Heirloom Begonia

I conclude my series on Plants that are some of my Favorite People on this last day of 2025 with a tribute to a cherished begonia and the people she represents. Long ago, my Grandma Georgia tended her angelwing begonia in the west window of her front room. The stand beneath it was likely crafted by my dad, her son, in his woodworking shop. All of her grandchildren noticed this solitary plant, the only one she kept inside. Its showy speckled leaves were indeed shaped like wings, with many colors—from green to red, and silver speckles. Grandma told me that she had received this begonia from her mother, who got it from her mother, and so on and so forth. It is a living family heirloom. The cuttings keep going over many generations, and decades, and multiple centuries. Who is to know how old this plant really is? For Grandma, it dated back to the 1800s. It’s now part of my 21st century garden.

And so the angelwing begonia is esteemed in my collection. It represents the family’s values—among which are resilience, persistence, continuity, and devotion. It is determined and dedicated, regardless of its human caretakers, and just keeps on keepin’ on, fulfilling the purpose the universe has assigned to it.

My treasured angelwing begonia has graced my window ledge in winter and the outdoor planting beds in the summer for many years. Like Grandma Georgia, I have shared cuttings with cousins, sisters, nieces, and friends. With appreciation for the begonia’s connection to my grandmother, I saved this post for the last in the series for two reasons. One was the reminder of the cyclical nature of life on earth and the resilience of life as we prepare to welcome a new year. May the begonia deliver hope for the weeks and months to come.

The second was to honor the memory of a dear cousin who passed away one week ago today, on the day before Christmas. Like my sisters and me, she was a granddaughter of Grandma Georgia. One of my favorite memories of Maureen is her quiet request for one of the begonia cuttings a few years ago. I prepared one for her and we met in the parking lot of the Episcopal Church in Derby for the exchange. Now my angelwing begonia connects me to her as well as other loved ones who have donned their own angel wings in the great beyond.

Maureen, you will be missed.

Meet Elizabeth Mames

My tales of plant friends would not be complete without mention of my first pet plant. Meet Elizabeth Mames. When I was just 10 years old, I received a start of the classroom windowsill plant from my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Pratt. She had pruned the potted plant that graced the window in our classroom and sent a start home with me, probably other classmates as well. It was striking with purple—not green—foliage, and tiny, delicate three-petaled flowers. Without blossoms to attract much attention, this was truly a foliage plant. Mrs. Pratt called the classroom plant a Wandering Jew. I named mine “Elizabeth Mames,” and Elizabeth Mames she has remained through the ensuing decades.

At home, I was fascinated to see white roots erupt from the purple stems I stuck in a glass of water. With guidance from my agronomist father, I potted Elizabeth Mames and for several weeks took photos of her growth. (In black and white, of course. No color photos back then. Yes, I’m that old.) She has stayed with me through several life moves, through thick and thin, through heartache and celebration. At some point in time, I realized that Elizabeth Mames would do quite well outside during the warm months, but I was careful to collect starts before frost wilted the purple leaves every autumn. Several years ago, I was amazed to see that she would come back from her underground roots when the weather warms in springtime, unless we experienced a polar vortex, as we have a time or two. So, I still collect a few stems to keep her going through the winter.

She’s not showy, but provides a lovely backdrop for my other plant friends in the summer planting beds. Elizabeth Mames has stayed with me for decades, sturdy and reliable. She helps me remember my stellar 5th grade teacher. When my own children reached 5th grade, I started looking for Mrs. Pratt and found her in another town and another state. She was delighted to hear from me and we corresponded until her death five years ago.

Thanks, Elizabeth Mames, for the memories.

