister Gertrude who, by that time, was the mother of five boys. Gertrude’s pregnancies and births were free from complications, so she thought that’s what she could expect. Other friends at the time had hired private nurses to be with them as they knew the hospitals were short-staffed, but she decided against it. 

After she arrived at the hospital, it soon became apparent that there was a problem. The nurse on duty was tending to other mothers, so that when she finally came and called for the doctor, the baby had been in distress too long to survive.

Here it was seventy years later, yet her feelings of guilt were still fresh. All those years she had lived believing that had she hired a nurse, had she done something different, she could have saved her child. 

I had never heard this part of the story before, did not full appreciated the scar it had left. To me, my mother was a happy and optimistic person, always trying to look on the bright side of life. Perhaps all that singing had worked its magic.

because she continued smiling and singing until the very end.

Remembering Sonny on Memorial Day

Sonny was all I ever heard him called, though officially he was George Gilpin, Jr., son of my Great Uncle George. I never met him as he died two years before I was born, but my mother, aunt,  and cousin Ruth used to talk about him a lot, recalling stories of when my mother went to Atlantic City to babysit for him and his sister Alice and the times they enjoyed at the beach. But mostly what they talked about was how First Lieutenant George Gilpin, Jr. was killed, shot down over Africa in World War II. 

As a child I didn’t fully comprehend the grief that they shared. They talked about a lot of other relatives I had never met. They were just names to me then. It wasn’t until I started working on my family tree that I began to understand who he was and the tragedy of his story. 

First I found the pictures of the boy they had known: the laughing boy lifted high as he played

at the beach, the young fisherman standing at attention presaging what was to come not ten years later. Here was a real flesh and blood person who was loved and lovable. Here was a happy boy who became a serious and patriotic man who enlisted in the Army at 19 a month before Pearl Harbor. 

I imagine Uncle George and Aunt Olga were apprehensive as their only son enlisted, but I can't imagine their unbearable grief when they received the awful news about his death--painful news that spread throughout the family.

I had never asked where Sonny was buried, just imagining he was buried in Atlantic City. Then one day as I was perusing military records, I found not only a record of his burial but a picture of his grave. 

There was  his memorial, just one white cross in row upon row of crosses in Africa American Cemetery in Carthage, Tunisia. He had never made it home. Not only had Sonny and his tragedy become real to me, but then I thought of all the other families who had received the same unbearable news. All those young souls, full of life, silenced too soon. 

So on this weekend when we lift up all those who have given their lives, I remember Sonny and all the others, like college friends who were killed in  Vietnam, and so many others gone too soon.

Angels, etc.

I was just listening to a program about the late Rachel Held Evans who became well known as someone who came from a very conservative Evangelical home, but who began to question the literalism of the Bible and wrote about this in a blog and several books before she died very suddenly in her 30s. While she became very popular nationally, the strict Evangelicals around her were very critical. Much of that criticism fell upon her father who taught, among other things, a course on Angelology at Bryan College, the college named for William Jennings Bryan, famous for helping in the prosecution of John Scopes in the famous Scopes Monkey Trial. I had never heard of Angelology before, and I’ve never been a real believer in angels. Now I’m really curious about what the curriculum is.

Disagreements about angels and such are not new. In 1765 poet William Blake saw his first vision of angels while walking on Peckham Rye. "A tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars." He returned home to share his thrilling experience with his parents to be met by threats of belt lashings from his furious father, who thought he was lying. His mother interceded, saving William from a whipping. 

My Great Aunt Corinne would tell stories of angels whenever she came to visit. The one I remember best was about the time her granddaughter Bonnie had wandered out into a busy street and was about to be hit by a speeding car when an angel came and whisked her out of the way. I was probably 7 or 8 when I heard this, but even then I had doubts about unseen spirits jumping into traffic to rescue children. It wasn’t until years later that I began to ask about the innocent children who weren’t saved. Did they not have a guardian angel? And if not, why not? Still I am not so cynical that I don’t believe that there are things that defy logical explanation, and I believe there is a greater reality than that which we can see and measure.

My mother has been dead nearly 14 years, and my father 32, yet sometimes just as I am waking up, I sense their presence. Also when I’m working on my family tree, exploring the lives of people who died long before I was born, I feel a connection beyond a date and a name on a page. Like Ruth Forman, I feel surrounded by souls.

