Peace
Precious, priceless
Yearning, seeking, grasping…
It is a journey, not a destination
Grace
Precious, priceless
Yearning, seeking, grasping…
It is a journey, not a destination
Grace
Grandma's Garden
As Published in the Woodford County Journal
July 29, 2010
Frankly Speaking
My Grandma Hansel was a hard woman to know. She was stern, austere—I saw her frown more often than smile. Her anger always frightened me, as I constantly thought I was in trouble for unknown misdeed.
She died when I was about 6 years old, so my memories of her were as a small child visiting her and Grandpa Hansel’s home near Terre Haute, Indiana. They had an old farm house on a few acres of land.
When we would visit from our small town near Indianapolis, we would pile out of the van—all 7 of us—and go around the house, past the kitchen door, by the root cellar where grandma cultivated her African violets.
I remember vividly going past the house lined with grandma’s flower beds, with large geodes and other stones from grandpa’s rock collection scattered around them.
We would walk by the garage, a barn-like structure that was full of equipment and tools and, well, stuff, up to the rafters. Attached to the garage was an outhouse.
I’m sure that many of you remember outhouses. This one was a two-holer that Grandpa had built and attached to the garage so young hoodlums couldn’t tip it over on Halloween. Grandpa didn’t put a bathroom in the house until the mid-1970s.
Beyond the buildings, the back lawn opened up to a magnificent garden. My eyes would widen as I took in the scene--my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles brothers and sisters and cousins all milling about in the garden.
First, I would look through the tall corn stalks--as tall as sky-scrapers to me. I’d see a cousin peering back from the other end of the row, and we’d wave at each other.
Past the walls of corn, the garden opened up to plants with vines and leaves reaching out and overlapping one another. There were tomatoes of various colors and every kind of pepper one would want. She had varieties of squash and there were always potatoes; peas; carrots; radishes; turnips; pole beans, with their vines twirling around the tall sticks rising up from the ground…and kohl rabbi.
It was a root vegetable we would eat straight from the garden. I don’t even remember washing off the dirt! Even my picky-eater siblings liked it—it had a mild, slightly sweet taste as I recall. I haven’t had it sine then, because I’ve never found it in any store or vegetable stand.
Off to the side, in a place of honor it seemed, was an asparagus bed. Did you know that when you plant asparagus you don’t see the fruits of your labor for two years? I was always amazed at that, especially since I hate asparagus. But for Grandma, it was worth the wait and effort.
My grandmother spent all her time in the garden, planting, tilling, weeding, coaxing. My mom has stories from her childhood of grandma attempting to make dinner for the family.
She would put on a pot to boil, and go back to the garden. By the time she remembered to check the pot, there would be a hole in the bottom because all the liquid had boiled away. Consequently, my grandfather did most of the cooking.
When Grandma was in the garden, she came alive. She smiled, she laughed….you don’t know how rare it was to see my grandma laugh. I remember the sound of it, the way her eyes would crinkle and glisten as she talked to anyone who cared about her garden.
Sitting beside her on the big swing under the willow tree, I learned skills I rarely use anymore--shucking corn, shelling peas, snapping beans. But I also learned skills I still use--compassion, humor, curiosity as I listened to the adults talk and laugh and share family stories.
This is how my grandmother was able to express her love for her children and grandchildren. It was confusing to me, because this image of her was so different than the demanding and disapproving one I usually experienced.
As a child, I didn’t know who the real Grandma was, but looking back on that time, I realize now that both images were true and real.
Love is complicated and messy sometimes. At times, love is difficult to give and just as hard to receive. But love comes in so many packages, so many shapes and sizes. Love comes in unexpected ways, and we don’t always recognize it when it appears.
Sometimes it takes us years, even decades to look back and see clearly how an ordinary act held within it so much love. And at other times, love is immediately recognizable.
In my mind, I am about 4 years old looking at all the vines weaving around the tomato cages and sprawling out over the ground in Grandma’s garden. Those tomatoes looked like red and yellow jewels hidden within the prickly vines, but I knew better than to touch the forbidden fruit.
So I stand there lost in a daydream about a heroic girl fending her way through a vine-like forest to reach the lost treasure. Suddenly I become aware of my grandmother’s gaze on me. I look up into her eyes with more than a bit of fear, even though she is smiling at me. I always thought she could see right into my soul.
After a moment, without saying a word, she reaches into those tangled, sticky vines and plucks the reddest, most ripe tomato she sees. She hands it to me, the smile now enveloping her face and making her eyes sparkle.
