It’s autumn, with the days growing cooler and the leaves beginning to expire spectacularly. That means the baseball season begins to draw to a close. Some say sports isn’t very important….but they never had a mentally ill parent who truly thought the seasons involved which shape the ball was….
My father and I sometimes had few things to talk about….or there was the elephant in the room that made it hard to discuss anything personal. But we could agree on baseball and discuss the greats, both past and present. Being a Chicago sports fan probably didn’t help my father’s mental state very much. However, there was Super Bowl XX, where the Bears finally triumphed, and Michael Jordan’s Bulls who dominated basketball for several years.
And then there was the magical year of 2005. My father used to talk about going to White Sox games as a teenager, even walking through the west side to get to the train station. People were friendly, he noted, and waved—even though he was the only Caucasian to be seen for blocks. After decades of waiting and hoping, the White Sox finally came through for my Dad, thankfully just a couple of years before he passed away. I played “Go Go White Sox” for him over the phone as we gloated over the Sox victory.
This year, the White Sox finished a disappointing third, although they did force the Tigers into a playoff with the Twins to determine the division title. I don’t think of Dad every time the Sox play, but this time of year, I do. His birthday would have been September 25, near the end of the baseball season. I usually sent sports-themed gifts for his birthday. If there is a heaven, I’m sure he’s made a point of finding every old-time White Sox player he ever watched at Comiskey back when the west side was safe for walking and before the time when he watched sports on TV because there was little else he was able to manage.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Finding Time & Focus
I realize that Jane Austen was single and her family had servants, but I’m still amazed how she was able to work around her social engagements, child-tending (of nieces/nephews), yet still produce several novels—all before the age of fifty. It’s said she wrote down snippets when she had a few spare moments.
As I approach fifty, I only wish I had Miss Austen's dedication to the writing craft. Admittedly, I work a full-time job, but I have no children. I’ve never had persistence in writing; lately, I’ve had little focus for any extended intellectual activity—movies or books. I’ve been able to exercise regularly, up to an hour at a time. But the only reading I’ve accomplished recently involve magazines and newspapers—and not The New Yorker, either…..mostly women’s, animal and self-improvement periodicals.
Right now, I’m listening to music videos as I pen this blog entry. Rarely do I even listen to an entire CD any more. Perhaps I feel the burnout of my last Master’s degree, even though I finished this a couple of years ago. Maybe it’s the “change before the change.”
After decades of dedication to thought, perhaps I’m just ready to pay more attention to the physical. Moving certainly chases away dark or anxious thoughts better than thinking….at least in my experience.
As I approach fifty, I only wish I had Miss Austen's dedication to the writing craft. Admittedly, I work a full-time job, but I have no children. I’ve never had persistence in writing; lately, I’ve had little focus for any extended intellectual activity—movies or books. I’ve been able to exercise regularly, up to an hour at a time. But the only reading I’ve accomplished recently involve magazines and newspapers—and not The New Yorker, either…..mostly women’s, animal and self-improvement periodicals.
Right now, I’m listening to music videos as I pen this blog entry. Rarely do I even listen to an entire CD any more. Perhaps I feel the burnout of my last Master’s degree, even though I finished this a couple of years ago. Maybe it’s the “change before the change.”
After decades of dedication to thought, perhaps I’m just ready to pay more attention to the physical. Moving certainly chases away dark or anxious thoughts better than thinking….at least in my experience.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Music as Lifesaver
It’s true that music can be a distraction—playing heavy metal while trying to finish one’s homework….blasting hard rock in the car and barely spotting the ambulance coming up on the left. However, more often, I’ve found music was my salvation.
Growing up in a family with mental illness, we were often isolated. Almost never did we have guests, except for Grandmother’s occasional visits from Illinois. Now and then we played with neighborhood children, but usually we limited our activities to the outdoors (in this pre-video games era). Music provided another and somehow broader world for me.
