Early Morning...

Dear ???, (part two)

Do you ever think to yourself, "what if?" This morning when I woke and thought about you, I thought "what if John wasn't plucked from the water that day?"

***

It's a story practically as old as mankind.  One that begins with something current then, current this very day, and one I fear will be current in your time as well, religious persecution. If you are a child of C********, or his sister, M**** or their cousin B****, then John is your great-great-grandfather. If you are farther down the family line, I trust you’ll be able to figure out from that point.

The event I’m sharing with you happened in the early 1900's. Muslim leaders in the area where John was born, detested Christians. (And, I'm not intending to condemn the Muslims in my story, because I’m well aware that Christians and other religions have had their "holy wars," as well.) Such intolerance is a part of our human history, and it happens to be a part of our family history.

Just like Daniel in the bible, Uncle H, a faithful Christian minister, had correctly interpreted "the writing on the wall." He had feared for some time that the Young Turks would have it in for his family of Christians, so he planned for his family to flee their home in southeast Turkey and travel to a safe haven in the United States of America. And it was a good thing, because the very next year would come what was to be called the "Year of the Sword." The year in which a genocide of over two million Christians would take place in southeast Turkey. It began when a commander literally, not figuratively, placed a price on the head of every Christian man, woman or child. And there was no distinction between ethnicities, so it mattered not whether you were Greek, Armenian or Assyrian. It mattered only that you followed a different religion. Their enemies proclaiming, "An onion is an onion, be it red or be it white. All must be chopped!"

But, before this would take place, Uncle H had carefully planned for their escape. Taking care not be seen, in pre-dawn hours, all the members of his family gathered and huddled together in a small, overcrowded boat. They’d left behind their homes and all but a few small belongings, belongings that could easily hide in the folds of their clothing or pockets. Oh, and Uncle H brought his old wooden cane. It wasn’t a time for jokes in those wee hours, but John’s father teased Uncle H about dragging that "old stick of wood” along.

John, at the age of four years, was the only child on board the boat that day, and so he was placed securely on his pregnant mother's lap. The family had been up all night in anticipation of their journey and John's mother was beyond exhaustion. So, as John sat, precariously perched on the small remaining area of her lap, she dozed and lessened her hold on John. It was difficult to control the overloaded craft on rapid waters. The boat suddenly heaved and John was tossed overboard. The swift current would surely have whisked John quickly out-of-sight in the dark. But with lightning speed, Uncle H, the brilliant mastermind of their escape, thrust his cane into the water grabbing John by the neck with the crook of that "old stick of wood" and pulled John back to the boat. John's father's vision was all but obscured by tears as he pulled aboard his only child, while all the time Uncle H held fast to the cane. Like a fisherman tenaciously clinging, despite the difficult pull on his rod, he didn’t relent.  John was, again, safe in his parent’s arms.

If John had been lost in the cold rapids that day, he would not have grown up on the farm in Starke county Indiana where his family eventually settled. (As I write this, descendants of John's younger brother still live there today.) John was the hardest worker on the farm many relatives, over the years, have told us. He grew to be a strong, lean, handsome man. So, when the pretty girl from Chicago, whose family owned a summer cabin at a nearby lake, caught John's eye, he, in turn, caught hers.

If not for Uncle H's quick reaction, John would not have lived to become an American citizen, to join the army and to serve in the South Pacific during World War ll. When he left for boot camp, he promised to come back and marry the pretty girl from Chicago. She would probably have have married someone else, like the other suitor who, at the time, vied for her attention.

But she did wait. And John did return. And they did marry. And John would trade his farming skills for work as a pressman at the Chicago Tribune. They would buy and settle in a big house in a quiet neighborhood of Chicago. Here they would raise the two sons they'd had. And one day a fortunate young lady, from the very same neighborhood, would catch the eye of the elder of the sons. And he would, in turn, catch hers. And they would marry…

Uncle H and John's elder son in 1948

Dear ???

