I'm facilitating a workshop at Story Circle Network's national conference today. The topic is "Home is Where the Heart Is," and I've been thinking about the different places I've lived, the different homes I've had, and that thinking led to the idea that one's hometown is the larger home that we all share.
Songwriters have certainly used the hometown theme to evoke strong emotional memories. The first, "Home Sweet Home," was written over 190 years ago by John Howard Payne about his early life at his grandfather's house in East Hampton, Maine.
More recently, Eric Church's "Give Me Back My Hometown" is a bittersweet ballad of faded love and bright memories. The lyrics are emblematic of every small town across the south and southwest.
I was born on an Army-Air base in upstate New York at the end of World War II, but I grew up in Texas and call Huntsville my hometown. There is a state college and a state prison in my hometown. The college, a university now, was the first teacher-training school in the southwest United States. The state prison housed the electric chair where 361 convicts died between 1924 and 1964. Most kids' parents worked at one of these institutions.
My dad was hired to teach at the college in 1949 after receiving his graduate degree from Harvard University in teacher education. When a colleague who was showing him around found out he was Catholic, the colleague turned a stone ear to any more conversation. It was awkward, to say the least. My brothers and I were oblivious to this act of unkindness. As we each entered school through the next five years, we took our turn to pray over the loud speaker which carried the message through classroom intercoms. We were supposed to write a prayer, but sometimes I forgot and so I would say one I knew from memory. Looking back, I'm sure more than one teacher, most likely a Southern Baptist or a deacon in the Church of Christ, trembled and quaked when I began reciting "Hail Mary, full of grace...." But if anyone gave me even a disapproving look, I don't remember. God looks after the innocent children.
We lived in five houses, from 1949-1967, while I was living at home full time, or hanging out between college semesters.
Our first home was a rehabbed army barracks in a place called Country Campus, east of Huntsville on Hwy 19. It had been a prisoners of war camp during the war and turned into faculty housing for a time afterwards. Families came together for family picnics. I remember watermelon, iced down in galvanized tubs, and eating out the hearts. I remember spitting seeds or taking a few and planting them. I remember hand-churned ice cream parties and adding fresh peaches or strawberries to the mix. I remember dirt-daubers and honey bees, and I remember getting stung more than once while tagging after my brothers. Today there's an 18-hole golf course there, but nothing much else.
Our second home was in town. In 1952, we moved into a two-story brick house on 15th Street. My older brother talked my younger brother into jumping off the second story soon after we'd seen Peter Pan. Stone convinced Mark he could fly, but of course, he could not. Mark missed the concrete patio by about ten inches and because he was five and still growing his bones, he suffered only a sprained ankle. God looks after the innocent children, indeed.
Our third home was across town near the college. My dad was not ready to cash in his GI bill for a mortgage, so we stayed in what my older brother called the "slump," the combination of a dump and a slum. It was in the living room of this house where my dad offered me the humongous amount of one hundred dollars to read ten books over the summer between my third and fourth grade in school. It was in the living room of this house where my older brother gave me a black eye for turning the TV channel. It was in the living room of this house that my younger brother watched Saturday westerns while dressed in his fringed Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with his 6-shooter guns strapped on.
Our fourth home was across from Piggly Wiggly grocery store. It was my favorite. Maybe because Johnny Campbell taught me how to kiss in that backyard. Probably because several other boys kissed me in the driveway and on the front porch, but none was as loved as Jimmy Scott. Both Johnny and Jimmy were victims of Vietnam. Johnny's plane crashed in the Indian Ocean; Jimmy took his own life when he couldn't re-adjust to civilian life after his year-long tour, which consisted mostly of sending home the dead in body bags.
Our fifth home was an old Victorian house next to the Methodist Church. It had stained glass windows, mahogany sliding doors, wide wrap-around porches, 15-foot ceilings, and a staircase built by convict labor in the 1800s. In 1971 I got married in that home. My dad was walking me down the stairs when he whispered, "We can keep walking, honey, and go right out that front door." I thought it was a bad joke, but I should have listened--the marriage lasted only 5 years.
