Bird Flu Fallout

WARNING! In an attempt to thwart the spread of bird flu, President George W. Bush has bombed the Canary Islands.

Turkey is next.

Blogger's Note: Not an essay but I couldn't resist!

Election Day

This presidential election will be our family’s first without our father who died suddenly last November. Not just an armchair politico, our father was a man of action. He was campaigning long before it was the politically chic thing to do. From sign painting to driving folks to the polls and just plain outspokenness on the issues, no doubt, he would have had strong opinions about this election. The issues facing our country today are issues that he felt strongly about and believed in.

As the breakneck speed of the final days of the election draws near one of the more lasting memories I have of him grows stronger and stronger and I can’t stop thinking of it. I know that he would have been watching the pundits and non-stop campaign reporting. I know he would have been active in his local community, talking politics, distributing the necessary signage, bumper stickers, buttons or direct mail pieces. Also, he would have maintained an open phone line to our cousin, his niece, the political activist in the family who would keep him abreast of any of the latest campaign buzz she was privy to. But phone conversations were sometimes uncomfortable with him as he most likely get worked up about the latest issues or news report. But then true to form, the day before the election would be upon us and we could always count on the phone call to admonish to his children the same message every time: “Make sure you vote!”

Growing up in Nashville, our neighborhood precinct also happened to be at our neighborhood elementary school. When this day rolled around, we knew that no matter if it were the local, state or national election, it was an important day in our house. Our dad would take his three daughters to school on that day – an exciting event in itself and park far away from the front door of Margaret Allen Elementary in Donelson.

Then we would walk through the gauntlet of the encampments set up by the candidates’ representatives who were handing out buttons and bumper stickers and begging for your vote. I often wonder now if it really makes a difference this late in the game, but traditions are traditions and sometimes maybe it is that last push for some that gets the vote. Once, I noticed a smile on his face as he walked confidently ahead of us as if he were the candidate himself and he knew his man was going to win. Folks on both sides of the school yard knew him and stopped him as he passed and many times he worked both political parties glad-handing and bantering about the issues and candidates and most times he knew more about the candidates and their platforms than the folks sitting in the November sun campaigning ever knew about them.

We stood quietly beside him and he loudly greeted the election volunteers who registered him. He introduced us to them (he knew them too) and he thanked them for being there. My sisters and I were 7 years apart so by the time he took me to school to vote – they were off to Junior High. I felt like a big shot alone in his presence, so important. Because he took this so seriously and believe me, it was honor to get a personal civic lesson from you father. He taught each of us that you take your right to vote seriously and you never ever miss that opportunity.

While waiting our turn for a booth, he again was talking to the kind gentlemen taking the white slips of paper – he was careful not to talk about the election itself – but instead would talk about the voter turnout or the college football scene.

When our turn came, he would escort us in the voting booth and instruct us to close the curtain. I can still remember the gentle but strong touch as he put his strong hand over my little one and help me pull the heavy arm to close the curtain behind us. Then he would pick me up, hold me in his arms and take his time to carefully explain the choices in a low voice. It was no secret to anyone who knew our father how he was going to the vote- he was a dedicated member of his party and totally proud and outspoken about it. Although we knew he was going to vote the party line and not cross over the divide delineating one party from the next, he still took the time to tell us about the candidates and any referendums on the ballot.

He would whisper in my ear and point towards the lever to pull and I proudly did it for each choice he made, knowing that somehow each vote counted towards something hugely important beyond our safe haven of our little neighborhood. When we finished, he would again help me pull the metal arm to open the curtains and to lock in our votes. I always felt a feeling of great accomplishment that I just helped my father do something extremely important in not only his life but for the life of our country.

After he walked me back to my third grade class one year, I watched for him through the classroom window to emerge outside and walk back to his car. His swagger was full of purpose, I could see him as he walked back to the candidates’ encampments and again argued some issues, shook hands, gestured wildly to make a point (political I’m sure) and laughed along with members of both parties. I’ll never forget how proud I was of him.

