Not Cool, Robert Frost! (and some other inspiration)

I don't know about you, but there are days when I'm in need of a pep talk. Yesterday was one such day. I sat down to write for a bit because I had a child-free window of time, and, as I stared at a blank screen and blinking cursor, I thought, "Why in the world am I doing this? The world will continue to turn if the words and characters and stories in my head stay there--at least for a while longer."

With that thought in mind, I closed my laptop. It wasn't a monumental moment of discouragement. I wasn't heaving in the towel and giving up on writing. It was simply a moment of finding another "priority" to turn to instead of writing. 

What I needed was a pep talk. And, a few hours later, just such a pep talk arrived via email from my sister out in St. Louis, who had no idea what she sent was exactly what I needed to hear.

This is the pep talk that arrived. (Seriously, you are going to want to watch this the whole way through, yes, to the very, very end.)

Apart from the extreme cuteness of this little guy, my favorite part of this video was: "Create something that will make the world awesome." (Well, that and "Not cool, Robert Frost!") So that's what I intend to do--or, at least, try to do--and I hope you all will join me. Because, as the little guy said, "We were made to be awesome."

PS: I will not be appearing as often over the next few weeks because of my upcoming residency in Ireland, but I will be posting pictures and updates of my journey--so stay tuned! Plus, the Had I But Known blog series will keep marching on each Monday morning. I hope you've been enjoying the writings of our fabulous guests--I know I have!

I think I have a spare bailing bucket around here somewhere

My school year just ended. Literally. Yesterday was my last day of teaching for the year. After 9 years at my old school, this was my first year at a new school--new students, new colleagues, new policies and procedures, new copying machine (which proved more of a challenge than I had anticipated). Never has a school year flown so quickly by. Yesterday grades were entered, textbooks re-shelved, the little white orbs of paper from the 3-hole punch vacuumed up from the floor one final time. I gathered my children in a whorl of cheers and chaos, and we drove home.

At the end of each school year I like to take stock. Of me, of my family, of the greater world around me. And last night in my stock taking, I was frustrated. In reading a bunch of other "mom" blogs, there's a continual discussion about how to "have it all." And I'd like to submit that this whole idea of "all" is rubbish. 

Sure, it all can be done, but something (or everything) is going to suffer for it.

• I am continually fighting off frustration and guilt at my inability to give my children as much concerted attention as I would like. 
• I am continually agonizing over the fact that I should be doing more with my classes, being more creative with my students.
• I am continually ticked off because I have a 1st draft of a novel that is patiently waiting for revision, yet never seems to get a glance from my writer's eye.
• I am continually wallowing in filth. My house is a disaster, so much so that my mother-in-law started to clean when she came for a visit. (It's sad, I know. But what's even more sad is that I was so relieved at having my house cleaned that I didn't even protest...much.)

This is my office (at home) and probably the cleanest portion of my house.

As you can guess, I'm a treat to live with. Yet there are moments when my head fills so full of life's noise that all I can manage is to chug a glass of wine and go to bed. Where I toss and turn, my mind spinning with what I should have done today and what I need to do tomorrow.

This is not a "reclaiming my life" speech. This not an inspirational "Pull Yourself Up by Your Bootstraps" song and dance. This is not a "woman-power" rant. I don't even think this issue is specific to women. (However, I do think that it can at times become more obvious in women simply because we don't compartmentalize the different facets of life quite as easily as men. But, again, that's a generalization and may not be precisely true.) I have male friends who are teachers and writers in addition to being husbands and fathers, and they face the same challenges.

Last night, Jonathan took me down along the Susquehanna River, set up chairs, whipped out wine, and we sat as evening shadows lengthened and the lights of the Wrightsville Bridge twinkled across the water. (Yeah, I know, he's a rock star.) While looking out over the water, I did my stock taking. And I'm sorry to say that the conclusion I came to is not going to sound reassuring to those of you also bailing water from an ever-flooding boat.

Our view of the Susquehanna last night.

As we sat in silence, I came to this conclusion: Life is a continual bailing of water. 

There will be moments when I've got the upper hand on the leakage and can relax and enjoy the view. There will be moments when I've lost my bailing bucket completely, the water is rushing in all around me, and I'm inevitably gonna get wet. 

