Mother's Day: Gratitude for the Less-Than-Perfect

This will be my ninth Mother's Day without Mama.   We didn't know at the time of my first Mother's Day that it was to be her last.   She and my dad came for a visit and took us all out to eat.   Mama held Emmeline as much as she could and over that pretty little bonnet-covered head we shared looks of understanding and a new camaraderie.   We were no longer just mother and daughter, but for a short time--nine months--our relationship had a new dimension as we were now both mothers.

Mama is memory for me now.   Memory of realities, blurred around the edges, softened with time, details fuzzy or sometimes sharp and focused.   I cry on Mother's Day, usually the night before, after everyone is asleep and I am alone in the quiet.   Just a good cry and then prayer.   Thank you, God, for the time I had with her.   Thank you for the mother you gave me.   Help me to be even half as good as that woman.   May my eyes not be puffy in the morning.   May the sadness fade in the face of handmade drawings and sweetly-clutched flower weeds throughout the day.   May the memories remain and not fade away.   Mama, pray for me.   Mary, my other mother, pray for me.   Amen.

Scenes of Mama pass through my mind during the quiet moments of the day, as they often do throughout the year.   Happy memories, sad memories.   Heart-warming, treasured,  always.   Perfect, never.

The silly.   Standing in line at a Brookshire's grocery store check-out, exact change in my hand and cans of tuna--six, the limit listed in the sale ad--standing behind Mama as she also purchased six cans of tuna.  

The heart-breaking.   Grandad's funeral, cruel snow and ice, Mama thrown across my brother's grave, shaking as she wailed, "I lost one baby and now I've lost another."   The one and only time I saw her give in to it all.   The image that made me a good college kid, not because I was such a great person, but because I would have never willingly added to the weight on her shoulders by causing her trouble.
The first months after Mama's death, with my father, his brain nearly given over to dementia, explaining how hard it would be to replace her because she was always such a good worker.   Knowing all along that was the reality of the sentiment regardless of his mental state, but hurting from the actual words being spoken.

The inspiring.   The stories she told me about my father's hard childhood, her attempts to explain that perhaps he did all, or the best, he could.   The way she had of holding on to the good, letting go of the bad, especially when there was little or nothing to do to change it.    I learned from others what she went through as the mother of a severely handicapped child; I rarely heard of the hard times from her and when I did it was always related to her helplessness as she watched Greg suffer.   Sure, I heard her share some parenting struggles and receive advice from close friends, but I think burying a child eliminates navel-gazing and brings a keen awareness of that which is worth your occupation of time and of that you should let go.   The way she treated everyone well.   The neighbor's farm hand living in a shack to whom she always said, "Yes, sir," and eagerly spoke to whenever she saw him across our barbed-wire fence.     The woman in a crumbling mobile home, in whose yard we stood for hours visiting, after we stopped to compliment her on her beautiful flower beds.   The wealthy businessmen who visited our home after they entered the cattle business, especially the one who pulled up in a Mercedes to spend the night only two weeks after we had moved into our new home.    Everyone has value, worth.  People deserve a second glance and a second chance.   A college degree is no guarantee of intelligence.   The heart, not the clothes, make the man.   Never forget from where you came.   All lessons I learned, not as theory, but as her actual practice.

The initial embarrassment which always turned to pride.   Changing clothes in a mall dressing room, while listening  to tanned college-age girls joke about their recent sunburns.   Thinking, "No, no, surely she won't..."   And then she did.   Pulled up her sleeve to reveal the semi-circle carved out of her upper arm.   Lumpy, white skin, the shocking scar of aggressive treatment of even more aggressive melanoma.   Exiting the dressing room to find the girls sitting on either side of Mama, nodding, talking in hushed tones with her.   Thanking her and promising her to be more careful.   Always, when I was embarrassed by my mother's lack of coolness, I realized that people were attracted to her for her mothering.   Who needed another cool person around them?   So many people just want a mom.  