My father would take me to a pawnshop a few miles up the road, and the kindly owner approved my choices—usually classical music. My prized record was Vaughn Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. I’d originally bought the record because of the lush landscape cover photo. However, the hauntingly beautiful melody brought me to tears many times—and I was a person needed a good cry, whether I always realized it or not.
I also loved top 40 and listed to Casey Kasem’s countdown every week. The first summer we moved to Florida, I remember hearing “The Air that I Breathe,” and “Seasons in the Sun” constantly. My sister and I used to buy records for each other’s birthdays that we really liked and of course, they usually ended up with the buyer, not the recipient. I’d read to all types of music—dance—exercise--day dream—and of course, try to cope with life as well as I could.
I still pull out my LPs, CDs, and tapes (almost ready for the MP3 player one of these days) when I need to relieve myself of stress. Music is the best remedy for life’s aches that I know.
Growing up in a family with mental illness, we were often isolated. Almost never did we have guests, except for Grandmother’s occasional visits from Illinois. Now and then we played with neighborhood children, but usually we limited our activities to the outdoors (in this pre-video games era). Music provided another and somehow broader world for me.
My father would take me to a pawnshop a few miles up the road, and the kindly owner approved my choices—usually classical music. My prized record was Vaughn Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. I’d originally bought the record because of the lush landscape cover photo. However, the hauntingly beautiful melody brought me to tears many times—and I was a person needed a good cry, whether I always realized it or not.
I also loved top 40 and listed to Casey Kasem’s countdown every week. The first summer we moved to Florida, I remember hearing “The Air that I Breathe,” and “Seasons in the Sun” constantly. My sister and I used to buy records for each other’s birthdays that we really liked and of course, they usually ended up with the buyer, not the recipient. I’d read to all types of music—dance—exercise--day dream—and of course, try to cope with life as well as I could.
I still pull out my LPs, CDs, and tapes (almost ready for the MP3 player one of these days) when I need to relieve myself of stress. Music is the best remedy for life’s aches that I know.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Why Baseball is the Best Sport
Even though the baseball season lasts from April through October, it can never be long enough for me. I absolutely agree with Bart Giamatti’s assessment of the end of the season: “It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone."
Why my devotion to this sport that can indeed bring me to tears? Admittedly, I don’t know all of the intricacies of this game—I’ve never even learned to pencil in a scorecard. But I certainly understand its beauty, its history, and its emotional impact.
When a double play is executed well, it resembles a carefully choreographed ballet. In fact, if one looks carefully at the entire ball field, all of the players are moving or preparing to move. As the bat meets the ball, the dance begins in earnest….the batter running to first—a fielder scooping up the ball—the first baseman reaching out his hand. Baseball is truly a beautifully choreographed art. One time when I was watching the Atlanta Braves, the sound went out; the network played opera music while the technical glitch was worked on. Only in a baseball game could this substitution have worked. Like opera, baseball has its overture (batting practice), its various acts (1st through 8th innings) and then its climax (the finale)—which can be tragic or comic, depending on which team you’re rooting for.
Baseball also has a deep-rooted history and goes back to the Civil War—and even before this. Soldiers played baseball to relieve boredom between battles in our nation’s bloodiest war ever. The Black Sox tore at people’s faith in celebrities, while Babe Ruth restored it. Baseball integrated before the public schools were legally held responsible. During war, tumult, good and bad economic times, baseball has endured and often helped Americans endure.
In fact, baseball’s emotional impact is its greatest legacy. Field of Dreams resonated with so many people because of the poignant father-son catching scene at the end of the movie. Many individuals, myself included, have found baseball to be the bridge between two very different people in the same family. My father was profoundly mentally ill and understandably, out relationship was often strained. But we could always agree on baseball. Every season we picked the possible winners and I won most of the time—or at least Dad said I did. I’m glad he lived long enough to see our beloved White Sox win the World Series in 2005. I called him to exult, playing the “Go Go White Sox” song for him on the telephone.
When the baseball season ends, I admittedly feel a kind of emptiness. I look forward to spring training beginning and have resolved to travel to Arizona one of these days and catch some Sox pre-season games. Winter can be a difficult time, often bereft of sun, and always lacking greenery and baseball. But spring brings renewal—more light, vegetation, and most important, baseball.
