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I’d like to start with just part of a poem by Amanda Gorman, young, intelligent Black woman, wrote this for Pres. Biden’s inauguration ‘The Hill We Climb’ When day comes we ask ourselves, ‘where can we find light in this never-ending shade,’ the loss we carry, a sea we must wade? We’ve braved the belly of the beast. We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what just is isn’t always just-ice.
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I grew up in the Episcopal church, so I was baptized as an infant and only allowed to take communion after confirmation at about age 12. There were classes led by the priest in preparation, and a catechism to memorize. Finally the day came, and the bishop came to our church to confirm us and serve us our first communion. I remember that he was in robes of gold and white, that he had a booming voice (like I imagined God’s voice to be), and that there seemed to be a light shining all around him as he approached. We knelt at the altar, and as he served communion to me I experienced a transcendent moment. It was as if the angels were singing all around and God had touched me. I don’t know to what extent God was actually involved in all of that. I was of an age and temperament where I could have easily produced that entire event internally and convinced myself it was true. But I don’t suppose it matters. It was significant to me and I remember it clearly 55 years later. In the Episcopal church Jesus was thought to be present in the bread and wine in some mystical manner. Communion was a sacrament, “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,” according to the catechism. I always experienced it as such. Later, as a young adult in a different kind of church I was taught that communion was a memorial to Jesus and a reminder that he had died to save us from our sins. And a good thing he did, or we would all be headed for hell. I was quite thankful during communion at this stage of my life. Now I think about a lot of things differently. I do not believe that Jesus died to prevent me from being sent to hell as I deserve. That entire theology of atonement is abhorrent to me. For me now, communion is a reminder that Jesus literally gave his body and his blood, but he did it to demonstrate something about God. God stands in solidarity with those who are suffering. Communion reminds me that we are called to give our bodies (and sometimes even our blood) to stand with them as well, and to extend the love of God to them. --Terese I've been in the throes of a couple of obsessions lately, so I've done what I most enjoy doing and tried to make connections between my obsessions. It took me a while. After all, my latest project raising Monarch butterflies and the plight of Afghan women/girls don't seem to have anything in common. But one of my assignments in the creative nonfiction class I'm taking is to write a braided essay. A braided essay takes two or three or more threads of meaning (usually which aren't obvious at the outset) and braids them together. It's a form that can be very creative when it works. Unfortunately, one of the examples our instructor provided just left me scratching my head. I understood what connection was intended, but it was so disjointed I got bored and quit reading. I'm hoping to create something a little better with my butterfly-Afghan essay. As I thought more deeply about both obsessions, it occurred to me that what is common to both populations at the moment is migration. Both Afghans (primarily women) and Monarch populations depend on migration at this point in order to survive as a group or as a species. That's the braid I'm working on, and it's both challenging but exciting to see where the threads go and how they interact. I'll likely add some elements of our recent "migration" to Texas as well. I know I'm weird, but this kind of challenge excites me. There's not much better, in my opinion, than transforming ideas from your head into words on paper to see where you end up! --Janice I moved into this house 11 years ago almost to the day. When I arrived it had one straggly rose bush, an ugly pine tree and a nandina. I decided I would start to change things. I started by breaking my wrist trying to plant a Cleveland pear and getting someone to plant crape myrtles for me since my wrist was broken. Since that time, I have planted numerous flowering plants and trees. I started with peonies and azaleas. Sadly, the azaleas bit the dust this year, but peonies and I do very well together. Now thanks to generous friends and more talented gardeners, I am ready to downsize the beds I created. I plan to begin that when it cools off. What I was thinking about earlier today is the dramatic change in how the yard looks from the 108 degree day when I moved in. There was no shade in any part of the yard. Now there are 6 trees of various sizes, three of which shade the house which was the reason for planting