Akansas Delta Ramblings

Driving Miss Naomi

I knew I was in trouble when Miss Naomi, an octogenarian friend of mine, wrote me an e-mail recently. She promised me a meal out at Charlotte’s in Keo as an enticement to drive out to her house in Scott from Maumelle. Now natives of Little Rock all know that Charlotte’s has the most delectable pies in all the world to sell. On any given day, one can walk into the restaurant and see and smell in the bakery case beautifully-laden meringue pies of all kinds—coconut cream, chocolate cream, banana cream—along with several choices of cakes—chocolate, red velvet, and Italian cream. The sweet scents of chocolate and sugar waft through the air, and it is all one can do to wolf down a quick sandwich to get to the dessert choices.
On this particular day, Naomi asked if I would drive her over one day soon to Des Arc. I knew that she was working on a project to photograph dying towns in the Delta and to write about their past and present history. As I munched on my parmesan-encrusted bread with its filling of turkey, avocadoes, and a special dressing, I heard myself saying, “Well, I can commit to one trip perhaps, but I don’t know if I can for the other forty-nine towns you want to write about.” Miss Naomi was happy, I think, to have new traveling companions (my husband was invited also) since her previous partner, Charlie, had died unexpectedly the month before. “Now when we go on the trip, I’ll buy you the best catfish dinner you ever ate.” Once again, I knew she had me at the word “catfish” this time.
We started out for Des Arc the week before Thanksgiving. Miss Naomi was already emphatic that we would not be getting onto the interstate but would take the back roads instead. Miss Naomi’s assistant, Rhonda, who is a jack-of-all-trades, helps her by cleaning her house and taking her on errands to Wal Mart while at the same time working as a waitress at the 76 Station and being a full partner at her husband’s farm. She put one of Miss Naomi’s three walkers into the back of our little Vibe, made sure bottled water would be taken on the trip, and seemed happy when I told her I had brought along some sugar-less pumpkin bread since Miss Naomi has diabetes.
Our first stop in Des Arc was the court house where we took a couple of pictures and the sign in front of it with Miss Naomi’s throwaway camera she had brought for the occasion. I had hoped to use my digital camera to get some better pictures perhaps, but as usual, my batteries were dead. We next went to the Lower White River Museum for a few pictures and took photographs of a number of dilapidated, empty houses in the little town. By that time, we were ready for that “best catfish ever” downtown at a little diner named T. J.’s. The restaurant filled up quickly even before noon with all kinds of working men who had no doubt come for the blue plate special of hamburger steak, as well as many hunters in their camouflage since deer season was in full swing. The trucks outside the window were loaded with shotguns in the back windows and deer stands. We enjoyed the perfectly cooked catfish, hushpuppies, and cole slaw before we walked a few steps down Main Street to try the door of the thrift shop in town. The sign said it would open at 1 p.m.
Since we had about forty-five minutes to kill before then, we drove to another nearby town on Miss Naomi’s list for research—Cotton Plant. We took a number of pictures, finishing the roll, and headed back to Des Arc to “go junking” as Miss Naomi called it. When we arrived back in Des Arc, we noticed a number of ladies already in the shop, examining everything from clothes to old knives to designer perfumes. “These perfumes,” said the clerk to everyone who walked close to the counter, “sell here for $15 each; they are $75 at department stores.” I stopped to examine the brands and saw they were indeed name brands like Liz Taylor’s “Diamonds,” Calvin Klein’s “Escape,” and others. One woman put her wrist to my nose and said, “Here smell this; doesn’t it smell good?” She then proceeded to buy several bottles and then announced, “I want some more, but I’ll have to go home and pick up some more pecans to sell before I can come back.”
Miss Naomi discovered a number of small items to buy such as a Santa Claus mug for a relative who collects them, an old Elvis Presley LP of hymns, and a knife made in China for another. She was happy with her bargains. Even I could not resist the enticing items before me and carried out of the store two white sacks of dishes and bowls originally sold at Pier One. They were delicate glass dishes decorated with blueberries with green leaves surrounded by yellow trim. My husband, who is not a fan of thrift shops, had sat in the car while Miss Naomi and I were “junking.” He just shook his head as I deposited my sacks alongside the walker in the back of the Vibe.
Miss Naomi regaled us on the trip with many stories about her distant past as well as her present life. She was a student at the University of Iowa writing program years ago. Her doctor has just given her a bit more time since she was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years back. Miss Naomi told us that day that she had already visited Des Arc and Cotton Plant for pictures and research a few months back. My husband and I wondered each to ourselves, of course, what the purpose of our presence had been. Did Miss Naomi just want to have a day trip with good friends? Did she need someone to listen to her own memories of the past and to listen to her concerns about the shorter, darker days which lay ahead for her? Heck no . . . we both concluded it was all about the food. When we left her back in Scott, we knew once more we had been had with her initial promise of tasty, delectable dishes. We watched her as she plodded up to her doorstep with her walker, “Now remember, Miss Naomi, we want to try that other great catfish place in Georgetown soon.”

A Memory From the Past at Year's End

The Legend of Addie Faye

I haven’t thought about Addie Faye for over fifty years until recently. It was at ZaZa’s when my granddaughter and I started talking about popularity, always an important subject for a twelve-year-old. When asked my advice about how to be popular, I immediately began telling Caitlyn that she should be a friend to all people, regardless of race or class. She should work hard to make sure no one was excluded. She should speak to all she knew in her middle school hallways and call them by name. It was only then that I remembered where I myself had learned such traits; it was from Addie Faye Sullivan, a senior in my rural delta high school. She was indeed a queen and a legend at West Tallahatchie High School in 1957.
My grandfather had died in the spring of that year, and my worn-out, depressed waitressing mother decided the three of us—she, my sister Judy, and I—should move in with my grandmother to live. I was just completing my seventh grade year at E. E. Bass in Greenville, Mississippi, and was in that pre-adolescent stage of life. Not only was I gawky as a 5’9” kid of around 100 pounds, I had naturally curly dirty-blonde hair with the highest forehead ever recorded in history I was sure. My hair frizzed frequently in the damp fall days in the delta. I had also just started wearing glasses since my vision was near being considered legally blind. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the best of the move and began meeting new friends as an eighth grader.
I noticed Addie Faye immediately as a cute, short vivacious senior. As she walked down the hall every day, she would call each person by name and say hi. I am still not sure how she learned my name, but soon I was added to the list of junior highers who admired her greatly. Oh yes, I had heard about Addie Faye that fall—how she had just had a baby girl out of wedlock (it was after all 1957, and no one, except Addie Faye, kept their babies back then. Other girls went away to visit their “aunts” for a few months and then returned all slim and trim with no babies in their possession). The whole experience though had cost Addie Faye the head cheerleader’s position since a mommy cheerleader couldn’t be expected to yell, “Can you make it? Can you take it? Can you Tallahatchie shake it? Can you boogy to the left? Can you boogy to the right?” It would not be appropriate according to the school administrators.
I continued to observe Addie Faye’s friendliness to all in spite of her own exclusion in some circles. I did not have much success making more than a friend or so that first year since I was still unbearably shy. Not many people back then lived with their grandmothers who were in their 60’s without a mother (ours had decided to work by that time in Memphis) or a father (ours had been absent since we were quite young). With Judy’s encouragement, however, I decided upon a bold step: to run for the position of student council treasurer. I decided to ask Addie Faye to be my campaign manager. We put posters everywhere throughout the school; we glittered letters to hang across the hallways saying, “Sims for Treasurer.” We even had cards printed to promote my candidacy.
The final day of the campaign was to be for speeches. Mine I knew was rather dull and standard, “Please vote for me for treasurer; I’ll do the best I can for you,” I stammered as my knees clapped together in a strange rhythm which I was sure could be picked up over the microphone. My voice, never strong and confident at that time, was barely above a whisper.
Addie Faye’s speech on my behalf, however, was magnificent. While I can’t remember all the great things she said about me personally, I knew that I was swelling with pride as I heard those words. She ended the speech with Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If.” You remember how it goes, “If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs, and blaming it on you, / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance for their doubting too / If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, / Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies. / Or being hated don’t give way to hating. / And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.” By the end of the poem, the rural students, who weren’t exactly college material, were on their feet clapping thunderously. The next day, of course, the election took place, and the votes were counted. I waited nervously for the votes count, hoping that I would get enough votes not to be humiliated.
I lost the election that day by seven votes to a sophomore boy, but I gained something much more important: a newly-found confidence for myself and a respect for all the women who go through tremendous odds and still emerge as victors. In my eyes, Addie Faye has always been, and will always continue to be, a delta legend.

