Things Remembered

One summer spent in Arkansas gave me memories of fireflies that can’t be reproduced for the grandchildren. Oh, Arkansas is still there even if the farm has long since been sold and the grandparents gone to glory. But the summer nights were special for a particular reason. Granddad Kennedy didn’t believe in lighting up the entire farm with those night lights up on huge electric poles. Certainly the chicken houses were well lit, but the front lawn and the horse trap out in front of the barn were pools of darkness lined by huge trees. And they sparkled at night with the flashing of fireflies.

In Texas it always seemed to be too dry to think about fireflies, but northwest Arkansas was almost juicy with moisture. The fireflies seemed to like it, anyway. We would catch them—probably mostly males—and put some in a jar for a while before we turned them loose. They could never have produced enough light to show a path or anything of that nature, but they were purely fun to catch and imagine as our own personal lanterns.

Years ago our children were able to catch some fireflies out in the backyard or down toward the lake on the Fenoglio’s lawn. Mrs. Fenoglio found their attempts as amusing as we did and let them run around all over her hill. And the fireflies were great fun to chase. But something has happened to the fireflies. At first I thought it might have something to do with the spraying for the mosquitoes that has caused them to disappear. But a little research has given me more things to consider.

According to an Associated Press article, fireflies have declined as much as 70 percent in some areas. Part of the reason is due to loss of habitat—housing projects built in creek beds. Part of the loss is due to lights—yes, lights. Fireflies need darkness to find their mates. Well, duh. That makes sense. But if one of these huge, oversized, overpriced houses has 32 big lights shining to show off its ostentatiousness, then the firefly doesn’t have a chance to be even a tiny bit of a showoff for his potential mate. If insects like the firefly don’t mate, we lose another species.

Ok, so the loss of one species of firefly out of 2,000 may not sound like a big deal in the overall picture of the insect world. It only matters if one is a member of that species, I suppose. But if we are so callous as to ignore our responsibility to the survival of the smallest things, what does that say about our stewardship of the larger things of life?

Oh, and I plan to find a book to explain fireflies to the grandchildren. Otherwise they may never have any idea of what they have missed.

Forgetfulness…and that Other Stuff

Forgetfulness is not so bad.  In fact, it is actually pretty handy as a reason for not showing up somewhere or otherwise not doing whatever was expected.  Someone will ask me, “Don’t you remember that we wanted you to . . .?”  Well, the answer is usually no.  A deep sigh or a shrug of the shoulders just means that one of us is forgetful.

 

And then there is that hearing thing.  Sometimes people think that they have told someone something, when, in fact, they really just thought about it.  When we all become mind readers, we will probably have other problems—confusion comes to mind.  But when the person who sits in the chair across the room from us hears about half or less of what is said, well, that can cause some interesting situations.

 

“Why did you move the truck?”

 

“Didn’t you say you needed to move the truck so you could mow?”

 

“No, I said I will take the truck to be washed after I mow.”

 

Oh, life is definitely more interesting for the forgetful, the hard of hearing, and . . .what were those other things?

And This Time I Mean It

 

Fang and I have this silly joke when we tell one another that we love the other, one or both of us will giggle/laugh and say, ‘And this time I mean it.’  It’s silly; but then so is trying to live with someone for a lifetime.  It takes a sense of humor and more patience than a cow has milk to live at peace with someone for a lifetime.  But every day we are reminded that the effort has been worth it.  Sharing our lives has given us more than any list of tangible benefits that some psychologist could discover and publish.  The children have been one of those most interesting benefits.

 

Of all the things children teach, helping us learn how to play again has got to be the best gift that they can give us—well, next to grandchildren, that is.  And truthfully, the grandchildren just make it easier to join the fun again without quite the sense of responsibility that we had when their parents were little and we were caring for them on a 24-7 basis.  Walking in the rain with a child or digging in the dirt is right up there on my scale of fun stuff.

 

When we first got married, it seemed as if we both had made a definite choice about our new friend.  Oh, we both had had people with whom we grew up or hung out with, but this was a REAL friend who would be there forever.  And that is how we felt about marriage that first few years.  And then we grew up a bit and learned that we had to work together to be happy and to make our lives mesh in the best ways.  His work became my concern, and my work became his concern as well.  But even when things were tight and problems seemed to come at us fast and furiously, we still had someone right there to hug and to listen to the concerns.

 

After nearly 41 years, Fang still teases about my cooking—and yes, about my driving as well.  And he still has no idea where the furniture will be when he wakes up in the morning because I still move the darned stuff around—and worse still, I move around his tools, his tractor, and other assorted stuff that he thinks he will find where he left it.  That situation takes patience, but the pile of tools on the kitchen table takes just a bit of patience as well.  What really amounts to patience, if truth be told, is the certainty that we will both smile at each other and know that whatever concerns one of us will always matter to the other.  This is the time when we really mean it—we really do love each other, and it’s a blessing we appreciate deeply.

Seasons Greetings!

