You mean today?  Yesterday? Tomorrow?  Forever?

Sometimes I’m  asked, “Who are you?” and I’m tempted to reply that I’m lots of Ethels, and which one do you mean?

The name Ethel Bradford, only means I belong to a family of Bradfords and was ‘labeled’ Ethel, so people could tell me apart from others.  And that Ethel has been daughter, wife, lover, mother, grandmother to three and now I’m twice a great grandmother. 

But you know, as I do, that all those ‘names’ are actually only labels, tags you might say, explaining what role I played or play in someone else’s life, and not who I am.

None of them relates to the Ethel who responds, or hangs up, on those who try to beguile or fill me with fear in order to get me to vote for who is paying them to make such calls.

And still different from that Ethel who patiently tries to explain to another phone-voice, that I never buy or give money to anyone who comes begging by phone.  And you wouldn’t want to know that Ethel who was once told, (in today’s explicit words) to perform some anatomically impossible act.  Yes, I know the words, but I’m still shocked to hear them casually used and, what’s more, aimed right at me.  I must admit I was tempted to respond in the same lingo, but that too, is another Ethel.

To some I’m a Teacher, and there I smile, for I always learn more than I teach, because the teacher must ‘dig’ for more information than ever used, while all the students have to do is listen, doze, or not even attend.

I’m a different Ethel when met with anger or resentment, than with outstretched arms of love.  Yes, there are Ethels that I don’t especially like, either, but, at times we all play such roles.

I remember back when I was my Dad’s Flicka, his little Svenska girl, and though I didn’t know what he meant, I knew it was an Ethel I liked being.

I’m not sure who I was to my mother, for she could not accept the Ethel who failed to unquestionably follow in her steps.  I became far different from the Ethel she took for granted I would be, and sadness came to us both.  It caused me to be deeply careful to let my sons know I loved and approved of them, while at the same time, tried to give them a deep sense of character values, and yet also the freedom to use those values as they chose and that my love would not vary.

And sometime who we are is a puzzle, as to me with the one I’ve called  Gram.  She was my husband’s mother, so I was not her daughter, and yet she said I was her true daughter.  It’s an Ethel, I loved and am so glad I was given that role to fill.

And then there’s the Ethel who is a student, for that Ethel keeps me forever stepping through doors that, with just a touch, prove not to be doors at all, but new territory to explore and widen my mind.  This has become my favorite Ethel, for she points the way to the Ethel I am becoming as I eagerly step through those false doors with open eyes and mind.

To my surprise, and I wish I could tell every older person, but as I get older, I’m finding an entirely new Ethel.  I reach out to her with surprise and ask, where have you been all this time?  And I’ve found that I  had to wait until years of living, and stepping through those wide-open ‘closed doors’, would be needed to give me the bravery, joy, and wisdom to dare be the Ethel I never before was ready to meet.

And the best part of it all, is to find that I, by  the roles I play, I’m also able to choose what I will be tomorrow.  And to know that this is not a ‘new’ Ethel, but one who’s always been with me.

I’ve caught glimpses of that Ethel peeking out from behind the thousands of roles I’ve taken, but slowly found that no matter what name or camouflage I assume or am given, it is the real, never changing ‘me’.  And, shiver, shiver, shiver, like you, that’s who I am, always was and always will be.  Yes, names will vary but the Role will always be played by the Ethel who is One with The Source of all.

Neil Armstrong has died, and so has our news media . . .

This last weekend the news Staffs of newspapers, TV, Internet segments, all proved what we have long guessed.  They have all become what we once termed cheap journalism. 

Neil Armstrong, a man whose name will be listed with the Greats of History died last week and the news organizations of the world revealed their shallowness.  And that is, if you aren’t a ‘Personality’, go ahead and die, but don’t expect us to do anything about it.  No money in those kind of names.

Neil Armstrong’s name will be right there alongside Galileo, The Father of Astronomy, and with Lindberg, the first to fly over the Atlantic solo.  With Magellan, first to sail around the world, and Columbus, who ‘discovered America’ and opened the western hemisphere to the rest of the world.  Names of men and women who have changed the world, and Armstrong’s name has long been  high on that list.

He was the one who made that ‘small step by man, but a giant leap for all mankind”.  The very first time a human had stepped upon any surface other than this earth.

The picture sent down to earth of his booted foot cautiously stepping into the unknown surface of the moon, will live forever, and is recognized world-wide, with no names or explanation needed. That ‘giant leap for mankind’ will be seen centuries from now, and our news gave it a bored ho-hum.  You see, there’s no money in a moon story.