Interstate 45 bypasses Huntsville, and the town has grown toward the freeway. The drugstore and clothiers around the courthouse have been replaced by "antique" stores, filled mostly with second hand furniture, Fiesta dishware, art decor perfume bottles, mismatched china, crocheted lace doilies, plastic dolls, wooden trains, and Mexican pottery. My parents are dead and so are a number of my friends. Most of those who are still living have moved away, many to the suburbs of Dallas or Houston, but some live out of state, one as far away as Alaska. I'll return to Huntsville this summer for my 50th high school class reunion. I'm amazed, and heartened, by how many are coming. There is no doubt, we'll listen to the music of Eric Church, and through the fragments of our shared memories, take back our hometown.
Where is your hometown?
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Why I am a writer
My friend Nancy asked me yesterday in an email, "What is it that makes you want to write, that removes writer's block, that gets the creative stream flowing for you?" I see that as a 3-part question. Here's my answer.
I am the middle child, the only girl, bookended by two boys in a family that prized males. I have strong memories of my brothers shouting to be heard over each other, but when I tried to put in my 2 cents, my parents would scold me. "Be quiet, or "Stop being so loud." I remember at least once saying (probably whining) to my mother, "Stone and Mark are being loud. Why aren't you saying anything to them?" We were in West Texas at my grandmother's breakfast table eating bacon and eggs, and biscuits and cream gravy. My brothers, ages 10 and 5 at the time, and I were having some kind of competition to show who had the fullest tummy by sticking out our bellies and each of us claiming victory. Mother answered, "They're boys." The subtext was loud and clear even to a 6-year-old. Boys are going to be heard even if they have to shout, and they should shout to be heard because, as my mother so succinctly put it, "they're boys." I got very quiet.
Over the years, though, I still tried to say what was on my mind or in my heart. But I'd get excited and my voice would rise several octaves, which must have threatened everyone's peace because I'd get the order: "Lower your voice!" Those three words used to paint scarlet blotches of shame across my face. Truth is, they still do. I may be in my 60s, but if you tell me to lower my vice, no matter what the reason, I become a red-faced 6-year-old. Therapy helped me understand why, but my body's response is visceral not intellectual. Is it any wonder I started writing when I was in grade school?
I write today because I want to matter. I want to be heard. I need to give voice to what I know, to what I believe, to what I dream, to what I imagine, to what I know for sure and what I'm still wondering about. I write to get your attention. Can you hear me?
Writer's block comes when I'm not sure where I'm going. I feel like I'm stuttering and stammering, unsure of my direction, writing off the map. I'm afraid my writing looks messy and unfocused and you'll think I'm illiterate if you read it. But writer's block goes away as soon as I remind myself that writing IS messy. False starts, side trails, backtracks, do-overs, trivialities, banalities--they're all part of the stew that stirs the story. The messiness is part of the process, probably the most important part, to tell the truth. But its' not the part that goes public. It's similar to when an artist mixes paint. You're not privy to that. Only when the colors are bended to the artist's satisfaction, whether Pollock or Thomas Kincaid, do you get to view the painting. So I remind myself that writing is organically messy, and I delve into my subconscious like a child digging into finger paints and my writer's block dissolves like sugar in the rain.
My friend and writing mentor Karleen Koen talks about "the flow." If I show up and do the work, there'll come those moments when I get into the flow. Don't worry about spelling, punctuation or any of that stuff, she advises. So I've learned to go with the flow and capture the words that bring life to the story, grammar be damned. Editing can show up later, but right now, it's me and my creative muse riding the rapids.