The Ever-Changing Cast of Characters

This week we have heard on the news about the changing nature of families in the United States. It seems that the number of people getting married is actually decreasing. We are now at 51% married couples. Many do not choose to marry for a variety of reasons we are told. One of the most important as we know is the recession (or depression as Paul Krugman, the economist, would say). More couples in a higher economic class marry compared to couples in a lower class.

While visiting with my friend Pat yesterday, we were sitting in her den, and she was explaining the stockings on the mantle which were already waiting for Santa's goodies. I noticed that on several that instead of having an embroidered name on them, they had a large white card with the name printed. She went on to explain that the cast of characters in her family was ever-changing. While I don't remember the actual names, the conversation went something like this, "Patty was married to Jimmy but now she is married to John," and so on.

I began thinking about my own family and realized that her perception is very true. We began with four of us--us and our two children. Kimberly was with her partner Stef and later with her partner Sheri. They now have a six-year-old son Cole. Chris, our son, was with his wife Carrie and had two children, Caitlyn and Charlie. Now he is with Meera and her two children, Ethan and Emma. Most families in the U. S. are now blended in any number of ways. We simply do as Pat has done, keep putting new cards on the stockings.

Knock Knock Knocking on Heaven's Door

A popular topic in the past few years for filmmakers has been an end-of-the-world scenario. I am thinking of three that I have recently seen--A Serious Man, Take Shelter, and most recently, Melancholia. The latter is still haunting me. There is no question that the cinematography is outstanding as one watches a series of scenes at the beginning showing many figures literally stopped in their tracks as a small planet named Melancholia heads toward a collision with earth. Three characters are featured: one is a young bride suffering from severe clinical depression who cannot will herself to go forward each day, her sister who also suffers from giving care to this young woman, and a scientifically-minded husband who is assuring everyone that the planet will miss the earth and just be a beautiful spectacle in the sky. The ending shot of the planet hurtling toward earth is magnificent.

The theme of the film brings to mind several alternatives that one can have as he or she anticipates the end of life as we know it. The depressed woman becomes oddly serene and almost looks forward to the end of the world; she becomes obsessed with the wonder of it all. The sister becomes increasingly anxious as she wants her young son to have a life beyond the present moment and seeks all possible alternatives to escape death. The husband chooses to die early when he realizes his scientific calculations have been incorrect. An additional fourth character, the son, longs for a magic cave where all will be saved.

It seems that the director of the film has captured the reactions most of us would consider if we knew the world would be ending immediately. The symbolism seems clear that the son's view represents the hope of religion and faith that this life on earth is not all there is. Christians believe in a heaven where all will live eternally. Having no hope seems to be the saddest way to live one's life I have always thought.

An Oppressed African Refugee

While reading an advent book for Christmas, entitled Christmas Is Not Your Birthday by Mike Slaughter, I noticed that the author described Jesus as an oppressed African refugee. It seemed so appropriate since the Gospels speak of the time shortly after Jesus' birth where He and his family had to flee to Egypt in order to escape the wrath of King Herod. Africa was a place of refuge for Christ until the time came when He could be safely brought back to Nazareth.

In the conservative Christian community, we sometimes turn a blind eye to the needs of the African people. We typically use the excuse that there are so many needs in America to concentrate on--certainly not those in Darfur. I have probably been guilty of this type of thinking as well. Being able to picture Jesus, however, as an oppressed African refugee somehow changes the scenario for me.

Yes, we still have to be careful about the charities we send our donations to since there is sometimes corruption associated with them. We need to research those we choose to send our money to in order to ensure that the money will be used well.

Why Not Chimney Sweepers?

While on my morning walk up to Majestic Point yesterday, I heard a discussion about presidential candidate New Gingrich's 100 ideas an hour. I was reminded of the famous line from Romeo and Juliet about Mercutio--that he speaks more in a minute than he will listen to in a month. This time Newt indicated that poor children, ages 14 to 16, could be used as janitors in order to replace the union janitors currently employed. My mind went back immediately to the William Blake poem entitled, "The Chimney Sweeper," in which the persona is in heaven already and lamenting that fact. It's common knowledge that young children in pre-modern times were used because of their size to clean chimneys. As a result, many did not live until adulthood.

I tried to apply this possibility to my own childhood as a poor child growing up in the Mississippi Delta towns of Greenville and later Tutwiler. My current primary care physician tells me now that my chest x-rays show a lesion caused most likely by childhood tuberculosis that mysteriously calcified over. I wonder if I could have survived as a child working as a janitor around a lot of dust, asbestos, lead, and so on.

Newt's idea is simply ludicrous. There is no need to return to Charles Dickens' Nineteenth Century England.

Words Fail

My neighbors continue to take their three dogs out into their front yard without a leash. Our little town though has a leash law, and most of the neighbors abide by it. I wouldn't be so annoyed if I didn't walk by this particular house at the same time every morning for my daily walk--7:30 to 8:30. In my old neighborhood I was bitten by a boxer once while walking and have been somewhat dog shy when large animals start barking and chasing me. These dogs include two golden retrievers and, yes, one very big boxer. For the first couple of times that the dogs displayed antisocial behavior, I was polite and did not complain. The third time, however, I asked the owner if he would please keep the dogs on a leash. He did not respond and simply took them inside the house only to let them out again once I was a half-block away. What's a person to do? It was obvious that words were failing me.

In recent days, I have tried non-verbal communication to let the owners know of my annoyance when the dogs are out. I have tried displaying certain signs--like counting from one to five fingers as each incident occurs. When I displayed two fingers, the owners returned a peace sign to me as well. When I was up to five, they gave me a full-fingered wave back. I have not chosen to use any obscene gestures. I gave up--at least until this morning. As I approached the house from a block away, the owners--sipping their coffee with the dogs on the porch and in the yard--noticed my arrival. They quietly went inside the house with three dogs at their heels. When I passed the house, I gave them a thumbs up and a big smile. I hope they were watching.

Nothing New Under the Sun

I have read and seen a couple of literary books and movies in the past few weeks. Unless one is familiar, however, with a substantial number of plots, the intertextuality could easily escape one's notice. The first is David Wroblewski's The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, and the second is the film The Way starring Martin Sheen. One is the retelling of Shakespeare's Hamlet, and the other is another version of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. Again, we are reminded of Solomon's lament in the book of Ecclesiastes, there's "nothing new under the sun."

The Wrobelewski novel does offer some novelty in the retelling of the famous tale of Hamlet. In this case, the protagonist is a young boy who is mute, though he does have the gift of hearing. Ophelia is not a young woman who, at least as Hamlet perceives her, is disloyal but instead she is a pet dog. Horatio is not a peer but an old man who offers sage advice after the death of Polonius (a veterinarian in the novel). The ending, of course, is tragic as is the original piece.

The film features a group of pilgrims walking the road between El Camino and Santiago de Compostela in France and Spain. At the end of the walk, one finds the statue of St. James where spiritual peace is achieved. Like Chaucer's characters, they each need a physical or psychological healing which must take place, i. e. healing from physical abuse in a marriage, healing from grief over the loss of a son, healing from the abuses of the church, healing from obesity, and so on.

The book and the film were both well done, yet one yearns for originality still in art.

The Invasion of the Earthworms and the Caterpillars

Last week I heard a report from the Fayetteville, Arkansas, NPR station chronicling an invasion of some 100 plus earthworms into one of the campus building at the University. After several scientists were interviewed, they attributed this invasion to the recent 5.6 earthquake in central Oklahoma a few weeks ago. Their reasoning was logical--that a disruption in the underbelly of the earth would naturally cause these little beings to try to escape--much like all of us that Saturday night. I was sitting on the sofa in our house in Northwest Arkansas waiting on my son and grandchildren to return home from the football game. Since it was a windy night, I at first thought the rumbling in the house was a tornado since we are known for these in our part of the world. I soon, however, decided it was an earthquake and turned on the nightly news immediately for confirmation. They reporters were discussing the flickering lights in the studio caused by the shaking. I called my son, who was in Taco Bell with the family, who hadn't felt anything. The next morning the grandchildren asked my husband, already in bed at eleven, if he felt anything. He simply said that he felt the shaking but thought "it was Mom B. getting into bed."

The caterpillar invasion followed shortly after the earthquake as well. Again, the wind continued, and I attributed the downed baby caterpillars to being blown from the trees. My husband assured me, however, that there were no bag worms this time of year. The streets, as well as our living room, seemed to have many earthworms and caterpillars around.

