Getting Loose

Clothes Line

I’ll bet not a whole lot of kids have seen this invention in use anymore. 

This is only a few of the clothes, 
 
but honestly, until the Mrs. started putting the clothes out to dry, I had forgotten seeing my mother do the very same kind of thing over 50 years ago.  My mate swears she is determined to have one in our yard.

The Golden Triangle

A friend of mine, Ted Campbell, a Beaumont boy, asked me what was distinctive about Southeast Texas.  This is some of how I responded:

    Houston claims to represent SE Texas, but as anyone from the Golden Triangle knows, it just ain't so.  The ethos of Southeast Texas truly is much more likely to be found within the confluence of the Trinity, Neches, and Sabine rivers that wind and twist through its very soul.

    At first I wanted to say that what is distinctive is its geography.  But that is not  accurate.  Even though a geologist could map out the convergence of the piney woods with the coastal plain, what is distinctive is much deeper than what can be seen or touched or heard.

    I think that at root and core, what is distinctive is an intangible nexus of the raw bounty this land had to offer in making a fortune—or at least a way of life—from fishing in the waters of the bay or gulf, to the timbers of its mighty forests, to the fertile land yielding a rich bounty of rice, or the drilling for black gold and its many spin-off industries.  Long before derivatives were some arcane financial component to a corporate back page, it was alive and well in Southeast Texas with its magnetic siren call beckoning to those looking for a higher wage, a better standard of living, than could be found from its contiguous geographic cousins.  It was a call that few could resist.

    The promised yield was nearly mesmerizing.  The opportunity for a better life was appealing.  The conjoining of the rich and poor, the black and white, the educated and the uncultivated, provided a rich brew that bequeathed to the residents of Southeast Texas, a malt in which friendships could be forged, in which ideas could be distilled, and in which memories could be sifted endlessly—whether through the turbulence of parsing junior high alliances or the sophisticated pastiche of people bent on improving not just their economic lot, but the very heart of their social fabric as well.

    The environment, the context that engenders southeast Texas is unique to itself, and yet like so many other areas, is a rich loam from which could be fashioned and formed lives that made a difference—contemporaneously, as well as historically.

Technology

The technology I use to get these posts done blows my mind sometimes. 

I have taken a few pictures with my phone.  A few years ago, a fellow could have been deemed crazy to say that he was taking pictures with his phone.  If someone had told me back in the eighth grade that someday I would take pictures with my phone, I would have said, "Yes, right after they start selling water in bottles.  Get outta here!"

I then pick out the pictures I want and I have several choices as to what to do with them.  I e-mail them as an attachment to my email address right off of the smartphone.  I then go to the computer, get my email and download the attached picture to the desktop.  I then create a picture holder in my blog, paste the picture into the holder, and voila, there it appears. 

Probably, if I had enough savvy I could download the pictures to the computer directly, but that would mean scrounging to find a USB cable, and right now, dear me, I rally can't be bothered with that. <snif>.

Family

I have always been interested in family. I grew up starved for family connection. It took me at least 900 miles as a kid to go from Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania to where there were close relations and cousins. One of my big disappointments when our family moved to Texas when I was 9, was discovering that we would still be 900 miles away from them, when I was hoping beyond hope that somehow we would be closer.

I loved being around my cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles. In ways I could never explain, I knew they were part of me, and I was part of them, and they could never cut me off. I would never be shunned.

So many of my friends had relatives near by and they were almost complacent about them. "Him? Oh yeah, he’s my cousin. Whatever."

I could not grasp that thinking. I could not make sense of it.

A while back a very distant cousin to me, Carl Budd (4½ cousin?—ha ha), got into contact with my youngest son. And Leigh told me about this guy. He came from a part of my family that none of us knew anything about. When, over the months I began putting 2 and 2 together and slowly updated him with what little I knew about my side of the family, he then sent a family tree that showed me scores and scores and scores of relatives I had previously known absolutely nothing about. I was stunned. It was, and still is, very difficult for me to take the enormity of it all in. I am having a hard time comprehending what I am seeing.

One of the tools, though, that has helped me immeasurably is FaceBook. I am astonished, how, with a little detective work I have been able to figure out who some of these people are, and to date, I have connected with 5 of my distant relatives. I get to see their faces, and learn about their children. It is like a whole new world is opening up right before my eyes. I am still in a state of amazement.

Mildred Campbell Yates, 1920 - 2010

Back in 1934, Thomas Wolfe wrote a book, You Can’t Go Home Again. It is a book that has haunted me in some ways for many years wondering if, as its title suggests, it could possibly be true. Is it really true that you cannot go back home and find life much as you knew it or remembered it?