Why my devotion to this sport that can indeed bring me to tears? Admittedly, I don’t know all of the intricacies of this game—I’ve never even learned to pencil in a scorecard. But I certainly understand its beauty, its history, and its emotional impact.
When a double play is executed well, it resembles a carefully choreographed ballet. In fact, if one looks carefully at the entire ball field, all of the players are moving or preparing to move. As the bat meets the ball, the dance begins in earnest….the batter running to first—a fielder scooping up the ball—the first baseman reaching out his hand. Baseball is truly a beautifully choreographed art. One time when I was watching the Atlanta Braves, the sound went out; the network played opera music while the technical glitch was worked on. Only in a baseball game could this substitution have worked. Like opera, baseball has its overture (batting practice), its various acts (1st through 8th innings) and then its climax (the finale)—which can be tragic or comic, depending on which team you’re rooting for.
Baseball also has a deep-rooted history and goes back to the Civil War—and even before this. Soldiers played baseball to relieve boredom between battles in our nation’s bloodiest war ever. The Black Sox tore at people’s faith in celebrities, while Babe Ruth restored it. Baseball integrated before the public schools were legally held responsible. During war, tumult, good and bad economic times, baseball has endured and often helped Americans endure.
In fact, baseball’s emotional impact is its greatest legacy. Field of Dreams resonated with so many people because of the poignant father-son catching scene at the end of the movie. Many individuals, myself included, have found baseball to be the bridge between two very different people in the same family. My father was profoundly mentally ill and understandably, out relationship was often strained. But we could always agree on baseball. Every season we picked the possible winners and I won most of the time—or at least Dad said I did. I’m glad he lived long enough to see our beloved White Sox win the World Series in 2005. I called him to exult, playing the “Go Go White Sox” song for him on the telephone.
When the baseball season ends, I admittedly feel a kind of emptiness. I look forward to spring training beginning and have resolved to travel to Arizona one of these days and catch some Sox pre-season games. Winter can be a difficult time, often bereft of sun, and always lacking greenery and baseball. But spring brings renewal—more light, vegetation, and most important, baseball.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Facebook Friends (and Enemies)
I find that Facebook brings connectedness into my life, some of it amusing, some of it banal, and some of it even painful. People I’ve known recently use it to send endless quizzes to me—“What Color Crayon Are You”? “What Nationality Are You”? etc. However, people from my past have popped up—even some from Denison Junior High; others from Winter Haven High School or Stetson University.
First of all, there haven’t been THAT many….a fact which forces me to examine what I’ve always known is true, but hate to admit. In the past, I didn’t trust people that much….so I often know people only superficially, even if externally I sometimes seen sincere. I do have a few heartfelt friends, but they’re not the virtual kind. Then I’m surprised by the people who “befriend” me, but that I can’t remember. Now I wish I had kept those slightly moldy high school and college yearbooks. It’s hard to keep up virtual conversations with people I hardly recall—or can’t remember at all. This memory loss is mostly reflective of my attempts to survive high school and college emotionally intact, despite a chaotic family situation.
But what’s most haunting about Facebook for me is the “what if” factor. I finished at the top of my class—studying was an escape from reality. And while I enjoy what I do, I don’t cure cancer—I never wrote the great American novel. By avoiding high school reunions, my classmates didn’t have to see that I achieved only modest accomplishments. But Facebook nakedly exposes me in just a few descriptive phrases. I find this most unsettling, perhaps because I’m also at middle age—that time when one looks back on what s/he didn’t do….and looks ahead to see if s/he can muster the energy or the courage to leave some kind of a lasting mark on the world.
Perhaps what’s especially painful about Facebook is how far from “normal”my life has been in many ways. Growing up with two mentally unstable parents meant that junior and senior high were mostly years of survival. Yes, I joined a couple of clubs and certainly did well academically (studying was my escape from a lot of pain), but I forged few close friendships. College was also harrowing at times—trying to overcome years of toxic family relationships, plus cope with the suicide of a college roommate.
