Mexico is a good place to be while contemplating migration issues between here and the U.S. One of the EEUU guys at the place where I´m staying admitted to having run out of money once while he was here, so he worked under the table as a teacher of English until he got enough money for bus fare. "I was an illegal alien worker" he said, noticing the irony of being an illegal estadounidense in Mexico rather than an illegal Mexican in the EEUU.
I spoke with an anthropologist who has been studying the same group of indigenas for fifty years. His group live in high, dry, mountain country, and for years now, their main source of civic wellbeing has been their children in the United States. There are two big communities in the U.S. where the language of this group is spoken, and many nice houses in the high, dry, mountain country financed by those who live in those communities of migrants far away.
But it was another story told by this anthropoligist and his wife that made me say "go figure," this time. This couple, the anthropologist from New England and his Mexican wife, had lived for a long time in the U.S., so long, that the wife had her green card for permanent residency. But her mother got old and sick, so for the last eight years or so, they have been living in Mexico next door to Mom, visiting their indigenas in the mountains, visiting occasionally in the U.S. place where they maintain their official residence, and generally living a pleasant life of retirement.
But a time came recently when Tio Martin, who has lived for a very long time in Southern California, stopped answering letters. At Easter, my friends traveled to California to look for him and see what was up. The first thing that happened was that the U.S. immigration folks decided the Mexican grandmother going to look up her brother in California had not been living enough in the United States to justify her having a green card. They took it and gave her a tourst visa, just for this trip, with bureaucratic followup required to be able to come again.
When they found Tio Martin, he was in terrible condition. His life companion had slid into dementia and wouldn´t let anyone in the house. In the meantime, he had started falling. She couldn´t get him up when he fell, and neither could he. He quit eating. They really found him in the nick of time. They got him to the hospital -- he has private insurance as well as medicare-- where rehydration and feeding quickly returned him to a lucid state. They straightened out his finances, which had fallen into neglect. The local caseworker was going to be able to straighten things out for his lady, and he was going to be able to go to a retirement home after he got well enough to leave the hospital.
My friends will have to go again to help him, once the tourist visa thing gets straightened out. But how could this be? You go across the border to help your family member, you lose your residency status, further visits become more difficult, and what? If she doesn´t go back, it will surely be more trouble for Tio Martin´s social workers to help him make the transition from living in his own house to living somewhere else. But heaven forbid a Mexican relative should come and smooth things out! Go figure.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Sinking Monuments
Mexico is a wonderful, vital place, and Mexico City has all the vitality plus a great deal of evidence of a kind of messed-up past. The conquerors built their church with rocks from the Aztec Templo Mayor, their main temple. They set it right in front of where the temple had been, and over the years created an amazing monument in stone. Right nearby, other big stone buildings were added as commerce thrived and Spaniards got rich. They recreated the kind of central city they had known in Spain -- forgetting, until it became painfully obvious, that Mexico City was originally a lake. All the oldest buildings are sinking into the mud on which they were built. The biggest problems with the subsidence have to do with unevenness in settling. Despite all efforts, one of the cathedral´s towers is leaning. And of course, on top of that, this is an area of seismic activity.
Buildings that once had magnificent stairways leading up the them now have either very short stairways or a series of steps down to their entrances. In some cases, it really spoils the effect. Naturally, all kinds of engineered fixes are happening all over the city, but they are expensive, and not all buildings will be saved. At least the cathedral no longer has scaffolding all over it to hold it in place. In the meantime, people have figured out how to build tall skyscrapers in this area that not only don´t settle but also don´t fall over in earthquakes. We´ll see. Or at least, they´ll see.
It makes me think of the procession on Good Friday in San Cristobal de las Casas. There were some people, mostly older, who dressed in black and followed the cross to the reenactment of the crucifixion in a mournful spirit. There were some people, not so old, who followed the cross in their regular clothes, looking solemn, mostly. There were a bunch of people who stood on the sidewalk and watched the procession. Things are changing. Ancient monuments are sinking. Ancient practices are becoming something to watch, rather than something to do.