I never knew the answer until one day I realized that you could never really go back, because of death. Death ultimately, permanently changed the landscape of what I had once known and cherished, however much I did not appreciate that at the time.

Death has once again changed my landscape. It has made it even more impossible to go back home, because one of the giants of my life is now gone. My 5^th grade teacher, my most favorite teacher. A teacher that nourished me, and fed me, and praised me, and encouraged me. A teacher who never had a discouraging word, but who rather would stand on the sidelines and cheer me on to enter into a journey of my own self-discovery—education in the very truest sense—leading out that which is within.

Mrs. Yates is gone.

Oh, she is not really gone. Her physical body has died. But she is still very much alive. And not in some hallucinatory way through some group memory recall. I will one day meet up with her again. Of that I am positive. But man, what an impact she had on my life in this physical sphere.

* * *

I remember early on she wanted us to write a paper about some experience we had had on vacation or one we had had the summer previous to entering the 5^th grade. I wrote about being on the farm of my 5^th cousins—Monty & Karen Diew—up in Nauvoo, Illinois. I remember writing about how Monty and I got on the roof of a little chicken coop early in the morning and with a BB gun started shooting at the tin water pail from which the chickens were drinking and how they would run and flap from being scared and how much Monty and I laughed at that.  I also remember writing how their water was so mineral laden that it tasted like poison to me, and I really emphasized that terrible stench of a taste. She just loved my budding writing talents and gave me an A.

* * *

I remember Jon Seaux. I had always interpreted him as a quasi miscreant from the other side of the tracks who knew how to draw bawdy pictures that with a few lines could be turned into something innocuous on Miss Rogers’s black board at James Bowie Junior High School when she was out of the room. Jon Seaux had a wicked smile, an impish grin. Who knew how to just barely stay on the right side of respectability, but whom you never wanted to cross. And that is the way he was etched into my mind, until one day, many years later, I was talking to Mrs. Yates.

As she and I began to sift through halcyon memories of old, she asked me if I remembered him.

Well, of course I did, but I was shocked he would even stand out to her.

She reminded me of a time when one of my classmates, and thankfully the mists of time through these 50 years has blotted out his identity, had had an accident in class with respect to bladder control. Of course that misfortune was the object of snickers and eye-rolling. But what was Jon’s response? Without being prompted, Jon went to the janitor’s closet, and got a bucket and a mop and proceeded to clean up the accident in silence as we all watched in wonder. He moved some desks to do a better job, and when he had finished, he looked us all in the eye and said, "This could have happened to any of us sitting here. I don’t ever want you to remind him of what happened, nor should you ever speak of it again." And with that, Jon left the room to return the janitor’s tools to their closet.

Mrs. Yates said, "I was so proud of Jon that day. He was years ahead of his time in maturity."

I had never stopped to contemplate what that action meant—the compassion, the initiative, the sensitivity of Jon Seaux until Mrs. Yates interpreted it for me.

Way before his time, before he ever graduated from high school, Jon died of a brain tumor.

* * *

And then there was her beloved husband, Reed. Oh how she loved to talk of his mischief, and how different they were from each other, and yet how so very much she loved him and his ways.

* * *

It had been rumored that when she was a girl, Mrs. Yates had read every book in the Tyrrell Public Library on the second floor. She was a voracious reader. She would read to us from time to time. She knew how to interpret and inflect and put in pregnant pauses.

I remember one book she read, whose name I have forgotten about a man who supposedly hated the United States back in the early 19^th century. His punishment was to be put on a ship where he would never again be allowed back into the country.

But it was only in the later years of his sentence that he began to understand how wonderful of a country the United States of America was, and that he was so hungry for any scraps of information as to what was happening to our great land. Finally someone drew a map for him of how the country had expanded to the west, and his eyes were wide with surprise and shock and he cried for having missed out on some of the greatest adventures and dream making ever given to any country in the world.

* * *

Mrs. Yates could fire your imagination with a very ignited illustration that would burn in your mind. One day she said to us kids, "And what would you do if a madman with a machine gun came in at our door and started firing?" I never forgot that image, for it frightened me. It scared me. I did not know what I would do. I did not want to think about death.

* * *

From time to time she would pass out supplemental hardback readers for us to read from. In the front of the book, there was the template like there were on those of the standard issue books in which you were to sign your name to the textbook you were to study from all year. Except in these temporary texts, books of years gone by, I started to sign in ink mind you, every time one was given to me, even though I knew that within an hour we would be handing them all back in.