While I married, we never had children. In fact, I’ve never even changed a diaper. (My sister has never married). So I look at the Facebook postings and read about people who take for granted that everyone gets their kids ready for school, takes them to the pool in the summer time, etc. And there are the people who mention visiting their parents and other family members and apparently having a wonderful time. About 15 years ago, my mother loaded all of the gifts we’d ever given her, plus our baby photos, school awards, etc., and left them with my uncle, requesting that we only send her a Christmas card. She doesn’t speak to her other family members, either. In fact, my mother’s side of the family split over an inheritance, so we’ve never had a family reunion with this side of the family. I’m beginning to doubt we’ll ever have a family reunion on the other side of the family, either, and it shrinks year by year from the inevitable march of old age.
I suppose Facebook is appropriately named. It has made me face the past while I’m entering the middle years, even though most of the postings involve the present. I can only hope that as I face the future, I’ll accept my less than “normal” life with better equanimity or at least indifference.
First of all, there haven’t been THAT many….a fact which forces me to examine what I’ve always known is true, but hate to admit. In the past, I didn’t trust people that much….so I often know people only superficially, even if externally I sometimes seen sincere. I do have a few heartfelt friends, but they’re not the virtual kind. Then I’m surprised by the people who “befriend” me, but that I can’t remember. Now I wish I had kept those slightly moldy high school and college yearbooks. It’s hard to keep up virtual conversations with people I hardly recall—or can’t remember at all. This memory loss is mostly reflective of my attempts to survive high school and college emotionally intact, despite a chaotic family situation.
But what’s most haunting about Facebook for me is the “what if” factor. I finished at the top of my class—studying was an escape from reality. And while I enjoy what I do, I don’t cure cancer—I never wrote the great American novel. By avoiding high school reunions, my classmates didn’t have to see that I achieved only modest accomplishments. But Facebook nakedly exposes me in just a few descriptive phrases. I find this most unsettling, perhaps because I’m also at middle age—that time when one looks back on what s/he didn’t do….and looks ahead to see if s/he can muster the energy or the courage to leave some kind of a lasting mark on the world.
Perhaps what’s especially painful about Facebook is how far from “normal”my life has been in many ways. Growing up with two mentally unstable parents meant that junior and senior high were mostly years of survival. Yes, I joined a couple of clubs and certainly did well academically (studying was my escape from a lot of pain), but I forged few close friendships. College was also harrowing at times—trying to overcome years of toxic family relationships, plus cope with the suicide of a college roommate.
While I married, we never had children. In fact, I’ve never even changed a diaper. (My sister has never married). So I look at the Facebook postings and read about people who take for granted that everyone gets their kids ready for school, takes them to the pool in the summer time, etc. And there are the people who mention visiting their parents and other family members and apparently having a wonderful time. About 15 years ago, my mother loaded all of the gifts we’d ever given her, plus our baby photos, school awards, etc., and left them with my uncle, requesting that we only send her a Christmas card. She doesn’t speak to her other family members, either. In fact, my mother’s side of the family split over an inheritance, so we’ve never had a family reunion with this side of the family. I’m beginning to doubt we’ll ever have a family reunion on the other side of the family, either, and it shrinks year by year from the inevitable march of old age.
I suppose Facebook is appropriately named. It has made me face the past while I’m entering the middle years, even though most of the postings involve the present. I can only hope that as I face the future, I’ll accept my less than “normal” life with better equanimity or at least indifference.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Health Care vs. Scare Tactics
It looks like Obama’s national health care proposal will end up being hijacked by the insurance companies and other vested interests yet again. How unfortunate that exaggerations persuade so many people—of course, I’m sure money is quite eloquent, also.
If only people would ask Canadians, Japanese, etc. about their health care systems. I remember having an introduction to health class at the University of Illinois as a graduate student (part of teacher certification). The instructor stated that national health care simply didn’t work and cited England as an example. I raised my hand, pointed out that I had lived in Japan for two years and had never had better health care. This is quite true—I had shorter waits, more choice and fewer co-pays than at any other time in my life.