You do not know me. And, even though we've never met, I'm fairly certain that over time we could become acquainted and maybe even friends.

Each morning that I can, upon rising, I quickly jot down a few thoughts, thoughts that are formed with you specifically in mind. Hopefully, over time these shared thoughts will help you to form an image of who I am.

I read somewhere that the brain is in a special state upon waking that makes it easier to oscillate between both sides of the brain with relationship to feelings, writing and creativity. So, that is why I've reserved this time of the day for you.

Now, this information on the morning state of mind may be completely wrong and may have just sent you into a fit of laughter at my naivety, because you will probably have access to much more knowledge about the human brain than today's finest scientists can currently muster.

When I jot down my thoughts I use my IPad tablet, because I can use it in the dark and it doesn't wake my husband who is sleeping beside me. If I rouse, he will automatically get up. Sleep is important, so I like to let him rest as much as possible. I don't think that the need for sleep will have changed for you, but you never know.

I just had a scary thought: Maybe people won't read at all in the future. A current researcher in New York says that people, Americans specifically, are reading less. When people see an article or story online, they very rarely finish reading even a quarter of it. So I'm gambling that you will find my words of interest.

I once had this very vivid dream, the kind that sticks in your mind for a long time. In the dream I was meandering through a dark tangle of woods, when I happened upon an elderly couple. I stopped, frozen in my path. They stood so close together that they were almost like a single unit, an older man and women, looking to be about 70-80 years old. They were both just over five feet tall, a tiny bit plump and dressed head-to-foot in undefinable clothing. And every inch of them, clothing included, was a barely translucent pale yellow. One thing I remember is that I felt at peace in their presence.

They were only half-way facing me and they kept their distance, as if they were not allowed to completely face me nor come any closer. I stood in my spot. Now here is the weird part: we were able to communicate without one of us speaking a word. By this, I don't mean we could read one another's mind. I didn't know every thought they had, but what they wanted me to know they could transfer to my brain. Through this transfer I learned that they were ancestors of mine, like great-great-great grandparents. Their message to me was simple and succinct, "We love you. Do not concern yourself with measuring up to others' expectations. You are a unique and good person. Nothing else matters." And finally, "everything will be okay for you." I am telling you this as a thought transfer translator because no actual words were spoken. I simply understood their message. They were turning away from me and I transferred this thought to them, "Wait! Don't go! I love you!" Again, I didn’t hear anything, but I knew they chuckled as they transferred in unison, "We know."  They turned their backs to me. Poof! They were gone and I woke up.

You never know when or where an epiphany will occur. I was sitting in the eye doctor's chair when I got the idea about writing down my thoughts for you. My eye doctor is an affable young man, so I found myself sharing with him that I write a blog. He was instantly fascinated. He stepped back from the equipment, and had an outpouring that consisted of, "How often do you post?" "Do you use your real name or is it anonymous?" "Who is your audience?" "What do you write about?" "I should do that." "How many hits do you average?" and then "Why do you write?"

So, just like a thought transfer, I knew at that moment that I really write for you. I write so that you will know me and because there is simply no other way. Unless, that is, I can figure out that time travel thing my ancestors seem to have mastered.

"I write because I hope that someday my great-great grandchildren will read my words, like I wish that I could read my ancestors' words, know their thoughts and feelings." was my answer to my eye doctor.

"I would enjoy being able to do that, too" the eye doctor replied, wistfully looking off. Then he moved back in, adjusted the lenses and asked, "Which looks clearer, number one or number two?"

Later that very week Matt and Laura came for a two-day visit. Matt had some questions about his lineage. So we pulled out family letters and photos. Late into the night and next day he poured over the material, like a fervid detective piecing together a cold case. He asked questions and verified the parts of the letters and photos that he could by checking dates and addresses on google. He worked at it until it formed something that began to make sense to him. It was infectious, his siblings caught the bug. Later, so did the grandchildren.