One day Mrs. Yates opened her text and saw my name, written in ink much to her surprise, and then she asked the class to all turn to the very front of their texts. She then asked "How many of you have Allison Cambre’s name in your book?" Probably ¾ of the class raised their hands. I was shocked and embarrassed. "Allison Cambre why have you done this?"

I had no answer.

She said, "You have got to get some ink eradicator and remove your name from these books."

I broke out in a cold sweat. I had no idea what that word meant, nor did I want to tell my parents the trouble I was in. So out in the garage that night I had my name written several times on a piece of paper and tried all sorts of solvents and chemicals to see if any of them might magically remove the ink. Much to my astonishment, I discovered that bleach would do the trick. And so the next day I brought a vial of bleach to school to undo the damage I had done.

* * *

I remember the time of her telling back in the late 40's or early 50's that she had broken her leg. She started crying not because of the pain, but rather because she had ruined some expensive silk stocking hose that she was wearing. None of us boys could possibly understand that.

* * *

Mrs. Yates said she used to smoke. And as a kid I had a hard time believing that! I mean she was like a high, benevolent priestess to me. And priestesses don’t smoke!

* * *

I remember the day I inadvertently saw Mrs. Yates’s letter to the editor of The Wall Street Journal. She was hanging up her hat from teaching. She, many years later, had left the 5^th grade environs of Eugene Field Elementary School, to go across the street to French High School to teach English. How I wish I could have had her for that course! But what disgusted her was the ignorance of some of the faculty with whom she taught referring to the Civil War as the Silver War, etc. She had had enough.

* * *

Imagine to my surprise that one day, I discovered that her own brother, Jeff, like me, was a clergyman. I just could not believe it. I got to meet him one time before he died. I went to a gathering knowing that he was in this room with over 100 people, and I began to look around for someone who looked like Mrs. Yates in the face. I found that someone, and I approached him by asking, "Did you ever live in Beaumont, Texas?"

* * *

Well . . . maybe you get the picture. Many of these memories are 50 years old, but they shine as bright for me as the very day I experienced them the first time.

Mildred Campbell Yates. Her passing means that Beaumont is forever, inextricably changed. I thank God that our paths crossed, and I thank God for the beneficent impact she had on me. There will never again be anyone like her in my life.

The Ravages of Time

When I was little, I can remember on more than one occasion saying to my mother, "When you get old, I’ll take care of you."

She said, "Oh, I would love it if you did."

* * *

Sometimes it is not easy to willingly go gentle into that good night. Your physical apparatus begins to fail you not by changes in kind, but by changes in degree. A degree here, a couple of degrees there, and before long, you find yourself confused and wandering in a fog surrounded by familiar objects, but lacking a sure way of contextualizing all of them to make sense like they used to make sense.

She still has her ready laugh. She is sharp on the uptake. But there is a wobble in the short term memory. Asking things she had just asked about perhaps 10 minutes ago. Allowing others to do her thinking for her, instead of straining and working the old noodle to figure it out for herself.

"Well, maybe I’ll be where June is before too long."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, what use am I? I can’t do what I used to do. I can’t move around like I used to to make cookies. I’m just not much help in the kitchen." And this is from a woman whose identity was bound up in doing and baking and cooking for others.

And I don’t have a comeback.

I’m not going to give false reassurance, and I listen and sift, and think "Why does she think that?" But then I further think, "If I were in her shoes . . . would I be thinking much differently?" I mean I could come in as the cheerleader and verbigerate at trying to restore one’s confidence, but would I want that done to me?

It’s got to be exasperating. She had so much life and vigor at one point. A workhorse who had unlimited energy, seemingly. Ready to get up and go.

I remember one time my mother-in-law commenting that she did not have half the energy that my mother did. She sat in awe of it.

Mom kept talking about if she only had access to a stove and pots and pans, but then they can’t allow that. Why, what if one of the residents were to leave a burner on. It is too dangerous.

Safety decisions are a killer. How can you take the right pills, if you don’t know what day it is? She can look back and recognize that she is in somewhat of a fog, and it perplexes her. How did it get to be this way?

So she sat a lot and watched and interacted where she could, but the hearing is not all what it used to be either.

We had her for six days, and I was glad to have her here, even though I still work a more than full-time job. I can remember that at my age my dad was retired, even my cousin was retired, but it will not be that way for me. I still have a few years to go before I can consider that option.

She and I think a lot on the same wavelength. Same sense of humor in so many ways. We can get so tickled with each other. I love pulling her leg. She always bites. That’s a lot of the fun, and I always play dumb.

I took her to Austin last Monday to meet my brother who carried her on out to San Angelo. We ate at Zoot there in Austin and had a pretty decent meal.

