Looking Back . . .

It occurs to me that I'm old enough to remember things that have virtually disappeared from today's landscape.  At best, they are relics found in attics, flea markets, or antique collections.  Others are concepts, traditions, fading with our memories; words vanishing from our vocabularies.

I remember:

• rotary dial telephones, before there were area codes; and long distance calls were made by dialing "O" and speaking with the operator
• three-cent postage for first-class mail
• premium gasoline at 25 cents per gallon
• service stations with attendants who pumped gas, cleaned windshields, and checked "under the hood"
• reel to reel films and audiotapes
• manual typewriters and carbon paper
• ditto machines (mimeographs, carbon masters, blue ink and the smell of the fluid)
• when a computer required a room of its own and its human attendants wore white lab coats

I remember:

• wringer washing machines and hanging wash to dry on the clothes line
• walking across the room to change channels on the television set
• rolling down the car window to signal turns; hand signals were part of my driving lessons
• girls' jeans zipped on the side
• when "fast food" did not exist
• when "gay" meant "happy" or "spirited"
• when wedding dresses were modest; a strapless gown in church - sacrilegious!!
• when Pluto was a planet
• when there were no "dysfunctional families" or "latch-key kids".  That's just the way we were

Oh, , yes, I remember it well . . .

The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.  - Muhammed Ali

Water Under the Bridge

Life, death, uncertainty. Time to start writing again.

Katrina, Katrina

I lost my voice after the storm;
paralyzed chords without resonance.
Only gasps, sighs, and silence -
silence as dark and deep
as the nights.
My lips tried to shape the sounds,
as I exhaled muted whispers:
but my breath was taken away,
Not even a rasp -
No utterance to convey
the fear, the anger, the despair.
No way to describe what remained,
the sepia images of death and desolation
and shadows;
or how it felt to survive.

Words came back in emotional streams,
black ribbons of mourning,
fluid if not fluent:
Poems and songs playing
slow, solemn tribute;
Dirges and prayers of thanksgiving;
Petitions for strength and for life;
Willful, determined promises;
Oaths to generations
past, present, and future.

Until Spirits stirred
in the cemeteries and abandoned homes,
and we gathered - neighbors, friends,
families and strangers -
to observe our sacred traditions:
We lowered the coffins
and raised our voices -
returning home with
songs of triumph, hope,
and resurrection.

jjm 11/20/05


For a generation of Americans who did not live through the civil rights movement or the Viet Nam war or Watergate, Katrina was their apocalypse.

- Ted Kennedy 11/17/05

Katrina

The five year anniversary. . . hardly a cause for celebration. But we were beckoned, nonetheless, to center stage in a Katrina redux - a morose revue produced and directed by mainstream media. For one week, we were asked to reflect and relive and report - to sate the public’s curiosity.

Immediately after the storm, before the flood devastated our City, I was confident that we would, that we could, rebuild. I told Brian Williams that we would, because we are resilient. We have “good bones.” Tom Brokaw told me that we would, because “it’s New Orleans.”

And, to some extent, we were right. Those who have returned and resumed some semblance of their former lives, did so on their own for the most part. They did it with their own resources – sweat equity or life savings – and they pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps. We were – and are – still blessed to know the kindness of strangers who have invested their time, talents, and resources to rebuild homes and lives. Unfortunately, those who (for whatever reasons) were depending on government aid and waiting for government solutions - are still waiting.

Five years is not enough time to distance ourselves from the fear, anger, horror, despair . . .

Five years is not enough time to rebuild, repair, recover . . .

Five years is just enough time to remove the stench, to adapt to the stomach churning, heart wrenching surges of optimism and disappointment . . .

Five years is too much time to endure the bureaucratic incompetence and stupidity.

Courage is not the absence of despair; it is, rather, the capacity to move ahead in spite of despair.

- Rollo May

A Day at the Movies

It’s as though the Gulf of Mexico is, once again, the stage for a “Cold War” showdown. Unlike the Cuban missile crisis, however, it is hard to get a clear sighting on our enemy. No, as this drama plays out, it’s more like The Manchurian Candidate, though maybe not quite so macabre. Nevertheless, it certainly captures – as did the original manuscript and movie (1962) – television’s role in broadcasting public affairs and shaping opinion and the circus atmosphere that surrounds American politics.