The Zocalo, the big square in the middle of Mexico City, the front yard of both the Cathedral and the Presidential Palace, is filled with a wonderful chaotic blend of vendors, Aztec dancers, jugglers, people offering herbal cleansings, balloon sellers, political protesters, you name it, throughout any day. Then, just to remind everyone, there´s this full military ceremony to take down the giant flag that flies over all this. For 15 minutes or so of an afternoon, the people clear a space, the sanitation guys pick up the trash, and the military come with singing, drums, and trumpets, to honor the flag. They leave with it neatly rolled up (like a sail), and within moments the chaos is back as if nothing had happened.
Walking back to where I´m staying after all that, I saw people dancing in the park, to a band that looked as if it had just set itself up on its own accord, in a little opening with a statue of Poseidon in the middle, left over from Empress Carlota´s fantasy of European Capital in Far Distant Province. They were dancing the dances of now, never mind the sinking monuments.
Something is changing in Mexico, and I´m thinking it´s probably fine.
Buildings that once had magnificent stairways leading up the them now have either very short stairways or a series of steps down to their entrances. In some cases, it really spoils the effect. Naturally, all kinds of engineered fixes are happening all over the city, but they are expensive, and not all buildings will be saved. At least the cathedral no longer has scaffolding all over it to hold it in place. In the meantime, people have figured out how to build tall skyscrapers in this area that not only don´t settle but also don´t fall over in earthquakes. We´ll see. Or at least, they´ll see.
It makes me think of the procession on Good Friday in San Cristobal de las Casas. There were some people, mostly older, who dressed in black and followed the cross to the reenactment of the crucifixion in a mournful spirit. There were some people, not so old, who followed the cross in their regular clothes, looking solemn, mostly. There were a bunch of people who stood on the sidewalk and watched the procession. Things are changing. Ancient monuments are sinking. Ancient practices are becoming something to watch, rather than something to do.
The Zocalo, the big square in the middle of Mexico City, the front yard of both the Cathedral and the Presidential Palace, is filled with a wonderful chaotic blend of vendors, Aztec dancers, jugglers, people offering herbal cleansings, balloon sellers, political protesters, you name it, throughout any day. Then, just to remind everyone, there´s this full military ceremony to take down the giant flag that flies over all this. For 15 minutes or so of an afternoon, the people clear a space, the sanitation guys pick up the trash, and the military come with singing, drums, and trumpets, to honor the flag. They leave with it neatly rolled up (like a sail), and within moments the chaos is back as if nothing had happened.
Walking back to where I´m staying after all that, I saw people dancing in the park, to a band that looked as if it had just set itself up on its own accord, in a little opening with a statue of Poseidon in the middle, left over from Empress Carlota´s fantasy of European Capital in Far Distant Province. They were dancing the dances of now, never mind the sinking monuments.
Something is changing in Mexico, and I´m thinking it´s probably fine.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Maya Wisdom
I returned from my journey to Palenque and its Maya ruins with much on my mind. Once I had expressed my admiration for the Mayas, the grandfatherly gentleman who sometimes joins the table at casa Carmelita looked me in the eye and gradually began to unfold a story of Maya cosmology. The cross of the Maya represents their sacred tree, he said. It was confusing to the Spanish when they arrived -- they thought this symbol meant that some other Christian had visited and converted the Maya before them. It served to provide some protection for the Maya, but in fact, it had nothing to do with Christianity. The sacred tree has parts, he said, with the part around the base of the tree representing water and all the life within the waters, the trunk representing the land and its creatures, including humans, and its branches the air and the life of the air. Although there were some special trees in certain places, there was no need to have any one particular tree as a focus for worship, because all trees have these parts. The gods have their places within the parts of the tree, as well.