I speak of the shallow depths to which ‘the news’ has allowed itself to fall, and deny and excuse it though they may, this last weekend they helped kill themselves, ‘hoist by their own petard’.  No one did it to them, and have no one to blame but themselves.  Deny it as they have, but they, and I mean ALL forms of the ‘news’,  revealed themselves to be naught but gatherers of junk.  The presses literally stopped when Michael Jackson died, and all he did was sing and dance in an odd way popular with the teenagers of his generation, and, oh yes, and he took drugs, alcohol, and died as a result, too.

Yes, Armstrong died on a weekend when the ‘second staffers’ are in charge, but, there was a time, not too long ago, when all news organizations, built files on well known men and women, so that when death claimed them, all that was needed was to fill in the death date and reason, and within minutes a perfect obit was ready. But that was the time when Journalism was a proud, professional occupation and former newsmen and women would weep at how far their craft has fallen.

That picture of Armstrong’s foot stepping on to the Moon’s surface should have been on every front page of the world, with  the words of A GIANT LEAP FOR MANKIND the only ones used.

Yes, Armstrong chose to NOT become a so-called celebrity, and lived out of the public eye, as a Professor.  He did, much like Lindberg, of a generation before him, also did.  They saw the job, loved it, did it superbly, and then went on with their lives. Both choosing not to subject their wives and children to the notoriety given today’s ‘names’.

Galileo was the first man to SEE the moon’s surface, and even elementary students know his name, if not exactly what he did.  Neil Armstrong was the first human to put his foot upon a surface other than our Planet, other than the one we call Earth, and there are pictures to record it for all time, for any Planet yet to be explored, and to be seen by whatever form of mankind found there.  And, to our shame, we met his death with a yawn.

Perhaps it’s just as well.  Take a long, lingering look at the magazines and tabloids featured at all grocery stores, and you will see exactly what and why both Armstrong and Lindberg chose to step aside from it. 

We all should be ashamed because what we buy is what the news sources give us.  I’ve collected Front Pages of great events and even found one of Pearl Harbor.  There is no Front Page for the death of the man who took That Giant Leap For Mankind.

For the lifers, it’s all free

No one told us that life was going to be fair, but this is one time there must be an answer to the dilemma.

There are thousands of older people who need the care that can only be given in special centers, but can’t afford the expense.  However, at the same time, another growing group, with the very same needs, and no money eithe, but this time our government is erecting buildings  (and don’t forget who pays for government buildings) to take care of that second group. In truth, within the last 10 (+ or -) years, have already built three, and residency there costs those of that second group, absolutely not one cent.  Free.

And the difference?  It’s hard to believe, but the first, who pay for their own Care, or don’t get it, are the law abiding citizens who’ve done nothing more illegal than running a red light.  And the other segment? Those who are getting special buildings, special doctors, food, medicine and all such needs at no cost at all?   Well,  they’re the criminals we’ve sent to prison for life. Murder, usually the cause, and in doing so, we also took on the job of supplying every need.  For that life time.

And with the care they get, nutritional, medical, etc. and with no stress, their lives are most often longer than the ones on ‘the outside’.

I taught at the Prison for several years and more than one man (I was not in the women’s section) said out-rightly that if ever they were ‘freed’ and sent out into the world, the very first thing they’d do would be to commit some crime that would send them right back.

One man, perhaps in his late 50’s or SO said, “This is the first time in my entire life that I’ve known I’d have a bed to sleep in at night.  It’s the first time I’ve had three good meals every day,  first time I’ve had clean clothing, dental care, clean bedding, and so much more.  You couldn’t pay me to leave here.”

And I shivered,  as I saw others nodding their agreement.

We have a fast growing population of people that we’ve committed ourselves to supporting. For life. And not one single thing or act  is required from them.  Nothing.  No  chores or duties, and it seemed to me that when they get into their late 40’s, they are very content, and I’ve heard so many of them say, “I’ve never had it so good.”

Several years ago, I read where three large facilities were being built to house prisoners from prisons all over the U.S.A., who needed special Care for reasons incident to age, would be sent.  Now they are needing and building  more.

Turning them loose is not the answer,  but I do think a good answer, maybe not a solution, but a part time one, is to use the men and women, from the time imprisoned, on labor forces such road work, janitor work in government parks and buildings, and such places where labor only is needed. Places where they can be watched constantly and also to be clothes in quickly identifiable Prison Uniforms, and ankle ‘bracelets’ so as to be instantly recognized, and their movements hampered, and controlled, an absolute requirement.  And no wages paid, either.