After lunch she climbed into his mini-van and sat while my brother and I transferred the luggage to the van. I went to the front seat and opened the door to kiss her good bye. And she gave me a look. A look that said, "I’m sorry I’m not what I used to be. I’m sorry I’m not as much help. I can never repay the time and the money and the kindness you have given me. I love you. You are my first born. I treasure you in ways you will never fully understand."

It is only now that I am unpacking what that look said. It is sad. It’s not what I want. It is not what she wants. But it is what it is.

Plus ca change, plus ce la meme chose.

Maybe I was one of the fortunate ones. My childhood to me seemed very idyllic.

Very early on, I loved to go on vacation. Going on vacation to me meant that we would get to see my grandparents—Grandma & Grandpa Cambre, and Grandma Anderson. They lived in the same little town of 5,000 in SW Iowa. It really is not until this moment that I am grasping how fortunate I was for that happenstance. For so many families, the members are flung far and wide. But the core of my family lay in SW Iowa. And when you push on that core, all four of my grandparents came from Illinois. How amazing is that? I knew relatives there as well. My Grandpa Cambre’s brother lived out his life in Illinois. My Grandma Cambre was an only child. My Grandfather Anderson’s siblings remained in Illinois, and my Grandmother Anderson’s two brothers remained in Illinois, while her sister eventually moved with her own family to Denver.

But when we went to SW Iowa, we stayed with the Cambre’s. I loved my Grandfather Cambre. He was a mysterious man to me, a witty man, a man with a smile.

I can remember my sister and I touching his bald head and asking him if that hurt.

Well, no, it did not. He said it was like touching the skin of our own arm.  We could not understand that.

In a vague way, I knew that my Grandfather was my Dad’s father, but I had a hard time putting that together.

Grandpa died when I was 10 years old. We were actually at his house when he died in the hospital, but no one told me. I knew that when I came down the stairs for breakfast, everyone seemed a little sullen at the table, but it wasn’t until I went to Grandma Anderson’s house later on that morning that I discovered why. My sister and I got into some kind of a verbal fight, and my grandmother said we shouldn’t fight on such a day like this.

I asked, "What do you mean? What is so different about today?"

She said, "This is the day that your Grandfather has died."

I said, "WHAT? Grandpa is DEAD? Why didn’t anyone tell me?" I was shocked, stunned, blown away. I could not believe it. I did not know he was that ill.

47 years later my Dad died. And now I am Grandpa Cambre.

It is hard for me to grasp this.  I am to my grandsons what Grandpa was to me.

But wait . . . Grandpa was old. And he walked with a cane. He had had infantile poliomyelitis. But now I am to the family what he was 50 years ago.

I grew up in a world that seemed impervious to change. What an illusion. I now grasp that in so many ways, change is the name of the game.

O Tannenbaum

The lights on a Christmas tree have a mesmerizing effect on me.

From the earliest times I can remember on 405 Darlington Road in Beaver Falls, I have loved the wonder of Christmas signified in a tree. The twinkle of the lights, trying to figure out which one was going to go off and come back on on those old bigger bulbs, the smell of the evergreen. I can sort of see why the mysterious feline creatures love to congregate around the base of a tree and look at the lights and swat at the balls.

I was so very glad when I discovered when the 12 days of Christmas were. They were not the 12 days leading up to Christmas, but rather the 12 days were between Dec. 25 and January 6 (the Epiphany, of which I knew nothing for years until I got to seminary). That meant that the tree could stay up longer. I was so thankful for that, because somehow the tree charmed me and made me forget the daily grind of existence. It beckoned me to another world, and I willingly went.

For the last two years we have been sans kids. At first I thought last year was going to be horrible. What? Christmas and there’s no kids around? What kind of a Christmas is that? I dreaded it. I was sad. I tried to put on a stiff upper lip. I envied those families that still had children at home, or children who would come in to visit. But . . . it didn’t turn out to be so bad. One of the church families had invited us over to have Christmas dinner with them. They have a large family with differences between them as profound as night and day. I understood that. I understood the noise and mirth and inside jokes. It was like my family. Christmas wasn’t so bad after all. My wife and I had a really good, relaxing time that day. I found out I could survive.

But this year was going to be the same. I didn’t like that. At the last minute I practically tried to bribe two of our kids to spend some time with us, maybe even a couple of days? But no such luck. Because we are in the mode to move to a new house, we just had not bothered much with even thinking about a tree this year. My wife assured me that that was going to be OK without all the fuss and hassle. But I think that somewhere in the five days before Christmas I went out to Home Depot and bought a baby Virginia Pine. I set it on our kitchenette table. My wife loved it. She strung up lights and balls and she put on a big star on top, and I loved looking at it at night with all the other lights off. There is was again. Some of the mystery of Christmas.