***

Some items I post on the blog are meant for you, but more personal items will not be shared. I print them out and place them in a binder just for you. I hope that scientist at the University in NY is wrong and that people still enjoy reading in the future. But, just in case I'll keep my posts around 1,000 words max. And I'll start working on perfecting that time travel thing.

Oh, and I almost forgot: "I love you. You are important to me. Don't be concerned with living up to others' expectations of you. Just be yourself. You are a unique and good individual and that's all that matters."

Has Anyone Seen My Rose-Colored Glasses?

"Eh-eh-oh eh-oh, Eh-eh-oh eh-oh...

When you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all?

And when you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before?"

That catchy song she heard this morning replays in her head. So she closes her eyes, just for a second… Big mistake! The pain of her school days comes flooding back. The days when she would try hopelessly to please her fellow female high school students, who in kind would demonstrate their rejection by turning their backs to her, and almost coquettishly flipping strands of their long, fair hair over their shoulders, like they really wanted her attention, just so they could then refuse it. Excitedly they then pass whispers amongst each other, followed by loud bursts of laughter, as they glance back her way.

As she comes through the back door she passes her mother, in the kitchen busily preparing dinner. "How was school? What's the matter, honey? Are you okay? Are you hungry? Do you want a cookie? I just baked them." 

With all her strength, she manages to force a faint smile, "School was fine, Mom. I'm fine. And no thanks, I'm not hungry right now."

Alone in her room, she drops her schoolbooks on the floor, sprawls across her bed. She spots her journal on the nightstand. She picks it up and thumbs the pages. She comes across a page where she'd written about a visit from her grammar school teacher, Sister Joan. Sister had walked all the way from school, over a mile to her home just to talk to her mother. She remembers that day, five years back when, even though she knew it was wrong, she had eavesdropped from behind the door. She heard Sister Joan saying to her mother, "You know I always look at and assess the potential in my students. I've been teaching for 25 years and I've never had a student who has a knack for writing like your daughter. I’ve thought to myself that, if the Lord blesses me with a long life, I may one day hear or read that she has become famous." 

For the briefest moment, after reading the journal, she smiles. It amazing how words on a page can ease an ache in your heart. She puts her journal down. Maybe she'll take a quick nap before dinner. She thinks about school again. She steadfastly refuses to cry.

Forty-nine years later she hears a song "Pompeii" by Bastille on the internet radio:

“Eh-eh-oh eh-oh, Eh-eh-oh eh-oh… How am I gonna be an optimist about this?“ 

She realizes now that the days she'd always longed for have indeed arrived. She's been accepted and included as a member of the "In-crowd," at least here at the retirement community where she now lives. People who live here may not like to think of it as a retirement community, but if one were to factor the demographics … Anyway, the point is, she's now occasionally asked to sit with the "Elite A-Listers," who reserve a special table for themselves at every celebratory event. There she chats or smiles, or if appropriate, nods and furrows her forehead, as if giving careful consideration to the content of their words. She laughs heartily at the tired jokes of old men. She throws in interjections like, "That’s amazing!" or "You're kidding!" when they talk about their most recent prowess on the golf course.

Yup, I am one of them, she thinks to herself. I really am. Alone at home she sprawls across her bed. She curls up on her side. She cries. 

***

I'm startled back from a nap by a shrill whistle from my IPhone. It's my sister. You know it's so comfortable here in the sunroom, I often find myself dozing as I read or write. I glance at her text:

“Have you ever considered giving up that blog of yours? Cuz I'm pretty sure not everyone gets the subtle self-dep humor you're trying for in some of that stuff you write. ;)”

Good grief! Did I hit the "publish" button in my sleep again?

Whether or Not...

"Mom! Mom, hurry! What channel is The Weather Channel on?"

"I don't know, sweetie, try 224."

"No, that's not it! Please, Mom, I just have to see The Weather Channel! Puh-lease, Mom!!"