Last night I watched a Nova program on the ancient Mayans. I found it fascinating. I imagine those archeologists finding fragments of a 1000-year-old cup covered with Mayan hieroglyphs must have felt something similar. Someone more than a 1000 years ago painted the story of a war on the cup, and now people in the 21^st century were reading it and making a connection to these old, old souls.

While I feel these non-physical connections, there is a surety that Dr. Held and Aunt Corinne have that I envy.

Snowy Morning Wanderer

On this white white morning
not the blue jay, nor the cardinal
have camouflage,
nor the large black cat
who appears from time to time.
I see a faded red collar.
Who would have left her out
in such weather?

Then I remember Patsy
a sturdy feline, a gift on my seventh birthday
who wandered off on a similar winter day.
When he did not return
I knew my first desertion
the pain of offering my love and devotion
to another being
whom I could not control.

A week later
when he ambled back home
appearing well and well-fed,
what had I learned?
That those we love can break our hearts?
or
that cats will do as they please?

Hair Conditions

 I admit it--I am vain. At the first sign of gray hair, I began visiting Claire, my hairdresser, every six weeks for a "cut and color." Now after a year of cancer treatments, I have very little hair and all of it some shade of gray. It's easy to take care of, and I'm saving on shampoo and conditioner, but I wish it were longer and closer to its previous color.

Of course, aside from washing my face and brushing my teeth, I don't have to look at myself, so it's easy not to think about it. Then yesterday, I got the good news that one of my poems was accepted for publication. The bad news is they want a "head shot."

Which Jane should I send?

Jane of a year ago?

Bald Jane

Turbaned Jane in Chemo?

or fuzzy Jane today?

Which will win out--my vanity or my honesty?

Holy Saturday

What is holy about

this day after disaster

this time of utter defeat

this era of dissolution?

All our energies

our hopes

have been killed--

horribly killed.

We may try to deny

our role in the effort

to erase our fingerprints

to cast blame on others.

We may question

whether it was all worth it

whether what we believed

to be true, was true.

The day stretches out

from Friday's agony

to the utter darkness

of midnight.

But if we can hold on

to one filament of hope

one wisp of belief,

dawn will come

again and again.

 

Reading, Trying to Write, Learning

Once again today I sit down by the window to read What is the Grass by Mark Doty. It’s one of those wonderful books I love to read a little bit at a time because it is so rich, so full of his reflections on Walt Whitman, poetry, life, and the universe. As I read, I write in my journal quotations that move me and what my thoughts are about them.

 Today I wrote the following where Doty reflects on his experience ducking out of the rain in a beach changing shed full of men of various shapes, colors, and ages. He uses the word plethora, but decides...

 “The word I want to use here is pleroma, a Gnostic term for the fullness of all that is divine; it means the totality of God, who is darkness and silence, and only knowable through the aspects of divinity that come into light out of that fecund absence, a ‘space’ that is not a space.”

An old pic when I still had hair

 As I am writing this, Kat jumps on my lap for her regular morning cuddle and examination of my bathrobe for whatever breakfast has been left there. I try to continue my writing holding her and my pen in my right arm. It is not easy, but I continue until she finishes with the bathrobe and decides to start licking my face. Whether this is true affection or mere exploration for treats, I do not know, but it totally prevents me from writing.

 I am annoyed only for a second until I see the truth of what Doty is pointing at. This, this sweet animal, this fellow sharer of the universe, is part of the fullness of all that is divine, not unlike the birds and the squirrels who scurry around the yard. Tears well in my eyes as I recognize the gifts here all around me.

Thank you Mark Doty for leading me there, and thank you Kat for reminding me of all that is divine.

 

Companions

Sixteen years ago after a suspicious mammogram and subsequent biopsy, I drove to my doctor’s office for what both she and I knew was bad news, but news easier to be heard in person. I was not alone. Riley went with me. Riley was my fluffy grey Lhasa Apso, my boon companion, my soul mate, who went almost everywhere with me. I’m not sure if he understood why I was crying, although he was pretty smart, but he looked at me with those soft brown eyes, and I was consoled. 

Five years ago we made another office visit together, but this time only I walked out. 

Riley was not my first pet. There had been Patsy, the tiger cat who was a present for my seventh birthday. Patsy, also grey, was a friendly but independent feline. He loved to rub up against my leg, and his purrrrrrrr went on forever,  but he was also a hunter and not infrequently he showed up at the front door with the present of a chipmunk in his teeth. We were together until I started college, and he chose the wrong time to cross the street.

I was sad when Patsy died, but it was different with Riley. Riley and I were a team. So much as we could do things together, we did. Not only did we explore the trails and paths of Forest Park, but he went with me to the Cape where he got to run on the beach (off season) and explore wooded trails near cranberry bogs.  