“Here,” she says as she hands me the precious fruit. “Eat it just like an apple. You don‘t even need salt”
I do, and she is right, and it tastes like manna from heaven. For one clear moment, I know that she loves me, and that’s all that matters.
July 29, 2010
Frankly Speaking
My Grandma Hansel was a hard woman to know. She was stern, austere—I saw her frown more often than smile. Her anger always frightened me, as I constantly thought I was in trouble for unknown misdeed.
She died when I was about 6 years old, so my memories of her were as a small child visiting her and Grandpa Hansel’s home near Terre Haute, Indiana. They had an old farm house on a few acres of land.
When we would visit from our small town near Indianapolis, we would pile out of the van—all 7 of us—and go around the house, past the kitchen door, by the root cellar where grandma cultivated her African violets.
I remember vividly going past the house lined with grandma’s flower beds, with large geodes and other stones from grandpa’s rock collection scattered around them.
We would walk by the garage, a barn-like structure that was full of equipment and tools and, well, stuff, up to the rafters. Attached to the garage was an outhouse.
I’m sure that many of you remember outhouses. This one was a two-holer that Grandpa had built and attached to the garage so young hoodlums couldn’t tip it over on Halloween. Grandpa didn’t put a bathroom in the house until the mid-1970s.
Beyond the buildings, the back lawn opened up to a magnificent garden. My eyes would widen as I took in the scene--my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles brothers and sisters and cousins all milling about in the garden.
First, I would look through the tall corn stalks--as tall as sky-scrapers to me. I’d see a cousin peering back from the other end of the row, and we’d wave at each other.
Past the walls of corn, the garden opened up to plants with vines and leaves reaching out and overlapping one another. There were tomatoes of various colors and every kind of pepper one would want. She had varieties of squash and there were always potatoes; peas; carrots; radishes; turnips; pole beans, with their vines twirling around the tall sticks rising up from the ground…and kohl rabbi.
It was a root vegetable we would eat straight from the garden. I don’t even remember washing off the dirt! Even my picky-eater siblings liked it—it had a mild, slightly sweet taste as I recall. I haven’t had it sine then, because I’ve never found it in any store or vegetable stand.
Off to the side, in a place of honor it seemed, was an asparagus bed. Did you know that when you plant asparagus you don’t see the fruits of your labor for two years? I was always amazed at that, especially since I hate asparagus. But for Grandma, it was worth the wait and effort.
My grandmother spent all her time in the garden, planting, tilling, weeding, coaxing. My mom has stories from her childhood of grandma attempting to make dinner for the family.
She would put on a pot to boil, and go back to the garden. By the time she remembered to check the pot, there would be a hole in the bottom because all the liquid had boiled away. Consequently, my grandfather did most of the cooking.
When Grandma was in the garden, she came alive. She smiled, she laughed….you don’t know how rare it was to see my grandma laugh. I remember the sound of it, the way her eyes would crinkle and glisten as she talked to anyone who cared about her garden.
Sitting beside her on the big swing under the willow tree, I learned skills I rarely use anymore--shucking corn, shelling peas, snapping beans. But I also learned skills I still use--compassion, humor, curiosity as I listened to the adults talk and laugh and share family stories.
This is how my grandmother was able to express her love for her children and grandchildren. It was confusing to me, because this image of her was so different than the demanding and disapproving one I usually experienced.
As a child, I didn’t know who the real Grandma was, but looking back on that time, I realize now that both images were true and real.
Love is complicated and messy sometimes. At times, love is difficult to give and just as hard to receive. But love comes in so many packages, so many shapes and sizes. Love comes in unexpected ways, and we don’t always recognize it when it appears.
Sometimes it takes us years, even decades to look back and see clearly how an ordinary act held within it so much love. And at other times, love is immediately recognizable.
In my mind, I am about 4 years old looking at all the vines weaving around the tomato cages and sprawling out over the ground in Grandma’s garden. Those tomatoes looked like red and yellow jewels hidden within the prickly vines, but I knew better than to touch the forbidden fruit.
So I stand there lost in a daydream about a heroic girl fending her way through a vine-like forest to reach the lost treasure. Suddenly I become aware of my grandmother’s gaze on me. I look up into her eyes with more than a bit of fear, even though she is smiling at me. I always thought she could see right into my soul.
After a moment, without saying a word, she reaches into those tangled, sticky vines and plucks the reddest, most ripe tomato she sees. She hands it to me, the smile now enveloping her face and making her eyes sparkle.
