Manners

I have been thinking a lot about manners recently. Going beyond the simple "please" and "thank you", and the art of eating with silverware instead of your hands is really rather rare these days, it seems to me.

Manners used to be taught in schools as part of a well-rounded curriculum. Sometime in the 1970's or 1980's, manners ceased to be important enough to address as a subject of education in the classroom (and indeed, in some cases, were scorned as old-fashioned) and were relegated to the ranks of "things we learn at home". At the same time, parents, who had always been responsible for instilling and developing social skill training were being told to let their children be "free to be who and what they wanted to be". In addition, many families were coming apart at the seams and families who previously had a parent at home to administrate and supervise the children gave way to a culture of "latch-key kids" and unsupervised teenagers. There was no way to transmit the culture of "mannerly behavior" that sustains our restraint and charity (or kindness toward others) as a society, because there was no one around to teach or enforce it. And now, those kids are the parents of today.

Today we have two problems in society that are, I believe, directly related to this lack of social training or "manners". The rise in bullying (and its cousin: violent crime) and the rise in violent political debate correspond with shocking clarity to the decline in the importance of manners in our schools and homes. Why?

There are a couple of reasons. Manners are a set of rules that give a person something to fall back on in unfamiliar situations. It's a framework of what to say and do (or what not to say and not to do). But, it is like using a tool in an emergency. When your car has a flat, if you have never tried to use that lug wrench or jack when it is not raining and dark, it's going to be really hard to use for the first time it when it is. Practicing manners, then, is a way to use a set of tools that will stand you in good stead when the unexpected happens.

For example, if you are at a dinner party where you know only your host, you have a set of rules governing what you talk about with your fellow partygoers and how to go about it so you don't offend anyone. That seems pretty esoteric, but imagine that you are the new kid at school and all the same rules apply (to everyone). Suddenly, you have a structure for how to act and what to say (and so do they), that, if enforced, could save you embarrassment and a lot of grief.

The second reason that manners are important, is that they give you a sense that you are not the most important thing in the room. It demands respect for your fellow man. From a Christian perspective, each person is created in the image and likeness of God and that is enough to keep us from harming another in body mind or spirit, but in the world of secular society, we had to legislate it. Hence, manners. And, if followed as the societal norm, the type of respect that comes from adhering to manners could save kids' lives. Heck, it could save your life.

"But what about my right to say what's on my mind?" You wouldn't believe how often I hear this from kids who are caught saying something inappropriate to a peer, or worse, an adult. Each of us has the right to Free Speech in this country. I realize that this is a hotly contested freedom right now. Where does that right end? 

When I was very young, my mother told me that I had my rights as long as they did not interfere with another person's rights. That means, that as long as I allow another equal time and do not personally attack (physically or verbally) another person, I am within my rights to speak my mind as regards my political values and ideals. And they are within their rights to speak theirs. So, why do we have all of this politically based violence? I can only assume it is a complete lack of manners. There is no way that a gentleman or lady would ever lay hands on another person if he or she disagreed with that person.

So it seems to me that these are pretty basic rules to teach and enforce:

1. Keep your hands to yourself.
2. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
3. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
4. Do not whisper in a public setting. Anything you need to say to your neighbor can wait until you are alone.
5. Do not interrupt people when they are speaking. Your turn will be next.
6. Never talk about religion or politics at a dinner party (or in the lunchroom).
7. Do not address private matters in public. (I do not want to know what goes on in your bedroom. Did you want to know what goes on in mine? I didn't think so.)

If these seem simplistic let me share a story. I had a couple of children in my choir that were bullying another child. They weren't using their fists. They were using their tongues. They were teasing this young man because he was overweight and it was getting to be a weekly occurrence to find this young man in the car crying. This kid was a "tough guy", but he'd never lay his hands on a girl and he wasn't witty enough to take them in a battle of wits. It was very frustrating and hurtful.

Finally, I asked my husband to address the problem with the girls' mother and the girls themselves. He asked them if they knew the "Golden Rule". They replied that they did not. He taught it to them, had them explain what they thought that meant, and then explained that they needed to abide by it whenever they came to practice. Pretty basic manners, right? Yet, the mother was furious, saying that he had humiliated her children and sent their father to me to complain. He told me, "We just don't do things like that anymore." I responded, "Maybe we should." Let me further explain that these girls were not young hoodlums, they were middle-class suburban dwelling girls. They definitely, in my opinion, should have known better.

I know that I am certainly guilty of treating people with a lack of respect when they displease me. I have gotten very sloppy with my manners in the past few years and I did not enforce them adequately with my children. But I intend to redouble my efforts.

What about you?

Just a little plug for one of my favorite children's manners books: "Miss Manners' Guide to Rearing Perfect Children". Not only is it hilarious (and, therefore, a good read,) it's invaluable information for every age your child will pass through all the way through college. Let me also say that when we follow Miss Manners' advice things really do run more smoothly around here.

On the question of Charity

While surfing around on Facebook, I came across this post:

Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without needed meds, and mentally ill without treatment - yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 TV stations. 99% of people won't have the guts to copy and repost this.

I had heard about this post going around from my sister-in-law at Sunday Dinner this evening, but was shocked to find it popping up on my friend's statuses. I was shocked. Did the person who posted this even consider what this said? Are you seriously saying that we should not help a foreign country whose entire infrastructure was completely obliterated through no fault of their own? Are you saying that we need to take care of our own first and then worry about everyone else? Is that what Jesus did? (Yes, these people are purportedly Catholics.)

I understand that you might be surprised or even a little outraged by the lack of care that the poor in our own country receive. Often times, it does not seem like enough. Everyone can tell you an anecdotal story about someone they know, or some one who knows someone who needed help and couldn't get it. However, I will tell you, there is a great deal of help out there for those that need it. All they need to do is ask. Often, they are too proud to do so. And I don't mean to sound hard, but I know. I know what it's like to sit in the welfare office. I have been there.

Something else to consider, if you are a person who agrees with the above Facebook post: What are YOU doing to change it? Likely, simply throwing money at the problem will not be the solution. I have found that people make the difference. Don't wait for "someone else" to do it! If you are really concerned about the poor and the homeless sit next to them on the bus. Be kind to them, even when they smell horrible. When they ask you for money, offer to buy them a sandwich. If they are really hungry, they'll take you up on that. If they're looking to score, they won't.

If you are worried about the elderly, go visit them. Show them that you care. Make sure they take their meds. Every drug company in the country offers a discount program. Help them take advantage of those programs.