"For goodness sake, here I come. What's so important about The Weather Channel, Buddy?"

"I have to see if we're having a tornado or a hurricane today."

A young mother, someone I barely know, is standing beside me when she says, apropos of nothing, "My son is obsessed with the weather." Is she talking to me? I turn to look at her, then I look around. I guess so, since there is no one else nearby. Then she goes on to give me the above verbatim recounting as an example. She has more examples:

One day in the car he says, "Mom, what would happen if a tornado came right now? Right this minute! What would you do? What would we do? Do you have a plan?"

Or, "Mom, are we in an earthquake fault line?"

"Where does he get this stuff? He's only six years old," she tells me. "I mean, I try to reassure him, but …" My head swirls with thoughts and possible comments, but someone walks over and interrupts us...

***

“If you don’t see it, we ain’t got it!” the store clerk calls out over his shoulder. Staples, especially bottled water, fly off the shelves, as people shop for the pending ‘blizzaster,” (a word coined by The Weather Channel, I'm certain.) I’ve chosen eggs, flour, milk, chicken, frozen vegetables, bottled water and, okay I admit it, a couple, two-three bottles of wine. But, my admiration is reserved for the priorities of the elderly (read: someone older than me) lady behind me, who buys a case of beer, a box of wine, one bottle each of gin, vodka, whiskey, scotch, & two other bottles I could swear are alcohol-related.

***

Her memo went out: “Urgent: Please be aware that all staff and faculty are urged to make proper arrangements to leave early today, as The Weather Channel has indicated that snow-laden and icy road conditions are imminent.” This was issued by our new dean at the University. She hails from Seattle, where apparently they are not accustomed to sudden winter storms.

Chicago, January 1967, Foster Avenue

***

"Are y'all visiting? 'Cause not ever-body in these parts has fancy winter clothing like y'all got."

When the recent "polar vortex" hit the U.S. we were in Gulfport Mississippi. Without The Weather Channel I might not have known that there was a proper scientific name for what I'd called my whole life an "arctic blast." The temperature that sunny day on the gulf coast was 43 degrees fahrenheit. My husband and I, accustomed to frigid Midwest winters, were comfortably strolling about while the local southerners were shivering all around us.

One of the benefits of modern technology is our ability to have constant input regarding weather. Experts say that weather predictions have become significantly more accurate in the last twenty years, at least for short-range (three day or less) predictions. And that's a benefit, right? I mean, it's good that meteorologists can provide advanced warnings and increased lead times for severe weather, thus giving us time to prepare for hurricanes, tornados, flash floods, blizzards and such.

This increased accuracy has come from the use of satellites, radar, and most importantly the profiler computer programs that crunch the satellite and radar data. I guess that's a heck of a lot better than the folklore my grandparents and great-grandparents relied on, such as "an abundance of spider webs in trees" or, "frequent rains in early November" or "unusually tall beaver lodges" or "a sudden disappearance of frogs," all indicating a hard, cold winter. Seriously, who among us these days has time to notice nature's anomalies and their relationship to weather?

But, a disadvantage comes with this technological knowledge in the form of an increasing obsession with weather. Thanks to The Weather Channel, weather updates play on television, 24-7-365.

Besides comedy, the entertainment industry has always relied on suspense, danger, action, drama and horror to draw our attention. Somewhere along the way The Weather Channel figured out that if those were the elements necessary to grab us, well then, "weather" delivered on most accounts. Let's face it, there is pretty much always a catastrophe somewhere, hoards of people standing around in dismay amongst ruins. They use weather to play to our fears:

"Bone-chilling Cold Cripples Air Travel"

"Historic Freeze: Wind chills 65 Below Zero"

"Chicago's Low Temperature Smashes Records"

"Life-Threatening Heat Wave"

"Life-Threatening Drought"

"Life-Threatening Cold"

"Frost Quakes"

"Snowstorm Godzilla"

"Exposed Skin May Freeze in Minutes"

"Lowest temperatures in twenty years" "…Thirty years" "…Forty years!!!" 