I promise that THIS is the time of the year that we receive the best season’s greetings.  In the first place, every bird (including the duck that walked her babies across six lanes of traffic on Southwest Parkway today) has an attitude!  The doves have been giving us a hard time since yesterday when the bird feeders ran out of seeds.  So this afternoon we made a trip to Atwood’s to pick up more bird seed.  The neighbor’s cats came to sample the stale bread I threw out for the ducks, but otherwise the feast was on among the winged critters that discovered the replenished feeders.

 

My parents were the recipients of a few radishes picked from among the zinnias this morning.  Our flower/garden is a little bit strange, but mostly it has its shape from the flow of laundry water that took all the zinnia seeds to one end of the hill and left the radish seeds willy nilly wherever they sprouted.  Then there is the dill weed that just tantalizes me every time I touch it.  The taste is wonderful and just calls for more lettuce, tomato, or just about anything green.  The rest of the flowers in the yard are somewhat more organized.  Pots of squash and some kind of strange purple bean fill one big liquid cow feed tub.  Other tubs contain roses or mint or cucumbers.  The tubs just seemed more sensible since my time is divided between several other little jobs around this place.

 

Fang dared to let me drive his tractor yesterday.  I ran the top into a tree branch; I ran over a tree, but managed to back up before I ruined anything.  Then I ran the front loader into a telephone pole.  Fang swears the phone company people called and said to keep me out of the telephone poles as it was making their customers stutter!  Then I found a nice hole out between some trees and dropped one wheel off in it.  Fang just sat there and watched and shook his head.  Unbelievable!  Years ago he would have shouted at me.  Maybe all that work we did together on the tractor made a difference to him….or not.

 

When we finally finished all the mowing of the lots between us and the highway, the land looked so very nice.  If it were not for all the uneven ground and the danged holes, the land would be nice for playing on or just for walking.  One stone we dug out and dropped in a hole was a two foot block of concrete.  At least I didn’t run over that one!   But Ray Charles could have seen that chunk of rock!  Eventually the land will look half way decent and be level enough to mow a bit more easily.  And maybe eventually I will learn to drive the tractor with the front-end loader on it and the finishing mower on the back.  Meanwhile, we can sit outside on the porch bench and listen to the birds sing and watch the cats and squirrels run around on the mown grass.  Yeppers, this is the season for greetings in green and song.

To Be or Not to Be: Choices?

The right to die with some degree of dignity and the ability to choose one’s own timing has definitely given some people a feeling of independence.  Terminal illnesses are not just undignified and painful; they are expensive and very difficult for all members of the family involved sometimes.  My friend Jan had her husband in their home up until the last few days of his life.  She watched him, bathed him, cleaned him, and loved him while he suffered the miseries of cancer from Agent Orange.  Then in the last week of his life, she let Hospice keep him in their facility where they could administer morpheme by injections.

 

In at least two states people have the right to die by administering to themselves the drugs that will stop their lives quietly and quickly if they have a terminal illness and have six months or less to live—an opinion that has to be shared by at least two physicians.  The person has to ask more than once for this particular final medication—twice verbally and twice in writing over a period of time.  The main point to this particular set of rules was that the person who chose to die must do so by his or her own hand, must be consciously asking for the right, and must have sufficient medical reason to do so.

 

Recently a financial advisor gave someone advice that was startling to me:  One does not have to allow antibiotics to be given for pneumonia or any other infection in an elderly person who has dementia or who is otherwise non-responsive.  That idea just about shocked my socks off.  When does a family member decide that an elderly parent or other member of the family has lived long enough?  This is not the same thing as giving someone a choice of how to die.  This idea is choosing to get someone out of the way for whatever reason.  We are not gods and have no idea how to value life inside the mind of a person who can no longer communicate.

 

I can understand wanting to die.  We have all seen those who have become vegetables for whatever reason—wrecks from drugs to wrecks in vehicles.  I probably won’t ever jump a horse again and endanger my neck that way, but a good rear-end collision can do enough damage to totally ruin the physical aspects of real life and living.  And let’s face it: the physical definitely affects the mental outlook.  I cannot keep from wondering if one’s physical inability to live life in a somewhat normal manner might be the sole factor in producing the desire to end life.  But the main point I think we need to consider might be one of WHO should be making choices.

 

I have known of doctors who chose not to treat newborns with the drastic means necessary to save their lives.  Whether the reasons were the expense, the complications that the child would continue to have in life, or some other reason, the choices made by the doctors may seem quite callous to the parents.  The same can be said for some nursing homes and facilities that care for the disabled.  If they choose to ignore symptoms, people can die much more quickly than if they are monitored and treated as the need arises.

 

Pain is not dignified.  In fact, it makes mewling infants of some of us.  But if the pain can be alleviated or reduced to an acceptable level for the individual, why should we choose to end life?  I have seen an old woman smile in her sleep when her grandchildren were in the room.  Who is to say that happiness is not in the noises one hears in our sleep?  Give us time and we may have more smiles, more dreams.  I can still ride the wind in my dreams when my legs would no longer help me balance on the back of a horse.  Let me ride in my dreams until the horses no longer run.