So, after coming to that conclusion, I came to several more. (I was on a roll.)

1. I must come to terms with the leaks. Life's unpredictability is completely outside of my control. Deal with it. It's gonna be messy sometimes. It's gonna be infuriating sometimes. I'm gonna fail as often as (or more often then) I succeed. Yet, as I tell my kids, the only thing I can control is me. So do it. Get yourself under control, Anna, and stop focusing on the leaks.

2. I'm going to fail, just as I'm going to succeed. And I'm not sure there's a rhyme or reason for which happens when. Revel in the successes. Learn from the failures. And share both with those whom I've chosen to surround myself--just as they share their failures and successes with me. Because it's in sharing and shouldering life together that life takes on its sweetest flavor.

3. Keep bailing. Never stop. 

PS: If you need an extra bailing bucket, just holler. I think I have a spare.

top image from: http://quelshuntingcorner.com/release-dates-bucket-lists-and-bows/

Alone with Gatsby in Paris

Me at the Pompidou Centre (the modern art museum) studying a blue canvas,
hoping to "see" something beyond just blue. No such luck.
(Picture compliments of Liza Mattison)

Today my mind is in Paris. Floating along the Seine.  Sitting in the shadow of the Sorbonne as the day cools to evening. Rambling the cobbled streets on Isle St. Louis as the shadow of Notre Dame lengthens and the sky turns a deep amber. My memories are warm, idyllic.

I tend to forget the day I trudged beneath scorching sun for what seemed like miles to the Louvre only to find it closed. (So what was left for me but to trudge back from whence I came?) I tend to forget when I took a wrong turn in the Jardin du Luxembourg and nearly lost myself in a maze of avenues. I tend to forget the intensity of the writing residency in which I was participating: Workshops. Lectures. Museums.

Yet it was the mandatory (I hate that word) walking tour that sent me nearly over the edge.

Our group of about ten walked inside dim, cool churches whose names I made no effort to remember. We saw Hemingway’s flat he shared with Hadley and the café he frequented on Rue Saint-Germaine.  We saw the original Shakespeare & Co. building. We stood outside the hotel where Oscar Wilde dropped dead in the lobby. I felt a loud pressure building in my head—too much information, too much heat, too much. Too much!

Finally we ambled onto the Pont des Arts—a pedestrian bridge standing as a homage to eternal love with the many padlocks secured there with their keys at the bottom of the Seine—that my toes eeked out over the lip of the ledge and my head screamed, “enough!”

I looked over the padlocks, over the Seine, toward Pont Neuf and decided I needed to be alone. Alone in Paris.

I thanked our guides. I left our group. I stepped off Pont des Arts and onto the crowded sidewalk. I sidled along book merchants and tables of cheap souvenirs on the Quai de Conti.  As I pushed forward, knocked shoulders with passersby, I found myself walking slower. Forcing my mind into thoughtfulness, awareness of that within as well as without.

The smooth French language being strewn around me—little of which I understood except the occasional oui. The whish of cars flying past. The thud and scrape of feet on pavement. The rustle of leaves in the branches above. The pulse of my heartbeat at the base of my throat. The heat of the sun on my back and the trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. The realization that I walked the same avenues, peered in the same windows, as Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dali, Van Gogh, Stein. What pieces of themselves had they left for other Paris sojourners? What pieces of myself would I leave behind? Or would I only carry forward the memories, the experiences, the tastes and wonders of this magical city?

It brought to mind one of the greatest ending lines of literature penned by ex-pat Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Reread that. Go ahead. Roll it around in your mouth for a second.

When my lonely walk ended, when I finally met up with my friends at our favorite café nested at the feet of the Sorbonne, I felt I had recovered a sense of calm, a centered appreciation for the place I occupied, and an eagerness for all that lay in wait for me to uncover. So it's no wonder that my memories of this time in Paris are sweet and amber-hued. The City of Light had romanced me, whispered of its secrets in my ear, and I was (and still am) smitten. 