Almost immediately friends started to ask if I were going to get another dog. I thought about it, even explored some shelters online, but I kept coming back to this: I didn’t want another dog; I wanted Riley.  

In the meantime, my friend Angie became ill. Angie had a chihuahua named Kat to whom she was devoted, and every time she had to go into the hospital, she would call and ask if I would take care of Kat until she got home, and each time before she left the hospital, she would call me to be sure Kat was home when she got there. She didn't want to be away from her more than she had to. Then one day she didn’t come home, and Kat remained with me.

 Kat is a lovely dog. Unlike many chihuahuas, she is not yippy, but extremely affectionate. She likes nothing better than to climb on me, nuzzle into my neck, and lick me. She demands little except attention and affection. She only barks to tell me that there’s someone at the door whom she welcomes with a wild wag of the tail once she sees who it is. But, she isn’t Riley. 

So in those early days after Angie died, I asked around for another home for Kat. I even visited one place that seemed a good fit, but it didn’t work out. So days went by. Every day I would put out her food in the morning, then sit down to eat my oatmeal by the window, and after she had eaten, she would come and look up at me expectantly, and I would pick her up, and she would lick my face. Every day I would take her out for a walk around the block, and neighbors began to know her name and talk to her. Every day as I filled the bird feeders, she would follow me outside and chase any squirrels who happened to be nearby. Every day I came to understand that Kat was Kat, different from Riley, but special in her own way. 

I think our relationship must be like a second marriage after a long and happy first marriage. It will never be the same or as sweet as that first, young love, but it is rich in the way that age gives us perspective to see what’s important and what’s not. 

Recently another mammogram and another biopsy has again delivered bad news, and tomorrow I will begin chemotherapy. I don’t know where this will lead, but I do know that when I return home, this tiny tan soul will greet me with unlimited love and loyalty, and what better medicine is there than that?

Hope is a Thing with Brown Fur

Kat the dog is ever hopeful
always expecting affection
from whoever happens to be near
pawing at at a pant leg
whining oh so quietly,

 “Love me, Love me.”

Most comply

offering pats or smooth strokes down her back.
Still it is never enough.

Before she was mine
she was Angie’s.

Before that
her history is unclear
except that she would have been abandoned
had not Angie taken her in.

So she begs to be picked up
while I write or talk on the phone.
She does not understand my annoyance
or a guest’s allergy.
She only knows love me and hope.

And because we do love her
and grant her the affection she desires,
her hope for more
only grows.

Peaches

 “...those peaches, hanging like constellations in the leafy
sky? In this darkening world, they are the only steady light.”
Barbara Crooker

When I try to imagine what the Greeks meant by ambrosia, that food of the gods delivered to Olympus by doves, I cannot imagine anything more heavenly than ripe, sweet golden peaches picked fresh from a tree in August. Fortunately I do not have to wait for avian delivery, but merely a trip to Bilton’s in Hampden. 

On a recent trip I asked when they would last have peaches and was told, “The end of August.” So this morning, the first of September, I was pleased to see I still had a few left before the long wait for next season. 

I picked one that looked ripe and perfect, no blemishes, then squeezed it every so gently, and it responded, “Yes.” I peeled off its downy skin with my fingers, cut off sections, removed the fruit willingly from the pit and slipped it onto my oatmeal, my hands dripping with its sweet, slippery juice.

But the pure joy came with my first bite. This was the perfect peach at the perfect moment. A day or even an hour earlier or later, and it would have been less-than, but here on this morning I was enjoying ambrosia!

The last few days have been difficult for me as I am dealing with the news that my cancer, dormant for 16 years, has returned. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I am reminded once again this morning that we only have this moment, and moments like this are meant to be savored. 

Wishing you many perfect peach moments!

On Sumner Avenue

On one side of Sumner Avenue we held signs that read “Black Lives Matter,” “End Racism Now,” and one with the carefully written names of victims of racial violence.

As the Carillon tolled for 8 minutes and 46 seconds we, a group of about 60 mostly white people wearing our masks, stood or kneeled as four lanes of busy traffic rushed by, many honking or raising fists in support.

All the while I stood there, I was watching a family across the street. This young black family was sitting on their front steps. There was a mother, a father, a baby, a young boy maybe 4, and an older boy about 11.

