Remember an earlier blog where I quoted a client asking “How did they let this happen to them?”
Here’s a part of the answer. By choosing to believe what one wants to believe and rejecting facts one doesn’t like.
The following paragraphs are taken from current web sites:
“Ophthalmologist Li Wenliang died at 2:58 am, Wuhan Central Hospital said in a post on its verified account on Chinese social media platform Weibo.
“The 34-year-old sent out a message about the new coronavirus to colleagues on December 30, but was later among eight whistleblowers summoned by police for ‘rumour-mongering.'”
“In early January, he was called in by both medical officials and the police, and forced to sign a statement denouncing his warning as an unfounded and illegal rumor.”
Where in history have we heard this before? –Truth tellers being forced to deny the truth — even punished.
If you want to read more, check out this web site.web site
This post was never a part of “My Father’s House,” though the content might apply. I’m not a poet, but I have been taking a local poetry course just for fun. This one turned out not so bad, so I’m bold enough to expose it here. The topic assigned was flower(s).
LILLIES OF THE VALLEY
Lillies of the Valley
My father’s love in a bouquet
Always my mother’s tears.
Why do we cry when we are happy?
Coffin lined in yellow
My mother’s favorite color
Would she know we chose it?
Lillies of the Valley not in bloom
Spring came to my new home
Wild growths of Lillies of the Valley
Would my mother see them?
I fell to my knees as the tears flowed.
I’ve signed a joint publication agreement with Calumet Publishing to produce My Father’s House to be ready – if all goes as planned – in time for Christmas, 2020.
Author name: Mona Gustafson
I’ll keep you posted on progress.
Warning, this is a long excerpt. It helped a lot in shortening the manuscript, though.
“On the way home from Vermont, Doug started complaining about stomach pains. Poor kid. I think we weren’t sympathetic enough. We thought the hotdogs we cooked out must have disagreed with him. It’s not like Doug to complain, so we wondered if we should take him to the emergency room when we got home to Hamden. Instead we called Bill Lavelle across the street. As a fireman he’s trained in emergency diagnosis. He asked us a few questions and then came over and poked around a bit. Poor Doug. He was really hurting. I wondered if it might be appendicitis, but Bill said no. I called Dr. Wessel too. When I told him the symptoms, he said it wasn’t appendicitis – that we should give him aspirin and put him to bed.”
“Oh dear, I can feel it coming,” Jennie had pulled herself out of bed when she knew who was calling.
“But when he woke up in the morning,” Mona went on, “the pain was just too intense. Lou was off to work, and Marjy Ehmer and I were in the kitchen planning for the fall semester. I called Lou to come home so we could take Doug to the doctor and made last minute arrangements with Marjy. Dr. Wessel was so sweet when we got there. Usually he chats with me while he examines the kids, but this time he gave Doug his full attention.
“What do you think it is?” he asked Doug.
“Appendicitis,” was the Pain-filled response.
“I think you’re right. Let’s get you straight to the hospital. I’ll call ahead.”
“Oh, mother. The poor kid. It turns out his appendix was about to rupture. Thank God we live after Sulfa drugs were discovered.”
“Oh my poor Doug,” Jennie’s memories went back to the baby she helped care for eleven years ago.
“Mother, it was so awful. Yale New Haven is a teaching hospital and the medical personnel kept coming in to poke him in the stomach while we waited for him to go to surgery. Now that everything is over, I’m just mad at myself that I didn’t make them stop. But I’m proud of myself that I insisted they let me stay in his room afterwards. I had to call Dr. Wessel to intervene and make them allow it. I can’t imagine leaving any child alone waking up from surgery.”
“How is he now?” Carl asked. “Can we come to visit?”
“The doctors agree with me that it’s probably best if only Lou and I visit. And Lisa wants to come, but I have to go the route of Dr. Wessel again to get permission.”
The next report set Jennie’s mind at ease. “He’s doing fine. He’ll be here for a week before they remove the stitches. Then they’ll let him come home in a day or two.”
“I stopped by school today to leave the materials I need to start the semester. I have to thank Doug for having his attack at a convenient time. It seems like my kids have always known to do their sicknesses when I could be home anyway. But the poor thing, mother. He looks so pale. And you can tell he’s in pain the way he orders me around like a slave.”
Mona, spending each day in the hospital with him, called every evening to report. “You wouldn’t recognize our Doug,” she told them. “He is so cranky and bossy, but it kind of pleases me that he’s not holding back.”
Then came the day of stitches removal. “Lisa was with me and we both watched. The doctors wanted us to leave, but I insisted we wouldn’t cause a problem. Lisa was great, sitting on my lap and watching. I think she has a stomach for this kind of stuff.”
Mona called Jennie and Carl right away on homecoming day. “He’s so happy to be home and quiet with me. Lou and Lisa have gone to Branford where Lou will be Godfather to Genny and Bill Goff’s baby.”