What keeps the creative stream flowing is two-fold: giving up myself to the process (see above) and being a voracious reader. I loooooove to read. My house is filled with hardbound and paperback books; my iPad is filled with electronic editions. I enjoy getting inside other writers' minds, seeing how they think, imagine, create. They show me, by example, how to describe a setting, turn a phrase, twist a plot and blow people's minds. They are my tribe, and I learn the art of storytelling on the pages within their books. I only have to remind myself, sometimes over and over and over again, that I'm reading the finished piece and not the messiness they embraced to get there. They inspire me, they encourage me, and they show me that writing is more lasting than the echo of young boys shouting.
I am the middle child, the only girl, bookended by two boys in a family that prized males. I have strong memories of my brothers shouting to be heard over each other, but when I tried to put in my 2 cents, my parents would scold me. "Be quiet, or "Stop being so loud." I remember at least once saying (probably whining) to my mother, "Stone and Mark are being loud. Why aren't you saying anything to them?" We were in West Texas at my grandmother's breakfast table eating bacon and eggs, and biscuits and cream gravy. My brothers, ages 10 and 5 at the time, and I were having some kind of competition to show who had the fullest tummy by sticking out our bellies and each of us claiming victory. Mother answered, "They're boys." The subtext was loud and clear even to a 6-year-old. Boys are going to be heard even if they have to shout, and they should shout to be heard because, as my mother so succinctly put it, "they're boys." I got very quiet.
Over the years, though, I still tried to say what was on my mind or in my heart. But I'd get excited and my voice would rise several octaves, which must have threatened everyone's peace because I'd get the order: "Lower your voice!" Those three words used to paint scarlet blotches of shame across my face. Truth is, they still do. I may be in my 60s, but if you tell me to lower my vice, no matter what the reason, I become a red-faced 6-year-old. Therapy helped me understand why, but my body's response is visceral not intellectual. Is it any wonder I started writing when I was in grade school?
I write today because I want to matter. I want to be heard. I need to give voice to what I know, to what I believe, to what I dream, to what I imagine, to what I know for sure and what I'm still wondering about. I write to get your attention. Can you hear me?
Writer's block comes when I'm not sure where I'm going. I feel like I'm stuttering and stammering, unsure of my direction, writing off the map. I'm afraid my writing looks messy and unfocused and you'll think I'm illiterate if you read it. But writer's block goes away as soon as I remind myself that writing IS messy. False starts, side trails, backtracks, do-overs, trivialities, banalities--they're all part of the stew that stirs the story. The messiness is part of the process, probably the most important part, to tell the truth. But its' not the part that goes public. It's similar to when an artist mixes paint. You're not privy to that. Only when the colors are bended to the artist's satisfaction, whether Pollock or Thomas Kincaid, do you get to view the painting. So I remind myself that writing is organically messy, and I delve into my subconscious like a child digging into finger paints and my writer's block dissolves like sugar in the rain.
My friend and writing mentor Karleen Koen talks about "the flow." If I show up and do the work, there'll come those moments when I get into the flow. Don't worry about spelling, punctuation or any of that stuff, she advises. So I've learned to go with the flow and capture the words that bring life to the story, grammar be damned. Editing can show up later, but right now, it's me and my creative muse riding the rapids.
What keeps the creative stream flowing is two-fold: giving up myself to the process (see above) and being a voracious reader. I loooooove to read. My house is filled with hardbound and paperback books; my iPad is filled with electronic editions. I enjoy getting inside other writers' minds, seeing how they think, imagine, create. They show me, by example, how to describe a setting, turn a phrase, twist a plot and blow people's minds. They are my tribe, and I learn the art of storytelling on the pages within their books. I only have to remind myself, sometimes over and over and over again, that I'm reading the finished piece and not the messiness they embraced to get there. They inspire me, they encourage me, and they show me that writing is more lasting than the echo of young boys shouting.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Silencing the internal critic
I read somewhere that it's important to listen to the creative muse rather than the internal critic when you are writing stories from your life. Makes sense, doesn't it?
