LIFE STORIES
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In My Merry Automobile
By Gail McCoy
November 27, 2008
Automobiles were built before I came into the world, but I did not experience riding in one until 1922. Before that time I was content plodding along in the big, old, farm wagon behind our team of horses, Prince and Rusty. Rusty was a glossy , brown horse suitable for a gentleman to ride, but Prince was a stolid, old ,grey horse who would let kids climb all over him. He was my giant pet. I was just seven years old and I had to scramble up into the manger and stand in the hay to pet his neck and forehead. His big, black eyes returned my affection.
The last time I remember riding behind the team, we went to Grandma Hazleton's, a mid-wife, to bring home my mother and my new baby brother Garner. My father hitched the horses to the big sled, put Minnesota Woolen blankets over the top like a covered wagon, and made a bed for my mother and the new baby. Mothers were expected to stay in bed for two weeks in those days. It was cozy warm in there and I was allowed to lie beside them.
Soon after that my life changed. Papa drove up to our log house in an automobile. We were going to California where the sun shines all the time and golden poppies grow everywhere. The homestead, cow, and horses were all sold.
That car became my home for the year it took to travel to California. We stopped for a month or two several times for my father to go to work on the railroad when we ran short of money.
The car, named after the producer R. C. Hupmobile, seated seven people in addition to a fancy little bed for the baby that fit between my mother and father in front. Garner was just three months old. Two 'jump seats' were attached to the back of the front seats. lt had a long 'running board' on both sides. No doubt it was a used car. I think they only made them with seven seats around 1917. Black canvas curtains with izing glass windows could be snapped on when it rained. It was breezy, but we only went about twenty-five miles an hour or less. It had to be cranked strenuously and coughed, sputtered and died a few times before it started.
Papa bought a trailer that would open out to a tent with two double beds on each side. Pure luxury! It only lasted about two days. With five kids, a dog ,and all our worldly goods loaded on it was too much for four cylinders. Pop sold the trailer cheap and bed rolls were tied to the running boards.
A tire would go flat about every fifty miles, and had to be taken apart and the inner tube patched. Then my father and older brothers took turns pumping it up.
Sometimes we would watch Model T Fords backing up a hill. For some reason their gas feed did not work going forward uphill.
Waiting for Papa to fix the car was part of our life. Luckily he was inventive mechanically. Sitting around watching him repair the car with his feet sticking out from underneath and hearing a few unprintable words to express his distress was a common experience. While we waited, my brothers would tease my sister and she would say she was going to leave us forever and go tramping down the road. My brother Henry always went after her. Once they drove off without me. I was probably off in a corn field about my own business. I was a quiet kid and was not missed for quite a while. I thought they were teasing me and just sat confidently down to wait. Finally they came roaring back all worried.
We stayed in camp grounds or "Auto Courts" at night. They were like motels only more rustic and had kitchens. Sometimes my mother made hot rolls and I would go around camp and sell them. They were a treat for campers and were sold quickly. It was a good life for me.There have been many automobiles in my lifetime, but that old R. C. Hupmobile is the one I remember most.
NOTE: Our beloved Gail passed on this week. We will miss this great lady. The following, by Mary Oliver, is in memory of our dear friend.
To live in this world
you must learn to do three things:
To love what is mortal
To hold it against your bones knowing
your very life depends on it
And when the time comes to let it go
To let it go
Survivor
by Diane Morgan
November 27, 2008
"I'm ... a.... .cancer patient."
It was the first time I had ever uttered those words and in a public setting it was especially
difficult. I'm sure I was shaking and barely audible.It was around 11 a.m. on January 2, 2007 and the scene was a courtroom at the Miami-Dade Justice Building in downtown Miami where I had been called to jury duty. The judge had asked if anyone felt they could not return for a trial that would begin that afternoon and probably extend to the next day. Exhausted by a day that required me to get up at 5 a.m., I knew I couldn't continue. I raised my hand and stated my reason . The fact that I was wearing a pink bandana on my head probably helped my cause.