“May we come see him”?”
“Sure, I know it will make him happy to see you.”
They made it a short stay, giving him a gift of a basket organizer for his desk.
“It made me feel so good to see how happy he was when we came. Poor kid. He looks so pale, though.” Jennie settled into the passenger seat.
“Surgery is nothing to fool around with” Carl remembered. “It takes a lot out of a guy.”
A few days later Mona had another message.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner, but I had to take Doug back to the doctor. He said it was an abscess — very unusual. ‘He must have suffered some stress,’ he said.’”
“All I can say is, Lou’s parents came after you did — and stayed, — and stayed, waiting for Lou and Lisa to get home. Mama was so worried, she kept hugging him and pinching his cheek. It’s all because they love him, I know – and he loves them — but after they’d been here almost two hours, Doug drew me into the bathroom and, his face beet red and his fists tight, commanded ‘Get them out of here!” Oh mother, I felt guilty I hadn’t asked them to leave sooner, and I got in trouble with Alma for doing it. But all is well now. He’s getting better. I told him he could have one more day of being mean to me, then he had to stop. He did just that – one more nasty day, then back to his own self. Now he’s having a good time doing quiet things and should be able to start school on time.”
The visit was short. It wasn’t until the next day that Thelma got to be with Dorothy who was a few years younger. “Call me Dotten,” she said as Thelma and Harvey gathered with her and Nils, her older brother, in a corner of the Covenant Church parlors after the funeral.
Thelma liked what Dotten was wearing, and she told her so.
“I don’t see much of my father,” Dotten said. “He lives and works on Long Island — a valet for a rich man there. But he sends money, especially for clothes. He wants us to look nice.”
Thelma’s face collapsed. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t be with my daddy. “Oh, don’t you miss him?’ she said.
“Not really. I’m used to it,”
Thelma couldn’t imagine it.
Anna was consigned to God’s good earth at Forestville Cemetery, after which the family moved on to Emil’s to continue the reunion.
And what was the specific thing Thelma and Harvey remembered about their cousins from the Bronx? Dotten and Nils couldn’t sleep because the birds made too much noise.
WUHAN, China—A Chinese Doctor who became a folk hero after he was taken in by authorities for warning about the dangers of a deadly new virus now spreading around the world died Friday after becoming infected with it.
What happens when “the powers that be” come to believe their wishes and hopes define reality? When science and knowledge take second place to political power?
Chaos and disaster. Maybe not immediately, but ultimately a huge price is paid for ignoring the truth.
Have you heard about the coronavirus? Have you heard about the scientific findings re climate change?
Just sayin’
I remember my student tour of Europe in 1951. Austria, Germany, Switzerland, France, England, Holland, Belgium. Eveywhere we met people like us. And everywhere except Switzerland we found bombed out buildings. I remember Germany especially, men without arms and legs making their way by new businesses trying to get a foothold in any corner where temporary buildings could be erected. Most of all I remember thinking “all these people are just like us” as we communicated through gestures and what minimal knowledge we had of the language of the country we were visiting. I remember our twenty cent packs of cigarettes were worth 60 cents for just one cigarette. It was our medium of exchange for tipping. Let me repeat. I remember the people we met were just like us.
And I remember the student guide who said to me as we tried to understand what had happened, “This will come to you someday in the United States.” Yes, more than remember that, I have never forgotten it.
I remember an 8-year-old Mona (me) in 1937 thinking Hitler must be a nice man, because I saw a picture of him smilingly accepting a bouquet of flowers from a little girl my age. I remember practicing a speech I would deliver to him explaining why he should be nice to other people.
Years later, I remember a client whose family was left behind in a country cruelly dominated by the USSR. In her distress over their situation she wondered, “How did they let this happen to them?”
I love traveling, and everywhere I go I meet people who are just like me – trying to make a good life.
I remember wondering how people could let it happen to them.
How could it happen? Could it happen to us?
I remember, and I wonder.
Time out from focusing on “My Father’s House” to pay attention to the church season ahead. Yes, it is in the Christian tradition, but I hope it will be of interest starting with my atheist friends and on down, because I think we all care about the ultimate goal of the season – at least as I understand it.
To tell the truth, the season never meant terribly much to me personally before I grew up in my much later years. I do remember the year when I wanted to be like so many of my friends, so I gave up something – reading the comics. That was a major sacrifice given that my parents were scared to death about the effect the “funnies” might have on me. After all, I did greedily consume the violent ones. I guess maybe that sacrifice accomplished something – I found I had the strength of will to survive such a long period of time without a comics fix.
I was probably about 13 years old the year I gave up boys. I’m not really sure in recollection what that meant since I was certainly not busy dating, or even particularly attractive to the other sex. I do know there were times when Hallie had to go off to dances (or something) by herself because of my determination. What did that sacrifice accomplish? I don’t know – maybe a respite from having to deal with whatever changes were going on inside me.