Plants are some of my Favorite People #3

My father influenced my love of the plant world more than anyone. I can hardly turn around without seeing a plant that makes me think of him.He grew up on the family farm which had been homesteaded by his grandfather. He always intended to farm it, I suppose. But after World War II, farming changed quite a bit and no longer could a farmer expect to support a family on 160 acres. The homestead stayed in the family for another six decades, though none of us lived or worked there. He, however, studied at universities in several states, earned a PhD in agronomy, and ended up as a college instructor, sharing his love for plants and agriculture with his students. His love for gardening and plants never waned. Nor did his sense of humor.

The Stephelia (Star Flower, Carrion plant) I inherited from my father is testament to his good humor. I have to chuckle remembering him when its buds pop open every autumn. Rather than attracting bees and butterflies, the Stephelia’s “fragrance” attracts houseflies. “A stinky plant,” says my sister.But its flowers are singularly remarkable. I understand why Daddy was fascinated with this succulent. This past summer was a good year for the Stephelia and it offered a stunning display of blossoms. I felt my dad close by as the buds swelled and then burst open into palm-sized blossoms covered in fuzz. Every year lately they have been awesome, in spite of the fragrance.

Like his mother, Daddy tended a large garden every year. He devoted a circular plot in his driveway to flowers. When time came to thin the bulbs, he eagerly shared iris bulbs with us, as well as those he called “naked ladies.” Other folks refer to them as “surprise lilies.” They aren’t true lilies, but instead belong to the amaryllis family. The bulbs send up green leaves early in the spring, but then die down so that you forget all about them until the leafless flower stalks shoot up, seemingly overnight, in late July. And they are magnificent, covered with striking pink flowers.

One year, after the surprise lilies Daddy shared with us had wilted, I noticed a thinner stalk with small red flowers erupt. I’d never seen anything like these September blooming “red spider lilies” before, and had no idea where they might have originated. I thought perhaps we had a mutated version of the pink naked ladies. The red version was astounding and vivid and inspired me to add them as “characters” in my first suspense novel, Sundrop Sonata. (More on these red spider lilies tomorrow.)

With plants that bloom at different times of the year, and the Stephelia that requires care indoors during winter months,I feel close to my dad many times each day. Though I miss my folks very much, they are with me in the thriving plants they shared long ago.

Plants are some of my Favorite People #2

Plants connect me to people from long ago and far away. From a Rocky Mountain high with the Mother succulent, I think of another daughter who has moved around a lot with her husband for the US Marines. With a giant leap over my location, she is 1800 miles away from her sister, and 1400 miles away from me. She has tried to keep her young girls involved in the fascinating world of plants by creating mini-gardens in different locations. Now a first-grade teacher in Coastal Elementary School, she recently shared a photo of a blooming Christmas cactus one of her students gave her. That made me think of my own mother.

Mother wasn’t much for tending houseplants or flowers, though she always helped plant, weed, harvest, and preserve garden produce alongside my dad. About thirty years ago, a friend she’d known since her college days in the 1930s gave her a Christmas cactus start. This was long after I’d left home and started my own family. Mother shared some Christmas cactus starts with me soon after she planted her own. She has been gone more than twenty years now and when this plant faithfully blooms at Thanksgiving time each year, (not Christmas!) I think of her. This prolific plant connects me to both my mother and my daughter. The circle is unbroken.

The Sun Day 2025 Experience in Cowley County, Kansas

Here Comes the Sun-Day!

For over 50 years,  Winfield, Kansas has been home to the Walnut Valley Festival on the third weekend in September. That made planning a Sun Day 2025 event here challenging.  If we were to correlate with the national effort to raise awareness and celebrate the explosion of solar energy around the world, we had to get creative. Fortunately, Cowley County is full of creative people.

We decided to feature a variety of events preceding that big day.  And thus our “Here Comes the Sun-Day” project was born. Now that it’s over, enjoy a photo tour of the local events for Sun Day 2025.

Solar Art Exhibit Featured at Gallery 1001 through September

The Winfield Public Library and the Arkansas City Public Library featured solar books and STEM projects through the month.

Local Coffeeshops and Restaurants offered sun-related specialties.

