A Good Enough Father

On Fathers' Day, many remember their fathers with sentiments such as "World's Greatest Dad" or impossible superlatives for the men who raised them.  My dad was no such man, but he was good enough, at least for me.

I was the sixth of seven children born to my parents at, as my father would often tell me, "the worst time in their lives."  If my birth was the high point of a horrific season, I never really knew, but the sentiment became the source of feelings that contributed to poor self esteem, from which I have never fully recovered.  Three months after I was born, our family moved 150 miles away from the border towns where my folks had lived their whole lives, and where my grandparents, and the uncles who shut my dad out of the family business, remained. My memories of that place are few and rather dim, as five years later, we moved again.

I grew up in what I often describe as "sublime poverty," an economic state which ensured I had the basics--food, clothing, shelter, but very few luxuries or non-essentials.  Hardly spoiled, I now know that such a situation contributed to my spiritual character and helped me identify with those in similar and far worse conditions. We didn't think we were poor, we believed we were solid middle class--as were most of our friends and neighbors.

My father was a brilliant man, a voracious reader and incessant talker.  Passionate, hard-working, gregarious, he was well liked by his friends and loved by my mother and siblings.  He yelled--a lot-- and when my mom would tell him to lower his voice, he would respond, "I have to yell to be heard!" No doubt this was true as his children all inherited his gift for lively and sometimes contentious dialogue--and an uncanny ability to engage in several conversations at once.

There were a lot of "dadisms"--clever statements which became part of his lexicon.  Among them, "when you've got kids, you've got nothing else" and "I wouldn't say 'sh**' if I had a mouth full of it" My favorite was an assessment of American political parties: "When the Republicans are in office, they keep everything on the table for themselves, the Democrats drop a few crumbs for the rest of us."

My father was a Democrat and to say he disliked the rich is an understatement. In his view, they got that way off the backs of the poor. He was Catholic and some of my earliest memories are attending the very early "low masses" with him, while my mom went with perhaps my older siblings who liked to sleep in on Sundays to the later and much longer "high masses." And while his faith shaped his moral character and sense of justice, he was neither preachy or pandering.  He did the right thing, always.

But what I remember most about my father is his teaching me to ride a bicycle, the innumerable picnics, Sunday drives and taking us swimming; as well as countless rides to school and to friends' houses. When I was 18 he made me get job and bought me a car so I could attend the local community college and drive myself to work.  He taught me how to drive it. My favorite memory was his reading my valentines with me as I lay sick in bed.  When my sisters and I would sing and make noise long after our bedtimes he would slap the steps leading to our bedrooms with a yardstick and we would tremble in feigned terror.  My father never raised a hand to us and he was fond of giving us "whisker rubs" and dimes and nickels from his nearly empty pockets.

I was fascinated by the way he could take the several run-down houses we lived in and make them beautiful with paint, wallpaper and fresh coats of varnish on the hardwood floors.  Our houses  always smelled like the tools of his trade.  My father, for much of his life, was a humble house painter. When that did not pay the bills he was a salesman for paint manufacturing companies--the last one he worked for relocated us when I was 11 years old.  When I was 16, he had had enough of being on the road and sleeping in motels several nights a week, and he returned to his roots and took up a paintbrush again.  I hated him for it.

My younger sister and I made this second to the last move with him and my mom. It was here that his penchant for having a cold beer and snifter of brandy after eight hours of work daily,  gradually progressed into full blown alcoholism.  A tendency toward negativity often resulted in incomprehensible rants about the state of the world, the country and his own life.  I remember playing gin rummy with my mom, both of us praying he would fall asleep until she roused him to move to their bed.

When I was 22 years old, I married and moved to Alaska.  I was the "old maid" of the family,  my older sisters marrying at 18 and 19, my younger sister at 21.  A college education seemed out of reach for us as we were too poor to afford one and my father wouldn't take a dime from the government.  He never did until my husband-to-be convinced him to apply for financial aid so I could attend Michigan State University.  He did so, reluctantly, and he did so again for my younger sister who earned a degree in nursing.