Sounds good?  Yes it does, and has been tried out, but has been fought right and left, as the opponents say, those prisoners would be performing jobs and activities that law-abiding men and women could fill, and so you are depriving law-abiding citizens of wage paying jobs.

It’s a dilemma  but think about it.  So many law abiding people need such care, but cannot afford the exorbitant prices.  Yet the criminals who robbed, killed, raped or kidnapped, are getting that care free of charge, and while you might not afford to pay for it for some one in  your family, you are paying those same bills for the life-time criminals.

We, the public, are ending up being victims for the second time. First for their crimes and now for their care.  Justice for all?????  Think again, and again and again and if you think there’s some solution, fine, wonderful, but meanwhile send this column to every name on your list.  Thank  you.

For a Hot, Sweltering Summer Day

Yes, it’s the hot, sweltering days of Summer and I’ve searched and found what Gerard Mosler sent me on another hot Summer day. I enjoyed his words (questions) and hope you do, too.

And it’s the perfect Quiz for such days as we have had. It’s a list of puzzle questions, and try not to peek at the answers at the bottom of my column, but, what the heck, it’s August.  It’s hot.  I don’t know who you are, so cheat on every one, if you want.  I won’t know.  And, if the truth be know, I cheated the first time (and the second time, too) that I read them, too.

1. Which was the smallest continent before Australia was discovered?

2. You have prepared ten pounds of peaches because you’re making jam.  When you start to put them in the kettle, you remember the old recipe advised, for improved flavor,  you to add the juice of a lemon for every dozen peaches.  You don’t remember the number of peaches you’ve prepared, and so how can you determine the proper number of lemons to squeeze?

3. An old fashioned, antique six-day alarm clock will run at least five days without winding. True or false?

4. What is the only word to the English language that can be written without pen, pencil, chalk, or any other pigment?

5. Behind each girl is a boy.  Behind each boy is a girl.  What is the smallest number of children that will fulfill those specifications?

6. A planeload of famous people crashed near the boundary of two countries.  A question of International Law arose about where to bury the survivors.  It was finally decided that each country would bury half of them.  Do you agree?

7. Can you make sense of the following sentence by adding to it question marks? “Before popping the important man often time.

8. Three women are standing under one umbrella without anybody’s getting wet.  How is this done?

9. What word will be shorter if you add a syllable to it?

10. Can you tell in what case two times two is six.

ANSWERS

1. It has always been Australia whether we knew it was there or not.

2. Just count the peach pits.

3. No non-electric clock will run without winding, five days, five minutes or otherwise.

4. The word already is “written.”

5. One boy, one girl, standing back to back.

6. Who ever heard of survivors being buried?

7. Before popping the important QUESTION man often MARKS  time.

8.  It isn’t raining.

9. Short.

10.  In no case!

See, I told you it was a ‘hot, sweltering summer day’ quiz.  But Gerard Mosler must have enjoyed putting it together, and I enjoyed it enough to tuck it away to be found at a later date, and the same to you.  And you.  And you.

But careful, the whole world depends on them

The Good Book tells us not to lie, but I’d wager there isn’t one person on this whole planet who can go through 24 hours without doing so.

Now, I’m not going into the ‘descriptions’ that are posted ‘on line’ when people are seeking a mate, lover or partner, for anyone choosing that method to find a husband, lover or wife, and doesn’t know that every word is gilded with white lies, ought to have their head examined.

But apart from those exaggerations, there are other situations where those lies are demanded if we want to get along with the world.  They are so much  a part of being civilized that not to tell an occasional one can be cruel and inhuman.  Our culture is built around the lies we tell each other, and without them, this world might be better in some ways, but then it could/would be much worse in other ways.  Take a look.

If we didn’t tell a few, we’d soon have no friends, and peppering a few white ones here and there, is the only way to keep them.  There’s no way you can tell your long-time friend what you actually think of the clothes she often chooses, or what you really think of her new boy friend, or worse still, of her husband.  Wow.

The old adage says: “White lies are the oil that keeps life’s ‘machinery’ running smoothly,” and the one who penned those words had certainly been ‘around the block’ and knew the score.

Who could be so cruel as to tell a bride that she isn’t beautiful, or that the new born baby isn’t a living doll, even though everyone knows that newborns all look like Winston Churchill, and from every picture ever taken of him, he wasn’t famous for his good looks.

Histories of nations show us that wars are started when nations begin telling the truth about their plans, and Peace comes only when the leaders start lying.  Think it over, think it over.