them. That has created another issue. Now I am trying to find shade plants and ground cover in the shaded areas. My neighbor across the street has a shaded yard so she was generous with Hostas which I am happy to say are doing well. The area under the tree in the front of the house is now bare because the Bermuda grass won't grow. Last summer my neighbor said I could have ground cover from her. I found some more when I was out dropping political literature and from Cynthia when she cleared hers out. With rain and fairly bare soil, it has been a challenge. It's such fun though to walk out and watch the progress. Where is has looked like nothing is happening, now things are happening and I see progress. I may get more plants when the weather is a bit cooler, but it is fun to see things take shape. Growing up we never had a garden, which I don't understand because my dad was raised on a farm and I know my mother had a garden to tend with my grandfather. Just doing this much with my yard and now two years of success with tomatoes has been a fun adventure. I still plan to downsize as I have decided it is too much to maintain. I will dig up what I don't care for or that seems to take over. That means there is stuff to do this fall. --Carolyn Not the sort of topic one thinks about very often; kind of random actually. But the idea that I ought to have been or could have been, come around occasionally. Then I think about what kind of turtle I might want to be presents itself. Have you seen the very small, creek dwellers that are soft shelled turtles? They are a bland gray-green, not much bigger that a half dollar coin. The nose is long and flat on the end. It is not an attractive little beastie. I would not want to be one of that tribe. Another sort is the box turtle. This is the one kids find in fields and crossing roads. Sometimes, if a kid is lucky they find an empty turtle shell, preserved by nature. The Native Americans used these to make rattles for dances. It's a nice turtle, not aggressive or bad tempered and makes a good pet. They have the added benefit of not becoming too large and like to hibernate in the winter if it lives outdoors. I don't want to be one of those either. 2020 taught me I would not make a good hibernator. In my younger, angrier, years when most of my life was fueled by fear I would have made a really good snapping turtle. My disposition and defensiveness would have loved having a really long neck to reach around behind me, with my very sharp beak and snap whatever was bugging me! It's kind of a Calbin fantasy, very satisfying! Thankfully, life taught me that anger and fear do not make for a good life. So with lots of working on my brain, I got kinder. Now I feel like I am a big old tortoise. Not unhappy, in fact content most days. I'm solid, strong, no longer given to big emotions or flights of fantasy. Doing the work that needs to be done, making some art, keeping us all fed, and in clean underwear. Seeing to it that our ship stays afloat and no one gets lost. Walking through our days, with as much gratitude and joy as I can muster and always thankful for the blessings of my life now. --donna I just read an interesting article that scientists have discovered 3 things that are common to geniuses (not smart, but genius.) They are: 1) left-handedness or ambidextrous. This is because geniuses' brains are more well balanced than the rest of us. That is not necessarily good, because it can also cause mental retardation and/or mental problems. We know that many geniuses had mental health problems, but didn’t know it had to do with a balanced brain. We righties have an unbalanced brain that allows us to differentiate better. 2) Sense of humor. They gave many examples of this from geniuses. They also said, think of that quiet person who says funny things while no one listens to them. Often this is what they called black humor, and they credit it to geniuses seeing the world more accurately than others. 3) Laziness. Seems funny, but they say that geniuses can spend a lot of time just thinking about their own thoughts. Da Vinci took 15 years to finish his greatest work. Bill Clinton was always late, and did everything at the last minute. It says that many geniuses never accomplish anything because of this characteristic. Wow! I am definitely NOT a genius! I love humor, but I’m not that clever. I am almost early. And I am right handed. How about you? I'd rather be a normal person, and not be at risk for mental illness. I am happy to laugh at other’s jokes. And maybe in retirement I might learn to be a little late. --Cynthia Last spring, I purchased a large packet of seeds labeled "Butterfly Mix." It included at least a couple dozen species of host plants and nectar plants for butterflies in one of two raised beds in our back yard. Then we had Covid shutdown, sizzling heat, and little rain for the next four or five months. A few plants thrived, and I was able to put lovely Cosmos, Zinnias, Coneflower, and