Comic Books

            I learned to read for one major purpose:  my family stopped reading the Sunday “funny papers” to me when I began first grade, saying now I could read them for myself.  So necessity forced me into a rapid transition from story listener to reader and eventually story teller.  My genre of choice for those early years was the comic book.  My father detested them, and forbade my reading them at first.  At some point, however, I managed to acquire one that had some sort of story plot like a soap opera.  I was in second grade by then and read that one comic book over and over until I could recite the dialogues from memory.  Mother tsk-tsked but didn’t take it away from me. 

Comics were my entrée into the world of literature, and over the next few years my literary acquisitions included not only funnybooks as I called them, but also the Nancy Drew series and eventually the classics of that age.  I devoured the books my brothers had collected, such as those featuring Robinson Crusoe, the Three Musketeers, and all the adventure stories that boys loved in that time.  By the time I was 12, I was reading Dickens and Shakespeare and other offerings in that vein, and beginning to do my own writing of stories as well.  But it was the comic books that made the difference and led me into the world of story.

In my comic book stage,  I read every one I could afford – they were ten cents apiece.  It was during the Second World War while my father was in Hawaii and we were in Winston-Salem, and I was out from under his rule of no comics.  My favorites were those about Superman, Captain Marvel, Wonder Woman, Batman, and other such adventurers who would regularly rescue the world from destruction.  Because this was during war time, those brave and daring characters would defeat our enemies over and over again.  But I also liked the ones with Archie and Nancy and Sluggo and Fritzi Ritz.  One moment stands out in my memory having to do with those latter characters.

My mother had relatives in Virginia whom she enjoyed visiting, taking me along.  Because she did not drive, we always rode the bus.  On one particular journey, when I was about 9, I brought my newest copy featuring Nancy and Fritzi Ritz and their friend Sluggo.  It would give me something to read while we traveled.  The only problem was that I was susceptible to motion sickness, whether in cars or buses.  As I was reading during that bus ride, nausea hit without warning and I lost my most recent meal.  Mother was one who could react quickly to any situation, and began ripping pages out of my comic book, so that Sluggo and the others came to the rescue and cleaned everything up.  But I was dismayed.  She had torn out pages I had not yet read.  After my wails about that turn of events, my mother relented, and at the next stop I was allowed to buy a replacement comic book.  It may not have been the same as what I had been reading, but I was placated, and the remainder of the short bus trip into Virginia was uneventful.

Today, there remains the vestige of pleasure in reading the comics.  I read my favorites and then quickly skim through even the ones that don’t appeal to my interests.  There is that added factor of the visual which defines the story, and whether long-running adventures or situations that remain static, both benefit from the skill of the cartoonist.  I’m afraid the attraction to comic books did not continue unto the third and fourth generations, as our children and grandchildren have never been big fans of the comics.  They have no knowledge of the wealth of stories and adventures they have missed.  Maybe the generation to come will rediscover the comics and redeem us all through their joys in funny pictures and stories.

GUNS

My father loved to hunt.  He loved to fish.  He owned guns.  He was a member of the NRA back in the day.  There’s one other point to be aware of with all his interest in and love for guns: he was extremely cautious about letting others in the family use guns.  My mother never touched one so far as I know.  My two brothers, much older than I, may have had BB guns at some time but nothing more lethal.  In my teens, my father let me use an air pump rifle in the basement where he had a target set up, showing me in great detail (too much, I thought at the time) how to handle that air rifle.  Never again did I ever touch it, nor did I want to.

My father grew up on a farm and guns were a necessary part of his family’s existence, to keep down rodents, snakes, and other predators.  His encounter with weaponry during World War I in Chateau-Thierry, France, when shrapnel burst through the make-shift hospital in an old school building and severely wounded him, his life changed.  He had been a battle surgeon and planned to continue his practice of surgery once the war ended.  His wounds forced him to change his specialty to pathology, and he suffered the rest of his life from the effects of his wounds.  He knew the deadly nature of weapons and armaments.

When I was a child during WWII, while my father spent the war in Hawaii after the rest of our family returned to the States, I did manage to have toy pistols.  In those days, however, all the kids could buy were toy guns that somehow used inch-wide rolls of paper as ammunition, and made a loud pop.  No cap pistols available. I’m not sure about BB guns.  I guess they were all banned for the duration, in order to save explosives for the war effort.  I probably still have that little gun in a trunk somewhere.