The internal critic sounds very much like the critical parent who reminds you that you are childish instead of childlike, that you're messy when you color outside the lines instead of wildly creative, that you need to tone it down instead of loudly laughing from your belly and shouting from the rooftop.
Yes, we all have strong internal critics who tell us that we have no stories that are worth hearing. That our lives are commonplace. But isn't that often the very reason for sharing them? After all, "American Graffiti" (1973) grossed over $200 million with the coming of age story that my generation shares, no matter what part of the nation we're from. I often wonder where young people gather nowadays. They don't seem to be hanging out at the Dairy Queen or driving in droves up and down Main Street. Someone told me they find a vacant, fallow field in the country and circle their cars and trucks with lights shining on the center where the beer is iced down. I have no idea if this is true or just something they tell curious old women. Guess I'll have to wait until they share their coming of age stories on down the line.
It's important to keep that internal critic from shutting you down and silencing your ability to tell your life story. If your critic is very vocal and very intimidating, you might draw a picture of him or her. I've done that for myself and I've had students do it as well. We spend an hour drawing the critic. Sometimes the result is a picture of two very large eyes watching and criticizing our pen's every move. Sometimes the result is a stern red-haired devil woman ready to smack us for revealing family secrets. Sometimes the result is enormous newspaper headlines to tell the world we're imposters--nobodies trying to be somebodies instead of staying in the shadows where we belong. Just so you know: all of these critics are LIARS. By drawing them, they "come to life" rather than being that unnamed negative force in our heads. We take the time to give them form, and then we turn them to the wall while we write. It's a ritual that seems to work for many of us.
What does your internal critic look like?
The internal critic sounds very much like the critical parent who reminds you that you are childish instead of childlike, that you're messy when you color outside the lines instead of wildly creative, that you need to tone it down instead of loudly laughing from your belly and shouting from the rooftop.
Yes, we all have strong internal critics who tell us that we have no stories that are worth hearing. That our lives are commonplace. But isn't that often the very reason for sharing them? After all, "American Graffiti" (1973) grossed over $200 million with the coming of age story that my generation shares, no matter what part of the nation we're from. I often wonder where young people gather nowadays. They don't seem to be hanging out at the Dairy Queen or driving in droves up and down Main Street. Someone told me they find a vacant, fallow field in the country and circle their cars and trucks with lights shining on the center where the beer is iced down. I have no idea if this is true or just something they tell curious old women. Guess I'll have to wait until they share their coming of age stories on down the line.
It's important to keep that internal critic from shutting you down and silencing your ability to tell your life story. If your critic is very vocal and very intimidating, you might draw a picture of him or her. I've done that for myself and I've had students do it as well. We spend an hour drawing the critic. Sometimes the result is a picture of two very large eyes watching and criticizing our pen's every move. Sometimes the result is a stern red-haired devil woman ready to smack us for revealing family secrets. Sometimes the result is enormous newspaper headlines to tell the world we're imposters--nobodies trying to be somebodies instead of staying in the shadows where we belong. Just so you know: all of these critics are LIARS. By drawing them, they "come to life" rather than being that unnamed negative force in our heads. We take the time to give them form, and then we turn them to the wall while we write. It's a ritual that seems to work for many of us.
What does your internal critic look like?
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Rodeo Time
I went to Rodeo Houston at Reliant Center yesterday. The Band Perry, known for merging country with rock & roll, was the headliner.
I felt so strange. While this ain't my first rodeo, as we like to say in Texas, 2014 has such a different vibe to it. Maybe that's because my first rodeo was in 1957. It was called the Houston Fat Stock Show back then, and it was held at the Sam Houston Coliseum on Bagby Street (I think where Hobby Center is today). Roy Rogers, the king of the cowboys, was the headliner, and he brought with him the whole gang: Dale Evans, Gabby Hayes and the Sons of the Pioneers. The songs were "Tumbling Tumbleweeds," "Cool Water," and "Ghost Riders in the Sky," rather than "If I Die Young," "Hip to My Heart," and "Independence."