A few months ago, a friend forwarded an alleged letter from a Canadian couple that had been e-mailed to her. Supposed complaints about the Canadian health care filled the letter, which quite honestly didn’t sound “Canadian” in word choice/tone. (I’m married to a Canadian, so I can usually detect the differences). My friend asked about the letter’s accuracy. I noted that my husband’s relatives, who live in Alberta, have rarely if ever complained about their health care. In fact, they usually refuse to travel in the U.S., for fear of having to use the American health care system in an emergency and thus being out of a lot of money. I also observed that while my husband and I drive fairly old vehicles and live in a modest if adequate ranch house, several of his relatives drive huge, new vehicles, live in large, newer houses, and even have a summer vacation cottage.
While any health care system has its weaknesses, I believe that the “American way” is the worst, at least among industrialized nations. We spend the most, receive the least—and to our shame, have many uninsured individuals. Health care is a basic right—along with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
If only people would ask Canadians, Japanese, etc. about their health care systems. I remember having an introduction to health class at the University of Illinois as a graduate student (part of teacher certification). The instructor stated that national health care simply didn’t work and cited England as an example. I raised my hand, pointed out that I had lived in Japan for two years and had never had better health care. This is quite true—I had shorter waits, more choice and fewer co-pays than at any other time in my life.
A few months ago, a friend forwarded an alleged letter from a Canadian couple that had been e-mailed to her. Supposed complaints about the Canadian health care filled the letter, which quite honestly didn’t sound “Canadian” in word choice/tone. (I’m married to a Canadian, so I can usually detect the differences). My friend asked about the letter’s accuracy. I noted that my husband’s relatives, who live in Alberta, have rarely if ever complained about their health care. In fact, they usually refuse to travel in the U.S., for fear of having to use the American health care system in an emergency and thus being out of a lot of money. I also observed that while my husband and I drive fairly old vehicles and live in a modest if adequate ranch house, several of his relatives drive huge, new vehicles, live in large, newer houses, and even have a summer vacation cottage.
While any health care system has its weaknesses, I believe that the “American way” is the worst, at least among industrialized nations. We spend the most, receive the least—and to our shame, have many uninsured individuals. Health care is a basic right—along with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Summertime
When I was a little girl, there was no such thing as video games. But there was TV—but we didn’t watch it very much. Mom encouraged us to play outside and we usually obliged her. With the next door neighbor girls Cheryl and Cheyle, we’d play pioneers. We’d wind our way back and forth through our spacious backyards, hoping to reach California. Red wagons and baby dolls accompanied us on our adventure-filled treks.
During high school, I worked part-time jobs at about every fast food chain you could name. But I still found time to read, write, draw and cram for standardized tests. I remember trying to memorize lists of vocabulary words and trying to figure out word problems. We lived in a rural area, so I didn’t socialize very often, although my friend Rhonda lived down the road and we’d get together periodically.
In my twenties, I spent too much time in graduate school, which meant I worked summers to pay my rent. But in my thirties and forties, I’d held full-time jobs, so the reward to myself is taking the summers off. De-cluttering and cleaning the house always remain top priorities. I read, albeit more magazines and mystery novels than classics. Some travel—seeing old friends…. Probably wasting more time than I should admit.
This summer has been different than most. It’s been filled with losses….. My trivia team unexpectedly dropped me from the team—I was the best player, but they felt too “negative” or something like that. Then my secretary at work transferred to another school….and never told me. Tragically, our school receptionist was murdered, leaving her friends and co-workers alternately stunned, angry and saddened.
I’ve tried hard to maintain a routine….contact others, keep exercising and eating right, reading magazines, keeping up on Rosetta Stone. And I’m starting to feel a bit more like it’s summer. I went to a friend’s cookout and caught up with a college buddy. My husband and I even went to see what’s left of the Beach Boys at a local festival this past Sunday night. But I must confess—this is one summer that will always be bittersweet in my memory.