My parents made one more move--back to a town where there had lived  previously and where my older sister resided.  My mother would often reference a song that must have been popular in the 60's or 70's "My Elusive Dream."  It details a similar saga of moving from place to place in search of what always, for him, I believe, was out of reach, unattainable.

While some, including my husband, would say I inherited his negative outlook on the world, I would say I inherited much more positive things: my love of history and books, a eye for decor, and a knack for climbing ladders to beautify a space.  He left this world a far better place than he found it, having graced it with seven children who became responsible, productive and involved citizens.  He taught us to think for ourselves and to think critically.

Perhaps his saddest legacy; however, was his dying words: "I was a lousy father."  Nothing was further from the truth and I don't know if he really believed it.  No, he wasn't the "World's Greatest Dad," but he was, a good enough father.  He was my father, and he contributed immensely to making me the woman I am today, and that is good enough for me.  Love and miss you, Dad.

On Lost Sheep and the One Who Seeks Them

The following is a homily offered by my friend and pastor, Fr. Fred Bugarin.  He sent me (and others) a copy of it, seeking critique and comments.  My reflection on his words follows:

The Good Shepherd and the Common Good

In the first reading from Jeremiah, we encounter shepherds who destroy and scatter the flock. We see that there are good shepherds and there are bad shepherds: “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the flock of my pasture... You have scattered my sheep and driven them away.”

Where there are bad shepherds, the Lord God Himself will take over: “I myself will gather the remnant of my flock from all the lands to where they have been scattered and bring them back to the fold where they shall be fruitful and multiply.”

I would like to talk about the shepherd as an image and a religious symbol. For the purposes of this reflection, I will use the image of shepherd to refer to leadership in the Church and to the leadership of public officials and public servants. These include pastors (clergy, hierarchy); government officials; political figures; superiors and supervisors; etc.

The shepherd is a powerful religious symbol which carries meaning to this day. The shepherd symbolizes care, pastoral care (pastor: shepherd). In general terms, the shepherd stands for anyone who has responsibility for others especially when it comes to their subject’s health and welfare.

You perhaps remember seeing Jesus depicted as the good shepherd: Jesus carrying a lamb on his shoulders and Jesus rescuing the lost sheep.

In the parable of the Good Shepherd, Jesus is portrayed as the one who left the 99 sheep in search of the 1 that wandered off and got lost. While going after the one lost sheep is sheer madness to the economically minded audience of Jesus, he nevertheless got their attention. They wanted to see what this crazy man was going to tell them. What was the message Jesus was conveying?

What he told his audience then and is telling us now, telling the Church today, is to take care of the lost, the marginalized, the neglected, the outcast, the one whom society had written off: “Whatever you neglected to do to the least of these, you neglected to do to me.” He was not really talking about sheep as he was talking about people. Shepherding meant for Jesus taking care of those he loved: the weak, the vulnerable and defenseless. It meant that leadership was all about pastoring (shepherding): taking care of the individual and the community, the neighborhood, the society, the global family including, I suggest, the ecological community. Leadership must be all‐inclusive because all share the same life, all share in a mutuality of life.

It has not only saddened but also angered me to see so many “lost and scattered sheep” because of poor and bad leadership in the Church. Right away, we think of the clergy sexual abuse cases. We also think of pastors and bishops whose leadership has destroyed the flock and scattered the sheep. Do you know that in the last 40 years, we have lost so many Catholics to Evangelical and Pentecostal (fundamentalist) Christian churches? In Latin America, themajority of Christians there now are these non‐Catholic Christians (mostly Evangelicals and Pentecostal fundamentalist Christians). What was launched by Vatican II in the late and early seventies in the form of Base Christian Communities and Liberation Theology which showed so much excitement and growth, so much promise, has been methodically and systematically attacked and destroyed by conservative Church leadership including the previous 2 popes. Now, we hope to see a resurgence of that same spirit, that same excitement in the leadership of Pope Francis. You probably followed him in the news during his recent visit there.

