Words in Pencil on the Back of a Drawer

“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.

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.

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?

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?

Thoughts on Mother's Day

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.

The Explosive Power of Memory

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.

Grandpa's in Jail?

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 -

I 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....

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?

"And God said, '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.." James 3:16. Words can destroy. "Kinds words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless." Mother Teresa. Words can last forever. "Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense. " Wentworth Dillon. Words can betray our inner self. "In the end, we will not remember the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." Martin Luther King. Words can give voice and hope to the oppressed.

Words can deceive, flatter, mislead. They can also build up, correct, teach. What do our words say about us?

18 November 2008

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.

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.

29 October 2008

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.