I admit I place my mother on a high pedestal.   But not for perfection.   Her position is secure because of her perseverance, her joy, her example in the midst of imperfection.   I read the blogs.   The wives who are striving to be holy, to be good mothers.   Struggling as part of a couple where both husband and wife have the same goals, even if at every given moment they aren't on the same page.   Beautiful stories of stressful times where a husband expressed appreciation after realizing he had become lax in such communication.   Change resulting from prayer together, even if the answers to prayers were different from those initially desired.   It's all beautiful, wonderful, and I have admired so much in those women.   So much good, never claiming perfection, but on the road with an equal partner.   Equally yoked.   So much to which I may aspire.   What a legacy their lives and their marriages will be for their children.   

But, my mama?   Her accomplishment leaves me in awe.   She didn't crumble.   She didn't become bitter.   She had every right to do either.   She didn't take me to church, but she taught me that God did exist and told me the stories of my holy grandparents.   Her marriage was not the one she envisioned.   The one she described as a junior high student in a hand-written essay I found in her cedar chest after her death.   The marriage ideal she patterned after her parents and her eldest sister, Nadine, who married Bob, one of two men--other than Jesus--that I think my mother believed could walk on water.   Still, she managed to teach me about marriage.   An example in spite of the non-example.    Amazing.

For people whose memories include looks of love between parents, catching that glimpse of "Ain't she something?" as your father watches your mother, you have been blessed.   Husbands who lead the charge in the kitchen on Mother's Day to make mom breakfast in bed.   Husbands who plan thoughtful Anniversary celebrations.   The memories of fights or hard times diminished by the memories of tenderness and appreciation.   I am genuinely happy for you.  

In our family imperfection, though, came my mother's near-perfect response.   Self-sacrifice so I wouldn't suffer in as much as she could control.   Finding joy in her children, friends, hobbies, surely God in private moments as there is no other explanation.   It is a beautiful, real accomplishment to work hand-in-hand in a supportive union to raise children in a home of love and comfort, a place of refuge from the sometimes frightening, sometimes scarring outside world.   But to manage all of those accomplishments on your own, in the face of the reality of lost dreams.   That's just as much--if not more--being a Mother.   No outward signs of self-pity.   No transference of what must have been sorrow onto others.    Too busy doing to sit and analyze it all.   Sometimes, just the best she could do, but still the best she could have done.    Just real living.   Real loving.  

And I make an addition to the prayer:

Thank you for the Mother you gave me.   For the example she was in the face of all she lost or never had.  For the example of how to strive, to continue--in joy and hope--regardless of the circumstances.   May she rest in the arms of perfect Love, the heavenly reality of what she sought to show me while she was on earth.   Amen.


 

Work: Foundation for Faith

When I was an Elementary Education major at university, I was asked to serve as a student representative on a committee of the College of Education.   The committee's purpose was to improve practical classroom experience for education majors and to strengthen our relationship with the cooperating classroom teachers who served as our mentors.   The best part of being on that committee was the time before the meetings when I had a chance to speak with two classroom teachers who were also on the committee.   One day, the topic of conversation turned to math instruction.   I was in college when the use of manipulatives was being integrated into instruction to replace rote instruction alone.   It was the first time in my life that math excited me and I wished I could have been taught in that manner.   Topics were introduced through concrete activities, with real-world connections and then paper-and-pencil practice would follow.   One of the teachers voiced her idea that she wondered about the effectiveness of manipulatives in the classroom.   I was shocked and already making judgements about her as a teacher when she continued to explain her concern.
She said that in past years, children were physically active.   They played with basic physical toys which had to be manipulated by hand.   They spent time outside, doing things such as digging in dirt, climbing trees, collecting leaves and bugs.  Their learning was based on the senses and physical interaction.  It was how the majority of their ideas about the world were formed.  Current students, though, were much more likely to take in information in a more passive manner, often through media rather than physical interaction.   Would they have any previous experiences with which to connect the classroom ones?   I served on this committee in 1994.   Imagine how she would describe today's students.   Her words have stayed with me as a teacher and a mother.   They've especially come to mind as a Catholic.

I'm walking with a slight limp from a severely sunburned leg.   Both my shoulders cause a pain-twinge if they rub against even something so minor as the fabric of my sleeve.   And the pain in my hands kept me up two nights ago.   All little reminders of an amazing weekend retreat.   Often silent, but mostly not, primarily spent on my knees--sometimes my rear end--arranged and played out according to the sun, the stars, necessity, ancestry, dirt, mortality and the Immortal.   What began as an attempt to tidy up a flowerbed as part of getting outside to enjoy the weather turned into a major overhaul of our front flowerbeds.