Once in college I had the exciting experience of being an election pollster for a local radio station for the 1988 presidential election. We stood at the polls and waited as they closed to the voting public. Then as the precinct officials closed the school doors after the polls closed, it was exciting to watch them huddle amongst themselves and then listen with the other pollsters and campaign reps as they called out the results to us. Afterwards, we literally ran to our cars and squealed out of the parking lot in search of a phone booth to call in the results! After I finished that call, I immediately called my father to tell him how the precinct had voted.

I minored in political science and thought briefly about a career path in that arena, but now I watch the campaign from afar, yet still try to stay informed the best way that I can and read the news on the internet and watch the debates. I have been involved in one national campaign, but I’m not as politically loud as my father or other members of our extended family have been in their parties.

Whenever I have moved out of my voting precinct, one of the first things I do is to change my voter registration. I would feel so guilty if I didn’t vote. I would feel as if I would be letting myself down and probably letting my father down too. I learned early from those days by my father’s side in the voting booth that voting is not something you take lightly. It is a privilege that in his words “you should never, I repeat, never take for granted.”

I’ve only participated in early voting opportunities once; I admit it was a time saver and a great tool in modern day elections. However, I prefer to go on Election Day because it’s a family tradition. There is something unique and exciting about participating in the buzz and rush that the whole nation is experiencing together.

I don’t care if Tim Russert is projecting Tennessee as a red state or a blue state on Meet the Press, or what way it is being counted towards the Electoral College. It’s simple – I have to vote. Whether I’m voting blue, red, gray, (never green - Daddy would have had a cow) or otherwise, my vote counts and you’ll see me at the voting booth.

This year I’ll be a brand new face in my voting precinct and I will not know any of the faces of the election volunteers who register me or show me to the booth. I will, however, thank them kindly and be patient if there is a long line because that’s what my father taught me to do. They are giving up a day in our lives for us to exercise our right to vote. I will only smile and wave at the diehard campaign volunteers trying to sway my ideology to the bitter end of my very important vote, but I will not stop and debate any of them.

I’ve decided that the best thing I could possibly do to honor my father’s life and this important family tradition on Election Day on the anniversary of his death is to take my five year old daughter with me to the polls. We will walk through the gauntlet of politicos, stand quietly in line to register and hopefully she will notice how many other people are doing it. It is my wish that the magnitude of it all makes an impression on her like it did for me and my sisters. When it’s our turn to enter the booth, I’m going to let her push the button to close the curtains and lovingly hold her in my arms like he used to do with his daughters and let her push the buttons and cast our votes.

On November 1st, the day before Election Day, which is Tuesday, November 2nd, I’ll hope you’ll remember my father’s famous words “Make sure you vote!” Because I know, my daughter, my sisters and I will loud and clear.

Author's Note: This essay was written in October 2004.

Enemy of the Neighborhood, an innocent story

To observe my husband and I communicating late at night, you would think you were watching a scene from Will Smith’s flick “Enemy of the State”. The movie, a high tech thriller, features sophisticated listening and tracking devices planted in Smith’s character’s home. Although no one has planted any sort of device in our home, we discovered by accident that we had by using a simple baby monitor in our infant daughter’s room. These days it leaves my husband and myself gesturing in sign language and sneaking off to a far corner on the front porch to discuss household and financial matters long after she has gone to sleep.

Everyone on our street began having kids at the same time. While at a neighborhood gathering we were all cheerily endorsing baby products and in particular, a brand of baby monitor we all use to pick up the breathing and every lovable coo and goo our new babies made. Little did we know that the monitors would be picking up every sweet sound she made and every sound we made, (and you can guess which ones they were) and broadcasting them all over the neighborhood. We had a full listening audience unbeknownst to us.

When one of our neighbors first mentioned hearing me sing over the monitor, I thought it was funny, hoping against hope that I had sung on key and actually knew all the words to the song. I told my husband about it and he remarked that maybe we needed to be more careful talking in her room when the monitor was on.

Months passed and we thought nothing else of it. A few times, when we turned off the transmitter, the receiving end of the monitor would pick up bits and pieces of our neighbors conversations, cordless phone calls and the occasional CB radio rumblings. We always laughed at the transmissions, sometimes we were a bit surprised, but usually we would decide to switch off the monitor.