College Hill Coffee featured a “golden sun turmeric latte” and Sunshine sandwich special. They also provided media for customers to create their own “Sun Day Art”.

Downtown, the Oasis designed a special “Sunset Refresher” drink.

Grace United Methodist Church got into the Sun-Spirit after installing a large solar array on their education building a couple years ago. They kicked off the big Sun Week with special music from campers at the Walnut Valley Festival, followed by a covered dish dinner–with a few sunny delights!

A sweet “sunflower” and sunflower seed pie.

And a local quartet shared an arrangement of  “Here Comes the Sun!”

Meanwhile, out at the Festival, campers and music lovers could show their solar support with specially designed stickers, and enter a drawing for solar camping equipment.

The Winfield Arts and Humanities Council teamed up with the Walnut Valley Festival to offer children a chance to create t-shirts, printed by the sun!

The county Sun Day planning committee provided information for interested folks to tour several local solar installations through the week prior to Sun Day.

Locations were marked by the special yard sign, within two communities, as well as in the countryside.

The Final Event was a “Walk for the Sun” to wave at supporters as they traveled home from a remarkable weekend.

Happy Sun Day! May we pursue knowledge and skills, as well as installations of panels that will convert the plentiful energy from our local star into power for all!

 

 

 

 

 

Do We Need a New Bible?

The solar energy system on our house came online in July 2011. For the next fourteen years, few days passed when our inverter reported no energy produced by the sun. Then, in June this summer, it all changed. The status window on the inverter, a necessary device that converts the direct current produced by the sun to alternating current for use in our home, toggled error messages constantly during daylight hours. “Peak overvolt,” “AC Voltage Low,” “AC Voltage High.” Production ceased. Given my determination to support the national Sun Day (https://www.sunday.earth)  on September 21 with a local event, we had to do something! An error-ridden system just would not suffice.

The people who installed our system are no longer in that business, so I called local electricians to help diagnose the problem. But we were put on a back-logged wait list, with no real intent to take us off since we were not a priority for the local electricity experts.

I turned to a recommended solar company headquartered ninety miles away. Weeks passed with no appreciable action, but after the devastating baseball sized hailstorm damaged several Solar installations in Ark City, a repair and maintenance specialist from this company stopped to take a look. He found nothing wrong, and assumed there was an issue with a computer chip in the inverter. His advice was to do a hard reset, that is, turn off the whole system for ten days to two weeks to allow the capacitors inside to fully discharge, then turn it on and hope for the best.

It didn’t resolve the error messaging.

I reported back to the solar company and declared that we were ready to replace the inverter and upgrade our home system. That’s when things became interesting.

On Friday afternoon, J, a system designer/project manager, arrived to do a site visit. We agreed on a 3:00 time via email messages. And at precisely 3:00, his white company pickup rolled to a stop in front of our house.

He’s punctual. Impressive.

J chatted about options as he took pictures of several important components in our system, utility meters, and structures on the property. A friendly, 40-something bearded man, he easily answered our questions. I noticed ear piercings as well as tattoos on his forearms. One tattoo was a caterpillar. Another broadcast in a fairly large font, “Practice Resurrection.”

Who was this guy? What did that mean, practice resurrection? Was he part of a strict religious cult? A rigid fundamentalist?

His knowledge of everything solar was obvious and the time flew by. It crossed my mind to ask about the tattoo, yet in the end I let it be. But later, that phrase wouldn’t let me be and I did a search. It turns out that “Practice resurrection” is part of a poem by Wendell Berry.

This system designer for a solar company has poetry tattooed on his arm for all the world to see. Wendell Berry, no less. Impressive!

My encounter with Wendell Berry and his writing has been a meandering path. Earlier this summer, a good friend presented me with an envelope that held a poem by Wendell Berry. M turned to this poem when he needed solace and he wanted to share it with me. That well-worn envelope is in the bag I carry daily. I shared the “practice resurrection” poem with M that evening, whereupon he loaned me Poetry of Presence II, a small volume of poems he didn’t want to part with permanently. It included a few by Wendell Berry, and M urged me to take a look at the poet’s life.

