From our earliest childhood we drill. No, not for oil. But we get up from our little desks, file out calmly and proceed to the designated area. The alarm equipment is tested, the fire wardens check all the rooms to ensure everyone has left their rooms, and no stragglers were dilly-dallying in the restrooms. Radio and television stations test their equipment on a regular basis, weekly for some types, monthly for others. The Emergency Broadcast System began in 1963, but as of 1994 is called the Emergency Alert System. As an adult now when the fire drill occurs, I get up from my little desk, move calmly to the hallway with my colleagues where we listen to the ear-piercing alarm until the building people give us the all-clear.
At my company we also have regular drills to test our readiness should there be any need to respond to an emergency. We try to simulate real life situations so that if an actual emergency were to occur, we would be prepared, because we had already simulated it -- as best we could.
People who enjoy cruises know the fun of the muster drill, where all passengers and crew report to their designated locations with lifejackets before the ship is permitted to leave port. Feeling dorky in the orange lifejacket and listening to the locations to be used in an emergency evacuation may sound pretty dull. After all, no one ever expects an emergency.
But what happens when the lights and A/C go off unexpectedly? After a bit an alarm sounds. The thought occurs, is this an actual emergency or just another drill for the crew? So, open the door to the cabin. Uh-oh. There is smoke in the hallway. Not a lot of smoke, but it's definitely smoke. No one needs to say, "get your medications and passport and be prepared to evacuate the ship." Then on the loudspeaker, instructions to stay in the cabin until further notice. Further notice arrives about one minute later in the form of a uniformed crew member saying to get off the ship, gangway is on deck three. The other crew members direct passengers through the halls to reach the proper stairwells to deck three (fire doors have been closed).
So we left everything behind except the most essential of the essentials. I put on the most practical clothing I could think of, because somehow I knew we were not getting back on the ship. What started at 9:00 a.m. did not end until 4:30 the next morning, finally arriving in Miami at a hotel with only the clothes we were wearing and the essentials I gathered.
We learned somewhere along the way there had been an explosion and two fires, but more tragically, three people died. The cruise people handled everything with great professionalism and compassion. They provided water almost immediately once we were outside. Everyone remained calm --except one passenger who wanted to fight, as though that would help -- and waited. Arrangements for food and shelter were made relatively fast. Buses arrived to carry us to the ferry terminal, what some people referred to as the warehouse, where there were bathrooms, chairs and a TV. People were able to roam around, visit and stretch their legs. No air conditioning, but a few fans circulated the air in the tropical climate as the waiting continued. Another cruise ship sent over sandwiches, cookies, chicken strips, apples, bananas, and juice.
Finally, the plans came together. Chartered jets arrived to start taking passengers to Miami. With that many people it was impossible to cram them all onto one flight. The last group stayed over in hotels on the island before being flown back to Miami.
I was really tired when we were going through customs in Miami after the four-hour flight wearing the same clothes I'd had on for an extremely long time. We arrived with no toiletries, clothes, shoes, comb, or any of the other ordinary items needed for another human to be close to us. However, once we arrived at the hotel all we had to do was tell them our names and they gave us our room keys, along with a gift bag containing toothbrushes, toothpaste and deodorant. The next morning we stumbled downstairs to a breakfast buffet, compliments of the cruise line. Immediately thereafter we struck out for a store to get a change of clothes and make our plans to get back home.
So what's the bottom line? I cannot thank the cruise people enough for their kindness and concern for our well-being. They obviously had thought through the "what-ifs" before this event actually happened. The president and COO flew to the island and personally shook the hand of each one of us as we were leaving for Miami. He apologized to each one of us and said he was sorry. That by itself would not fix anything, but it goes a long way in today's world of corporations denying any responsibility for wrongdoing. I appreciated it. I will definitely cruise with this group again. I love them more than I did before.
I also appreciated the compassion shown by everyone at the hotel. They wanted to make our stay as pleasant as possible, knowing what we had just been through. Some of the people in our group were a bit traumatized at watching the rescue people performing CPR on one of the guys who ultimately did not make it. And many of the folks are a bit elderly and this experience was quite difficult for them physically.
I'm glad we practice for emergencies such as this. There was no anxiety or worry about what to do. It was simply a matter of following the instructions we learned during the drill.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Come, Ye Thankful
In our family we have a tradition. We go around the room just before the Thanksgiving meal and each person says what he or she is thankful for that year. Part of the tradition is that I get to go last. I am usually so choked up listening to what everyone else has said that I can only squeak out a word or two.
This year everyone will be scattered to the four winds and we will not get the chance to follow our tradition. I am keeping the tradition all be myself -- but in another form -- here on my blog. I cannot limit myself to only one thing for which I am thankful. If anyone had told me this time last year that I would be losing both my mother and my mother-in-law before the arrival of another Thanksgiving, it would have grieved me terribly. On the other hand, knowing of their suffering, perhaps I am grateful that they have had their difficulties removed and are now in the far better place.
A milestone birthday was reached and for thirty years I have managed to go to hospitals only to visit others (or for minor tests for myself). How lucky is that! So I am extremely grateful for good health.
I still have the love of my life with me and we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary this year. Gotta be thankful for that one, too. I wake up next to him every morning, appreciating the fact that he is still here, that he still loves me, and that he is an all-round great guy.