A few weeks ago, one of my close friends Sharon* (who is also a neighbor), called me and told me that one of our other neighbors Vicki* had overhead (yes, via the baby monitor) my husband and myself having an argument. Much to Sharon’s horror (and especially mine), Vicki was telling everyone in the neighborhood association about our fight. At first, I was stumped, I was trying to remember the last time my husband and I had a really good one. Sometimes when we fight it could be compared to a New England Nor’easter so I reassured Sharon not to worry. No one needed a baby monitor to hear our arguments, and if they wanted to, they should just open their windows.

My first reaction was to kick myself for not turning Vicki and her husband into the proper authorities for the time we overheard one of their transgressions (yes, via the baby monitor). Upon hearing their plan to steal a set of steak knives from a popular Australian themed eatery that they were going to turn around and give as a Christmas gift, we decided to turn off the receiver and mind our own business. After all whom would we call? The baby monitor police?

We promised ourselves that someone should immediately buy a brand new monitor, but then a new baby was born down the street and after much subtle inquiry we couldn’t determine which brand of monitor they were using and decided this could go on forever.

We decided to tough it out and take lessons from movies like “Enemy of the State” and “The Firm”. We now talk in code, crank up the stereo and whisper to each other. We sneak into the garage to discuss the really important things that’s only our business and of course there is always the option of simply unplugging the monitor. And whenever I sense a Nor’easter coming on, I just make it easy on everyone and crack open the windows.

Author's Note: This essay was written during my former married life.

Looking through the Viewfinder

A few years ago, I was asked to be the birthing partner for one of my girlfriends, Nicole, a single mom at the time, to help keep her calm, feed her ice chips and hold her hand during the birth of her first child. Not having any children, nieces, or nephews myself, I had no idea what to expect, except of course, the common misperceptions that pop culture puts forth to us about water breaking and driving 90 mph to the hospital. All of this is happening while the expectant mother screams for you to drive faster because she is about to deliver the baby on the back seat of her red Nissan Sentra.

When Nicole called to tell me to meet her at a pre-scheduled time at a local hospital, (6am) I have to admit I was a tad disappointed when the doctor decided to induce her into labor. However, I’m sure she was happy it was going to be a controlled situation, (and frankly so was I!). Being a novice birthing coach but experienced cheerleader, I wanted this to be a textbook delivery for her and the baby’s sake (and mine).

So the day after Thanksgiving, I arose early on that dark November morning, showered, packed my video camera, left my sleeping husband and met Nicole and her family in the hospital. We walked through the quiet, tan corridors to her birthing room and helped her settle in. She changed into a hospital gown, the nurses hooked her up to the monitors and we began to wait. After the doctor broke her water, I started checking the battery to the video camera every five minutes and looking through the viewfinder and began interviewing everyone who entered the room about the immediate, impending birth. Finally after hours of sitting on ready, a nurse told me to save the battery that the baby wasn’t coming out for a long time.

I have to admit Nicole made childbirth look easy. I had braced myself for all the agony the women portrayed in the birthing class film. (I swore to myself right then and there, that if my time ever came, I would try to be as strong and courageous as she was being. Anyone who knows me knows how hysterical I can get, should be proud of me for saying “TRY”). Nicole never let on that she was feeling any discomfort, but the nurses knew. One look in her eyes and they would help her change positions. I never even got to dole out any ice chips either; she was pretty self-sufficient and doled them to herself.

Mainly, I just sat on a stool next to her bed and read aloud the latest and greatest issue of our favorite People and Glamour magazines to her. We had some good laughs when the nurses came in to help Nicole move the baby in the right position. Her long legs were being pushed and pulled in every unimaginable position and I outloud I had to praise her mom’s foresight of forcing Nicole into 12 years of tap dancing, Pointe and especially for the time being, acrobatic training. At this moment, it was all paying off I told her and she begged me not to make her laugh.

She lay there looking so beautiful and composed, her long brown hair flowing over the pillow, and she was totally calm with the fact that in a few hours, her life was going to change forever, and in so many wonderful ways I knew it would never be the same.

What an honor it was to be her friend that day, when I was allowed the privilege of watching her become a mother. Not only was I honored that she was sharing such an awesome event in her life with me, but that she was allowing me to witness these precious moments as she was transforming into a new person. She was walking over the bridge to womanhood while I was standing over on the other side wanting to yell, “Nicole, wait for me!”