I could never understand those Radical Protestants who immediately took down all their Christmas decoration on the 26^th. But then, they had capitulated to the culture which says that Christmas starts immediately after Thanksgiving. And for four weeks of seeing Christmas saturation in stores and parties and being regaled out with singing they are sick of it, and almost like a purgative, can’t wait to put it all away.

Well, we didn’t get our tree until around the 20^th or so, so that meant I could enjoy it long after everyone else had forgotten and moved on to New Year’s resolutions.

I loved our little tree. We burned the lights on it until January 6^th. On that night I said this is the end. We won’t light it up again. I was sad in a way for that. In its glow and warmth I could see the wonder of what I used to be as a little child when life seemed much more mysterious and simple. I was thankful for its unearthly glow and simple charm. And because it is live, we will plant it at our new house. And I will watch it grow and remember that once upon a time it adorned my kitchenette table, and there really were lots of presents around it and surprises, and lots of happiness shared.

What Does Jesus Want Me to Do?

I was told in an urgent tone of voice that they needed me right away. I wasn’t sure what was up. There was a woman who was upset. They could not seem to calm her down. Could I come over?

I went not knowing what the situation was. And there she sat. Face red. Tears streaming down her face. Her long hair slightly disheveled. She had kept herself up well over the years. She had a look of desperation in her eyes. I suggested that maybe she’d like to come to my office.

The Church Lady intercepted me and suggested that she would take her to my office, and then one of the people who had initially been talking to her whispered, "She may be suicidal."

I arrived and took off my glasses. I asked her, "How can I help? What’s going on?"

"What does Jesus want me to do? Just tell me. Just tell me what to do . . ."

I thought, Ohhhhhh K . . . Ummm . . . yeah. What does Jesus want you to do? Doesn’t everyone want to know that? I said, "Tell me more of your story. What is upsetting you? Why are you so distraught?"

The look of desperation was more intense in her eyes and body affect, "What does Jesus want me to do? I love Jesus. I read the Bible every day . . . "

I felt so sorry for her. It was obvious that she was at her wit’s end. She had sort of snapped. I was trying to eke out clues. What was eating at her?

With several more exchanges I began to understand it was marital difficulties, and her husband was using one small part wrenched out of context from Paul about wives submitting to their husbands . . . you know, Ephesians 5:22-24.

I began to understand that her husband would get upset and then give her the silent treatment. And then she would commence asking for his forgiveness, that she was so sorry for what she had done. "But Pastor, what does Jesus want me to do? Where can I find some Scripture?"

One that immediately popped out to me was "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." Do you remember that Jesus said that?

Yes, she remembered. I said, "Good. Hold on to that for a moment. When you start apologizing to your husband for what you did, what is it that you did that caused him to be so hateful to you?"

She said, "Nothing. I try to be the best wife I know how to be," and the tears were coming on even stronger. "What does Jesus want me to do?"

I said, "The first thing that Jesus wants you to do is to stop lying to your husband."

That got her attention. The faucet began to be turned off. "I am not lying to my husband. What do you mean?"

"When you start apologizing for something you have never done, you are lying to him, aren’t you? You are apologizing for something you have never done or said, with your words, you are asking him to buy into a reality that never occurred, isn’t that right?"

She got silent. Yes, it was right.

"Why would you lie to your husband like that, when you know that Jesus said that the truth will make you free?"

The tears were gone. I asked, do you have any siblings?

Yes, she did.

I said, "Are you the youngest?"

Yes, she was.

It was time to help her learn better coping mechanisms.

The rest of the time was spent helping her to some degree get loose from her anxieties about her relationship to her husband.

Sliding

Oh, I'm sure that I will get into trouble and that this is not politically correct, but I have long believed that children in today's world, and especially boys, have an increasingly more difficult time finding a way to do risky things (within reason) in order to be about the business of growing up.

I've seen boys paralyzed for life and who lost a limb on the football field.  I guess there is some risk there. 

But years ago, on the farm, there was time for all sorts of inventiveness and moderate risk--boys learning to plow on tractors, running combines, learning about the moods of animals at feeding time, skirting a sow with piglets or a cow with a calf, etc.

But here is a video that when I started watching it I smiled form ear to ear.  Risk?  yes.  Fun?  Absolutely.

Watch.  Enjoy. Watch out for the one bad word about 3 minutes into it.