Many of our states have been hit hard this year by the bizarre weather from last winter forward--unbelievably cold weather in the deep South (20 below zero), numerous spring floods deep enough to close Interstate 40 for a period of time, severe drought in the summer, tornadoes, hail, and now earthquakes. What's a person to do?

Guess Who's Coming to Thanksgiving Dinner

While taking my usual walk on the neighborhood paths this week, I heard music critic Milo Miles of NPR fame discuss his dream guests for Thanksgiving dinner. His choices were not unexpected and included Bach, Mendelssohn, and Leonard Bernstein. I begin to also think about possible guests of my own for a Thanksgiving dinner. Mine would be Jesus, Paul, and Mary Magdalene.

Jesus, of course, for Christians would be an obvious choice since we would all have so many questions to ask of Him. What, for example, does He think of the modern social issues which are the topics of our discussion in Protestant churches, i. e. abortion, homosexuality, divorce, and so on? I suspect that His answer would be that, if He thought them extremely important, He would have specifically addressed them in His teaching. It is enough perhaps to know of His suffering, His extreme patience with all who would be His followers, His sacrifice for humanity, and His unconditional love.

The apostle Paul, however, might be more of a challenge to those who have for years questioned his position on women in the New Testament. Was it, for example, only in the context of specific New Testament churches that he cautioned women not to speak? Or was it a universal, everlasting admonition? He has been labeled as a sexist for years by feminists.

Mary Magdalene has also suffered in reputation through the past two thousand years and has been labeled a prostitute, though she was one of Jesus' closest disciples. Is it true that the hierarchy of the Catholic Church simply developed this myth to shrink the role of women in the church?

The dinner would be an intimate gathering of just four people. We would skip the ham, of course, and serve turkey only to this Jewish crowd. By the end of the evening, I would hope to be far more enlightened on the mysteries of their lives and teachings. I would also hope to be a better person in the future because of it.

Killing Clyde

My extended family in rural Kansas is facing a dilemma common to many farm families every year--to kill or not to kill the pet turkey for Thanksgiving. The pet's name is Clyde and has been raised by my sister-in-law and her two daughters for the past few months. They vote to pardon Clyde, similar to the two turkeys set free each year at the White House. They believe it would be unconscionable to eat Clyde on the holiday. On the other hand, one of the alpha males in the family has volunteered to shoot Clyde and dress out the breast meat only since he considers working with the dark meat "too much trouble."

I know that the usual advice to farm families in similar situations is to simply suspend one's emotions and go ahead and sell an animal such as a steer at the auction. It's also not that hard to kill the chickens on the farm since one does not get so attached to them perhaps. The whole incident has led me to question whether there are famous birds in cartoons that we grow attached to. I know there is Foghorn Leghorn, but he's not exactly a lovable character since he's always pestering all the other animals in the barnyard.

I lean on the side of buying a fully-dressed turkey, unknown as a personality to the family, at the grocery store and allowing Clyde to live. Oh, by the way these girls are not small in the family, 23 and 27 respectively. More on the story will follow--after Thanksgiving.

"Baby is its own excuse for being."

My book club discussed John L'Heureux's short story "The Comedian" yesterday. The crux of the piece centers on a young couple, Corinne and Russ, who face an unwanted pregnancy. On the first page of the story, L'Heureux states, "Baby is its own excuse for being." Corrine is an upcoming comedian, and her husband owns a failing construction business. The story is complicated by the fact that Corinne thinks she hears her baby singing within her womb. She is the only one who can hear it. With the doctor's advice, she decides to abort her child and then changes her mind and decides to keep the baby after all. This "to abort or not to abort" decision also confronts many couples in today's society.

As we are aware, my home state of Mississippi is now in the process of adding a life-at-fertilization ballot initiative to their laws. It defines a fertilized egg as a person. The complicating factors here involve the possibility that the fertilized egg will be a result of cloning or some "functioning equivalent thereof," whatever that means.

My own values on this topic have evolved over the years. In the 1970's after the Roe vs. Wade decision legalizing abortion, I supported a woman's right to abort. My knowledge of the topic was very limited, but I was a feminist doctoral student who was convinced that women should make their own decisions on this topic. Later I became pro-life after reading a very convincing argument about the subject. My dilemma these days is whether I can be consistent in my position by continuing to say, "I don't think the law should be changed, but I personally do not support abortion."

At this point I am leaning more toward support for the Mississippi ballot initiative. This child is a person and should have the same rights and privileges as all citizens.

A Modern Day Prophet

I have been waiting for quite some time to see Arkansas director Jeff Nichols' latest film, Take Shelter. Although not set in Arkansas this time (after his Shotgun Stories), it certainly reflects the economic fears of the times. A young working class husband, Curtis, and his wife are rearing their daughter who is deaf when he begins to experience hallucinations regarding storms. The pattern of the dreams is very much the same night after night. The storm clouds appear, often accompanied by thousands of birds dropping from the sky, ushering in some type of harm. It seems that not only nature is causing harm but also those who are closest to Curtis--his dog, his co-worker, his wife even. The question is whether Curtis is actually a modern day prophet or simply one who has inherited his mother's mental disease. He attempts to warn the neighbors of impending doom, yet no one will listen. He is a Noah without an audience once again.

While the thriller is interesting in itself as a psychological study, for me the real importance of the film lay in its portrayal of modern day families. They work hard to pay their mortgages and house payments yet still struggle with the rising costs of health care, job retention, high gas prices, the lack of mental health facilities in a rural environment, etc. The drop of the stock market by some 500+ plus points in two days does not even enter into their thinking. They are not the 1% in America. They live from paycheck to paycheck. It's enough to make anyone somewhat paranoid as he or she reflects upon the future.

Personally, I seem to move from place to place in my thinking. Normally, I am optimistic regarding the future, yet the storm clouds on the horizon do seem to be growing as we watch from afar (like Curtis). Greece's monetary crisis continues to grow, the unemployment stays over 9% month after month, the housing markets continue to decline, and debt both personally and in the country rises to fourteen trillion dollars. The prophet we need will have to possess supernatural powers to help us. Let's hope to see that one on the horizon soon.

Nothingness Without End

I have been a fan of actor Ryan Gosling in recent years and believe him to be one of the finest young actors in Hollywood today. His versatility extends to playing a Jewish Neo-Nazi to a buff young man who sleeps with a different woman every night to a man in a troubled marriage to a political staffer to a mentally challenged man in love with an inflatable doll. Yesterday I watched The Believer about the Jewish Neo-Nazi. The plot resolves around a hater who is searching for a theology in which he can believe.

The problem, as Dan Balint sees it, is that the Jews as a culture were too docile and unmanly from the beginning. When Abraham is asked to sacrifice his son Isaac, he obeys God's voice without question. When the Jews suffered atrocities in World War II, they do not fight back against the Germans. Dan is rebelling against his religious heritage that asks him to obey the laws of the faith and to do good for others. There is no promise of eternal life after this one, just "nothingness without end." He longs for a faith he can understand, and he believes he finds it in the far right group to which he becomes attached. As the movie progresses, however, he finds his childhood teaching cannot be so easily shed.

I too have longed for some freedom through the years regarding the faith of my childhood, Southern Baptist theology, which like Judaism demands strict adherence to a set of do's and don'ts. While we give lip service to the idea that Jesus replaced the law with grace, we live as if we don't really believe it. In my search for more freedom I have moved to the Episcopal faith. I have found all the freedom I could ever want there, but it is a stretch to say there is a set of beliefs I can adhere to. Some have even joked that "Episcopal theology" is an oxymoron. Once more I find myself like my mother who continued to refine her faith until her death. I am now re-evaluating my membership in the Episcopal faith since I find it perhaps too intellectual--too much in the realm of the scientific, humanistic, and atheistic. The final straw could be the promotion of a concert Sunday night at the church which will feature witches and warlocks. I am still too much of a Southern Baptist to believe in the appropriateness of such an event within the church.

Can I too believe in "nothingness without end"? Thankfully not.

"It's On"

Last week a fourteen-year-old African-American boy in South Little Rock was in the wrong place, as we say, at the wrong time. He was caught in gunfire while standing in his neighborhood innocently. When interviewed by a person from a local television station, his sister described him as a boy who just loved to watch cartoons all the time. Since the bullets he received were in both legs, his life was not in danger. He sat surrounded by large stuffed animals on his sofa. His brother, however, was sure in his answer to the interviewer's question, "If you could say something to the ones who shot your little brother, what would it be?" The older brother did not hesitate before he answered, "It's on" while looking straight into the camera. The interviewer asked, "What do you mean by that?" to which the older brother responded, "They will know what I mean."

