Seasons of Clover 

 Along the Soap Creek bottoms,
 wild clover covers the earth like a violet duvet,
 here for a season, gone tomorrow.
 These are saffron days
 when even in the hollows,
 light teases the shadows, unraveling
 the dark edges of night. 
  
 That this will pass,
 that these days will not last
 is like a descant that lilts above
 the song of seasons. 
  
 Like tangerine dreams which take flight
 and later come to rest, still and spent,
 in dark heaps along the creek bed.
  
 Like happiness, 
 that pink-cheeked child who, for a season,
 dances with rosehipped abandon
 until she returns, ashen, to earth.
  
 Like love
which crowns the buckthorn
and lays hands upon the brambles.
Like love whose filaments--
slight as cottonwood seeds--
rise until we can see them
no more. 
 

“She would’ve been a good woman,” said The Misfit, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories

Every time I read this line from the end of “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” I want to shout: Can I get an amen? Not just because The Misfit pegs the grandmother in this story so accurately, but because O’Connor pegs all of us so accurately. Wouldn’t we all be better women and men if there was someone holding a gun to our heads every minute of every day?

Unlike most of her contemporaries, O’Connor wrote through a pointedly Christian lens. In The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O’Connor, she wrote:

Let me make no bones about it: I write from the standpoint of Christian orthodoxy. Nothing is more repulsive to me than the idea of myself setting up a little universe of my own choosing and propounding a little immoralistic message. I write with a solid belief in all the Christian dogmas. 

For O’Connor, then, a good woman or a good man was solidly in the eye of the only beholder who matters: Christ. Many of her characters lived in little universes of their own choosing until some act of violence, like a real or metaphoric gun to the head, brought them before a mirror where they stood, stripped of their pretensions, alone and sorely in need of grace. O’Connor’s work centers on the action of grace in territory largely held by the devil. The problem, however, is one with which she was all too familiar:

All my stories are about the action of grace on a character who is not very willing to support it, but most people think of these stories as hard, hopeless and brutal.

O’Connor was painfully aware that her audience was largely comprised of people who think God is dead. She knew that this audience put little stock either in grace or the devil. For this audience, her stories were examples of the modern pessimism and violence which characterized much of 20th century literature.

If O’Connor’s works were to be taught as she intended, from the standpoint of Christian orthodoxy, many literature teachers would undoubtedly be fired–or suspended until they could promise to avoid this perspective in favor of a more psychological one. For these teachers, her characters are not sinners in need of grace but rather victims in need of psychiatry. For them, a good man or woman should be defined by the prevailing social and cultural mores.

I thought about O’Connor as I finished Ian McEwan’s novel, Enduring Love. The story opens dramatically with a young boy inside a hot air balloon which has become untethered. His grandfather clings to the one of the ropes, running and pulling, desperate to bring his grandson to safety. Upon hearing the child’s cries, the novel’s protagonist, Joe Rose, and several other men rush to help the grandfather. They grab the dangling ropes and do their best to hang on to the balloon as the wind threatens to carry it and the child away. When they can no longer hold onto the ropes, Joe and the others–except one man–release their grips, as the wind lifts the balloon from the field. They watch in horror as this man is carried into the air and, finally unable to hold on any longer, falls to his death. The boy is later rescued when the balloon descends miles from the field. After the tragedy, Joe Rose and Jed Parry, one of the others who came to the boy’s assistance, share a few moments of grief.

The novel centers on the relationship between Joe and Jed, one that begins with Jed’s insistence that Joe pray with him before they leave the field. Jed becomes increasingly persistent–calling, writing, and stalking Joe in an attempt to help him see that God loves Joe, just as he loves him. As Jed’s attempts to communicate with Joe escalate, Joe becomes convinced that Jed suffers from de Clerambault’s syndrome, a delusional disorder in which one believes another to be infatuated with him or her. Jed’s infatuation unfolds over the course of the novel. As it does, McEwan appears to lay the groundwork to ultimately reveal that it is Joe—not Jed—who is truly paranoid, that he becomes obsessed with Jed, just as Jed is obsessed with him.

At the end of the novel when he is finally institutionalized after admitting that he did try to kill Joe, that he held his wife at knife point, and then threatened to slit his own throat unless Joe forgave him, Jed stays true to his love for God, his undying love for Joe, and his desire that Joe come to God. Many reviewers turned up their noses at this ending, claiming that it seriously weakened the novel. Better to omit this scene altogether, to continue pulling readers into Joe’s paranoia, to conclude the story as a psychological tale. But to end it with Jed’s unfailing passion for God and for Joe’s soul? As a literary work of the 21st century, this simply would not do.