If ever there is need for a tree to be cut down, as to build a house, it is done with appropriate ceremony, establishing the place of the house with rites lasting three days. Offerings are made at each corner of the house, where the cut- down tree will be set into the earth. The gods come to ¨eat¨ the offerings and bless the house. The house becomes of itself a sacred space. My informant said that his great grandfather had taught him the Maya tradition that there are as many stars in the sky as there are trees on earth. The great grandfather had been sure that there were fewer stars in the sky in his old age than when he was young, so many trees had been destroyed. Everything is interdependent. Everything is sacred. I like the idea of beginning with trees, myself. More trees, more stars. May it be so.
If ever there is need for a tree to be cut down, as to build a house, it is done with appropriate ceremony, establishing the place of the house with rites lasting three days. Offerings are made at each corner of the house, where the cut- down tree will be set into the earth. The gods come to ¨eat¨ the offerings and bless the house. The house becomes of itself a sacred space. My informant said that his great grandfather had taught him the Maya tradition that there are as many stars in the sky as there are trees on earth. The great grandfather had been sure that there were fewer stars in the sky in his old age than when he was young, so many trees had been destroyed. Everything is interdependent. Everything is sacred. I like the idea of beginning with trees, myself. More trees, more stars. May it be so.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Enchanted Forest
I´ve stayed in El Panchan now for three days, a place from the first moment I arrived was clearly an enchanted forest, un bosque encantado. It´s a place of camps and cabañas, where the clientele is not entirely European, American, and the like, but there are certainly a lot of us. I´m guessing that we come here partly because of Don Mucho´s, the restaurant where they disinfect all their greens and make ice with purified water, and partly because it´s so close to the ruins of the ancient Maya city we all want to see. There are a goodly number of young people with backpacks, because the accommodations are very reasonable. I stayed at Margarita and Ed´s, in a thatch-roofed cabaña, screens at the windows and screens for a ceiling, and ate gratefully of Don´s foreigner-friendly food.
The ruins were great, and I´ll write about them, too, but at the moment, I want to tell you about the enchanted forest. Deforestation is a big issue in this part of the world, where poor people cut down trees at the edge of the forest because they need fields to grow crops for food. Here, at the edge of the reserve that contains the ruins, with ranches on two sides, growing not food but cows and horses, there is forest. When I chatted with Juan -- John, actually, who says he speaks neither English nor Spanish, only Texan -- he filled me in on the story. Moises was the one. He planted trees all over this area over a period of years, encouraged by Ed, an estadounidese expert on reforestation. That´s Ed of Margarita and Ed´s Cabañans, who unfortunately died about a year ago. Of all the millions spent on reforestation by the government in recent years, this project, which cost the government nothing, is the only one that worked, said Juan.
The little creek that flows through here is clear. I also the effect of a healthy forest on the streams by taking a (guided) hike through the selva within the park boundaries. wonderful clear, cool water falls over rocks in the shade of great trees. Likewise, in the little island of forest full of foreign tourists, there´s a lovely feeling of cool, foresty peace. In the middle of the night, when all is quiet, there´s the occasional outburst from howler monkeys. The people make noise, too. Earlier in the evening there´s music, then drumming around the fire. Everyone smiles and says "hola" or "buenos dias", even though they really speak German or Danish or English or some such thing and may only speak a few words in Spanish. No doubt there´s something else about the way a special culture emerged in this place, but maybe it´s all due to the enchantment of the forest that Moises planted.
The ruins were great, and I´ll write about them, too, but at the moment, I want to tell you about the enchanted forest. Deforestation is a big issue in this part of the world, where poor people cut down trees at the edge of the forest because they need fields to grow crops for food. Here, at the edge of the reserve that contains the ruins, with ranches on two sides, growing not food but cows and horses, there is forest. When I chatted with Juan -- John, actually, who says he speaks neither English nor Spanish, only Texan -- he filled me in on the story. Moises was the one. He planted trees all over this area over a period of years, encouraged by Ed, an estadounidese expert on reforestation. That´s Ed of Margarita and Ed´s Cabañans, who unfortunately died about a year ago. Of all the millions spent on reforestation by the government in recent years, this project, which cost the government nothing, is the only one that worked, said Juan.