And, I also appreciate the fact that we were able to be married. Not everyone is afforded that right. Marriage equality is not universal yet in this country, but I hope it will be one day -- and soon.
I am so very thankful for all the rest of my big family, as crazy as they all are. When it is time for them to step up, they do it, as they prove, over and over.
My friends, old and not so old, well I mean the ones that I have not known as long as some of the others -- I love and appreciate all of you. I learn something every day from you. You teach me to be a better person, mom, lawyer, manager -- or friend.
Our service members at home and away, and their families. They sacrifice so much. They have kept us free and they continue to protect us, even when we know nothing about the dangers at hand. God bless each of you for your service, past and present. And thank you for it.
For people who work at jobs that no one else wants, I appreciate and thank you. I remember doing some of those jobs. I worked in the cafeteria when I was a kid, cleaning trays, washing dishes and pots and pans to earn my school lunches. I worked in a grocery store, a department store, a restaurant, an answering service, and countless offices as the new kid assigned to send faxes, copy thousands of pages of documents, file untold numbers of pieces of paper in who knows how many file cabinets, and only someone in heaven can say how many phones I have answered and messages taken (or screwed up).
So for everyone who is working for a living, I love you and am so grateful for whatever you do, whether it is slaving over a hot stove to cook the meal I'm going to eat tonight or keeping the records straight at some big business so our American economy can keep chugging away for all of us, or anything else up and down the entire scale. I don't care if you speak English or Spanish or Spanglish or Vietnamese. Just, thank you.
This year everyone will be scattered to the four winds and we will not get the chance to follow our tradition. I am keeping the tradition all be myself -- but in another form -- here on my blog. I cannot limit myself to only one thing for which I am thankful. If anyone had told me this time last year that I would be losing both my mother and my mother-in-law before the arrival of another Thanksgiving, it would have grieved me terribly. On the other hand, knowing of their suffering, perhaps I am grateful that they have had their difficulties removed and are now in the far better place.
A milestone birthday was reached and for thirty years I have managed to go to hospitals only to visit others (or for minor tests for myself). How lucky is that! So I am extremely grateful for good health.
I still have the love of my life with me and we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary this year. Gotta be thankful for that one, too. I wake up next to him every morning, appreciating the fact that he is still here, that he still loves me, and that he is an all-round great guy.
And, I also appreciate the fact that we were able to be married. Not everyone is afforded that right. Marriage equality is not universal yet in this country, but I hope it will be one day -- and soon.
I am so very thankful for all the rest of my big family, as crazy as they all are. When it is time for them to step up, they do it, as they prove, over and over.
My friends, old and not so old, well I mean the ones that I have not known as long as some of the others -- I love and appreciate all of you. I learn something every day from you. You teach me to be a better person, mom, lawyer, manager -- or friend.
Our service members at home and away, and their families. They sacrifice so much. They have kept us free and they continue to protect us, even when we know nothing about the dangers at hand. God bless each of you for your service, past and present. And thank you for it.
For people who work at jobs that no one else wants, I appreciate and thank you. I remember doing some of those jobs. I worked in the cafeteria when I was a kid, cleaning trays, washing dishes and pots and pans to earn my school lunches. I worked in a grocery store, a department store, a restaurant, an answering service, and countless offices as the new kid assigned to send faxes, copy thousands of pages of documents, file untold numbers of pieces of paper in who knows how many file cabinets, and only someone in heaven can say how many phones I have answered and messages taken (or screwed up).
So for everyone who is working for a living, I love you and am so grateful for whatever you do, whether it is slaving over a hot stove to cook the meal I'm going to eat tonight or keeping the records straight at some big business so our American economy can keep chugging away for all of us, or anything else up and down the entire scale. I don't care if you speak English or Spanish or Spanglish or Vietnamese. Just, thank you.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Reflection
I think the death of someone close to us naturally causes us to reflect on our own mortality. Yesterday we laid our mother to rest. That is the euphemism that polite society uses when we really mean to say that we buried someone. Saying those words is much harder. And here I am driving back home the next day, still with the image of her casket in my mind's eye and the sight of the hole in the ground where her body was being placed. Well, technically I am not driving, I am in the passenger seat, otherwise I would not be able to write this.
The kind man who drove the van containing her casket from south Texas to very, very far northTexas, Donnie, asked if I wanted to stay for the closing of the grave. I thought about it, as though perhaps I had some duty to make certain it was done correctly, but ultimately decided I should trust the cemetery workers to do their jobs. Besides, I do not believe I wanted that last visual image to be quite so graphic.
When my grandmother died at the age of 91 one of my aunts, who at the time was 60 years old, told me she felt like an orphan. She was terribly distressed to lose her mother. I think I understand a little of what she meant. It is as though the last tie to your childhood is gone. In some cases it is the end of an era or the last of an entire generation. That is the case with my mother insofar as the Doyal side of the family goes. She was the last of that generation -- the last of the aunts and uncles on that side of the family. There is no one else to call and get stories, or to fact check, or ask when or why something happened.
So I am very grateful that during the last conversation we had, it occurred to me to ask some questions about my uncles. I had found some information on the ancestry.com site and asked her about it. Her answers were a bit surprising in one way, but not so much, really.