I wondered about theses people—these neighbors I had never met. I wondered if they felt protected by the police, or threatened by them. I wondered about the older boy in the red shirt resting on his yellow bicycle. Will he be able to live out his dreams? Can he ride his bicycle freely through the streets of the city as I had done when I was his age in this same city?

The street where we stood, Sumner Avenue, was named for Charles Sumner, a senator from Massachusetts during the Civil War. Wikipedia describes him as a leader in the abolitionist cause, “A radical Republican.” At one point in his career after an impassioned speech against slavery. he was attacked viciously, nearly fatally by another senator on the floor of the Senate

Over 150 years later he is remembered here by this street and the school on it. Yet the racism at the heart of slavery that he fought against, and nearly died fighting, is still here.

So there I was in my white skin silently protesting this evil of racism across from a black family I did not know, realizing all too clearly that there is more than 4 lanes of traffic that separates us.

Memorial Day 2020

I never knew my maternal grandfather, William John Gilpin, Jr. as he died before I was born, yet I’ve been thinking a lot about him this weekend. There was the annual Memorial Day visit to his grave at Quabbin Park Cemetery in Ware, but even before that, I had found his 1936 federal income tax form in a box of family photos and documents in the basement.

IRS Form 1040 A records that he made an income of $1,886.49 as a machinist at National Equipment Company, of which he paid $28.38 in taxes. Though small, it is important to remember that not only was this 84 years ago, but it was also the middle of the Great Depression, so having a job and any income was a plus, and he had held several different jobs in his lifetime, including selling insurance for Metropolitan Life when the job required him to go house to house picking up payments during the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic. Fortunately, he never got sick.

It was indeed fortunate because my grandmother, May Reid Gilpin, had died very suddenly the year before. She had been ill when he left for work in the morning, and when he came home for lunch, she was dead. That story demands more time than I have here, but suffice it to say that the events of that day changed the family forever.

My grandfather was left the sole parent for my mother, Vera, age five, and my aunt, Gertrude, age nine. Taking care of and supporting them became the focus of his life. This sometimes meant the girls had to stay with family while he was away working.

By 1936, the date of the tax return, he was living in his sister Alice Moffatt’s home on Revere Street in Springfield. There he shared a room with my mother (age 24). (By that time my aunt was married and living in Vermont).  Aunt Alice’s four adult children also lived there. Elmer worked at the US Armory, while Sally, Emma, and Harriet worked at the two big department stores downtown.

I know there were conflicts with that many adults living in one house, and my grandfather could have chosen to move, but his priority, as always, was his daughters. Aunt Alice was his older sister and took a sort of parental attitude toward him, and as the mother of four girls, she felt she knew what was best for them. Education was wasted on girls, she insisted.  After all, her girls didn’t need an education to sell handkerchiefs at Forbes and Wallace or women’s dresses at Steiger’s.

But my grandfather ignored her advice and sent both my mother and my aunt to Bay Path which prepared them to become a secretary and a teacher, respectively. He knew all too well that life can change in a minute and that you need to be prepared to take care of yourself.

I wish I had met my grandfather, but I suspect many of the qualities he had were reflected in his daughters. They were both dedicated to their families and raised children to be responsible and independent.

Maybe if I get serious about cleaning the basement, I’ll discover more treasures, maybe find out more about the names on the cemetery stones.

Pedernal

"My Front Yard, Summer, 1941" by Georgia O'Keeffe

This is Cerro Pedernal, a part of the Jemez Mountains in Northern New Mexico. Its image keeps reappearing in the paintings of  Georgia O’Keeffe.  She said, “It’s my private mountain. It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough, I could have it.” After she died, her ashes were scattered there, as she had requested.  

"Ladder to the Moon, 1958"

Her statement seems almost laughable—that God would give it to her, as something to own, but the more I think about it, maybe it’s not so strange. It certainly was hers when she was alive. All she had to do was look up from her studio at Ghost Ranch, and there it was. She preserved it in painting after painting. It appears even in those paintings whose subject was not the mesa.

And perhaps she is not alone in receiving such gifts. What of this earth is given to us—not as a possession, not as a piece of property with a deed—but as a gift to be cared for?

This morning I heard part of an interview with Dave Pollard, author of the blog “How to Save the World.” He described the Earth as being in Hospice—no longer capable of being healed, only cared for as it comes to its end. Cheery news to start the day!

I cannot accept this, so I look out every day on my “Pedernal”—the aging hydrangea that is sprouting green flames of leaves, the row of leafy hostas along the back fence, the tulip tree that I planted as a sapling that now towers above the maple, and, of course, the birds—the usual visitors the sparrows, finches, and starlings, and the new visitors—the orioles and the catbirds. 