Pope Francis makes many Catholics proud of their Catholic identity. Here is, indeed, a Good Shepherd. We pray that he can continue to go after the lost sheep and the scattered flock. We pray that he can reform and bring back pastoral leadership to the universal church.

Likewise, closer to home in Alaska, the issue of Medicaid Expansion which would allow health coverage to 42,000 uninsured Alaskans has been mishandled in the political arena by leaders who, in my opinion, lack the qualities of the Good Shepherd. Many have been frustrated, angered and disillusioned recently by the action (OR, more precisely, the INACTION of our political leaders over the issue of Medicaid Expansion. This is negligence.

All seemed uncertain until last Tuesday when Governor Walker announced his decision to accept Medicaid Expansion. His decision to ACT on this issue shows shepherding qualities, the kind of leadership that considers those who fall through the cracks.

Both Pope Francis and Governor Walker are two examples of leaders who, in my opinion, have exemplified the quality of shepherding, that is, serving the needs of those entrusted to their care: 1) Pope Francis and his care of the poor including the environment, and his desire to reform the institution of the Church; and, 2) Governor Bill Walker of Alaska and his desire to include the 42,000 uninsured Alaskans into the health care package.

There are two leadership qualities that we are focusing on when we speak of the Good Shepherd as a model: care of the poor and care of the common good. One has to do with individuals and the other has to do with the community, the society.

In the case of the “least” ones in society, Catholic Social Teaching calls for a “preferential option for the poor.” It is this quality that defines pastoral ministry. We who are followers of Christ, the Good Shepherd, are commanded to take care of the poor, the “least ones” of Jesus. This brings me to the other shepherding quality: service of the common good.

Common good: (common = communis; munia = duties). Serving the good of everybody (common good) is a matter of duty (moral obligation). For Christians, the good of everybody is not the same as the good of the majority but rather the good that must include the minority OR minorities: the “least”, the weak and vulnerable, the marginalized, the poorest of the poor. The DUTY for Christians is to make sure that the least ones are not neglected. Serving the common good from Catholic social teaching always starts with the poor, the “least” ones of Jesus.

This is the reason why, from the perspective of the gospel, the 42,000 uninsured Alaskans should be the first consideration when it comes to health care, not the last. In the gospel, the least must be the first, the first will be last. The gospel also states: “Whatever you neglected to do to the least of these, you neglected to do to me.” Leadership, from a pastoral standpoint, is about care of the poor, a preferential option for the poor.

Once again, I find myself relating to the one lost, the one marginalized, viewing today’s readings not solely as a general address to the marginalized millions who find themselves in dire economic circumstances.  Rather, the wandering of my own soul has sometimes lost itself deep in the darkness of bad shepherds, even if they were only the misguided thoughts of my bruised and battered heart. While I would not argue that the preferential option for the poor is the essence of not only Catholic social teaching but of the gospel itself, the incredible story of the 99 sheep left for the recovery of the one has never seemed so relevant, or so compelling.  

For much of my life I have been in the company of the 99, secure in what I thought was a strong faith, if it was only the perceived faith of the others around me who buoyed me and bore me through the challenges of my most blessed life.  I could, it seemed, tolerate being left with my peers as the Good Shepherd sought the one, marginalized, abandoned, and hopelessly tangled in the thickets of economic and social disparity, until I was the one was lost, the one is marginalized.  At times, in doing the frustrating, yet edifying, work for Medicaid Expansion I wrestled with the thought, “As I speak for the 41,000, who speaks for me?”

I should like to believe that I am selfless enough to not have been less than elated when Governor Walker announced that those 41,000 would be cared for--would be assured a medical challenge would not be either ignored or the source of further economic and physical devastation.  But I wasn’t.  While I now live a life of relative abundance wrought from years of hard work, fidelity to another’s dream and the sacrifices required of the self-employed, I live that life with the knowledge that a serious medical condition on the part of myself, my husband or my children, could effectively wipe out all that we have worked so hard to attain.  The cost of health insurance for my family and myself is still prohibitive.  To add insult to injury we must also pay a tax for failing to have said coverage.