"WHAT are you doing here?" the judge asked in disbelief, indicating that I should have been excused for medical reasons. I explained that I had recently completed treatment at the University of Miami's nearby Sylvester Cancer Center and in an effort to fully enjoy the holiday season had convinced my doctors to hold off follow-up visits until January. Unless, of course, I had an emergency. I did not consider a jury duty summons to be in that category.
The judge commended me for showing up and quickly added "You are excused. Now go home and get some rest." I was a bit unsteady and the bailiff came over and .escorted me to the elevator. I assured him I could make it the rest of the way on my own. As I walked out I felt a sense of relief. .It is hard to believe but even after a year of treatment I was still in denial. The whole thing had been so bizarre that most of the time I found myself thinking I was in the middle of a very long, very bad nightmare and that any minute I would wake up and find myself healthy again. But in that courtroom I couldn't lie anymore. I came clean. That green and white cancer patient ID card in my wallet was indeed mine. Afterwards I sat at the bus stop and reflected on what was unquestionably the most extraordinary year of my life.
It had all started back in the summer of 2005 when infant Hurricane Katrina passed over my apartment building in Sunny Isles Beach en route to New Orleans. I slipped and fell while carrying a load of soaked towels from my windows to the bathtub. I don't remember the details. Such things are irrelevant when all hell is breaking loose around you. It appears I hit my right side on the bathroom doorknob as I went down. That night my side started to ache and I felt a bump below my armpit.. I knew it should be checked but that was a summer of endless hurricanes and getting to a doctor was tough enough. Scheduling a mammogram was even more difficult because of the backlog that had built up during the storms.
It was November before I finally got an appointment and I was initially told I probably had a "breast bruise" but that a biopsy should be done as "a precaution.". Thus, I was not prepared for what followed.
Aside from being informed that you've lost a loved one, you can't hear words much worse than "You have cancer." They sucked the breath right out of me. I nearly hit the floor. My first thought was - this has to be a mistake. I only have a bruise from a fall. But it wasn't. I later learned I had inflammatory breast cancer, which is rare - and aggressive. The breast gets red and swollen. There is no pea-sized lump. It is often misdiagnosed.
Fortunately my primary care doctor sent me to UM/Sylvester where they immediately recognized my problem and put me on the fast track for treatment. I was told I needed chemotherapy first in order to shrink the cancer as much as possible prior to surgery. I was unhappy about that because I just wanted the evil invader out of me as quickly as possible. Looking back, I see myself as fortunate because unlike most women who get the dreaded diagnosis, I didn't agonize over my options. I never really had any. I was simply told - this is what we have to do. And my trust was rewarded.
The potent chemo caused the cancer to shrink like the Wicked Witch of the West. Since my problem was a very visible one I could easily see the difference myself. My oncologist found it "exciting" but that's not the word I would have used as I found myself enduring more and more side effects of medications. Originally scheduled for eight sessions, my chemo was stopped at seven because the results were so good and I was becoming increasingly anemic despite numerous incredibly expensive Neulasta injections. But I also know I probably would not have survived without them.
In mid-July 2006 I had a modified radical mastectomy. When I saw my surgeon ten days later he practically danced into the room . With a huge grin he handed me a pathology report which indicated there was no trace of cancer in any of the breast tissue or 19 lymph nodes that were removed. The chemo destroyed all of it. My oncologist was equally joyful. Clearly the results were better than anticipated. While having that perfect pathology report made me feel good, it was just words and numbers on a piece of paper. What helped me the most was having those genuinely HAPPY doctors.
I started radiation right after Labor Day and again I got incredibly lucky. I completed 33 treatments over seven weeks without any delays - right at the height of hurricane season. That would not have been possible the two previous years.