It was the end of a week in which I felt for the first time in two years that I was at home.   My house had finally felt like my home.   Earlier in the week, I finally hung some drapes in the living room, after rearranging the furniture.   The key move for the interior came, though, when I turned the long wall in the room into a gallery wall.   In ordered disorder, I hung a combination of prints, Mama's paintings, and family photographs.   Eventually, the wall will be covered from floor to ceiling as we add to the collection in coming years.    It makes me happy and it's like a museum wall for our little family's history.   It's mismatched (ahem...eclectic), cozy and homey and I DID IT MYSELF.   We purchased our first home in 2005, after eight years of renting.   It was a small ranch-style home that delighted us because we never expected that we'd be able to afford anything that nice on one teacher's salary while that teacher also attended graduate school.   We painted every wall.   We dug every hole for every plant and bush.   We spent hours moving an oscillating sprinkler around our yard.   I decorated, cleaned, and loved that home.   I was connected to that home through my physical efforts.   In modern marketing jargon--bleh--, I was invested in it.   The day before closing, the day before another family would take possession of my sweet home, I took pictures of every detail I could and touched as many surfaces as possible as I walked through its rooms.

Physical labor can give you an opportunity to think.   You can slow down and consider things in a way that other activities don't allow.   So, as I sat, kneeling in the dirt, as I dug deep to pull out the very roots of every weed I could locate, I thought about physical connections.   When we moved in our current home,  we hired a painter because my husband is not a painter and after back surgery, I can't stand on a ladder to paint our tall walls.   The previous owners painted everything with a flat finish and with our little ones, the walls were already covered with scuffs and prints that could not be removed.   We hired someone to install hard flooring instead of carpet so our home would be cleaner for our eldest daughter who has asthma/allergy issues and for myself as I am also allergic to dust mites.   We had new counter tops installed due to water damage to the wood underneath the existing punctured laminate.   Last year, we hired a young man to clean out our flowerbeds which had not been maintained by the previous owners.   There in the dirt, I was finally making a real connection with my home because I was doing something.

Maybe it's my slight Cherokee heritage that makes the physical so necessary to me.   There's my tree thing.   Our yard has only one tree and it's a small specimen-type tree.   I yearn for trees.  My friends hear about this ALL the time.    I don't just miss the shade or think it would be pretty to have a tree in the yard.   I go to our neighborhood park, stand amongst the mature trees, breath in deep and I feel calm and at home.   It's the same feeling I get in our home parish, with its abundance of wood, especially the sanctuary ceiling, designed to look like the hull of a ship.   Maybe it's my pioneer ancestry that makes physical work such a necessary part of my life.   I don't mean everyday tasks such as cleaning or laundry.   I mean wearing work clothes, hair piled under a hat while I do dirty jobs of digging or pulling weeds by roots which are deep and winding.   I mean being covered in sweat and so intent on the task at hand that my physical appearance no longer matters and I am completely motivated by the promise of seeing the concrete fruit of my efforts before me.   Mama worked like that and I always thought I would NEVER do that.   I imagined gardeners and hired hands to do physical work for me.   I would be the pretty lady, in the wide brimmed hat with pristine gardening gloves, who bent over to clip a few stems of heather and roses and then returned to my beautiful kitchen to artfully arrange them.    Instead of the pretty lady in the wide-brimmed hat, I'm the funny-looking character with my rear-end up in the air for all the neighbors and passing drivers to see, as I try to pull that stubborn weed or plant that new flower.  I am my mother.   And my children are there with me.   Sometimes, they're in the way and it's necessary for me to send them to play near-by.   Sometimes, they are helping, doing their own work to contribute to the job.   My children open up to me over shared work.  

Inside my home, I find a similar connection when I am cooking.   It is therapeutic for me, with both moments for creativity and monotony.   The textures, scents.   The changes wrought by heat and cold.   The melding and intensification of flavors.   Drawing sweetness out through roasting or sauteeing.   Changing texture with pressure.   Better than the cooking, though, is the sharing of the work and the finished dishes.   I'm not passionate about food; I'm passionate about feeding people and sharing food with others.  Conversation happens easily over food.      Words and feelings flow with the act of eating.   Food prepared in the home and eaten around a table does not merely feed us; it nourishes us.

