tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46250631310779804012024-03-18T20:43:05.950-07:00Cynthia A. GrahamThoughts on travel, genealogy, writing, and the history of us all.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-61114151655568681652014-11-20T07:51:00.000-08:002014-11-20T07:51:34.819-08:00Refections from (not) a War Zone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is a problem in North St.
Louis County and it has little to do with race, regardless of what you’ve seen
on television. In 1970 I began my academic career at Elm Grove School in the
Hazelwood School District. At that time
Hazelwood was, and remains, the second largest school district in the state of
Missouri. I received a good education.
Hazelwood was booming at the time, building two new high schools and was one of
the highest rated school districts in the state. Fast forward and times have
changed. It is still a booming school district, recently two new middle schools
were established and student enrollment has remained high. But, academically
Hazelwood has suffered. The problem is not the students, the problem is the
declining economy of North St. Louis County. When I attended Hazelwood there
were plenty of jobs and plenty of tax dollars to go around. McDonnell-Douglas
Corporation was huge, the Ford Motor Plant at I-270 and Lindbergh was up and
running, Lambert International Airport was the hub for TWA and various
factories, like Hussmann Refrigeration gave good wages to the citizens of the
area.</div>
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But this did not come with a
price. At the same time North County was
booming, the city of St. Louis lost a full thirty percent of its population.
The lure of the suburbs, especially with good paying jobs, was too much to
resist. The problems presented to those left behind included dwindling property
values, which in turn lead to lower tax assessments resulting in fewer funds to pay for public education. This was exacerbated by the fact that lower property
values incentivized government agencies to concentrate subsidized housing in
these areas which created a vacuum of tax dollars. This is simple logic: If the public schools are funded locally by
tax dollars and the tax dollars are not collected due to low income, then the
public schools will suffer and, in turn, the students will suffer. </div>
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The facts are as follows: Roughly ten percent of school funding comes
from Federal Sources, such as Title I, Reading First and the Americans with
Disabilities Act. Approximately thirty percent comes from the state of Missouri
with 84% of that coming from general revenue and the rest from gaming, lottery,
etc. That leaves almost 60% to be funded locally. In a suit filed in 2009, half
of the public school districts in the state of Missouri alleged that the
formula for education was unequal. In fact, “An education finance expert
testified on Plaintiffs' behalf that Missouri's school finance system was
"one of the most disparate systems in existence in the United States"
because SB287's funding formula placed a greater financial burden on local
school districts by increasing their responsibility for funding public schools.”</div>
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According to the Missouri Supreme Court website:</div>
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“At trial, Plaintiffs presented
evidence of alleged inadequacy through "focus district" plaintiff
schools, whose funding under SB287's formula failed to meet the required
"state adequacy target." Plaintiffs stressed that the <span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">alleged inadequacy of school funding
in Missouri most impacts Missouri's high-risk children, such as those living in
poverty and those with special needs</span>. They also highlighted the spending
disparities among Missouri's school districts, with per-pupil spending ranging
from $4,704.11 in the Diamond R-IV School District to $15,251.28 in the Gorin
R-III School District. And they noted the differences among the tax bases in
Missouri's school districts, with assessed valuation per eligible pupil in the
2004-2005 school year ranging from $19,605 in the Cooter R-IV School District
to $416,679 in the Clayton School District.”</div>
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If education is the means of
delivering young people from the grip of poverty and welfare, then don’t we owe
it to them to change the laws and make the funding of public education more
equitable? I once heard someone say that criminologists recognize kids in the
ghetto are at greater risk for crime because they lack the imagination to even
realize there can be more to life than dealing drugs on the street corner. This
was echoed in an article I read on NPR where a convict discussed how life
changing prison turned out to be because he was introduced to the Liberal Arts
and his mind was able to expand and realize the world is vastly more than a
street corner and a gun. </div>
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If we truly want to address the
situation in Ferguson, and in rural Missouri for that matter, we need to look
at a more just and equitable way to fund public education. It’s just that
simple.</div>
Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-28663611466643696712014-08-05T10:23:00.001-07:002014-08-05T13:08:50.501-07:00He Always Said He Could FlyThis Sunday would mark my dad's eightieth birthday. I wrote the following to honor him, the singer of songs and teller of tales.<br />
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My dad was a compulsive story teller. While other kids my age grew up with The Cat in the Hat or Charlotte's Web, I grew up with boys falling into watermelons and floating children, all compliments of a mind that saw beyond the ordinary and into a world of his own making. But it is no surprise his world would be extraordinary...he was extraordinary. And yes, he really did say he could fly.<br />