Losing a breast never bothered me that much. It wasn't a vital organ. At my age I realize the body doesn't have to be pretty. It just has to be functional. What I feared most was losing the use of my right arm from the excessive swelling known as lymphedema. But improved surgical techniques and the loss of 30 Ibs. lessened the likelihood of that and I've had no problems. I can't play tennis or golf or be a topless dancer, but those were never in my plans anyway.
Six weeks after my court appearance my implanted chemo port was removed and doctors gave me the green light to return to Santa Rosa. I couldn't wait to start packing.
I tell myself that I left cancer behind in Miami but I know that's a fairy tale. It will always be stalking me and all I can really do is to stay at least one step ahead of it. I realize I can't let anxiety overwhelm me like it did at the beginning of my ordeal.
One of our favorite family tales is that our grandfather's first fiancee met an unfortunate end when she was walking through a railroad yard and was so busy watching an approaching train, she got hit by one coming from the opposite direction.I'm thankful I'm not related to THAT woman.
This story was written in recognition of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.10/16/08
The March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in 1963:
A Personal Experience and Reflection
By Earl Cruser
November 27, 2008
As Barack Obama delivered his acceptance speech after becoming the first African-American candidate for President from a major party, a graphic flashed from time to time beneath his image on the TV screen informing viewers that: “ Today, August 26, marks the 45th Anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous ‘I have a dream’ speech during the 1963 March on Washington.”
I was there that day among the throng of a quarter million Americans, black and white, from all across our Nation to join in a peaceful demonstration in the Capital Mall. There we listened and cheered as Dr. King and other Black leaders spoke from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial calling for an end to the ongoing injustices and discrimination that amounted to little less than an extension of slavery a hundred years after Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation.
At that time I was the Pastor of a Presbyterian Church on the North Side of Chicago and had earned my activist credentials by being jailed in Albany, Georgia exactly one year earlier as part of a peaceful “freedom ride” to help end the deeply entrenched and officially sanctioned segregation of virtually all public facilities in that city in the Deep South. It was there that I met Dr. King, Ralph Abernathy and Andrew Young and became committed to doing what I could to help our country achieve its still unfilled promise of “liberty and justice for all.”
I was only a minor player in the Civil Rights Movement, and certainly no hero. My dedication was chilled by the need to keep my job, to support my family of a wife and three young children and to build a professional career. My concern for the fight for equality under the law was more intellectual than personal--a concern for principles rather than a struggle for existence as it was for the African-Americans with whom I marched. After all, I did not suffer from “the heat of oppression,” nor were my children “judged by the color of their skin,” as Dr. King so eloquently intoned that day. had enjoyed without question all the privileges of education, opportunity and support that my white, middle-class status bestowed on me. I had not played the game of life on a level playing field, but rather on a smooth, wide downhill highway with a strong wind at my back. Was I willing to risk my easy life by fighting for an unpopular cause, the true unpopularity of which one can only appreciate by having lived in those times? Only to a point, I sadly admit. Nonetheless, I am glad to be able to say that I was on the right side although not consistently in the risky frontline of the battle. After all, it is extremely dangerous to be on the cutting edge of revolution--now as then--but positive social change has its price and may demand, as in the Case of Dr. King, the ultimate sacrifice.
So, as a branded though cautious crusader, it was a foregone conclusion that when the call came from the National Council of Churches in the person of Eugene Carson Blake, the CEO of the Presbyterian denomination to which I belonged, I would join the March on Washington. From populous Chicago a chartered train of a dozen coaches carrying hundreds of participants made its way on the long ride to Washington D.C. that hot August day.
This was not a march of “do-gooder” young, liberal whites on behalf of “our less fortunate brothers and sisters.” No, it was an authentic grass-roots movement of people who had lived with and suffered from America’s virulent and persistent racism far too much for far too long. At least eighty percent of the participants were black men and women and most of them were active church members and pastors from the black churches that were the cradle of the Movement. At this stage of the civil rights struggle, as in Albany, Georgia a year earlier, most African-Americans welcomed white participation, even though they knew that the experience gap between us was a huge one.