Maybe it's my age, but I don't think I'm going to remember Rodeo Houston with the same awe as I still remember running down to the first row so I could shake hands with Roy and Dale as they rode their horses, Trigger and Buttermilk, around the perimeter of the coliseum arena.
I had such a crush on ol' Roy. In fact, my first career goal was to be a movie star and marry that singing cowboy. Since he was already married to Dale with a passel of children my age and younger, I'm sure I would've been satisfied if we were married in the movies only. Dale could take care of him in real life.
Roy Rogers was a role model to me and other children in my generation. He was a kind man with a song in his heart who loved the land and respected the law. A good role model, don't you think?
When you were growing up, who were your role models?
I felt so strange. While this ain't my first rodeo, as we like to say in Texas, 2014 has such a different vibe to it. Maybe that's because my first rodeo was in 1957. It was called the Houston Fat Stock Show back then, and it was held at the Sam Houston Coliseum on Bagby Street (I think where Hobby Center is today). Roy Rogers, the king of the cowboys, was the headliner, and he brought with him the whole gang: Dale Evans, Gabby Hayes and the Sons of the Pioneers. The songs were "Tumbling Tumbleweeds," "Cool Water," and "Ghost Riders in the Sky," rather than "If I Die Young," "Hip to My Heart," and "Independence."
Maybe it's my age, but I don't think I'm going to remember Rodeo Houston with the same awe as I still remember running down to the first row so I could shake hands with Roy and Dale as they rode their horses, Trigger and Buttermilk, around the perimeter of the coliseum arena.
I had such a crush on ol' Roy. In fact, my first career goal was to be a movie star and marry that singing cowboy. Since he was already married to Dale with a passel of children my age and younger, I'm sure I would've been satisfied if we were married in the movies only. Dale could take care of him in real life.
Roy Rogers was a role model to me and other children in my generation. He was a kind man with a song in his heart who loved the land and respected the law. A good role model, don't you think?
When you were growing up, who were your role models?
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Family dogs
My sweetie and I recently moved to Navasota, and with us came three dogs. We're a blended family--Lucy, the oldest, is his; Jazz, the smallest, is mine; and Riley, the fast-growing pup, is ours. Labrador, Shih-Tzu, and Springer.
Riley is rambunctious, rowdy, and the life of the party. He's 11 months old and leaps, like a jack rabbit or antelope, rather than runs. He love-bites Lucy, pounces on her like a kid bushwhacking an older sibling, and chases around the yard like a dust storm. Lucy is subdued and maternal, sort of like a menopausal mom. She's patient and will rough-house with Riley, tugging with a rawhide or squeaky toy, until she gets tired. When that happens, her growl will change from playful to a don't-mess-with-me tone, and Riley backs off.
Jazz, who was an only dog for six years and still hangs onto that notion, is stand-offish with the other dogs. She flops off by herself and watches the frolicking with tepid interest. She's used to being pampered, not pawed, and she sees no logic in pretending to like Riley's attention.
My sweetie fenced in the yard and put a wire kennel on the back porch for the dogs. Lucy and Riley pile together inside the kennel. There's plenty of room for Jazz, too, but she sleeps outside on the porch by the back door. What can I say? She does not share well; she wants her own space. My sweetie, who understands that every dog is as unique as its paw print, is building her something to fit.
When we leave the house for errands, I bribe the dogs with milk bones so they won't whimper and yowl. Lucy gobbles her treat in three bites. Riley takes longer, but he chomps it down pretty fast. Jazz, on the other hand, grabs her treat with her sharp little teeth and retreats under the picnic table. Like a princess having her own private tea party, she mouths the treat and takes tiny bites, making it last. Lucy will eat as many as you give her, but she won't steal from the others. Riley? Well, that's another matter. With his eyes averted, he takes the sand crab approach, walking sideways but moving closer to Jazz. Jazz isn't fooled though, and she growls around the treat that sticks out of her mouth like a slim cigarillo, letting Riley know that she'll take a piece of him before he will get a piece of her treat.