I remember a friend in college who gave up pistachio ice cream for lent – her least favorite ice cream, I think.
And I began to hear of Catholic friends who celebrated something called Tenebrae at church on the Thursday before good Friday, working the way to Easter.
Then there was the very fortunate discovery that, at least to the Catholics in the family I married into, Sundays were a kind of day off from the Lenten fast, as was Saint Patrick’s day. That worked out well because my son’s birthday was March 17, so my Lutheran family and Lou’s Catholic family could all enjoy birthday cake between meals at his celebration. That’s when I realized that the forty days of Lent really were forty days.
As you can see, I was a slow learner. It happened one day when I was reading the gospel lesson on the crucifixion at a women’s meeting at church that I started to cry. My son was the age of Jesus when he died on the cross. The sadness washed over me. This was real! No wimpy story of some magic that happened on those two pieces of wood crossed together at the front of the church.
Finally, when I was old enough that I should have known better for decades, I realized that Tenebrae began on Maundy Thursday. Why “Maundy?” Because that’s the day that Jesus, knowing the torture, humiliation, and death he was about to endure, gave his disciples – and us — the new commandment to “Love one another as I have loved you.”
Now I can say this next thing without censure, because the Lutheran church was wise enough to block my idea of being a minister – wrong body type (until sometime in the 60s by which time I did the church the favor of giving up on the idea.)
Maundy Thursday is the most important day in the church calendar year. The new commandment – love!
Awake at 3:30 am last night, I tried to terminate the sad thoughts of all the suffering going on in the world so I could go back to sleep. Warm chocolate almond milk and raw cashews enjoyed in my comfortable chair, distracted by reading, usually does it. This time I was reading “Sojouners” with a series of articles on Lent and my thoughts piled up on “What can I do to make this Lenten season meaningful?” Giving up something just doesn’t hack it. Just as eating everything on my plate didn’t feed the “starving people in India” when I was little. It’s not about satisfying my need for personal goodness. Do something? I’ve always been a physical coward and now my age just gives legitimacy to such avoidance.
What do I do as I enjoy my comfortable chair in my comfortable home with comfortable food available with a walk down the hall? I don’t know. Sign petitions? Donate for social justice? A drop in the bucket. Maybe that’s enough. It takes many drops to make an ocean.
I know it’s important to feel the pain, but not so much that I can’t feel the joy, or even spread it. Any suggestions?
I’m hoping …
The following Sunday, the talk at church turned to the annual affair to raise money. It wasn’t just money the congregation needed, but something to lighten the heavy mood. It would have to be something that gave everyone a chance to do something different and feel good about it. So a talent show was planned to be held on the second floor stage of the firehouse at the end of September. There would be a bake sale, a white elephant table, and a grab bag for the children. John Havir would be the auctioneer for items contributed by members of the congregation, and even some local businesses.
From Carl and Jennie’s family, Harvey would do a violin rendition; Thelma would contribute a reading; and Carl would be the tenor in a barber shop quartet. Jennie would be sure Thelma had a special dress for the occasion. Others would offer vocal performances, and there would be at least one dancer. Linnea Johnson would lead a committee to provide for the sale of refreshments. There would be plenty of activity in the next months preparing for the event.
The Church event in September was a success. People bought each other’s white elephants. Some friends and neighbors showed up, happy not only to enjoy a good show, but also to buy the baked goods for which the Swedish ladies had such an excellent reputation. Parents dug deep to give their children pennies for the grab bag. The free will offering far exceeded hopes and expectations. Like the Torsäs neighbors who had given from their poverty at Carl’s departure party, the church members had given beyond what they could afford.
At the end of the evening, Harvey was filled with the warm satisfaction that he had performed his solo well. Thelma was swollen with grown-up pleasure in her faultlessly delivered reading. Jennie and Carl were happy with their contribution. Mona felt the joy as she rode on her father’s right arm as if in a royal carriage. It was a good walk home from the firehouse
Explanatory note: Mr. Willson was the Chairman of the Board of Directors
Then there was the day Mona feared she’d been so bold she would lose her summer job at the Bristol Brass. Mr. Wilson had given her and the other girl the job of verifying his numbers. Two times they entered his numbers into the adding machine, taking turns on who read the numbers and who entered and cranked them. Two times they came up with the same total, but different from Mr. Wilson’s, so Mona reported the difference to him. “Just do it again,” he said. By the third time they got the same result, Mona was more annoyed than cautious. When Mr. Wilson came out of his office to check on them, she couldn’t restrain herself from saying, “But Mr. Wilson, you must have made a mistake.” She was only half aware of the men standing in their office doorways, as if expecting something to happen. But she was aware of fearing she would disappoint her father.
Mr..Wilson returned to his office, coming out later to acknowledge he’d arrived at the same numbers as the girls.
“Sometimes, you just have to do the brave thing,” Carl said on the way home.
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