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He always said he could fly. How he came upon this thing in those snaky backwoods between the levees, where the most any man could hope for was to eat the fruit of his labors and not stay hungry was wondrous, but he was a wondrous man. The boy grew up in a magic place. It was a hole scooped out of the earth by a great earthquake. It’s said the shaking made the Mississippi River run backward and the swamps and bayous grew up in the rebellious water that refused to return to its banks. It was the kind of place where mystery and magic still thrived.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But as time passed, no one paid mystery and magic much heed. Between the plowing and the chopping and the picking and the swollen, bloody fingers and the chronic coughing from the dust of cotton, most men (and women for that matter) paid little attention to the magic around them. But he did. He found creatures in the forest, foul smelling creatures covered in hair but no one believed him. He found snakes with venom so powerful that one bite could kill a tree, but no one believed him. He found a large, wonderful catfish that could drown a man or pull him along down the long delta bayous all the way out to sea, but no one believed that either. But he knew what he saw and was not yet too careworn and hungry as to forget. When he sang in church on Sunday he heard the angels join, though no one else did. He heard the shuffle of feet in the night and knew it was those creatures too shy to show their faces to the children of men.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>His mama worried. She had seen men, men just like him, men who saw the things that others chose not to, men taken to the state hospital in Farmington. He learned that it was best to keep the creatures and the mystery to himself. The wide eyes began to droop and he told himself the shuffling was a raccoon in the garbage, there was no music of angels, there was no catfish. And he started to become everyone else. When he chopped cotton, he thought of nothing. When he pitched watermelons, he thought of nothing. When he picked cotton and the thorny flesh of the boll cut his hands and his blood stained his pants, he thought of nothing. And then the wondrous thing happened…<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s a miracle it happened at all. He had reached the age of reason where he learned to tell himself that the lights that hovered over the waters were swamp gas, the fireballs that rolled across the prairie were heat lightning, the boys that peered down at him from the tops of the trees were buzzards. He reasoned away the mystery and the beauty and nothing was left but the ugly, and he accepted the ugly because everyone else accepted the ugly.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One day the boy was standing on top of the levee with his hands in his pockets, looking as far as he’d ever need to go. His mama rang the dinner bell and the hungry boy began to run down the levee as fast as he could. And then it happened. He lost his footing and started to fall. He expected to feel the hardscrabble, sandy dirt scratch his cheek but the wondrous thing occurred instead. A gust of wind came out of nowhere and seemed to lift him. Now it could be said that he was a small boy and his ears were bigger than most, but whatever the cause, instead of falling he felt himself lift up. Before he knew it he was looking down on Number Nine ditch. He could see his mama ringing the bell, and he could see his daddy driving the mules home for dinner. And when the wind changed and brought him down, he ran to his mama. When he told her what happened her face grew pale. “Don’t ever tell anyone,” she cautioned, “or they’ll take you away.” It was then that the boy knew his mama, too, had once known how to fly before her face became careworn and hungry.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And the boy grew up and married like boys often do. He had children and he told them of how he once flew. They were brought up in a place without mystery or beauty and they never understood how it was their daddy could fly. But one cold, winter day when the boy had become a tired, old man he lay in bed and dreamed…he dreamed he was flying again. And the careworn, hungry face began to smile and the boy flew away.<br />
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<br />Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-35284756248439628302014-06-24T07:51:00.001-07:002014-06-24T10:18:10.424-07:00What's In A Name? The Washington Redskins Controversy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week the U.S. Trademark Trial and Appeal Board declared
that the Washington Redskins was disparaging to Native Americans. Predictably,
much of “white America” didn't understand the issue. What’s in a name? I’ve
thought about this a little because not much really gets me riled. I mean,
honestly, what’s the big deal? In fact, I propose some new team mascots just to
level the playing field so as not to single out Native Americans. I think we
should change the Fightin’ Irish of Notre Dame to the Drunken Irish. Other team
names that come to mind would include things like The Stupid Rednecks, The
Garlic Eaters, The MassHoles, The Yellowskins, The Dumb Blondes, The Greedy
CEOs, The Lazy Fatties, The Granola
Eaters, The Gun Totin’ Maniacs…the list could go on and on and on and on. What these names do is evoke hurtful
stereotypes. Because our mind needs categories in order to understand the
world, stereotypes are the simplest way to do this. One of the problems with
stereotypes is they are untrue. If the world was as simple as stereotypes
indicate it would be a boring place in which to live. Human beings are complex.