“Here,” she says as she hands me the precious fruit. “Eat it just like an apple. You don‘t even need salt”
I do, and she is right, and it tastes like manna from heaven. For one clear moment, I know that she loves me, and that’s all that matters.
You've got to have friends
As Published in the Woodford County Journal July 8, 2010
Frankly Speaking
You’ve got to have friends
By Arlene Franks
“A Friend won’t defend a husband who buys his wife an electric skillet for her birthday.” ~Erma Bombeck
So, let’s talk about reality TV. In an earlier “Frankly Speaking,” I wrote about crime shows, how addictive they are and harmful to our individual and collective sense of hope. This time, I want to make a case for how reality TV (which more accurately should be called surreality TV) tends to distort our perception of relationships.
Reality shows aren’t as addictive to me as crime shows. I weed most of them out categorically. I have rules, you know:
~no celebriality.
~nothing tacky, sleazy or salacious.
~no spoiled brats (see celebriality, above).
~no violent, mean, back-stabbing or scary reality.
~no ‘vote ‘em off the island’ (or outta the house) shows.
~no ‘get me a date’ (or a partner for the rest of my life) shows.
~no kiddie pageants (See spoiled brats, above).
That pretty-much pares it down to shows based on skill, like “Top Chef,” “Project Runway” and “The Amazing Race,” and even they get close to the edge sometimes.
Now, there have been times when I’ve broken my own rules and became engrossed in a show from my ‘no watch’ list. For instance, a couple of years ago, I somehow got caught up in one of those ‘find me a date’ shows. It fit squarely into several categories—sleazy, mean, vote ‘em off, pseudo celebriality, etc.
I’m embarrassed to say I watched every appalling episode, each more disgusting than the last. (shudder) I sat there week after week, asking myself, “Why am I watching this?” I excused it in my mind as being material for my continual study of human nature. (Yeah, well, it was the best I could come up with.)
This year, I used the same rationale for getting caught up in “The Real Housewives of New York.” What hooked me in was a conflict between two of the women that eventually affected the whole tribe of wealthy and privileged women the show follows to each party; shopping trip; and self-promoting, exhibitionist event around NYC.
It was a silly, petty argument that turned into a major messy brawl. Most of the women were taking sides, while one woman valiantly tried to bridge the rift until the pressure got to her and she exploded all over the place. It wasn’t pretty.
But what was even uglier was the way these women—purported to be friends—treated one another. Degrading one another in public, making snide comments behind the other’s back, laughing in triumph each time they won in their ‘gotcha’ game—they were vicious. And, in my humble opinion, that’s not friendship.
I grew up with TV as a constant backdrop to my life. I know how influential it can be to kids just forming their world views. Reality TV strengthens the stereotypes that feed our bigotry and make our lives smaller.
In the ‘reality’ world:
~women are catty—they bicker and treat one another shabbily.
~men are Neanderthals—rude, crude and lewd—who get into trouble whenever they’re together.
~marriage is based on looks, lies, and wealth—infidelity is ramped.
~families are completely hopeless, with idiot parents who live vicariously through their children who are wild, entitled and ungrateful.
~friendships are superficial, interchangeable, and disposable—if one doesn’t fit throw it away and try another one on for size.
Isn’t that a pretty bleak and even dangerous view of the world? It certainly runs counter to my own experience. I have found most people in my world to be kind, compassionate, and giving. Most folks have a sense of humor, taking themselves lightly and their life’s call seriously.
Friends, I’ve found, bear one another’s burdens. While you’re laid up, they plow your fields and take care of your family. They bring you flowers from their gardens, food from their kitchens and books and music from their personal collections…along with prayers from their hearts.
I’ve been in the hospital on several occasions lately, and each time, my friends have sat with me, making jokes and exchanging small talk while we waited for the doctors to come back with test results. They’ve acted as advocates for me, telling the medical team things I’d forgotten about my history, asking questions I hadn’t thought of, calling family and friends on my behalf.
They’ve visited with my cat to make sure she is fed and doesn’t get lonely. While there, they even cleaned the place up! Now that’s friendship.
Friends treat you with respect—they wouldn’t say behind your back what they shouldn’t say when you’re face to face. They know when to be on your side and when to tactfully tell you you’re wrong. And you know they’re right.
As friends we make impromptu ‘play dates’ with one another; care for one another’s spirits; allow the other to be truly unique, truly genuine. We give one another a voice. We cry together, laugh together, and sit in silence together.
That, to me, is what true friendship is. Not the fluff and junk of television. Of course, we all know this to be true—don’t we? I hope so. I hope we recognize reality TV for what it is—ratings-grabbing, shock-producing, hate-mongering, muck-raking TV…not to mention mind-numbing.
