A perspective on peace and freedom

I posted this (partial) quote from John F. Kennedy on my facebook page yesterday:

"Peace and freedom walk together."

I lifted the quote from the wall calendar in my office.

And even as I posted it, I wondered what it means. Not what it meant to President Kennedy, but what it means to me.

Then last night, as I closed the book I was reading, "A Gentleman in Moscow," by Amor Towles, I had a revelation.

One can truly be the luckiest man in Russia, or on earth for that matter, but if he is not free, he will not have peace. 

What a gift I have had bestowed upon me. My birthright is freedom!

I can freely shout my opinions and beliefs, and yes, even things I know to be untrue, from the rooftops because I am an American. I am free. 

I read and watch and ponder the opinions and beliefs of my neighbors and friends and I don't judge those opinions because they are theirs. (They do send a pang through my heart, sometimes. Consider the upside-down flag that my friend Jeanne is using for her facebook profile picture. I do not like it, but I love Jeanne, and she is free to display our country's flag however she wants.)

If I have freedom, I can have peace. Even though there are horrific things going on in this world, I can be peaceful. I can walk in a women's march and fly my flag upside down. I can protest abortion and call the president of the United States unholy names. I can write facebook posts that tell others exactly how I feel and why they should feel that way, too. I can easily "end" a facebook "friendship" if someone else's freedom is interfering with my peace.

Count Alexander Rostov, from the aforementioned book, achieved peace in the end. But more importantly, he gave peace to someone he loved very much, at great emotional cost.

If you are an American, whether you were born here or are a naturalized citizen, you are free. Be free however you wish! Do what your mind and heart tell you! 

But, peace. Let me end as President Kennedy ended the speech in which he said the words, "Peace and freedom walk together."

"...We shall do our part to build a world of peace where the weak are safe and the strong are just. We are not helpless before that task or hopeless of its success. Confident and unafraid, we labor on -- not toward a strategy of annihilation but toward a strategy of peace."

(To read the entire speech, google "The Peace Speech" Commencement Address at American University, June 10, 1963.) President Kennedy was assassinated five months later.

1976 -- It was a very good year

People don't change. My hypothesis was proven last night at my 40th class reunion.

In some contexts, the "not changing" thing can be bad. But when you see a smile -- a very distinctive smile -- that you haven't seen in 40 years it's a wonderful thing. The personality behind that smile comes through and it's like no time at all has passed.

I know class reunions can be intimidating. You wonder if you'll know anybody. Or if anyone will remember you. It's scary. Maybe you've put on a few pounds (who hasn't?) or maybe your hairline is thinner or nonexistent. The wrinkles. The disappointments in life. They all take their toll.

But here are a hundred or so people who share not only a graduation year, but a history that very few others could really understand. Who else was 5 when John F. Kennedy was assassinated? Who else was 10 when Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were gunned down? Who else was a senior in high school when the Vietnam war ended?

My parents and their classmates went through The Great Depression together. My children and their classmates remember 9-11 through the context of the classroom.

I remember when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. My music teacher, Mr. Ward, who was 21 at the time, explained the situation to us. He was so visibly distraught that I understood how grave this event was for my country. It's my first memory of a day of sadness and hopelessness that touched the entire nation.

He also taught us the song, "Abraham, Martin and John," the tribute to the memory of four assassinated Americans who fought for social change: Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., John F. Kennedy and Robert F. Kennedy.

As a child of the 1960s, I'm glad it was teachers like Mr. Ward who taught us not only with his words, but with his emotions. 

And I'm glad it was my classmates from Center Cass School who lived through those times with me. We weren't all best of friends. We weren't always kind with our words or our actions. But we had a bond, and as I found out last night, it still holds.

My heart was really full last night. Yes, I had to read nametags and yes, I had to search my memory in some cases. But really, those gangly fifth graders and those sometimes rebellious and often funny high schoolers really are the same people they were.

All very beautiful in their own right, and all brave for facing the fear that is a high school reunion! Until next time, stay "Forever Young," everyone.  

A bestie from Downers Grove South! So glad I got to hang out with Kim Carlson Blackburn!

Sheena and I were friends even before elementary school!

William Ward and me at the reunion. He taught music and much more.

 
 

God gave me a mole

When I was a little girl of about 3, I noticed I had a small brown spot on the inside of my right palm at the base of my pointer finger. I asked my parents what that spot was...

... and they said, "That's how you can tell it's Amy."

They may have also told me it was called a "mole," or more likely a "beauty mark." But to me, it was my ID card.

After I started school, I always used my pencils down to the nubbins, so that the eraser would rub against my "Amy mole." 

That was quite some time ago, but my memory tells me I believed that somehow I had "erased" my mole over time. "How will anyone know it's Amy anymore?" I lamented one day when I noticed it was totally gone.

But of course by then I was old enough to know that was just a clever thing a parent told an inquisitive little girl. And that the absence of the mole didn't erase me.