This is what has been given to me—the tiny bit of the planet for which I am responsible: to appreciate, take care of, and understand its connection to everything else--from the maple across the back fence to the rainforests of South America to  the mountains in New Mexico.

"Our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this planet. 

We all breathe the same air. 

We all cherish our children's future. 

And we are all mortal."

John F. Kennedy

Stars

Several years ago when I was part of a mission trip to the tiny village of Las Mercedes in Nicaragua, we would gather at night on the field, reflect upon the day, and just stare at the millions of stars. The stars, of course, were no different from those shining over our homes back in Massachusetts, but we could see them here in all their splendor because after the great star disappeared, there was no artificial light to distract. Because of the absence of the light we were used to, we could clearly see the beauty that had been there all along.

We are living in a time of absence now—absence of human contact, absence of familiar schedules, and, for many, absence of hope. It is not hard to sink into the darkness, to focus on what we are missing, not knowing when things will go “back to normal.”

But into this darkness have come some bright spots—some stars, if you will. You may have heard of the Italians coming together in a Balcony Flash Mob. Others have collaborated on virtual balconies. There was “Love, Sweet Love” sung by the students of Berklee College of Music, “Me and the Sky” by cast members and fans of Come From Away, and my favorite: Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” by members of the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra.

None of this music was new. All the performers had played or sung before. What was new was the sharing across boundaries of time and space and the desire to make the world brighter in a dark time. May you find the stars in your darkness today.

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.” Og Mandino

Distractions

“Allow distractions, don't shoo them away. 

They may be knocking on the door of your poem.” 

Billy Collins

Once when I told a person who studied astrology that I was a Gemini, his response was, “Oh, spaghetti brain.” I laughed because it is so true. My mind can find tangents within tangents within tangents, sometimes ending up finding no answers, but a lot of interesting ideas to pursue later. The Internet has only made my particular pasta more intertwined.

My latest wander began on New Year’s Day when I read Barbara Crooker’s poem “The New Year” on Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. I really liked the contradictory nature of this poem that begins with the proverbial door shutting, but the window, instead of opening, slams on your fingers. It concludes on a more positive note, “In spite of everything, you sit at your desk and begin.”

I was not familiar with Crooker and saw that the poem came from her collection Some Glad Morning. That immediately started Albert E. Brumley’s hymn “I’ll Fly Away” playing in my mind, and also reminded me of one of my favorite television programs, also titled “I’ll Fly Away” starring Sam Waterston, long before Law and Order or Grace and Frankie. (You may have noticed there are already three links in this story so you can get distracted too if you choose to).

Much as I love Sam Waterston, I was, at that moment, more interested in the poem, so I went on Amazon to find out more about Crooker and the book. I discovered two things. One, she has been widely published (Why was I just discovering her?) and two, she wrote about some of the same things I did, i.e. faith, peonies, Edward Hopper, and Georgia O’Keeffe. I immediately clicked “Buy now with one click,” (Who invented this irresistible temptation?) and true to Amazon’s promise, it arrived the next day.

So this morning I am still sitting here, long after the oatmeal is finished and Kat has returned to warm my lap, just reading these poems that touch me in familiar and new places. “Black and Purple Petunias” delves into Georgia O’Keeffe’s 1924 painting, one I had not written about in my O’Keeffe collection, Climbing to the Moon. Crooker, like O’Keeffe, sees deep inside the flowers, “They will not let the darkness eat them.” “Peaches in August” delights in these fruits as “the only true light” in a darkening world. I too had written about peach moments.

With each poem I am feeling more and more of a connection with this poet. I go back on the Internet where I find her homepage. I look under Events to see if there is anything close by, and there I see that she’s doing a workshop of ekphrastic poetry at Poetry by the Sea in Madison, CT, in May. Perfect! Poetry, art, the ocean, and meeting my new favorite poet! Sign me up.

So, Billy, I didn’t get a poem from my journey, but a blog post. And I think I’ll go back to “I’ll Fly Away” and write something, It’s still playing in my mind.

Feeding and Being Fed

The truth is I didn’t want to go that Wednesday. It was dark and cold, and I really just wanted to stay home, have bowl of soup, and take a nap. Then I thought about the people who were already lined up on this wintry day just waiting for us volunteers to distribute the food brought with the Mobile Food Bank.