Jed’s character is much like those of Flannery O’Connor—those characters who appear fanatical, characters whom you want to cast off as crazy or ignorant until she brings their convictions to light, and you realize that you’ve smugly empathized with the wrong character(s) all along. O’Connor ultimately uses violence to shock both her characters and readers into an awareness of her protagonists’ desperate need for grace. McEwan uses violence, too, as he brings Jed and Joe together in a final traumatic scene. Here, I could see that in spite of his delusions about Joe’s love for him, Jed does not suffer from any delusions regarding sin and grace. He clearly sees the real hole in Joe’s heart and understands that only God can fill it. The reviewers haven’t shared my insights, however, finding both Jed and Joe to be psychological victims of their circumstances and of an indifferent, if not hostile, world. In their eyes, neither character constitutes a good man.

But have the critics gotten it wrong with Enduring Love? If O’Connor were alive today, I truly believe that she would say yes. Yes, they got it all wrong. With a single violent and traumatic event, McEwan sets the stage for the possibility of Joe’s conversion. O’Connor would see Joe as an atheist blinded by his devotion to science. She would see Jed as an unlikely but willing disciple who yearns to bring a fellow sinner before God, to open his eyes to the limits of his intellectualism. And when Jed threatens to kill himself and begs Joe to forgive him, she would see this as the pivotal moment of the novel. Gun to the head or knife to the throat, violence can shatter our false sense of control. And humbled then, we can choose to turn to God or to turn away.

O’Connor would understand that it would be more modern to accept Joe as an educated, intelligent man who succumbs to paranoia after a tragic event and encounter with a delusional man than it would be to consider him as a sinner in need of redemption. She would understand that many may argue that the Jed Parrys of the world should be institutionalized. They would be sorely mistaken, though, for Jed emerges as the novel’s true protagonist and as the only good man.

Perhaps good men and women are hard to find because, like Joe and many of O’Connor’s characters, we refuse to see them. And because we do seem to stumble blindly through our lives, often unaware that we cannot see, we may need a proverbial gun to the head. O’Connor wrote:

When you can assume that your audience holds the same beliefs you do, you can relax a little and use more normal ways of talking to it; when you have to assume that it does not, then you have to make your vision apparent by shock — to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost blind you draw large and startling figures.

We may need writers who shout and draw large and startling figures to bring us to our senses–and to our knees. We need these writers to help us see the good men and women in our midst. They are often easier to find than we believe.

It didn’t surprise me that McEwan’s critics panned the ending of his novel. They don’t have eyes to see Jed as anything but another crazy fanatic. They were disappointed in the novel’s ending because Joe’s paranoia was finally validated as real and not imagined. Sadly, they would have preferred that this paranoia remained imagined, reducing Jed’s presence (and faith) to figments of Joe’s traumatized mind.

Just last week in a commercial advertising a current reality television program, a young man questioned a young woman’s chastity. In the sound bite, he announced his conviction that the marriage bed should be pure. Indignant, she rose from her chair, pointed her well-manicured finger into his face, and claimed that indeed she had had sexual relations and that Jesus still loves me. In the next frame, we see the young man being packed into a waiting car and driven away as the young woman smirks in disgust. It won’t surprise me that many will see the young woman as good and the young man as misguided, at best, and bad, at worst. Many will not regard the young woman as O’Connor might: one who sets up a little universe of her own choosing and who gleefully pronounces a little immoralistic message.

It struck me that I might write Ian McEwan as Flannery O’Connor’s proxy and encourage him to keep up the good fight. But a good fight, like a good man or woman, is clearly in the eye of the beholder. For O’Connor and for me, that beholder is Jesus. I’m not really sure who McEwan’s beholder may be, but I can hope that Jed Parry’s unfailing faith was more than a just fictional account of a delusional man. I can hope that, in McEwan’s heart, Jed Parry is a good man.

 Prayer for the Fawns
  
 From a distance, I see a dark shape
 at the edge of the road.
 A dog, no doubt,
 hit by one of the trucks that takes this corner too fast,
 trucks that carve smooth ribbons of clay into the new gravel
 that the county lays each summer.
  