The little creek that flows through here is clear. I also the effect of a healthy forest on the streams by taking a (guided) hike through the selva within the park boundaries. wonderful clear, cool water falls over rocks in the shade of great trees. Likewise, in the little island of forest full of foreign tourists, there´s a lovely feeling of cool, foresty peace. In the middle of the night, when all is quiet, there´s the occasional outburst from howler monkeys. The people make noise, too. Earlier in the evening there´s music, then drumming around the fire. Everyone smiles and says "hola" or "buenos dias", even though they really speak German or Danish or English or some such thing and may only speak a few words in Spanish. No doubt there´s something else about the way a special culture emerged in this place, but maybe it´s all due to the enchantment of the forest that Moises planted.
A Surreal Experience
My plan was simple: take a 5-hour bus ride from San Cristobal de las Casas in highland Chiapas to Palenque, a town with some important Maya ruins. It was only after I got on the bus that I realized this was to be a very long descent. In fact, after awhile, I kept sort of looking for signs that the downward journey by twist and turn after twist and turn might be going to end. I saw none, only a succession of steep valleys on one side or the other.
San Cristobal is a former colonial capital, rich in history, with a pretty sophisticated population. It looks kind of European once you get used to it. It has ethnic restaurants, from Japanese to Middle Eastern and Greek. The young people of the family I was staying with are smart and worldly. Palenque, by contrast, when I got there, is two places in one. It´s a little country town where you can´t get a plumber who knows what he´s doing, and even he won´t come just because something he did has turned out to be wrong. And it´s a mecca for international tourists who come to see the ruinas. But that is not what the surreal experience was about.
There we were on a Sunday afternoon, a busload of miscellaneous folks, including many indigenas on their ways home from selling things at the feria in San Cristobal the week before. It was a lovely air conditioned intercity bus with a digital video system that played a series of movies to keep us all content in our seats. I watched these movies with one eye while looking at the passing scenery with the other. I watched as the upland vegetation gradually yielded to more tropical looking trees and plants. We stopped briefly after two movies and a truly awful video about visiting Hawaii. Then when we started up again, it seemed we were to watch "The March of the Penguins".
And this was truly surreal. The air conditioned bus was actually a little chilly. The view out the window suggested increasing heat and humidity as the foliage and the dress of the people at the side of the road changed toward the tropical. Palm trees of many kinds, vines everywhere, cocoanuts for sale by the side of the road, huge broad leafed things by the side of the road that look like what I know as house plants -- tropical, yes? But at the same time, there were the penguins at the end of the world, with their songs about how wonderful it is to live in the cold and white of the Southern snow desert. Marching, surviving the snow storms, marching again, fishing under the ice, wonderful penguins with wonderful music on the chilly bus. The so-called reality of the tropical outdoors was only to be seen, and with only one eye, and not to be experienced.
We came to the bus stop in Palenque -- fortunately a little after the movie ended. There it was, the reality of a warm, tropical afternoon in lowland Chiapas. I caught a taxi to my lodgings, reorienting myself as I went: tropical, Chiapas, tropical. Not just a change from upland Chiapas, which was different enough, but so very different from the snowy wastes of Antarctica! What is real, anyway?
San Cristobal is a former colonial capital, rich in history, with a pretty sophisticated population. It looks kind of European once you get used to it. It has ethnic restaurants, from Japanese to Middle Eastern and Greek. The young people of the family I was staying with are smart and worldly. Palenque, by contrast, when I got there, is two places in one. It´s a little country town where you can´t get a plumber who knows what he´s doing, and even he won´t come just because something he did has turned out to be wrong. And it´s a mecca for international tourists who come to see the ruinas. But that is not what the surreal experience was about.