The mentally ill...well, I could tell you all about that. Most of those who are not receiving treatment do not wish to. They feel that it dulls their senses. Good luck convincing them otherwise, but please do try. It may be the only hope they have.

In our country's history the only times we have suffered great financial and diplomatic hardships have been in periods of isolationism. This post made my blood run cold. I was reminded of the hundreds of thousands of lives lost in World War I while the U.S. isolated themselves from the "problems of Europe". A war that could have been cut much shorter had the U.S. been involved earlier. I was reminded of the tariff war that followed World War I. The United States, desperate to protect their own borders and interests, sparked a tariff war with rebuilding European nations. It has been argued that the spiraling tariffs were a major contributing factor to the Great Depression. I was also reminded of the Holocaust in the 1930's and 1940's, where the United States stood by and insisted, "Oh, it's not our problem."

Devastation to the human race is everyone's concern. It always has been and always will be, no matter what color the human's skin happens to be or what language they speak.

What time did you say that would be?

Son: Can I have some chocolate milk, Dad?

Husband: Sure, son. (pours milk in a glass) Now what do you say to God for the blessing of chocolate milk?

Son (rolls eyes): *Thank* you.

Husband (chuckles evilly): And what would you say to God if he were German?
Wife raises eyebrows but refrains from responding "Gott sei dank!"

Son (rolls eyes even further back into his head and replies while walking away into the next room): Danke Schoen!
Wife to husband (raising one eyebrow and smirking): So, um.... are you saying that God isn't German?

Son (interjecting from the next room): Of course not, Mom. If He was German He would have given us a time for the end of the world.

Ah Yes! Sociology lessons at the O'Keefe house.

Woodcut: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by Albrecht Dürer

Sleep

This morning one of my friends updated her Facebook status to "I take back all the times I didn't want to nap when I was young." I am SO there. I was so there, that I changed my status to "What is it about the rain that makes me want to stay under the blankets and not come out until the sun does?"

I could barely get out of bed this morning. It was so nice and cozy under the blankets. Every time I sat down on the bed to put on my shoes, or pants, or socks, I had to fight the urge to lay back and rest. It was a delicious feeling, but frustrating at the same time. After all, I have things to do...but OH that bed felt cozy!

So, of course, these posts led to a discussion about sleep and how it affects us as adults. When a kid doesn't get a nap, they are always really difficult. Is it the same with adults? The consensus of our friends is: Yes. And we are pretty sure that there would be world peace if everyone was required to take a nap and have a mid-afternoon snack.

In fact, I am pretty sure that health care costs would go down, too. Imagine if the stress level dropped, how many fewer strokes and heart attacks we'd have. In addition, a better rested population of workers would make fewer mistakes and fewer accidents would happen.

I think this is a plan. So, how about it, Mr. President? Maybe tier 1 of the Healthcare reform should be a mandatory nap time.

Now, about my cup of coffee...

Friendship and Love

In the absence of any original thoughts I might ever have (I am suffering from mondo writer's block) , I am re-posting stuff from my earlier blogging days. It's kind of a cool thing when you read something you wrote 3 years ago and think, "Wow! Did I write that? That was pretty good."

Friendship is Love without wings, so say the French.

I had dinner last night with a couple who, for one reason or another, didn't make it. After 3 years of friendship and then 3 years of marriage they divorced. Now, they are friends. Really. Friends.

I was reminded sharply of the time that my husband and I were divorced about 9 years ago. In the months leading up to our court date, we spoke on the phone every day. We talked about the kids, work, our friends, our faith...anything we could find to talk about. I didn't think I loved my husband anymore, but still I could not imagine life without him.

When we went to the Judge to finalize the papers. We were joking and laughing in the courtroom about his complete inability to remember dates, phone numbers and addresses. I had to prompt him for all of his own contact information. Then, he took the Judge to task for requiring Child Support from me in excess of what he figured I could afford.

My husband's attorney couldn't believe that we were going through with it. As he rode down in the elevator with my mother and me, he looked at me and said, "This was the most interesting case I've ever had. The two of you so obviously care for each other. I can't believe you went through with it."

Frankly, neither could I. And less than a week later (on our 9th anniversary) when I got the signed, sealed divorce decree, I had it in my hand for about 5 minutes before I called my husband and said, "I think we've made a terrible mistake." Within 3 months, we were remarried.

Remembering all this has made me stop and think about friendship and love and how the two are intertwined. One cannot be a friend unless there is love. One cannot love a person unless they are a friend. Love and friendship are two sides of a coin. Without one, the other is valueless.

I have had the experience of loving someone who really should have been just a friend and when the situation became untenable we had to say goodbye. And, having given in to the emotional pull of the relationship, the friendship was almost un-salvageable. The pain was incredible. It felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. What could have been a lovely friendship can never go back to what it should have been. Instead, it became a source of pain and confusion.

My husband of almost 18 years and I started out as friends and it blossomed into something truly beautiful and lasting. Is it completely fireproof? No, but despite the scorch marks and burns, we keep at it. We love and forgive and try to move deeper into understanding each other and being one with each other. Sometimes, it is a decision that we have to make. Yes, sometimes, it is that clinical. And then there are other times, when his kiss still sweeps me off my feet.

So with the longevity of our relationship, the question arises, when the strong emotional pull is gone, is the love really gone? Or is it deeper and so melded with your own being that it doesn't send shock waves through your body anymore? Is it just part of who you are? I think that may be the answer. You're not falling out of love, just entering a new phase of love.

All too often lust is equated with love. The butterflies in the stomach and the pleasant warm sensation you get when you talk with them are nice, but lust turns the person for whom it burns into an object and not a person. Lust asks, "What am I going to get from this relationship." Lust is a "taking" of something from a person. Conversely, Love gives to another person, without necessarily wishing to be recompensed.

We are enriched by every person with whom we converse. Those that we choose to take into our confidence and befriend touch us more deeply. We give a part of ourselves to our friends and they in turn give back to us. And that happens with lovers, too. But, those to whom we give our whole selves mark us even more.

I saw a quote one time that said, "Lovers are not just content to kiss, but they wish to breathe their very souls into one another." This most intimate connection between lovers is what separates the person we love from the other friends in our lives. It is the desire to completely immerse ourselves in the other person and to have immerse themselves in us.

And I think that's the difference between love and friendship: the depth of what we have given and the depth of what we have received.

Cartoon by Sam Brown @ Exploding Dog

Twitter and the Global Village

Right now, on Twitter, I live in Tehran.