And politicians have only one goal, i.e. to be elected. And the slogan of everyone of them, only in their own words is, “This world, (Country, State, City, County) is in a mess and I’m the only one who knows how to fix it.”  And every other word they speak is an outcrop of that lie.
And then they start telling us what we want to hear.  They know they’re lying, as when the first President Bush said about taxes, “Read my lips. Read my lips. I won’t raise your taxes.”  Shakespeare said it best, “What fools we mortals be.”

But inasmuch as few of us will ever run for high office, let’s get down to the everyday kind of lie.  Routine lies.  “How are you?” we ask.  “Fine, how are you?” they answer with another lie, and we say “Fine.” Lies, both of them, and, truthfully, we aren’t  even asking about their health, but just, in modern lingo,  saying, “Hello.”  And unnecessary lies pile atop each other.

My mother told that same lie, and it maddened me as a child, because often, I knew she wasn’t feeling fine, and wondered why she lied. I was punished with a swift whack on the butt when I told a lie, and yet no one criticized her for her lies.  Well, in time I learned. 

Like Mom, if I’m ill or have something wrong, I lie and tell no one. Oh, once it’s over I talk all over the place, but until then, I lie, and lie and lie.  And silently apologize to my mother.

But, again, to get down to everyday  living, lies are not only wanted, but needed.  You meet a friend for lunch and she walks across the restaurant you wonder what in the world happened to her hair, and doesn’t she have a mirror?  Is she blind?   But as she sits down, your first words are, “Oh, you have a new hairdo.”

See, you didn’t actually say a lie, but it was implied and she beams, thinks you said her hair is wonderful, and that she looks terrific.  You keep your thoughts to yourself, and everyone’s happy.  But, oh me, just maybe it’s a  good thing  you don’t know what she might be  thinking about your hair.

And, as you witness the wedding vows of a friend, you can almost see the divorce papers waving in the offing, But did you tell the truth, when she  gushingly asked, “Oh, isn’t he just wonderful?”

No, you didn’t think that, but you smiled an agreement with her as you inwardly  thought, “I think he’s a drip, a gambler, a cheat and before a year is over, you’ll be wondering why you married him.”  But you lie.  After all, you want to have her for a friend after the fireworks are over, and, in today’s world, marriages can be of short stuff,  while friendships are for life.

I know, and you know, of huge sad happenings in someone’s past, and tell a lie to not reveal what is past and over done with.  I knew of the event by accident, chose to be silent, to insure other’s happiness, and my lips are sealed forever.  Who am I to be the arbiter of another’s future happiness, or heartache and sorrow.  You be the judge.

Yes, You, me and all of us, have seen when the white lie, that sweet lie, the kind lie, the blessed lie was actually the kindest words ever spoken, and in time knew it as the most needed ‘truth’ ever given.  A blessing for all. 

Yes, there  are times when the White Lie is the most wonderful words ever spoken.  Okay?  And don’t try to tell me that you didn’t see yourself mirrored in every word I’ve written.

Or should I say hourly bread

Every living creature, human down to microcosmic cell, needs its Daily Bread, and if deprived will scavenge, fight, even kill for it, because without it, and water, we’ll die.

Over half of the world’s population is lucky if they get any food for the day and, yet, we here in the U.S., while there are hungry among us, we’re also facing a cradle-to-the-grave epidemic of obesity.  Too much food. We’re fat.

And in doing so, we’ve turned the joy and comfort of good family meals into a scramble to see who can out-do others in serving food that’s the  most unusual, fanciest, grown farthest away, and prepared in the most unique manner.

The other side of the coin, there are the millions who consider Pizza, Hamburgers, and French Fries, or any  frozen meal that can be micro-ed in minutes, as perfect, nutritious meals.

And they’re okay, and fun for once-in-a-while, but we’re at cross-roads, because where ever we look, we’re being pressured  towards different attitudes in what makes a nutritious meal. 

First, wherever we look, any form of the media from TV, magazines, newspapers, ads, we’re bombarded with articles and gorgeous pictures of foods and  nice slender people telling us if we cook food as they say,  we can look like them too.  It’s hard to find a news program, talk show or whatever, without its segment of food and telling us how to make, or buy it.

The way they talk, you’d think we’d  die unless they reminded us that when we’re hungry we should eat, and that food is usually found in the kitchen.

And in the same publication or program, there will also be articles, with pictures, telling us what food is not good for us to eat,  what to keep away from our children, berating schools for what snacks or drinks they offer our kids, and the medical professions step in and tells us the horrid maladies being  overeating brings, how our food choices  are ‘doing’ to our kids’, and also trying to sell us  pills to control our appetite. 