 Upon nearing, however, I see a smattering of white spots
 on a dew-slicked back.
 And legs, curled tightly as if womb sleeping,
 cocooned in liquid time.
  
 Even in death, there is something expectant here.
 As if these legs would unfurl at any moment, 
 their gleeful joints and sinews stretching,
 their bones so perfectly knit together 
 finding purpose. 
  
 Even in death, these ears fold perfectly
 into soft crescents at the crown.
 I long to run my hand over them 
 the way a mother smooths a child’s hair which spreads  
 like a silk fan across her pillow at night.
 And I long to see the timber—just yards away—
 reach its oaken arms to snatch this life 
 from death.
  
 This is my prayer for the fawns,
 for all that would begin.
   

It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life. Where you stumble, there lies your treasure. Joseph Campbell

There are 70,000 Stolpersteine or stumbling stones in more than 1, 200 towns and cities across Europe and Russia. Stumbling stones, bronze blocks memorializing Nazi victims, comprise the largest decentralized memorial in the world. Each block is placed at the victim’s last known home, the place which marks a Gestapo or SS raid and arrest, the beginning of the end. The inscription Here lies followed by each victim’s name, birth date, and fate: camp internment, exile, deportation, murder, or suicide.

In 1992, artist Gunter Demnig of Cologne, Germany conceived Stolpersteine. These stumbling stones commemorate all victims of the Nazi regime, which include Jewish, Sinti, Roma, disabled, dissident, and Afro-German and asocial citizens. Demnig personally oversees the creation and placement of each stone, a labor of love and duty that keeps him working and traveling 300 days a year. He often cites the Talmud when he reminds the world that A person is only forgotten when his or her name is forgotten.

A Berlinian craftsman, Friedrichs-Friedländer, spends at least 50 hours a week in his suburban garage engraving each stumbling stone by hand with a hammer and hand-held metal stamps. Working six days a week mostly in silence, he has inscribed more than 63,000 Stolpersteine.

Given the magnitude of the project, some have argued that the process of creating and inscribing the stones should be mechanized. Not so, says Friedrichs-Friedländer who explains:

To show respect for the victims, it must be done by hand. The Holocaust was so systematic. What they invented as means of mass slaughter, it was more or less automatized. We don’t want anything like that.

As with many good deeds and noble causes, stumbling stones are not without critics. Although it was controversial, Munich banned the stones in 2004, a decision that was upheld in 2015 in spite of a petition containing 100,000 names. Charlotte Noblach, head of the Jewish community in Munich and Bavaria and a Holocaust survivor, vehemently opposes the project and argues for preserving the dignity of the victims. She said, For me, stumbling over a piece of metal in the ground is anything but dignified. Friedrichs-Friedländer disagreed, claiming that If you want to read the stone, you must bow before the victim.

Bowing before victims seems like the kind of practice that could change the world. For the most part, we’re not a bowing people, preferring instead to keep our sights on higher, more potentially advantageous stuff. And as we look up and out, we miss so much of what has happened and continues to happen below our radars. Unthinkingly, we trample on the very folk who have already been crushed. In the end, it may not matter whether these are victims of genocide or individual acts of destruction. For in the wake of any type of destruction, we walk on without stumbling.

We should stumble more. We should catch our toes on all sorts of stones which send us flying face first to the ground. And lying there, we should be bloodied enough to take pause. When an expert in the law asked Jesus to define neighbor, Jesus responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan. Lest I think too highly of myself and my willingness to love my neighbor, how many times have I crossed to the other side of the road, leaving a neighbor in need along the road? How many times have I neglected to look down and see the life that was lying at my feet? How many times have I refused to stumble and then to bow before ones who deserve my attention and my mercy? I should stumble more.

On this day, the occasion of my 64th birthday, I vow to do just that. There may not be lovingly crafted bronze blocks in the streets and roads of my community, but as I walk, my heart will bow before the stones that should be there. And I will stumble before those who lie at my feet. I will refuse to cross the road. For as Joseph Campbell writes, Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.

 
 Indigo Bunting
 At the peak of a linden,
 the indigo bunting sings.
  
 Oh, how its dark silhouette--
 exposed by a single slant of light--
 explodes into cerulean shards
 of surprise!
  
 How the sky delights in something bluer,
 something truer and finer
 than the milk-blue of this morning!
  