There we were on a Sunday afternoon, a busload of miscellaneous folks, including many indigenas on their ways home from selling things at the feria in San Cristobal the week before. It was a lovely air conditioned intercity bus with a digital video system that played a series of movies to keep us all content in our seats. I watched these movies with one eye while looking at the passing scenery with the other. I watched as the upland vegetation gradually yielded to more tropical looking trees and plants. We stopped briefly after two movies and a truly awful video about visiting Hawaii. Then when we started up again, it seemed we were to watch "The March of the Penguins".
And this was truly surreal. The air conditioned bus was actually a little chilly. The view out the window suggested increasing heat and humidity as the foliage and the dress of the people at the side of the road changed toward the tropical. Palm trees of many kinds, vines everywhere, cocoanuts for sale by the side of the road, huge broad leafed things by the side of the road that look like what I know as house plants -- tropical, yes? But at the same time, there were the penguins at the end of the world, with their songs about how wonderful it is to live in the cold and white of the Southern snow desert. Marching, surviving the snow storms, marching again, fishing under the ice, wonderful penguins with wonderful music on the chilly bus. The so-called reality of the tropical outdoors was only to be seen, and with only one eye, and not to be experienced.
We came to the bus stop in Palenque -- fortunately a little after the movie ended. There it was, the reality of a warm, tropical afternoon in lowland Chiapas. I caught a taxi to my lodgings, reorienting myself as I went: tropical, Chiapas, tropical. Not just a change from upland Chiapas, which was different enough, but so very different from the snowy wastes of Antarctica! What is real, anyway?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Another World
I am having trouble finding my way around in San Crostobal de las Casas. I am having trouble finding my way around the keyboard used by folks who speak and write Spanish all the time, but mainly, I am having trouble with information overload. The streets and houses and stores and restaurants all look very different from the ones I´m used to "reading" as I pass by. I am here to learn Spanish, and I am learning a great deal more.
Señora Carmelita, my hostess while I am here, made a wonderful mole for dinner this midday, rich and subtle. On the streets, vendors sell all sorts of good smelling things I am forbidden by my friendly experts on foreign travel to eat. Everything is very colorful and clean. Since this is Holy Week, there are lots of tourists here, also lots of vendors with things both handmade and not. People seem relaxed and busy; some look worn and weary, presumably from a life of too much work. Even with such reminders of the less than ideal truth about the place, it is a pleasant place to be.
At the same time, everyone is very poor -- well, not everyone-- but the overall effect is of people with not anywhere near as much stuff as we are used to in Northeastern United States in the middle class. There are cars, but a minority seem to have them. There is pretty good water, though it is not really safe to drink it. Most everyone buys bottled water because they have to, not because of choice or preference. Schools, a mother and child clinic, a cultural center with weekend activities for kids, a little public library -- there is clearly a public sector providing services, though I am not quite sure how it all works. Several colleges and a university are here, too. There is this disquieting matter of people with automatic weapons in unmarked uniforms, a reminder that there really are justice issues still pending. This part of Mexico has the lowest income and the lowest literacy rate, so for sure there is work to be done.
I also have no idea how this city impacts the earth with its existence, but there are fewer engines, fewer electric motors, fewer light bulbs, fewer heating elements, and such than there would be in a city with "our" standard of living. At night, if I get up and cross the dark courtyard to the bathroom, there are stars visible in the sky. Not so in Manchester, NH.
I guess it is reminding me that there is more to a good life than stuff. Meaningful work, families, a sense that there is enough... the young man of the house where I am staying is studying to become a veterinarian so he can care for small wild animals and travel to Africa where they are endangered.
This is another world, and maybe a glimpse of a world to come. It is not the world I know, but for most, it is not a place of privation. So let us not be afraid as we think about reducing our carbon footprints. The report from here is that there can be plenty of joy and satisfaction in a life with a lot less of material things.