Death is not a subject our society confronts very comfortably. We talk all around it, but not head on. I would venture to say that most people have not been with someone as they actually die. We have more questions than answers and are not okay with even uttering the words death and dying. And yet, it is a fact that each of us must face. We owe it to our families and friends to have our affairs in order when that eventuality makes its way to our doorstep.
This is not doom and gloom by any means. It is a reminder that every day is special. Each day is a new beginning, with its own new dawn and it's own set of possibilities. My in-box will never be completely wiped out and there will always be something left undone from the day before. However, that does not mean I was a failure yesterday. It merely means I have a new reason to get up and try again to serve others and love the people sent my way today.
The kind man who drove the van containing her casket from south Texas to very, very far northTexas, Donnie, asked if I wanted to stay for the closing of the grave. I thought about it, as though perhaps I had some duty to make certain it was done correctly, but ultimately decided I should trust the cemetery workers to do their jobs. Besides, I do not believe I wanted that last visual image to be quite so graphic.
When my grandmother died at the age of 91 one of my aunts, who at the time was 60 years old, told me she felt like an orphan. She was terribly distressed to lose her mother. I think I understand a little of what she meant. It is as though the last tie to your childhood is gone. In some cases it is the end of an era or the last of an entire generation. That is the case with my mother insofar as the Doyal side of the family goes. She was the last of that generation -- the last of the aunts and uncles on that side of the family. There is no one else to call and get stories, or to fact check, or ask when or why something happened.
So I am very grateful that during the last conversation we had, it occurred to me to ask some questions about my uncles. I had found some information on the ancestry.com site and asked her about it. Her answers were a bit surprising in one way, but not so much, really.
Death is not a subject our society confronts very comfortably. We talk all around it, but not head on. I would venture to say that most people have not been with someone as they actually die. We have more questions than answers and are not okay with even uttering the words death and dying. And yet, it is a fact that each of us must face. We owe it to our families and friends to have our affairs in order when that eventuality makes its way to our doorstep.
This is not doom and gloom by any means. It is a reminder that every day is special. Each day is a new beginning, with its own new dawn and it's own set of possibilities. My in-box will never be completely wiped out and there will always be something left undone from the day before. However, that does not mean I was a failure yesterday. It merely means I have a new reason to get up and try again to serve others and love the people sent my way today.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Truly
I think a lot. I had a therapist once who told me I spend too much time inside my head. (I know you're thinking, gee -- I KNEW she'd been to therapy.) So, trying to practice that advice, I really do try to live in the moment and not just THINK about everything. But I cannot help it sometimes. It is my nature. It is a huge part of my job and it is a large chunk of what makes me who I am.
Thoughts, perhaps random, perhaps not:
1. What is the value of a life? What is the worth of one person's life over another person's? How can we measure, trade or compensate anyone for what has been lost? Or for what is being given? Yet, many people are asked every day to perform this thankless task. We ask juries this question when a wrongful death case is presented. Tribes have negotiated deals for millenia when harm came to one of its members and reparations were sought, or dowries given or prisoners ransomed -- or exchanged.
2. Not everything presented in the media is true. (I know. You're surprised.) Sometimes it may be the result of a mistake or an accident, such as the wrong picture next to the headline. Occasionally, it may be the agenda of a particular individual taking advantage of a situation in which other important information cannot be included for perfectly good reasons, such as attorney-client privilege (like me, the attorney, who cannot divulge a client's communications ... period) or other ethical codes under which one works. Or there may be top-secret, classified information that cannot and should not be divulged, no matter how badly the public clamors to know. How do I know of these things? Because I've been there -- at least on the attorney-client and ethics code end of things. I've seen the mistakes (and falsifications), but I simply cannot correct them. It would be a breach of my duty.
3. Should we be consistent in our beliefs about the value of life? A friend of mine once pointed out that at least he was consistent in his beliefs concerning abortion and capital punishment. He opposed both. If God loves each person the same and values no human above another, what does that say about the approach we should take? If God is the ultimate judge, why are we so quick to rush to judgment about what someone else may or may not have done? Especially someone whom we have never met, someone whose family is not ours, and whose business has little to do with our daily affairs?
4. Is it harder to get our own lives in order than it is to point the finger at others? I ask this question simply because I did spend so much time in therapy. I remember how hard it was doing all that work, looking inward, asking myself all those questions. Getting one's proverbial stuff together is not easy. It requires revisiting the past and trying to figure out what happened and why we reacted (translate: felt) the way we did. Feelings are hard. Most of the time we've covered a lot of that garbage up. And sometimes, sometimes, there are many miles that have been re-paved so many times, that digging through all those layers is darn near impossible. We did it that way on purpose. It is our protective coating. Designed to seal away the past, so far and so secure as to be impenetrable.
But there is danger in that approach. The danger is being out of touch. For when we become out of touch with our true, authentic self, we are out of touch with everyone else. And we are also out of touch with our Maker. We cannot know anyone truly until we know ourselves. And it is a lifelong journey. Truly.
Thoughts, perhaps random, perhaps not:
1. What is the value of a life? What is the worth of one person's life over another person's? How can we measure, trade or compensate anyone for what has been lost? Or for what is being given? Yet, many people are asked every day to perform this thankless task. We ask juries this question when a wrongful death case is presented. Tribes have negotiated deals for millenia when harm came to one of its members and reparations were sought, or dowries given or prisoners ransomed -- or exchanged.