Phrases like “all gays are…” or “all conservatives are…” are red flags
indicating that the person making the statement is too lazy to make
individual moral judgments. To paraphrase Dr. Martin Luther King, it is simply easier
to judge someone by the color of their skin than by the content of their
character. In order to judge one’s character you must take the time to get to
know that individual, and that is just too much trouble.</div>
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Yesterday I read a blog posted on a Native American site regarding the Washington Redskins controversy and this blog pointed out a more
sinister reason why stereotypes can be troubling, one I hadn’t thought of. Stereotypes are dehumanizing. When a group is
stereotyped whether it is African Americans, Native Americans, Jews, Catholics,
Liberals, Conservatives, Gays, Northerners, Southerners, Mexicans, Canadians,
they cease to become persons and instead become “things”. Things are
disposable. Things are here for my pleasure. I can own things and use things,
they have no existence in themselves, they are here to serve me. When people become things bad stuff happens.</div>
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The philosopher Immanuel Kant once stated, “Act in such a way that you always treat humanity, whether
in your own person or in the person of any other, never simply as a means, but
always at the same time as an end." As a people, we do not seem to
be any closer to this goal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I highly recommend you read the
thought provoking essay at: http://www.ya-native.com/nativeamerica/getridofracisminsports.html<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-6474859245298135752014-06-07T07:49:00.000-07:002014-06-07T07:51:59.107-07:00The Necessity of Adversity<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABTythlvgicWUNOdakImzK4CtYMhcVKC0yxH7MuxJCGCjR-oOXpv5_IwRNnLVt5n3F_R-F1I1QrN8xctKIh59B3mzHE95mXv5T0bpvkRwX4sMYOu8ChbTSM3RYv-Am2rghFoVaRjVt3I/s1600/Dorothea+Lange+-+1937+-+Toward+Los+Angeles1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABTythlvgicWUNOdakImzK4CtYMhcVKC0yxH7MuxJCGCjR-oOXpv5_IwRNnLVt5n3F_R-F1I1QrN8xctKIh59B3mzHE95mXv5T0bpvkRwX4sMYOu8ChbTSM3RYv-Am2rghFoVaRjVt3I/s1600/Dorothea+Lange+-+1937+-+Toward+Los+Angeles1.jpg" height="170" width="200" /></a>My husband and I are spending the month of June following old Route 66. This past week we traveled through the state of Oklahoma and much of what I saw and read there was enlightening, not only about Okies, but about all of us. Oklahoma is a state that seems to be haunted by the Dust Bowl even now. We all like to live our lives relatively sedately, with little to trouble us, but it seems to me that adversity is the leaven that causes great men to rise. Oklahoma is justly proud of two of their native sons, Will Rogers and Woody Guthrie, both formed by the events of the Great Depression. What made them stand out? Rather than give up they rose above severe economic and social problems. Will Rogers famously predicted in the 1920’s that our economy could not survive the “get rich quick” mentality infecting Wall Street. He said, “Our whole Depression was brought on by gambling, not in the stock market alone but in expanding and borrowing and going in debt, all just to make some money quick.” Will Rogers understood the nature of greed. He once quipped, “You can’t get money without taking it from somebody.” When you travel through Oklahoma you see these towns that were literally strangled to death, not only because the interstate passed them by, but because of the sheer exodus of inhabitants looking for a way to put food on the table.</div>
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Woody Guthrie was another Okie formed by the Dust Bowl. He took his anger and turned it into song. He said, “I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewGP-KhK_rmu7jEdy5L8S2LVvgPjku6dAd-5VWCPOJnsQ7UKcZqKXRQfjgC2TK1KkihdDbnFeAVyRarc9Gt5hB-Wr1MW5QKkDvo1Z5J8CUskB-QU9lRmlGDvzN9Wh0Q1tga_ummVhgac/s1600/pete-woody1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewGP-KhK_rmu7jEdy5L8S2LVvgPjku6dAd-5VWCPOJnsQ7UKcZqKXRQfjgC2TK1KkihdDbnFeAVyRarc9Gt5hB-Wr1MW5QKkDvo1Z5J8CUskB-QU9lRmlGDvzN9Wh0Q1tga_ummVhgac/s1600/pete-woody1.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim or too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard travelling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work.” And that work didn’t matter, whether you were a shoe shiner or a banker, because during the Depression any work was good work.<br />