 

From Paris, 29 July 2012

The Paris metro slows, squeals, and the doors ram open. It is rush hour, it seems, at 7:00 PM, and rivers of people pour first out then in through the train's doors. I walk, then am rushed forward, into the train. There are so many people and nothing to hold to, no place to grip to steady myself. So I wait for the first lurch into forward motion and hope I don't topple into the lap of the elderly woman sitting behind me. The lurch comes. I teeter back but keep myself upright. 

It is as the train begins to move that I sense an unsettling feeling that something is amiss. I have ridden subways before--New York City, Washington, D.C., London--and this feels different. But why? I peruse the faces around me. Some stare glakedly at the floor. Some flick through their phones. Glancing over my shoulder at the elderly woman I see her press her blue grocery bag tighter against her abdomen. A tinny voice in the train's speaker announces the next stop. And now I understand what it is that is different.

No one speaks. No one chats with his neighbor or jokes into her phone. A sea of silent faces surrounds me, faces bespeaking the length and drudge of their day. I listen to the other ambient sounds--the clack of the train, the whish of wind through the half-opened windows, then a screeching of metal-on-metal as the train nears the next platform. 

The elderly woman stands with her groceries and begins to shuffle toward the door. I move aside to make space for her, and she hoists tired eyes to mine. I smile. The doors open. And she is gone. 

Silence remains, feeding my understanding that words, at times, say too much.

 

Okay, I Lied, but Only So I Could Tell the Truth

Author Tim O'Brien wrote an incredible Vietnam War novel: The Things They Carried. In it he has a fascinating chapter entitled "How To Tell A True War Story" in which he writes, "All you can do is tell [the story] one more time, patiently, adding and subtracting, making up a few things to get at the real truth."

O'Brien is talking about war and trying to convey the realities of war to those who have never experienced it. 

I think, though, that this is a truism of all story-telling. I may tell a story exactly as it happened. But if I do that, then the authenticity of the story may be lost. The audience will know the facts and miss the experience. Or I can make the choice to embellish, alter, or, as O'Brien advises, make up a few things "to get at the real truth." Therefore, by changing the facts, the audience will know the true story.

(I know, I'm dog-paddling in deep water at the moment, paddle with me a little longer.)

To give you an example, the story I posted yesterday about the Night of Terror had a total of 8 characters in it (minus the deer) and only 3 characters actually introduced: me, Jackie, and Nicki. However, I altered the story. 

• In reality there were 12 of us, not 8.

• I chose Nicki to embody about 4 different people whose words and actions I wadded together and combined into her character.

• Truthfully I did a whooooole lot more moaning and complaining about the spiders than yesterday's story accounted for.

So why did I change these things? Why not just tell the story as it actually happened?

Well, it seemed irrelevant to have to explain that 4 girls slept in another room down the hall. It didn't enhance the story's appeal or momentum, so I just left it out. Thus, that part of the story, for all posterity, never happened. Not that these 4 girls aren't important, they just aren't important to the story.

Additionally, it felt cumbersome and boggy to introduce 4 separate characters so that they all might perform their small cameos. While Nicki was not actually the one to flap her towel at the deer, she was the character already familiar to the audience who seemed the best vehicle to convey the culminating event of the story. 

Finally, I trimmed out my pathetic moanings because I'm the one writing and I didn't want to come off like a whiny nincompoop. Plus, I think my few moments of interiority and reflection fully conveyed my depth of loathing toward those wretched spiders without belaboring my point and irritating the readers. (See, I do write with y'all in mind!)

While this is just a meager explanation for what actually happens in story-telling, it's important to study and understand these few droplets in the ocean of decisions that a writer faces each time she sits down to write. 

Tell the truth (what actually happened) or tell the Truth (what the audience needs to understand happened)? It's only a fine, dusty chalk-line between these two ideas--easily erased, easily shifted. Which makes you wonder if you can ever fully trust anything you read. Well, O'Brien has another 2-cents on this: "In any war story, but especially a true one, it's difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen. What seems to happen becomes its own happening and has to be told that way." 

So, yes, you can in fact trust the stories you read because even what isn't true is possibly more true than the truth. Aren't you glad I cleared that up for you? (I think I need to get out of the water before I drown.)

PS: O'Brien has far more than 2 cents to add to this whole discussion. I highly recommend getting your hands on a copy of The Things They Carried or at least "How To Tell a True War Story".  Enjoy!