Snapdragons into vases all summer and into early fall. But the milkweed didn't sprout, and no butterflies came. Not even the two parsley plants in the other bed attracted the Swallowtails that I'd shared my parsley plants with in Broken Arrow. Then we had an epic ice storm in February. I decided we weren't destined to attract butterflies--few of our neighbors have flowering plants, and there are few trees on our end of the street. I decided to plant only the zinnias that give me long-lasting cut flowers all summer. If I can't have butterflies, I reasoned, at least I'd have nice bouquets. The parsley plants had overwintered (a first in my experience, and a surprise, given the single digit temperatures), and while they were spindly, they still produced plenty of leaves for cooking. By April, it was apparent that a few flowers from last year had come up from the seeds they dropped last year, along with the zinnias I planted. But along with, and throughout the bed popped up the milkweed I'd planted in 2019! In abundance! A couple of months later we had several Monarch caterpillars, though I'd never seen an adult butterfly in the garden. The parsley, now gone to seed, was also full of Swallowtail caterpillars! I pulled out the butterfly enclosure from my teaching days and ordered a bigger one so each species would have their own enclosure. In the past couple of weeks, we've had a few failures. One Monarch was apparently diseased and wasn't ever able to fully eclose from its chrysalis. But the other two in the enclosure were fluttering strongly and beautiful! We invited several neighbor children to come help us release them, and it was fun to share their enthusiasm, but a little sad to see our babies fly away. A day or so ago, one Monarch was spotted hovering around the new tropical milkweed I just planted, but I think it's too late in the season for her to lay eggs. We'll see. Meanwhile, the Swallowtails are taking their sweet time. One has formed a chrysalis, and we lost a couple others inexplicably. Two other cats are still munching on the organic parsley I picked up for them at Whole Foods last weekend (there's really no homegrown parsley left), but they're not making their moves yet. I've read Swallowtails often overwinter in their chrysalides, so we might have these until spring. Hopefully, I'll be better prepared earlier in the season next year and can nurture these guys more effectively. It's really been a fun experience to watch these little creatures grow and then to send them on their way. Only about 1-2% of butterfly eggs make it to the butterfly stage in nature, and I'm just helping to increase their odds and enjoying the little bit of beauty they bring into my life. --Janice Prior to moving to Tulsa, we had been in two locations that had potential floods. One day when living in Pasadena, TX, it took me until 10 pm to get home. At the time, I had a small child in day care so my husband had to go get him. It was extremely stressful to get home. The expressways were flooded in some areas or backed up to the point of stopping or if you tried an access road or side road they were also flooded and impassable. I still am not sure how I made it home that night. The next day we had four feet of water in the street in front of our house and a small motor boat was going down the street. My boss called me that day and asked why I wasn't at work. I never thought to call thinking the other places were like my home was. Evidently not, but I still refused to go to work. I did go the next day when the water had receded. Yes, the Houston area is known for floods, but, at the time, there was no flood insurance and not as much attention paid as today. We moved from Pasadena, TX to Abilene, TX to the dry, western part of the state. Texas is like Oklahoma in that it has lakes that are all man-made due to damming up rivers in the state. We had had some rain in Abilene, but not enough to flood. However, somewhere on the watershed above the lake that was not too far away, there had been lots of rain. We heard the news that they were releasing water from the dam. I didn't think too much about it, but when the water started running in the street, I decided to take myself and my two children, 4 and less than 6 months with me and get out of there. It was another adventure of trying to navigate streets and not flood the car. My husband was at work, so I called him and told him we would be sleeping in a motel that night and we would be staying on the second floor. I was not taking any more chances. Driving with water running in the street and not being able to see the street is a very scary experience for me. With these two experiences behind me, the next move was to Tulsa. I had to go house hunting by myself. Needless to say, I wanted a place way up hill from any water. We moved to Tulsa in 1975 and were here for the really bad flood on Memorial Day in 1976. We live not far from Mingo Creek so saw all the damage, but we were not in danger of