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I contrast the mentality of these two men and scores of other Dust Bowl Okies who didn’t give up to people like Elliot Rodger, spoiled and wealthy, brought up to believe he was entitled to whatever he wanted. When you have no adversity, when everything is handed to you, you never get the chance to become a better man. You never get to become a hero. Instead you become a victim of “affluenza” where the world owes you every luxury you can imagine and when things don’t go to plan, you pick up a gun and kill because those people were not human beings…they were bodies to be used. The Dust Bowl Okies didn’t believe life owed them anything. When they couldn’t put food on the table they moved to where they hoped they could find work. Steinbeck famously coined the phrase “The Mother Road” for Route 66. It was a road of hope. </div>
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Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-23259364113706676722014-05-22T06:25:00.000-07:002014-05-22T06:32:03.496-07:00Words in Pencil on the Back of a Drawer<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03J2Z_zZVlyc641yOA34dMqONzceHbKvPy_WYPSGeO8M6EeAqnPF8jqYWSMX2wb5phtsCDUw0nui9sbVQUtY9a8Xgy66oOJtcxUuZx5rNxptIT4J-Dhh2FYAUlJumelKBTKQy_g6y2a0/s1600/Greenfield+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03J2Z_zZVlyc641yOA34dMqONzceHbKvPy_WYPSGeO8M6EeAqnPF8jqYWSMX2wb5phtsCDUw0nui9sbVQUtY9a8Xgy66oOJtcxUuZx5rNxptIT4J-Dhh2FYAUlJumelKBTKQy_g6y2a0/s1600/Greenfield+025.jpg" height="225" width="320" /></a>“My name is Jeanne Greenfield and I was born in a red house
in Silverdale, Missouri.” That is what my Aunt Billie had written on the back
of a drawer in my grandmother’s old dresser. She wrote it in 1946 when she was
fifteen years old. The drawer was removed because my mother is moving from her
home to live with my brother. The dresser has been with us for well over fifty
years and no one had ever seen the writing until now. It is funny to
contemplate my Aunt Billie, now deceased, writing her “autobiography” at fifteen.
Aunt Billie’s autobiography, written on the back of a drawer, reveals things about her. I knew her as an
adult, a bit careworn from the job of raising a family of children and then
grandchildren. I never knew her as a teenager but like most of us, she must
have been experimenting, looking for her own identity, trying to create
something to be remembered by. She was able to do this by some words scribbled in
pencil on the back of a drawer.</div>
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Words are a powerful medium. They last much longer than
these “bits of stardust” our minds (and souls) inhabit. They reveal things
about us to future generations. Flannery O’Connor made carbon copies of every
letter she wrote, realizing that someday they would be read by countless
others, long after she was gone. Her letters are revealing, they show a woman
of intelligence, faith, humor, and, sometimes, a woman too caught up in the
present moment to understand the historical implications of events occurring
during her lifetime (such as the Civil Rights Movement). Other letters by other people reveal things
that are often surprising. They show a surprising humanity in philosopher
William Godwin, otherwise known for his cold, observations; they show the heart
of Albert Einstein when he encourages a young girl to “not mind” that she is a
girl; they show the compassion of a Lincoln, the wit of an Austen, the selflessness
of a Dorothy Day, and the vulnerability of a Thomas Merton.</div>
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These beautiful relics from the past that show us the heart
of the author will not apply to the current generation. Instead, we have the
anonymity of facebook where we can spew vitriol without thinking about how the
future will reflect upon us. I have a friend who lovingly wished a group of
young, innocent, African schoolgirls well. She was verbally berated by a man in
a way that I am sure he would not have done had they been face to face. But the
internet gives us this lovely buffer where we can be as rude and ignorant as
possible. There are entire pages devoted to hate and ridicule. There are
conservative pages and liberal pages and the most distasteful I ever heard of,
a page called “kill obama.” Is this the way we want to be remembered by future
generations…as a group of screaming ideologues who could never get anything
done because we were so busy shouting at one another we could never hear?</div>
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There is an old saying, “if you can’t say something nice,
don’t say anything at all.” I think, before your little fingers begin their
dance across the keyboard you should apply that same saying to what you type.