But, alas, reality shows are cheap to make, and they continue to be oh, so popular. Ratings sell, you know. Conversely, logic would dictate that if we stop watching them, they’ll likely go away.
With that in mind, I recommit myself to questioning why I watch, to keep adding to my ‘no watch’ list and to trying harder to adhere to it. And perhaps you can join me in making this pledge:
“I sincerely pledge to help decrease the popularity of reality shows by not following them, discussing them, betting on them, imitating them or supporting them in any way.”
Maybe one day, the era of reality TV will be over and real life can once again thrive.
Frankly Speaking
You’ve got to have friends
By Arlene Franks
“A Friend won’t defend a husband who buys his wife an electric skillet for her birthday.” ~Erma Bombeck
So, let’s talk about reality TV. In an earlier “Frankly Speaking,” I wrote about crime shows, how addictive they are and harmful to our individual and collective sense of hope. This time, I want to make a case for how reality TV (which more accurately should be called surreality TV) tends to distort our perception of relationships.
Reality shows aren’t as addictive to me as crime shows. I weed most of them out categorically. I have rules, you know:
~no celebriality.
~nothing tacky, sleazy or salacious.
~no spoiled brats (see celebriality, above).
~no violent, mean, back-stabbing or scary reality.
~no ‘vote ‘em off the island’ (or outta the house) shows.
~no ‘get me a date’ (or a partner for the rest of my life) shows.
~no kiddie pageants (See spoiled brats, above).
That pretty-much pares it down to shows based on skill, like “Top Chef,” “Project Runway” and “The Amazing Race,” and even they get close to the edge sometimes.
Now, there have been times when I’ve broken my own rules and became engrossed in a show from my ‘no watch’ list. For instance, a couple of years ago, I somehow got caught up in one of those ‘find me a date’ shows. It fit squarely into several categories—sleazy, mean, vote ‘em off, pseudo celebriality, etc.
I’m embarrassed to say I watched every appalling episode, each more disgusting than the last. (shudder) I sat there week after week, asking myself, “Why am I watching this?” I excused it in my mind as being material for my continual study of human nature. (Yeah, well, it was the best I could come up with.)
This year, I used the same rationale for getting caught up in “The Real Housewives of New York.” What hooked me in was a conflict between two of the women that eventually affected the whole tribe of wealthy and privileged women the show follows to each party; shopping trip; and self-promoting, exhibitionist event around NYC.
It was a silly, petty argument that turned into a major messy brawl. Most of the women were taking sides, while one woman valiantly tried to bridge the rift until the pressure got to her and she exploded all over the place. It wasn’t pretty.
But what was even uglier was the way these women—purported to be friends—treated one another. Degrading one another in public, making snide comments behind the other’s back, laughing in triumph each time they won in their ‘gotcha’ game—they were vicious. And, in my humble opinion, that’s not friendship.
I grew up with TV as a constant backdrop to my life. I know how influential it can be to kids just forming their world views. Reality TV strengthens the stereotypes that feed our bigotry and make our lives smaller.
In the ‘reality’ world:
~women are catty—they bicker and treat one another shabbily.
~men are Neanderthals—rude, crude and lewd—who get into trouble whenever they’re together.
~marriage is based on looks, lies, and wealth—infidelity is ramped.
~families are completely hopeless, with idiot parents who live vicariously through their children who are wild, entitled and ungrateful.
~friendships are superficial, interchangeable, and disposable—if one doesn’t fit throw it away and try another one on for size.
Isn’t that a pretty bleak and even dangerous view of the world? It certainly runs counter to my own experience. I have found most people in my world to be kind, compassionate, and giving. Most folks have a sense of humor, taking themselves lightly and their life’s call seriously.
Friends, I’ve found, bear one another’s burdens. While you’re laid up, they plow your fields and take care of your family. They bring you flowers from their gardens, food from their kitchens and books and music from their personal collections…along with prayers from their hearts.
I’ve been in the hospital on several occasions lately, and each time, my friends have sat with me, making jokes and exchanging small talk while we waited for the doctors to come back with test results. They’ve acted as advocates for me, telling the medical team things I’d forgotten about my history, asking questions I hadn’t thought of, calling family and friends on my behalf.
They’ve visited with my cat to make sure she is fed and doesn’t get lonely. While there, they even cleaned the place up! Now that’s friendship.
Friends treat you with respect—they wouldn’t say behind your back what they shouldn’t say when you’re face to face. They know when to be on your side and when to tactfully tell you you’re wrong. And you know they’re right.