I sit in the backyard with them in the mornings while my sweetie does his man chores. Riley will pounce around the yard with a chewy bone in his mouth as a challenge to Lucy or Jazz. Sometimes Lucy will chase after him. If the chew bone drops and they continue to parry and play, Jazz will walk over, get it, and scoot back where I'm sitting in the shade of a Bartlett pear tree. She'll nestle between my feet and gnaw on the bone, confident that the other two will consider her off limits. Doesn't matter. Riley is more interested in having a good time than in chewing a gnarly old bone crusted with dirt. Lucy tires before Riley and drops in a cool bed of clover. Riley paws at her, trying to get her back in the game, but she ignores him. He gives up and bounces over to the fence to play sentry guard, checking the perimeter. The neighbor's cat, hidden in the monkey grass, is startled to its feet, and Riley howls. All three dogs are suddenly in hot pursuit, but the cat fires through the fence to safety.
My sweetie is a former police officer, so he's adamant about locking the house and securing the gates. He thinks there's an element out there in any community that, given the chance, will rob you blind, so he believes in canceling their chances. I'm more trusting, but my trust is in our dogs. They're sweet and loving and loyal. But I have no doubt, they'd eat you alive before they'd let you burglarize our home. They're territorial and protective. Just ask the cat.
Riley is rambunctious, rowdy, and the life of the party. He's 11 months old and leaps, like a jack rabbit or antelope, rather than runs. He love-bites Lucy, pounces on her like a kid bushwhacking an older sibling, and chases around the yard like a dust storm. Lucy is subdued and maternal, sort of like a menopausal mom. She's patient and will rough-house with Riley, tugging with a rawhide or squeaky toy, until she gets tired. When that happens, her growl will change from playful to a don't-mess-with-me tone, and Riley backs off.
Jazz, who was an only dog for six years and still hangs onto that notion, is stand-offish with the other dogs. She flops off by herself and watches the frolicking with tepid interest. She's used to being pampered, not pawed, and she sees no logic in pretending to like Riley's attention.
My sweetie fenced in the yard and put a wire kennel on the back porch for the dogs. Lucy and Riley pile together inside the kennel. There's plenty of room for Jazz, too, but she sleeps outside on the porch by the back door. What can I say? She does not share well; she wants her own space. My sweetie, who understands that every dog is as unique as its paw print, is building her something to fit.
When we leave the house for errands, I bribe the dogs with milk bones so they won't whimper and yowl. Lucy gobbles her treat in three bites. Riley takes longer, but he chomps it down pretty fast. Jazz, on the other hand, grabs her treat with her sharp little teeth and retreats under the picnic table. Like a princess having her own private tea party, she mouths the treat and takes tiny bites, making it last. Lucy will eat as many as you give her, but she won't steal from the others. Riley? Well, that's another matter. With his eyes averted, he takes the sand crab approach, walking sideways but moving closer to Jazz. Jazz isn't fooled though, and she growls around the treat that sticks out of her mouth like a slim cigarillo, letting Riley know that she'll take a piece of him before he will get a piece of her treat.
I sit in the backyard with them in the mornings while my sweetie does his man chores. Riley will pounce around the yard with a chewy bone in his mouth as a challenge to Lucy or Jazz. Sometimes Lucy will chase after him. If the chew bone drops and they continue to parry and play, Jazz will walk over, get it, and scoot back where I'm sitting in the shade of a Bartlett pear tree. She'll nestle between my feet and gnaw on the bone, confident that the other two will consider her off limits. Doesn't matter. Riley is more interested in having a good time than in chewing a gnarly old bone crusted with dirt. Lucy tires before Riley and drops in a cool bed of clover. Riley paws at her, trying to get her back in the game, but she ignores him. He gives up and bounces over to the fence to play sentry guard, checking the perimeter. The neighbor's cat, hidden in the monkey grass, is startled to its feet, and Riley howls. All three dogs are suddenly in hot pursuit, but the cat fires through the fence to safety.
