Category Archives: Far Away Places

Moon Sayings

20 Monday Jul 2009

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Does it seem like forty years ago today that man first landed on the moon? 

In spite of the passage of time, I still feel like that same girl I’ve always been, though admittedly forty years of life has toughened and hopefully wizened me up a bit.  I don’t bother trying to hide that I’m a little gray around the edges;  why pretend to be younger than I am or something that I’m not?  I’m getting old and my gray hair reminds me that I’m older today than my parents were then.  And with hindsight and my perch forty years into the future, I now see that my parents were not so very old or uncool after all.  Like most middle-age, middle-class parents of the sixties, mine were simply doing their best to raise three normal children with traditional values, against an out-of-sync landscape of ‘hippies’ and happenings like Woodstock and movies like Rosemary’s Baby and Midnight Cowboy. 

Yet as man was first landing on the moon, my then not-so-old, not-so-cool parents were trying to land a parking spot in mid-town Manhattan, in order to string together a few unforgettable memories for themselves and their young family.  Much flimsier than moon rocks gathered by the astronauts, my own souvenirs of sight-seeing in New York City that day consist of three small memories.

The first:  Riding the speedy elevators amidst many ear poppings to the top of the Empire State Building, where hanging out with the clouds, we swayed with the building as we looked down in wonder on the streetscape to see taxi cabs the size of Matchbox cars and people the size of ants.  The second:  Walking the city sidewalks to find a cafeteria that served mediocre food in a family friendly fashion, that is, easy on the parent’s pocketbook and blind to lapses in their children’s table manners.  But it’s the third sight, the one of Times Square streaming with people–that will eternally mark the moon landing event into mind and make me forever thankful to my parents for taking us into the Big Apple on July 20, 1969–a Times Square that marked time for busy people who took time to look up and celebrate a message written in lights moving across a towering marquee that repeated itself over and over: “Man lands safely on the Moon.”

It’s safe to say that the men on the moon had a better view of the world than I did on the observation deck of the Empire State Building.  And it’s also safe to say, that as poor as it was, my food was better than whatever space food they had to consume that day.  But, somehow, standing in Times Square, gazing at that sign of the times, no one had the upper hand.  I felt connected to those men on the moon as I’m sure many did, even as I wondered about their safety and that of the world’s.  In a doomsday fashion, I wondered if the world would end this day?  Would we all die when the astroanauts finally stepped foot on the moon?  I don’t know where I got these dark fanciful ideas, but I do recall that it was late at night before the first step was actually taken, and that back in a New Jersey motel bed, I ended up sleeping through the entire event.   And the world went on.

Yet, did the world go on in a way that lived up to the promise shimmering within Neil Armstrong’s famous words?  Like the announcement on the Times Square marquee, Armstrong’s words were transmitted over radio signals and over and over on televisions signals to help ensure that anyone living that day could never forget them–“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind”–as he took that first historic step on mankind’s behalf.   I do not question the value of technology or the inventions that grew out of our race to the moon.  Rather it’s the fact that then, like now, we are still at war–then Viet Nam, now Iraq.  All the expansion of knowledge from our space exploration has not led us toward advances in seeking and attaining peace.  We love no better now than then.  And the idealist in me cries out that if only, everyone could believe that each life is precious and sacred.  I mean really believe it.  And if only everyone could express this belief with actions and words.  Even with silly words, like that other moon saying my mother-in-law is so fond of using… “I love you to the moon and back!”

I love you to the moon and back.  Even such simple and silly words as these could lead us to take that giant leap for mankind to the shimmering Promised Land embedded in Armstrong’s words; if only they were universally held to be true.  If only.

No Matter

11 Thursday Jun 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, In the Garden, Life at Home

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It’s the season of vacations, the time of year when one politely inquires as to another’s vacation plans, either out of sincere interest or perhaps as a hopeful seque to discussing their own.

Sometimes I fail to hit the beach volley ball back, totally missing the shot.  This week it was my doctor that was asking, perhaps because she had just returned from her own vacation.  I know because six weeks ago her office called to reschedule my appointment to this week from last.  But when Dr. E  politely inquired as to my own vacation plans, I failed to return the favor.  Sadly, the thought never crossed my mind. 

No matter that we have no vacation plans ourselves this year.  At least nothing serious in the offing, like last year’s trip, when we took ourselves and eleven others to spend a week at Disneyworld.  I wish I hadn’t spiked the ball and killed the topic, because I would have loved to hear about Dr. E’s vacation and maybe even talk about our one day dream vacations to Greece and New  Zealand.   Or even the trips I know I’ll dream about later– as punctual as a time clock –when the calendar turns to Fourth of July, I’ll want to run away to the lake and in August I’ll want to run away to Alaska, though neither dream will materialize. 