As Catholics, we are not just spiritual, but also, physical people.   Fingers dipped in holy water and forming the sign of the cross, legs standing, kneeling, genuflecting, tongue and teeth eating the Holy Eucharist, Jesus' body and blood.   As the teacher had pondered whether children's lack of physical interaction impaired their ability to learn effectively through concrete items, there in the dirt of my flowerbed, I pondered the connection between my physical labors and my faith.   As a mother, I considered the foundations I was helping to lay for my children.

So many times work for children is presented by parents in terms of punishment or as chores which are usually tied to monetary reward.   Then, it is often the mundane tasks of laundry, dishes, tidying up a room which are included.   These are all important and require effort, but they routine and not laborious.   They don't build up the sweat or the sensory and cognitive connections that only work such as yard work, building, or cooking can build.   Our brains were designed to experience the world around us.   Picture the brain as being a large room with hooks hanging from the ceiling.   With each new interaction with knowledge, we hang a new hook on an existing one so our brain is using those in combination to form our knowledge.   If we obtain a new piece of information and have no existing related hook on which it may hang, it falls to the floor, left on its own to be forgotten because there was no connection to be made.   This image had great meaning to me as a teacher when it came to curriculum design and instruction.   It has greater meaning--and purpose--to me as a mother, as well as for myself as a Catholic.

With our paid-for painted walls and flowerbeds, I missed the experience of effort, delayed gratification, and reaping the fruit of my efforts.   I missed the struggle and aggravation which eventually ended and resulted in something that brought me great satisfaction, happiness and maybe even a slight bit more patience.   A trip through a drive-through, with only the effort of unwrapping paper or opening plastic packets delivers only an end to a feeling of being hungry.   It doesn't nourish anyone, neither those who prepare it nor those who eat it.   Playing a video game until the next level is reached can never develop the same persistence and problem-solving  skills that are achieved from building a tower of blocks which finally stands on its own.  

In our old neighborhood, a favorite neighbor was Mrs. Vi, short for Viola.   She and her husband, Phil, were the original owners of their home and they had lived there over forty years.   Their yard was a wonderland.   It was shaded by mature trees.   Beautiful flower beds took up most of the yard, with winding paths and bubbling fountains finding places between them.   As soon as I heard the squeak of the chain link gate, I felt I was in a different place.   It reminded me of my Mama's yard and the yards to which I was accustomed in Louisiana.   One day, as I sat on Mrs. Vi's back patio sipping lemonade, I lamented that my own yard was so bare and that I wished it looked like hers.   "Oh, hon," she said.   "When we moved in, your yard was still a pasture with cattle grazing on it."   Then she pointed to some majestic oaks.   "We planted every one of those trees and planted every bush and plant.   You're seeing it all like it is today, but it took over forty years to get it to look like this."

Is it not the same with our souls?   We want the final version of our souls.   We want to be like the Saints at the end of their lives.   We're looking at the beauty and forgetting all the hard work, the actual toil, effort, and frustration that took place over so many years.   The physical world prepares us for the struggles of our souls.   A clay pot on a city fire escape or window ledge can provide a sacred plot of earth where the lessons of sowing and reaping may be learned.   The tiniest of kitchens can bring us a world of tastes, sounds, scents to experience as real food is washed, peeled, sliced, diced, fried, sauteed, roasted and baked so that something special is created.   Pre-packaged food served up by a waitress simply isn't the same as the meal we eat after waiting and playing a part in its preparation.  The bouquet of flowers from the floral shop can brighten our days while they last, but it doesn't have the same impact as tending to our own plant and watching it grow.   When your child hears talk of Eucharist as a banquet or feast, prepared for him by Christ, will that image invoke effort, sacrifice, conversation, comfort, and joy or will such a description only invoke an image of convenience and temporary satisfaction of physical desires?   When your child reads of St. Therese's sacrifices being like roses showered upon the earth, will he understand how precious is a rose?   The care in planting and tending required so that picking is done with care and appreciation?   Blooms so precious they are not to be wasted?   Upon what "hooks" will your child hang the parables or the communal feeding imagery of the New Testament?  