Then there are hour long TV programs year after year, showing us grossly overweight people and how they are ‘suffering’ to lose it, and that we’re no where near THAT fat and so that our few fat pounds are okay.  The dangers of Hypoglycemia and Hyperglycemia, (diabetes and its counterpart) all from lack of balance of our meals,  and you each can go on and on with your own lists of what the doctors tell us.

And, believe it or not, the effects of the obesity epidemic have reached into and brought changes to every store that sells clothing. 

I recall my mother making very nice dresses, night clothes, and one time a coat for an overweight neighbor.  Not grossly fat, but just the same, she couldn’t find clothing her size, and so came to Mama, and got them made for her.

She’d have no problem today. The Extra-large section is as large or larger than the ‘normal’ racks.  (Who knows what’s normal?)  One day I saw a ‘Small’ Tee-shirt on sale in a color I liked and bought it, but took it back within an hour.  Yes, it was Small, but what I missed in my hurry was that the label actually read, ‘Small XXX’.  See, even a new lingo. A Small extra large.  Oh me.

A nurse, with lots of capital letters after her name, simplified the food problem for me.  She said: eat three,  four, even five  SMALL meals a day and have each ‘meal’ one-third protein (meat, eggs, yogurt, peanut butter, etc), one-third Good Carbs (brown bread, brown rice, etc) and one-third fruit and veggies. 

Cookies?  Ice Cream?  Cake?  Candy? Of course, but these are not food needs.  They are treats, eaten sparingly. Not as constant tid-bits, substitutes for a meal, or a package eaten while watching TV.    

 I don’t know about the farmer, but store keepers, makers of fancy pots, pans, grills, cookers, etc., medical pills and nostrums, gyms, spas, and, special clothing, you name it, and it all boils down to that you gotta be your own doctor, nurse and coach.  That is, if you don’t want to be fat.

And not a one of these businesses dealing with Food and it’s results is going to help you, because, as it stands, they’re all making money hand-over-fist and not a one of them is going to rock their wonderful money-making boat.

It’s all working just they way they want it to work, and there’s nothing wrong or illegal about it at all.  The fact that it’s making us fat is our problem, not theirs. 

Oh, yes, yes, How much I did understand

I recently turned a hallway corner and startled a young couple holding each other closely, sharing a moment of love and tenderness.

As soon as they saw me, they hurriedly stepped apart, blushing, embarrassed, and their reaction was obvious, that I, of another generation, could not in any way, understand their actions or what they were feeling.

I was momentarily tempted to pause and tell them that indeed I did understand.  That I was intensely aware of their happiness, and  could feel the emotion that passed between them, because, as the old song says, ”I had a love of my own, you see, I had a love of my own.”

We live in a world that seems programmed to think that love, and all its glory that ‘makes life worth living’, is meant only for the young.  And that if you are 50, or anywhere beyond, that love is foolish and out of the question.  That any  marriage, at those ages, must be nothing but empty, hollow arrangements and could never have the least thing to do with that most ‘tender emotion.’

How wrong they are.  Oh, heavens, how wrong they are and how much they have to learn as they are taking their first startled steps into the world that is at the heart, and the reason for every birth, book, opera, song, poem, sculpture or work of art.

They were so young, so starry eyed and they think the joys and love they are experiencing can, in no way, be understood by people their parent’s age.  But they must be excused, because every generation thinks the wonders and joys of love and sex are unique to them.

It is the wise (blessed? lucky?) ones who go through the young infatuations, and though moved, recognize them for what they are. To enjoy, learn, but carefully, oh most carefully avoid any acts or commitments that could entail a child, marriage, and so often a divorce.

I read, and still like to refer to Margaret Mead’s book, the world-wide classic, Coming of Age In Samoa written in 1925, after she lived there as an Anthropologist.  Among other aspects of their life, Mead wrote of Coming of Age, or as we say, the Teen years. In Samoa at that time, love and sex were routinely expected, accepted, and tolerated with no criticism. She compared sex as arriving to those of those early years, like  flash fires, bolts of lightning and over just as quickly.

However, if a Samoan pair conceived a child, (and here their rules were adamant and frighteningly strict), and with no censorship, they were automatically considered ‘married’ and would continue that responsibility until the child (children) reached adulthood.  And horribly harsh punishments followed if those rules were ignored.