 

Night of Terror: a true story

As a teacher, I am at times required (or I volunteer) to go on student trips. I've taken students to places both domestic (Washington, D.C., New York City, Orlando) and international (England, Scotland, Germany, Spain). Yet not one of these trips is as memorable as the Night of Terror.

Prior to having children of my own I was coaching our school's varsity girls basketball team. The team desperately needed new uniforms. So instead of badgering the booster club, I figured I'd take matters into my own hands. I rummaged up a babysitting opportunity at a family conference center up in Northern PA that would pay $1000 in exchange for two days of babysitting for several families attending a conference. Lodging and food was provided at the facility, we just needed to find our way up there. So myself, another teacher named Jackie, and six of my basketball girls piled into a school van and we headed north.

The first evening we spent playing with the little kids, putting together puzzles, coloring, running relay races. A successful evening, all in all. Then the director of the conference center gave us directions to our lodging. It wasn't on the main campus (which should have been our first red flag), it was a-ways up in the woods. So in the spreading darkness of night and through dense foliage, we drove our 15-passenger van around in the wooded hinterlands for what seemed like hours. Finally, we found it. An octagonal building with a cement slab for a front porch; a 1970's sliding door with cloudy glass its only entrance.

We hitched our duffle-bags up higher on our shoulders and stepped inside. Through the gloom we saw a common area (which we called with little endearment "The Pit") with recessed flooring and cushioned benches around its edges. A fireplace stood at one end. And from the raftered ceiling stringing down to the bottom of the pit hung massive cobwebs--flapping and drifting from the draft we had allowed in.

I will take this opportunity to mention that I am an arachnophobe. I hate, hate, hate spiders. Loath them. The tiny ones I've learned to deal with, but anything dime-sized and larger my hands start to shake and I may or may not emit horrible, feral sounds. So being greeted by these monstrous cobwebs made me a little jumpy. Yet in an effort to look cool not alert my girls to any of my misgivings, I smiled and said, "Let's find the bedrooms."

We walked down the hallway to our left. The hall, lined with doors, snaked around the entire circumference of the building. Each of the doors opened to a bedroom packed with two to three sets of bunk beds. There were at least 8 bedrooms and only 1 bathroom to share amongst us. 

"I need the bathroom!" declared one of the girls named Nicki.

That's when the screaming started. 

"There are huge spiders all over the bathroom!" Nicki shrieked.

"There's spiders on the walls of this bedroom!" shrieked another.

"And in this bedroom!" shrieked a third.

And I froze. I stood in the hallway clutching my duffle and expecting to die. My heart hammered up in my throat. My stomach contracted as though bracing for a punch. Oxygen was in short supply. I opened my eyes and saw Jackie looking as white as flour--which is most likely how I appeared as well. 

Come on, Anna, I thought to myself. You're the adult here. Act like it. I tried to wriggle free of my terror by rallying the troops. 

"Right, girls, this is the plan," I said and launched into action. "We're piling into 1 room. This room--" I pointed to the room with 3 bunkbeds in it. "Move the beds to the center of the room, away from all the walls, and butt them up to each other so it makes one massive bunkbed. Then we will sleep all together: 4 across the top and 4 across the bottom. Let's move!"

My rallying cry brought a flurry of activity and soon we had our bunkbed island constructed. By then it was late--well past midnight--and after using the bathroom in pairs (1 person to ward off arachnids and 1 person to...do her business) we all crawled into our sleeping bags and rooched around til everyone got comfortable without knocking someone else off the bed. I was on the top bunk between Nicki and Jackie. I may just as well have been preparing for a blizzard with all the layers I was wearing. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, tied tight it's drawstring under my chin, and hunkered down inside my sleeping bag so that not a speck of me was exposed to the outside world. While I was sweating profusely, I wasn't about to leave my cocoon. 

Until Nicki nudged me.

"Do you hear that?" she whispered.

"What?" I answered, my head still inside my sleeping bag. 

"That."

I sighed, poked my head free of my cocoon.

"Listen," whispered Nicki.

All was silent. Then thunk. scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch sounded on the roof above us.

"What is that?" I asked and looked over at Jackie.