Sponsored by the Food Bank of Western Massachusetts, the Mobile Food Bank comes to Trinity United Methodist Church on the first and third Wednesdays of every month. The truck arrives about 1:15 full of food that has been donated from local farms, stores, and the government. The driver unloads pallets of potatoes, onions, squash, or whatever the fare is for the day. We volunteers take up a station in front of one of the pallets and proceed to pass out the food to the people in the line.

On our busiest days there can be more than 300 people representing a virtual United Nations including Mexico, Nepal, Pakistan, Greece, and Russia. There is no charge for the food, and the people who come are only asked the number and ages of the people in their household.  They come on the hottest days of the summer and the coldest days of the winter. And they wait patiently--very patiently.

On that Wednesday I was handing out beets—4 large beets per person. Quite a few turned them down, but several smiled brightly when I suggested they could make borscht. Once I began dropping the beets in their bags—some flimsy plastic, others more sturdy from Big Y, and some backpacks on wheels—I remembered why I like doing this, even when the weather is not pleasant. Everyone is so grateful. One after one, they smile, say thank you, God bless you, and, in return, I cannot help but smile back.

There are some regulars I recognize like Max who is Russian. I discovered awhile back that he is an amazing pianist. I smiled and asked if he was doing well, “Not good,” he said, “excellent!” Ann usually comes with her youngest child and always greets me with a hug. I am fed by these people who come here for food.

It was a slow day. Maybe people were still dealing with the aftermath of the recent storm. It gave us a little more time to talk to the people coming through the line. When an older man in a gray flannel shirt held out his bag for me to drop the beets in, I could see that he’d been crying. I asked what was wrong, and he just kept repeating, “I’ve lost everything.”

What does one say to that? The words I uttered—I’m sorry—felt insufficient. He told me then that his wife had died of cancer. Then he repeated, “I’ve lost everything.” He moved on to Kathy who was passing out carrots, and I could see that she was tearing up. I gave him a hug before he left. What else could I offer?

I hope we see him again, but I may never find out his whole story. There are so many stories behind all these faces. Most of these people would be labeled poor. To stand in line for hours to receive several pieces of food would seem to support that.But  there is a richness to be had in hearing people’s stories, in touching another human, in sharing smiles on a cold day. 

I was glad I went. I went home feeling much richer.

The October Holiday - a month late

"Dignity" Chamberlain, SD

"There was much discussion last month about what has traditionally been called Columbus Day. Many places have started celebrating Indigenous People's Day instead. As with much these days, it's become a binary choice, one or the other. Instead. I would like to propose we celebrate both.

The more we learn of Columbus, the more we see the cruelty and violence that he brought with him--the enslavement, raping, and pillaging. All true and reprehensible to us 500 years later.

"Christopher Columbus" Providence, RI

The native people had been living on the lands we call America for centuries when this band of Europeans and those who followed them (or preceded--consider Leif Erikson) came with a belief that it was their God-given right to conquer and take what they found.

Today we are quick to label and condemn those years ago who did not live up to our current moral principles. I sometimes wish I could jump into a time machine just to see what behaviors we accept  today as normal, even honorable, that would be condemned by future societies. What if, for example, it were discovered that our great feat of landing a man on the moon had somehow disturbed the cosmos in ways we cannot imagine today? Wouldn't the people of the future be quick to castigate us?

Columbus, like all humans, was complicated. He was motivated by ego and greed, and his actions towards the natives were inexcusable to us. But he was also brave and determined, and led the way for a greater and greater understanding of the planet we share.

Ironically we are also only beginning to discover lessons the indigenous understood--the importance of sharing the earth and protecting it for future generations. These lessons are 
critical to our very survival.

Maybe we should rename the October holiday Discovery Day in which we celebrate what we continue to learn about the Earth and all its people.

11-11-18

November 11, 1918

She was learning to read.

Every day she carried home

new words and calculations--

offerings to the grandmother

who signed her name with an X.

She first heard the news

from the kids at Eastern Avenue School

then from the neighbors.

The Great War was over.

The boys were coming home.

People filled the streets

shouting, banging pots and pans.

It was a noisier than the Fourth of July.

The war to end all wars was over.

Smiles were everywhere.

But once inside, she found

her grandmother in tears.

She tried to tell her the news--

today's lesson to share,

but Grandma had already heard.

She knew the fighting had stopped

that soldiers were coming home.

Her tears were for the others--

the boys lost far from home

and the mothers still waiting.

At six how could she understand

a mother's grief over a lost child?

This illiterate woman who remembered

the baby drowned back in Ireland

was well schooled in suffering.