As friends we make impromptu ‘play dates’ with one another; care for one another’s spirits; allow the other to be truly unique, truly genuine. We give one another a voice. We cry together, laugh together, and sit in silence together.
That, to me, is what true friendship is. Not the fluff and junk of television. Of course, we all know this to be true—don’t we? I hope so. I hope we recognize reality TV for what it is—ratings-grabbing, shock-producing, hate-mongering, muck-raking TV…not to mention mind-numbing.
But, alas, reality shows are cheap to make, and they continue to be oh, so popular. Ratings sell, you know. Conversely, logic would dictate that if we stop watching them, they’ll likely go away.
With that in mind, I recommit myself to questioning why I watch, to keep adding to my ‘no watch’ list and to trying harder to adhere to it. And perhaps you can join me in making this pledge:
“I sincerely pledge to help decrease the popularity of reality shows by not following them, discussing them, betting on them, imitating them or supporting them in any way.”
Maybe one day, the era of reality TV will be over and real life can once again thrive.
Eureka: Not Your Ordinary Community
As published in the Woodford County Journal June 17, 2010
Frankly Speaking
Eureka: Not your ordinary community
By Arlene Franks
Let me introduce you to some remarkable young women—Jean, Rebecca, April and Shalon. But, then again, you may already know them. They all grew up here in Eureka.
On Saturday, May 8, I attended Eureka College’s graduation and Don Littlejohn’s memorial service.
I was privileged to observe them at some of life’s pivotal moments and was struck by just how extraordinary these young women are—poised, accomplished, kind, generous, creative, talented, gracious and appreciative.
As I sat misty-eyed, remembering their childhoods, I watched in awe and wonder as they participated in the events of the day.
• Shalon Woolridge graduated with honors from EC.
• April McClure-Stewart spoke at the graduation as the president of the alumni association and gave a solo vocal performance at the funeral.
• Jean and Rebecca Littlejohn participated in their grandfather’s service. Jean played the piano and talked of Don’s love of music. Rebecca talked about Don’s devotion to peace and justice issues and served as a worship leader.
I mention these young women, not to single them out as unique in this community, but rather to express just how ordinary their extraordinariness is for people brought up in Eureka, Illinois.
All these young woman—and many young men and women much like them—grew up in our midst. They blossomed under the influence of great parents, a nurturing church and a supportive community. They had lots of opportunities for involvement and achievement, in academics, sports, art, music, plus plenty of opportunities to give back to the community themselves.
Young people from grade school through college get their pictures and write-ups in the Woodford County Journal. They are the stars of local parades, sporting events and local productions. They organize mission trips and local outreach.
They get to see early on that their lives make a difference. They get to feel good about themselves. Even the ordinary becomes extraordinary when surrounded by positive encouragement and celebration.
And a lot of that is on us, folks. Each one of us has an impact on our children—all the young ones in our community—whether we intend to or not.
It’s up to us to develop and maintain an encouraging environment, not just for children and youth, but for parents, grandparents, teachers, school administrators, counselors, those in positions of advocacy, and ministers—all of those directly involved with children and youth.
We do this not just for those who reach beyond the ordinary to grasp the extraordinary, but those who fall short, too. Some, a few, seem to have everything going for them, but for no apparent reason, just stop reaching.
There are kids who don’t have a good family, or whose families are doing the best they can, but are limited by financial, spiritual, or other issues. There are those who don’t have a religious community or something that feeds their spirit. Then there are those who are different, who don’t fit in, who are isolated and don’t feel the love of this community.
I know some of these young people, too. I’ll bet you do, as well.
Eureka needs to be a place where ordinariness, even failure, is OK. There should be an atmosphere where mistakes are allowed. It must be the land of second chances, third chances…a million new chances if necessary.
Think of it this way: As a child is learning to walk, she falls down often. Don’t you encourage her to get back up and try again every time she falls? You don’t just throw up your hands and walk away, do you? Or worse, do you berate her for her clumsiness? It’s no different for growing and grown children.
I invite all of us to be more thoughtful about our place in their lives, to be appreciative of their presence here, and to look for ways to encourage them as they grow into the adults they are to be. Through our involvement, we share the honor of watching our children bloom into teenagers and teens to young adults…and beyond. It’s our gift to the young ones; it’s their gift to us.
Frankly Speaking
Eureka: Not your ordinary community
By Arlene Franks
Let me introduce you to some remarkable young women—Jean, Rebecca, April and Shalon. But, then again, you may already know them. They all grew up here in Eureka.