"100 Year Flood"

 Scary! Isn't it? And that's just the U.S.A. coverage. The Weather Channel also covers the world's weather.

"Winds of up to 90 miles an hour and heavy rain battered Scotland on Thursday…"

"Heavy storms sweeping across the North Sea…"

"Record-Shattering Drought in… 

"Tsunami Kills Thousands…"

Throw in the earthquakes, volcanos, and weather-related wildfires and you've got material to frighten anyone, especially a bright little six-year-old boy.

Meanwhile as we, in the U.S., fret about the polar vortex, our neighbors in Canada fire up their backyard grill, head for the outdoor hot tub and crack open a can of beer. And I think back to my native ancestors. They dealt with similar fluctuations in weather. They dealt with brutal winters. How did they cope? They hunkered down in their primitive dwellings, wrapped in their animal skins and “chilled” (pun intended) until the storm passed.

The Weather Channel's growth has exploded since their inception in 1982. And weather coverage has become such that, to keep pace, the regular networks will allow a storm to trump most any news with the exception of a major shooting or the death of a very famous person.

So when one of the people I follow on Twitter tweeted:

"A crucial resource was removed from 20 million homes. Tell DIRECTV there's no substitute for The Weather Channel!"

followed by a link to a petition, I knew that as much as I respect her intellect,  she was just plain wrong…, she was perhaps misinformed..., she and I saw things differently.

To me The Weather Channel, sort of like Duck Dynasty, simply became too full of themselves. They lost their way, perhaps blinded by the dazzling brightness of the television lights. In the lulls between major weather events they’d begun to run shows like Storm Stories, It Could Happen Tomorrow and Highway Thru Hell. And they somehow failed to realize that they are no longer the only source for up-to-date weather or radar maps. I, for one, favor my NOAA app. 

So, when I hear Jim Cantore whining sound-off to customers about the possibility of DirecTV  dropping The Weather Channel from their lineup over a monetary dispute: 

"I told him how many of our viewers, especially in rural areas, rely on our service to keep them informed and safe when weather threatens." 

"I think it’s a dangerous gamble to put lives at risk for a penny. I think you’ll agree. Nobody can do weather like we do. Nobody."

I think to myself, heck, if DirecTV can drop The Weather Channel and save me a penny, I'm all for it. Like my grandmother used to say, "The fiercer the storm, the quicker it passes."

Scenes from a Beachside Condo

Tall and handsome, he stands stock-still looking out at the water. His posture is elegant, I think. He remains motionless, not moving a single muscle. He doesn't even blink his eyes. How is that possible? I hear the clothes dryer beep and I remind myself that I should fold the clothing before it wrinkles, but I can't turn my eyes from him. The only movement I can discern is caused by the wind ruffling the hair on his head.
Wait! Did he just blink while I was looking at his head? His head turns my way, but the rest of his body remains motionless. I freeze. I don't turn away. I'm pretty sure he's not really looking at me. Then he takes a single step closer, stops and looks back at the water. I continue my staring, unabashedly. Cautiously, stealthily and extremely slowly he takes steps, one at a time, with lengthy pauses between, that bring him closer to me. One step closer, then he stops, then another step closer, and so it goes until there is now only the fence outside of the condo and the sea air separating us. His heads turns my way again, and he gives his head a thorough shake, as if to say, "Have you no shame?" Then, with slow, deep beats of his wings, wings spanning six feet, he lifts his body out over the water and disappears from my view. And the dryer beeps again, as it will every fifteen minutes until I open the dryer door.