Once more it appears that the gang violence within our city (and others throughout the country and world) will continue.

Apple Bites

The world has been mourning the death of Apple founder Steve Jobs in the past couple of days. Tributes involve numerous Internet postings on a special web site created for that purpose, along with other Facebook and YouTube memorials. Our son has been in San Francisco for the week and reports that the Apple Store close to the site of his conference has been inundated with flowers, candles, pictures, and other mementoes. Unfortunately, here in Little Rock the tribute was of a different variety.

The new (and only) Apple store opened just recently in the Promenade Shopping Center in West Little Rock. Yesterday someone ran into the store and stole several laptops and IPads. At this point the suspect is unknown. Hardly a tribute to the founder of Apple Inc.

Yes, the times are tough for many people, yet that does not preclude the need for honesty.

The Poverty Experiment

Our granddaughter who is turning thirteen next week is privileged. Saturday night as we were "kid sitting," we marveled at her schedule of activities for the evening--Cotillion in her new red dress I bought her last week followed by two junior high parties at homes. She then planned to spend the night at a girlfriend's house with six or so of her friends. When I picked her up Sunday afternoon, she told me of the poverty experiment she was to participate in the next two days.

She and her classmates were planning to go to Heifer Farms in order to attempt to understand what being poor actually means. They were to be given one food item for their team (each representing evidently a third-world country) for the entire time. Other teams were to be given another food item. If the participants wanted variety in their diet, they would barter and trade with another team. They would sleep on the floors of the huts they were occupying for the one night. I asked her to write about her experience so that I could read her account later and see what she learned from the trip.

Upon her return to her school the next day just before lunch, the poverty experiencers would likely eat a hearty meal. That night privilege would be returning to her once again as she was to attend a Taylor Swift concert here in Little Rock with her girlfriends. Privilege--poverty--privilege.

I am concluding already that this experinment in poverty will likely be the closest she ever gets to really experiencing what the non-privileged endure each day. No amount of talking to her about my own poverty in childhood would ever be as effective I am sure.

What Matters Most

Texas has been experiencing the worst drought in its state since the 1950's. The lack of measurable rainfall combined with the extremely high temperatures this past summer have given rise to numerous wildfires. A couple of my nieces live on ranches in Texas, one in Columbus and one in Arp. They both have had to load their cars with their valuable possessions in order to evacuate upon a moment's notice. I was amused in spite of their crises to hear what mattered most to one of my nephews, a seven-year-old. When his mother told him that they might have to leave and to gather up what he considered important, he came out with two cowboy hats on his head, a spray bottle of men's cologne, and an armful of Dr. Pepper's.

I have been thinking about what I would gather up myself in such an emergency. Most of us go for the electronic apparatus along with the family photographs and heirlooms. Since I value writing, I also would grab a copy of my yet unpublished novel and the computer drive that houses all the digital pictures from the past few years. Family Bibles have also been important in our family through the years. I value my mother's Bible and my grandmother's Bible the most since they were prone to write notes in the margins about life in general, not just theological issues. My cabinet includes a Bible given to my mother in 1928 by her paternal grandmother with the admonition "to read and follow." There is a Bible given to my step-grandfather by my grandmother Ethel in 1951 with the plan of salvation written by hand on the first page. I have a Bible given to my daughter Kimberly when she was six by her paternal grandmother. I have a small white Bible given to me by the Women's Missionary Union at a ceremony before I was married forty-six years ago. I even have a Bible written in German from our trip to Germany seven years ago. I can't imagine living without these family treasures.

After I am gone, my children will find a number of writings in my Bible as well. I am fond of writing down quotations from the various books I have been reading in retirement. Some are cynical, some are serious. I also have a couple of essays that I haven't shared with anyone. Our lives go by so quickly that it's simply impossible to say all we want to in this life, but I am hoping these writings will be what my children also value most.

Southern Patios and More

On my walks around the neighborhoods in Northwest Arkansas and in Central Arkansas, I often notice what I call "Southern patios." Most of the homes in our respective subdivisions were built within the past fifteen years and do not have a traditional front porch that so many of us grew up with. When we were young, we sat on the porch at night anywhere from the middle of March until the middle of November enjoying the cooler air and sharing food, drink, and stories with our neighbors. Modern homes simply have a one step stoop that goes directly into the front door of the house.

What is a Southerner to do but create a new "Southern patio," which means opening the garage door and sitting at the front of it to watch what's going on around? I have to confess that ours in Northwest Arkansas is plain with just a couple of camping chairs surrounded by the usual tools and lawn mower. Still each chair has a cup holder for that ever-present glass of iced tea, and really, that's all one needs. We often wave at those either driving by or walking by the house. We do not seem unusual to anyone.

I have noticed some unusual "Southern patios" recently though. One had a poster of John Belushi with a t-shirt reading "College" on it. The garage was also filled with comfortable chairs and surrounded by road signs with varying slogans: Stop, Yield, Railroad Crossing, etc. I hope these were obtained legally. Others have very nice sofas made of leather with refrigerators within each for those cool drinks on a crisp, football type of night. Some stay decorated for any season--it's not rare to see wooden pumpkins on sticks, lighted wreaths, Easter crosses with artificial flowers stuck in them, or any other suggestion of a new trend. One house even keeps a Christmas tree in the front window forever lit any time I walk by. I have often wondered if this is simply a sign of laziness from the owner, if one feels he or she needs the Christmas spirit year round, or perhaps--and this is my imagination working overtime I'm sure--there's a child who needs to be convinced he or she will see another Christmas.

In any event, "Southern patios" are entertaining and certainly give a sense of the personalities inside the home.

On the West Memphis Three

I have needed several weeks to reflect upon the freeing of the West Memphis three. This case came to the public's attention in 1993 when three eight-year-old boys were brutally beaten (one sexually mutilated) and killed. The investigation and subsequent trial convicted three men of the murder--Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley, and Jason Baldwin. They served eighteen years in jail before their release in August under the Alford plea, allowing them to claim innocence while admitting that the prosecution had more than enough evidence to originally convict them.

I have to admit that when the murders occurred, I did not follow the case closely. I just knew that supposedly the young perpetrators were involved in a satanic ritual when the murders occurred. Since I also knew of other young people in my town, Siloam Springs, Arkansas, who were rumored also to be engaged in such practices, I believed this explanation for the murders to be reasonable. In subsequent years, many high-profile stars had begun to believe in the innocence of the West Memphis Three and worked tirelessly to free them.

As a grandmother of two grandsons, eight and six, I shutter to think of the pain that the relatives of these young innocents have undergone in the past eighteen years. Even they are divided regarding the innocence or the guilt of the three convicted. I know only that these young boys seemingly have died without justice--there is no justice if the West Memphis are truly guilty of the crime and no justice if no one else is convicted in the future of the crime. These boys--like Caylee Anthony--deserve to have their lives vindicated.

September11 and Forward

I have just listened to the wonderful gospel hymn "Amazing Grace" at the Sept. 11 ten-year remembrance ceremony on television. Like many living so many miles away from the scene of the tragedy, that morning seemed more of a dream than a reality. I had just completed my 7:30 a.m. class at John Brown University that beautiful Tuesday morning when one of my independent study students entered my office. Her name was Casey, and she shared that the World Trade Center in New York had just been hit by a plane. Also, like many others, for the first few minutes I assumed that it was a tragic accident. In another few minutes though, I heard from the noise in the hallway that another plane had just hit the second building in New York. Some students and I immediately rushed over to a colleague's house where we could watch the events unfolding on television and we were soon witnesses to the collapsing buildings, realizing that thousands of people had just lost their lives.

Since that time I suppose I also share with other Americans the reality of the transience of life but also of the importance of the joys of life. Since my retirement from academia in 2006, I have realized every day is a gift with the most important gifts being the time I spend with my children and grandchildren. Those memories include the special as well as the mundane--a family trip last summer to Seattle with my loved ones to enjoy the culture of not only Seattle but also Victoria, B.C., a two week trip to N.Y. overlooking the trade center building site with my daughter and then five-year-old grandson, a few days during spring break with my son and his children to a cabin in Eureka Springs, a late summer vacation to Galveston to the beach, sharing late night meals from Gino's family restaurant and Joe's Crab Shack, and the ever-continuing basketball and baseball games that the grandchildren participate in.