“Look him up,” he said.

Wendell Berry is not to be confused with Thomas Berry, whose book The Dream of the Earth is one of my cherished tomes. Still, there are similar themes in their writing. A thumbnail bio in the back of the loaned poetry book tells me that Wendell Berry writes poetry, essays, and novels. He is an environmentalist “with one primary message: Either we humans will learn to respect and live in harmony with the natural rhythms of this planet, or we will perish.”

Yes. That is prophecy. And Wendell Berry’s important message becomes clearer by the day as humans who have no business leading us continue to lead us toward devastation. It smacks me that this poet’s words have been swimming through my consciousness for years. I have one of his novels in my treasured books collection—as yet unread, but it’s on my list. It just moved a little higher.

There are eleven of Wendell Berry’s poems in my revered 1991 copy of Earth Prayers from Around the World: 365 Prayers, Poems, and Invocations for Honoring the Earth. Included in this volume is an excerpt from the poem that concludes with the words, “Practice Resurrection.”

What, exactly, does that mean? A description that popped up in another search. To practice resurrection means to embody the spirit of new life, hope, and transformation in the face of death, despair or brokenness. Often this is accomplished in acts of faith and love, through perseverance. It involves a daily commitment to find new life in death, to cultivate resilience, to see possibilities for redemption in difficult situations.

That, my inner voice says, is what we need right now, a sense of partnership with the creative Spirit responsible for all life on our amazing planet.  That, my inner voice adds, is the theme of the novel I’m currently writing. That inner voice, I swear, also adds, that may be the theme of many great works of fiction through the ages.

Excerpts from Berry’s poetic verse prompt more from my nagging inner voice.

Berry: “So, friends, . . . love someone who does not deserve it.”

Fell: Love is the greatest power. Believe it.

Berry: “Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.”

Fell: Berry, who is 91 in 2025, wrote this before 1991. How did he know?!

Berry: “Give your approval to all you cannot understand. Praise ignorance, for what man has not encountered he has not destroyed.”

Fell: And everything he has encountered, he is in the process of destroying.

Berry: “ . . . please women more than men . . .”

Fell: Hear, hear!

Berry: “Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years. Listen to carrion . . .”

Fell: The cycle of life; from death comes new life.

Berry: “Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.”

Fell: Not the fake facts. Consider the factual facts. This is a difficult thing, and yet, laughter is healing. When one can laugh, one can love.

Berry: “As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. . . make tracks in the wrong direction.”

Fell: I am losing my mind.

Berry: “Practice resurrection.”

Which brings me back to the topic of this essay. We need a new Bible. There. I’ve said the thing that’s been on my mind a long time—like decades. Writers know that communication is a give-and-take experience. Half a conversation belongs to the listener. Half the communication through reading belongs to the reader. Given the infinite life experiences of any single life (no two are alike) each reader may interpret a sentence, a verse, a chapter or a book in ways that astonish the writer. This has happened to me, when readers express things they got from my writing that I didn’t know were there. And so, in 2025, with our lives so very different from the ages when scriptures were written, is it any wonder that we misconstrue, misunderstand, and misrepresent the ancient verse?

When our scriptures offer some people excuses to act in cruelty with arrogance rather than teach us how to get along, there is something wrong. When our holy verse teaches that some humans have more rights than others, this is not good. We need lessons and prayers that include reverence and consideration for all peoples around the world, for all life forms created by the Spirit from elements on Earth; we need to cherish and care for the planet as She has cared for us. We need inclusive Scriptures, not exclusive retaliatory verse. We need the insights of various faiths that developed in different locations, including those of indigenous peoples. Inclusive, not exclusive. We need to learn to respect each other, to love with abandon, and to honor those forces and cycles that brought us into being, be they of heaven or of Earth.