Work can certainly form "hooks" of knowledge so we can better understand the parables of Christ.  In addition, work of our hands is a safe, natural way to experience struggle.   It forms our experience of starting with little or with raw, independent ingredients and tools.   We learn what to do when our first method fails.   We learn that the sweat, tears, and callouses were all worth it when we saw the finished product.   We learn that we are sometimes rewarded immediately from our efforts, but sometimes we have to wait a long time.   Are we just completing chores necessary for living or are we also working?   Are we building and creating, even if it is uncomfortable?   As Christians, we don't want to simply live.   We want to work for Christ and grow with Him so that one day we may spend Eternity with Him.   Marriage is hard work.   Friendships are hard work.   Parenting is hard work.   It's messy and if you are searching for contentment as the pretty lady in the wide-brimmed hat, you're going to end up with disappointment.   Holiness is in the planting and tending; God does the artful arrangement of what we offer Him.   Get in the dirt.   Get in the kitchen.   Plant, build, cook.   Make it real.   It will be hard, messy, and often frustrating.   But work, honest and offered up to God, will lead us closer to Christ who is the only real thing on which we can rely.


Philippians 2:12   And so, my dear friends, just as you have always obeyed, not only when I was with you but even more now that I am absent, continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling.


Work is a good thing for man--a good thing for his humanity--because through work man not only transforms nature, adapting it to his own needs, but he also achieves fulfillment as a human being and indeed, in a sense, becomes more of a human being."  Laborem exercens


    

  

Five Favorites

I've been working on several posts lately, but I've not published any of them here, so I'll join Hallie Lord's fun link-up at Moxie Wife.

1. Buckskin Bill Black

I grew up watching Buckskin Bill's television show every weekday morning on WAFB-TV in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.   He told stories, talked to his puppet named "What'sYourName?" (if you wrote a letter and asked, he would say his name was yours for the day), showed cartoons, and taught children to turn Monday into a Fun Day by doing the Monday Morning March.   Mama loved to tell people how cute I was, marching around our living room as I did the March along with Buckskin Bill.   Before my time, he decided Baton Rouge needed a zoo and worked to make it happen.   Then, he led a penny drive so the children of the area could contribute enough pennies to purchase two elephants for the zoo.   I love this man and I'm so happy he was a part of my childhood.   It's worth a watch.   It's really a peak into another era when childhood was valued a bit more than now.

2.  Soy Butter at Wal-Mart

I found soy butter at our Wal-Mart for just $3.78 a jar!!!!   Our eldest daughter is allergic to all nuts, so we use this peanut butter alternative in our house.   I usually pay over $5 per jar at another store because I've never found it cheaper.   A few days ago, I did.   Happy.

3.  Apple Peels

Some messes make you tired; they push you to exasperation.   But, a pile of apple peels?   For me, that's a mess that just makes me happy to the core.   Get it?!   Peeling apples is therapy for me.   I have no desire for gadgets.   Give me a simple paring knife and leave me alone to peel my apples.   It's like a Calgon moment for me.  

Before the Pie: there's a beauty to the rings and squared cores.

4.  Cherry sandals

If you don't smile when you just look at these darling shoes, there might be something seriously wrong with you.   And they were on Clearance!   Perfect for my Clare!

Cherry sandals, cherry dress, all for a cutie pie:)

5. Chopped

We haven't had cable television for two years now.   It's been great, although I do miss Eastenders and a few favorites from Food TV.   This week, I decided to do the month free trial of Amazon Prime.   Oh, joy: the Instant Videos!   I can watch Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa and Chopped.   I loved watching Chopped, the show where chefs are challenged to make a three course meal using an odd assortment of ingredients.   Each course has to be made in only twenty minutes.   I am in awe of the creativity and talent of the chefs.   I have enjoyed catching up on new episodes with the whole family.   And I don't have to wait until after commercials to find out "who's been chopped..."

Check out more Five Favorites over at Moxie Wife!