When my brothers and I were still children, my father laid down strict rules pertaining to guns and their usage.  We were forbidden even to point a finger at someone and go “ka-pow!”  His respect for guns and their potential led him to keep us from any exposure to guns.  I do recall once in Honolulu when I was eight, aiming the paper boy’s BB gun at my skate key that he held out for me on its string.  Unfortunately, my aim was good.  The BB hit the skate key and ricocheted right into his ribs.  His surprised yelp! put an end to that adventure.  Poor Barney was always getting injured by me.  He was twice my age but vulnerable.  Once I demonstrated how I could do a football tackle and he came down so that his back hit the lawn spigot sticking up from the ground.  For some reason Barney didn’t linger on his route when he came by our house after that.

In more recent years, family tragedy has underscored our lack of interest in guns or in hunting.  A nephew was killed accidentally with a rifle that wasn’t supposed to have any bullets in the chamber.  Our family love for animals has contributed to our reluctance to use any kind of weapon as well, and no one among us has an interest in hunting.  One son loves to fish, but that is the extent of intentional family brutality to living things, although I show no mercy to mosquitoes and ticks.

Whenever I hear the terrible news of shooting run amok at crowds or even small groups, it strikes a part of me that is already wounded by sorrow. The murders of those gathered in some area, whether school children, government leaders, customers in a restaurant or store, military centers, high schools and universities, or now those in a movie theater, cry out for solace, where none exists.   The terrible losses cannot be remedied by vengeance nor can the dead return to their lives.  One element in all instances is present: that of weapons.  Often multiple weapons.  These tragedies are not accidents.  They have nothing to do with hunting or other sports.  They are what they seem to be: murder, the worst offense, and some would say the least forgivable.

Whether it is fruitless to limit gun purchases to those with licenses, whether it is helpful to provide instructions on gun use, or whether certain weapons should be banned for private use are possible solutions along the way to a civil society.  Our nation is labeled as one that ranks with the most violent in the world, with the greatest number of deaths by weapons other than in wartime.  I don’t know what can be done to reverse statistics or reverse the inhumanity of individuals.  All I can recognize is the need for new ways of societal behaviors that alter our prejudices and hatreds, our demeaning of others, and begin at that point.  I have nothing further to offer except my tears and my prayers for those lives taken because of gun violence.

My Next Collection

My collection of poems about trees and the seasons will soon be available.  As a preview of what is to come, I include a few sections from TREE:

If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.

-- Hal Borland 

Prologue

            There is no better time to study trees than now.  Trees live in the moment, drawing upon the earth for sustenance, from the air, from the sun, from the rain.  I have always loved trees.  As a child, I sized up every tree in sight on the basis of whether it was a good “climbing tree” or not.  When we lived in Honolulu, I loved to play on and under those wonderful Banyan trees.  They constituted a playground in themselves, touched by mystery and nurture.

            My life has always sought the solace of trees:  a hideaway where I could read without interference, a place for a swing, the shade from a Southern summer sun, the scattering of fruits, pecans, walnuts and chestnuts out of their abundance, the statuesque quality in a landscape of snow.  When one must be cut down in the interest of commerce and street building, I weep.  When others fall after buffering by storms, I grieve.  When a forest is felled for its lumber and commercial value, I am enraged.  Trees belong to this planet as gifts to honor and care for, to increase our connections to the world around us.  I give thanks daily for the trees I have met, known intimately, played under and in, blessed for their shelter of birds and squirrels and cicadas.  This collection is my thanksgiving to the trees of this world.

Back Yard Music

           

                        Listen to the trees sing!

                        Reluctant to offer words to air,

                        they share songs of earth

                        and wind, in diminuendos

                        of whisper, crescendos of wind

                        playing harps on high branches.

                        Crows, raccoons, robins

                        gather acorns and twigs, tickets

                        to this concert, scaling barked aisles.

                        Sight now transformed by light,       

                        this wild stage an orchestra

                        of brilliant cadenzas – music modulated

                        in treble and bass, their autumnal tones

                        enough to forestall the chill, dark days .           