By 1963 the once proud American passenger train service had deteriorated due to Interstate Highways, airlines and insufficient profits for the railroads. Our train to Washington was made up of ancient day coaches in disrepair and lacking adequate air conditioning. I remember a hot, sweaty, sleepless overnight trip. I also remember singing and good fellowship, camaraderie, sharing food and warm feelings of “black and white together--we shall overcome.” We believed we were doing something that would make a difference.
At the railroad station we boarded buses for the Mall area and helped grow the crowd that had been less than a hundred at 10 A.M. to as many as 300,000 by noon. As the numbers swelled and our bodies sweltered, many taking advantage of the Reflecting Pool to cool hot, tired feet, I chanced to meet some fellow Presbyterian ministers who had arrived separately and who were staying in a hotel for a few days on official church business. One of them later became the President of the Chicago’s McCormick Theological Seminary from which I had graduated, and another an executive of the Ford Foundation--they knew how to handle an expense account. They invited me to join them in their hotel room, freshen up, and watch the remainder of the proceedings on television in air-conditioned comfort. Civil rights leaders, Dr. King particularly, were learning the power of mass media, and the media responded by providing complete coverage of the event, bringing it into countless homes, and adding to the March’s effectiveness.
I pause in this narrative, Dear Reader, to ask what you would have done in such circumstances. I confess that I felt like one of Tom Paine’s “sunshine patriots” who disappear when the the going gets tough, as I gratefully accepted their invitation. Never have I enjoyed a shower and shave more, and I doubt that my absence lessened the impact of the demonstration.
Yes, it was there in a cool haven from the oppressive heat of Washington D.C. in August that I heard and saw Dr. King’s prophetic speech, and was thrilled by his poetic cadences and powerful metaphors. “I have a dream,” he said, and I like to think that he would be pleased with the positive changes in American race relations that have taken place since his assassination, as he would be appalled and enraged by our continuing addiction to war and violence as the only solutions to national and international problems.
The first call for the 1963 March came from A. Philip Randolph, the venerable founder and President of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, who had conceived such a strategy 23 years earlier during the administration of Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1941. Then the issue was racial discrimination in the war industry. Imagine! Our nation was in the midst of an all-out, do-or-die war, the defense plants were begging for help, but many were refusing to hire black workers. It took only the threat of a demonstration in Washington to motivate FDR to issue an executive order that put an end to such nonsense.
By 1962 following a decade of demonstrations, sit-ins, freedom rides, voter registration campaigns, beatings, hosings and even martyrdoms, President John F. Kennedy introduced a Civil Rights Bill that would put an end to racial discrimination and so-called “separate-but-equal” public facilities and schools in the eyes of Federal Law. His bill was, however, stalled in Congress by Southern Democrats and its passage was very much in doubt. President Kennedy feared that the planned March would harden opposition to civil rights legislation, and requested the black leaders who met with him on June 22, to call it off. The Big Six Black leaders, as they became to be known, Roy Wilkins (NAACP), Whitney Young, Jr. (Urban League), Dr. King, James Farmer (CORE), John Lewis (SNCC) and Randolph, advised the President that black patience was wearing thin, and that although they favored non-violent tactics, there were more militant groups who might employ more drastic measures. The more moderate Big Six continued to confer, and in July decided to proceed with the March. By this time they had received support from major Catholic, Protestant and Jewish groups, as well as from Walter Reuther’s United Auto Workers Union. Due to the indefatigable organizational skills of Bayard Rustin the whole enterprise came off without a hitch. He had planned and supervised every facet of the complex undertaking from having a cadre of marshals to act as kind of platoon sergeants, of whom I was somehow selected as one, to a cleanup crew that left the Capital Mall spotless at the end of the day.