Easter 2013

It's still the Easter season, so these are not late!   Happy Easter to all.   The children made it through another Easter Vigil Mass.   The fire at the beginning and the candlelight as we entered the sanctuary were highlights for them.   As always, it brought back memories of my baptism and welcome into the Catholic Church.   My 16h Anniversary as a Catholic was Good Friday.   Easter Sunday was a beautiful day of an extraordinary amount of chocolate and time spent together with dear friends.   And desserts.   Lots of delicious desserts!   The children's lunches reflected the joy of the Octave with one of Joey's homemade coconut cupcakes every day.

I realized I haven't taken outdoor Easter pictures in their Easter finery for the past two years.   Who takes indoor Easter pictures at home?!

Very excited over stuffed bunnies.   We don't have that many stuffed animals in our house.

New matching gown set for doll and cute little girl

He LOVES his soccer ball.   LOVES.

Another matching gown set, another cute little girl

Easter morning: my first Cadbury Creme Egg of the season.   Finally.

How adorable are all these children?   Ready to hunt eggs!

Desserts!   The centerpiece was Megan's beautiful lamb cake.   She uses the same cake pan passed down in her family.   It's a beautiful tradition and it was a delicious cake!

My Easter table: Mama's vases filled with beautiful tulips

New place mats after waiting for 2 years to find a great deal!   And I love burlap.

Darcy, Don Draper and the Great Struggles

I don't feel the popular appeal of Pride and Prejudice as a love story.    I totally understand the reaction to Colin Firth and Matthew Macfadyen on-screen as Mr. Darcy (boy, do I get that), but that's unrelated to the story for me.   Yes, I love the romantic story within the larger story, but it always annoys me to levels quite abnormal when Pride and Prejudice is seen simply as a love story.   It's so much more complicated than that.  My biggest criticism of the feature-length film from 2005, starring Matthew Macfadyen and Keira Knightley is that it distilled the whole novel into just a love story.   The first time I watched the movie was under miserable circumstances, but after viewing it under more pleasant ones, I can now find things to compliment.  The great success of the 1995 BBC television adaptation of the novel, besides showcasing Colin Firth, was that it included some key elements of the novel.    In the novel, we see Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy grow as individuals before they become a couple.   They observe others more keenly, gaining insight about relationships and behaviours.   They adjust preconceived notions as they are placed in circumstances outside their normal ones.   Most importantly to me, they are engaged in a great moral struggle.   It's the struggle that is a human effort, whether consciously or not,  to grasp what is divine.   It's finding one's bearings by the great moral compass of the divine truths imprinted upon our souls.   It's the pull--the allure--of Pride and Prejudice for me.   It's what always keeps me reading or watching the latest book, film, or television series I've begun.

I am most engaged, most emotionally invested in Pride and Prejudice, when the plot turns to the great scandal of Lydia Bennet and George Wickham.   Oh, that Wickham!   Would that he never entered into their lives!   But Wickham has already been a part of Mr. Darcy's life.   Mr. Darcy knows things.  Elizabeth learns these same things.   And they don't tell.   They don't mete out judgement upon Wickham.   They don't seek personal satisfaction in exposing him for all he has truly been.  Worldly wisdom tells us that Wickham deserved to be exposed as a fraud and a scoundrel.  Instead, Mr. Darcy takes cautious and deliberate care to fix as much damage as can be corrected and to put Wickham and Lydia in as good a position as possible to leave their mistakes behind and start anew. 

Every single time I read the novel, I am amazed.   Honestly, I also always wonder, "Would I have done the same?"   Would I have had the same moral fortitude?   It's part of the timeless appeal of the novel.   The personal temptations for satisfaction, revenge, or just the interior outrage that exists when we see others successfully passing themselves off as something quite different from the hidden actions of which we are aware: these have existed in humans since the Fall.   No matter the time period, these battles have raged in our hearts and minds.

My thoughts have turned often to Darcy and Pride and Prejudice after viewing Season 5 of Mad Men on Netflix last week.   No cable or satellite, so I'm always at least a year behind on a cable series.   The main character, Don Draper, reminds me of Mr. Darcy in several ways.   No, really, stick with me for this.   It's what endears him to me--what makes me root for him to turn it all around-- in spite of his past mistakes.