She peered back at me and I thought she might cry. I know I wanted to. We heard it again. It sounded like little mice or squirrels dropping onto the metal roof and then running, running, running with their little rodent feet. 

"It's outside," Jackie finally said. 

"So I guess Plan B is out," Nicki mumbled.

"What was Plan B?" I asked.

"Sleep in the van." Nicki yawned. "I'm not going outside now."

"Right," I nodded. The only thing to worry about at that point was the spiders, and I ducked my head back under my covers, listened to the rodent circus rioting above us until finally at some point I fell asleep.

Morning dawned bright. Sunlight poured through the branches of the surrounding forest. Songbirds chorused in welcome of the new day. But I didn't enjoy any of it because I was stiff and exhausted and desperately needing coffee in a land where none was to be found. We all got up, participated in the buddy system again for bathroom usage, threw our belongings into our bags, and plodded out to the van. 

There was not a spider in sight--these were evidently nocturnal spiders--but on the front porch were several chickens clucking about. I stopped causing Jackie to nearly collide into the back of me.

"What?" she asked, peering around my shoulder.

"Chickens," I answered.

"Of course."

We walked outside and the chickens scuttered away. Then I turned and looked up at the roof. I started to laugh and called to Jackie, pointing. "Walnuts." 

The rodent circus was actually walnuts falling onto the roof and rolling down. Amazing how everything is far less threatening in daylight.

We all piled in the van and started to pull away.

"Wait!" Nicki yelled when we were about 50 yards from the cabin. "I think I forgot my towel in the bathroom!"

"You think you forgot it? Or you did forget it?" I asked.

"I did forget it," she said.

I put the van in park. "Okay. Hurry up."

She hopped from the van and sprinted toward the cabin. Then more screaming began. Jackie and I and several of the girls jumped out and ran back to see the new crisis Nicki had encountered. About 20 yards from the cabin we froze. 

A buck with a massive rack was at the door of the cabin. The sliding door was opened just a crack. The deer had its antlers wedged into the crack and was swinging its head from side to side to try and open further the door. It pawed the ground with its front hoof and huffed and grunted with its efforts. I saw Nicki through the glass door standing with her towel trailing from her hand. She looked out at me, her eyes wide. Then she did something amazing. She took that towel and started to flap it. Like a matador shaking a red cape at a bull, Nicki shook that towel in the buck's face and started screaming at the animal. Then we all started to scream at it. Jackie ran back to the van and blasted the horn. The buck jerked its head back from the door, scrambled down off the porch and galloped into the woods. 

Nicki walked from the cabin, dragging her towel behind her, and stood on the porch. The chickens came clucking back from wherever they had hidden themselves.

"I left the door open only a crack," she said. She sidestepped the chickens and walked toward us. We all silently filed back to the still-running van.

"You must really want those new uniforms," Jackie said. 

"I'm reconsidering," I answered, shifted the van into drive, and prayed that wherever we ended up there'd be coffee waiting.

 

Had I But Known What Lay At the Bottom of that Box

guest post by: Danni McGriffith

When I was mulling over the many fine “I wish I’d known all that before I started this little deal” examples from my life, I considered using the time my sons and I were burning wheat stubble fields after harvest and I didn't know the hitch was broken on the plow of our fire-control tractor. The wind blew. Our controlled burn became uncontrolled. Plumb out of hand even, you might say. Then the plow fell off the tractor. A few years later, two of my sons became firemen. I’ve often wondered if there was a link. I decided not to use that experience, however—too much dramatic irony for those not acquainted with the hair-raising experiences of farming and ranching.

May I present a much gentler—and flame-free—Had I But Known experience?

I've always been an auction buff, frequenting farm and estate auctions. On one particular day many years ago, the auctioneer took my high bid on what I believed to be a box full of Bibles. That evening, I hauled all my treasures home where I began to sort through the mirror-bit reflections of an old ranch woman’s life.

Bibles are never a bad buy, but hers had literally been read to pieces. I couldn’t salvage them. Near the bottom of the box, though, I uncovered a couple of tattered poetry books. One was by Coleridge, the other a collection titled: A Library of Poetry and Song Being Choice Selections from the Best Poets with An Introduction By William Cullen Bryant. Which is—you must admit—quite a title. They couldn’t have gotten that thing published in this age of one-word titles. The book was copyrighted in 1870 and inscribed to J. Bright Smith, Jan. 29^th 187—something. The page was torn off there.