Yes, the wars in the Middle East with Iraq and Afghanistan still continue even after ten years as well as the new crises in practically every country there including Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, Syria, and others. These man-made terrors pose new threats each day along with the natural events of nature that have hammered America this year--tornadoes, hurricane effects, floods, hail, droughts, and earthquakes. The world is tenuous and we within it, but let us hug our babies in our hearts each night and enjoy the scant, quickly passing time with them as they mature.

Dumpster Diving in Arkansas and Golfing in Martha's Vineyard

President Obama is set to give a "jobs speech" before Congress this coming Thursday night. We all know that the economic times are difficult for numerous folks these days. One of the strangest incidents I have heard of recently concerns dumpster diving and--no--it isn't for leftover food but discarded coupons. Many in Arkansas (and I'm sure many other states) are attempting to save money on groceries by utilizing cents off coupons and will get them any way possible.

Recently, President Obama and his family spent $50,000 of their own income to rent a vacation home in Martha's Vineyard for a vacation. He spent several days playing golf in the luxury town. Many in the media, especially on the right politically, have noted Obama's lack of concern about the common people with this show of wealth and well-being.

I fall on the side that one should live conservatively while the United States, as well as the rest of the world, struggles to make ends meet. With the high unemployment rate of 9.1 percent and many more people being underemployed, I simply think it was unwise of the Obamas to flaunt their economic status before hurting people.

The Promise of Paris

I met Paris, a young African-America boy of fifteen, several years ago as part of our Sunday brunch group in Little Rock. At that time, he was being mentored by the leader of our group, Robert. Evidently, Robert had taken on the academic challenge of Paris when the boy was a mere fifth grader. Paris was still in middle school at the time we met. Though generally quiet during our brunches, I have witnessed Paris' maturing into a seemingly fine young man.

Yes, there have been wishes and dreams that have gone astray like Paris' (and Robert's) desire to complete his high school education. He dropped out without completing his goal, got a job at several fast food restaurants and as a bag boy at Kroger. For some reason, he has not been able to hold a job for long. He was fired from the last position for losing his temper and "spouting off" to his supervisor. He is now in a vocational school trying to get a G.E.D.

Paris has all the usual dreams of a boy his age, namely a car, a girlfriend, an apartment, and a job. He has none of those. Sunday at lunch he told us about one of his friends being killed last week here in Little Rock by the police. His friend was now "in Paradise" he said. He was wearing all black that day, had bling on, and had now grown a goatee and a mustache. Our group of friends worry about him since the unemployment rate for young boys of color is so high in our city and the temptation for material goods is strong. We old folks at the table all warn him that we don't want him to become a statistic. We believe in him. We will continue to hope and pray for him. He has promise.

A "Dry Bones Case"

Many of us have been riveted from its beginning to the Casey Anthony murder trial. Even as far back as its inception in the summer of 2008, the media have filled its images on television and in newspapers of the beautiful little two-year-old who was not reported missing until thirty-one long days after her disappearance. The case seemed without a doubt to indicate that her mother either killed her by premeditating her murder or by accident and then covering it up. Most of us were outraged last week to hear a jury of twelve pronounce Casey Anthony not guilty on the three most important charges against her. She was found guilty of merely lying to investigators several times. Afterward, one of the law spokesmen said that the case was difficult to prove because it was a "dry bones case." In other words, the six month period of time between the missing child and the discovery of her body was simply too long to prove definitely the cause of death. "Is there no justice on earth any longer?" we ask.

Unfortunately, we know the answer to the question at the moment it is raised. Thousands of children, young women, and men disappear (or are murdered each year) and become "cold cases" after a few months or years. Among the most notable in recent years include Jonbenet Ramsey, Morgan Nick, Natalee Holloway, Kyron Hormon, among many. As Christians, we often comfort ourselves with Biblical truths: that while justice might not be found on earth, there will be justice in eternity.

One of the passages I thought of when I heard the spokesman's description of the case brought to mind the famous passage in Ezekiel 37, verses 1-14. Ezekiel's vision describes a scene of desolation when he finds himself in a valley full of dry bones. God calls upon the four winds to "breathe on these slain, that they may live." Miraculously, the "dry bones" begin to rise to their feet and represent a "great army." I too believe that the bodies of the slain victims will one day rise again and justice for the murderers will be everlasting. Until then, we wait.

Deconstructing "The Tree of Life"

My friend Jo Ann and I saw the movie The Tree of Life last week. The audience was small since it was an art film but starring two of Hollywood's high profile actors, Brad Pitt and Sean Penn. After watching about forty-five minutes of beautiful cinematic scenery of the "big bang" theory, two young women in front of my friend and me turned around and said, "Are you thinking what we are?" I said, "What, leaving the theater to see another movie." They then replied, "This is not the movie we came to see" and promptly left the theater. Several other young people behind us stayed the full length of the film, which had no plot but was just a series of shots of a family with three sons during the nostalgic days of the '50's. Upon the rolling of the film's credits, one young man stood to his feet and shouted, "Did anyone here understand what that movie was about?" I believe I understood the movie.

The premise from the beginning was a choice--that between nature, science, and atheism vs that of grace, faith, and spirituality. The eldest of the three boys, later played by Sean Penn as an adult, illustrated the developmental stages of a Christian's life. The boy, being the firstborn of his parents, is the true center of attention until his two brothers come along. It is at this point that he begins to show some evidence of naughtiness and jealousy in order to get the attention he has lost in the family. As he grows older, he begins to notice that crime is followed by punishment as he witnesses the handcuffing of a criminal in his hometown. He has learned to expect punishment if one is "bad." He prays to be a "good" boy. Later, when a young boy drowns in a swimming pool, he begins to believe the idea that, if good people (and innocent ones) die, perhaps one does not have to be good. If God is not good, he reasons, why should he be either? What follows is a series of cruel acts to his younger brothers. Eventually, he develops a conscience and a sense of right and wrong and apologizes for his actions. As he grows into adulthood, and confronts the death of one of his brothers at age nineteen, he again struggles with the big existential questions of life, "Why am I here? What is my purpose?" By the end of the film, there is a final affirmation of life after death. The director Terrence Malick has simply presented a pictorial portrait of the spiritual struggles most of us encounter as we attempt to deconstruct the tree of life for ourselves.

Boaz's Mom

It seems in reading the Bible that many of its key figures were marginalized in one way or another: Moses was adopted by an Egyptian princess, Joseph was hated by his many brothers, Esau was cheated out of his birthright by his brother Jacob, among many examples. Even Jesus was born to a young Hebrew girl who was without a husband initially. The latest example occurred when I was reading from my daily devotional book the other day in the book of Ruth. I guess I had always wondered why Boaz was so kind to a foreign woman who was in his fields of wheat without permission. Boaz was the one who instructed his workers to let wheat intentionally fall as they threshed it so that Ruth could gather enough to feed herself and her mother-in-law Naomi. Ruth was definitely marginalized, but then again, so was Boaz from the beginning of his life no doubt.

Boaz's mother was Rahab, a harlot. She was the one mentioned in the book of Joshua who assisted the Hebrew spies in their quest for the Promised Land by hanging a scarlet cord outside her window as a signal. As a harlot, she would have no doubted been quite marginalized by the proper wives and mothers of her culture. As the mother of Boaz, she would have been shunned by the other women in her attempt to rear him properly. Perhaps it was this marginalization of Boaz and his mom that gave him the empathy for another woman similarly without country or friends.

The irony, of course, and the end of the story is that Ruth and Boaz married each other. But there's more: Rahab was one of a very few women listed in Matthew 1 as an ancestor of Christ. God indeed is the God of mercy, grace, and forgiveness.

The Death of Civility

I don't know whether it's just the summertime (again record heat and drought in most of the United States) or what, but I am beginning to believe that civility toward others is dead. Just a few examples from the recent news will suffice to make my case. This week we heard of the Little League mom who was threatening the coach--so much so it's going to court. Even my grandson's Little League team is not immune from such drama since one of the parents was thrown out of the game not once but twice this season. Also, who can forget the video footage outside the Casey Anthony trial with both men and women engaging in physical violence (one man is in a choke hold by another)? This scuffle evidently was over someone trying to cut in line for a spectator seat. My favorite example concerns two women in a Trader Joe's store fighting over the last package of frozen tofu Thai food. One was an opera singer and the other, I believe, was a TV personality.

