Gratitude, blessings, and tragedy

 

Thinking tonight about the many blessings so many of us enjoy. We’ve been eating high on the hog around here lately—a ribeye steak dinner with sour cream mashed potatoes one night, a delicious squash casserole another because someone brought me fresh squash from a farmer’s market, tonight a carefully made BLT—it still fell apart but did better than many I’ve made, and it was so good.

And while much of the world is sweltering going about their business in days that are 107 and 108, I am comfortable and happy in my cottage, never sticking my nose out in the heat. Oh, it gets a bit warm in the late afternoon, but it’s not bad. And Sophie sleeps contentedly in whatever room I choose to be in. She sleeps on her side, which is supposed to be a relaxed position indicating she feels perfectly safe.

So here we are, with our petty First World problems. And then I think of the people of Lahaina. Like many of you, I have been there. In truth, it wasn’t my favorite place in Hawaii—Jordan and I had come from Kauai, which I thought was magical. Lahaina, to me, was T-shirt shops and restaurants all with the same food, and a resort hotel indistinguishable from others.

But in the days since the fire, I have learned of other sides of that iconic town—it was home for many, and now those homes and all in them are gone. Beyond that Lahaina has a storied history as the capital of the kingdom of Hawaii. As one scholar said, “It is a place where the past is always present.” Hawaiian kings and queens are buried there, and buildings along Front Street, some 150 years old, traced the history of the kingdom. But they are destroyed or severely damaged now. The banyan tree, planted to commemorate the establishment of the first mission on Maui (perhaps a dubious reason for celebration considering much of Hawaii’s history) is now burnt and stark, though we are told the roots survive, and the famous tree will flourish again. As of tonight, fifty-nine people are dead and untold numbers are missing.

One thing that strikes me about this catastrophic tragedy is that it shouldn’t have happened. We don’t expect a fire to wipe out a city in this day and age. Somehow, I have the comforting thought that modern firefighting techniques and dedicated firefighters will be able to stop any fire before it destroys an entire town. And yet, a few years back, we saw towns in West Texas wiped out by wildfires. The Lahaina fire was fanned by high winds, a phenomenon that we, for all our technology, cannot control. Such destruction should make us realize we are still vulnerable, still not in control. It should humble us.

The pictures of the devastation, the individual stories of survivors, the pleas of families who cannot locate loved ones are heartbreaking. And the online postings asking for help are compelling. It’s nice to know that Jeff Bezos has pledged $100 million to the recovery, but as posts make clear, any and all donations, however small, are solicited.

And that brings me to a point that has bothered me for some time. My instinct is to write the biggest check I can (after checking to differentiate true Maui rescue groups from scams), but the truth is I am besieged by so many needy causes. Every picture of a hungry child or an abused dog tears at my heartstrings. The pictures of people trying to flee some African countries in boats bring me to tears. So many worthy causes present someone like me, with limited ability to give, with a dilemma: is it better to choose one cause and donate a significant amount or to donate a bit here and a bit there.

When my father died, we discovered he had been sending $5 a month to countless charities and political causes, many of which we had never heard of. So far, I follow a moderated form of his giving, but oh to have Bezos’ funds at hand.

Politicians beg us for just $5 or even just $3 (though then the giving screen often shows $25 as the lowest gift, which is sort of a come-on). But I have the same problem with politicians as I do with charities—I have a list, relatively long, of moderate to liberal politicians who I think would make real contributions to the country should they be elected. But how do I choose? For instance, almost every Democratic senatorial candidate will tell you keeping the Senate depends on their race. How do we know? A friend who is a political consultant advised me to give to lesser-known races and not California where, he assured me, there is plenty of money. But I sure would like to see McCarthy defeated.

Politics aside, may God bless the people of Maui, both those in Lahaina and the other areas affected by wildfires. Recovery will be slow, but pray it will be steady, with Federal help already promised. And perhaps the banyan tree as an enduring symbol for hope.