During high school, I worked part-time jobs at about every fast food chain you could name. But I still found time to read, write, draw and cram for standardized tests. I remember trying to memorize lists of vocabulary words and trying to figure out word problems. We lived in a rural area, so I didn’t socialize very often, although my friend Rhonda lived down the road and we’d get together periodically.
In my twenties, I spent too much time in graduate school, which meant I worked summers to pay my rent. But in my thirties and forties, I’d held full-time jobs, so the reward to myself is taking the summers off. De-cluttering and cleaning the house always remain top priorities. I read, albeit more magazines and mystery novels than classics. Some travel—seeing old friends…. Probably wasting more time than I should admit.
This summer has been different than most. It’s been filled with losses….. My trivia team unexpectedly dropped me from the team—I was the best player, but they felt too “negative” or something like that. Then my secretary at work transferred to another school….and never told me. Tragically, our school receptionist was murdered, leaving her friends and co-workers alternately stunned, angry and saddened.
I’ve tried hard to maintain a routine….contact others, keep exercising and eating right, reading magazines, keeping up on Rosetta Stone. And I’m starting to feel a bit more like it’s summer. I went to a friend’s cookout and caught up with a college buddy. My husband and I even went to see what’s left of the Beach Boys at a local festival this past Sunday night. But I must confess—this is one summer that will always be bittersweet in my memory.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Alternative Universes
The old TV series Star Trek used to play around with the concept of alternative universes. In one lived a “good” Kirk and Spock; in the other, a “bad” Kirk and Spock. Sometimes, it’s tempting to consider another pathway for ourselves or others. Is there a Lori who stayed behind in Pontiac, IL instead of moving with her family to Winter Haven, FL? If so, would she have stayed with the same set of friends, many of whom indulged in habits not shared in the Florida existence? Would the Illinois Lori have smoked in the bathroom and casually dated boys? The Florida Lori did neither. Or is there a Lori who stayed in Japan, never to return to the U.S.—or perhaps a Lori who impulsively followed her heart to England, never to return?
I’d like to think that I am essentially the same person in either universe. But there are people whose lives were dramatically changed in seconds. One of these I’ll call “Tammy.” She’d visit the school library almost every day, wanting to visit. I couldn’t get much work done, and finally found her an alternative waiting place when she came back from the sheltered workplace early. I felt pretty guilty about this, because Tammy had only one good hand, the other curled under, almost useless. And she limped awkwardly, almost sideways. She wore thick glasses and had difficulty talking. I figured she must have been born with a very unfortunate birth defect. Instead, I discovered months later that Tammy had the misfortune of being born to very cruel parents who threw their baby against the wall when they grew tired of her crying. When I think of Tammy, I truly wish the dubious laws of science presented in Star Trek were true. It would be lovely to imagine a Tammy who could walk straight and tall, without a limp. A Tammy who didn’t need thick glasses and could talk clearly. A Tammy who possessed two useful hands. But such an alternatively happy ending could only occur in science fiction.
I’d like to think that I am essentially the same person in either universe. But there are people whose lives were dramatically changed in seconds. One of these I’ll call “Tammy.” She’d visit the school library almost every day, wanting to visit. I couldn’t get much work done, and finally found her an alternative waiting place when she came back from the sheltered workplace early. I felt pretty guilty about this, because Tammy had only one good hand, the other curled under, almost useless. And she limped awkwardly, almost sideways. She wore thick glasses and had difficulty talking. I figured she must have been born with a very unfortunate birth defect. Instead, I discovered months later that Tammy had the misfortune of being born to very cruel parents who threw their baby against the wall when they grew tired of her crying. When I think of Tammy, I truly wish the dubious laws of science presented in Star Trek were true. It would be lovely to imagine a Tammy who could walk straight and tall, without a limp. A Tammy who didn’t need thick glasses and could talk clearly. A Tammy who possessed two useful hands. But such an alternatively happy ending could only occur in science fiction.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Drawn to Disaster
When I was about ten, I began reading every book on the Titanic I could find. I also watched every movie that popped up on TV: A Night to Remember, SOS Titanic, etc. In fact, I strongly disliked the Cameron version because of its inaccuracies, which shows what a Titanic geek I had become. And of course, a pilgrim of peril, I journeyed to two Titanic museum exhibits.