Mad Men, a series created by Matthew Weiner, tells the story of characters centered around a fictional advertising agency in New York City during the 1960s.   It tells the story of America during those turbulent times whilst the equally stormy lives of the central characters unfold.    The series has been justly awarded with recognition for its writing, acting, production, and design of both sets and costumes.   The characters are complicated and well-developed.   The plot twists are unexpected, but in subtle, realistic ways, for the most part.   We see characters of different ages adjusting to their lives and seeking stability at the same time the culture is going through such chaos.   It is intelligent, beautiful and engaging television.   And, in all honesty, I love that one of the female lead characters is curvy and Marilyn-esque instead of the prized willowy physique we usually see on-screen.

Don Draper, a gifted advertising executive who becomes a partner in a newcomer firm, is the central character of the show.   Not only does the show's plot revolve around him, but for many of the characters he becomes some sort of nucleus for their lives.   He is beyond merely attractive, in impeccably tailored suits and hats which only serve to accentuate his beautiful features.   He is charming in a very learned way.   His great gift that makes him such a power player in the advertising business is his ability to read people and figure out what makes them tick.   He is a man with a dark past, as viewers see in slight glimpses of flashback.   We know his childhood was not normal and that it was so terrible he left it behind.   He appears to be the American ideal of the Self-Made Man.   We seek the cracks, however, and we see all that "having it all" really lacks.

Unlike Mr. Darcy, who was raised and trained to be a man of his position, Don Draper has to piece his life together on his own.    He was not raised with any faith or any compass beyond instincts of survival.   He fails miserably in his marriage and fares little better in his role as a father to his three children.   He seems to only find certainty in the world of work and later in the world he seeks to create when he begins a new marriage.   He genuinely wants to be a good man, I think.   The character of Roger Sterling, a partner in the same firm and the man who gave Don his first break in advertising, serves the role of being a contrast to Don, as Roger has no desire to be good, but only wants to enjoy every base pleasure he desires.

Throughout the series, we see glimpses of the nobility of character hidden deep within Don.   He knows things about the other characters.   Big, scandalous things which could ruin people's reputations and lives.   And he doesn't tell.   Like Darcy, he helps people privately and attempts to give them the best chance to move on he possibly can.   Also, like Darcy, he expects nothing in return.   Nothing.   He shrugs it off.   We understand that part of his motivation must be his own murky past.   Unlike Darcy, who has been trained in a system of nobility and justice, Don seems motivated by his own mistakes.   He seems to recognize himself in his fellow sinners and draw from second chances he was given.   It's no small act to know things that you could use for satisfaction and to choose to keep them hidden.   It's an even bigger act to show mercy to those same people and help them in the best way you are able so they can take a different path, especially when your own attempts at the right way have been so troubled.

Whatever their backgrounds or motivations, Don Draper and Fitzwilliam Darcy both face choices.   They both face inner demons and their sinful natures.   They both make deliberate decisions to forgive, show mercy, and help others find a new way.   It's the kernel of goodness that makes them leading men for whom I cheer inside as I read and watch.    They are both engaged in the moral struggles that make life so hard, so messy, but so interesting.   I know how Pride and Prejudice turns out, but I still have two seasons of Mad Men to which I look forward.   There were scenes that broke my heart from Season five because they were portrayed as truly tragic.  I hope Don can find the good path for which he seems to really long.    Real love and forgiveness, like that which he shares with some, but finds so hard to communicate in marriage and fatherhood.   It's what keeps me re-reading Austen's novel and watching television like Mad Men.   It's what keeps me examining my own conscience. Good can exist.   Hope can exist.   Because God exists, whether we acknowledge Him or not.  

The Defiant Requiem

Last night, I watched a beautiful documentary on PBS, Defiant Requiem.   It is the true story of a 1944 performance of Verdi's beautiful Requiem Mass in Terezín, a Nazi concentration camp.   The performance was arranged by inmate and conductor, Rafael Schächter.   It was performed by a chorus of his fellow prisoners, many of whom would be shipped out to face death following the performance.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jason-apuzzo/voices-raised-in-resistan_b_3029488.html?utm_hp_ref=entertainment


The link above is for a great article by Jason Apuzzo, of The Huffington Post.