Thoughts on a dull evening

 

Summer storm in downtown Fort Worth

Storms are predicted for tonight, and barring tornadoes, North Texas will welcome them. We need the rain desperately. And I for one enjoy a good storm. My dog, not so much. But something popped up somewhere online today asking whether or not you enjoy storms, and that question took my mind back a lot of years.

When I was growing up, my family had a cottage on a high dune overlooking Lake Michigan at the very foot on the lake, in the Indiana dunes. Storms would roll down that lake from the north, churning the water into wild whitecaps. We were of course forbidden to swim on those days, but I loved watching those storms come in, and I felt secure in our little cottage with the lake to the front and the woods behind us. My brother and I both credit our mother for teaching us to enjoy rather than fear storms.

I enjoy them to this day, much to Jacob’s bewilderment when he was little and scared. One night when he was with me, a storm took the roof off a business down the street form us, and I did think maybe he was right. I should have been more concerned.

Another night, we watched large hail pelting us from the sky—and then we went to bed. At the time, the house was being re-roofed, and I didn’t realize that only a temporary tarp had been put over the flat-roofed add-on at the back of the house that served as a family room. In the morning when I woke up, the house smelled of rain and water. I nudged Jacob, because I wanted company, even if it was only a seven-year-old, and holding hands we walked through the kitchen to the back room. It was two or three inches deep in water. All my cookbooks were ruined, plus all the y/a books I’d written that we had put out for a special sale for parents and teachers from the school across the street. In no time, we had neighbors, our contractor, and the roofing company owner on their hands and knees mopping and sponging up water. Jordan, whose birthday it was, spent the day sorting books to see which could be salvaged. I was by then having severe hip problems and could do little except wring my hands.

But the storm memory that most remains in my memory is the night Jacob insisted we go to the long, walk-in closet in my bedroom. He had outfitted it with a chair, a flashlight, my book, and a glass of wine for me. For him, a puzzle or something, blankets and a pillow, and a sippy cup full of I don’t know what. I can’t remember how long we sat there until I finally convinced him the danger was past. Such sweet memories to treasure. I hope now, at almost sixteen, he enjoys storm as much as I do, but it’s not a subject you ask a teen about.

It's been a stressful week, and the odd thing is that it’s not just me. I’ve heard it from others, some in far parts of the country. The leaked draft of Justice Alito’s papers on the Roe case have profoundly shaken most of us, sending the abortion question to the states where in too many instances laws will be written without exemptions for life-threatening conditions, rape, incest, or a non-viable fetus (such as an ectopic pregnancy where the fetus lodges in a Fallopian tube and not the uterus). And these laws will be made by mostly white men with absolutely no medical background but a fiercely self-righteous piousness.

The Ukraine invasion wages on, and though we admire the Ukrainian bravery and resolve, there is no way to avoid horror at the butchery and barbarism. And closer to home, the wildfires of the West blaze on. The Hermit’s Peak/Calf Canyon fire has now burned something like 160,000 acres. That’s a lot of people displaced, and a lot of animals, both wild and domestic, either killed or traumatized.

The good news around here is that I, all by myself, fixed my hearing aids by re-pairing them to the phone. Directions are online. It just took me a bit yesterday to remember that. And Sophie seems some better. Sje refused to eat this morning but ate tonight and took her pills. Pill pockets seem to do the trick. She still has some ferocious coughing fits, but they seem less frequent. And she was chasing squirrels today—always a good sign. Maybe we’re slowly working our way out of the smaller traumas at our house.

Rain would help. So join me, please, in praying for a benevolent storm tonight. The last couple of nights I’ve seen lightening about three in the morning but have gone back to sleep too quickly to know if it rained or not. Both mornings, though, the streets were wet.

Sweet dreams of rain, everyone! And may it rain heavily in New Mexico.

Holding my breath

Like much of the country, I’m holding my breath and praying for the people of Florida and the southeastern part of our country. Who knows what direction Irma will finally take? The maps with a hundred lines leave one confused, but the Caribbean took a hit and probably the Keys too. I think of the woman who curates the Hemingway house on Key West and stayed behind with all those cats. Last word was it undoubtedly was damaged. I know tomorrow I’ll keep the TV on, sometimes muted, to keep up with reports.