I read the poem collection with the lengthy title even though the leather binding crumbled in my hands, the front cover was missing, and pages one-ninety-three through four-seventy-eight had completely vanished. Some clodhopper who hadn’t recognized wondrous treasure had stepped on page twenty-one and smeared it with mud. Imagine.

Selections from over four-hundred poets filled the pages. All the big guns of poetry: William Cullen Bryant, of course, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Robert Burns, Longfellow, Shakespeare…the list went on and on.

One of my favorites was by Sir John Suckling, not a real big gun, but funny.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Pr’y thee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can’t move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Pr’y thee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Pr’y thee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can’t win her,

Saying nothing do’t?

Pr’y thee why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! This will not move,

This cannot take her:

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!

Oh, goodness. Those Brits.

 I always came back to the poems of Robert Burns written in the old Scots dialect, however, like this one:

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June:

O my luve’s like the melodie

That’s sweetly played in tune…

From time to time through the years as I was raising my sons and fitfully working on a novel about a Colorado ranching family, I revisited my precious book of poetry. Eventually, the book survived a move to the Oklahoma prairie, but it had become so fragile I took it off the bookshelf and placed it in a bag in my closet. Still, every now and then if I came across the book looking for something else, I'd stand in my closet beneath the light bulb with its chain pull and read a poem or two.

Eventually, my sons left home and I began writing more—mostly as an antidote to their absence in my days. I took a writing class and finished my first novel after more than twenty years. While my freelance editor toiled through my shocking abuse of the english language, I wrote a middle grade story titled Agnes Campbell's Hat about a twelve-year-old Oklahoma girl whose mother brings home an old hat in a box of auction stuff. She tries on the hat and is whisked back in time to live as Agnes Campbell, the daughter of an immigrant Scotsman who sings Robbie Burns songs from a book of poetry exactly like mine.

I had no idea that long ago day when I bought a box of Bibles the book of poetry at the bottom had the power to affect my life, or shape a novel I wrote for my niece, or maybe even touch the lives of a person or two who reads my stories.

And…what would Robbie Burns think? Had he a clue when he penned My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose that over two-hundred-years later some Okie farm woman would one day use it to write a book AND a guest blog post for Anna, another of his fans? Would he pop his suspender straps and say, “Aye, the lassies still dig me,” or would he be astonished and humbled his work had survived so long?

I raised boys, so I’m going with popping his suspender straps, but whichever way he’d react, I’m glad I found that old poetry book.

God bless all y’all and thank you so much for having me, Anna.

Danni blogs at From the Ranch Pen and writes Christian fiction from her home in Oklahoma where she and Gramps—her sidekick of over thirty-one years—farm and ranch.  She’s the mother of three grown sons and daughters-in-law, and the grandmother of six grandkids. Once, she had an encounter with a meat man in a van whose silver tongue enticed her into buying his over-priced beef—even though she and Gramps raise cattle for a living and have a freezer full of the stuff. When she stumbled upon Anna’s excellent blog post on the same subject she realized she had met a kindred blogger and has been lurking around The Silent Isle ever since. 

(I cannot express what a delight and honor it is to have Danni writing for us today. Since she first appeared after the Meat Man tale, I've been lurking ever since around her ranch pen as well. And the fact that she loves Rabbie Burns is the icing atop an already-sweet cake. Thank you, Danni!)

For Better or Worse (and how I just might need to object)

On September 29, 1938 British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, French Premier Edouard Daladier, and Italian Dictator Benito Mussolini all met in Munich. The host of the gathering: German Führer Adolf Hitler. The purpose of this event: To reconfigure the borders and boundaries of the countries of Europe.  

Time Magazine considered this meeting of European big wigs as the "greatest single news event of 1938."  In fact, they went so far as to name Hitler 1938's Man of the Year--an honor offered to every sitting United States President since 1927, Mahatma Gandhi ('30), Pope John XXIII ('62), and even the computer ('82). Time has staunchly maintained that their title "Man of the Year" (now changed to "Person of the Year") is less an honor than it is a recognition of influence "for better or worse." (Obviously Hitler would fall into the latter category.)

