Pondering Change

Even while vacationing here in Maine, the first thing that came to my mind as I awoke this morning were the events of 9/11.  How those events changed and shaped our lives and the course of world history!  When our children were little and wanted to go somewhere for an outing, we would often take them to the airport to watch the airplanes land and take off.  We could roam the airport at will back then and I can still see their little noses pressed against the windows along the concourses.  There was no TSA; no security lines through which one had to pass.  The world changed on 9/11 and we can never return to the world we knew before, just as we cannot return to the world “that was” before Pearl Harbor.  

The same can be said for Hurricanes Harvey and Irma.  Just as Katrina changed New Orleans and the lives of thousands, so these storms will change Houston, TX and Naples, FL and so many other places.  More significant is that fact that it will forever affect those who were victims, those who lost everything.  The world so many knew before Harvey and Irma is gone—a new world dawns, a new stream of history—and even with all the resources available, they will never be able to return to the world “that was” before.

Here we are in Maine, at a campground we have visited several times before, but now under new ownership.  Even this place has changed and will never be what it “appeared to be” when we first visited some eight years ago.  Everything changes—including me!

Yesterday we stopped at a small local eating establishment—just a little place with a few tables covered with vinyl tablecloths—a place where the locals go. I came to Maine for clam chowder and lobster and decided to get started on my agenda right away, so I ordered chowder.  (I’m still not sure if I said, “clam” chowder or just “chowder”).  When the waitress brought the big bowl of “chowder” I noted that it had big chunks of fish in it.  “Is this clam chowder?” I asked.  “No,” she said, “it’s ‘haddock’ chowder.  We don’t have any ‘clam’ chowder.” Now if I had known they only served “haddock” chowder I would never have ordered it (I’m not big on fish in my chowder).  All my hesitation about “haddock” chowder, however, vanished at first taste and I ate the whole bowl and could have gone for more!     Changes in history, circumstances, attitudes, and even our eating preferences come with every passing day.  There is no going back, not ever—we have only one option—to move forward as best we can, letting go of the old that once was (clam chowder) and taking on the new as it comes to us (haddock chowder).

Ramblin’ Fever

We are not being forced to evacuate from the path of Hurricane Irma, but we plan to evacuate tomorrow anyway because of the need to get “On the Road Again.”  This journey to visit family in New Jersey and then a brief excursion into Maine for some lobster and clam chowder was planned long before Irma became a "real and present danger.”  Odysseus, our miniature RV, needs some exercise and I need to be on the road again.  I am not yet ready to sing that old “Scouting” song, “Back to Gilwell:”

I used to be a traveler and a happy traveler too

But now I've through with traveling

I don't know what to do

I'm growing old and feeble, I cannot travel no more

So I'm going to buy my ticket if I can.

I prefer to hold on to the attitude of Douglas MacArthur:  “Years wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.”  Who wants a wrinkled soul? I’m going to wander the highways and byways whenever and wherever I can, for as long as I can!  I really get enthused about doing so!

I prefer to sing Merle Haggard’s song:

My hat don't hang on the same nail too long

My ears can't stand to hear the same old song

And I don't leave the highway long enough

To bog down in the mud

'Cause I've got ramblin' fever in my blood

I caught this ramblin' fever long ago

When I first heard a lonesome whistle blow

….

I've had ramblin' fever all along

Ramblin' fever, the kind that can't be measured by degrees

Ramblin' fever, there ain't no kind of cure for my disease

It should be said, however, that a gypsy soul is not prevented from “ramblin’” even when off the road.  Erich Fromm put it this way:

“Let your mind start a journey thru a strange new world.  Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before.  Let your soul take you where you long to be…Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar, and you’ll live as you’ve never lived before.”

Care: The Unifying Principle

Hurricane Harvey’s massive onslaught in Texas and Louisiana, and now Hurricane Irma’s powerful winds threatening Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas (with two more hurricanes in the wings) make Charles Dickens’ words real in our time:  “It was the worst of times.  It was the best of times.”  It is the worst of times because lives have been lost and homes and businesses destroyed.  It is the best of times because of the heroism, the neighborliness, and the outpouring of money and care that people and government are giving to those who have lost so much.  In the midst of the storms (and the wildfires in the West) comes an all-embracing and unconditional caring without regard to power, wealth, race, class or creed.  We’ve seen this outpouring through the media and we hope it will continue in the aftermath of these catastrophic storms.