We need to practice resurrection.

 

 

Keys of His Success

Emerson Talkington opens the lid on the grand piano and settles on the bench. His hands spread across the keys and exquisite music rises from the strings. From Chopin to Brahms to Rachmaninoff, he plays as if the piano is part of him. Days away from his college graduation, he’s on target to achieve a goal he’s dreamed about for years. From an unlikely and late start, Emerson has cleared more hurdles in the last decade than many people face in their entire lives.

Since the first commencement in June 1889, Southwestern College (SC) has held graduation exercises each spring. This year’s event is planned for May 4 at 2:30 in the Richard L. Jantz Stadium. As he receives his diploma for a Bachelor of Arts in Music that day, Emerson will join hundreds of alumni since that 1889 ceremony with degrees in Music. This year, he has the distinction to be the only music major. “And,” he says, “I’m the last one.”

Born in Winfield in 2002, he attended the local schools, graduating from Winfield High School with the class of 2020, in the Year of Covid. His love for piano began when he was a student at Winfield Middle School. The vocal music classroom housed a Mason & Hamlin grand piano donated from the estate of legendary pianist and teacher E. Marie Burdette. Emerson became fascinated with that piano and lingered after school most days in hopes of a chance to play it. His innate ability coupled with YouTube tutorial videos allowed him to pick out melodies by ear and the school’s music faculty encouraged him as his love for piano flourished.

Paige Camp, the vocal teacher at the time, says, “It seems like yesterday that he was a student in middle-level choir.  He spent many days after school in the music hall, tinkering with the piano.  I nicknamed him ‘Cling-on’ as he was usually there until we had to lock up for the day.”

Allen Dilley, band teacher, accompanist for the middle school choirs, and accomplished pianist himself, often used the Burdette piano after school for practicing. “Dr. Dilley introduced me to piano technique and music theory,” Emerson says.

“I first met Emerson in the vocal music room at WMS,” Dilley says. “Classes had concluded for the day and I recall practicing Chopin’s Scherzo in Bb minor—a challenging composition. A few days later Emerson was in the room playing excerpts from the same piece, albeit without having ever seen the music. I suggested that as he began his keyboard journey, he might want to start with something a little less intimidating.”

From the middle school choir, he went on to the WHS choir where he found another friend and mentor in accompanist Billy Bearden. Lacking the Burdette grand piano he’d enjoyed at the middle school, Emerson found a small console piano in a storeroom to tinker with. He often sought out Bearden for tips on piano performance.

It was during his senior year in high school that he encountered a huge obstacle in his path—he had cancer. Bearden shares, “[After] the diagnosis . . . there’s a moment for Emerson (or maybe a thousand of them) where it feels that the universe is playing a cruel joke.” However, Bearden notes that there’s a “miracle in the mundane: he keeps playing.  Even when his physical pain makes it hard to sit up.  Even when he’s told music is a waste of time, and when all he can hear in his head is how he started too late and he’s not good enough—Emerson keeps playing.”

Emerson tapped local jazz pianist and renowned performing artist Scott Williams as his first official private piano teacher. Williams says, “I began teaching Emerson between his sophomore and junior years of high school. This is later than most people start learning the piano, but I sensed right away how serious he was. He progressed quickly, and soon sounded like he had been playing much longer. It wasn’t that long before he started getting hired as a pianist.”

With the private lessons, his early mentors noticed his growing skill with jazz. Dilley notes, “His knowledge of chords and harmony and the ability to apply them to existing melodies is excellent. He showed me how to turn a well-known hymn into a “blues” piece!” The student turned into a teacher.

Paige Camp worked with him through high school. “He joined the high school jazz band, and later the symphonic band.  There were hours of rehearsal and many performances. . . But despite the cancer diagnosis, he kept a very dry sense of humor about it all.  And he kept playing the piano.”