2. Not everything presented in the media is true. (I know. You're surprised.) Sometimes it may be the result of a mistake or an accident, such as the wrong picture next to the headline. Occasionally, it may be the agenda of a particular individual taking advantage of a situation in which other important information cannot be included for perfectly good reasons, such as attorney-client privilege (like me, the attorney, who cannot divulge a client's communications ... period) or other ethical codes under which one works. Or there may be top-secret, classified information that cannot and should not be divulged, no matter how badly the public clamors to know. How do I know of these things? Because I've been there -- at least on the attorney-client and ethics code end of things. I've seen the mistakes (and falsifications), but I simply cannot correct them. It would be a breach of my duty.
3. Should we be consistent in our beliefs about the value of life? A friend of mine once pointed out that at least he was consistent in his beliefs concerning abortion and capital punishment. He opposed both. If God loves each person the same and values no human above another, what does that say about the approach we should take? If God is the ultimate judge, why are we so quick to rush to judgment about what someone else may or may not have done? Especially someone whom we have never met, someone whose family is not ours, and whose business has little to do with our daily affairs?
4. Is it harder to get our own lives in order than it is to point the finger at others? I ask this question simply because I did spend so much time in therapy. I remember how hard it was doing all that work, looking inward, asking myself all those questions. Getting one's proverbial stuff together is not easy. It requires revisiting the past and trying to figure out what happened and why we reacted (translate: felt) the way we did. Feelings are hard. Most of the time we've covered a lot of that garbage up. And sometimes, sometimes, there are many miles that have been re-paved so many times, that digging through all those layers is darn near impossible. We did it that way on purpose. It is our protective coating. Designed to seal away the past, so far and so secure as to be impenetrable.
But there is danger in that approach. The danger is being out of touch. For when we become out of touch with our true, authentic self, we are out of touch with everyone else. And we are also out of touch with our Maker. We cannot know anyone truly until we know ourselves. And it is a lifelong journey. Truly.
Monday, May 5, 2014
'Tis Shakespeare, Y'all
In Texas one can see amazing things. Shopping in Steinmart recently with members of my family we were not sure whether to laugh or cry. Three lines are open. We are in the middle. To our left the line seemed to have come to a standstill. The operator was brand new -- obviously. She had just crashed and burned. And she asked our guy to come help her. Of course, he abandoned our register to assist her. In the meantime, my niece abandoned us and went to the line on the right. She zipped right through. Of course. Not only can the new girl and our guy not get the cash register up and going, whatever she had done, it took a manager to override the mess. No manager is coming.
So we are still waiting, waiting patiently. Our guy returns to his register. He looks down at the customer's receipt for the item she wants to return. "This is in Spanish." (I'm thinking to myself, well, of course, it is. Hello, this is McAllen, Texas. 84% of the population is Spanish-speaking, why wouldn't the receipt be in Spanish?) As it turns out, she bought the item more than thirty days ago and needs manager approval for a return. Two registers down now. And we still have not changed lines. Again the request over the P.A. for a manager. Still, no one has appeared from the back. Still, the lines at the registers swell. Niece returns to ask, why are y'all still standing here? Good question. Prompted by some common sense, I move to the far register. Only two people in front of me.
I smile as I return to the scene of the, well, where I had been standing for so long. And where my sister-in-law still was. She has almost made it to first place. The manager now arrives to give the special card to the woman who wants to return her >30-day-old item. Now it's our last shopper's turn, and we see the manager working to un-crash the register on the left. No idea how long that took.
Starved to death, we look for Mexican food. After all, we need beans and cheese to return to a state of Valley-health. Nearby was Palenque Grill, a very popular and reliable restaurant. Good, we immediately get a table. Scarf down some chips, drink our tea, and what to our wondering eyes should appear, but a TV camera and boom mikes. Guys in black tee shirts. Can you read what it says? No, can you? Something about mania. So we ask our waiter, who is more than happy to tell us all about it.
We learn that Larry Hernandez is here, recording an episode for his reality TV show, Larrymania. Until this time I had never heard of Larry Hernandez or Larrymania. But what does any curious person do in today's world? Why, I whip out my iPhone, google him and then check wikipedia. After learning everything I can, I snap a couple of shots with my camera phone. Hey, it's not every day I get to be part of a reality TV episode. Larrymania shows how Larry the music superstar is able to navigate the difficulties of his career and have time for his private life. Not sure if we are part of the career difficulties or the private life where he is just having dinner at a restaurant. Seeing all his fans line up to take pictures with him, I'm going with the former. From the internet search I learn that I can get two tickets to his concert that evening for $65, but unfortunately, I already have plans for the evening.
But it makes me wonder. What if all of us are really living our lives in one big, long reality TV show? What if we are just part of a grand story with a lesson to be learned? There is no point in my sharing the issues wich which I have struggled lately, whether deep or superficial, but they were difficult for me. Larry speaks into the camera and shares his "confessionals." His network loves the ratings (#1). I have no desire to do that. But I do wonder whether we are all facing the same basic issues.
We all must come to terms with finding our place in the world, our career, our family, balancing those two realms. We care for family members, obligations of all types, financial, personal, and so on. We all must deal with loss -- sometimes staggering loss, a person we wonder if we will be able to live without. We all must find some way to deal with betrayal, whether in the form of a trusted friend, a lover or a co-worker. And then there is that whole notion of power: what is it and what do we do about it, or with it, (or without it if we lose it or never had it). We are all playing many parts, over and over again.