Since I joined Twitter a couple of weeks ago, I have thought of it as a mostly useless tool. But following the tweets on #IranElection and #GR88 has changed my mind. With all of the journalists and photographers banned from Tehran, the only way to get any news out, has been through social networks like Twitter and Facebook. Even the US State Department asked Twitter to delay their planned service outage to preserve the link of communication that we have with people in Iran. Granted there have been many posts made that were not made by "people on the ground", but enough is getting out to make it a viable news source. Viable enough that the Iranian Government is now monitoring and shutting it down. CNN has been asked repeatedly to stop broadcasting the Twitter ID's of their sources because it is so dangerous.

I always think that communication technology is amazing. I am totally blown away by a fax machine. Seriously, it is so cool to me that I can put a piece of paper in on this end and send it to Japan and it comes out as a copy of what I still have in my hand.

Twitter is even more mind-blowing to me. In 140 characters a shot (or less), some brave souls are trying to bring change to their world. And the rest of the Twitter world is not just watching but is able to help, from wherever they are. You would not believe some of the things people are able to do. Hackers have paralyzed all of the state-run news outlets' web sites with the promise that they'll give them back when the cell-phone and internet communications have been restored in Iran. By changing their time zone in their profile, to +3:30 GMT, thousands of Tweeters have complicated the search for information leaks and saved people's lives (or so we are told).

I maybe be sitting in Columbus at this moment, but I am tweeting from Tehran.

Pop Quiz

If you have a Facebook account, (or even if you don't), you may have noticed that American pop culture seems to have an obsession with quizzes. I have taken quizzes on Facebook for everything from "What Color Is Your Aura?" and "What Kind of Kisser Are You?" to "What State Should You Really Live In?" and "What Kind of Pipe Organ Builder Are You?" (Seriously, I am not making that up.) It kind of got me thinking about what it is about "finding ourselves" that intrigues us so much.

In the 1960's and 1970's, the euphemism, "finding myself" was just a sugar coated way to say that whatever it was that you were doing at the time was not to your satisfaction. And, rather than stay and face the consequences of the choices that you had made, you were going to bail out and try to start over. In some artistic circles, this was seen in a more positive light. Sort of a way to break free of the expectations put on you by others in order to get to your "artistic essence". Thus, creating a freedom from the responsibilities that had been tying you down and holding you back from artistic excellence.

Nowadays, I don't hear that phrase nearly as often, but I do see these quizzes and I think they are connected. There are quizzes on social networking sites, magazines, television shows and even the backs of placemats at restaurants. And we take them. Something inside of us really does want to know what kind of flower we would be (if we were a flower). Why? Does it give us insight that we do not already possess? Probably not. If you get a result that doesn't suit your mental picture of yourself, you probably don't share it with anyone else. And on Facebook, in fact, some people even retake the quiz to get a better result! (Yep. Guilty.)

What are we looking for that drives this obsession to know more about ourselves? Is it a good thing? Is it a misguided search for the image of God in our beings? Or are we just innocently passing time gazing at our navels and wishing the rest of the world would just leave us alone?

It is a dangerous thing to turn in on oneself and try too hard to "find yourself". You become insular and isolated, depriving the rest of the world of the unique gifts that God gave to you to share. Not only that, but you are deprived of the gifts that others have to share with you. I am not saying that knowing your strengths and weaknesses is not a good thing, but there can come a point when the quest for that knowledge becomes obsessive and destructive. I think that Americans (on the whole) have almost reached that point.

Now that I have slammed the "Quiz Culture", these quizzes can be a tool that can be used to spark discussion and self-reflection, and they are fun. While the latest Facebook quiz isn't likely going to change your life, it might just make you stop and think about how you come across to others. But, I have had to stop myself recently and ask, "Why do I want to know this? To confirm my suspicions of who I am? Or just because it'll be fun to see what comes out?" and then, "Why the heck am I on Facebook so much!!?"

Moderation in all things.

Above Average

"My kids are not your average kids..."

Doesn't everyone say that? Everyone's kids stretch them to the breaking point, push them to the limit and push every hot button that you own (and some you didn't even know you had)...Yet, you take them somewhere or send them to play at a friend's house and the friend's mom says, "Oh, Susie/Tommy is so polite and nice. He/she can come back anytime." And you stand there, slack-jawed, thinking, "My kid? Are you talking about this rapscallion?" All the while, you are holding your struggling kid by the arm, and gritting your teeth through your benign smile, as they try valiantly to not put their coat on and say, "Oh, thank you so much."

And, still, at the end of the day, you know, you could never deny them. Those are your kids. They have your eyes, your smile, your freckles, your faults and your flashes of genius and you love them. They are wonderful.

What is it about "my kids" that makes them so above average? Garrison Keillor announces at the end of his weekly monologue that Lake Woebegone is a place where "all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking and all the children are above average." Keillor has commented several times that Lake Woebegone is a fictional place that is designed to be somewhat like "Anytown, USA". It's supposed to be anywhere that you are and anyone whom you might know. And his statements and, now famous tag-line, point up the universality of his reflections. All parents think their kids are something special.

When I was a kid, my Mom was not a stage mother. She has totally become a stage grandmother. Seriously. Her grandchildren are the smartest, most beautiful, talented, creative children on the planet. Just ask her. Of course, her sister believes the same thing is true of her grandchildren, but, from a completely unbiased point of view (and I say this with no small amount of irony), MY mom is right.

I asked my mom why she wasn't more like that with us when we were kids. She told me she didn't want us to get big heads. I completely believe that. But actually, she told me, she'd talk about us to anyone who had ears to hear, outside of our earshot, of course. We always felt like we had to work a little harder to be better and I don't think that hurt us. We always strove for excellence and still do in our grown-up lives.

My husband's mother was different. She told her kids every day that they were the most special, talented, precious creatures that God put on the planet. Whether they earned those titles or not. It made them pretty unbreakable when it came to outside criticism. Critiques just fall off of them like water off a duck's back. They know that they are loved and wonderful. No matter what life hands them, they just get up and keep going.

My children have a mix of the two. I adore my children. I tell them often how much I love them and how smart and interesting and talented I think they are, but they have to work for my praise of the things that they do with their talents. My husband just adores them, he will still go into their rooms at night to watch their 13 and 16 year-old, giant bodies sleeping away and marvel at how spectacular they are, just like he did when they were babies.

And they are...spectacular, I mean. And above average, too. But isn't that the whole point of being individually created creatures of God? We are all wonderfully made and every one of us has something unique to offer the world. I guess that would make us all "above average."

Photo by starpuncher, found on Flickr.