Earlier this year, God gave me a mole. It was on the left side of my face near my eye. It grew annoyingly quickly, so I called for an appointment with a dermatologist to have it checked out.

I pointed to the offending mark on my face and the doctor said, "That's probably nothing, but we'll check it out."

Then she said, "But what's that dark mole on your arm?"

I explained it was a mole I had had all my life and that it had never changed color or size or shape.

"That's coming off today," she said. And, along with the bump on my face, off it came.

Several days later I received a call from the doctor. The face mole was not harmful. The arm mole was melanoma.

You can imagine the leap my stomach took into my chest. But, she said, it is "in situ," Stage 0. Best-case scenario.

So off to the surgeon I went to have a good chunk of skin removed from my arm. 

Several days later the call came that the margins were clear. No cancer.

Now I am left with a divot in my arm where my lifelong mole had been, and a new scar that I will try my best to minimize with creams and time and patience.

The mole is gone, but I am still Amy.

Thank you, God, for the spot on my face that caused me to go to the doctor.

I could be fighting a much different fight if it weren't for early detection.

And by the way, God, thanks for all the spots in my life -- all of those challenges that don't change who I am, but that remind me of who I am, moles and all.

Skipping stones in Door County in late June (before diagnosis)... Yes, I was wearing sunscreen!

I got this outfit at a cute shop in Door County.

Lunch in Little Sister Bay, Door County.

  

Searching for cool rocks in the cold water of Lake Michigan.

 

 

Does happy really equal pretty?

I have mentioned before on this blog that Audrey Hepburn was quoted as saying, "I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls." 

If this were a facebook post, some of my more dour friends might immediately take issue with it.

"Of course she was happy. She was beautiful."
"Of course she was happy. She was rich."
"She must have been a Democrat."
"She must have been a Republican."

"What about people who are born into horrific circumstances? Surely they can never be happy or pretty."

Oh! But they can!

I am reading a book titled "Born Survivors" by Wendy Holden. It's the story of three young women who gave birth in a concentration camp. I cannot imagine being born into more desolate, hopeless circumstances.

But the three babies lived -- and so did their mothers. And I met two of the "babies" (now 71 years old) when they appeared with the author and the sons of two of their liberators in my town.

These two people, a man and a woman, were two of the most beautiful people I had ever seen. 

At 3 weeks old, Hana was covered in boils when her saviors found her and took her from her mother in order to treat her. They then returned her to her mom, and she grew up and became a lovely, contributing member of society.

"Why are you not bitter?" an audience member asked her. This is what I was thinking: "How can you sit there and speak so calmly and eloquently about the nightmare that your mother lived through (at the hands of monsters) to bring you into the world?"

I don't remember her exact answer, but it had to do with not letting bitterness take hold. Her mother wasn't bitter. And she learned from her not to be bitter.

Hana and her mom, 1949

Hana still has scars where her boils were lanced, medicated and stitched, but they have not made her ugly. She has the knowledge that the Nazis killed her father, but it has not made her an angry and unhappy person.

Some may say that's impossible. Some may say it's her right to be bitter. So I give you this quote from Hana's mother, Priska, who lived to age 90:
"I had a beautiful life with my child after I...gave birth to her in a concentration camp...My daughter is very precious...I thank dear God that he gave me this love that I have for my daughter. I survived. We are here. I brought home a baby. That is the most important thing."

I have not finished the entire book, which chronicles the lives of the three women both before and after the camps. It is a hard book to read. I took it to the beach in Florida and read it as the tide calmly rolled in and out in front of me.

In my hands I held the story of one of the ugliest times in history, but in my view was one of the most beautiful sights on earth.

Somehow, this seemed fitting. This world, this life, is a mystery. It's not ours to know it completely, but to survive and to love. Those are the most important things.

More of the quote...

 What else I did at the beach:

!

 

Ages and stages, and someday, songs

I have a friend, wheelchair-bound with M.S., who always used to say, "We go through ages and stages."

She doesn't say it anymore. In her mind, she probably does, but her mouth  can no longer form the words. 

Twenty years ago, the ages and stages were babies and toddlers and aging parents.

Now, the parents are gone, the children are grown, and I find myself worrying about other ages and stages. The friend in Houston who just lost her job. The friend who is in Georgia with her dad holding her mom's hand as she slips  away. The friend down the street who is in a wonderful place in her life after years of digging herself out of depression.

The daughter who is ecstatic in a new apartment in her favorite part of the city. The one who is growing a new baby while watching her other two grow like weeds.
 
I have been in car crashes and wept for childhood friends who died young. I watched a tornado from my backyard and rode out a hurricane. I lost a baby in the womb and a mother way too soon. 

But I won a spelling bee and went to prom. I was in a college play and earned a degree. I've yearned to escape home and been so homesick that I could barely swallow.