So maybe Shakespeare had it right, even for those of us in Texas:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts ... "
So we are still waiting, waiting patiently. Our guy returns to his register. He looks down at the customer's receipt for the item she wants to return. "This is in Spanish." (I'm thinking to myself, well, of course, it is. Hello, this is McAllen, Texas. 84% of the population is Spanish-speaking, why wouldn't the receipt be in Spanish?) As it turns out, she bought the item more than thirty days ago and needs manager approval for a return. Two registers down now. And we still have not changed lines. Again the request over the P.A. for a manager. Still, no one has appeared from the back. Still, the lines at the registers swell. Niece returns to ask, why are y'all still standing here? Good question. Prompted by some common sense, I move to the far register. Only two people in front of me.
I smile as I return to the scene of the, well, where I had been standing for so long. And where my sister-in-law still was. She has almost made it to first place. The manager now arrives to give the special card to the woman who wants to return her >30-day-old item. Now it's our last shopper's turn, and we see the manager working to un-crash the register on the left. No idea how long that took.
Starved to death, we look for Mexican food. After all, we need beans and cheese to return to a state of Valley-health. Nearby was Palenque Grill, a very popular and reliable restaurant. Good, we immediately get a table. Scarf down some chips, drink our tea, and what to our wondering eyes should appear, but a TV camera and boom mikes. Guys in black tee shirts. Can you read what it says? No, can you? Something about mania. So we ask our waiter, who is more than happy to tell us all about it.
We learn that Larry Hernandez is here, recording an episode for his reality TV show, Larrymania. Until this time I had never heard of Larry Hernandez or Larrymania. But what does any curious person do in today's world? Why, I whip out my iPhone, google him and then check wikipedia. After learning everything I can, I snap a couple of shots with my camera phone. Hey, it's not every day I get to be part of a reality TV episode. Larrymania shows how Larry the music superstar is able to navigate the difficulties of his career and have time for his private life. Not sure if we are part of the career difficulties or the private life where he is just having dinner at a restaurant. Seeing all his fans line up to take pictures with him, I'm going with the former. From the internet search I learn that I can get two tickets to his concert that evening for $65, but unfortunately, I already have plans for the evening.
But it makes me wonder. What if all of us are really living our lives in one big, long reality TV show? What if we are just part of a grand story with a lesson to be learned? There is no point in my sharing the issues wich which I have struggled lately, whether deep or superficial, but they were difficult for me. Larry speaks into the camera and shares his "confessionals." His network loves the ratings (#1). I have no desire to do that. But I do wonder whether we are all facing the same basic issues.
We all must come to terms with finding our place in the world, our career, our family, balancing those two realms. We care for family members, obligations of all types, financial, personal, and so on. We all must deal with loss -- sometimes staggering loss, a person we wonder if we will be able to live without. We all must find some way to deal with betrayal, whether in the form of a trusted friend, a lover or a co-worker. And then there is that whole notion of power: what is it and what do we do about it, or with it, (or without it if we lose it or never had it). We are all playing many parts, over and over again.
So maybe Shakespeare had it right, even for those of us in Texas:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts ... "
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Yesterday Once More
I've always been fascinated by research, especially historical research. Many nights have I been lost under stacks of books, notepads, and assorted research tools in the old days. Now the trail on the computer makes it so much easier in one sense, but then I have to keep track of where I found something. But I guess that is not so different from the past when we had to keep track of where we found that perfect quote. As I recall we just kept notecards back then.
Like many people I am intrigued about my ancestors. "Who am I?" is an age-old question. I started making notes about my paternal grandfather's relatives when I was a teenager. Actually, as I think more carefully, I remember as a preteen writing in my Bible the names and dates of my ancient relatives on both sides of my family. You know, like my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, and the really ancient ones such as my great-grandparents.
From time to time as an adult when time permitted I entered the repositories of information on the Internet, each time to be more amazed and to come away with more questions than answers. A few weeks ago I stumbled across what I think is the best link yet. Are you ready for this? (drumroll, please) I found a published book that tells the story of the Stiles family -- my paternal great-grandmother was Arbelle Stiles -- coming to America. Only it was not called America -- it was New England then -- because the family sailed from London March 16, 1635, on the Christian.
The ship arrived in Boston on June 16, 1635, and John Stiles' wife Jane was the first person that stepped ashore "when the Plantation begun in 1636" near Windsor, Connecticut. John Stiles continued to reside at Windsor where he died in 1662 at age 67. Jane died in 1674.
The books details the harrowing tale of Stiles' men and their attempt to settle the land selected by Sir Richard Saltonstall and his instructions "to go plant." Men from the Massachusetts Bay Colony had seen them land in Boston and take their boat going toward what is now the Windsor area. The Massachusetts men went overland, arriving a few days ahead of them, "prospecting." I gather it was rather easy to pick out the Englishmen because there were few white settlers in the area at the time. The feud lasted some time, perhaps a year. The Massachusetts Bay corporation did not take kindly to any encroachment, even if authorized by the crown, which Sir Richard's was. In the end Sir Richard took a loss on his investment, the settlers were given land and incorporated into the community.