The dead face

Several years ago, there was a priest who used to come from Russia to solicit donations from my parish for the Dominican Mission that he was in charge of. One day he was describing coming back into the country and how one had to hold you face so as not to look "American". Americans, he said, had a lively look to them. There was a smile on their face, even when they weren't smiling. And it was a dead give-away to the border police and you were sure to get your baggage searched. He explained further that Russians had no such life to their faces. He called the look "the dead face" and then he demonstrated it. It is achieved by looking at a person directly, without seeming to see them and keeping your face and eyes absolutely and totally expressionless. And really,(knowing a couple of Russians) he was quite convincing. I could not hold the look for longer than a few minutes. But Father could hold it eternally it seemed.

Yesterday, while I was riding home on the bus, I realized that I was seeing more and more of "the dead face": in the other passengers, in people on the street, in shops and even in the reflection of myself in the window of the bus. I realized this was really the case when I sat right next to a woman with whom I had attended Mass for years and did not even recognize her...and she didn't recognize me either. When we finally did recognize each other, we were both very embarrassed and blamed it on the heavy coats and hats we were wearing. Who could recognize anyone in those heavy things?

But practically speaking, "the dead face" is the face you put on when you don't want people to talk to you or sit next to you. If you smile on the bus, even at people that you know, someone might decide to come sit next to you and talk to you. And some of these people, you really worry about talking to. Really.

But, at what price? At the price of bringing joy to another person? At the price of not recognizing your friends? At the price of not spreading the joy the God gave you? Why infect everyone with a bad mood, when I could infect everyone with a good one?

Yesterday, while I sat waiting at the Doctor's office, I read an article in Time Magazine about the "Happiness Effect". Some researchers are opining that if your friends are happy, you are more likely to be happy. Conversely, if they are sad, you are more likely to be sad. There are other effects that are being studied, too.

The upshot of the article is the viral infectiousness of behaviors, like a smile or a frown. They estimate that a smile can be passed on to a person 3.8 points of contact away! So the next time I catch sight of myself in the bus window reflection giving off my dead look, I think I'm going to remember to smile. Maybe that will make someone else's afternoon, later in the day.

Just something to think about.

Bacon and Chocolate

What is it with men and bacon, and women and chocolate?
I mean, really!

We were in the car the other day with the boys and they had my sister order sandwiches with bacon on them. My husband commented that "Now the kitchen staff knows there are men in the car." And it's true. Men are all about some bacon. When Wendy's was advertising the Baconator, did they have some cute chick selling it? Nope. They had a bunch of big, burly men in the trademarked red, pigtailed wig "rioting" for some meat on their sandwich. But, not just any meat...Bacon.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, my youngest brother popped a link to this fabulous dish called "BBQ Bacon Explosion" up on Facebook. I mean this recipe is not to be believed. Since then, I have had TWO other male Facebook friends (neither of whom know my little brother or each other) reference this same recipe. Unbelievable.

I have also noticed that men eat bacon when they are stressed out. It's like a salve for the soul. I wonder if it is the salt, or the fat that they crave. My husband, a grill cook at a local investment firm, noted that when the stock market started taking a nose-dive in September, bacon consumption and mashed potato consumption went through the roof. Very interesting.

Now, women are all about some chocolate. I can prove this. My sister, the day that the boys were ingesting half-pound servings of bacon and beef, decided that we, the girls, would have to go get Chocolate Nachos. Yes, Chocolate Nachos. My sister introduced these items of delight to me the last time I was so stressed that you could literally see the grey hair growing in as I stood there. This dessert is a creation of the Jimmy Buffett restaurant chain, Cheeseburger in Paradise. (Nope, it's no longer just a song, Parrotheads.)

When my sister told me about them, I didn't believe her. But, she told me they were so good that she actually had dreams about them. One night she was talking in her sleep and when her husband rolled over and touched her arm, she growled at him "Get away from my Chocolate Nachos!"

Chocolate Nachos are dangerous. First, they make chocolate tortillas and vanilla tortillas, then they cut them up and deep fry them. Then, they drizzle them with hot fudge and put sprinkles and diced strawberries on them. This is all served on a platter with vanilla and strawberry ice cream (for dipping?).

So this, and no other, is the ultimate stress food for women. Chocolate covered, deep fried bits of carbohydrates, served with sprinkles and strawberries and ice cream...

(What diet?)

Music in a Quiet World

Every now and then I ponder the quiet.

I was out on an organ tuning job today in a little museum about an hour and 20 minutes south of Columbus, in a little town called Waverly.

Waverly had it's "boom" from about 1820 to about 1917. It was one of the lock locations along the Erie canal which connected Lake Erie to the Ohio River. There are hundreds of these little boomtowns all along the abandoned canals that spiderweb their way across Ohio and most of them are pretty cool. Downtown Waverly is pretty much the same as it was in the early 20th century, though there are a few new buildings around. The dominant building at the main intersection is an old Hotel called Emmitt House.


Looking into the windows of Emmitt House, which was built in 1861, one is reminded of a saloon from the set of a Western. It must look very much the same as it did in the 1800's. The Pike Heritage Museum (where I was headed) is housed in an old church just up the street.

The museum houses several rooms of artifacts from the surrounding area, pictures, books, a collection of ladies' hats, military and band uniforms, musical instruments (including the organ I was tuning), and the like. What was striking to me was the number of musical instruments and the number of pictures of places where music was played in the town. It occurred to me that it must have been remarkably quiet for people in that time period, long before the advent of radio and television. Any music that was heard was actually being made by someone.

Today, we use music as "background noise". Everywhere we turn there is music or some other kind of noise to distract us. And, as if the constant blare of amplified, canned music from the store speakers and restaurant televisions isn't enough, we have devised new and ever smaller, more compact ways to carry our noise with us. It's like an addiction.

In the days before radio, all of the music was created by live musicians, which meant that it was something special, something that was worked at, something that was practiced and polished, and then performed to bring joy to the musicians and the audience. Music must have been an important thing in the lives of the people of Waverly to be so overwhelmingly displayed at their heritage museum.

Today, in this noisy world, I think we have lost the humanity of our music. In fact, I wonder if, in all the clamor for our attention, we have not lost a little bit of the humanity of ourselves.

It made me think about quiet...
And how much we need it.

Doing something dumb

Have you ever done something that you knew was stupid when you thought about doing it, you knew it was stupid when you did it and you did it anyway?

Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt.
(Mind you, I will never wear the T-shirt because it is tacky and doesn't fit.)