Yes, yes, hindsight is always 20/20. And it's their magazine; they can put whomever they want on the cover. However, let's consider the impact of that decision.

The connotations of the title "Man of the Year" are of recognition, honor, seeming exultation. And those often associated with this title--such as US Presidents, Queen Elizabeth II, Gandhi, and a slew of other admirable folk--are those whom people respect, admire, and even revere. 

So I find it curious (and more than mildly horrifying) that Hitler's name also swims in that name-pool. Granted, in 1938, Hitler had not fully instituted his plans for ethnic cleansing (though he was well on his way). And he had also pulled Germany out of massive indebtedness and demilitarization when only 20 years before the country had been wallowing in abject poverty and humiliation from their defeat in WWI. Yes, you could say he was massively influential. Yet, I think the 6 million Jews (along with the other millions of gypsies, homosexuals, Christians, dissenters) would cry from their mass graves that Time may need to rethink their policy on "for better or worse."

Why must they honor worse? Why can't they simply honor better? And, by extension, why can't we--as fellow runners in the human race--honor better?

It is my humble opinion that when we observe and recognize "worse" through a sterile, objective perspective, we negate some of its worse-ness. Worse is worse because there is something built into us that recognizes the presence of darkness.

We clear away some of the darkness when we bring it into the light of publicity. And, what's worse, we even lift it into the edges of the mine-riddled No Man's Land of acceptability. 

No one thinks Hitler's policies were acceptable, you say? 

Well, having spent some time in Germany several years ago, I spoke with a man who disagrees (or at least luxuriates in the turning of a blind eye.) On a day I and several others were set to visit Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp, this German man asked me why I wanted to go.

"To remember," I answered, feeling a bit silly--disrespectful, even, to play the tourist in a place where so many innocent people suffered and were sacrificed. "To maybe try to honor those who died there."

"Well, no one was killed in Dachau," he answered with a wave of his hand.

My mouth dropped open and I made no attempt to hide my incredulity.

"People died, yes," he continued. "But they died only because they were ill or of natural causes. There was no, as they call, mass killing."

Mouth still agape, I looked at my friend next to me--a history teacher, no less--who stood with what can only be described as horror written across her face. Both of us spluttered, momentarily incapable of responding to such bold-faced ignorance.

"Enjoy your visit," the man said, and he walked away.

That day I passed through the gates proclaiming "Arbeit Macht Frei." (Work makes you free.)

I touched the bedframes where hundreds of the innocent and starving were housed, stacked atop each other in freezing cold and blistering heat.

I walked along the fenceline where thousands of young women were used for the soldiers' pleasure.

I stood in the gas chamber.

I saw the ovens.  

If we know anything about history, or even watch the news, then we know the worst of which man is capable. So why lift that from the refuse of depravity where it wallows, give it a little spit-and-shine, and put it on a magazine cover? 

Instead, let us seek out and  recognize "better." 

And once the better is recognized, let's elevate it further--out of the reaches of mere acceptability--and make it something to which we all aspire.

 

Top photo from: http://onebigphoto.com/stunning-dolomites-mountains-italy/ (added text mine)

Be Safe, Dear Friends

Last night I went to dinner with my sweet mum-in-law (who is visiting from The Motherland), my mom, and my oldest daughter. As we were nibbling our decadent desserts, Jonathan called.

"I don't want you to panic," he says. Which, of course, makes me panic.

"What is it?"

"Well, to start, just know that everyone is OK."

"Okay..." My mind starts to race, my heart to thrum, though I try to act calm and casual so as not to alarm everyone with me.

"A tornado went through Oklahoma City. Moore took a direct hit." Moore is where my sister-in-law is a teacher and my nephews go to school. My stomach knots. He continues to tell me that my sister-in-law and 13-year-old nephew were huddled in a bathroom of the elementary school where she teaches as the building collapsed around them. I try to control my breathing, and my expression. Again, I don't want to alarm anyone yet. Jonathan again assures me that, apart from my sister-in-law's broken foot, they are fine and, after they helped to pull other children and teachers out of the rubble (yes, broken foot and all) they were finally reunited with my brother-in-law (Jonathan's brother) and their other son.