Of course the story does not end there. John's third son Isaac was the first of his heirs to be born in New England. Actually, he was the first male child born in the Colony of Connecticut, according to Hazard's Hist. Coll., a recognized authority. Isaac's sixth child, Jonathan Stiles, born March 10, 1688 in Stratford, Connecticut, moved his family to Morristown, New Jersey, a hotbed of activity a few generations later during the American Revolutionary War.
Generally speaking, most of the Stiles men were quite small. However, Jonathan was known as Long Jonathan, being six feet, four inches tall. It is from Jonathan that I am directly descended. The family stayed in Morristown although some members journeyed westward years later, reflecting the story of America itself.
As for Jonathan Stiles' height, I did not inherit that gene.
Like many people I am intrigued about my ancestors. "Who am I?" is an age-old question. I started making notes about my paternal grandfather's relatives when I was a teenager. Actually, as I think more carefully, I remember as a preteen writing in my Bible the names and dates of my ancient relatives on both sides of my family. You know, like my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, and the really ancient ones such as my great-grandparents.
From time to time as an adult when time permitted I entered the repositories of information on the Internet, each time to be more amazed and to come away with more questions than answers. A few weeks ago I stumbled across what I think is the best link yet. Are you ready for this? (drumroll, please) I found a published book that tells the story of the Stiles family -- my paternal great-grandmother was Arbelle Stiles -- coming to America. Only it was not called America -- it was New England then -- because the family sailed from London March 16, 1635, on the Christian.
The ship arrived in Boston on June 16, 1635, and John Stiles' wife Jane was the first person that stepped ashore "when the Plantation begun in 1636" near Windsor, Connecticut. John Stiles continued to reside at Windsor where he died in 1662 at age 67. Jane died in 1674.
The books details the harrowing tale of Stiles' men and their attempt to settle the land selected by Sir Richard Saltonstall and his instructions "to go plant." Men from the Massachusetts Bay Colony had seen them land in Boston and take their boat going toward what is now the Windsor area. The Massachusetts men went overland, arriving a few days ahead of them, "prospecting." I gather it was rather easy to pick out the Englishmen because there were few white settlers in the area at the time. The feud lasted some time, perhaps a year. The Massachusetts Bay corporation did not take kindly to any encroachment, even if authorized by the crown, which Sir Richard's was. In the end Sir Richard took a loss on his investment, the settlers were given land and incorporated into the community.
Of course the story does not end there. John's third son Isaac was the first of his heirs to be born in New England. Actually, he was the first male child born in the Colony of Connecticut, according to Hazard's Hist. Coll., a recognized authority. Isaac's sixth child, Jonathan Stiles, born March 10, 1688 in Stratford, Connecticut, moved his family to Morristown, New Jersey, a hotbed of activity a few generations later during the American Revolutionary War.
Generally speaking, most of the Stiles men were quite small. However, Jonathan was known as Long Jonathan, being six feet, four inches tall. It is from Jonathan that I am directly descended. The family stayed in Morristown although some members journeyed westward years later, reflecting the story of America itself.
As for Jonathan Stiles' height, I did not inherit that gene.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
The Passenger
I'm in the minority. Probably in many ways. I'm quite short. That is irrelevant for this posting, however. I'm also an opera lover. Before you turn away, and go, ewww, I hate opera, a love of opera is not required for understanding my point today. I attended a performance of the American debut of The Passenger, an opera by Mieczyslaw Weinberg about a German diplomat and his wife on their way to an assignment in Brazil.
All I had read in advance was that "a woman confronts her Holocaust past." Okay. I suspected I might have a somewhat emotional experience. I did not expect what actually happened. First of all, the passenger was neither the German diplomat nor his wife. As all good theatrical performances should be -- at least in my opinion -- this opera's story line unfolds on multiple levels.
The audience learns that Walter and Liese love each other so much. After fifteen years of wedded bliss, they are sailing away for this plum assignment in Brazil leaving Germany and all the nightmares of World War II behind. While on deck, however, Liese sees a mysterious woman passenger and tells Walter she must return to their stateroom because she feels ill. Liese bribes a porter to find out the identity of the mysterious passenger.
The brilliant staging of this particular production emphasized the link between Liese's two worlds. As it turns out, Liese has never told Walter about her past as an SS guard at a concentration camp. This production features the activity on ship occurring on the upper level of the stage, while the activity occurring at the concentration camp (from the past) on the lower level of the stage. The passengers are all dressed in white, whereas all the players from the camp are dressed in the dark uniforms of the SS or the dark, dirty, dull concentration camp uniforms.
Liese attempts to minimize her role at the camp to Walter, but of course, the audience knows she is not quite telling him everything. Liese suspects the mystery passenger on the ship may be a survivor from the camp. Not just any survivor, but Marta, whose will Liese tried to break in an effort to control the other prisoners. And Liese was positive that Marta was dead. She herself had sent Marta to the black wall from which no one had ever returned.
So that is the basic story of The Passenger. Why was I so moved by this opera? I am not sure I can express all the reasons, some of them are just so personal that getting the right words may be impossible. That is what great art should be. But here goes.
Between a husband and wife (or spouse and spouse) are there ever any areas that are kept hidden? Has the past been completely revealed? Has the sunshine been allowed into every corner of the relationship? If it has, you know how painful that process can be. Honesty about very difficult topics comes at a high price. Survival of the relationship afterward may not happen. If it does and intimacy abides, the couple will be stronger. More often than not though, the secrets just stay hidden.