I've been to Russia and Belize, Paris and London, Montreal and Mexico. And I hope the ages and stages allow me to travel more... back to Ireland and someday to Italy.

Someday, someone will hold my hand (I hope) as I fade away to my final home, where the ages and stages will cease, along with the tears and the yearning for things I don't have.

And I'll see my friend there, sans wheelchair, with a beautiful voice, singing.






 

Phones are pretty -- in your purse

They say there are two seasons in Chicago: winter and construction.

Well, it's finally construction season! Yay! 

The hot is back. The humid is back. The orange cones are back.

So are the weddings, the festivals, the dinners on the patio.

Work-related events seem to flourish at this time of year, too. I will be attending my Kiwanis Club's centennial anniversary celebration next week, and last week I attended the annual United Way Breakfast along with about 400 others.

I am extremely outgoing and love talking to people. That's what you're supposed to do when you find yourself sitting at a table with people you don't know, right? Introduce yourself. Give the elevator speech about your job. Find out where your table mates are from and what they're doing this weekend. You know, talk.

But at this breakfast, there really was very little of that going on at my table. I took an empty seat next to a man who was at least 40. The table filled in with mostly 50-somethings and older; all nicely-dressed professionals.

From the time I sat next to the man on my left until the time we all got up to leave, he was engrossed in his phone. He didn't greet me or ask my name. He didn't look up at all. Same with the guy to his left. At least some of the women on my right seemed interested in conversing. Until the speakers took the stage.

Then more phones popped up around the table. We were very close to the stage where I'm sure the speakers could see that very few at our table were engaged with what was going on in the room.

The same scene was repeated at the table next to mine, and many of the others.

I remember back in the day before texting became common, when people would actually answer their cell phones during such a gathering. And they would actually talk on said phones as if they were the only ones in the room. That has subsided. But to me, it's just a bit less annoying to see people scrolling around on their phones, typing, texting and reacting to things they read.

It's not pretty! It's not polite! Stop it!

Now on to more fashion-y things.

I have been breaking out the spring-summer staples lately, and it feels awesome to go sockless again!

My photographer friend discovered some really cool places for photos recently, and although the weather was cool, so was the experience. And neither of us had our phones out the whole time! Go figure!

Hanging out in my grey Anthro pants and pink Forever 21 shirt. (Same style, but in blue)

Acting cool in my pink sunglasses and moto jacket.

Always have a jacket with you in case it turns chilly or you go into a cold restaurant. Here are some motos you might like: 
Express, Free People at Macy's, Anthropologie

I plan to be going lots of phoneless places this summer -- upward and onward!

Friends Over (and Under) 50 and the great biannual clothing swap

A few years ago, I thought it would be a superb idea to have a clothing swap with my friends.

We all have stuff in our closets we haven't worn in years, so why not purge and share?

I decided to do the swap the night before our subdivision garage sale. That way, all the leftovers could go straight into my garage the next morning. 

That was about five swaps ago. The latest one was last night.  

We start at 6 on a Friday night, and most people come a bit early or on time. If you come late, you may only be able to watch as someone scoops up that really cute skirt and ushers it into her take-home pile.

The spring 2016 swap

We each claim a corner of my living/dining room so we can pile up the things we want to keep. The things we bring, we lay out on the couch, chairs and floor. 

And then there is the food. Cheese. Hummus. Salsa and guacamole and chips. Gluten-free cake. Peanuts. Goat cheese with apricot jam. Cheesecake. Blackberries, raspberries and melon. Veggies and ranch dip. Cabbage rolls and pita bread. And all manner of drinks. Everyone brings what they like and enough to share.

It's a spectacle to behold. Clothing strewn everywhere; ladies in varying degrees of dress and undress; one woman asking another for a zip or a tuck or an opinion. 58 pairs of black dress pants and 43 black skirts. Yes, we are a group of working women, and I realized during the first swap that we are ALL always in search of that perfect black skirt or pair of black trousers. 

The autumn 2014 swap

We drift in and out of the kitchen, grabbing a chip and dip and a bite of conversation. Sometimes we pull up a chair and have a deep one-on-one conversation with another woman. Sometimes we all try to talk over one another. 

By the end of the evening, most of us are in the kitchen picking at fruit and sweets, talking and laughing. By 8 p.m. several have left for other parties. By 10 p.m., a couple more leave to see a favorite band at a favorite establishment. By 11 p.m., four or five of us are still sitting in the kitchen.
Every once in awhile, we will wonder where so-and-so went, and will find her "shopping" one last time in the living room.

We are all so different -- some of us are WAY under 50, but all of us are younger than 60. We are librarians, fundraisers, marketers, designers, attorneys and artists. The older women "school" the younger ones in the ways of life and love.

We end the evening with an embrace and I watch the women run out into the rain with their boxes and bags of treasures. In my new dress and hat.

:)