October 24, 2014--Midcoast: Just Talk

After a complicated breakfast with Jim, during which a nuanced and balanced conversation about affirmative action and same-sex relationships descended into indiscriminate Obama bashing (Jim whispered conspiratorially as we were leaving, after I confessed disappointment in Barack Obama's presidency, "Don't you agree that he's working to bring down America?") over anniversary dinner later in the evening with other friends, we got to talking about how in small towns such as this one, where people depend upon, even need each other to get through life's perils, we generally find ways to disagree and often those with whom we have the sharpest disputes are the very ones we call on when things are most urgent; and, if we are honest about that and, more important about ourselves, we discover that our differences almost always amount to just words.

They amount to just words because, in truth, most of us are not actively or directly engaged in working to bring about social or political change (no matter its ideological direction or content) and are not that active in fraternal or civic organizations. Rather we talk. Talk passionately about things we believe in while remaining relatively unengaged.

Is this too cynical a view?

In some ways yes. In other cases maybe not. Like so much here this too can be complicated.

It is not cynical when it comes to holding accountable many of my fellow liberals (me as well) who are especially adept at the talking while this cynical view is unfair for many of those of more conservative persuasion who tend to be more actively and directly involved in the life of the community.

They are more likely to be volunteer firemen or, as a member of the EMS squad, are the ones likely to come in the middle of a stormy night to race us to the local ER. Or active on the Town Board. Or lead discussions about why source separation of trash is important--not necessary as liberals would have it to preserve the environment but because the Town can make money selling recyclables and thereby lower taxes.

About that, Rona wondered out loud if our environmentalist-minded friend, Peggy (to pick on her), back in New York City recycles as much or as assiduously as Jim in Bristol, Maine.

"No way," I said, agitated by my awareness of Peggy's hypocrisy as well as mine.

Jim, who is 81, is active on the local school board even though his youngest is in her thirties. "I have grandchildren, you know," he shrugs as if that explains it all.

And though he's not so sure about including a lot about climate change in Earth Science or referring too much to Evolution in Biology, he's out there in the middle of winter determined not to miss even one meeting while I talk, talk, talk about how we can't ignore the lessons of science, not only if we want to try to repair our planet but also to prepare our youngsters to be competitive in the global world of the 21st century. And though the signboard by the school I drive by at least twice a day says "All Are Welcome" to board meetings I haven't made it to one yet though every year I intend to make them all.

When I confess this to him, to help alleviate my guilt, he reminds me that I was an educator for more than 40 years and I do write and publish my views on schooling. That I've "paid my dues," and--

"But," I say before he can finish making excuses for me, "Yes, but still . . . I know. . . Maybe next . . .

He smiles to let me off the hook but . . .

Bottom line--a lot of things seem to work better here because at the most fundamental level we all know it is our relating and caring for each other that counts more than the talk, which in spite of various forms of inflation, is still cheap.

September 3, 2104--Back to School

"Slow down," Rona said as I raced up the Bristol Road to get to the diner before all the booths were taken. I hate having to wait for coffee. I'm spoiled when it comes to that.

"It's foggy and the first day of school so you need to be careful."

"I forgot about that."

"There'll be school buses along the road and kids waiting for them, disoriented because of their new schedules."

"You're right. And the fog is getting thicker." I slowed to 45.

"It is amazing, isn't it, how in small towns pretty much every student, from kindergarten through high school, goes to school by bus. What an organizational challenge that is. To make it all work. It's much more complicated than delivering the mail."

"Which also is impressive. About these we still know how to make things work."

"And how important rural mail and schools are to the local economy and the life of the country." Even without coffee we were getting philosophical.

The Bristol School by then was only about a mile ahead. Even in the thickening fog I had a sense of where we were and how far it was before we would get there and need to slow down yet more.

"Get ready to stop," Rona pointed to a looming yellow image. "There's a bus pulled over. I can just make out what appears to be a couple of little ones with their mothers. How I love it. It reminds me of my first day in school."

With that I flashed back to my own first day. Not a happy one for me.

"I loved school. Even from the first day," Rona enthused. "I didn't have very responsive or encouraging parents so to have success there, to have teachers thinking well of me was important to my coming to feel good about myself."

"I'm embarrassed to admit that I was such a mama's boy that I hated the idea of being without her for even a few hours. But ultimately I adjusted--actually, just after a few days in kindergarten--and like you found schooling to be affirming. So why am I getting a queasy stomach as we get closer to the school?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Can you believe it, I think I'm having an anxiety attack. Just like on my first day. Actually, I felt this way every first day. The first day back after summer vacation. My stomach then, like now, was tied in knots. At least for a few hours or for a day or two."

"How many years has it been since you were last in school? Including graduate school? Could it be as many as 50 years?"

"I'm afraid so," I said, sighing. "I guises at heart I'm still a scared little kid."

Rona slid over to put her arm around me. I was shaking and beginning to tear up.

*   *   *

Later, at the diner, I shared some of this with friends and one by one they confessed to having some of the same kinds of feelings. Perhaps not as extreme as mine, but similar.

We agreed that these deep memories become quite hard wired, never really dissipating, and that they stay with us forever. They are that powerful. And even after many decades they emerge, reappear on mornings such as this.

"More coffee," I called out to Sue.

Willy said, "I think I need a drink."