Señora Carmelita, my hostess while I am here, made a wonderful mole for dinner this midday, rich and subtle. On the streets, vendors sell all sorts of good smelling things I am forbidden by my friendly experts on foreign travel to eat. Everything is very colorful and clean. Since this is Holy Week, there are lots of tourists here, also lots of vendors with things both handmade and not. People seem relaxed and busy; some look worn and weary, presumably from a life of too much work. Even with such reminders of the less than ideal truth about the place, it is a pleasant place to be.
At the same time, everyone is very poor -- well, not everyone-- but the overall effect is of people with not anywhere near as much stuff as we are used to in Northeastern United States in the middle class. There are cars, but a minority seem to have them. There is pretty good water, though it is not really safe to drink it. Most everyone buys bottled water because they have to, not because of choice or preference. Schools, a mother and child clinic, a cultural center with weekend activities for kids, a little public library -- there is clearly a public sector providing services, though I am not quite sure how it all works. Several colleges and a university are here, too. There is this disquieting matter of people with automatic weapons in unmarked uniforms, a reminder that there really are justice issues still pending. This part of Mexico has the lowest income and the lowest literacy rate, so for sure there is work to be done.
I also have no idea how this city impacts the earth with its existence, but there are fewer engines, fewer electric motors, fewer light bulbs, fewer heating elements, and such than there would be in a city with "our" standard of living. At night, if I get up and cross the dark courtyard to the bathroom, there are stars visible in the sky. Not so in Manchester, NH.
I guess it is reminding me that there is more to a good life than stuff. Meaningful work, families, a sense that there is enough... the young man of the house where I am staying is studying to become a veterinarian so he can care for small wild animals and travel to Africa where they are endangered.
This is another world, and maybe a glimpse of a world to come. It is not the world I know, but for most, it is not a place of privation. So let us not be afraid as we think about reducing our carbon footprints. The report from here is that there can be plenty of joy and satisfaction in a life with a lot less of material things.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Passing in the Fullness of Years
I am away from the congregation among whom I serve, but my being away has not stopped the cycle of life from moving on among my people. Two of our oldest, beloved members died within the last two weeks, in the fullness of years, of causes related mostly to just being old. Eventually, the body just wears out, it seems, though different ones of us do it in different ways and at different ages. I sit here, remembering these dear people, wishing them peace, knowing that for each, it was time.
Frieda was one of the members of the committee that chose to invite me to meet the congregation when they were selecting a new minister. I had "clicked" with the committee, and very much so with Frieda. More than that, her being on the committee said something important to me about the congregation as I contemplated my options. This was a congregation that honored its elders and did not exclude them from important convesations. That seemed really good to me. That was six years ago. In the time since then, she got sick, went into the hospital, needed more care in an ongoing way, and gradually went into decline. She continued to read poetry, converse with friends and family on a variety of topics, keep track of what her loved ones were doing, in short, to live every day to the fullest, even as her strength waned. And her many friends continued to shower her with cards, phone calls, and visits. The staff of the nursing home loved her. Then finally, at age ninety-four, it was time to go.
Harold had been a part of the church community for longer than Frieda. In fact, he had been baptized there as an infant, the first child to be baptized in the "new" building we currently occupy. That was 1914. He had been a postal carrier for many years, an active, healthy, outdoor job that kept him in good shape throughout his long life. He and Dottie, his wife, were very close through the years. Family really came first for them. Although they did not have children of their own, their nephews and nieces have been like children to them, especially in later years, when the rest of the older generation had passed away.
Still, Harold seemed distrustful of life in some way. One of the other men at the Masonic Home told me that Harold hadn't really gotten involved with the Masons, hadn't pursued the path that leads to those really deep connections the Masons have with each other. He had kind of given up on church, too. After George Niles left the pulpit and especially after the sanctuary was remodeled, Harold lost interest in church. He went to visit his sister on Sunday mornings after he dropped Dottie off to care for the babies in our nursery. Even in old age, living at the Masonic Home, Harold was reluctant to get involved with what was going on, toward the end even declining to attend the memorial services at the home that were held for people he and Dottie had known. She liked to play bingo, but he never did, and eventually discouraged her from participating. Life closed in on him as he grew older. Nothing anyone could say or do would draw him back to the enjoyment of life. The remaining nephew moved to Florida; the niece did not come to call as often. Life grew small and sad as it dwindled away.