Surely there must be a better way to solve conflicts other than resorting to fisticuffs. I believe reality shows have surely been an influence on our poor behavior. For years, audiences have been watching the Jerry Springer, Maury Povich type of TV shows where people shout each other down and physically assault each other. Even though some shows don't actually have these types of behaviors, the verbal smack downs are just as damaging as guests talk over each others' points. Should there not be some rules of behavior in reality? Do ratings usurp civility?

Gail Sheehy and Me

In regard to Gail Sheehy and me, we have traveled down the same paths for years. She, of course, is the well-known author of Passages published a number of years ago, and I--well, I am simply a follower of her ideas on developmental life stages. Some thirty years ago I was a graduate student at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville seeking an idea upon which to write my dissertation. My classes in higher education focused on developmental life stages as presented in Sheehy's research but also that of Daniel Levinson and Roger Gould, among others. I knew that Sheehy was just a few years older than I, so in some ways I felt as if we were sisters on this walk through the labyrinth of life. Now I know we are.

Last week I had an opportunity to hear Gail Sheehy speak as part of a program in Springdale, Arkansas, on aging. Her focus has now shifted from the early twenties and onward of one's life where the energy is spent getting an education, breaking away from one's parents, and establishing a career. Usually there is also a love interest followed by marriage and children. The years quickly march into the forties where one is now more thoughtful regarding the goals in life: Have I reached my career goal? Is there life after 40? How can I give back to society? Sheehy is now lecturing on the latter part of life, especially the task of caregiving to a spouse who's ill. Her own husband battled cancer for a number of years before his death recently.

While it might be depressing for some to reflect upon how quickly life goes, for Gail Sheehy and me, it is just a fact of life. We can even appreciate the joys of aging and its challenges ahead. Sheehy has at least made the life stages understandable and given us the knowledge that we are not alone.

Adolescents in Wartime

I have been inundated lately with images of adolescents in war from both my reading and my film experiences. The movie Winter in Wartime, set in World War II in the Netherlands, revealed the conflict of a young adolescent boy. The boy disliked his father's seeming acquiescence to the Nazi occupiers while he admired his uncle's seeming involvement in the resistance movement. When he has an opportunity to choose sides with his discovery of an injured Allied pilot near his home, he does so and eventually assists the pilot to safety. In the process, he becomes a man quickly. The novel The Book Thief by Markus Zusak also features a young protagonist who befriends a neighbor girl and is killed, while sleeping, in a bombing raid. In the film White Material, a story about a civil war in an African country, we see young boys armed with machetes. Even in our own newscasts recently, we are beginning to hear of young boys who are just twelve years old being armed with guns, and that is a frightening reality, not fiction.

I try to imagine what it would be like here in America to put children at such risk at such an early age. My granddaughter who's twelve spends her summer days at the pool with her friends and many of her nights at her girlfriends' houses watching movies and endlessly texting others. Her adulthood will come soon enough, and these days will later be prefaced in her conversations with, "Back in the day . . . . " After growing up too fast myself as a child with an alcoholic father, a clinically depressed mother, and a broken home, I am happy that my grandchildren have peace obviously, but I worry about the millions of children who are experiencing the stresses of war today in Syria, Africa, Afghanistan, Iraq, and other countries. What will their future be?

Highlighting Anthony Weiner's Packages

Just about all that can be said on the Anthony Weiner debacle has been said in the past few weeks. America watched as the denials came early that Weiner's Facebook account had been hacked and that the semi-nude pictures of him sent to young women were not his. After ten days or so of interviews and constant questions, Weiner issued a press statement that, indeed, he did send the pictures. Now he has resigned from Congress. As a literature teacher for most of my career, the situational ironies are strong.

For one who had been the dramatic center (and screamer) for Democratic party issues for years, Weiner found himself the dramatic center of ridicule by women and jokes by the late night comedians. The incident seems to dismiss the idea once and for all that Jewish males are repressed. The notion of using Bill and Hillary Clinton as confidantes (after all they have been through with Bill's sexual escapades) is startling. Talking dirty on the camera while family pictures are in the background of the shot is just plain wrong. Just when one thinks an easy divorce would definitely be plausible for the Weiners, the announcement comes through that his wife is pregnant. I am sure Weiner's thrill of "highlighting his package" is now diminished.

If that news isn't enough, we now learn about the retirement "package" worth $1.2 million that now awaits Weiner. I taught over twenty years at a university, and my retirement was worth less than l/10 of that amount. The argument, of course, is that Weiner was not charged with a crime, and he deserves a nice package for his service to the country. I somehow doubt American taxpayers feel the same way.

Winter and Springtime With Leo

It's been popular in recent years for many people to write their bucket lists, in other words everything they would still like to do before they die. I am no exception. Even though I have taught Russian literature at my university three times in the past, I have never completely read Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace. That is until now.

Of course, it's always daunting to begin reading a novel that is not only so famous in the world of literature but is also so long--1358 pages in my edition. At the beginning of the New Year, I had hoped that one year would be long enough for me to complete my task; I am happy to report that it took just twenty-two weeks. I found the novel to be everything all the critics of the past had found it to be: simply a spectacular chronicle of love and war during the Napoleonic period of European history.

Since the novel is universal in scope, all of the major themes of two-hundred years ago still abound today. There are young men, Andrey and Pierre, who are always idealistic at the beginning of war and hope to make a name for themselves through heroic acts of valor. There are emperors like Napoleon and Alexander who fight wars for seemingly no reason as they march their soldiers from West to East and then from East to West. There are old leaders who listen to the advice of many of their officers but follow none of it. There are beautiful women like Natasha who somehow turn into slovenly, dominate women after marriage. There are the inevitable questions raised regarding our mission in life and the question of free will vs. fate. There are questions to God regarding the suffering that takes place as one moves through life. Near the end of the novel, Tolstoy concludes, "Life is everything. Life is God. Everything is in flux and movement, and this flux is God. . . . To love life is to love God. The hardest and the most blessed thing is to love this life even in suffering, innocent suffering."

In spite of its daunting, weighty appearance, I highly recommend this novel to those seeking to reflect upon the big issues of life which are also quite weighty themselves.

My Grandson, the Capitalist

I talked to my five-year-old grandson, Cole, a little bit on the telephone last night. He gave me specific instructions as to how I was to complete his upcoming birthday check for $6 (one dollar for every year of his life) plus $1 to "grow on" as his other grandmother, Grand Jenkie, does. He also has become aware that I have had in my possession for a number of years a few silver dollars. He is now planning his next trip from his home in Seattle to ours in Little Rock in order to personally take a few of those home with him. Who knew that my politically liberal daughter would give birth to a budding capitalist?

It almost seems as if the old Michael Fox, Meredith Baxter television show from the '80's is now replaying in our lives. We all remember the politically conservative son born to the union of two ex-hippies that created the humor of the show. It does seem in our family that the apple has fallen far from the tree also.

Recently, Cole's teacher in kindergarten sent a note home to his mom saying that no money was allowed at school. It seems that he likes to have money jingling in his pocket at all times and has recently opened a savings account for himself. All in the family wonder where this interest has originated.

Hopefuly, as Cole grows older, he will keep in mind the importance of giving to charity and helping those who have less than he. Who knows--in a couple of years, he might begin his sentences with "Back in the day when I was a capitalist, . . . ."

Grandma, Baseball, and Apple Pie

My husband and I have been spending a lot of time this spring on the baseball fields of Little Rock in order to watch our twelve-year-old granddaughter and our eight-year-old grandson play. Though a few of the games have been rained out with the extraordinary amount of moisture we have had this spring, they have been able to play most of them. The evenings are cool, often requiring a light jacket, as we put up our folding chairs and sit under the blooming red bud tree near the pitcher's mound. Nothing could be a better slice of Americana perhaps than apple pie.

Our grandson takes the game quite seriously and spends hours in the front yard throwing, catching, hitting, and fielding balls. When he missed catching two pop flies in a recent game, he immediately went home and practiced catching 100 in a row. He listens intently to his coaches as they give him instructions to improve his game. And . . . the discipline is improving his game. He played third base this week as the coaches moved him there from the field.

Our granddaughter, whom I had never seen throw a ball, hit a ball, or catch a ball before participating in softball this season, is doing well also--at least when she's concentrating on the game. Without her cell phone to text her friends for at least an hour, she must content herself in the field by standing beside her friend Stella and chatting away. As a city girl, the two hours (and more in practice) of fresh air has to be good for her body I believe.

We have just three more weeks to enjoy America's favorite sport before the interests of the grandchildren will turn toward the swimming pool, golf and tennis lessons, and summer camps for both. For this Americana moment, however, we will bask in the spring evenings and wait later for the inevitable summer bugs buzzing endlessly around the lights and the monstrous mosquitoes that seem to arrive in mass.