The Job Market

Whether or not we have heard the joke about the definition of a recession or depression, the fact remains that too many jobs have gone ‘south’ lately. South, in this case, at least, is not a direction but a fate—something like GM. No amount of government input or outlay is going to change the lack of confidence that many of us have developed concerning the American and world economy.

Layoffs—euphemistically called downsizing—sometimes presage a healthier business approach. At other times the layoffs are the beginning of the end—the loss of another business in town. Businesses that were already having some trouble before the bank bailouts were not all that important in the overall scheme of most cities. But some of the ‘mom and pop’ type of businesses that depend on one man or one family to provide several jobs are a different situation altogether. One tool and die company in Dallas depends on customer satisfaction, credit availability (for the customers), the availability of products (also dependent on another company’s ability to get and maintain a flow of credit, and the purchase of products at an end point—which again depends on the availability of credit for those customers.

Business interdependence is just an example of an overall system we expect to work in our nation—and in the world to an even greater extent. When GM or some bank goes bottom up, someone down the line other than the frontline employees will hurt. If our local feed store can’t get credit to buy a load of chicken feed, I can’t buy chicken feed from them at a reasonable price. If I can’t feed my chickens, we are going to have to kill the suckers and put them in the freezer. That means no eggs for breakfast—or for any other purpose. It is too simple an analogy, but all over the world it is the same principle. We buy what we can afford.

Well, most of us buy what we can afford. Then there are the banking people who bought worthless debts; the car manufacturers which produced cars no one could afford to drive; and the state governments which taxed people beyond their ability to pay. The folks at the IRS—somewhat like the government of California—may soon be sending out IOUs to those who still try to pay their income tax and have a refund coming. That is pretty sad.

I have a suggestion—or two. Let’s start some layoffs of our own. If our congressman can’t be found on Capitol Hill three days out of five, he doesn’t need to be there at all. He doesn’t need a retirement check, and he (not to be sexist—or she) doesn’t need health care that the rest of us can’t afford either. If he can’t pay his bills for those excessively expensive dinners or writes hot checks, he can have a nice warm jail cell—just like the ones we have reserved for some banking CEOs.

As for the latest illegal immigrant who brought his little pregnant queens and her eggs across the border in some kind of produce, let’s see if we can find a better approach to eradication than building fences. Unless the government declares the “rasberry ant” a protected species, we have a duty as Texans to prevent the spread of more misery into our country.

It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do for one’s attitude. Oh, and a recession is when your neighbor loses HIS job. A depression is when YOU lose yours.

The New Neighbors

Quite some years ago our little city of slightly over 100,000 became the site of a new maximum security prison. Not everyone was thrilled to have the prison as a new neighbor, but eventually most of the citizens accepted the fact that it WAS established and wasn’t likely to go away anytime soon. And many citizens also found a new employer with the prison system.

At this point, I must point out something I heard in a song [‘Til It Shines] by Bob Seger, who sang: “Let the inmates free the guards.” I have thought about that line several times and still wonder about possible meanings. Whatever the reason for the line in the song [assuming I understood the words correctly], the news about prisons and enforced detention has not been good lately. In Harare, Zimbabwe, the Chikurubi Prison had 327 deaths reported by the International Red Cross between November of 2008 and January of 2009. The prison has seen the deaths of 700 of its 1,300 inmates in filthy, disease and rat infested cells. Because the government has been so unstable and incapable of allowing help from international organizations, men have starved to death by the cell-full. The prison morgue may have rat-riddled bodies stacked ten high at a time.

In our country, we debate capital punishment. In Zimbabwe, well, life has little value. And in Ireland, where a young child could be taken forcibly from the parents—especially if the parent were an unwed mother—if the child got in trouble at school or in the community, the child could be put in detention “home” and be subject to horrid abuses by those who were supposed to be helping to reform the child’s behavior. Unbelievably, this abuse went on from the 30s up until the 90s.

In Corpus Christi, Texas, the mentally challenged residents of one dormitory of a state operated school have been used as a “fight club” type of entertainment for some employees.

Death, degradation, dishonor. It is still true what Burns said:

Man's inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn!*

Wordsworth, too, had his view: Have I not reason to lament/What man has made of man.**

One of the comments of the murdered Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya was extremely revealing about life in our up-to-date, well-informed world:

I am not an investigating magistrate but somebody who describes the life around us for those who cannot see it for themselves, because what is shown on television and written about in the overwhelming majority of newspapers is emasculated and doused with ideology. People know very little about life in other parts of their own country, and sometimes even in their own region.***

If the apathy and ignorance that Anna Politkovskaya found in Russia is even a tiny bit like that found in Ireland, America, and yes, even in my own state of Texas, then we can expect to continue to hear “the still, sad music of humanity”** Anyone still determined to sing, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” need not expect a sing-along because the new neighbors in Ireland, Zimbabwe, Dagestan, Corpus Christi, and beyond are still all too aware that we don’t have much to sing about when life and freedom is so little valued.


*Robert Burns, From Man Was Made to Mourn: A Dirge, 1785
**W. Wordsworth, Lines Written in Early Spring; Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey
***Her Own Death, Foretold, Washington Post