In that sense, I am as poor and marginalized as the minimum wage worker, or the homeless who sleep and die on our streets.  Insurance for many of the self-employed is still unattainable.  There are also those who pay ridiculously high premiums and unrealistic deductibles to leverage their odds of economic devastation.  It is the same predicament in which I found myself while fighting for expansion of Denali Kid Care--too rich to qualify for any assistance and too poor to afford it outright.  I keep living with the hope and the faith that my good health will at least hold until Medicare kicks in.

But all that is merely an aside to the contemplation of how and why I have found myself outside the protective fold of the 99, lost in a spiritual and emotional tangle of circumstances beyond my control. What is perhaps more frustrating is to feel lost within that crowd of 99.  The margins are not the only place where the wayward and wandering tarry. The deepest loneliness is not always known in solitude, but sometimes in the midst of those who are unaware of the suffering among them.  I am certain I am not alone in that acknowledgement of my own obscurity in the midst of familiarity.

 When you mentioned yesterday that I was effectively losing my best friend, who has chosen to move thousands of miles from me, you touched a nerve in me that has lately seen God as, at worst, a mean-spirited overlord who takes as indiscriminately as he gives; at best, an indifferent entity who, while hearing our cries of protest insists our suffering is ultimately for our own good.  It is hard to see a Good Shepherd in those characterizations.  

I have tried, through my own means and dogged determination to stay the hand of my own self-destruction, to rise above the kind of despair such thinking engenders.  The desert of a sort of self-marginalization is a most challenging state to endure. It is not of the fullness of life Jesus promises to those who love and follow him.  It is the way of the half-alive, the way of the lost.  It amazes me is how well I can disguise a deeper anger that depression masks and pretend (at least publicly) that all is well. There is a silent voice that rises within me and screams, “I am not okay. I am lost!”  Giving voice to that silence is the first step towards healing, the turning homeward on the path of despair.

In my teenage years of angst and earliest spiritual searching, I discovered a word to describe what I revisit again and again in seeking a sense of peace in a world that constantly serves to disrupt that elusive state: “weltschmerz.”  Its literal meaning is “world pain.”  Its implication is far more bleak, as Wikipedia explains: “The modern meaning of Weltschmerz in the German language is the psychological pain caused by sadness that can occur when realizing that someone's own weaknesses are caused by the inappropriateness and cruelty of the world and (physical and social) circumstances. Weltschmerz in this meaning can cause depression, resignation and escapism, and can become a mental problem.”

The occasion to recall this word and how it has so effectively explained what my reasoning cannot, was both surprising and healing.  My husband, who, for better or worse, has endured my increasingly frequent bouts of “ennui” (a perfect French word Urban Dictionary defines as “a sense of apathy and lassitude brought about by either societal or personal stagnation”) put it simply, “you are not a bad person, you are just sensitive.” His insight and his acceptance of the ugliness I can engender both disarmed and encouraged me.

The hardest thing to run away from is a truth about ourselves.  As uncomfortable as it might be, I cannot deny that this weakness, this ennui, while caused by the “inappropriateness and cruelty of the world” is something I must lay in the hands of the Good Shepherd.  It is the thorn I cannot remove, and which I must trust can be borne in the flesh of the One who bore everything, our individual and collective cruelties, our consistent tendency to marginalize and be marginalized.  We are both the oppressor and the oppressed, moving from one state to the other with tragic ease and circumstantial disregard.  We literally lose ourselves as often as we need to be found, as often as we need to be hoisted on the shoulders of a Savior who is not ourselves.  Grace is knowing when we are lost and when to cry out from the depths of the wound in the stuck soul, and allow ourselves to be carried, once again to the fold of the others who both cause and share our pain, our marginalization. So I pray for the grace to do so.

Picking up where you left off

It’s not always easy to return to something that has been left dormant and pick up where you left off. Sometimes the sheer work of doing so is daunting, but if you care enough about it, it can be done.  You don’t need to even explain why you have set something aside. Sometimes the desire to complete something you have long neglected is enough to allow the universe to bring a long elusive dream to fruition.  The degree of desire may not even be all that strong.