***
You'd think I'd stop looking out the window, but it's hard when the view is so beautiful. I mean who doesn't enjoy looking at the sea? Every so often I see people, families frolicking, children squealing in delight, adults beach combing, or exercising, or walking the dog and such. So, at first I don't pay attention to the foursome walking the beach in the direction of the condo. Absentmindedly, I make the assumption that they are teens or young adults, although they are still too far to really tell. I think it's a combination of their clothing and their carefree antics. They each shoulder a backpack. One of them is tall and lean and he's clad only in shorts, gym shoes, and a long-sleeve, camouflage t-shirt, even though the temperature outside is hovering just under 60 degrees Fahrenheit. His hair is close-cropped, almost like a crew cut that has missed it's last trim. He is clearly the most animated of the group as he darts back and forth between his three partners. Sometimes he throws his arm around the shoulder of one, giving them a hug and what looks like a pep talk. Then he sashays to another and gives that friend a good-natured push.

The four stagger along the beach, and as it turns out stagger is a good description, as it is not the deep, sugar white sand that is making their gait wobbly. I suspect they are inebriated. And then wouldn't you know it? They stop just a few yards from the condo to rest on the sand. I can now easily see that the foursome consists of three guys and a girl. And I also can now see that the reason they have stopped is because the tall, animated guy has to relieve himself. As his trio of pals sit back in a semi-circle, blocking him from the pool area adjacent to the condo, he sinks to his knees in the sand, unzips his shorts and urinates. When he's done, the girl rises and walks to the palm area behind the beach. She looks out toward the street, like she's looking for something. I wonder what she's thinking, as she lights a cigarette and puffs away, her back to her friends. Her head is bare and her dark hair is super-long. She's wearing slacks and a woolen poncho that, for some reason, reminds me of something Michelle Phillips or Cass Elliot would have worn back in the mid '60s. She finishes her cigarette and turns her attention back to the guys. They pass a bottle of what looks like vodka, to each other. One of the four lies back, then rolls to one side and appears to "pass out" on the beach. The other guy, sporting a powder blue hoody and those hip hop pants that seem sure to fall to his ankles at any moment, is now sitting slumped over in a peculiar manner. The animated guy is dancing about in front of his audience of three, trying his best to engage his pals in the fun he seems to be the only one having. He grabs his backpack and pulls out a rifle! I call to my husband who is watching the AFC wildcard football coverage. "Come here! Look! Is that a gun?"
He laughs, "Well, maybe a bb-gun. Looks like a Red Rider. Must've been a Christmas gift." He turns his attention back to the game.

The animated one brandishes his bb-gun, attempting to incite his slumped over, but still sitting, friend. He then pokes the gun at the sleeping friend, who pushes the gun nozzle away and remains inert. The girl turns away and looks out toward the street. She quickly walks farther away from the group. She stops behind a large clump of palm fronds, stoops, unbuttons her slacks, lowers them and urinates. I can see the bare flesh of her thighs clearly and I wonder if I am the only person in this condo building who is witnessing this. She stands up, adjusts her clothing, lights a cigarette and walks back to her guy pals.

She says something to the one who is slumped over, the one with the powder blue hoodie. He rises, stumbles, falls to the sand, stands and stumbles again before gaining his balance. The girl turns and helps the animated dude to holster the Red Rider rifle into his backpack. He then walks over to the sleeping guy, nudges him, maybe says something, and the sleeping man puts forth his hand. I assume the animated fellow, who in kind reaches out, will help pull him to his feet. But, they merely shake hands, one of those hip-guy handshakes with a secret move thrown in, and the three walk off and leave him to slumber on, alone on the beach, as the sun begins to lower in the horizon. I watch the three cross the lot away from the condo. I watch them walk away until I can see them no more. And I look at the sleeping man, the drunken man, sleeping alone on a now deserted beach, as the sun sets and the temperature falls, a man who is only wearing slacks and a thin sweater...

Why do I look out the window?
Why don't I mind my own business?
Why aren't I watching football with my husband?
I make a mental note of the time. I wonder, if I wait until dawn before I call the authorities, will it be too late?