The collection is through lulu.com and will be available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and from me.

Shared Memories

A poem in a recent issue of Christian Century evoked a profound sense of my own losses of friends over the years: classmates, neighbors, those in organizations and other groups where our memories of events were shared moments.  Sydney Lea’s “The pastor” describes a sermon during which the pastor remarks that his grade school friend has now lost his memory, and he notes, “I’m left alone with the things we knew together.”  The impact of such a loss hit me.  How many of my friends from the past have gone, leaving me as the sole bearer of our joint memories?

I think of friends I’ve had who knew almost as much about me and I did of myself.  They are now gone, or our contact has been broken through geographical separations or life experiences. In a sense, whether those friends are alive or dead now, I am the bearer of what we knew together.  A feeling of loneliness wells up as my memories crowd in upon me.  I alone remember, I alone can tell the stories now of other times.  There are, of course, new stories and new friends, but these don’t replace what once was part of my life. 

As a writer, I am able to conjure up stories of lives for those who never existed in real time.  I can describe through my poems emotions and events that are constructs for the truths of my past.

These stories and poems satisfy to some extent the need to recall what perhaps never happened, or what now is more clearly what really happened.  As woman and mother and wife, I can recall those experienced relationships seen from this distance of time in a clearer light than during the immediacies of life.  All comes down to human memories, human needs and wants and desires, and coping with unfulfilled hopes.  I realize also that what has never happened can be as painful to reflect upon as those memories of what has formed me into this present self.  Does it matter finally, what memories remain or how accurate they are?  I don’t know.  It may be that memory itself, shared or not, is the key to one’s life, and not necessarily the history in its own truth.  All I know is that I continue to create memories and continue to tell the stories.

Less than Meets the Eye

I am a fraud.  Yep.  I put up a good front: writing letters to the paper supportive of good causes, writing books, poems, and other stuff.  But when it comes to being present at events needing supporters, where am I?   When it comes to volunteering at places to help the homeless and the hungry, where am I?  I talk a good line, but I don’t act on my words.

The state motto for North Carolina is Esse quam videri, which translated means “To be rather than to seem.”  In other words, put your action where your words are, girl.  And I must confess, I “seem” more than “be.”  Thus I fail to live up to our state standards.   For example, I am an animal lover, as seen by my forthcoming book on rescues and comments on Face Book and Twitter.  But my body does not show up to volunteer at the animal shelter or one of the rescue group events.  So it’s all a sham, and I am acknowledging my lack of follow-up to my words.  I might attend a Planned Parenthood event, or a poetry reading, or an open mic where I read my own stuff, but I go when it is convenient to go.  Yeah, I have feelings of guilt, but even so I end up sitting at a computer, or I take a nap, or I read a book . . . in the comfort of my own home.  During the Occupy Movement’s big debut, did I show up down town to join in the protests?  When others gathered in Raleigh for some important cause about health or poverty or injustice, was I among the throngs?  I think you have guessed the answers to those questions.

The legitimate excuse for me, of course, could be my age.  I’m no longer the young, eager advocate for everything.  I’m now the old advocate who sits home and writes blogs about justice, or maybe peace, or kindness, or whatever seems to be the issue at the time.  But, you may argue, words are important.  What if the Declaration of Independence had not been written?  What if the Barmen Confession had not been written?  What if Plato’s Republic had not been written?  What would we have studied in our philosophy, theology and civics classes?  What if ideas came about and were professed publicly solely as speeches where words rode the air currents and then disappeared, victims of their impermanence?  Would the world be different from what it is today without the presence of witnesses who dared to be counted despite the dangers? Yes, there have been documents that were powerful enough to change governments and other human beings, but I was not their author.   I think my defense through arguments such as these would be specious.  So here I am, content to avoid actual activity, rolling around in words as a substitute.  But there you have it.  I may seem more than be, but here I am.  In the profound words of that great adventurer Popeye, “I yam what I yam.”  And so I end this brief shower of words.

Two Memory Observances

(I am breaking my own resolve and interposing a blog about this present moment.  More flash fiction stories will show up later.) 