After moving from the “wherehouse” to a regular house two years ago, a lot of things that had been put in boxes from previous moves were discovered. (I’ve moved seven times since coming to Alaska nearly 35 years ago.) Among them was a log cabin quilt I began years ago when I worked in a fabric store, before any of my five children were born.  The pieced top is over 30 years old, but the fabric looks as good as new, thanks to the fact it was in stored in a banker’s box in a waterproof, unheated shipping container for all those years. Both the darkness and the cold protected the fibers.  As a birthday gift, my best friend and awesome hair stylist (who is also a quilter) offered to quilt the king sized creation on her long arm quilting machine.

This beautiful friend of mine, Anne, has been an inspiration and a motivator for someone like me who has delusions of grandeur about many of my creative endeavors.  Together, she and I joined the local quilt guild and I even went so far as to volunteer to be the secretary for this amazing group of creative folks.  A few months into my new assignment I began to doubt the whole enterprise.  The people who make up this group are, for the most part, gracious and humble.  Each month, our business meeting is followed by “Show and Tell” where folks share their latest projects, both large and small.  I’ve never once participated in “Show and Tell” for the obvious reason that I don’t seem to get any real quilting done.

Each month, I feel like a voyeur, or an imposter, at the very least a quilter wannabe who is too lazy, distracted, depressed or unfocused to actually complete anything for “Show and Tell.”  My friend, Anne, will be my collaborator in my redemption and establishing among these oh-so-accomplished peers that I do indeed have the quilting “cred” (when we measured the completed top it was100 inches squared, just like the pattern I followed said it should be!)

But this isn’t just about quilting.

It’s actually about writing.

In a few days, I will be traveling to Homer, Alaska for the annual Kachemak Bay Writers’ Conference.  I have attended this auspicious gathering of national and local writers for several years now.  Each time I leave the conference I dream of returning with a completed manuscript. The next year I return feeling less like a writer and more like a voyeur, an imposter, a wannabe.  I keep coming back though. I wonder why.

Last year when I attended my son’s graduation from Johns Hopkins University (he received a Master’s degree) he told me that when he is asked about his parents he says, “My father is an auctioneer and my mother is a writer.”  Wow!  Even I rarely call myself a writer, though I have been published and paid for my writing, so I guess I am qualified to do so.  Writers write, quilters quilt, moms mother...and I have done more than these labels imply.  Perhaps that is the problem, or at least MY problem.  I have had a lot of experiences in life--I’ve been a “salad girl”, a waitress, a clerk, cashier, a childbirth educator, a pastoral associate and a writer--well, these are the roles for which I have been paid (not much, but hey, money is money.)

Of all the labels I have been given by people over the years, the one that perhaps delighted me and touched my soul was one given by the pastor of my church, several years ago when he was new to our parish and we barely knew each other.  I had just changed the seasonal decor at my church (another “thing” I do) and while I was checking to see how it looked and he came up to me and said, “You are an artist.”

 I would have been the last person to think that draping fabric over the pony walls in the sanctuary of my church was art and yet with that observation on his part, I began to see how it was so.  My view of myself began to change with that one simple statement and I started to view the ministry of “church decorator” differently.  I also began to appreciate that it was okay to be a “jack of all trades and a master of none”--or at least a jack of several trades and pretty damn good at all of them.

No matter our life’s work, no matter how much “success” we achieve at the various endeavors we undertake in life, we are far more than what we do.  No matter how many detours we take in life, how many distractions take us away from our creative selves, we can change course, we can start over.  If we set aside our projects, our careers, our dreams and our goals, we can, if we value them, return again and again, and again.  Life is not a competition, least of all with ourselves.  It is an adventure.  We can always pick up where we left off.

Fourth Sunday of Advent

This is a copy of a reflection that I gave at my church--St. Anthony Catholic Church, Anchorage, Alaska, on the Fourth Sunday of Advent.  Didn’t have time to do any editing, and this is pretty much how it was delivered.  Enjoy!