Through the cancer and Covid chaos, he never quit playing. It was clear to him that music, through pianos, was his life’s calling and he embraced it with his whole heart. After he graduated from WHS, he enrolled with a scholarship in Cowley College as a music major. His first experience working with Cowley piano instructor Steve Butler was when he was a high school senior. He was asked to fill in as accompanist when Butler took over conducting the Cowley Singers at a concert. “I had a couple weeks to prepare, but I was still nervous,” Emerson recalls. Since that debut audition, he has performed many times for Butler, including as a duet partner. “Playing duets with Steve brought out my best,” Emerson says.

Pastor at Hackney Baptist church as well as music instructor at Cowley College, Butler considers Emerson a good friend and has been pleased to recommend him when people ask for a keyboard artist.

During the semesters at Cowley, Emerson also became the proud owner of that E. Marie Burdette Mason & Hamlin grand piano. Covid prompted staff changes at USD 465, and the new music staff members were willing to transfer the custody and maintenance of that gem of a piano to the school alumnus who had fallen in love with music through it. Emerson kept playing on the original mesmerizing instrument.

He transferred to Southwestern College as a music major with a piano performance emphasis but soon after he enrolled, Southwestern announced it was terminating its music degree program. To its credit, the college committed to completing the degrees of the majors that were currently enrolled and Emerson persevered.

Cancer struck again with a vengeance later that same fall, and delayed his coursework while he battled the relapse at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. Fellow cancer survivor and associate professor of music at Southwestern College Jeremy Kirk said, “Living through chemo as he did—twice—influences your tenacity. You have to be tenacious. There’s a feeling that: If I can do this, there’s nothing I can’t do.”

Returning months later with his cancer in remission, Emerson picked up where he’d left off, married Rosalyn, the love of his life, and with support from the music faculty and the college administration, he continued his pursuit of a Bachelor of Arts in Music. His grit and determination impressed the staff at Southwestern to the point where the instructors were as determined as Emerson to fulfill his goal.

Professor Kirk shares his insights. “Emerson possesses first rate music talent and he seeks opportunities for growth as a musician outside his comfort zone.” As a student in Kirk’s World Music class, he joined the performing ensemble and traveled to Hawaii with the group in December 2022. He participated in the jazz and pep bands at SC, served as librarian for the South Kansas Symphony, took private organ lessons from James Leland, and even helped Leland with the day-to-day maintenance of the pipe organ in Richardson Performing Arts Center. He completed his coursework mostly through online classes and independent studies, but he never gave up and never quit playing.

In addition to a bustling student schedule, Emerson supported himself through the years with a variety of outside jobs. His interest in automobile mechanics secured him a job as a manager at O’Reilly’s for a while. He also worked in fast food places, installed signs for Cardinal Signs, did custodial work, served as the accompanist at area churches including a couple years as organist at Winfield’s First Presbyterian Church, and as the accompanist at Ark City Middle School for the last four years. He also has a few piano students of his own.

Leland says, “I have unparalleled appreciation for the noble and realistic way he worked through college. He is conscientious about finishing any work he starts.”

Emerson has triumphed through all the challenges the universe threw at him. Bearden, his accompanist pal during high school, says, “It wasn’t triumph in any grandiose sense—no concerts or sudden label deals—but it was something better: a private rebellion, a refusal to quit.  Each day he chose the small and seemingly insignificant choice to create beauty in a world that kept offering pain.”

And he became more than just a student. “He became an artist,” Bearden says.

With graduation approaching, he prepares to launch into his next chapter of life. Emerson will join fellow SC music alumni Butler (1997) and Bearden (2005) as well as hundreds of musicians with roots at Southwestern College who became dedicated schoolteachers in small towns and cities across the nation, performed with respected symphonies, taught in colleges and universities, or worked as church musicians and composers.

For the immediate future, he plans to travel this summer, to embrace as much of life’s opportunities as possible. “I want to travel while I can. I might not make it through a third cancer occurrence.”

