The Karma Picture

I love history. I don't believe in karma. However, I have what I consider to be my "karma picture." You know, that picture taken of you zillions of years ago showing you doing something, holding a toy, or a pet. You might be posed in front of a building, object, or monument that at the time seemed somewhat incidental and insignificant. Perhaps it's the Halloween picture of you in a fireman's costume. Today you find yourself somehow engaged in a career relative to that picture. Not making any sense? Listen up, and I'll explain.

My parents took us on a lot of vacations. My sister and I were never consulted as to destination. We just got in the backseat of the Grand Prix (1966), and looked out the windows, awaiting our fate/destination. Sometimes we counted cars or cows, along with the Burma Shave signs. We found ourselves in Florida (before Disney), Michigan, South Carolina, Maine, and Virginia. The trips were chronicled for posterity by our dad and his Kodak.

My sister hated sand in her shoes and between her toes but she especially hated the sun in her eyes. So there are many shots of her standing on various East Coast beaches dressed in her bathing suit, her feet in snow boots, wearing sunglasses. They could be considered her karma pictures as she now lives in the mountains of North Carolina, far from the seashore.

The trips were rarely history-related. Once my dad told me he had no interest whatsoever in history. So I suppose the trips to the Smithsonian were tortuous affairs for him. I, on the other hand, became a history nerd at a very early age. I watched The Liberty Tree on The Wonderful World of Disney, read Laura Ingalls Wilder, and every historical novel I could find in my local library. I grew up in the Golden Age of Television that included Bonanza, The Rifleman, Wagon Train, and every other costume drama around.

My picture was taken a little closer to home. Family members were visiting and my parents decided to take them to Gettysburg. I don't know how much of the battlefield we visited or how many times we actually got out of the car and walked around. I know for certain we exited the car on Oak Ridge; site of the opening salvos of the battle. How do I know? A picture was taken of me standing in front of the Eternal Light Peace Memorial. Technically, it is the side of the monument, not the front. Regardless, it is my karma pic.

I denied the calling of History. I entered Towson State as a Music major and left four years later a Geography and Environmental Planning major. Finally, years later I gave into Cleo, the Siren/Muse of History, and earned a degree in History; followed by a M.A. in American Studies.

About ten years ago my mother sent me the picture. As I had forgotten the visit to the Park, the picture astonished me. I showed it to a friend of mine who just smiled at me. "See, you are right where you're supposed to be." That particular day I was wearing my green and gray National Park Service-sanctioned uniform. I had been working as a seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park for two years. I served at Gettysburg for four more years before leaving to work for The National Museum of Civil War Medicine in Frederick, Maryland.

Everyone has a karma picture hidden away somewhere. Maybe you haven't recognized it just yet, but it is there. Perhaps you should sift through those boxes and albums. You just might find yourself.

"Here, these are yours."

Several years ago, my mother gave me three boxes from her basement. "Here, these are yours," was the verbal decree. I took them home and put them in the attic. I was really not interested in their contents. Two weeks ago, I was in my perpetual attic-cleaning mode when I found them. I untied the discolored cord and opened the first carton. Inside were several hard-backed composition books, the kind I still look for every fall when school begins.

I opened the first book to discover it contained mimeographed pictures I had colored...in the first grade. Now you must understand I had unwittingly stumbled upon an ancient repository. You also need to put this in context. I was born mid-twentieth century, and have quite a few years behind me. Therefore, much like the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, this was old stuff. Trust me. I stared at the pages; every single page had a neatly pasted drawing of a cabbage, rabbit, dog, or flower. I must admit it appeared I did not subscribe to the notion of coloring within the lines. Well, I was only six.

The remaining composition books were dedicated to first grade math and some semblance of language arts. I also found a fourth-grade geography notebook containing maps of Europe and South America, all with carefully identified countries, lakes, and rivers. I remember geography class, I loved it. I had to memorize the continents, draw and label the countries. I loved drawing South America, penciling in the Amazon River and its tributaries. However, I am digressing.