My sweetie is a former police officer, so he's adamant about locking the house and securing the gates. He thinks there's an element out there in any community that, given the chance, will rob you blind, so he believes in canceling their chances. I'm more trusting, but my trust is in our dogs. They're sweet and loving and loyal. But I have no doubt, they'd eat you alive before they'd let you burglarize our home. They're territorial and protective. Just ask the cat.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Lent
Today is the first Sunday in Lent. When I was growing up, my third generation Irish-American Catholic daddy gave up whiskey and my mother gave up chocolates. They laid their sins of the flesh on the altar and white knuckled it for forty days and forty nights.
I sacrificed, too, whatever I loved best at the time, to show Lord Jesus that a third grader, a fifth grader, a ninth grader could suffer in remembrance of his Great Sacrifice. In the early years of my childhood I gave up dessert or Coca-Cola. One year I gave up bickering with my brothers. I assure you, that was no easy task because they could be such bullies.
Another year I thought about giving up gossiping, but honestly, I can't remember if I actually went through with it. And I would remember because it would have caused an angst that would have been seared in my memory. I was a freshman in high school, and gossip had enormous social cache.
The hardest was giving up cigarettes my junior year in college. I was a journalism major and we smoked in class, peering through the smoky haze as our fingers pecked out stories on Royal typewriters. Trust me, surrounded by the pungent second hand smoke, it was a sacrifice. But the good news is that I didn't pick them up after church on Easter morning. In fact, I didn't smoke for almost two months. But then final exam time rolled around, and I bought a pack of Marlborough and blew smoke to fight the stress.
People still "give up" their vices for Lent, but nowadays the idea has expanded to more than giving up shortcomings. The extra step is to replace them with virtues. For example, a friend of mine has decided to curb her self-centeredness by listening to others, without judgment, with her heart's ear. In a city with four million people, it's easy to get lost in the crowd, to be anonymous and heartbreakingly lonely, so I think my friend's Lenten practice is more than selfless--it's truly inspiring. She is a prayer in action.
There are others who are volunteering at the Houston Food Bank, or being their brothers' keeper by helping returning veterans to re-enter society, or advocating for children, the wounded victims in domestic violence.
Lent is more than doing without, more than fighting the pull of carnal hunger, more than 40 days of sobriety.
Growing up as a child, how did you celebrate the Lenten season? How, now that you are an adult, will you celebrate this season?
I sacrificed, too, whatever I loved best at the time, to show Lord Jesus that a third grader, a fifth grader, a ninth grader could suffer in remembrance of his Great Sacrifice. In the early years of my childhood I gave up dessert or Coca-Cola. One year I gave up bickering with my brothers. I assure you, that was no easy task because they could be such bullies.
Another year I thought about giving up gossiping, but honestly, I can't remember if I actually went through with it. And I would remember because it would have caused an angst that would have been seared in my memory. I was a freshman in high school, and gossip had enormous social cache.
The hardest was giving up cigarettes my junior year in college. I was a journalism major and we smoked in class, peering through the smoky haze as our fingers pecked out stories on Royal typewriters. Trust me, surrounded by the pungent second hand smoke, it was a sacrifice. But the good news is that I didn't pick them up after church on Easter morning. In fact, I didn't smoke for almost two months. But then final exam time rolled around, and I bought a pack of Marlborough and blew smoke to fight the stress.