 And how my heart will fly,
 caught up in one brilliant moment!
   

  Catching a Wave
  
 In early summer, the wind pushes through 
 the tops of elms and dapples the road 
 below.
 It whips the pastures into waves,
 the grasses rolling surely 
 upon the shore of summer.
  
 This is high tide,
 and my heart swells.
 What once was dark and brittle
 is now a happy vapor, a lemon trifle,
 a lark.
 Oh, that I might sing the wind’s songs,
 that I might live in the land of lilac
 where prayers are always fragrant,
 always weightless.
  
 I grow old.
 But today, I feel like riding the waves
 of May apple and merrybells.
 I feel as though I may go beyond the breakers--
 beyond the shoal of age--
 into bright danger.
  
 Today, I think I will leave the shallows
 where I have hidden among the rocks.
 Here, as I am swept out of myself,
 I will scatter my 63 years, like shells,
 across the sand.
 
 And then,
 I will catch the closest wave
 and ride hard with the wind. 

Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed? Can the writer isolate and vivify all in experience that most deeply engages our intellects and our heats? Can the writer renew our hope for literary forms? Why are we reading if not in hope that the writer will magnify and dramatize our days, will illuminate and inspire us with wisdom, courage, and the possibility of meaningfulness, and will press upon our minds the deepest mysteries, so we may feel again their majesty and power? 
― Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

I stood in front of a class of 26 juniors whose homework had been to read the final six pages of Ernest Hemingway’s short story, “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” Within the opening minutes of the class period, it became painfully obvious that only five of the 26 had actually read the assigned pages. This was not new, not an exceptional day. The majority of my students seldom read what was assigned but rather waited for me to summarize what they should have read. And tragically, this was necessary if we all were to move on to whatever task was at hand that day.

And so I asked (though I had long suspected the answer): What do you consider homework? They responded without thinking: math problems, worksheets, end-of-chapter questions. What if, I posed, your only homework was to read–not to answer questions, not to complete a worksheet–but to read? There were audible chuckles and visible smirks. Finally, one brave soul volunteered that reading would not even appear on the homework radar. I persisted: Really? You wouldn’t consider reading six pages if that was the only homework you were assigned? A resounding no followed. No, they would not consider reading because (it was all too clear) they didn’t consider it as real homework. At least not like a good worksheet or set of even-numbered math problems. In the galaxy of homework, reading was not even a quark or lepton. In most of their eyes, reading held no presence at all.

How could this be? Reading has transported me to historical and geographical worlds. I have looked through the eyes of characters who were so much like me and so very different from me. My world has expanded through reading, so that I was able to look and learn about the far reaches of this earth and beyond, as well as into the smallest, most intimate places and things. For years, I have had a ready-made answer to the question: What would you take if you knew you would be stranded on a desert island? Books! In any form–Audible, Kindle, print! Books, glorious books! For me, and I know for many, reading has been my greatest teacher, my most faithful companion, and the source of great wonder, wisdom, and pleasure. It has been–and continues to be–a sanctuary.

In 1955, author Rudolf Flesch published his ground-breaking and controversial book, Why Johnny Can’t Read–and What You Can Do About It. Flesch claimed that only the U.S. suffered from a remedial reading problem. British kids could read Three Little Pigs, for heaven’s sake! Only American children needed the dreaded remedial help. And this birthed a colossal industry of remediation specialists, curriculum, and materials. This industry continues to flourish, while parents and educators continue to lament the stagnant reading scores.

But let me be clear: my students were not in need of this type of reading remediation. They could read well enough; they simply chose not to read. They argued–convincingly, I must admit–that they didn’t need to read to pass classes. Some boasted that they hadn’t ever read an entire book, and they’d been on the honor roll for years. Most agreed that doing school was largely about showing up and completing paper work (worksheets, quizzes, tests, etc.). As a veteran teacher, I knew that what they were saying was true. I’d seen the honor rolls and the academic achievement awards passed out at end-of-the-year assemblies; students who didn’t read were standing proud and tall as they accepted a host of academic awards. And when some of my colleagues admitted that they had read little in college (some claimed to have never even bought the required books), I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Like many Americans, my students and some of my colleagues were not illiterate but alliterate: non-readers by choice.