Springing Through the Path

I go out the door on a startlingly beautiful spring day for my morning walk down by the railroad tracks. It is especially beautiful since the week has been filled with hundreds of tornadoes roaring through the South at a breakneck speed. Arkansas lost fourteen people. I think about the devastated families as I walk gingerly down the steep hill to my usual walking path.

The air is permeated with the scent of late April honeysuckle. The sounds around me are the clumping of my tennis shoes, the NPR station playing over my earphones, and the birds twittering away. I see a robin on a fence rail, squirrels scampering on the path as if feeling their social time had been rudely interrupted by the presence of a human, and two white-tailed bunnies fleeing for safety. I feel the leaves and twigs from the recent storms crunching under my feet. Many flower gardens are in full bloom with the Iris colors of white, purple, and yellow. The sun shines with no impeding clouds for the day, and the temperature is fifty degrees. I believe this day might be the last perfect day for a while again since storms are forecast again for the weekend--perhaps the last until Oct. as I know a long, hot summer is literally just around the corner.

As I continue to grow older, I find as much delight in nature as Wordsworth did in the English countryside in the nineteenth century. In college I used to laugh to myself at the simple Romantic messages of his poems, the daffodils which he recounts while lying on his sofa recalling them, the "splendor in the grass" and "glory in the flower" as he recalls his days as a young man in school, and the simple nature walks with his sister. Now, some forty-five years later, I understand him. He was far deeper than I could have imagined.

The Weather and The Wedding

It seems that we have been inundated by two topics over the past couple of months--the numerous weather events across the South and the plans for the wedding between William and Catherine. The highs and lows have been reminding me of the precarious nature of life and love.

As a born and bred Southerner, the tornadoes in the spring are forever with us it seems. This year, however, has been record-setting with both the number of storms and the widespread death and destruction. Around 300 have died just this week. The storms seem to have no pattern in their attack and were capricious as they took an eight-month-old baby but left his parents unharmed. It has been rather disconcerting to see the media shift their emphasis often without a segue way between destruction and joy.

The good news is that the wedding in London has now gone off flawlessly, thanks t0 the very careful planning on how to manage millions of people in person. Even the rain predicted earlier in the week held off for the happy occasion. The new princess will, of course, walk somewhat in the shadow of William's mother, Diana, who this week has been variously described as "the people's princess" and a "nitwit hussy" (Ann Coulter).

The two themes of the spring just serve to remind us all to appreciate life and its joyful moments and hold them close to our heart. They unfortunately could all be blown away tomorrow.

The Unemployed Fishermen

I was watching the Sunday Morning program last week on CBS when I tuned in to a segment about the unemployment of middle-aged Americans and the difficulty of finding work again. At the end of the segment, one of the men being interviewed stated he would not give up--that it would be like going fishing and expecting to catch nothing. Since I had just been reading in my devotional book Our Daily Bread about Christ's disciples returning to their occupation of fishing after the crucifixion of Jesus, I started thinking about their three years of unemployment. After all, they gave up three years of their lives to follow the man Jesus. Now he was gone again, and life must return to normal. At this point of the gospel, the disciples realize they are catching absolutely no fish. A man on the shore instructs them to cast the net to the right side of the boat. They do so and find their nets so full of fish (one hundred and fifty-three) that they had trouble drawing them all in. Once ashore, they realize it is the resurrected Christ who had prepared a fire to cook the fish. The story reminds me again that often, as we experience hard times, we feel discouraged and that our lives will never be the same again. Yet, God in his grace restores us to Himself once again and fills our boats with abundance.

The Beauty of "Biutiful"

A friend and I recently saw the film Biutiful with Javier Bardem. I knew that it would be bleak because I had already heard Bardem played a character who was dying. What I did not expect, however, was to see such an ugly underbelly of a world set in Barcelona, Spain. The entire film was shot in the slums of the city where Chinese immigrants struggle to survive in a Western European country. Uxbel, Bardem's character, has two children, a wife who is bi-polar, and a shady lifestyle where he is a middle-man for illegal activities. Essenially, there is no hope in this life for any type of redemption. Uxbel, however, though complicated manages to display a good heart in not wanting to give up on his wife, desiring to make sure his children are taken care of after his death, and endeavoring to make the Chinese immigrants' life better. Unfortunately, he dies without accomplishing any of these goals. His only hope is found in the film's last scene where the audience realizes he is in eternity and has been reunited with the father he never knew. The film would seem to hearken back to the belief that life on this earth is evil and that one must simply endure until heaven is reached where all the injustices of life such as crime, poverty, illness, and so on will be made right. My theology of the past has also taught these lessons in a similar way. Even though I now attend a church which says that this life is the "kingdom of God," it is hard to look around and realistically see the beauty of most people. In my opinion, the beauty of Biutiful is that it does offer hope to be reunited with our loved ones in eternity.

Memories of New York - A Poem Without Borders

Of Thee I Sing Too The MTA of New York City, filled with expressionless riders, primarily of One color—brown. Exhausted faces looking at no one. Grandson struggles to avoid the sleeping, homeless man who keeps leaning Precariously close to his shoulder. Miraculously, at the next stop a youthful red-haired, one-man-band of a man Begins to sing and play his harmonica while clanging the cymbals Attached to his worn out jeans with holes. The also worn faces in the car awake and begin to smile not only at the singer but also to each other. A boat ride to Liberty Island and Ellis Island this lovely-lit Friday afternoon, Mashed and compacted like subway riders riding endlessly below The city skyline, holding on to the poles as the boat sways one way And then another. Is this the way the immigrants felt as they crossed the ocean in their bid for A forever freedom? Until . . . at last . . . they were greeted by the famed Statue of Liberty and Began swelling with hope and joy to find a friend in America. The ever-present silent mime at the corner of Central Park, always willing To pose with all who would but contribute $3 to the bucket, Dressed as the Statue of Liberty with her torch held high, Face and draping clothes painted silver, Covering grandson with an American flag as he joyfully grins for the camera. The golden bull of a statue representing the perhaps forever gone times of Wall Street, Hoards of crowds hovering to get a photograph to take home. The commericialism of the 5th Avenue and Times Square shopping areas As herds of tiny children pose by giant, savory, chocolate Easter bunnies at Dylan’s Candy Bar or a massive Lego Chewbacca In FAO Swartz or the T-Rex in Toys R Us. Grandson ecstatic as he fills his candy jar full of M & M’s, jelly beans, Jolly Ranchers, and other delights. Is our country great or what? America, of thee I sing too.

The Peanut Butter and Jelly Bomber

On my flight home from a recent trip to New York, I once again encountered the airline security police. The flights to Northwest Arkansas through Chicago would take me directly to a spring break week with my two grandchildren, Caitlyn and Charlie, plus Caitlyn's friend. I put a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly into my carry on bag to ensure a quick meal at the cabin where we were staying in Eureka Springs. Evidently, according to my husband, I did not read the "restricted items" list. I admit I did not, but I knew all prescriptions had to be put in clear quart size bags for inspection, all cosmetics had to be in three ounce size bottles. no liquids of any kind would be allowed like bottled water from home, and on and on. I reasoned to myself that peanut butter and jelly were no liquids. Upon removing my vest, jacket, shoes, coins, watch, jewelry, and belt to go through the security line, I heard the dreaded words from one of the officials, "bag check." I saw the next woman put on her plastic gloves and thought, "I wonder what they saw." She immediately took out the peanut butter and jelly and tossed them into a large garbage container where they hit the bottom with a breaking thud. Our homeland security chief Janet appears on television regularly to assure the public that, yes indeed, our rules are being relaxed every day. I am still waiting for good common sense to prevail as an Anglo American grandmother goes through a security line.