Maj. Bennett Marco (played by Frank Sinatra) was plagued by recurring nightmares. My intelligence informs me with far less drama and surrealism that appearances are not what they seem. So, let us consider this script: If BP Oil is the “enemy,” then government employees (MMS) were the double agents, used by the enemy – like poor brainwashed Sgt. Raymond Shaw. And, top ranking officials play both sides . . . no one’s hands are clean.

Just look at the cast of characters, the conspiracies and covert operations, the propaganda and efforts to control “public information,” the reactionary factions, the uneasy alliances: BP and the other contractors, all levels of government and their legions, industrialists, environmentalists, scientists, engineers, media, and the victims themselves. Try to piece the puzzle together.
At each turn, the plot thickens. Each player, with his own agenda, attempts to persuade, recruit, subvert or politicize . . . using the media to enhance his personal image, to elevate his position, to protect his interests. And, the media, in turn, does the same.

All the while, the policy makers and “deciders” from every side deploy foot soldiers to the front lines, who – without their “uniforms” or identification badges – are citizens like you and me, merely “extras” doing their best given the limitations of their roles. Or, are they brainwashed zombies? Or, dupes sent to distract us? Or, are they willing accomplices, whose motives are as sinister as the faceless enemy’s?

I wager, by Christmas, there will be at least a dozen books published about the BP Deepwater Horizon disaster: eyewitness accounts, photo journals, scientific analyses broken down for the layman. And, someone will – if they don’t already – have movie rights.

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. . .

-William Shakespeare

Summer’s for the Bugs

Amidst the uncertainty that defines our waking hours and restless nights in this summer of 2010 – the summer of “The Spill” – some things are constant. Some small things, at least.

This I know: summer is for the bugs!

Summer arrives with the junebugs, rattling around the porch light, clinging to the screen door, dancing to the tireless chorus of cicadas. Ancient scarabs heralding the changing season.

Countless grasshoppers – green, yellow and black, large, small – hide in the grass, emerging when my back is turned to devour my roses.

Of course, the mosquitoes have survived the winter and attack relentlessly, dictating when and how we can venture out of doors.

Thankfully, there are also the “mosquito hawks” - the dragonflies, with their gossamer, iridescent wings. Magical, mythical creatures.

All of these bring childhood memories to me – of long summer days and damp summer nights, in an era before air conditioning. Of sunny days that glowed, golden. Of three-dimensional-green woods with shady trails leading to the coulee – a magical setting for young imaginations.

My grandson will learn to mark the seasons and will recognize these harbingers of summer. Alas, lightning bugs have not survived decades of urbanization. I’d gladly trade a junebug or two for just one that he could hold in the palm of his hand and carry to the dark corner of the back yard in a mason jar to release with wishes and wonder.

Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.

- Author Unknown

It's Time to Stop and Smell the Roses

Whew, just a month and a half ago, I was celebrating a new job and spring and music and life . . . then, like for so many others, everything went awry.

The loss of America’s largest and most productive wetlands and the devastating impact of the deepwater oil rig explosion on thousands of workers, residents, and families have become a palpable weight on my heart, my brain, my spirit. It’s hard to think or feel outside of this box.

But, in truth, I am relatively unscathed by this event. I may be inconvenienced, but my life hasn’t really changed. My anger and frustration are symptoms of “the caregiver syndrome” – not having answers and solutions, not being able to “make things better.” So, for me, it should be a predictable cost of doing business. I say this to convince myself. I can’t implode. If there’s a possibility of helping someone with real problems, I can’t get mired in my own sorry self.

So, this weekend, I took a fresh look at my world (while I was cutting the grass that hadn’t been tamed for two weeks). My neighbor cut my front lawn. My roses are still blooming. The grass feels good under my bare feet. My husband, my heart, listened to me for hours and sent me an email message – quoting The Little Prince. My grandson has 6 teeth and is still the most delightful gift in my lifetime. My dumb little Lhasa still makes me laugh out loud.

As shallow or mundane as this may seem, it helped me regain some semblance of perspective so that I can – maybe – fulfill my mission, or at least continue on the path.

Life could be vastly improved if we could count our blessings as self-actualizing people can and do, and if we could retain their constant sense of good fortune and gratitude for it.

- Abraham Maslow

Courage is not the absence of despair; it is, rather, the capacity to move ahead in spite of despair.

- Rollo May