"Know before whom you stand."  A wall of the secret synagogue at Terezin.

There's not much to add to Apuzzo's article, other than:

1. My favorite quote, amongst many:

Survivor Edgar Krasa says of the Requiem, "It was a prayer that overcame hunger ... you were there [singing] in that cellar and you were a different person." Another survivor who sang in the chorus, Marianka May, agrees: "My stomach stopped growling when I was singing. I think when you are more a soul than a person, I don't think the soul has to be nourished by anything but heavenly music." 

"...when you are more a soul than a person..."   The very knowledge that should have prevented the Holocaust--and all the ugliness we do to others--in the first place.

Danny and Rafi Krasa lift their father Edgar Krasa, who was Raphael Schachter's roommate and a choir member during their time in Terezin.

2.  Schächter chose the Requiem because he and the inmates could tell their Nazi captors of the judgement which awaited them and they could cry openly to God for their liberation.   The inmates who survived speak of the beauty of the piece and the power they found in the Latin words.   They memorized it without any books or papers.   It nourished them, connected them to God, to each other, and to hope.

It seemed a contrast to those few Catholics who nearly spit with anger when they discuss why the mass should only be in Latin.   I wonder what is their motivation because surely if the Latin mass affected them as it did the prisoners of Terezin, they would speak with more love and seek their own ways to convince others--with beauty and art-- all in the name of He who is Love and Hope.

Five Favorites

This week's link-up with Hallie Lord at Moxie Wife: British, kitchen, and flowers

1. Call the Midwife

It's BACK on PBS Masterpiece for Season 2.   I've avoided spoilers from the UK as much as I can since the episodes have already aired there.   I love the characters, every last one of them, especially Jenny Lee, Chummy, and Sister Monica Joan.    It's just a simple, but beautiful story of life--and the search for real love in all its forms-- in the East End of London in the 1950s.   It's is based on the memoirs of Jennifer Worth and it is narrated by the older Nurse Jenny Lee.   She recounts leaving her sheltered life to live in a convent clinic where she works as a newly certified midwife.   The show is not what we might expect in the US, where such a title might denote an anti-doctor, anti-hospital message.   It shows the NHS (National Health Service) bringing trained midwives (also certified nurses), under the supervision of doctors, to women who had no professional health care before.   Jenny learns to look past the exterior and surroundings to see real, complicated people.   It is beautifully filmed and written.   The actors are superb.   I'm looking forward to Episode 2 of Season 2 this Sunday night.   Season 1 is available on Netflix and the first episode of Season 2 is on the PBS website.

2. theKitchn 

No, that's not misspelled.   It's one of my favorite Food websites.   I love the tours of REAL people's REAL kitchens.  These are places where people actually cook and gather with family and friends; they are not showplaces.  The recipes are varied, fresh, and fabulous.  It also offers practical organization and food budgeting advice.  It's just original and a happy place to spend a few clicks of the mouse.   This week, I'm especially loving the vintage print on a tea towel (on the right in picture below) featured in a happy simple apartment kitchen tour (see, REAL places) and an incredibly delicious-sounding recipe for a BAKED RICOTTA appetizer.   Yum!

3. BBC Radio 4

Almost a British theme going here!   I usually have this station playing on my iPhone or laptop throughout the day.   I love the quality dramas, news programs and interviews with fascinating people.   I like listening to the coverage of Parliament and weather (because I'm weird like that) and I think it's nice to have a different perspective on happenings in the world, although there are many Americans on the programs.   It's where I got most of my election news last fall.   It's where I find out about interesting new books, also.

4. Fresh Flowers

I don't buy fresh flowers as often as I should.   I bought these beautiful tulips for our Easter table and they are still brightening our days of the Octave of Easter.   The vases belonged to Mama.

5. Key Lime Pie

I only make this for special people or special occasions because it's a little time-consuming.   Easter deserves a pie that takes extra time and work.   I love the fresh, vibrant tartness and color.   Here are my two favorite recipes from my pie blog for this delicious slice of refreshment.

A Blessed Easter to you and yours and check out more Five Favorites at MoxieWife.com (this week taken over by Jen Fulwiler)!