When I found my Aunt Billie’s autobiography it made me laugh and smile and
remember, with love, a remarkable woman. When future generations find your
facebook posts, how will they remember you?</div>
Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-43645716498724009422014-05-06T07:23:00.001-07:002014-05-06T07:24:18.671-07:00Thoughts on Mother's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ5Q3SDWVLWjgqR6RMm_XXt1Jkonike6FqvIjADbRTQg0_1kxZ3Ri0SjWEkcK0YeRH2NnJImdosBQkKphLXklFndBHL9Lv_6YZZPaGt-cmZ3pDpt8n1uW5ucZUDMBzRHL66w_q1790qU/s1600/blondie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ5Q3SDWVLWjgqR6RMm_XXt1Jkonike6FqvIjADbRTQg0_1kxZ3Ri0SjWEkcK0YeRH2NnJImdosBQkKphLXklFndBHL9Lv_6YZZPaGt-cmZ3pDpt8n1uW5ucZUDMBzRHL66w_q1790qU/s1600/blondie.jpg" height="320" width="312" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most
people in the world have one thing in common--they have mothers. Moms are creatures formed by nature
to do things humanly impossible. Their bodies do incredible, amazing, and
disturbing things during childbirth and many women elect to do these things
more than once. They can almost function with no sleep, they have the ability
to make sure everyone at the table has something to eat, and they often
discover that they really don’t like apple pie when there is only one piece
left. Moms are asked to pour their
hearts and souls into tiny, helpless little creatures and their success is
measured by how easily these helpless creatures dissociate themselves and move
into adulthood. Yes, they literally work
themselves out of a job and, yet, seem gratified to do so. They go without, do
without, and sacrifice for the good of their children. As the children grow, sometimes they become
sources of frustration: “Did you eat?” “Do you need any money?” “Why are you
doing that?” It is hard to for us to let go. And, at some point, if you’re
lucky, and your mom attains a ripe, old age, the tables are turned. You find
yourself asking questions: “Did you remember to take your medicine?” “Did you
eat” “Do you need anything?” And you remember. You remember the nights she sat
by your bed when you were sick. You remember the times she waited up needlessly
to make sure you got in all-right. You remember tears shed and harsh words
exchanged for things that really weren’t all that important. And, then, you
wonder why it takes something as meaningless and commercial as a “Hallmark
holiday” to make you remember. Happy
Mother’s Day.</div>
Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-56496718342521083572014-04-23T07:50:00.000-07:002014-04-23T07:50:46.295-07:00The Explosive Power of Memory<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday an elderly woman walked into a pawn shop in Rapid
City, South Dakota. She brought with her some World War Two memorabilia her
husband had brought home with him from the Philippines. Unfortunately, one of
the grenades was still live creating a scenario in which the explosive
ordinance experts at nearby Ellsworth Air Force Base had to be summoned. Why had this woman lived with a dangerous
explosive in her home for decades? This hand grenade was a souvenir picked up
during the war. It was very common for soldiers to bring home mementos. My
uncle brought home pictures that you will never see in history books. Grisly,
barbaric images that realistically present the war the soldiers fought. Not the
war of John Wayne where the good guys and the bad guys are clearly delineated
by the color of their uniform…or their skin. The word souvenir is French and is
about memory. Souvenirs help us to remember certain places we have been, or
people we have met. We all like to pick up different things. Some people pick
up rocks, or refrigerator magnets or the ever-present t-shirt. Souvenirs help
us to remember the way we felt at a particular time and in a particular place.
They are meant to evoke emotion. Perhaps
these souvenirs helped soldiers sort through the emotions that society didn’t permit
them to discuss out loud. World War Two veterans are a stoic group of men, but
what they didn’t talk about in words haunted these boys for the rest of their
lives. Like the World War Two veteran who brought home a live grenade, these men
brought home dangerous, explosive memories. My mom talks about her brother
coming home from the war and waking his siblings nightly screaming in terror.