It is a very good thing that I believe in redemption and reconciliation. Forgiveness is a wonderful thing. Living outside the "state of grace" is the most sickening place I have ever been. Especially, if I have dragged someone else with me. Really, it makes me physically ill.

My brother, John, always says that stupid should hurt and then we wouldn't do stupid things so much. I wish that were true. But stupid does hurt and, yet, we are stupid all the time.

The Time Famine

While I was on my way to work this morning I started thinking about all the things I have to do this week and I realized that there was not enough time to do them all. I have a friend (whom I do not see often) who titled this crisis "The Time Famine".

I am not sure when it became a crisis for everyone else, but sometime in the mid-1980's I realized that I didn't have enough time to do everything that there was to do. But, everyone seems to be suffering with it now. So as I was thinking about not having enough time, I spent some of that non-existent time thinking about why we are having a time famine.

Is it the advent of computers that has done it to us? Maybe it is because we expect things to be done so quickly and efficiently that we try to cram even more things into our schedules. I thought that computers were supposed to save time, (and typically they do from my experience) but all too often these days, I find that time runs out even faster than it did the year before. And, I find that more often than not, I am glued to a computer keyboard (as I sit here writing, yet again...) trying to beat deadlines and trying to cram more into the precious time that I have.

Is it because we rely on our private cars to get us from here to there in the fastest way possible? Maybe if we had to take more time to do things, we wouldn't try to schedule so much in one day. In taking the bus, I know exactly how long it is going to take to get from point A to point B, so I am better able to get a handle on my schedule. I don't try to do more than I can possibly fit into the day, because it would be silly (and slightly frowned upon by the bus company) to stand up next to the driver and say, "Couldn't you, like...speed...maybe just a little bit? I have so much to do and if you go just 2 miles per hour faster, I might get it all done."

For example, yesterday I went to the doctor. It takes one hour on the bus to get there, half an hour at the doctor's office and one hour to get home, for a grand total of two and a half hours. This same trip would have taken about one hour, total, if I had driven a car. But...I would have had to go to Wal-Mart, or the grocery store, and then run to the church to handle some paperwork, or run to pick up my daughter to take her to practice, or an appointment, or something. I would have been totally overscheduled and I would have been frantically trying to get it all done until 10 o'clock at night.

Is it because we just have too much to do? I have only two children. They are both teenagers, but what they do in a week staggers me. Currently, we have three dance practices, doctor's appointments, two choir practices, two youth groups, and various social activities, too. And that doesn't even count the things that my husband and I are involved in. If I had a car, it would be even busier. I can only imagine what it must be like for my friends that have 4 or 6 or even 10 kids! (Seriously, how do you do it??)

The fact is that we are all suffering from this time famine and at some point it will bite us, if it hasn't already. Maybe the trick is to know when to turn it off. There will always be demands for our time...we just have to figure out when to say "Enough!"

I think I may be about there.




Dali Melting Time Clock by Perpetual Kid - Yes, you can really buy it.

Kindness and spitefulness

I am grieved. Really.
What is happening to our society?

I ride the bus everywhere because I don't drive. I have seen some wonderful things happen and some not so wonderful things happen. Yesterday, I got to see the two extremes manifested.

In the morning, our bus was running just a minute or two late. Sometimes, that minute or two can make the difference of making your connection and being on time to work, and missing your connection and being 40 minutes late to work.

As we pulled up to the main intersection, a woman asked our driver if he thought she would be able to catch the bus that was standing at the stop, since that was her bus. He said that he thought so and stopped just a little short so she could hurry over and catch her connection.

When she got to the door of the connecting bus, the driver had shut the door and, though he was standing still at a red light, he refused to let her on. Honestly! How hard would it have been to open that door and let that woman on? The bus wasn't full. She wasn't a trouble maker (at least not apparently so), but a businesswoman trying to get to work. The bus driver was just being spiteful. I don't know if he was having a bad morning, or what, but it made me so angry to see his complete disregard for her obvious and genuine distress. The bus that she needed would not come again for another 30 -40 minutes and, by that time, she was going to be late for work. But this anecdote is just that: an anecdote for the state of human affairs in this world. The inconsideration with which we all seem to treat one another is staggering. I even see it in my own behavior.

How often do we go through a line at a cash register and are barely polite to the person ringing us out. Do we ever stop to smile and genuinely wish them a good day? Or do we treat them, instead, like the wallpaper; ignoring them until we must say "plastic" or "paper"?

A few years ago, I decided that I was going to make a genuine effort to look people in the eye and smile at them and wish them a good day when they waited on me. Of course, I have bad days, when I snap at a clerk or a driver or someone. Then I feel horrible for days. Even if they deserved it. In fact, in recent months, I have gotten away from making the extra effort, totally. It boils down to this: Is their work worth any less than mine just because they are at McDonald's or Kroger at a check-out counter? No, there is dignity in all work. In God's eyes, my state in life is not elevated more than any other person's. We are all equal in His eyes. It all goes back to the Golden Rule. So, I try my best to treat people with the respect that I would expect from them. And, usually, they respond in kind.

Now, having said all that, in the evening as I was heading toward home, I ran into a different situation. Our bus was, again, running just a minute or two behind. There was a blind man on our bus who needed to catch a connection downtown and he was very worried that the driver would leave him. Our driver caught up to the connector at the second stop in the downtown and honked his horn to indicate that he had a passenger to transfer. Normally, the bus ahead will wait as the passenger runs to the front of the next bus. But, there was no way that the blind man was going to "run" up there. So, our driver took him by the arm and personally escorted him to the next bus.

He didn't have to do that, but he did. And that small kindness made all the difference to me.

Make new friends...

You know that old Girl Scout song:

"Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver and the other's gold."

It is so true. But, sometimes, as I go through life making new friends, I begin to forget about the old friends. Our experiences and circumstances change and make maintaining our friendships more of a commitment of time, rather than a convenience of doing business with or attending school with someone we like. And that is when I think real friendship is tested.

It has been said that one only really has a few really good friends in life. My mother told me once that her definition of a "good friend" is someone that you can call at 3 in the morning, no matter how long it has been since you saw them, and they would still be happy to hear from you. I have many of those people in my life. I am very lucky. But, I do wonder, if that really defines a "true friendship". If you aren't talking to them regularly, why not?