When he is home, Emerson plans a public performance where he will share his spark for life. Details will be announced later. He plans to expand his studio to offer more private lessons, and hopes to teach music at an area school. He is interested in piano technology and wants to eventually rebuild the Mason & Hamlin piano that opened the world of music to him.

Kirk feels certain that Emerson will have success with whatever he chooses to pursue because of the qualities of his personality. What are those qualities? According to those who know him well he is flexible, humble, inquisitive, compassionate, and kind. With a gentle nature, he is always there to help a friend—a good recipe for success in any situation.

For now, each of his instructors feels what Steve Butler expresses, “To have played a small part in his musical and spiritual growth gives me great joy!” His hometown and expanded community join the instructors to wish him the best as he graduates with his coveted BA degree in music, with an emphasis in piano performance.

 

Craig, Carter, and Compassion

Seventy-three years ago today, at 10:10 in the morning, a baby boy arrived in this world who would become a significant part of my life. Two decades later, I met Craig Winter in college at FHSU. We enjoyed traipsing around public parks and nature reserves in Kansas with our cameras, taking pictures of the wonders of nature. This morning I celebrated his life with a walk in the winter wonderland, taking a few pictures of the snow that fell overnight.

Craig and I were married in 1977, during Jimmy Carter’s presidency. Having taken a class in the biology department at FHSU together–a class called “Can Man Survive?” that examined all the environmental issues of the day, including the greenhouse effect and global warming as climate change was called then–we were united in our commitment to support the natural world and reduce humanity’s harmful effects that were due to our unmitigated greed. Jimmy Carter was our guy. They say he was ahead of his time. I don’t think so. The probability of a global consequence to our short-sighted ravaging of our planet was known more than 100 years ago. Society knew all the benefits of alternative energy in the 60s and 70s. But harnessing free energy from the sun didn’t make any corporations much money. Craig and I were supporters of Carter’s conservation methods–turn down the winter thermostat, 55 mph speed limit, his installation of solar panels on the White House. And we dreamed of becoming reliant on our own private energy production, even then.

Carter acted with the well-being of his neighbors in mind, a true Christian quality. He wasn’t ahead of his time. The “resistance” at that time was just way behind. Look where that got us as they gained and assumed power.

Craig became a cancer statistic 9 days after his 33rd birthday in 1985, and I became a widow. (Quite the stigma for someone not yet 30 years old.) But I haven’t forgotten our joint priorities, nor our admiration for President Jimmy Carter.

Photo courtesy of The Carter Center.             Cuba 2002–The Carter Center’s delegation to Cuba, being the first time since the 1959 Revolution that a sitting or former president visited Cuba.

After his time in office ended, President Carter showed that you don’t have to be the elected leader of the country to make a huge difference, and today, a day after President Jimmy Carter’s funeral in Washington, DC, I renew my commitment to make a difference for those in my circle, for the inhabitants of Earth’s future, and for all the non-human neighbors that are as dependent on this planet as we are dependent on their well-being. Those of us with the future of our planet and its life forms in mind are now the “resistance.”

This morning, in honor of Craig Winter, I was trekking around our acreage in the fresh snow with my camera, capturing scenes, just like we used to do. Thinking of you Craigie, as I always do on this day. With love.

NOTE: I am deeply grateful and indebted to my second husband, Mike, for his generous and compassionate heart for the last 36 years. He has never objected to my memories or to my honoring people from my personal history that helped make me what I am today. We are all products of our histories and our memories, not just the stimuli we receive at the present time. Thank you for being dad to all our children, and grandpa to all our grandchildren as well as allowing my heart to grieve through the years.