Granted, there are–and always have been–happy, successful people who don’t read. They raise families, contribute meaningfully to their communities, and thrive. What I have seen in my lifetime and throughout my educational career, however, is that the percentage of non-readers is growing. Whereas once there may have been relative balance between readers and non-readers, the scales appear to be tipping heavily towards those who choose not to read. Some argue that this is due to the easy access of technology, while others contend that this is symptomatic of a society that values quicker, less rigorous rewards. Reading simply takes too much time and requires too much brain power. And reading, the old-fashioned print kind of reading, prohibits serious multi-tasking. I can testify to this, for I once walked into a parked car as I attempted to read and walk from the faculty lot into the school. I fear for many, reading is passé .

Like Annie Dillard, I read in the hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed. I read to live, and in the words of the Apostle Paul, to have life more abundantly. Granted, although I’ve spent a lifetime reading literature, I also read for information. Most of what I have learned about history, philosophy, theology, and science, I have learned through reading. The information imparted from the written words of the greatest historians, philosophers, theologians, and scientists has also brought me abundant life. In The Living, Dillard writes: She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live. That’s me. I read to fill up and live, to take in each word as one would breathe air.

One has to choose to fill up, though. And herein lies the painful reality of reading–or non-reading–today. I applaud those who work tirelessly and passionately to intervene early, so that more children have the phonemic tools required to become successful readers. And I commend those who, like me, commit to teaching students how to read, that is how to comprehend, the texts of our disciplines. All of this is good and necessary. But it’s not enough.

Recently, I read the Facebook post of a friend and colleague’s daughter. She is completing a long-term substitute post, and her fifth-grade class had just finished Wilson Rawls’ classic young adult novel, Where the Red Fern Grows. In her post, she writes that she and the entire class were moved to tears. At the end of the novel, Rawls writes:

After the last shovel of dirt was patted in place, I sat down and let my mind drift back through the years. I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder can, and the first time I saw my pups in the box at the depot. I thought of the fifty dollars, the nickels and dimes, and the fishermen and blackberry patches.

I looked at his grave and, with tears in my eyes, I voiced these words: “You were worth it, old friend, and a thousand times over.“

Is it any wonder that nearly 60 years later, Rawls continues to bring his readers to tears, to fill them with feelings and words they will never forget? What happens to these tender 10-11-year olds who cry not only because they grieve the loss of the coon hounds, Old Dan and Little Ann, but who grieve the ending of the world they have entered, the characters they have known as friends, and the story that has stopped? It’s clear that something happens, for as they move more solidly into adolescence, more choose not to read.

Later, some will reminisce about this book as the last–and only–book they read. They will recall it fondly and even recommend it to others. But many will move beyond it, as if it were the threshold into adulthood, a rite of passage. As they move forward, many will choose not to read. When adults and teachers press them, they will argue that they can read–if they choose–but they prefer not to read. When experts insist that finding the just-right book will jump-start the love they once had for reading, many students will smile and fake-read for countless, precious instructional hours. And these same experts often look on, believing that their methods have hit pay dirt.

The real reading crisis today is one of will—not skill. And this is a deeper, more potentially damaging crisis. For it pervades school in many forms, not just reading. More and more students are simply refusing to do anything but physically show up and inhabit a seat. They come to class with no notebook, pencil or pen. Their books remain in their lockers (or on the back seat of their vehicles) for entire school years. These students aren’t particularly disruptive and aren’t regular visitors to the principal’s office. They just take up space, waiting for the day they will legally no longer have to take up space.

We may be tempted to regard this as yet another educational crisis, one that will undoubtedly birth a new iteration of specialists. And we wouldn’t be wrong: this is an educational crisis. But it is so much more than this. Truly, this is a social, cultural, and political crisis. This is a crisis that we all must own. Its proportions are far too great for educators alone to fix. For students who choose not to read or to do school sometimes choose not to vote, not to work, not to parent, and not to commit to anything that doesn’t yield quick, short-term rewards.

Thankfully, there will always be those who champion reading and those who devote their lives to creating the conditions and providing the skills for others to become readers. And there will be those writers who take Dillard’s advice to heart:

Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality? 
―The Writing Life

What if we were to read as if we were dying, to daily consume the greatest words written? What if we were to fill up with words as if we were terminal patients, enraged by triviality? Clearly, this would be a world-changer. But only if we first choose to read. Like anything, this type of reading begins with a choice.