Then after hours of waiting, the magical moment of birth came, the cozy “birthing” room transformed briskly to the DELIVERY room. I’ve never witnessed anything so efficient. In a matter of seconds the stirrups came out of the table, the bottom of the birthing table disappeared, a closet door opened to reveal shiny silver instruments. And where did all those blue sheets come from? Someone was putting a surgical gown on me and Nicole’s mom asking if we felt okay (we? What about Nicole?) Lamps were switched on and the obstetrician appeared right on cue. Then, the plastic baby isolet was wheeled into the corner.

Somehow in the midst of the excitement and the crowd of nurses gathering into the room, I couldn’t get to my video camera, but it really didn’t matter at this point. I stood at Nicole’s side and then took one step back and found myself standing next to Nicole’s mother Debbie and we just held each other and cried tears of what I can only describe as pure joy.

There was a sensation in the room, a pulse I could feel that something wonderful was about to happen. The nurses looked happy that the baby had turned, they had done their job well. The doctor, self-assured with the heart monitor results, began to gently pull the baby’s head out, and Nicole was still amazingly at peace. This was going to be an easy birth.

And then the moment we had all been waiting for, for so long it seemed all day, happened so fast . . . Nicholas appeared turning and twisting so naturally into the open hands of the doctor, crying, dark hair matted to his head and so, so beautiful. Someday when he’s grown into a young man, I know that I’ll still be able to remember that first wonderful glimpse of him.

The doctor put him on his mommy’s stomach (she became a mommy in the blink of an eye – how cool!) He cried the cry that baby’s emit when they enter the bright world, but the moment Nicole took his hand in hers and spoke softly to him, his crying ceased in an instant and he looked up at her. I’ll never forgot that moment, like borrowing a line from the popular children’s book by J.P Eastman, Nicolas seemed to proclaim in that glance, “You are my mother!” For a few more moments in time before the umbilical cord was cut, they were still one.

My Thanksgiving happened to come on the day after that year, when I was lucky enough to be there when this sweet and special child came into the world. I was a willing eyewitness to one of life’s most magical, most precious moments. I didn’t need a viewfinder or a video camera, just my eyes and my heart to register, record and most importantly, remember the magic and magnitude of his birth. For that I will always be thankful.

I Try to Think About Elvis

I’ll never forget the day that Elvis died. I was ten years old and lying down in the front seat of my daddy’s black 1976 Lincoln Continental on the way to Biloxi, Mississippi. It was a hot August day, but cool inside the car on the plush red leather seats. The radio announcer broke into the song that was playing and announced it. We were just south of Jackson and I sat up right immediately and said “Mother is going to be so upset!”

Does every girl born in the 60s think her father reminds her of Elvis?

The Shooting Stars

Most parents look forward to the day when their child takes the first steps into kindergarten. The transition for their child is exciting and some parents have been known to shed a few tears when this day comes. When my daughter enters elementary school this fall, I know without a doubt that I will be attending the "cookies and cry" session kindly hosted by the principal in the library there. My eyes run over with tears when I allow myself to think about this exciting first day of school that is coming soon.

Before that day approaches, I know some other tears will be shed when she says goodbye to her friends and teachers in the Shooting Stars preschool class at the Child Care Center. Chatting with the site director is part of our daily routine when we sign in each morning. How do you say goodbye to caregivers who have been partners with you in preparing your child to take on the world? How do you give an appropriate thank you that articulates your deep appreciation? How do you say good luck to the other families with whom you have celebrated numerous birthdays, field trips, potlucks and shared other important milestones?

The Shooting Stars have soared to some exciting heights this year. They traveled across the solar system when they learned about the sun, the moon and the Milky Way. They learned about how the Space Shuttle works and why its missions are important. They presented group oral presentations about an assigned planet and made paper mache models of each. Their colorful planets still hang above their heads every day as they play, nap and learn.

The Shooting Stars learned about safety rules and now in our own home, safety rules! My daughter has demonstrated how to stop, drop and roll in case of fire, and I get weekly lectures about buckling my seat belt when I get in the car. They sing along with Clair while she plays the guitar and they've discovered that Tonya gives the most lovable hugs.