On the Verge

Remember what it was like. After a long wait, it finally happened. With guarded optimism, you look forward to the big event. Though you know things can happen, chances are you won’t be in that slim margin. So you dance. You laugh. You hug everyone and share the good news. You imagine life after the event, the realization of a dream come true. The anticipation of anniversaries, holidays, and journeys to wondrous locations, savoring the unfettered excitement as your long-awaited dream discovers the world. Never a dull moment. Of course there will be challenges, but nothing you can’t work through and be stronger for it. You look forward to years of living, loving, and learning together.

Until there are none.

It all comes crashing down. Something was wrong at a routine checkpoint. No  heart beat. Emergency trip to the hospital. Before you have time to process the news, joy morphs into heartbreak. A birth becomes a funeral. It’s over. Dreams die hard.

After November 5, it struck me how similar the election loss was to the loss of an infant. Though it’s been decades ago, I feel the same sad aimless wandering and hopelessness with the election results as with my two sweet babes who died before they had a chance to live. Gone are the anticipated celebrations and birth anniversaries. Gone are all the anticipated years of discovering the world together. Gone are the memories and the history I looked forward to making.

Every morning brings more bad news to my inbox and I move through life on the verge of tears, almost—yet not quite—ready to open the floodgates.

How will I manage the coming hard times? How will I step forward, keep moving, go through the motions, when my heart is sorely wounded? How can I show up for others when I can’t even manage to cheer myself up? Where did all the good in the world, all the anticipated conquests of our precarious future—where did they go?

One of the writers I follow suggested asking two questions every day.

  • What do I still know and believe as truth?
  • Is my heart still beating?

In other words, my values remain and I can embrace them until my dying breath. It reminds me of the weeks and months following the burials of my sweet babes. It’s been forty years. (Almost 43 for the first and 42 for the second.) How did I work through the devastation?

Perhaps some things I did then will help now too. I journaled regularly, poured my soul onto pages in my notebooks. With tiny locks of hair and photos that spoke to me, I made lockets and hung them near my heart. Little by little, I dared to venture forth. I told myself I would make choices and take actions—small at first—but I would do it for the lost children. I would live for those who didn’t have the chance, and I would face each day for the sake of my lost loved ones. I would do my best to make a good life. For them.

I don’t know what lies ahead, though I face it with a certain amount of dread. I can only work with what is here, today, and do my best to make a difference for my family and for as many others as I can.

Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can.
― John Wesley

To the Stars

I chased sunsets in my youth. Often, my mother would ride along as evening approached, and I drove to the west side of town. A favorite hilltop offered a spectacular unobstructed view of the evening sky. This was back in the day when color photography was off limits to many but I wanted to give it a try. My dad ran a black and white portrait studio in our basement when I was very young, and I’d help him nurse the images to life in the darkroom under our stairs. But color was a different story altogether. It was the next thing, a new generation of photo art, and I took what I had learned from him and launched into color printing in our basement laundry room—new town, new home.

In those days, I could purchase the developing chemicals at our local K-Mart, just up the street. I used a “Unicolor” system, with a plastic drum, that had channels for various sizes of prints, up to an 8 x 10. You were to expose the paper with your enlarger, using color filters for the proper mix of pigmentation, and then fit the paper into the drum, in the dark, and seal it with the press-on lid. From there, you could operate in daylight, pouring each designated chemical through the spout into and out of the drum at the prescribed times. At the end—wallah!—I removed my color prints.

Moonrise
Moonset

With our Kansas state motto, “Ad astra per aspera,” (to the stars through difficulties) it’s a logical pastime to watch the sky. Here in the western plains, often the sky provides the most intriguing scenery to be found. Some sunsets are stunning. And no two are alike. The interplay of light with moisture in the air, as well as dust at times, provide distractions from ordinary difficulties along with the continuously changing scenery. I don’t print color enlargements these days, but try to find images worthy of sharing in a digital format. New generation. Next thing.

I found myself sky-watching again after the election a month ago. The vistas overhead provided consistency through their constant metamorphosis and it was comforting. If not exactly ad astra per aspera, then at least ad caelum.