Certainly that are those who, at one time or another, having chosen not to read turn again to reading. My greatest fear, however, is that when–and if–this desire returns, many will be so out-of-shape to read that any attempts will leave them discouraged and convinced, once again, that reading is just too much work. No one could convince me to run a 400 meters today. Once, I was in shape enough to win a state championship, but today? This would literally be the death of me. Even if I had the great desire to return to competitive running, I would understand that this would require years of re-conditioning and training. I couldn’t simply take the track and run well. But I fear that many naively assume that they can pick up serious reading at any time. Not without serious conditioning and time, I’m afraid.

I realize that there are those who will argue that there are other legitimate ways to fill up with wise, inspirational words. One can listen to others read, and one can view others perform. Still, even in this age of technological alternatives, there is a case to be made for reading. Like Dillard, I feel the real desire for the possibility of meaningfulness. I want to feel the majesty and power of life’s deepest mysteries. And much of this comes from the process of wrestling with printed words, from holding a book in one’s hands, from dog-earring pages and writing in margins, and from returning again and again to passages that perplex, inspire, and challenge us.

I don’t believe that all is lost on the reading front. I do believe, however, that the reading challenges we face today will require the efforts of a virtual village. This is a job much too big and much too important for teachers alone. Oh, teachers have done and will continue to do much more than their share. But if we are to resurrect reading for more than a few willing students, if we are to right the imbalance of non-readers to readers, and–most importantly–if we are to address the pervasive problem of individuals who choose not to fully participate in school or life, this will take a village.

 
 Wild Honeysuckle
  
 In mid-May, the wild honeysuckle
 is the first debutante of the season.
 While others work the room
 with sugared charm,
 here is a tart of the finest sort.
  
 Her gown is a slender white flute
 under which there is no petticoat.
 And when she twirls,
 its fragrant folds cleave the air.
  
 Soon, jasmine and gardenia
 will push their cloying blooms sunward
 and prevail.
  
 But for now, the honeysuckle flirts
 with reckless tang,
 sashaying among the seedlings.

For my Mom, the woman I want to be when I grow up

Don’t get your blood in a bubble!

At my age, I’ll take a bubble over a clot any day. Still, my mom issued this odd-sounding warning as sage advice. As I look back over my life, I would be hard-pressed to count many situations that were genuinely worthy of blood-bubbling. Oh, at the time I believed there were, as I furiously contemplated the possible–but highly improbably–consequences of whatever set my heart pounding. Truthfully, however, when calmer minds (like hers) prevailed, these were just hurdles on the track of life. Even if you had to step over them, dragging one reluctant foot at a time, you would see how puny they were once you were on the other side. When I didn’t make cheerleader, when I had relationship problems, when my colicky babies screamed for hours, when I faced a mountainous stack of student research papers, and when I sobbed as my adult children left for new lives and homes, I repeated these words until I believed them. Don’t get your blood in a bubble, don’t get your blood in a bubble. . .

And when something or someone angered you? You could stoke the fires of your life blood until you stood over a boiling cauldron of outrage. Or you take Marcia Welch’s wisdom to heart: you could turn down the heat until a lukewarm reason took over, blessedly tempering all you’d planned to say and do. Although I know my mom got angry, I never saw her fly into an outrage. Her blood percolated at a steady room temperature and refused to bubble.

Own it!

I remember the day I came home from college to find my kindergarten brother heading out the door for school. But wait! I said to my mom. He still has his Spock ears on–you’re not really going to let him wear those to school, are you? My mom smiled and shrugged. I persisted. Really? They’re green cardboard ears attached with rubber bands! But I momentarily forgot who this woman was. This was the woman who wore an infamous pair of homemade earrings to a faculty wives’ gathering. As a gift, my sister had attached a string of paper clips to two rubber bands to create a stylish pair of dangly earrings. As my mom looped each rubber band over her ear and stood back to admire herself in the bathroom mirror, she proudly owned the look. Just as my brother did as he zipped his jacket, adjusted his ears, and stepped out to face the day with his best Spock face.

When my younger sister wanted a floor length-purple cape instead of a coat, my mom made her one. I can only imagine the feat it was for my sister to stuff yards and yards of purple fabric into her school cubby at Park Elementary School, but such is the price of style! With confidence, she owned the look, for she had learned from the master. As did I. I still recall the day when, on a Target run, my toddler son reached into the cart, grabbed a bedazzled headband I’d picked up for his sister, and wore it atop his afro with unabashed pride as we tooled through the aisles. I remember thinking, you come from a long line of homemade earrings, Spock ears, and cape wearers. Own it, buddy!