Listening to the prayers of the mothers, "please do not let my children be tortured," was almost torture in itself. I am sobbing right now just at the thought of my precious grandchildren having to experience torture such as that of the Holocaust. Or that my children's hearts should be broken in that way to endure havng their own children suffer.
Watching Marta's fiance, Tadeusz, refuse to play Liese's game inspired me to be a better person. Even though it meant certain death, he gave Liese nothing with which she could hurt Marta. When he was called before the Kommandant to play his violin, for the Final Concert Tadeusz did not play the Kommandant's favorite waltz and instead played Bach's "Chaconne" In an environment of death and depravity Tadeusz brought nobility and culture..
The final scene of the opera perhaps was the most challenging. We never know for certain if the passenger truly is Marta, if she lived or died. After it was over I just sat in my seat. I literally could not move because it was just that powerful. (Caveat: the music is not for sissies. It is very modern and difficult. However, it fits the subject matter.)
But what I also could not stop thinking about is whether the lesson from history has been learned. Even in our own country people have become so callous to those who are not like them. That is how it started in Germany. The ones who did not fit the stereotypical norm were blamed for all the problems. And then they were taken away. With a plan to exterminate them.
And let's not forget, it was not just the Jews. It was the Polish, the homosexuals, the bisexuals, the drawfs, the gypsies, the Jehovah's Witnesses and people from Bible schools, people with disabilities, and others deemed enemies of the state.
What happened to loving our neighbor as ourselves? Who is my neighbor? There once was a parable answering that question by a man named Jesus. Hmmm. I think that parable involves a passenger of a different sort. Go look it up.
All I had read in advance was that "a woman confronts her Holocaust past." Okay. I suspected I might have a somewhat emotional experience. I did not expect what actually happened. First of all, the passenger was neither the German diplomat nor his wife. As all good theatrical performances should be -- at least in my opinion -- this opera's story line unfolds on multiple levels.
The audience learns that Walter and Liese love each other so much. After fifteen years of wedded bliss, they are sailing away for this plum assignment in Brazil leaving Germany and all the nightmares of World War II behind. While on deck, however, Liese sees a mysterious woman passenger and tells Walter she must return to their stateroom because she feels ill. Liese bribes a porter to find out the identity of the mysterious passenger.
The brilliant staging of this particular production emphasized the link between Liese's two worlds. As it turns out, Liese has never told Walter about her past as an SS guard at a concentration camp. This production features the activity on ship occurring on the upper level of the stage, while the activity occurring at the concentration camp (from the past) on the lower level of the stage. The passengers are all dressed in white, whereas all the players from the camp are dressed in the dark uniforms of the SS or the dark, dirty, dull concentration camp uniforms.
Liese attempts to minimize her role at the camp to Walter, but of course, the audience knows she is not quite telling him everything. Liese suspects the mystery passenger on the ship may be a survivor from the camp. Not just any survivor, but Marta, whose will Liese tried to break in an effort to control the other prisoners. And Liese was positive that Marta was dead. She herself had sent Marta to the black wall from which no one had ever returned.
So that is the basic story of The Passenger. Why was I so moved by this opera? I am not sure I can express all the reasons, some of them are just so personal that getting the right words may be impossible. That is what great art should be. But here goes.
Between a husband and wife (or spouse and spouse) are there ever any areas that are kept hidden? Has the past been completely revealed? Has the sunshine been allowed into every corner of the relationship? If it has, you know how painful that process can be. Honesty about very difficult topics comes at a high price. Survival of the relationship afterward may not happen. If it does and intimacy abides, the couple will be stronger. More often than not though, the secrets just stay hidden.
Listening to the prayers of the mothers, "please do not let my children be tortured," was almost torture in itself. I am sobbing right now just at the thought of my precious grandchildren having to experience torture such as that of the Holocaust. Or that my children's hearts should be broken in that way to endure havng their own children suffer.
Watching Marta's fiance, Tadeusz, refuse to play Liese's game inspired me to be a better person. Even though it meant certain death, he gave Liese nothing with which she could hurt Marta. When he was called before the Kommandant to play his violin, for the Final Concert Tadeusz did not play the Kommandant's favorite waltz and instead played Bach's "Chaconne" In an environment of death and depravity Tadeusz brought nobility and culture..
The final scene of the opera perhaps was the most challenging. We never know for certain if the passenger truly is Marta, if she lived or died. After it was over I just sat in my seat. I literally could not move because it was just that powerful. (Caveat: the music is not for sissies. It is very modern and difficult. However, it fits the subject matter.)
But what I also could not stop thinking about is whether the lesson from history has been learned. Even in our own country people have become so callous to those who are not like them. That is how it started in Germany. The ones who did not fit the stereotypical norm were blamed for all the problems. And then they were taken away. With a plan to exterminate them.
And let's not forget, it was not just the Jews. It was the Polish, the homosexuals, the bisexuals, the drawfs, the gypsies, the Jehovah's Witnesses and people from Bible schools, people with disabilities, and others deemed enemies of the state.