Clearly, the March on Washington of 1963 accomplished its purpose of advancing the cause of civil rights in America. In spite of increasing violence against blacks especially in Birmingham, Alabama, including the setting of a bomb at the Sixteenth St. Baptist Church that killed four little black girls, and the assassination of President Kennedy within three months, the Movement remained nonviolent and Lyndon Johnson was able to use his political skills to obtain the passage of the Civil Rights Bill the following year.
As I rush to finish this Chapter in the hope of meeting Geets’ deadline, it is November 5, 2008 and yesterday Barack Obama, the “unlikely candidate” as he called himself, was elected President of the United States of America because of his views, his intelligence and his demeanor and in spite of his multi-racial background. Right now I am still reeling from a host of emotions and can only say that none of us at the March on Washington 45 years ago could have imagined that we would witness this day. I am grateful to have played a bit part in one of the great dramas of world history.
Garden
By Kathy La Mar
November 6, 2008
My friend, Miquel, answered my call on his cell phone.
"Miguel, I have a geyser erupting from a split in the hose in the rose garden."
"The one we put in last year?"
"Yep, the drip system is not dripping. I am now watering a pile of rocks on the other side of the yard."
"Do you need help in turning off the system ?"
"No, thanks, I remembered how to do that. I can hand water until you can come and help me fix the split."
"No problem, Kathy, I'll come after work tomorrow."
Soon after driving up the mountain to where I live, Miguel patiently showed me how to cut the weak section out of the hose and place a collar tube to join the two ends. Then he looked up at the rose bushes. I knew what was coming.
"Kathy, those suckers are taking over your roses. You know they need to be cut out. "
Since we were both sitting on the ground with tubing all around us, I could not evade his eyes.
"Tomorrow, Miquel, manana."
He smiled into the ground and coached: "Before the sun melts you, you must be up and pruning."
I could not tell Miguel I really liked the suckers. They are lighter in color, looking like spring in the heat of summer. They rush to the top of the roses and reach as tall as my nose. I know they never have blossoms. I keep thinking there must be a purpose for these so called useless things. I thought of tonsils and appendixes. Maybe I could find an expert who could tell me why we have suckers.
I could never tell Miquel that I have even a worse time in winter when I force myself to cut the roses back to stubs looking like dead fingers. The first time I trimmed the roses for winter, I did not cut them down enough for Miquel's satisfaction. He told me I had to do it again. Ohhh, I had to cut those shiny, glistening with health leaves off. It took me hours and I am embarrassed to say I had a few tears watering my cheeks. These were my new babies in the garden, and already I was taking away some of their beauty.
Topping the roses is another story; it is a joy for me. Miquel had carefully showed me how to trim the dead blossoms last summer. So I redirected his comments about sucker negligence. I asked him to look at my trims. He showed me how my pruning shears were not quite sharp enough in a few cuts, or how I had forgotten to turn the thinner blade next to the heart of the plant when I made my cut.
I had done a better job with the peonies. There is a sensual art to finding the glimpse of a blossom about to be. The delicately thin stems of these fragrant beauties make finding the nodes for a burst of growth easy, even for a new gardener like me. The tougher roses stand there and say. "Well, give it a try and come back in a few weeks to check me out. "
Miguel and I have a plan for my wild woman rose. She puts forth these simple bursts of beauty. She is a climbing rose with nowhere to go. Miquel is going to build a trellis across the entry into the rose garden for her to drape her magenta blossoms. This means, when I pull out wild woman, I will have more space for snapdragons to claim their place in the sun and to join my childhood memories.
We also realized that we are going to have to replace all the hoses we put in last year. The tubing had sat for too long in my garage before we put it in the garden. We smiled at each other and Miquel said "manana"
After working for hours into the evening sun, I looked into Miguel's deep brown eyes, and sighed, "Miguel, I would be so proud to have you for my son."
His eyes met mine and smiled, "So would I."