guide, guardian, angelic
companion, lost in a shop
of cast-off tools, linens, photos
and cut glass knobs, where I languished
beneath crocheted doilies,
choking on dust and mouse.
Writer. Teacher. Traveler. Treehugger. I believe in kids, the arts, and respect for natural cycles. I came of age in the 1960's and always thought we would get better. More peaceful. More humane. More accepting. Still working on this... and, as Mother Teresa said, "Peace begins with a smile." A smile, an education, and TRUTH.
Never let it be said the spirit and the love of a thing can be lost to age!
We danced in the 1970's when we were young and twenty...
Now we dance again in the 2020's when we are aged and seventy.
Hey, ho and "I like to rise when the sun she rises,
Early in the morning..."
There are those friends with whom all is said
in quiet phrases, moments of silence,
years shared through work,
family, joys and trials.
And as we age, we discover
a common puzzlement
in life.
~
Simon E. Draper, Jr. Southern France |
Donald S. Dorrington |
MEMORIAL DAY THOUGHTS 2023
Growing up in the 1950’s, many fathers I knew had been soldiers. It was the same for uncles, brothers, grandfathers and women who served in the military.
My grandfather fought in the trenches of France during World War I. He never spoke of it until he was a very old man. He’d rather share stories of his father’s farm, where he had driven horse teams for logging and rolling snow.
His references to war were short and grim. He remembered the waste of farms and fields. After the war, he loved the Maine woods and his camp. It was isolated— just Gramp and his oldest buddies, those same men who later buried his ashes there.
My father and my father-in-law were young men during World War II.
My father joined the Marines days after graduating from high school. He turned eighteen on the island of Iwo Jima, one of the worst battles of the Pacific. He didn’t speak about it until much later in life. He was of two minds — proud to be a Marine and proud of the men and women of his generation for stepping up to the call for service.
But he also carried the silent grief war leaves — like the men he fought with who didn’t return home. The desolation he witnessed at Nagasaki. His uneasy return to civilian life.
Later in life my father spoke with students during Memorial Day ceremonies. He didn’t glamorize war, rather he told them about the need for diplomacy and other ways to manage disputes. He gave them a glimpse into his life during WWII. He was rewarded by letters he received from those students and he saved every one.
Finally, my father-in-law was a few years older when he joined the US Army during WWII. He served in the Signal Corps in southern France. Although there was danger, he never saw active combat. His was background work keeping communications open and safe.
When he came home, he started a career with the telephone company. He shared his photographs of France, yet never really gave details of his wartime life. He was the kind of man who could find the good in most situations, even war, and move on.
So, I listen to the stories and watch how the storytellers live. They offer me insights and ways to cope no matter what may come my way -- good, tragic and ugly.
Who were our mothers before they were mothers?
Do you know if your mother worked before she had children? Was she a teacher, a nurse, a secretary. Did she clerk in a store or style hair in a beauty shop?
Did she do a job considered “men’s work” back in the day when things like that were thought important. Maybe she farmed and did chores. Maybe she milked cows or organized and fed farm workers during harvest.
She could have been a cook or worked in local schools. She may have been a lawyer or doctor and continued a profession throughout her life.
Women have held jobs in factories, mills, insurance offices and banks. They could be police or EMTs. They’ve driven trucks and big machinery and owned their own businesses. They cleaned others’ houses, ironed and laundered clothes and became caregivers throughout time.
Our mothers were also artists and quilters, writers and musicians, potters and weavers. Women have always been artisans, stitching, knitting, dreaming and creating.
So much has depended on when our mothers were born and what kind of work was available. What were her choices? And, who encouraged her.
What else did our mothers do before they became mothers?
Did they love to dance? Play sports. Paint or write poems. Did they hike and swim. Who had horses and special pets? Who were friends? Who was family — and what was the good as well as the sadness in their lives.
Shirley J. Alger - Springfield Hospital School of Nursing Class of 1946 | |
Before my mother Shirley became my mother, she was a nursing student. Her high school class of 1943 graduated into the thick of World War II. She joined the Cadet Nursing Corps and graduated as a registered nurse just as the war ended.
Before that she worked at an airport canteen where men flew to the war in Europe. Her dream job was to be an airline stewardess after the war. Never happened.
Her mother Lina was born in 1901 and adopted into a prosperous farm family. She grew up with horses and dogs, books and music, two years of college and a job as a Kindergarten teacher. She played piano. But Lina never made peace with her adoption and it was the shadow of her life — before and after she became a mother herself.
Lina K. Belden - Circa 1920 |
Everyone has a story to tell, full of riches and surprises. Be sure to ask, then listen carefully.
REMEMBER HER FACE
What do you see in her gaze?
Apprehension. Fear. Vigilance.
A woman watching the sky. Watchful for
planes, great streams of fire,
gathering storm clouds of war.
This is how it feels to be a woman in 2022. We are alone and betrayed by our cultures and societies. What once was legal -- the right to decide on healthcare and pregnancy -- is now kicked down to the states where abortion may be gleefully outlawed. Women and medical personnel can be considered criminals for claiming basic healthcare, well-being and respectful decisions about our own bodies.
It's the first day of Spring and I welcome the promise of change in the air. Our New Hampshire landscape is fresh, running with the water of melting snow and ice. I walked our road in an early morning chill with mist still covering the beaver pond and the patches of lingering snow at the end of the field.
What a long and complicated journey since my last blog entry in 2019. I am not the same woman I was back then. In fact, there are times when I don't recognize myself now -- older, grey-haired, solemn, curt. I have no patience with cruelty, deliberate ignorance and division simply out of spite.
This, after three years of man-made horrors and the constant attacks on freedom, compassion and respect for diversity across the world -- and then, the scars of Covid-19, a pandemic turned to political theater, panic and grief. And now, we face Russia's attack on Ukraine.
Change and transitions and loss. As I said, it's a long and complicated road we travel moving through light and dark and back to the light, shadows to our right, flames to our left.
Here's a poem I wrote in early 2020. My mother had just moved to a nursing-rehabilitation facility, her "new home". But Covid-19 was on the move, too. March 12, 2020, the center closed to in-person visits. My mother died a year later.
...as she slowly becomes Earth... |
Cemetery on Sam Hill in Worthington, Massachusetts |
The Himalayas from Nagarkot |
Boudhnath Stupa - Kathmandu |
On the way to Bhaktapur |
Boys of the LRI School sing "Imagine" by John Lennon. |
Chitwan -- On the Border with India |
Guardians of the Road |
Thamel |
Swayambhunath is now rubble. |
Bhaktapur -- a medieval city is a pile of bricks |
On the way to Paulines Guesthouse -- all buildings destroyed |
Paulines Guesthouse has collapsed. |
...When he was young and handsome... |