Have you ever had the experience of giving a gift to someone, or offering to do something for another person?  Perhaps you planned an event for them you are certain they will enjoy?  Maybe you have worked for many days on a project or spent a lot of money on a gift that you hope will delight them.  When you present your offering, or your idea of a way to help or honor them, you are met with a less than enthusiastic response.  Perhaps they even refuse your offer and you are left confused and disappointed.  If not, I am certain the next several days might offer you the opportunity to engage in this unsettling experience.

This is sort of what happens to David in today’s first reading.  He’s relaxing in his palace, after his enemies have been defeated, and the nation is at peace.  He probably is feeling quite content with himself; and, hopefully grateful to God who has highly favored him.  In a reflective moment he realizes that while he lives in palatial splendor, the ark of God, which the Israelites believed to represent God’s presence among them, is housed in a tent.

Out of love and gratitude, no doubt, David decides to build a more fitting house for the Lord.  We may wonder about his motives to do so, but I don’t think we would doubt his sincerity. Judging by an archeological excavation in July of 2013, which claims to have discovered King David’s Palace, no doubt, David had impressive plans for God’s permanent dwelling among His people.  He shares something of his plan with Nathan, the prophet.

As David dreams of how best to honor the ark, God is having a talk with Nathan, and has some surprises for David that will pale in comparison to what David has in mind.

You can almost hear God chuckling a bit when Nathan relays His words to David: “Should you build ME a house to dwell in”  Really!”  No doubt God appreciates and respects David’s desire to construct a magnificent dwelling, but that isn’t at all what God has in mind.  It’s as if God is saying to David, “So, you want to build me a house.  Well that’s nice, but just listen to what I am going to do for YOU!”  What ensues is a reminder to David of how God has raised him from lowliness to power and how He will continue to be with His people, bringing justice to them, and establishing along David’s bloodline a kingdom, which will endure forever.  This is known as the “Davidic covenant” whose promise is fulfilled with the birth of Jesus.

The drama of that fulfillment is played out in today’s gospel.  We’ve heard this story so often that it loses something of its magnificence, its power to fill our hearts with unspeakable joy.  We often miss the significance of this fulfillment of God’s promise to David, because when we hear these words, when Luke’s gospel of annunciation is most often proclaimed, we are usually distracted with our own details of building a house for the Lord, in the form of a Christmas celebration to honor God and delight our loved ones.

We often find ourselves, (at least I do) on this fourth Sunday of Advent, wrapped up in the details of preparing for Christmas.  Many of us are scurrying around buying and wrapping gifts, decorating our homes, entertaining or attending parties, baking, cleaning, and cooking.  There are holiday concerts and other events to attend.  Some of us may even still send Christmas cards.  So much to do. Many of us, hopefully, are trying to find time to read our daily reflections in the Advent booklets Bonnie provided, perhaps seeking the sacrament of reconciliation.  Maybe we are performing acts of charity, and trying our darndest to be patient and cheerful; and, if even for a moment in our harried lives, to reflect on the birth of Jesus and what it means for us, and for our world.

Sometimes; however, we get so caught up in the details of trying to honor the great gift God has given us in the incarnation of His Son, we defeat the purpose of what we are doing.  It’s so easy to do, given the high expectations we have of ourselves and of each other.  Our culture doesn’t help either with the images of idyllic holidays with smiling and delighted children, grateful recipients of our thoughtful gifts, perfect holiday feasts laid out on cleverly decorated tables. 

As my children and husband will tell you, I have, at some point in Advent, or even earlier, cancelled every Christmas celebration I ultimately managed to pull off (no matter how shabbily.) I’ve taken those Facebook quizzes, which determined I am more a Grinch than an elf, more Ebenezer Scrooge than Mr. Fezziwig.  Maybe some of you are too.  And that’s okay.  Sometimes that grouchy exterior hides a heart that isn’t three sizes too small or made of coal.  Perhaps it hides a heart that is broken by loss, or disappointment.  Perhaps it hides a heart that is weary of the relentless challenge of living in a world that continually denies its need for a Savior.  Perhaps it is bursting with a love that is never acknowledged or returned.  What Christmas reveals to us, more than anything, is our own poverty, our damaged, but priceless, hearts.  The good news the angel Gabriel announces is that God, because He desires our damaged hearts and our all too imperfect lives, has become poor like us, helpless like us, stripped of power and dignity.  The manger beckons us, not just to gaze at the marvel of incarnation, but also to look at each other, and ourselves and see the face of God.