What happened to loving our neighbor as ourselves? Who is my neighbor? There once was a parable answering that question by a man named Jesus. Hmmm. I think that parable involves a passenger of a different sort. Go look it up.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
It's Me Again, Margaret
You have to be a certain age to remember a song of that title. If you have to ask, you are not old enough. I have just spent the weekend with people who are. They are my friends from high school. Actually, many of us have been friends from even before that. We go back as far as kindergarten. If I tell you how many years that is, I am giving away their age. We will just say it is more than three decades (I know -- I see you laughing).
Such a joy it is to have this weekend to look forward to each year. We don't party all night as maybe in times back. There are several who no longer join us. They cannot. They are candles in the wind. Some people finally feel comfortable enough that they stay longer with the group than previously. They do not just drop in for a few hours and leave. They stay for the entire weekend.
Yes, we tell stories. Some of the stories are what has happened this year since we saw each other last. Some of the stories as the same old stories; we've heard them over and over ... and over. (You know who you are.) There is insight into the person by virtue of the story being told. We love the story almost as much as we love the person.
One addition to this year's experience: The wall chart. Immediately upon arrival each person was queried by the person who had prepared the wall chart, and responses duly noted. Did you marry a classmate? Were you a cheerleader or twirler? Are you bald? Do you dye your hair? Were you named Man of the Year? (Note: this was a sort of trick question.) Can you sing the school song? Do you like Steve? (Another trick question.) Did you ever date Jeff? (And yet another trick question.) And finally, do you want to plan the class reunion? (The final trick question.) Now do I know what is to be done with the answers to these questions? No, I do not. But there are a lot of "X" marks, and I know that at breakfast this morning we discussed what we will be having to eat next year when we meet again. Gumbo. And I am bringing cake -- because we are all going to be celebrating an important birthday. I'm not saying which one.
I had a special conversation at dinner last night with one of my very closest friends with whom I spent much, much time in my years growing up. We do not get to see each other much now. When we do, the bond is immediate, just as strong, and as though we just saw each other yesterday. We were sharing our meal with a friend who is a minister and just returned from Africa after spending 25 years as a missionary. I did not know him as well back then -- in fact we worked together for one year at the local grocery store. It was his first year to attend our little group gathering. He was remarking how much he appreciated feeling welcome back in 11th grade and here again. One thing that cannot be faked is love. It is true and good and kind. And it cannot be hidden.
That is what our group has that is so special. We love each other. With all our quirks, bald heads, dyed hair, and oft-told tales, we truly love each other. We have families of birth and families of choice.
We need to gather each year with this family of choice. It reminds us of whence we came. It reminds us that one of us may not be here next year, as we are so painfully aware. So when we say good-bye we are also saying I love you and I truly hope to see you next year or maybe sooner, and secretly thinking "and I hope it is not at someone's memorial service."
So when I got in my car to drive back home and the song, "Time Passages" came on I got a little wistful. I am not the kind to live in the past ... there is much to be done today ... but there is a piece of my heart that stays with each of the others in my group that gathers this weekend each January.
Such a joy it is to have this weekend to look forward to each year. We don't party all night as maybe in times back. There are several who no longer join us. They cannot. They are candles in the wind. Some people finally feel comfortable enough that they stay longer with the group than previously. They do not just drop in for a few hours and leave. They stay for the entire weekend.
Yes, we tell stories. Some of the stories are what has happened this year since we saw each other last. Some of the stories as the same old stories; we've heard them over and over ... and over. (You know who you are.) There is insight into the person by virtue of the story being told. We love the story almost as much as we love the person.
One addition to this year's experience: The wall chart. Immediately upon arrival each person was queried by the person who had prepared the wall chart, and responses duly noted. Did you marry a classmate? Were you a cheerleader or twirler? Are you bald? Do you dye your hair? Were you named Man of the Year? (Note: this was a sort of trick question.) Can you sing the school song? Do you like Steve? (Another trick question.) Did you ever date Jeff? (And yet another trick question.) And finally, do you want to plan the class reunion? (The final trick question.) Now do I know what is to be done with the answers to these questions? No, I do not. But there are a lot of "X" marks, and I know that at breakfast this morning we discussed what we will be having to eat next year when we meet again. Gumbo. And I am bringing cake -- because we are all going to be celebrating an important birthday. I'm not saying which one.
I had a special conversation at dinner last night with one of my very closest friends with whom I spent much, much time in my years growing up. We do not get to see each other much now. When we do, the bond is immediate, just as strong, and as though we just saw each other yesterday. We were sharing our meal with a friend who is a minister and just returned from Africa after spending 25 years as a missionary. I did not know him as well back then -- in fact we worked together for one year at the local grocery store. It was his first year to attend our little group gathering. He was remarking how much he appreciated feeling welcome back in 11th grade and here again. One thing that cannot be faked is love. It is true and good and kind. And it cannot be hidden.
That is what our group has that is so special. We love each other. With all our quirks, bald heads, dyed hair, and oft-told tales, we truly love each other. We have families of birth and families of choice.
We need to gather each year with this family of choice. It reminds us of whence we came. It reminds us that one of us may not be here next year, as we are so painfully aware. So when we say good-bye we are also saying I love you and I truly hope to see you next year or maybe sooner, and secretly thinking "and I hope it is not at someone's memorial service."
So when I got in my car to drive back home and the song, "Time Passages" came on I got a little wistful. I am not the kind to live in the past ... there is much to be done today ... but there is a piece of my heart that stays with each of the others in my group that gathers this weekend each January.
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