This year we have back to back observances which have been acknowledged yesterday and today, both rooted in memory.  Both are related to the past but look to the future with hope.  One is based on the experience of international conflict and the violence of war, the other follows a different sort of violence to announce new life and the welcoming of a new age.  The one observed yesterday is related to two faiths rooted in the same tradition, Jewish and Christian, and is called Pentecost.  The other is a remembrance of the end of a war nearly a century ago that has continually emerged again and again without any signs of ending, Memorial Day.  All the wars of this nation have now merged into that one day of remembrance, honoring those who served in the military, multitudes of whom died in those conflicts.

Pentecost in the Jewish tradition marks 50 days after Passover; in the Christian tradition it is celebrated 50 days following Easter.  This year they happen to occur at the same time with our Memorial Day, two days in tandem.  Such an opportunity heightens the impact of both observances. 

In regard to Pentecost as a faith event, for Christians it marks the moment that the Holy Spirit descends upon the faithful believers, something that Jesus is described as promising his followers prior to his death.  The day becomes a celebration often referred to as the “birthday” of the Church.  Just how well we continue to observe that tradition depends on a variety of interpretations, from extreme religious beliefs to a brief nod by others not deeply involved in church life.  However it is observed, the inherent promise of new beginnings, new life, and hope for a future lived out in a discipleship that follows the call of the Christ to serve the “least among us”  invites hope for a future of peace, justice, and integrity of life.  The details are varied, depending on the particular faith tradition.

As for Memorial Day, it is a time when those in this country remember the dead, whose lives were cut short by war.  These are ones who have not bodily risen from the tomb, as Christians believe about Jesus, but their lives are memorialized in ways that honor the nation they have served.  The meaning of this day has become broader now to include all those, the living as well as the dead, who serve or who have served.  With the observances comes the hope that a day will arrive when war is never considered as an option.  It will be a time when peace between nations is practiced and enemies are not killed but become friends.  Understanding the other will be the norm.  The time is not yet, as we well know, and it will not come in the lifetime of anyone now alive, but it remains a hope for the generations who will inhabit this tiny planet in this vast cosmic arena, in ways we cannot imagine as yet.

As for my family, my father was nearly killed by wounds in France during World War I.  He was a battle surgeon, but after losing parts of several fingers was not able to follow that path, and eventually became a pathologist, but served in the Army during World War II and the Korean War, until retirement.  He then continued in a civilian hospital here in North Carolina.  Both of my brothers served during World War II, one in the Navy and the other in the Army.  My husband Charlie then gave four years of service in the Air Force when we were first married.  It is because I have witnessed the strains of war and of serving in the military that I am a strong advocate for peace.  It is also because of the kinds of ministries I have participated in that I am a strong advocate for justice.  The two seem to go together.  Somehow it is like the coming together of two annual observances, Pentecost and Memorial Day.

Turning the Corner

Just about dusk.  Headed home from the grocery store.  Considering too many things and listening to All Things Considered on the car radio.  All of a sudden, as I turn our corner a car races around me, doesn’t get the car straightened out and wham!  Right into the sign to our sub-division.  Big cement square post crashes.  It was too large to get my arms around if I had tried, but then, why would I want to?  The crash can be heard all over the neighborhood, but nobody bothers to investigate the noise.

The driver is gone.  But soon he’s back with a tow truck and the wrecked car is gone.  All that remains to show what happened is the crumbled post, and the big sign leaning against a tree.  The other post still stands, supporting nothing but air.  “Forest Edge,” the sign says, an address which seems pointless now that the streets are paved and houses sit on the many lots along the way.  I go home.

Next morning I see a police car at the scene.  An officer is writing in a book.  Another person, likely a detective, stands beside her, in civilian clothes, then walks the tire lines in the pavement.  And back again. What’s he trying to figure, I wonder, as he traces the pattern several times.  I  stop my car to watch this crime scene.  It’s better than half the plots on TV, at least during summer re-runs.

The plainclothesman talks with the police officer.  I watch her reaction: concentrated listening and then she nods her head in understanding.  The research is over.  They’ve come to some sort of conclusion about who did it, the reason, and how to resolve the situation.  I don’t know what decisions they made because they spoke quietly, eyeing me every now and then as I tried to eavesdrop.  Then the officer got in her police car and the detective heads for his car.  I overhear his parting comment:  “Yep.  I’ve think we’ve turned the corner on this one.”