When we do so, like David, we will see that while our God dwells in the splendor of Christmas, He also dwells in a tent, much like the woman who died on Karluk Street and Third Avenue last week--with not much more than thin fabric walls to keep out the cold and bad weather.  Like David, perhaps embarrassed by the splendor in which he found himself, we will be moved to attain more fitting structures to not only house our human bodies, but our human souls as well.

As we light the fourth candle of Advent, traditionally the Candle of Peace, let us do so with the knowledge that God will always trump our preparations and good intentions with the covenant He makes with David and his people, the promise he fulfills in Gabriel’s announcement to Mary.  Unlike the recipients of our gifts who are sometimes less than grateful, God acknowledges every act made in His name, even those that have their root in obligation and reluctance.  He takes the joy that is the best part of our preparation and He multiplies it, times infinity and gives us The Gift, that cannot disappoint and can never be any less than our wildest expectations.  He give us Himself.

May you find peace in these last days of Advent and welcome the Christmas season with an open and loving heart.

Memories...and the Edmund Fitzgerald

Today marks the 39th anniversary of the disappearance of the Great Lakes iron ore freighter, the Edmund Fitzgerald.  If you are unfamiliar with this event in history, google it.  You may remember the song recorded by Gordon Lightfoot shortly after its sinking which was popular in 1976 and beyond, a classic among folk songs, I suppose.

This blog post is not really about that tragic moment in my personal history, or at least as personal as familiarity with Lake Superior, some of the folks who worked in mining or shipping in a part of the country that supplied tremendous amounts of hematite and taconite that fed the steel mills of the north.  All became part of the great “rust belt”, eventually.  Ore boats still ply those waters and on my occasional trips to the land I first called home, the sight of them always evoke memories of that day in November.

The memories also connect me to a high school friend, a woman with whom I lost touch over the years and found again on Facebook.  When I signed up for a Write-A-Thon several months ago, she was the first to donate to the fundraiser which helps out the writers’ group I had recently joined.  Just today she commented on an item I shared, a recording of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”  It confirmed a small part of her personal history she shared with me shortly after that fateful day.  I couldn’t exactly remember how she was so closely connected to that event, but it impressed me and has stayed with me since.

When faced with the prospect of writing for 2 1/2 hours I wrote mostly about the folks who pledged money for the event.  This is a small part of what I wrote that night:

SML was the first to donate and it was a delightful surprise when an email informed me of her generosity.  A high school friend we, of course, reconnected on Facebook.  I marvel at this modern vehicle for social interaction, smitten with its capacity to compress the last 40 years or so into snippets of photos, sample details of lives long remembered but rarely recalled.  Memory informs, awakens friendships that were perhaps not often deeply intertwined, but neither ignored or forgotten. 

I remember when the iron ore freighter, Edmund Fitzgerald, sank in a horrific storm on Lake Superior—and that memory includes SML.  Perhaps we talked of it, perhaps she knew a crewman or had a close family member who worked on the great ore boats that plied their cargo in the great lake’s tumultuous waters.  I don’t recall, but there was something in that tragic loss that gripped our hearts like November’s cold and drove like the hellish wind into our souls.  We wouldn’t forget, our shoes bore the soil’s stain of hematite, our faucets ran rust red, we bled in song and prayer and peals of bells.  When I think of that day, I think of SML.

...And here is the comment my friend Sandie wrote, in response to today’s sharing of that classic ballad:

Sandie Milakovich LaVoy I remember also, my dad was still out on the lakes and had just passed whitefish point a couple hours before the Fitzgerald!! Long night for families of any men on the boats!

Thanks for clearing that up Sandie, and for reminding me of how we all connect through the times and events of our lives.  We are all far closer to one another than we think and we share lives that are diverse and yet similar--amazingly similar.