But then, when those ‘family’ years were completed, they had done their duty to the next generation and were free to do as they pleased, and again with no criticism.  What did it matter, they said. It is the children who are important and must be nurtured.

But back from Samoa to my encounter in that hallway.  Teen-age love comes, and goes, and that young pair I interrupted  has so much to learn.  How swiftly that first wild love can fling them into a marriage they’re not ready for.  A child?  A divorce?  And leaving both disillusioned, bitter and knowing that the rest of their lives have been irrevocably changed.

But life does not stand still. We get older, hopefully wiser and no matter how badly burned or blessed with that first Bolt of Lightning, time passes, life heals, and then another love enters people’s lives.  Not the same as the first,  not taking the place of any cherished memories, and not to be criticized or explained, but entirely different. And welcome. 

Yes, I passed the young couple I had surprised without seemingly giving them more than a passing glance, but they could not and can not know what thoughts and  memories they stirred, and at the same time, what hopes and fears of where their  lives, almost out of their control, would now go.

I knew they thought I would/could not understand them, but I understood so well that a smile touched my lips as I recalled  another song that tells us  “Love is wonderful, the second time around.”  And whoever penned those words knew exactly what they were talking about.

And while we’re on the subject, and not in Samoa or even in that hallway, and as if you don’t already know, I’ll tell you a secret.   If you’re lucky, the third time is nothing  to be  underestimated either.  And a fourth time?  You’re asking the wrong person, but each one, in its own way, is distinct, different, wonderful.

Oh me, and all this from a moment’s encounter in a out-of-the-way hallway.

by Sylvia Ursenbach Christensen

Last week, three women sat looking out a dining room window.  To a casual observer, they were just three older women, watching a tree service trim dead wood from a majestic weeping willow tree in the backyard.  The tree planted more than 60 years ago by one of the women assisted by her beloved mother-in-law, Rachel Bradford .  The tree that has witnessed much joy and heartache.  Nothing extraordinary about the scene, you might think. But that assumption would be wrong.

Three women, bound together eternally by their heritage.  All descendants of Carl and Nettie Ohlin.  Carl, a Swedish immigrant, came to Utah when nine years old.  His parents left Sweden to be with the Saints in Utah.  Nettie’s father left England with his mother.  They, too, came seeking Zion, the opportunity to be with the Saints, to worship their Creator as they believed.

Carl and Nettie were hard working people.  Not wealthy or educated in the eyes of the world, they didn’t have six years of formal education between them.  But they were rich in knowledge, and wisdom.  Carl was a carpenter, a craftsman with wood, who also tended a large garden and a few animals to provide food for his family.  When not working, he read, continuing his education to the day he died.  Nettie was a homemaker without equal.  Equally at home in the kitchen, garden, or at her sewing machine, she fed and clothed her family by the sweat of her brow.  She quietly served and enriched the lives of neighbors for miles around her rural home.  Her hands were never still, except in sleep.  Their goal was to see all their children complete high school.  They accomplished that goal.

Five children came to that home.  Three daughters and a son, followed nine years later by another daughter.  At that window sat Aunt Ethel, along with Bernice, my mother, and then me.  Together, we have 240+ years experience in life.  Each of us a wife and mother, with vastly different lives.

Aunt Ethel has been and continues to be a journalist.  For 35 years, she was Women’s Editor for a local newspaper.  She also wrote a column, From Out My Window.  That column, on occasion, included tales of her nieces and nephews.  Retired,  she wrote books of local history and musings about life.  Never afraid of adventure, she embraced technology with enthusiasm, and her  column was reborn, on her blog.  Along the way, she raised two sons, John and Bill, an adventure itself!   With acres of land “out back”,  the boys had adventures only imagined by boys today.  Ethel has lived much of this life alone, but never lonely.  “Brad”, my uncle Arch, passed away more than forty years ago. 

Bernice, my Mom, the woman who gave me life, hasn’t worked outside her home since Dad returned from Europe a year after WW 2  ended. But she has worked.  Seven children came to her home.  Like her ancestors before, she worked to feed and clothe her children, and her time outside the home always included service to God. For many years, she served children in classrooms, schools, district, and state PTA positions.  She has a large posterity, who honor her as mother, grandmother, and great grandmother.

With this heritage, I grew from infancy to adulthood.  Like my mother, I have seven children.  Like my mother and aunt, I have faced challenges.  I attended college, received a degree in medical microbiology, and worked for a time in that field.  When my children were in school, I returned to part-time work as a para-educator.  Children grown, I returned to college for a master’s degree and teach middle school science.  Like my mother, I, also, spend time in service to God.