This, too, shall pass

Although my sisters and I desperately wanted a horse, we never got one. Living in a residential area with a small yard ruled this out. Still, over the years, we had a steady stream of smaller pets–many reptilian and amphibian, and some from the rodent family. At the end of the school year when we brought home three-legged salamanders from my granddad’s biology classroom (they were the victims of regeneration experiments), my mom removed her collection of milk glass from the dining room shelf to make room for our terrarium. Later, when we added a lizard and attempted to add a garter snake (it escaped when my sister tripped in the back yard, and the lid of the cardboard box flew into the bushes), I’m sure that my mom sighed and thought this, too, shall pass.

Seasons of amphibians and reptiles did pass and gave way to new seasons of hamsters and gerbils, sun fish, and tadpoles. Actually one summer day, after a few hours of diligent hunting at the park, we brought home a pickle jar of what we believed were tadpoles. When my dad announced that they were not tadpoles but leeches, my mom declared that the season for swimming things had passed., and back to the park they went. Following my mom’s lead, I’ve created terrariums for the snails my grandchildren and I have collected from the yard, brought home a gerbil and two parakeets, raised five rabbits and a slug of kittens, and helped to rescue at least a hundred minnows as they were being washed from our pond and sent to their deaths in my daughter’s yard. Seasons of snails, gerbils, rabbits, and minnows may pass, but the summer is young. (And just yesterday at the pond, I spotted a handsome looking bullfrog just begging to be someone’s forever amphibian!)

Home is where the heart is

I love my home which is situated a mere stone’s throw from my daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren’s home. In the winter when the trees have shed their leaves, I can stand at my bedroom window and see the silhouettes of Gracyn and Griffin as they stand by their sliding glass door, look out, and wave across the large ditch which separates our houses.

Still, much of my heart resides at 611 West 27th Street in Kearney, Nebraska. It remains seated there around the large oval dining room table, flanked by my sisters and brother, my mom and dad. Here, it celebrated birthdays, graduations, and holidays. Here, it learned the art of listening and loving. After years of living in other homes, here, it continues to find refuge in the special place my mother has made for us.

When I recently discovered that the renowned poet, Mary Oliver, stayed at our family home years ago when she was visiting and reading at the University of Nebraska Kearney, that she slept in the very bed that I sleep in when I visit my mom, I was momentarily aghast. Mary Oliver, the Mary Oliver, in our home? But then I considered the decades of visitors whom my mom has welcomed. She may not have originated the saying mi casa es tu casa, but she gives it true meaning.

My son attended college at UNK for two years and used our house on West 27th Street as home base. When my mom would ask him how many of his football player friends would be coming over for dinner, and he would say I think 6–or maybe 8, she would simply respond with I’ll make cake AND pie. And when the group was sated, and many ended up sleeping on the floor in front of our family television, it seemed all too natural. This was home. This is home. For any and all of us.

Over my lifetime, I’ve had so many opportunities to learn from books and experts in all sorts of things. The truest, the most valuable lessons, however, continue to be those I’ve learned from my mom. So Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You really are the woman I want to be when I grow up.

Love, Shannon

for Griffin, our minnow rescuer

It’s a hard world for little things. 
― Davis Grubb, American novelist

Last week, the water level in our pond had risen from recent rains, and the overflow traveled through a culvert under the pond dam into my grandson’s yard. There it built up steam, cascading through the grass, down the hill, and into the cattails in a large ditch near the highway. Wearing rubber boots, Griffin traced the water’s path, occasionally stomping in the water-sodden grass. Until he crouched, more closely inspected the small stream and announced, “Hey, there are minnows in the grass! They won’t live without water! We can save them!”

Sure enough, hundreds of minnows had been–and were currently being–deposited into the grass along the small stream. Some were furiously flopping, their silvery blue bellies flashing in the sun. Some had already met their Maker, and some were traveling down the center of the stream towards the ditch. With a plastic cup to scoop and a Folger’s coffee can to transfer the living back to the pond, Griffin got to work. Soon, we were all crouching to locate live minnows for rescue. No one had the heart to tell him that those he rescued and returned to the pond would undoubtedly become lunch for the growing school of bass that lived there. And certainly, no one had the heart to suggest that saving a handful of minnows was a futile endeavor, a small and negligible act. In the whole scheme of things, rescuing five coffee cans of minnows does not a hero make.