The weight of my mother's commitment and actions overwhelmed me. Here was a woman who had carefully collected every math workbook, Junior Scholastic issue, and report card I ever earned, read, or ciphered. She neatly packed them away, tied the box with a cord, and wrote my name on it. We moved from the house of my elementary years to another house, where she placed the boxes on shelves in the basement. Then, bequeathed to me they were moved to my house in central PA where I put them in the attic. What a journey those little cardboard boxes have had! Think of the resources, space,energy, and fuel needed to move them sixty miles from their place of origin. I had a mental picture of the closing scene of "Raiders of the Lost Ark," as the Ark of the Covenant was stored in an immense warehouse. Well, not quite that large, or that important.

I looked through the boxes, saving a few pictures and an issue of Junior Scholastic highlighting the National Park Service. The rest I threw away. It is too late for me to follow my mother's example. I have already thrown away too many pictures, report cards, and Mother's Day cards made by my children. I have saved things that matter to me; little notes my daughter wrote me to encourage me during tough times, silly photos of my son. I have my memories. I do not need to collect and save the minutiae of my life or of my children. I especially do not need to burden them thirty years from now when I say, "Here, these are yours."

The least of these

Sometimes we forget those who are hurting. We brusquely go through our day as though our actions are the most important. We complain about traffic and why don't people get out of our way? Why are others so unaware of our needs? We forget that even if they knew we were running late for an appointment most would tell us we should have started five minutes earlier. Logic is often the orphan of arrogance.

Today I stopped at one of my least-favorite mega-stores to purchase pet food and pain-relievers. (My Uncle Arthritis is visiting my right hand at the moment.) I waited somewhat patiently for my turn with the cashier. She yawned and seemed tired although it was only 9:30 a.m. I asked if she was tired at that early hour. Instead of mentioning a late night she told me she was tired because she had been crying. She continued that her father called this morning to tell her it was finally time to put her grandfather into hospice care. My heart skipped a beat as I listened to her story. "In my thirty-three years I have only heard my dad cry once, and that was when his mom died." So now he was beginning the journey of saying good-bye to his father.

I understand a part of that mystery. My own parents are getting closer and closer to the end of their own struggles. My dad suffered a stroke over a year ago. At that time my sister and I were told he had Alzheimer's Disease as well. We have watched his small triumphs as well as his major personal defeats. He doesn't understand why he can't keep his balance when he tries to stand. He is frustrated that he can't walk around the house unassisted. Stairs are now in his past. The cognitive decline is oftentimes comical (in a loving way), but mostly it is frustrating for us as well. They still look like our parents, but they have been invaded by the body and mind snatchers. It is painful. My sister and I now mourn the loss of our parents even though life is still in their bodies.

We forget our own mortality. We forget that we too shall decrease so that others may increase.

I told the cashier I would remember her today. I lied. I shall remember her every day.

Plato said it best:
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.

Slow down, you're moving too fast. Got to make the morning last. Just kicking down the cobblestones. Looking for fun and feeling groovy.

Feel groovy, and take your time. Today is the best day of your life.

Jane

Today Truly is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Yes, it it true. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. It is the first day of my first blog. Why? I need to feel connected. Connected to what? Unfortunately, in the information age there seems to be only one method of connection. Blogs, e-mails, social networks, etc. So I have taken the plunge.

I have a home office in my attic. In my strangest daydreams I have seen myself as Louisa May Alcott or Jane Austen writing away in a garret room surrounded by the past and hoping for a future. Hence the garret reference. Trust me, I am surrounded by the past.

I live in a house built in 1864 so that alone give me license. However, it is also my attic. Here bits and pieces of my life have found repose. Some have taken root (in the worst way). In February I began the arduous task of cleaning out the attic. It was an adventure. It was a huge undertaking. It was frightening. I discovered I had been using my attic to store stuff that I believed I could never part with. I also believed the space was just a large storage bin; an in-house U-Store-It. You know what I mean, boxes of old clothes you don't want to throw away or wear again. I was surprised to find my elementary school report cards that my mother had carefully saved and packed in a box. Wow. That is a post all unto itself. "Stuff My Mom Saved For Me." Much to my chagrin I also came across a box of old underwear. It was gross. However, I digress.

It is here in my garret that I am alone. If someone wants to visit they must muster the fortitude to climb at least two flights of stairs. It is a way to remove myself from the madness of family life, regain my personal civility and connect.