So, what did we discuss, three women with different insights on the world?  We didn’t solve world problems, didn’t mention politics, or religion, but God?  Often.  And while the weather received only passing comments and Education reform wasn’t on the agenda. 

Aunt Ethel talked about Brad.  She described the land, owned by his family since a Land Grant in the 1850’s.  She told of the old barn that sat near the site of her home.  She described a near-death experience Brad had as a very young man.  She told about Gram, her “more than” mother-in-law, her only mother after the death of Nettie sixty years ago.  She shared her belief that our experiences are not coincidences, but in the hands of One who knows us and what we need.

Mom spoke of her childhood memories of Uncle Arch.  Her childhood memory of hearing that Arch was dying of pneumonia at the age of 17 .  He did too, but ‘returned’ to live another 35 years, and Ethel tells that he cherished and kept that wonderful experience.  Mom told of a telegram from Santa, tucked in her cedar chest today, sent to a little girl by her brother’s friend, and later, brother-in-law, Arch.  Of how he would enter their home in winter, saying, “It’s not fit outside for man or beast.”  (And Ethel, his wife, recalled the second part of that old saying, “Even the ducks are walking.”)

I recalled a childhood  day Aunt Ethel showed up in my room with a grocery sack filled with books from her personal library.  With perfect accuracy, she had chosen books I would enjoy.  As I read, the monotonous days of a long-term illness were brightened by the world of The Yearling, Freckles, The Girl of the Limberlost, and the enduring love of Random Harvest.  

Three women sat, looking out a dining room window, bound together eternally by the heart strings of love.  Watched over by The One, The Source of All,  who also knows all.  Such a day may not happen again.  But, for those hours, we shared the view “From Out Ethel’s Window”, and it was beautiful.

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Thank you, Sylvia Ursenbach Christensen, the first of the next generation of our family.  It was a day I had expected to be chaotic, what with both visitors and tree workers scheduled, but turned out to be a day I will cherish and remember.  My Second Son, Bill was there to be with the men, while I enjoyed ‘family’. And, I’m brave enough to know and to say that it just might be the last time the three of us will be together in this ‘room’ of Life.  Thank You God.

My tree looks wonderful.  Looks much taller and I will no longer shiver when high winds arrive, with fear of a big limb coming down on the yard and perhaps a roof. Wonderful.  All because of one man sky high in his small Control Tower, twisting around the sky and tree, and four men on my lawn gathering and taking to a truck the discards from above.  Terrific, but just as a reminder, you pay a goodly handful of ‘sheckels’ for that perfection.  Oh, me.

Or Is It A World of Immigrants . . .

Obama and JFK both used those words, but it’s an ancient phrase.  From time immemorial people have moved because of famine, war, and floods. The Bible is full of stories of such migrations and here at our home in the Americas, Indians came across the Bering Straits from Asia, some 12,000 (+or-) years ago.  

Today, it’s the Latinos and made worse because there are no oceans to cross, they simply walk or drive in, and though their labor is wanted, a good percentage don’t want jobs, just a market for Drugs.  Problems.  Big  problems.  Massive drug problems. And Mexican officials make no move to stop it.

I’ve known three ‘immigrant’ families well.  A friend of mine was a Musician, taught piano, and two highly educated immigrant families took their children to him for training.

One couple was Vietnamese.  Both highly educated, and for them it was either leave their country or be killed.   We had them to dinner one night and I asked what they’d do when peace came and in surprise, they said, “Why, go back home.”  Well, their side lost the war, and so they are now U.S. citizens.

Another pair who took a child to my friend for such training was Lebanese and were forced to leave a home that had been his family’s for generations.  It was (is?) sheltered amid the fabled Cedars, far back from the horror that was Beirut, but that didn’t matter.  The ‘other’ side won that war, too, and they became U.S. citizens but they sorrow to know  that strangers now claim their cherished home, its large rooms, old furniture and family treasures.

And the third one?  He was an American Indian, worked to make my yard livable, and, as I think about it now, his people had been here far longer than mine, and if any one was an interloper, it was me, not he.

His people had been here for 15,000 or so years and were old-timers when William Bradford, the great, great, great, great, great (you count them, I don’t care) grandparent of my sons stepped off the Mayflower as an immigrant.

My Indian’s story is also sad, but different. From his family’s lore, (older than the Plymouth Rock landing) had come the tale of deposits of gold in the southwestern mountains of the U.S.  Hearing those ancient directions since childhood, he slowly became restless and filled with a yearning to explore the truth or falsehood of the tales.