So what to take from this comparison of Frieda and Harold's last years in their long lives? I think it's about the importance of remaining involved and active in an ongoing circle of relationships, of maintaining interests, of finding newness and fulfillment in each day. It's true: old age is not for sissies. It takes courage to face the days when life is ebbing away. But then, that's true of the rest of life as well. It takes courage and determination to love your way through whatever age. But in the end, it's worth it.
We loved both of them dearly. For Harold, it will be important to remember how he was maybe ten or fifteen years ago, to recall something of his vitality and enjoyment of life. For Frieda, it will be important to reach beyond our immediate, sweet memories of her as a very old person to recall her as a lover, a mother, a writer, a grandmother, a friend, in the days when the spirit of life surged through her and into the world around. Let us take heart and live well, nourished by their examples.
Frieda was one of the members of the committee that chose to invite me to meet the congregation when they were selecting a new minister. I had "clicked" with the committee, and very much so with Frieda. More than that, her being on the committee said something important to me about the congregation as I contemplated my options. This was a congregation that honored its elders and did not exclude them from important convesations. That seemed really good to me. That was six years ago. In the time since then, she got sick, went into the hospital, needed more care in an ongoing way, and gradually went into decline. She continued to read poetry, converse with friends and family on a variety of topics, keep track of what her loved ones were doing, in short, to live every day to the fullest, even as her strength waned. And her many friends continued to shower her with cards, phone calls, and visits. The staff of the nursing home loved her. Then finally, at age ninety-four, it was time to go.
Harold had been a part of the church community for longer than Frieda. In fact, he had been baptized there as an infant, the first child to be baptized in the "new" building we currently occupy. That was 1914. He had been a postal carrier for many years, an active, healthy, outdoor job that kept him in good shape throughout his long life. He and Dottie, his wife, were very close through the years. Family really came first for them. Although they did not have children of their own, their nephews and nieces have been like children to them, especially in later years, when the rest of the older generation had passed away.
Still, Harold seemed distrustful of life in some way. One of the other men at the Masonic Home told me that Harold hadn't really gotten involved with the Masons, hadn't pursued the path that leads to those really deep connections the Masons have with each other. He had kind of given up on church, too. After George Niles left the pulpit and especially after the sanctuary was remodeled, Harold lost interest in church. He went to visit his sister on Sunday mornings after he dropped Dottie off to care for the babies in our nursery. Even in old age, living at the Masonic Home, Harold was reluctant to get involved with what was going on, toward the end even declining to attend the memorial services at the home that were held for people he and Dottie had known. She liked to play bingo, but he never did, and eventually discouraged her from participating. Life closed in on him as he grew older. Nothing anyone could say or do would draw him back to the enjoyment of life. The remaining nephew moved to Florida; the niece did not come to call as often. Life grew small and sad as it dwindled away.
So what to take from this comparison of Frieda and Harold's last years in their long lives? I think it's about the importance of remaining involved and active in an ongoing circle of relationships, of maintaining interests, of finding newness and fulfillment in each day. It's true: old age is not for sissies. It takes courage to face the days when life is ebbing away. But then, that's true of the rest of life as well. It takes courage and determination to love your way through whatever age. But in the end, it's worth it.
We loved both of them dearly. For Harold, it will be important to remember how he was maybe ten or fifteen years ago, to recall something of his vitality and enjoyment of life. For Frieda, it will be important to reach beyond our immediate, sweet memories of her as a very old person to recall her as a lover, a mother, a writer, a grandmother, a friend, in the days when the spirit of life surged through her and into the world around. Let us take heart and live well, nourished by their examples.
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