DSC01578aBut no matter.  This year, I’m pretty content in my own back yard.  Everyday I go out and putter in my garden — pull a few weeds, pick up a bucket of dead magnolia leaves and do a little supplemental watering.  Every week something new is in bloom, and the tranformation from a few months ago fills my heart with joy.  My grandma’s cottage garden is no longer a dream but a reality, tomatoes growing next to antique roses, hollyhocks so heavy in bloom they look as if they need a holiday, to take a load off and rest their tired feet.  

There will be no more vacations for Daddy.  Even though he’s vacated his house, his stay at the rehab center doesn’t count.  My brother Jon and I stayed through supper last Tuesday, to keep him company and to remind him of his new eating regimen — small bites and sips, followed by two swallows.  It’s painful to watch Dad choke on most every bite.  Daddy eats every meal at the ‘supervised’ table because eating is dangerous to his health.  With Daddy are two faithful female companions, who finish their food rather quickly, then patiently wait for Daddy to finish.  It takes Daddy a good forty-five minutes to eat fifteen minutes of food.  I wonder why they stay, but soon my question is answered.  As my brother Jon starts to wheel Dad away, Daddy stops Jon to reach out for these ladies hands to give each a tight squeeze.

Is Daddy telling them ‘thanks’ for sticking around, ‘thanks’ for not deserting him in his time of need?   Do these ladies pray for Dad as he takes every bite?  Or do they just pray Daddy will remember to reach out to hold their hands?  

No matter.  Even a rehab center can serve up unforgettable beauty that takes your breath away.

Help!

25 Monday May 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care

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 “You know I need someone.  Help.”   —  John Lennon

 

CIMG0541aOut walking the neighborhood this morning, the dogs and I came across an orange construction cone.  On top rested a work glove.   A quick look at the road revealed no obvious need for the cone  and as for the work glove, who but God knows.  But the combination was sheer poetry that spoke to my current state.

Until Dad was admitted to the hospital early Friday, I’ve kept a two-person lifestyle afloat while my better half has been hard at work in Beijing.  To be sure, it’s been a tightrope balancing act for these past five weeks, to manage everyday life on the Mesta Park home front while pulled to Shawnee on a host of planned and unplanned emergency trips to help care for Daddy.

One day Dad looks pretty good, the next not so, though his body is all the time being pumped full with antibiotics and steroids to cure this undiagnosed infection.   I look him in the eyes and tell him he’s the best daddy in the world.  And he knows I mean it, as his eyes and my own fill with tears.    

Daddy can’t help that his floundering health comes at a darn inconvenient time.   Nor can I help that my neediness has seeped out in the last few days to impinge on the lives of my children, as they’ve been asked to don a pair of work gloves to help keep the pieces of my life running if not smooth, at least rough.  But, boy do I hate to ask for help, even from those I love best in the world.  Call it pride.  Call it, as St. Paul wrote, ‘regarding others better than myself.’  Maybe its a bit of both.  But as Mama use to say about money, help doesn’t just ‘grow on trees,’  and I wonder whether a true desire of helping can even be sown into the hearts and minds of others.

God knows I tried in my own children, for my own version of a ‘mama use to say’ — Do your best and think of others— was spouted off to the kids so often I bet they just turned off the spigot, back when the boys were still in elementary school and the girls were at the age where they’d begun to realize it was they that ‘knew it all’ while poor ‘ole Mom knew squat nothing.   Perhaps my spouting words merely reflected how I wanted to be myself, for while some people are natural born helpers, the rest of us just flounder amidst inadequacy and confusion. 

And the words we speak to excuse ourselves.  They’d be funny if they weren’t so sad and didn’t hit so close to home. “Well, I would have helped … had I’d known you needed help… if I weren’t so busy and had more time… or…if I knew what I could do.  At one time or another, I’ve worn all these gloves.  I mean hats.  Or in the case of my construction conehead I saw this morning, I’ve worn all these glove -hats.

But I wonder if the best teacher of altruism isn’t  adversity, as several from an older and more gracious generation made a point to let my sister and I know of their willingness to help… however we needed.  I’m told my maternal grandfather began to get his own breakfast — and that of my grandmother’s — after Granny suffered a mild stroke in 1962.   That would be seventeen years of breakfasts, before Granddad passed in 1979.  My mother’s family tend to speak more with actions than words, so I don’t imagine any words related to the new breakfast protocol were ever spoken.  Together they hit a bump in the road and together my grandparents compensated with their own sort of  detour, one that worked for them, even if it meant my grandfather had to do a bit of  ‘women’s work’ in the way of love.  

And how is it that, in the mysterious ways of love and of actions speaking louder than words, that I’ve just received word  that my husband is on his way home?  Two days early.  His work has hit an unexpected detour of its own. 

So help is on the way in the best way.  By the one who loves me most, outside of God.  And what more is there to say?  But this.  Thank God.