My mother-in-law still has parties with girlfriends she had when she came to Columbus more than 40 years ago. The five ladies who make up her most solid friend base have been her friends since she was 17 or 18 years old. But, her circumstances did not change much. She lives in the house where my father-in-law was raised. The family has owned the house since about 1928, shortly after it was built. The neighborhood is also very stable. Just a few blocks away, there is a family, with 8 kids, 4 of whom have purchased houses on the same street as the "family homestead". Even though many of these ladies have moved away to other parts of the city, their lives all intersect at regular enough intervals and their experiences are similar enough, that they have ground to share.

One of the things that plagues my friendships, however, is that dastardly thief called "Change" and his brother, "Time". Change can be good and is usually necessary, but the fact is, that friendships based on the convenience of seeing each other at regular intervals makes for rocky ground, when change intervenes. Time is short all around. One of my friends calls it "The Time Famine". She's right. I look at my schedule and think, "Now, when would I ever see a friend who I just don't see at one of my practices or events during the week? Friday between 7 pm and 10 pm? Or perhaps Saturday between 6 am and 8 am?" The key, is of course, making time. Making time for my old friends is something that I need to work on.

And change also brings different perspectives into play. As one's interests change and experiences grow, so does their circle of acquaintances, and thereby, their friends. I have become a broader person (and I think a better one) for all of the new friends I have made, while I see some of my older friends slipping away from me, because they refuse to grow or tolerate that which they do not understand. While I do not consider myself to be "open-minded", necessarily, I do consider myself to be "open-hearted". That makes for an interesting collection of friends.

Going back through all the friends that I could call at 3 AM and still have them happy to hear from me, I count among them a couple of very conservative Catholic couples who border on homophobia. But, I also count a couple of gay men who have been a committed couple for more than 40 years. Could the they co-exist in a room together, say, for my daughter's wedding? I'd say that's probably up to them. I love them all. I would never leave any of them out of a life celebration.

Does that make me a "sell-out"? I don't think so. If I can figure out how to balance my new and old friends, I think it makes me a richer person in the Silver and Gold of my many friendships shot through the tapestry of my life.

Photo:

"Fiora" - Decoration from the headgear of Cypriot middle class/bourgeois costume.

(from Athens (Greece) Historical Museum)

Lightning never strikes twice

On Thursday afternoons I go to a church to pray for an hour, each week. It kind of helps me restore my equilibrium in the middle of the week and reminds me of who I am and what I am about. The church that I go to is in a rather bad neighborhood, but usually, it is fairly safe due to the fact that this particular church has a soup kitchen and a food pantry, and is widely known for their work with and for the poor. It happens to be on my way home from work and makes for an easy stop along the way. The pastor there is the same pastor who married my husband and I almost 17 years ago and, since we've been through so much together, that is a draw as well.

About 18 years ago, my husband and I were finally preparing for our wedding and we were taking the Pre-Marital Inventory Test. This is a test designed to help couples with what you might call full-disclosure and to help the priest know whether or not there were issues that needed to be dealt with before the marriage. Father was just sitting down to go through these tests with us, when there was a knock at the door. As was his custom, he allowed the person, who said he needed to use the phone, into the rectory and asked me to go to the kitchen and make him a sandwich. No sooner had I returned than the visitor told us all to get on the ground because he had a gun. I looked at him in dumb shock, but I complied (since Michael was grabbing my hand and dragging me down to the floor...). This man proceeded to steal everything that was not nailed down and then lock us all in the safe. Thank goodness there was a safety latch on the inside of the safe and we were able to get out. They never caught that guy.

In the settling dust of the next morning, we were chatting with the office staff and that other priests of the household. One particularly cynical priest remarked that "this kind of thing happens when you where your religion on your sleeve." Michael remarked that he would always gladly wear his religion on his sleeve, and then, as the cynic walked away said, "Now there's a man who will never die for his faith".

Fast Forward 18 years...

Tonight, I was at church with Michael and we had just finished up our prayers and preparing to leave, when lightning struck the church. It was amazing! I had never seen anything so cool in my life. All of the chandeliers lit up with the lightning and the electricity traveled from candle to candle and then dissipated. Then it struck the church 3 more times. I'm telling you, there is some serious circuitry damage there. But, there was a problem: It had rendered the elevator useless. The elevator is the only way to get out of the church when it is not time for mass. Furthermore, the alarm was ringing away. We thought that someone might be trapped in the elevator. Michael and I finally got a hold of Father who came over to check the elevator and to try to restart it. Unfortunately, he needed a second set of hands so he took Michael to hold the reset key while he worked on the main switch. Before he left, he opened the front doors, so people could get in and out. As the storm was raging away, he told me that if people needed to take shelter from the storm, I should just let them in, but no panhandling.

I stayed in the vestibule at the door watching the storm and it was not long before the bus pulled up out front and two people ran in from the street. I opened the door wider for them to let them in. The rain was coming down in sheets and the wind was terrible. Immediately, one of the asked for a bathroom. I indicated the bathroom to them and went back to watching out the door.

After a little bit, one of them asked what kind of church this was. I replied that it was a Catholic church. She asked me what the difference was. I explained, as briefly as I could, some of the differences, but that it was, indeed, a Christian church. She decided that I was being smart and told me so. The other one replied that she (he? I wasn't sure until later) didn't feel comfortable here and I replied that they were certainly free to leave if they wished and that I wasn't keeping them there. It just escalated from there. They wouldn't leave, but they wouldn't leave me alone, either. Additionally, there were two older ladies in the church praying; ladies that I didn't want disturbed. Finally, one of the older ladies, we'll call her Ellen, came out to see what all the ruckus was about and express her irritation about having her prayers disturbed. She wasn't mad at me, of course, but she told the women from the bus to leave.

After Ellen went back into the church, the more aggressive of the two women decided that she would poke her finger in my face. I blocked her arm and told her not to touch me, whereupon she did just that. I have never been punched squarely in the face. It's like an explosion. She hit me in the eye, then again in the jaw and then a third time in the side of my head, right behind my ear. I had been knocked back onto the ascending steps behind me at the first punch. I finally remembered to scream. The thought occurred to me that I might just get beaten to death on these steps and no one would know. I was truly afraid. After I screamed, the second woman grabbed my by the hair and swung me around and onto the ground. And with that, they ran out the door.

I was left to kneel there, my head just inches from the stone door posts, my face exploding in pain and my glasses, God only knows where... Suddenly from my haze, people began to appear. One of the first on the scene was my husband, who having heard me scream, thought I was singing and that Mass had started. ( Thanks, honey, now I know my singing sounds like screaming...j/k) Another was a UPS driver and, of course, Father. As soon as they determined that this had just happened, they were off to chase them down. The UPS driver found them at the seedy Motel across the street and called the Police. I identified them, the police filed their report and I intend to press charges. As I was sitting waiting on the police to finish with the two women, Father came and we looked at each other and started laughing. "What are the chances of lightning striking twice?" we were both thinking.