They even traveled back in time to the Crustaceous period and beyond to learn about the mighty dinosaurs that made our planet their home. They have discovered reptiles and how to take care of Newt, the class salamander, and Sparky, the class guinea pig. Insects, our own physiology--you name it, they covered it! They journeyed across campus to the university greenhouse and to the downtown library to enjoy a magical puppet show. I have marveled at how much Katie has learned and how much I have also learned in the past year.

Besides writing their names and other interesting words in their journals and expressing themselves in the Art Center, they have learned how to be good citizens, how to listen, how to serve their own lunch at the lunch table, how to raise their hand and how to be a good friend.

When anyone inquires about where my daughter goes to school, she proudly announces, "I go to University." And our university ties do run deep. She was a patient at Children's Hospital when she was six months old. She had surgery to repair a tethered spinal cord which was extremely successful. And she recently told an aunt that she wants to come back someday to go to college here. I can only keep my fingers crossed.

One morning when we arrived at CCC, we discovered one of her classmates (following in her mother's footsteps who is a physician at UMC) presiding over an operating room theater. The procedure was being conducted on a classmate/patient on a sleep mat/surgical table and the mini head surgeon was being assisted by numerous surgeons and OR nurses. Everything was draped, plastic makeshift surgical instruments were laid out and all were wearing scrubs with their hair covered appropriately. She was allowed to quickly scrub in. This was another uniquely Vanderbilt moment, one that's hard to forget and wonderful to picture!

I'll miss the diversity of the CCC. My daughter's friends are citizens of the world and when you are only 4 and 5, you don't see differences, you only see your best friends. The teachers in the preschool have prepared the Shooting Stars well for any challenges they may encounter in kindergarten; sharing books and supplies, raising their hands for their turn, celebrating traditions and practices of various cultures and learning about worlds beyond the one we live in.

I will shed more than one tear when we say goodbye to Rhonda, Clair and Tonya and the other teachers, Jesse and Ashli, who have helped in the caregiving of my daughter, and I strongly emphasize care. I'll miss our daily routine of driving north on the lookout for VW bugs and playing the "Punchbug" game. I'll miss arriving on campus together for a day of work and pre-school. I'll miss the ability of being able to leave my desk and walk over to the VCCC to check on her if she is sick. And I'll miss enjoying an entertaining lunch with her and her classmates and the sunny walk back across Campus. I'll miss the alliances I have formed with the other parents who arrive on the same schedule as we do. I'll miss the sweetness of the many children that my daughter has been lucky to have as friends.

I'll miss the security of knowing my daughter has spent her day in a place where early education and the well-being of its charges is a number one priority. Of the many benefits the employees of University have available to them, it's the one that I have benefited from and enjoyed the most. Hearts and Minds have a slightly different context here, but the meaning is as extremely important.

At the recent Shooting Stars end-of-the- year picnic and celebration, the students and parents feasted on a great cornucopia of food and enjoyed a sunlit evening at Dragon Park filled with a few last hours to spend together as a class. Teachers Clair and Tonya, the wisest stars in the classroom, handed out awards for Reading, Math, Paleontology, Art, Friendship, Sports, and Science. Each Shooting Star student was delighted to receive an award that celebrated the achievements of their young hearts and minds. Our group of parents clapped and cheered as if the students had walked across a graduation stage with honors. One parent voiced the thought that many of us shared: "I hope that after being in this classroom, kindergarten won't be a disappointment."

Thanks to CCC, the Shooting Stars are well on their way to the brightest of horizons because they've helped not only the students, but this parent, prepare for the journey and entry into the elementary school stratosphere. I can in a minute way relate to the parent of an astronaut who must shed tears of pride, joy and grateful remembrance of teachers and instructors who made a difference, the subject that may have planted a seed and sparked a dream when they watch their child take the first steps onto the launch pad. The teachers and caregivers at the CCC have been part of our mission control, working as a team with the parents of the Shooting Stars, as we closely monitor these bright lights that streak across the nighttime skies of our lives.

Originally published in the VUMC, House Organ, August 2004.