On Saturday, May 8, I attended Eureka College’s graduation and Don Littlejohn’s memorial service.
I was privileged to observe them at some of life’s pivotal moments and was struck by just how extraordinary these young women are—poised, accomplished, kind, generous, creative, talented, gracious and appreciative.
As I sat misty-eyed, remembering their childhoods, I watched in awe and wonder as they participated in the events of the day.
• Shalon Woolridge graduated with honors from EC.
• April McClure-Stewart spoke at the graduation as the president of the alumni association and gave a solo vocal performance at the funeral.
• Jean and Rebecca Littlejohn participated in their grandfather’s service. Jean played the piano and talked of Don’s love of music. Rebecca talked about Don’s devotion to peace and justice issues and served as a worship leader.
I mention these young women, not to single them out as unique in this community, but rather to express just how ordinary their extraordinariness is for people brought up in Eureka, Illinois.
All these young woman—and many young men and women much like them—grew up in our midst. They blossomed under the influence of great parents, a nurturing church and a supportive community. They had lots of opportunities for involvement and achievement, in academics, sports, art, music, plus plenty of opportunities to give back to the community themselves.
Young people from grade school through college get their pictures and write-ups in the Woodford County Journal. They are the stars of local parades, sporting events and local productions. They organize mission trips and local outreach.
They get to see early on that their lives make a difference. They get to feel good about themselves. Even the ordinary becomes extraordinary when surrounded by positive encouragement and celebration.
And a lot of that is on us, folks. Each one of us has an impact on our children—all the young ones in our community—whether we intend to or not.
It’s up to us to develop and maintain an encouraging environment, not just for children and youth, but for parents, grandparents, teachers, school administrators, counselors, those in positions of advocacy, and ministers—all of those directly involved with children and youth.
We do this not just for those who reach beyond the ordinary to grasp the extraordinary, but those who fall short, too. Some, a few, seem to have everything going for them, but for no apparent reason, just stop reaching.
There are kids who don’t have a good family, or whose families are doing the best they can, but are limited by financial, spiritual, or other issues. There are those who don’t have a religious community or something that feeds their spirit. Then there are those who are different, who don’t fit in, who are isolated and don’t feel the love of this community.
I know some of these young people, too. I’ll bet you do, as well.
Eureka needs to be a place where ordinariness, even failure, is OK. There should be an atmosphere where mistakes are allowed. It must be the land of second chances, third chances…a million new chances if necessary.
Think of it this way: As a child is learning to walk, she falls down often. Don’t you encourage her to get back up and try again every time she falls? You don’t just throw up your hands and walk away, do you? Or worse, do you berate her for her clumsiness? It’s no different for growing and grown children.
I invite all of us to be more thoughtful about our place in their lives, to be appreciative of their presence here, and to look for ways to encourage them as they grow into the adults they are to be. Through our involvement, we share the honor of watching our children bloom into teenagers and teens to young adults…and beyond. It’s our gift to the young ones; it’s their gift to us.
Crime Shows Can Kill You
As published in the Woodford County Journal, May 6, 2010
Frankly Speaking
Crime shows can kill you
By Arlene Franks
I never realized how addicted I was to crime shows until I gave them up for Lent this year. I’d be sitting on the couch, flipping through the channels, and stop on something that caught my interest. I’d watch it for a few seconds before I noticed, “oh, this is a crime show,” and flip the channel.
It had become such a habit to tune in to a crime show—any crime show, any time of day or night—that I had to continually remind myself of my pledge to give them up for 40 days…and nights. It didn’t help that every other show was crime-related.
Between the ones in current production and those in syndication, they are everywhere! They’re on the major networks, ABC, NBC, and CBS; the so-called ‘women’s’ networks, Lifetime, LMN, and WE; the ‘character’ and ‘drama’ networks, USA, TNT, and BET; and the quirky ones, Bravo, FX and SPIKE. They are even on the ‘family-friendly’ stations like TBS, ABC Family and PBS!
And they come in a plethora of genres, many of them overlapping:
•Family-oriented: The Good Wife and Medium.
•Court-centered: Law and Order and The Good Wife.
•Quirky character-focused: CSI and Law and Order Criminal Intent.
•Comedic bent: Psych and The Closer.
•Paranormal: Medium and Saving Grace.
•Pseudo Paranormal: Psych and The Mentalist.
•Military-oriented: NCIS and NCIS Los Angeles.