As the police were wrapping things up with me and my report, one of the officers said, "Well, what are you going to do with prostitutes and drug dealers?" Ellen, who had stayed to see that I was OK, said without any thought, "Feed them," she paused. "Sprinkle Holy Water on them? Hope they get saved before they die?"

God Bless you, Ellen (even though that's not your real name, God will know who to bless). Bless you for reminding us all that these are all God's children, too. And just like us, they deserve justice, but also mercy. I am still going to press charges. But, will I be afraid to go down in that neighborhood again? Nope. Will I hate those two women forever? No, (though right now my aching head is giving me pause about kind words of forgiveness for them). Do I feel sad for them? Yes.

Would I continue to wear my religion on my sleeve?
You bet! I want Jesus to know me when he gets back.

To Write Love on Her Arm

This poem is based on the name of a cause that you can join on MySpace or on Facebook. The goal is to raise awareness of teen suicides and self-mutilation. It is staggering, the number of people who suffer from these horrors. And what's even more amazing is the number of adults who have done this and still do, in times of great stress. The group encourages people considering suicide or self-mutilation to write "love" on their arms to remind them that no matter how bad it gets, you don't have to cut. Someone loves you.


Through Sunday, To Write Love on Her Arm is encouraging people to write the word "Love" on their arms to show support for these kids and adults to let them know they are not alone.


I was so moved by the title of this cause, that I wrote a poem based on it. I hesitated in sharing it because it is very emotionally charged. It has been written for several days. But, today, after my daughter spent last evening talking two of her friends off their own ledges (so to speak), I feel compelled to share it.


It is rather graphic, so please, if it disturbs you, forgive me. If you like it or you know someone who needs to hear it, please share it.


To Write Love on Her Arm



So many ways to write Love on her arm
But she chose a knife.
The cuts remind her that she is alive
Carefully she avoids killing,
but not the pain.
Pain makes her feel real
The grief, the frustration, the boredom, the ennui fade
Diluted in the blood.


But there are so many ways to write love on her arm.
I take her into my own arms,
For love is written on mine in the indelible marker of motherhood:
The grace that lasts longer than any marker you could buy.
Grieving for the pain that I cannot heal alone


I begin to write love on her arm.
A reminder that she does not have to hurt, to feel.
There is always someone to hear.
There is always someone who cares.I
hold my baby close and help her know
She does not have to grieve alone.


There is more than one way to write love on her arm.

The Mother's Curse

You are arguing with your child.

You are exasperated over him/her wasting his/her considerable gifts of talent and intellect on pursuits such as X-Box, Skateboarding, clothes, boys, MySpace...the list could go on.

The child blocks your brilliant arguments with a dazzling display of 12 year old tactic (also known as stubbornness) that so stuns you, that you throw up your hands make an annoyed groan and drop your hands to your side apparently beaten. Of course, because this is your child, you know you could take them in a fair fight, but kids don't fight fair. You only have one thing left to do. You know you must curse your child.

Born of centuries of mothers before you, you raise your right hand and point at them and say:

"Someday, you are going to have a child just like you."

The child looks at you in complete and utter amazement. This is the best you can do, Mom? But, your child is young and has no idea what you have just done to him/her. You, on the other hand, know exactly what you have done. Your mother's curse is standing in front of you looking like at you like you looked at your mother a century ago. And you just think, "Yep. It serves you right, you little brat."

The Mother's Curse is the most powerful curse in the world, I have decided. Of course, there are biological reasons that it works every time with natural children. But what about people who seek to avoid the Mother's Curse by remaining single, or becoming a nun or priest? Oh, believe me, there are employees/parishioners/students/co-workers who will fulfill these requirements, too. You can run from the Mother's Curse, but you cannot hide. Eventually, you will run into someone who fulfills your Mother's Curse.
I didn't even have to be a mother to run into mine the first time. Actually, I think it was really someone else's, but I got to observe. When I was 25, I was on a trip and visiting a family who had 5 kids, like we did. The oldest daughter had been left in charge of the crew while her mother had come to the airport to pick me up. Of course, my flight was delayed (when are they not?) and so we were later than anticipated in getting back to the house. Oh! You should have heard the hue and cry!
"You always do this to me! I am never on time for anything because I always have to watch the kids! You are never ever on time! I am so embarassed because I'm late for my party!" It went on and on.
I realized that I had said exactly, to the letter, those things to my Mom at 16. It was like I was listening to myself. I was horrified.
I happened to be travelling with a friend and I looked at him and said, "Remind me to call my mother tonight and apologize for being 16." He promised he would. And I did call her. She laughed and forgave me. WOW! what an eye-opener! Sometimes, that apology is a long time coming, Mom, but I think that my mom would tell you it was worth the wait.
The interesting thing about the Mother's Curse is that, although at first your Mother gets some smug satisfaction in the fact that your child is proof that you did not know everything at 12, in the end she feels badly for you and wants to help you get through it, too. That's because she loves you. It's really kind of a reflexive curse in that respect.

Remember the pop wisdom, "When you point a finger, there are three pointing back at you."? Well, that's what happens. Your mother has to suffer through the pain you are feeling as you realize that you were a deeply flawed individual at 12, and that you don't know how to fix it in your 12 year old, either. Grandma must watch as you struggle with this creature whom you both love, who is, in fact, not just your curse, but her curse and her mother's before her and so on and so on...

But, don't worry, it tends to build bridges between mothers and children. Who else am I going to ask about why my child is wasting all her time on MySpace when she is so brilliant? And why she speaks to me as if I am learning disabled? I go straight to the source. Mom knows, because she had me, but more importantly, she had herself.
And maybe that's the key to undoing the Mother's Curse: Knowing yourself.

Speaking your mind

There is a right way and a wrong way to speak one's mind. My daughter, The Princess, found this out yesterday.

When I was in 8th Grade, I had a teacher who didn't listen to what I was saying to her. We were preparing to take a test, "the Pimsleur test", which was a standardized test. We were instructed to sharpen two pencils before we left the classroom and then to get in line to go to the gym. I, being the good Catholic School girl I was, followed directions and did just that. But, on the way to the gym, where we were taking the test, someone bumped my hand and I dropped my pencils on the tile floor, breaking BOTH leads. I was annoyed, but no matter, I would just explain to the teacher when we got to the gym.