My interest in disasters has not been limited to the Titanic. I’ve read books on ship fires, explosions, disappearances…...also, non-maritime disasters such as circus and coal mine fires….In fact, I’ve perused books on about every conceivable disaster that’s occurred to (sometimes caused by) humans. Every summer I read at least one gripping account of people attempting to escape a terrible fate. Right now, I’m reading about the great Peshtigo fire.
Why would I do this to myself, you might ask? Most people pick up Danielle Steele or John Grisham for their summer reads. I suspect the answer lies in my birth. I was born in the early 1960s, when babies didn’t always survive difficult births. I nearly died of asthma at birth, later nearly drawing my last breath once again at age two. When I was a teenager working the breakfast shift at McDonald’s, I looked both ways at a sleepy rural intersection. It was 5 a.m.—but my father always taught me to look both ways. A truck barreled through a red light from the other direction—and had I not looked, I would have been dead instantly. In my twenties, I took a propeller plane from Oahu to Molokai; this same plane crashed with a total loss of life shortly thereafter. Just a few days ago, a woman died when railroad cars carrying ethanol derailed, sending up a wall of flame. I have passed this same intersection many times, often at the very time this accident occurred.
I think these occurrences, at least in part, explain why I am drawn to disasters. I don’t like to read about pain or death…..but I do like to read about survivors. How do some people manage to elude the Grim Reaper? Sometimes it’s sheer luck, but other times it’s due to a refusal to give up or by keeping a clear head. Sometimes in my life, I was purely lucky to escape injury or death, but in the cause of the asthma attacks, I stubbornly held on to life, like a survivor hanging onto a life raft after her ship has sunk.
Perhaps this is the reason I don’t like to read about disasters or tragedies without survivors, such as Pompei or the 9-11 airplanes. Survivors’ stories are often exciting and varied—and something about their narratives connects to the part of me that fought for every breath as a baby.
My interest in disasters has not been limited to the Titanic. I’ve read books on ship fires, explosions, disappearances…...also, non-maritime disasters such as circus and coal mine fires….In fact, I’ve perused books on about every conceivable disaster that’s occurred to (sometimes caused by) humans. Every summer I read at least one gripping account of people attempting to escape a terrible fate. Right now, I’m reading about the great Peshtigo fire.
Why would I do this to myself, you might ask? Most people pick up Danielle Steele or John Grisham for their summer reads. I suspect the answer lies in my birth. I was born in the early 1960s, when babies didn’t always survive difficult births. I nearly died of asthma at birth, later nearly drawing my last breath once again at age two. When I was a teenager working the breakfast shift at McDonald’s, I looked both ways at a sleepy rural intersection. It was 5 a.m.—but my father always taught me to look both ways. A truck barreled through a red light from the other direction—and had I not looked, I would have been dead instantly. In my twenties, I took a propeller plane from Oahu to Molokai; this same plane crashed with a total loss of life shortly thereafter. Just a few days ago, a woman died when railroad cars carrying ethanol derailed, sending up a wall of flame. I have passed this same intersection many times, often at the very time this accident occurred.
I think these occurrences, at least in part, explain why I am drawn to disasters. I don’t like to read about pain or death…..but I do like to read about survivors. How do some people manage to elude the Grim Reaper? Sometimes it’s sheer luck, but other times it’s due to a refusal to give up or by keeping a clear head. Sometimes in my life, I was purely lucky to escape injury or death, but in the cause of the asthma attacks, I stubbornly held on to life, like a survivor hanging onto a life raft after her ship has sunk.
Perhaps this is the reason I don’t like to read about disasters or tragedies without survivors, such as Pompei or the 9-11 airplanes. Survivors’ stories are often exciting and varied—and something about their narratives connects to the part of me that fought for every breath as a baby.
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