My dad’s brother came home with a fondness for alcohol that eventually took his
life. Although memory inhabits the world of the mind it has the ability to
present itself as something very real and ever-present. Memory has the ability
to cripple. Memories are the pages of our lives, some are pleasant and some are
heart-wrenching. But like a book, even though the page has turned, it is what
happened in the previous chapter that moves the narrative along. We like to
believe we can forget the things that hurt, annoy, or bother us but they happened
and we must accept them as part of our life’s story. There are unsavory
chapters that we wish we could tear out of the book but they are there and they
have made us real characters, with flaws and hurts and victories. Memories are
powerful. Like the old woman’s grenade they can sit by quietly, but a word, a
smell, a song, and they can come upon you with a realness that reminds us how
easily they retain their capacity for explosion.</div>
Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-18493639870708648302014-04-16T07:17:00.000-07:002014-04-16T07:17:03.792-07:00Grandpa's in Jail?<div class="MsoNormal">
Georgia was one of the first states to build a penitentiary
to house their convicts and the first one was built in Milledgeville. The reason this little fact is meaningful to
me is that it is a reminder that in genealogy one never knows what one will
find. In fact, if one looks far enough back they may find a convict (or two)
resting comfortably on a branch of the family tree. I found my great-grandfather (X3) living as a
guest of the penitentiary from November 1, 1824 through January 25, 1826. At
close to six feet tall he was a large man for the time and his crime was assault
with intent to kill. The weapon of choice? A knife. This information perfectly
illustrates why I love genealogy and why it is so valuable to me as a writer.
There is a story here. Samuel had a daughter named Matilda, who was only three-years-old
when he went to prison. Because she was the child of a convict Matilda was able
to obtain land in the Georgia Land Lottery of 1827. Ironic, as family legend
describes Samuel’s wife, Susannah, as being Cherokee, the very people from who
the land was taken. Was this Cherokee wife the reason for the fight? Samuel
fought with a knife. Hand to hand. He didn’t shoot someone in the back from
long range. This was a personal, face to face confrontation. Who was the other
man? What happened to him? We only know he lived because Samuel was not
convicted of manslaughter. Samuel’s story does not end here. We know that in
the 1840s he leaves Georgia and joins his extended family in Arkansas. He matures, like most men do, and raises a
family and farms the land. He dies at a good age and bequeaths to his remaining children items valuable for
the day: a feather bed, a couple of milk cows, some mules. History is not made of events, it is made of
stories. I love to find stories in unexpected places. Next week I will be in Deadwoood, South
Dakota. There will be a story waiting.
Peace -</div>
Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-81536354841017346772008-11-21T05:15:00.001-08:002008-11-21T07:18:03.248-08:00I love words. I love how there are words to convey how we feel, what we hear, what we see....Its funny how powerful they can be. Of course, this is no new revelation. After all, the "pen is mightier than the sword." I went to a seminar last night. It was one of those touchy feely things that I really have no use for. At one point Kim, the woman next to me, declared she felt like she was on Oprah. Motivational speakers are an odd breed. They come in all perky and excited about something they have no vested interest in and try to transfer that perkiness to their audience. The reality is no amount of energy or positive thinking will change anything. It is far easier to want to believe that if I just go into a situation with the right positive attitude everything will be better. The truth of the matter is no great change will ever be effected without discipline and hard work. As a society we hate to get our hands dirty, but unless we get down and address the real issues and discuss the reasons problems exist honestly, and without fear there will be no change. But I digress....<br /><br />While, I agreed with the premise of the seminar, that positive words help and negative words hurt I think that just touches the tip of the real problem. I have a friend who has reminded me on several ocassions its not just the words but the tone in which they are spoken. True, but I would add it is also the intent of the speaker. When I yell at my child (gasp! I know I'm not the only one) is it for his good or is to let off a little steam that has built because he/she is frustrating me. It makes me feel better. But how does it effect him? Or how about avoiding that confrontation because we simply dont have the energy to correct someone? Are we looking out for their good or our own peace?<br /><br />"And God <strong>said, </strong>'Let there be light,'". Words can create. "The tongue is also a fire. It exists among our memebers as a world of malice, defiling the whole body and setting the entire course of our lives on fire.." <em>James 3:16.</em> Words can destroy. "Kinds words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless." <em>Mother Teresa</em>. Words can last forever. "Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense. " <em>Wentworth Dillon. </em>Words can betray our inner self. "In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." <em>Martin Luther King. </em>Words can give voice and hope to the oppressed.