The crimes are usually the big ones—murder, kidnapping, rape, torture. The officers of the court and police solve the cases in myriad ways:
•By profiling the perpetrator: Criminal Minds, and Numbers.
•With forensics: CSI, Bones. and Law and Order SVU.
•By eliciting a confession: The Closer and Law and Order Criminal Intent.
•As a puzzle to be solved: Without a Trace, NCIS and Cold Case.
Then there are the reality-based shows that investigate or reenact real crimes. With titles like Most Shocking…, Worlds Dumbest…, Caught on Tape, and Haunted Evidence, they show examples of kooky and bizarre crime; horrific and brutal crime, or insidious and mysterious crime.
These real-crime-as-entertainment shows are covered by channels like Discovery, The History Channel, E!, TruTV, MTV and VH1. I’m sure if they could link crime to food, there would be a show on the Food Network with a title like Recipe for Murder.
Whether they are character-driven, plot-twisting, or story-weaving so many of them fascinate me, intrigue me and, well, suck me in to their alternate universes. And I don’t think I’m alone, judging by the sheer number and variety of crime-related programs.
I’m not sure why I am attracted to crime shows. Maybe it’s like a train wreck—I don’t want to look, but I just can’t avert my eyes. And for that matter, I don’t know why society is so caught up in the vicarious crime wave.
Maybe we like crime shows so much because we can watch from a distance. We can watch without being a victim of crime; we can watch without being hurt. But I’m not so sure that’s a legitimate assumption.
For one thing, the constant bombardment of depictions of graphic and grisly crimes creates a numbing effect that keeps us coming back for more. The more we return to the scene of the crime, so to speak, the more empty we become. It takes more and more horrific images to stimulate emotion, empathy, compassion, from us.
When we look around at the world, through the lenses of our own experiences; media coverage of violence and threats of violence, wars and rumors of wars; realty shows focusing on every kind of crime imaginable; and finally, fictional programs centered on violent crimes, we get a view of the world that’s murky, ugly, cold and dangerous.
It’s the very antithesis of hope. We’re looking at the world as a place of scarcity—lacking in love, compassion, even safety. This is harmful to human beings and other living things.
I was pondering all this about two weeks into my crime show fast for Lent. It had taken me that long to remember that when a familiar crime scenario came up on the screen, I was to just keep flipping until I found something more uplifting. I even, on occasion, turned off the TV and enjoyed the silence for a change.
Then, I had an epiphany. It was February 28, to be exact. I was at church, listening to our guest speaker, Brandon Gilven, associate director of Week of Compassion, the disaster relief agency of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) talk about outreach.
Referring to the people of the early Christian movement, he said, they “chose to say ‘yes there is so much violence, destruction, and fear in the world. But we can look again and see…new life.’”
The treatment for this addiction is to cultivate hope. It’s about seeing the world as a place of abundance, not scarcity. It’s witnessing new life spring from death and destruction and then telling the world about it. It’s about looking at the world as it is and seeing what it has the potential to become.
Brandon recommends we “practice resurrection,” “Because a life of faith—a life of practicing resurrection is one in which one imagines a world filled with so much generosity, hope, and healing,
and then makes it so. All the while proclaiming destruction, loss, death, as heartbreaking as they are, are not the final words.”
That’s the answer I was looking for—how to reconcile my two very disparate images of the world. On the one hand, the world is a violent place, a place of sadness and fear. On the other, it is a place of incredible depth of spirit, compassion, and love. It’s about faith, belief that love is more powerful than fear; abundance is greater than scarcity; hope overcomes sadness.
I’m not going to tell you that I am now ‘over’ my addiction—that I have completely rid my life of crime shows. No addict is ever cured. The best I can say is that “I’m in recovery.” A big part of that recovery is cultivating hope.
Frankly Speaking
Crime shows can kill you
By Arlene Franks
I never realized how addicted I was to crime shows until I gave them up for Lent this year. I’d be sitting on the couch, flipping through the channels, and stop on something that caught my interest. I’d watch it for a few seconds before I noticed, “oh, this is a crime show,” and flip the channel.
It had become such a habit to tune in to a crime show—any crime show, any time of day or night—that I had to continually remind myself of my pledge to give them up for 40 days…and nights. It didn’t help that every other show was crime-related.
Between the ones in current production and those in syndication, they are everywhere! They’re on the major networks, ABC, NBC, and CBS; the so-called ‘women’s’ networks, Lifetime, LMN, and WE; the ‘character’ and ‘drama’ networks, USA, TNT, and BET; and the quirky ones, Bravo, FX and SPIKE. They are even on the ‘family-friendly’ stations like TBS, ABC Family and PBS!