Arnold Toynbee wrote:  “Love is the ultimate force that makes for the saving choice of life and good against the damning choice of death and evil.  Therefore the first hope in our inventory must be the hope that love is going to have the last word.”  Elton Trueblood thought  the word “Love” had become an outworn word in our time.  He chose to use the word “Care” instead.  Will “Care” among us have the last word?  Is Love really at the heart of all things?  It is my hope, my faith, and my dream that it is and that it will be the last word.

A sense of  community is displayed in the midst of all the various storms of life and my prayer is that this sense of “community” will continue to thrive when the storms subside.  The rejection of community is individualism, deified in the American ethos as “rugged individualism.”  This self-centered, ego-driven ethos says, “I made it—why can’t you?”  We have all bought into  this destructive and silly American falsehood that anyone who tries hard enough can make it.  It is all up to the individual!  This is just not so and it certainly is not so for those who have (through no fault of their own) suffered the devastating effects of Harvey and Irma.  They won’t make it, they can’t make it, without caring neighbors and a caring government.

American Homogeneity?

Homogeneity is defined as “the quality or state of being all the same or all of the same kind.”  This was the goal of the Immigration Act of 1924, which congressman Albert Johnson (who co-authored the bill with Senator David Reed) called a bulwark against “a stream of alien blood…”  The Immigration Act of 1924 was primarily aimed at restricting Southern and Eastern Europeans, especially Italians and Eastern European Jews from entering the United States.  The Law, in all practicality, banned Africans, Arabs and Asians from the US.  Why?  Johnson was a self-avowed racist and nativist.  Both Johnson and Reed were blunt and honest about the purpose of their bill.  Reed said all earlier immigration legislation “disregards entirely those of us who are interested in keeping American stock up to the highest standards—that is the people who were born here.”  Johnson was opposed to interracial marriage and supported forced sterilization of the mentally disabled and appears to have been Anti-Semitic.  The new Law would, they said,   maintain the racial preponderance of the basic strain of our people and therefore stabilize the ethnic composition of the population”—American homogeneity.  The Immigration Act of 1924 passed with an overwhelming majority.

Just a few years later, in Germany, Hitler would use the same logic to support his Aryan Nation notions of a Master race.  Johnson, Reed, and Hitler were, at least, honest.  Homogeneity was their primary goal.

Yesterday, the Attorney General of the United States, announced the ending of DACA, by declaring the Obama era order unconstitutional.  The President of the United States said, “I have a great heart for these folks we are talking about…I have a love for these people…”

There is a need, and there has been a need for a long time, for immigration reform.  It is the duty of congress to act on this issue.  However, it is important that we be honest about this immigration business.  What is it that we really want?  Do we want American homogeneity?  (The very concept is anathema to me and the only way it could possibly happen is via a great purging—and even that won’t do the trick).  If the goal is American homogeneity (a totally unreal goal)—say so, openly and honestly.  Don’t hedge, don’t tell falsehoods, be up front with your agenda.   Don’t couch it in the slogan “Make America Great Again.”

The United States is a nation of diversity.  It was from the very beginning and will continue to be in the future.  The very term, “American homogeneity” is a falsehood.

Memories

It seems (as I think about it this morning) as though it were only yesterday.  It was actually three years ago today.  I was awakened at 3 o’clock that morning by a telephone call from the hospice nurse.  She had called the day before about my mother’s condition, so the call was not a total surprise. She reported that Mom’s journey of 94 years was near its end.  I quickly threw the necessary stuff in an overnight bag and drove three and a half hours to New Jersey.  I arrived a few minutes after Mom’s passing. 

A mother holds an important place in a child’s life and the loss of a mother is hard to handle. Most of us have to experience it.  It cannot be avoided.  On Mother’s Day 2017, I wrote the following  letter to my mother.

Forgive me for seeing you only as “Mom” and missing the essence of who you were apart from being a mother to me—to all seven of us.  You did an exceptional job in the “Mom” role.  You put up with all our shenanigans of those early years (and the later years, too) with a patience beyond belief.  I remember you “yelling” at us in frustration, and “taking up the switch cut from the lilac bush” to straighten us out when we disobeyed or went astray.   As I think of those moments, I also remember how you sang to lull me into sleep, even though you could not carry a tune.  Sometimes, I hear you singing still, and in that singing now, as then, I never hear a discordant note!