flooding. I have a very great respect for water and its ability to move cars, trees, houses and you name it. Every house I have lived in since then has been in no danger of flooding unless we get 40 days and 40 nights. --Carolyn Wasn't it Will Rogers who said "Weather, everyone talks about it, but no one does anything about it"? I think it was. When my parents were living and I called home to chat, Dad would answer the phone, give me a weather report, then hand the phone to Mother for the rest of the news. When we moved to Arizona in mid-August of 2019 the Monsoon season had ended. Then in 2020 there was no Monsoon. No rain at all. We laughed at the "Storm Commander" vehicle that would go out and track the dangerous weather around the Valley. We actually thought it was kind of overkill for a bit of rain. Then Monsoon 2021 hit! And we have learned what a Monsoon means in the Desert. The storms have been constant for 2 weeks and forecasted to go on through the coming week. The areas of the desert that have burned through the Spring and Summer are now dangerous flood sites. There is nothing to hold the water, or slow the rush down the mountains, so flash floods are being reported. Stories of cars swept away by rushing water, homes damaged and people rescued are common. Phoenix has a canal system to move water to the treatment plants in areas where it is most needed. I believed those canals would handle any runoff from rain storms. But that is not the case. We now understand the deep, empty channels that run through the city to protect neighborhoods from flash floods. So far, we have not seen any threats to our area of the city, but I won't ignore any warnings we may get. We've gone from extreme heat, over 110 during the day and lows of 90 degrees overnight, to days of low 70s and no change at night. Our sinuses are confused by the changes in the atmosphere and everyone seems to have some degree of allergies going on. While it is true, the Monsoon will not last very long, I will be relieved to see our weather move back to a more predictable pattern. Even the heat will be "normal" when it returns. --donna My first cohesive memory--when I was not yet five--is a pretty dramatic one. Hurricane Audrey hit southwest Louisiana so early in the season that most people were completely unprepared. Weather forecasting wasn't as reliable in June of 1957 anyway, and most of the old-timers were used to riding storms out. Not anymore. After Audrey, and until Hurricane Katrina in 2005, if anyone mentioned "The Storm" in SW Louisiana, everyone knew they referred to Audrey. Many towns along the coast were completely wiped out and widespread flooding extended more than 30 miles north to Lake Charles and beyond. Only the courthouse was left standing in Cameron. Oddly enough, most people built back again...and then again. Coastal people are a stubborn bunch.
Until Katrina, Audrey was the deadliest hurricane to hit Louisiana as well, with nearly 500 dead. My family and I, who holed up inside our house, with taped and plywood-covered windows, were lucky. Many locals took to the road (including Tim's family), and some got stranded on the way north. Sometime during the day on June 27, we lost electricity and set up camp in our living room with our Coleman stove and lantern and ate Vienna sausages on paper plates. We had a gas refrigerator, so we were at least able to keep our food cold, and we had a gas stove, water heater, and clothes dryer. We didn't have air conditioning in our home in 1957 anyway, so we didn't lose that comfort. Dad read to us from A Child's Garden of Verses and we traded stories, read, or drew pictures throughout the day, while Audrey howled outside and storm surge pummeled the coast. We had no idea about the losses to our south, and I was excited by the unexpected close confinement and flickering candlelight in our snug living room. I felt completely protected by my father, older sister, and brother during this ferocious storm--I was never afraid. Our house sustained little damage and it did not flood. I realize now that my fond memories of Audrey were because of my ignorance of its cost to the people who lost lives and property. The ramping up of hurricane intensities in recent years due to climate change are terrifying for me now. Family who still live in Lake Charles have suffered many more hurricane events since Audrey and storm numbers are increasing. It's well past time to take action to address climate change. It will take a certain national will, a worldwide determination to overcome that is lacking. Even if we had the will, I'm not sure we could agree on the way. In the meantime, I can't help a guilty, naïve heart-thumping thrill when a storm (even a quiet ice storm) kicks up outside, as long as I'm safe and warm inside. Each one calls to mind one of my fondest memories of a time when I felt completely loved and protected by my family in the midst of turmoil. --Jan |
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