People still "give up" their vices for Lent, but nowadays the idea has expanded to more than giving up shortcomings. The extra step is to replace them with virtues. For example, a friend of mine has decided to curb her self-centeredness by listening to others, without judgment, with her heart's ear. In a city with four million people, it's easy to get lost in the crowd, to be anonymous and heartbreakingly lonely, so I think my friend's Lenten practice is more than selfless--it's truly inspiring. She is a prayer in action.
There are others who are volunteering at the Houston Food Bank, or being their brothers' keeper by helping returning veterans to re-enter society, or advocating for children, the wounded victims in domestic violence.
Lent is more than doing without, more than fighting the pull of carnal hunger, more than 40 days of sobriety.
Growing up as a child, how did you celebrate the Lenten season? How, now that you are an adult, will you celebrate this season?
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Family gatherings
My cousin Mike celebrated his 60th birthday this weekend. All his siblings flew in for the party. So did a slew of friends from his hometown in Baytown, TX, where his dad was a chemist for Exxon and his mother was principal of St. Joseph Catholic School. The toasts described an adventurous kid.
Mike grew up to attend UT and then headed for Dallas to earn his law degree from SMU. Alumni from both institutions raised their glasses after retelling of high jinks and close calls from his college years and beyond. The remainder of the 95 guests at his party laughed and gasped.
His wife Sandi asked his family to send photos of Mike growing up, and there were framed photos of him at different ages: a tow-headed, skinny kid with a buzzed haircut that was so popular in the 1950s; a strong bodied, tanned youngster with his Sunfish on Black Duck Bay; a laughing, carefree young adult with a black Camero. The more recent photos were of him as an established attorney exchanging marriage vows with Sandi.
There was a deejay at the party as well, spinning a good mix of country & western, R&B, and hard rock. The dance floor attracted all ages, from 18-month-old grandson Julian (he can move his booty!) and the kids who are now in their late 20s and 30s to the older crowd, us.
My head is spinning with the stories we shared last night. A photo of Mike and his brother in pristine white suits had a couple of folks wondering. "Were they extras on Fantasy Island?" someone asked with a laugh. "No," I replied, "they're dressed for their First Communion!" One song and then another would bring back the memories of going to the Elk's Club, or doing the Garner Stomp at a state park pavilion, or singing as we washed dishes (my aunt didn't need a dishwasher with five kids and visiting cousins).
My sides are sore from all the laughing. I will admit, I shed a few tears, too. Family ties run deeply. We're blood, and on occasions like last night, we feel the bond right to the core of our soul.
Look through your family photos. What memories do they evoke?
Mike grew up to attend UT and then headed for Dallas to earn his law degree from SMU. Alumni from both institutions raised their glasses after retelling of high jinks and close calls from his college years and beyond. The remainder of the 95 guests at his party laughed and gasped.
His wife Sandi asked his family to send photos of Mike growing up, and there were framed photos of him at different ages: a tow-headed, skinny kid with a buzzed haircut that was so popular in the 1950s; a strong bodied, tanned youngster with his Sunfish on Black Duck Bay; a laughing, carefree young adult with a black Camero. The more recent photos were of him as an established attorney exchanging marriage vows with Sandi.
There was a deejay at the party as well, spinning a good mix of country & western, R&B, and hard rock. The dance floor attracted all ages, from 18-month-old grandson Julian (he can move his booty!) and the kids who are now in their late 20s and 30s to the older crowd, us.
My head is spinning with the stories we shared last night. A photo of Mike and his brother in pristine white suits had a couple of folks wondering. "Were they extras on Fantasy Island?" someone asked with a laugh. "No," I replied, "they're dressed for their First Communion!" One song and then another would bring back the memories of going to the Elk's Club, or doing the Garner Stomp at a state park pavilion, or singing as we washed dishes (my aunt didn't need a dishwasher with five kids and visiting cousins).
My sides are sore from all the laughing. I will admit, I shed a few tears, too. Family ties run deeply. We're blood, and on occasions like last night, we feel the bond right to the core of our soul.
Look through your family photos. What memories do they evoke?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)