As the years went by, you (along with Dad) were there, always there for us in all our pursuits, our struggles, and our joys. As parents you allowed us to plow our own furrows in the garden of life—not judging, not advising, not trying to direct (well, maybe sometimes) but simply watching patiently to see how straight our furrows might be.  If they turned out to be crooked, you did not badger us with an “I told you so,” but rather supported us in whatever circumstance or situation we had created for ourselves.  We always knew we were loved “just as we were” at any given moment.

But, Mom, you were more than a mother and I was blind not see it.  You had a “life” apart from motherhood, apart from your seven children, and even apart from Dad.  You had dreams and aspirations and I did not and do not know, even now, what they were.  You experienced your own struggles, your own hopes, your own difficulties, and I never knew or paid much attention to what they were.  You had your circle of friends, a personal faith, a life of your own, that I did not know.  You were my Mom, our Mom, and we were blind to the beauty of the person you were outside of that role.  Forgive me for seeing you only as “Mom.”  I see now that you had value because you were a Person, not just “Mom!”

Fall (Autumn), “The Fall” & “My Fall”

Fall is in the air.  I can smell it coming and see it in the way the grass and flowers are beginning  to fade and as some yellow leaves fall from the trees.  The bees still hover over the dahlia and hosta blooms and butterflies still flit through the air.  The hummingbird still comes to the feeder, but I can sense Fall (Autumn) is on its way. Then comes winter, then spring and summer once again and the story goes on.

According to the Bible the first “Fall” was a real disaster. The story of that Fall is told in the book of Genesis.  Adam and Eve, urged on by the serpent, ate the fruit in the center of the garden of Eden and became “as gods, knowing absolutely what is good and what is evil.” According to the story, this first Fall brought enmity among human kind, made work a curse, and the world became a broken place. Eve blames the serpent, Adam blames Eve, and all blame God! And Cain kills Abel. The epitome of sin is separation from God, from our neighbors, and from ourselves.   The story of this first Fall (fact, fiction, or myth) continues,  we are still terribly divided and our world is still terribly broken.  Many “Falls’ have happened in our history since that first one, but it doesn’t have to be the end of our story.

“My Fall” occurred twenty-three years ago today and not a single Labor Day has gone by since that I do not think about it.  It was quite traumatic.  I fell about thirty-five feet—from the dormer roof of an old Victorian three-story house, then bounced off the porch roof, and then to the ground.  I have no serpent to blame, nor can I blame my fall on the rope which was supposed to hold the ladder in place. It happened—I fell! The helicopter ride to Shock Trauma—the surgery that followed my arrival—have grown dim with the passage of time.  I live with titanium strips in my right cheek and a plastic eye socket.  I can predict with some accuracy the coming of rain or snow with my inner facial hardware.  My journey, fortunately, continues on.

Fall comes every year, followed by winter, then by spring and summer.  “The Fall” of biblical story is not the end of the story.  “My Fall” was not the end of my story.  

Empty Chairs and Empty Tables

My favorite musical is Les Miserables.  I listen to the Original London Cast recording often.  Each time I do so,  I recall seeing the musical in 2002 at the Palace Theatre in London.  The small group of fellow travelers who attended the show with me included Tom, a long-time friend.  As the show ended, I looked over at Tom and saw tears streaming down his face.  Tom never was the kind of guy to let his emotions show, but that night he just couldn’t hold back those tears.

The musical, Les Miserables, is based on a historical novel by Victor Hugo, written in 1862, and considered “one of the half-dozen greatest novels of the world” (Upton Sinclair).  Hugo wrote in his  Preface:  “So long as there shall exist, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation, which, in the face of civilization, artificially creates hells on earth, and complicates a destiny that is divine with human fatality; so long as the three problems of the age—the degradation of man…the ruin of women [by starvation], and the dwarfing of childhood by physical and spiritual night—are not solved;…so long as ignorance and misery remain on earth, books like this cannot be useless.” 

The novel itself has probably been read by only a few in our modern time, but the musical, “Les Miserables,” has been seen around the world by over 60 million people.  Hugo’s story was not useless, and perhaps, through the musical, the artificially created hells on earth (both those hells of the past and the hells of the present) can be redeemed by those of us, who like Tom, cannot hold back our tears over the world as it is and the world as it is meant to be.

Tom recently died and that is the reason I am remembering his tears that night, fifteen years ago, at the Palace Theatre.  We were friends for over forty years.  The music of Les Miserables has a song for every thing, including the loss of friends:

There’s a grief that can’t be spoken

There’s a pain goes on and on

Empty chairs at empty tables

…

Phantom faces at the window

Phantom shadows on the floor

Empty chairs at empty tables

Where my friends will meet no more.