Such scary times, for those of us with the wits to be scared—fire and flood, storms and inevitable pestilence. The wildfires in our northwest have been overlooked, overshadowed by the hurricanes. But they too deliver unbelievable destruction. People lose their homes. I read today that authorities are recommending people bring their pets in at night and leave buckets of water for wild animals fleeing the fires They will be scared, hungry and thirsty.

An earthquake in Mexico, accompanied almost simultaneously by hurricane Katia. So much tragedy, so much loss of life and property. And, always, I worry about the animals, both domesticated and wild. Scary is way too mild a word for the western hemisphere these days. If you don’t believe in climate change, please go immediately to buy property in Key West.

Back in Texas, life is almost normal, though we can’t forget that many, too many people have lost their homes or are still unable to go back to them. Floodwaters of that magnitude recede slowly, leaving overwhelming destruction, and it will be a long time before Houston and the surrounding towns dry out. A friend wrote that family was going through the detritus of her home, searching for memorabilia, before the bulldozers struck—somehow the bulldozers stuck in my mind. I hadn’t thought of that.

Pray for our country, our hemisphere. Pray for the world. I sometimes feel that we in America have sent off a negative chain reaction. In truth, we are in part the architects of our own doom. We have ignored flood plains and drainage studies in our wild push to build—more business complexes, more housing developments, more shopping malls--the earth will adjust. No, it won’t. The earth doesn’t need concrete covering such large portions of its surfaces. It needs to breath. And now we have a president who willy-nilly tears down the protections for our earth, allowing pollution of our rivers and streams, rolling back building codes designed to erect structures resistant to destruction, ignoring EPA warnings and disbanding that unit of government, showing no respect for the earth that nurtures us. We cannot build pipelines across sacred native lands, and we cannot defile wetlands by drilling for oil. We must learn to respect the earth. Pray that it is not too late. Harvey, Irma, Jake, Katia—all are a wake-up call, albeit it a late and disastrous one. Who is listening?

Did somebody cancel today?

I think the world cancelled today and forgot to tell me. None of the things I expected to happen came about. I thought I was going to lunch with a friend, but he had a stomach bug, so I stayed home and ate leftovers. What really bothered me about that was I had already put on make-up.  Jordan was going to come for our occasional afternoon happy hour after her work--but they had workmen at her house and she had to be home. She might, she said, need me to pick up Jacob. I did odds and ends all morning and got lots of little things done, After lunch I napped, woke up late, and called to see if I should go get Jacob. No, he was already home so he could see all the digging in their front yard. Result: I spent the entire day in my pajamas, with only Sophie for company--but she's good company.
The day left me with time to contemplate world affairs which is not a happy thing to do these days. Bob Schieffer said it best in a recent broadcast: we are in the midst of a world gone mad. Russia's encroachment on Ukraine; the horrifying Palestinian-Israeli conflict. That one I really don't understand, but perhaps I don't understand such age-old violent hatred. It seems to me that Israel keeps building settlements on Palestinian land; Hamas incites warfare, knowing that its citizens will be slaughtered--men, women, and children. I saw a cartoon recently that showed a group of supposedly Palestinian men milling around. The caption read, "Hamas loves us so much they even gave us T-shirts." On each shirt was a bulls eye. Gold Meir said years ago, "We can forgive the Palestinians for killing our children; we cannot forgive them for making us kill their children." One hardly dares use the term "fair" in this situation.
Then there are the children at the border and that horribly botched execution in Arizona, wildfires destroying eastern Washington state, violent storms in the Midwest and South. As long as we keep destroying our environment, the eccentricities of nature are beyond us and will only increase. But we could work with the atrocities wrought by man by teaching the world one word: compassion.
Oops, I slipped into the pulpit by mistake--that's what a contemplative day at home will do for you. But our minister said it well yesterday. Paraphrasing, but all we can do is take care of our own corner of the world with compassion--our family, friends, community. And vote, folks, it makes a difference.
My goodness, solitude also makes me ramble.