3 June 2017 Offloading

Offloading

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From innumerable scenes in childhood and youth, why do certain ones get crystalized in memory? Trauma? Certainly. A shift of understanding? Maybe. A moment of genuine connection with a parent? A spiritual experience? Likely.

memories can be goodFor me, particular scenes are intensely clear. Some are beautiful…like watching my dad peel an orange. His skilled hands worked the knife, while orange mist plumed in the sunlight. His kind presence surrounded me as we ate it together. I was only three. It is my earliest memory.

Some memories are hardOther memories left a pit in my stomach. There was the time our family picked up a kid named Buddy (not his real name) from a poor neighborhood in Cleveland. The program, called “Friendly Town,” involved volunteer families hosting underprivileged kids to give them new experiences for a week.

I was probably nine at the time, but I remember everything…Continue reading

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22 April 2017 The Sentences We Live By

The Sentences We Live By

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Without warning, the great white shark violently surfaced behind the boat with jaws wide open. Three men gasped at the sight. One man harpooned a barrel line into its back, but the giant fish easily dragged the container under and disappeared. The men commissioned to hunt it down stood breathless.

I made a vow during JAWSJaws was a 1975 thriller about a 25-foot, man-eating shark that terrorized a New England summer resort town. And yes, it pretty much wrecked ocean swimming for years.

In the very next scene, Quint the professional shark hunter, Brody the local police chief, and Hooper the marine biologist, swapped stories and got drunk below deck as night fell. They blew off steam, believing the danger had passed for the moment. However, we, the audience, knew the terrible shark was lurking. The deep bass music—da-dummm, da-dummm, da-dummm—gave it away.

How can they be so oblivious! Blood rushed to my face. A cold sweat broke out on my neck and shoulders. Come on…get a clue! The pulsating notes grew louder, the pace quickened. Oh no! No, no, NO! And all at once, the shark rammed the hull with tooth-rattling force. The guys didn’t see it coming.

Right then and there, I made an inner vow:Continue reading

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8 April 2017 The Price of Grumbling

The Price of Grumbling

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she resisted grumblingWhen I was young, my sister and I used to play “Anne Frank.” We created a trapdoor that led to the third level of our house on Kenwood Avenue. We’d creep down to the kitchen for food and supplies—Cheerios, raisins, water, Band-Aids, flashlights, books, paper and pencils—hauling it all up to our Secret Annex. When others could be heard in the house, we remained absolutely silent, quieting our dolls if they cried. We never touched the curtains of the two small windows up there. It was a rule, especially when any German sirens sounded.

Anne Frank was a young Jewish girl living with her family in Amsterdam when Nazis seized the Netherlands. Within two years the persecution of Jews escalated. Her family and four others went into hiding, living in a makeshift area of her father’s office building. The “Secret Annex” was only 75 square meters of space for eight people. Employees and friends provided food and information. There, they hid in silence, never going outside for two years.Continue reading

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