I now think the words he’d heard were true, too true, for he never returned when expected and people of that area know the horror stories that go  hand-in-glove with this kind of happening, and shy away from them.  But yes, when my friend  was finally found, they also found a bullet hole in his head.

Did he find. or even get too close to the mines?  No one will ever know. For after four, five months, the rain, sun, and animals had their way with his body, along with the ‘clean- up’ by whoever’s gun made the hole in his head, for there were no clothes found and animals don’t eat clothing or shoes, or the backpack he took with him. There truly were no clues. And no one wants  to wander into those mountains and desert to find out the ‘who and why’ of it all. Bullet holes in the head, I understand, are not unusual.

Immigrants, all of us, but it seems to me that the motive for ‘coming to America’ has changed.  Maybe most Latinos come for the same reason our ancestors did, a new life, and expected to be either welcomed or at least tolerated.

But the Drug Traffickers have ruined it for others. And, also, today, people everywhere are on the move, and not just to the U.S.  It’s now almost an endless flow of people, from one place to another, taking their pains, sorrows and losses with them and it just might  be they are forming the final answer. 

More and more it’s not a Nation of Immigrants, but with transportation and communication so speedy, and with war and famine so prevalent, we’re beginning to hear a new phrase,  “A World of Immigrants”.  Like it or not, wars and famine do that to people, and we’ve seen more than our share of both.

They read from a book, stereotyped for our age group . . .

I sat down in the Doctor’s office chair, without even a ‘Hello’ she smiled and said,  “I’ve enrolled you in a weekly class on Controlling Chronic Pain.”  And  went on to tell me where they were held, who was in charge  and what to expect from them.

I thought she had me mixed up with some other patient and shaking my head and told her that ‘No, that’s not for me.  I don’t have chronic pain.’  She went on as if I hadn’t even spoken.

But as she called me by my name I knew she had the right folder, and, as if reading from a book, went on with what was to be expected for one in my age group and I sat there as if I were an inanimate object, hearing her but wondering when she’d get around to asking exactly why I had called for an appointment.

She never did, and I knew then that she had studied at some medical School where their major primers were books on what to expect at various age groups.  She very nicely went down the list of ‘taking blood samples’; asking what medication I was taking, vitamins and such, and soon my designated 15 minutes were over and that was that.  Oh, yes, there were queries as to whether I ate and slept well, and then that was that.

The first thing I did upon getting home was to call and cancel the Chronic Pain Clinic classes, and making a note to not let anyone assign me to that medic for my next appointment.  They (whoever ‘they’ are) have what’s wrong with us all figured out and I, somehow, just don’t fit in with their book for my age. 

When you reach your Fifties there must be a well-read book on what illnesses and problems that age group will have.  Then there is a book for the Sixties (your age, not the date) and they’ve studied well the problems that age group will have.  Oh, and here is where Living Wills are insisted upon.  They’ve got it all down pat and a copy of such books are in every medic’s desk.

It continues right along in the Seventies, Eighties and Nineties, only by then the books tell about Care Centers, and ask how to contact your children to tell them what you need. They take it for granted that you are no longer capable of  hearing, answering or planning.  You don’t think so? Wait and see.

What’s funny, and I don’t mean ha–ha funny, is that all kinds of businesses read the same books.  At Fifty my mail changed and I began to get letters and pamphlets from well known clinics sent by high-powered medical universities, insurance companies, and investment firms, all eager to tell me about my own body and how marvelously they can handle my financial business.

When you reach each next decade ‘someone’ re-sets the switch and a new set of instructions and sale’s pitches come to  your mail box. This time they’re from the same schools or companies, but, the content changes into more dire diseases and horrors.  Now they begin hinting at care centers (Oh, so much fun), cemeteries, trusts and wills, and all such ilk and when you reach your Seventies, Eighties, and Egad, your Nineties???  ‘They’ become more blatant and you know that, with ‘them’, you are a naught but a statistic.  Out of the game. So why bother.  Period.

There are no (at least I’ve never found one) books on the people in those growing decades, and the numbers are growing by leaps and bounds, who are healthy, sane, capable and all the rest of the stuff we’ve been doing during the early part of our lives.

Someone, and of all groups, you’d think it would be the medical world, would be the first to realize that our parents, at 45 and 50 were medically where we are at 80.  We’re healthy and not to be medically treated by some book that without even a question, just knows  that you should be enrolled in a Chronic Pain Clinic. They are using statistics from half a century ago and glued them upon us.  And unless things change, that means you, and you, and you, too.