Once I hang up, I convey the news as calmly as I can. And, unable to enjoy the last, bittersweet bites of dessert, we rush home to make phone calls to our loved ones and watch with horror the devastation on the 10 o'clock news.

I know that there are many of you out there affected by this horrific event--some of you  that are even now bracing for more possible tornadoes to come today. (Danni, who blogs From the Ranch Pen, is one of many I know enduring these terrifying weather systems.)

And I wish, right now, that I had something useful to say. Something uplifting and insightful. But, wracking my brain, I can think of nothing except to pray. And, while it certainly doesn't seem enough, it's all I can offer right now. My prayers are with you all amidst this tragedy and for protection from whatever is to come. Be safe, dear friends.

A picture my sister-in-law took of her school, her classroom was just to the right of that wall.
We are so thankful they are safe!

 

Had I But Known I Could Run and Breathe at the Same Time

guest post by: Drema Drudge

I had a Forrest Gump moment recently. Let me back up. I was born a sickly, asthmatic child. My mother loves to tell me how I was allergic to “everything,” including my own bacteria.  I was three before I could have ice cream and cake for my birthday. Gradually, I outgrew the allergies, but I didn’t outgrow the perception that I wasn’t capable of strenuous exercise. 

I wanted to play basketball. I loved running down the court, heart racing, stealing the ball, trying to make a basket. But my mom took one look at my flushed cheeks and promptly sat me down, no matter the sport. So I grew up. And out. Because exercise was forbidden me (except, please tell me why, gym class!), I became pudgy, thinking it was just my birthright.

Even though I wasn’t supposed to get overly warm, I always wanted to be in a triathlon, from the moment I read about them in a fitness magazine. I decided that since I knew how to swim (Sort of – when you’re as large as I was, you have total confidence that you won’t sink. Ever.), and I knew how to ride a bike (not a speed bike, admittedly, but how hard could it be? Turns out, very.), all I needed to do was practice running. Except. Except right outside of my parents’ West Virginia home, there was nothing but mountains and a dangerous road that coal trucks liked to speed down. Joy. Maybe I would just put that dream on hold, too.

I thought about running again when I was in college. Thought about it. As in, checked a magazine out of the library, read it, told my husband (I married young) that I would be back and ran out the door and down the block, got a side cramp, came back inside, and promptly gave up. 

Twenty–plus years later and I have managed to take off lots of weight, mostly by walking and lifting weights. Then I see a Biggest Loser episode where Jillian Michaels starts yelling at people bigger than me to go faster! They aren’t walking on the treadmills – they are running! I asked myself why I don’t run. I told myself it’s because I injured my left knee when I was about 23.  It’s true, but I haven’t really tried running to see if my knee can handle it. I just “know” that I can’t run because I am still the sickly child, right? 

I decided to give run/walking a half-hearted try, even entering two 5K’s. But this past October, despite a knee that was aching, when the herd started running at the start of the race, I caught myself running just as hard as they were. And I kept going. And going. And going. I ran the whole thing, not stopping once. I was exhausted.

No one said “Run, Drema, Run,” but our church’s associate pastor was standing on the sidelines, and she was cheering and that fueled me the rest of the way, and I ended up placing first in my category’s age group! That was a major turning point.  Why had I allowed others to define my abilities for so long?

I have run harder and faster every day since. Right now I am in training for a half marathon, and I’m within two miles of being able to do it. Had I but known I could run when I was back in college, I would have been running for years.

Well, at least maybe I’ve saved my knees a bit of wear and tear. Though I wish I had known then, at least I know now, and maybe that’s enough. What it has taught me is that I can do so much more than I ever thought possible. Every day I push myself a little harder to try a new idea, cook a new food, or submit another story. So in a way, I’m glad I didn’t know. Had I but known…there is so much I wouldn’t know now! 

Drema Drudge is an MFA student with Spalding University, a wife and mother. Her most recent work has been published in The Louisville Review, Mused, ATG, and Penumbra. She is a regular contributor to the popular Chicken Soup for the Soul series.  For more information about Drema, read her blog at: dremadrudge.wordpress.com.  

Thank you, Drema, for this inspirational piece! I am so honored by your visit and always revel in the loveliness of your prose.