And yet, perhaps this is precisely what’s wrong with our world, a world in which the big, larger-than-life acts performed by big, larger-than-life folk are much more likely to be commended. Those of us in the peanut galleries have grown to expect that our small contributions may be necessary but are unlikely to garner attention. Small acts are literal minnows who take refuge in aquatic plants, while prize-winning tuna and marlin flaunt their stuff before charter boats of trophy-seekers. Like my grandson, Griffin, you must have eyes to spot small things and a heart to do small acts, even if others do not.

Recently, I watched a feature film, Alone in Berlin, that received mixed critical reviews and sadly, that was not a box office hit. This film portrayed the true story of a German working class couple, Otto and Elise Hampel during Hitler’s regime. In 1947, their story was first made public in Hans Fallada’s fictional account, Every Man Dies Alone. The fact that I’d never heard of this couple or their story is testament to David Grubb’s claim that it’s a hard world for small things.

After learning of the death of Elise’s brother (in the novel and film versions, it is Otto and Elise’s son) who had been conscripted to Hitler’s military service, the couple committed to passively resisting Hitler and Nazism one postcard at a time. From 1940-1942, the Hampels wrote and distributed over 200 postcards on which they wrote passionate messages that urged their fellow Germans to resist and renounce Hitler, to refuse to cooperate with or to donate money to the Nazis, and to refuse military service. Placing these postcards in public places around Berlin, they hoped to incite others to condemn the Third Reich. These were small, individual acts committed by two ordinary people, and yet they were capital offenses, punishable by death. After two years of trying to identify and capture the infamous postcard authors, the Gestapo finally caught them. They were accused and convicted of preparing for high treason and were guillotined in the Plötzensee Prison on April 8, 1942.

I sat in silence after watching Alone in Berlin. I considered how for two years, two of the most unlikely heroes dedicated their ordinary lives to small, but heroic acts. Booker T. Washington, African American author and educator, wrote:

The older I get, the more I’m conscious of ways very small things can make a change in the world. Tiny little things, but the world is made of tiny matters, isn’t it?

A universal postcard, 5.8 by 4.1 inches, is indeed, a tiny little thing. But the Hampel’s distribution of over 200 cards was no tiny matter. When I consider their story, perhaps what moves me most is the Hampel’s wholehearted commitment to what they could do. They might have justified doing nothing, for they were simply two working class individuals with no real credentials or power. After all, what could an ordinary couple really do to resist the political and military leviathan that had become the Third Reich?

American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote:

Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

It seems that the Hampels were not troubled with great ambitions. They embraced their simple tools of resistance. Each handwritten postcard enraged the Gestapo. They were so successful in their small things, that they escaped detection and continued their resistance for two years.

I would do well to take a lesson from the Hampels and from my grandson, Griffin. Truthfully, I have often found myself troubled with great ambitions that ultimately paralyzed me from taking any action at all. I have languished in self-pity and self-consciousness, believing that I was powerless to make a significant contribution or to effect change. I often convinced myself of my smallness, a condition that I believed justified my inaction. Sadly, if I’d only put pen to postcard or picked up my coffee can and plastic cup, I might have done my part. And doing our individual parts, small as they may be, is infinitely important.

In the Talmud, the Jewish book of law, we read:

Whoever destroys a soul [of Israel], it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life of Israel, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.

This is the line that Steven Spielberg chose to feature in the closing scene of his film, Schindler’s List. In this scene as the war ends, Oskar Schindler has tearfully lamented that he couldn’t have saved more Jewish lives. A group of Jews he had saved presented him with a gold ring on which was inscribed: whoever saves one life saves the world entire.

There are some small acts that become big, public ones when they are reported, written into books, or featured in films. But so many–so very many–quietly live in the lives of ordinary people like you and me. And thank God that they do. For publicized or not, they matter deeply.

And so the next time that Griffin wants to save the minnows, we’ll rescue as many as we can until the sun goes down, and we can no longer see to scoop. We’ll set about saving one minnow life at a time and, by doing so, save the world of minnows entire. I understand how well these small acts define who Griffin is and who he will grow up to be. And, hard as the world may be for doers of such small things, I hope to be his biggest cheerleader and his faithful minnow-rescue sidekick.

Hampel postcard