The problem was, that when we got to the gym and I explained the situation, my teacher didn't understand what I was telling her. She said, "I told you to take care of that before we came down."

Well, never one to let things rest, I responded with, "You saw me sharpen them, (I didn't say stupid, but I wanted to...) you weren't listening to what I said." She told me to sit down. I was not amused and not deterred. And we repeated the conversation. This pattern contiued for about three rounds until she sent me to the Principal's Office, where I informed the Principal that she needed a new teacher; mine was too stupid to listen when people spoke to her. That time I did say "stupid" and that got me in trouble.

She called my mother, but I was NOT suspended.

The Princess, on the other hand, has not learned the graceful art of righteous indignation. And there is an art. Most of it has to do with keeping your tongue in check. Not my strong suit, and evidently not hers, either.

So, yesterday, when she gave her friend a hug (which, BTW, in the Columbus Public Schools is strictly forbidden) and was called on the carpet. She informed them that she was leaving the school since they would not allow her to go back to class. When the Principal tried to stop her, she told him what she thought of this rule, in no uncertain terms. And when she believed that he was not listening to what she was saying to him, she was not polite at all. I am still not sure what she said, but I understand it was laced with obscenities.

They called her father, and they suspended her for 10 days. Not for telling off the Principal (which would have made more sense), but for hugging a friend who needed comforting. This cuts her out of her concert (where she had a solo) and the last day of school (so she's all done for the year).

What would have made this situation different for her? Speaking her mind without using foul language.

Foul Language has become so commonplace in our vocabulary that many people don't even realize they are swearing. The F-word has become like punctuation in the ghetto idiom. It's almost like a rhythm keeper for their cadence. But, it is not just the lower class. You hear these words everywhere. They offend, yet, they are in use by virtually everyone who has a mouth to speak with.

I am certainly not lily-white. Until high school I didn't swear or curse at all. In fact, I was horribly scandalized that the boys in the tuba section were so crass in front of me. But, in wanting to be "one of the guys", I eventually became de-sensitized to it and would join in. A very bad habit. And one that I still have yet to break. My husband will tell you that my tongue is black. I am sure that this is where The Princess gets the idea that she can use this language to speak about the injustices of the world, but she is wrong. I am wrong. And society is wrong for allowing this to happen. These words should not be a part of our everyday speech patterns.

Everytime we open our mouths to say something negative, a swear word does not have to come out. I don't know if any of my readers are as bad as I am, but I challenge you to keep a tally for one day. Keep a tally of how many times you use a swear word. Every word counts, not just the first one in a sentence.

Then think about this. What message are we sending to the world around us about what we think of what we say? Is what we have to say important enough to us to communicate it clearly, in a manner that will not offend our listeners, but convince them instead? Or do we just want to be angry and never have our thoughts adequately heard?

I think it's an important distinction and one that I hope I am not too late to teach my daughter.

Remembering

Every year, my father-in-law goes to the cemetery to plant flowers for his deceased relatives. It was usually a family affair when my husband and his siblings were young, but now usually he either does it alone or Michael will call him and ask if he and the children can go along. In his Irish family, roots are of supreme importance. I have found, in being married to an Irishman, that I am indeed related to half the known world. It is the only group where I can truly say that someone is "my 4th cousin 4 times removed" with a straight face and actually expect to be embraced.

But, I digress (as usual). Roots are important to Michael so he takes the children to visit his Grandparents and Great-Grandparents graves, as well as various Great-Aunts and Great-Uncles and old family friends. My children know all of their names and countless stories about them: what they did for a living, who they were as people, what they were like...

My family does not do this. I think I went to visit my grandfather's grave one time when I was 8, the year after he died. We planted a tree. The tree did not make it. Thus, we were consigned to search the moonscape of flat gravestones searching for our grandparents' graves.

When my uncle died, recently, we all went to look for the grave, since we were there. We had a very hard time finding it. I was mortified, since I know where each of Michael's people are buried. And when we finally did find it, it was starkly different from the well-tended, flower-laden gravestones of the O'Keefe family: bare and lifeless. But, is the comparison fair?

We celebrate our grandparents' legacy differently. We celebrate their lives through what they did and where they were. My uncle and cousin run the family business. My cousin is the 4th generation of opticians. Our family is very proud of the fact that we were the first licensed opticians in the state of Ohio. I frequently tell my children that the reason we plant Geraniums is because my Grandma Harris always had them in the front window of her house. In fact, she had discovered a way to make her geraniums last year-round and save her the money of buying new annuals each year. She put them each in a clay pot and then buried them, pot and all, in the front flower bed. Then, in the fall, she would dig up the pot, wash it off, and put it in her front family room window. Mom and Dad estimate that the geraniums we "inherited" were about 17 years old. And, yes, my kids know that story.

My Grandpa Joe gave us all the gift of music. We cease to function without our music. I have my grandfather's reed organ in my dining room. It was in my living room, but my son wanted to be able to play duets with the organ and piano, so he moved it in next to the piano. My grandfather had wanted to be a musician, but was not allowed to go to school for music, because he had to run the family business. His love of music saturated the family, however. And we are greatly indebted.

My grandmother Kate is remembered every time I sign my name. Not to mention the fact that she gave me a taste for Boston Baked Beans and Brown Bread. (YUM!) She also left me a love of live baseball. I can remember going to Clippers' games with her and my mother and having them tell me how it all worked.

I didn't know my Grandpa Leo hardly at all, but, my mother always told me he loved to drive. and he could tell what was wrong with an engine, just by listening to it. I have found that I can usually tell what wrong, but I have no idea how to fix it. And I do remember him, whenever I open the hood of a car and think, I wish I had known him better.

My father and I just recently finished our terms on the Board of Directors for the club that my Harris relatives belonged to. My Grandfather actually served on the board himself in the early 1970's. Because we had so many family events at that club, we can't help but remember the fun we had every time we go there. I can remember very clearly playing hide and seek in the telephone booth (which I thought was cool because there was carpet on every wall and the ceiling, too.).

I recently attended an office party at the club. I walked around with some of my co-workers and showed them the portraits of the Chorus through the years. They were amazed when I was able to point out my Grandfather, Father, Mother, Cousins and Godparents in the pictures. Unlike the bare lifeless gravestones we found in the flatlands of Resurrection Cemetery, we found their legacy coloring the walls and hearts of the places and people they touched. And we work to maintain those memorials.

It isn't that we don't remember our dead. It's simply that we remember them differently.

Happy Memorial Day! May all your remembrances be sweet!