Blackberry Moms

I have heard in recent months about the effect of technology on parenting. I have seen scenes on television of children looking longingly at the parent while the parent is using a Blackberry, for example. My own experience into the phenomenon has now been widened to include an actual observance of my daughter and five-year-old grandson in this mode. I was blessed earlier this month to be invited to be a nanny to my grandson in New York City while his mom was on a business trip. I loved New York and the times I shared with Cole, my grandson, for two full weeks. We did all kinds of activities in the city--two children's museums, two zoos, two trips to the famous Toys R Us location in Times Square with the Ferris wheel and roaring T-Rex, a dance on the big piano in FAO Swartz, a fun time at Dylan's Candy Bar, the St. Patrick's Day Parade, the play Mary Poppins, and numerous other experiences. I can't imagine how I would have held a Blackberry and been able to communicate with Cole. My daughter, however, is much better at multi-tasking than I. I first observed her in the backyard patio of the apartment we rented in Brooklyn. The landlords had put in a basketball goal, swing, slide, and play area for their children, Ella and Cole (yes, another Cole). Our Cole loved this area and was able to develop his skills of dribbling and shooting baskets while we were there. On one morning, Kimberly (our daughter) was waiting for an e-mail confirmation. She held her Blackberry in her right hand and shot several baskets with her left hand at the same time. I was amazed. I have also observed her ability to keep three conversations going at once--to her son, to me, and to the Blackberry tweets. Cole even became so interested in this process that, before our time ended in New York, he sent his first e-mail to his mom, knowing that she would read it almost immediately on her Blackberry. I, at this point, am still unsure about the intervention of technology on our parenting roles. Future research will show us whether this will be a positive or negative influence upon our children overall in their development. For me, the jury is still out.

Frugal Fatigue . . . For Sixty Plus Years

I finally discovered the name of a problem this week that I have had for sixty plus years. It was on one of the morning television shows that it was called by name: frugal fatigue. While the name perhaps is new, brought about by the Great Recession of the past two and one-half years, the symptoms have been around forever. It's realizing that one should save money in order to pay bills and certainly not go out and buy a new car, a new house, or take a nice vacation. It's very difficult to live with that notion.

It started for me as the child of a single mother where money was always tight. I used to dream about finding change--quarters, nickels, dimes--in the grass. It was something I yearned for: to have my own money to buy a Coke if I wanted one. Later, as I began earning my own money, again my budget was very tight. After all, I had an apartment to pay for, food to buy, utilities to pay, and insurance premiums to pay. One of the greatest moments of my life occurred when I was nineteen and won a contest promoted by one of the local radio stations. I received $100 to buy some new clothes. It was a dream come true.

After marriage, my husband and I were students at the University of Mississippi in the late 1960's. We were blessed to receive the loans and grants we needed to pay tuition and buy books, but there was little left over for any fun purchases. We also had a new baby girl who needed money for formula, baby food, clothes, doctor, etc. In our thirties, we spent extra money on private school tuition for our two little ones. We sent them to a Christian secondary school for a total of twenty-two years. In addition, I received my doctorate, paying for every hour of education myself. Then came college tuition and expenses for the growing young adults in our family.

Finally, both children were fully educated, and my husband could take additional college classes to work on his CPA. It was then that he was downsized at age 57 from his position at a local hospital. He has now been retired for thirteen years; I have been retired for five. It seems as if, historically, we have always been in a recession in the U. S., which did not help our frugal fatigue either.

The good news is that our family has been healthy, the children have children, the children have good jobs and are taking care of their families, but nonetheless they are also now experiencing frugal fatigue. My daughter has told me through the years that one day she expected me to just leave and live at the foot of Pike's Pike in a cabin alone. She might still be right. Frugal fatigue over a sixty plus period is causing me to consider quite stongly the idea of getting into my 2004 Vibe and driving west with my credit card in tow. After all, I have a few thousand dollars left before my limit is reached.

A Tale of Two Men

We recently learned of the death of physical fitness expert Jack LaLanne who lived to be in his early nineties. Of course, he exercised every day of his life and ate healthy foods. In the day before our society became obsessed with fitness, we used to think he was an oddity. Today, however, we would expect no less of a long life span for Jack.

On the other hand, my father-in-law is still relatively healthy and is also in his nineties. For years his diet was fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy every Sunday, bacon and eggs every morning, and lots of fast food carry-outs. He also has a history of heart attacks in his family since his mother and two brothers died of the disease. He has never exercised. Who can determine the lifespan of a man (or woman)? We normally think lifestyle combined with good healthy food will lead to a long life, but he is an anomaly.

But still . . . with our desire to live forever on this earth . . . we continue to do our best to count calories, to cut portions, and to exercise. Who knows . . . perhaps it will truly help to extend our quality of life as we age.

Tucson and "Second Amendment Remedies"

The recent tragedy at Tucson with the killing of six people and the wounding of many others again raises the question of gun control. The Republican senate nominee, Sharron Angle, made headlines during the 2010 campaign with her statement that "second amendment remedies" might be necessary to consider. As I think about the Tuscon tragedy, I have to raise a question that many of us have considered: Would a person with a concealed weapon in the crowd that Saturday morning been able to kill the shooter and lessen the number of people injured or killed? There is always a possibility that more people would have been killed unless the concealed weapon shooter was blessed with a deadly aim for the enemy.

I have been a fan of gun control, and have been for years, since my father was shot three times and killed by a shooter in 1976. Even if I reluctantly agree to keeping some guns on the street in the hands of civilians, I certainly would remove any possibility of purchasing guns with multiple shot capability. While I am not naive enough to believe that insane killers would simply go away, after all they can kill with knives as they do in other countries, I believe limits and extensive background checks would lessen this violence. After all, guns are the weapons of choice in America. Why not work to at least raise the question once again in Congress?

Parallel Universes

Our Spiritual Formation class has been in quite a tizzy lately as we seem to have two groups of people representing two approaches to theology. One is the atheistic-scientific-humanist philosophy that wants to weigh and measure all things spiritual, i. e. if one cannot see or prove the event through history, then it must be metaphorical or symbolic. Another is the philosophy of faith believing that it is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." I believe we simply live in a world of parallel universes.

The discussion has been ongoing for the five years we have participated in this class. The atheistic-scientific-humanist group is not convinced that eternal life is a possibility, that Jesus was both divine and human (perhaps they say he was the son of a Roman soldier), that there was likely no Resurrection, and that Jesus was not born in Bethlehem, that there was no census to bring Mary and Joseph there. It believes Jesus was simply a victim of the evil Roman Empire and that God never intended to send Him as a sacrifice for the sins of humanity.

The other group believes in the Truth of the Bible, but of course gives credence to the idea that the Bible does speak and teach through many parables and many metaphors. Essentially, this group believes in miracles and that God indeed does intervene in the affairs of the world. It believes that the Bible was written by humans but by those who were inspired by God. How can the two views be reconciled?

The Episcopal Church states a theology based upon reason, tradition, and the Bible, yet it seems that in some circles reason is becoming the dominant tenet of the church. My question is this: If God does not interfere in the affairs of humankind, why should one bother to pray, to attend church, or even to attempt to live a moral life? On the other hand, if we believe in answered prayer and seek to live as Jesus lived--loving God and loving our neighbors, are we not better people? Do we not have hope not only for this Kingdom on earth but also for the eternal Kingdom ahead? I choose to believe in the philosophy of faith. While I have only anecdotal evidence (much of it) of the presence and working of God in my life through the past sixty plus years, it is enough. I am not convinced the parallel universes will ever come together.

"I've Grown Old"

After recently viewing the new version of True Grit, I have realized how quickly the years have gone by since I saw the original version with John Wayne. It was 1969, and my husband and I were college students at the University of Mississippi. We had a one-year-old daughter and were still in our twenties. The world "so various, so beautiful, so new" lay before us. Having grown up in underclass, or nearly so, households, we were excited about the move into the middle class with all its possibilities. Now, some forty plus years later, I can identify with the latest view of life from the 2010 version of the film. Rooster Cogburn runs across the landscape near the end of the film carrying Mattie Ross in his arms. Time is of the essence since she has been bitten by a poisonous snake. He exclaims, "I've grown old." So have we all.

Since we are just a few days into 2011, the time is always ripe for setting new goals and resolutions. I am proud to say that I have kept quite a few of my last year's plans: to lose weight (forty-three pounds last year), to write down a "quietly joyful moment" each day of the year, and to love and see my family more. The year just past was a good one. We enjoyed a great trip to Seattle and to Victoria, B.C. to see our daughter and grandson last June. We were able to be together as a family for a short week along with our son and two grandchildren from Little Rock.

This year I want to continue my resolutions from 2010 but also add a few more. I want to write more stories and poems. I have been blessed to read two pieces recently on NPR's "Tales from the South" program, and I hope to submit more for consideration. I want to pursue getting my novel published, which has essentially sat in a drawer since I completed it in 2004. I have realized that even at age sixty-six that one's productive years do not have to be over.

Yes, the years do go by so quickly. I always remember the old adage though that it's not the number of years one has but the quality that's important. I hope to live life to the utmost in the time I have remaining--before the next version of True Grit.