<br /><br />Words can deceive, flatter, mislead. They can also build up, correct, teach. What do our words say about us?Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-38537856541017166642008-11-18T18:08:00.000-08:002008-11-18T18:14:39.110-08:00<div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;">18 November 2008</span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;">Okay, I see I'm not being as faithful to this little journaling process as I had hoped. A week ago today I buried a friend. He was only fifty-three years old. George was one of those people that was uniformly liked....seriously. He was one of those people that everyone clamored to be around. He had an infectious smile and his wife a warm, whole-hearted laugh. Her life has changed forever. It's interesting to me to watch how people react to their own mortality. I have had the disadvantage of burying many young friends. The "death process" as they like to call it in hospice strips us of so much....independence, ambition, the illusion of control, and yet, it gives so much. I have watched fear turn to peace, anger turn to acceptance, sadness to hope. Only with God's grace can this happen. To face the unknown foe calmly...this is truly a gift from God. </span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;">I heard a man on Discovery channel declare, "In this life we get to be what we want to be..." What a deception! We are all accountable to forces we can never understand. And, yet, in our pride and arrogance, we feel so empowered, so entitled. But I digress...the simple truth is we can't all "be what we want to be." There are limitations on every soul and the ultimate limitation is death. Whether your beliefs tell you it is the end, or simply another beginning, the truth of the matter is we will all face it one day. My prayer is I face it like George, embracing it fearlessly with both arms.</span></div>Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-17925993839439911662008-10-29T13:02:00.000-07:002008-11-18T18:23:23.666-08:0029 October 2008<br /><br />I volunteer at a nursing home once a week. Most people tell me they think that would be depressing but its not. As a society, we would like to ignore the infirm, the elderly, the unborn. We miss out on so much when we do this...but I digress. I once entered a room where the occupant had just passed away. It didn't bother me to be in there with the body talking with his family because I knew he was no longer there. Today I went with a priest to give a friend the annointing of the sick, a.k.a., "last rites." I'm a convert so I have never witnessed this before. What a beautiful thing to see the comfort words can bring. My friend has no legs and hardly no mobility and, yet, such a profound grace radiated around him as he mouthed the Lord's Prayer. I never knew Jack when he had a good "quality of life" and, yet, he brings joy and laughter wherever he goes. To watch him lying in that bed, knowing his final days are here, there was so much humility, so much trust in his God and, yet, so much dignity. So many people say, "I would rather be dead than stuck in a nursing home unable to care for myself." If Jack had felt that way I would have never known him...and I'm proud to know him.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625063131077980401.post-61793531164508706952008-10-28T17:43:00.000-07:002008-11-18T18:13:17.367-08:00<div class="F_Mid" align="center" unselectable="off" style="font-size:20px;"><span unselectable="off" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif;font-size:7;"></span></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" style="font-size:20px;"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"></div><div class="F_Mid" unselectable="off" size="20px"><span style="font-size:85%;">28 October 2008</span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;">Greetings! If you have stumbled onto this page let me offer an explanation. This is my "attempt" at blogging. I never understood blogs. It takes a certain amount of self-absorption to believe that you have something so important to say that people will want to log on every day just to read your thoughts. With that in mind, this blog was begun for a selfish purpose: to jump start my writing...to call back the muse, if you will. If you like what you read, I would be honored if you come back. </span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div class="F_Mid" style="FONT-SIZE: 20px" unselectable="off"><span style="font-size:85%;">As you can see by the date above, we are one week out from the election. Politics is a funny thing....much like a sporting event with an outcome that will effect us longer than Sunday's football game. One of my favorite quotes on politics is by Mark Twain: <span unselectable="off" style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span unselectable="off" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress.... But then I repeat myself. It used to be members of congress were well-respected. But that was in the day they were true public servants. Now they are self-servants, dedicated to the special interest groups that fund their campaigns. But I digress...this blog will not be about politics. God knows there are enough of those out there already. It will be about finding grace and humor in the everyday. It will be about remembering to smile when your daughter asks for a hookah or finding the courage to cry when a friend is dying. There is a holiness to the every day that we must always recall. My wish is to remind myself of that...</span></span></span></div>Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01361061563259639143noreply@blogger.com1