And they come in a plethora of genres, many of them overlapping:
•Family-oriented: The Good Wife and Medium.
•Court-centered: Law and Order and The Good Wife.
•Quirky character-focused: CSI and Law and Order Criminal Intent.
•Comedic bent: Psych and The Closer.
•Paranormal: Medium and Saving Grace.
•Pseudo Paranormal: Psych and The Mentalist.
•Military-oriented: NCIS and NCIS Los Angeles.
The crimes are usually the big ones—murder, kidnapping, rape, torture. The officers of the court and police solve the cases in myriad ways:
•By profiling the perpetrator: Criminal Minds, and Numbers.
•With forensics: CSI, Bones. and Law and Order SVU.
•By eliciting a confession: The Closer and Law and Order Criminal Intent.
•As a puzzle to be solved: Without a Trace, NCIS and Cold Case.
Then there are the reality-based shows that investigate or reenact real crimes. With titles like Most Shocking…, Worlds Dumbest…, Caught on Tape, and Haunted Evidence, they show examples of kooky and bizarre crime; horrific and brutal crime, or insidious and mysterious crime.
These real-crime-as-entertainment shows are covered by channels like Discovery, The History Channel, E!, TruTV, MTV and VH1. I’m sure if they could link crime to food, there would be a show on the Food Network with a title like Recipe for Murder.
Whether they are character-driven, plot-twisting, or story-weaving so many of them fascinate me, intrigue me and, well, suck me in to their alternate universes. And I don’t think I’m alone, judging by the sheer number and variety of crime-related programs.
I’m not sure why I am attracted to crime shows. Maybe it’s like a train wreck—I don’t want to look, but I just can’t avert my eyes. And for that matter, I don’t know why society is so caught up in the vicarious crime wave.
Maybe we like crime shows so much because we can watch from a distance. We can watch without being a victim of crime; we can watch without being hurt. But I’m not so sure that’s a legitimate assumption.
For one thing, the constant bombardment of depictions of graphic and grisly crimes creates a numbing effect that keeps us coming back for more. The more we return to the scene of the crime, so to speak, the more empty we become. It takes more and more horrific images to stimulate emotion, empathy, compassion, from us.
When we look around at the world, through the lenses of our own experiences; media coverage of violence and threats of violence, wars and rumors of wars; realty shows focusing on every kind of crime imaginable; and finally, fictional programs centered on violent crimes, we get a view of the world that’s murky, ugly, cold and dangerous.
It’s the very antithesis of hope. We’re looking at the world as a place of scarcity—lacking in love, compassion, even safety. This is harmful to human beings and other living things.
I was pondering all this about two weeks into my crime show fast for Lent. It had taken me that long to remember that when a familiar crime scenario came up on the screen, I was to just keep flipping until I found something more uplifting. I even, on occasion, turned off the TV and enjoyed the silence for a change.
Then, I had an epiphany. It was February 28, to be exact. I was at church, listening to our guest speaker, Brandon Gilven, associate director of Week of Compassion, the disaster relief agency of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) talk about outreach.
Referring to the people of the early Christian movement, he said, they “chose to say ‘yes there is so much violence, destruction, and fear in the world. But we can look again and see…new life.’”
The treatment for this addiction is to cultivate hope. It’s about seeing the world as a place of abundance, not scarcity. It’s witnessing new life spring from death and destruction and then telling the world about it. It’s about looking at the world as it is and seeing what it has the potential to become.
Brandon recommends we “practice resurrection,” “Because a life of faith—a life of practicing resurrection is one in which one imagines a world filled with so much generosity, hope, and healing,
and then makes it so. All the while proclaiming destruction, loss, death, as heartbreaking as they are, are not the final words.”
That’s the answer I was looking for—how to reconcile my two very disparate images of the world. On the one hand, the world is a violent place, a place of sadness and fear. On the other, it is a place of incredible depth of spirit, compassion, and love. It’s about faith, belief that love is more powerful than fear; abundance is greater than scarcity; hope overcomes sadness.
I’m not going to tell you that I am now ‘over’ my addiction—that I have completely rid my life of crime shows. No addict is ever cured. The best I can say is that “I’m in recovery.” A big part of that recovery is cultivating hope.
Haiku featuring Juju Cat: Or how I broke free of writer's block
Since my series of hospital stays ended last year, I haven't written much. Distracted by the amount of work it takes just to recover and maintain my health, I developed a severe case of writer's block. I had a lot to say, but the fear of saying it--putting it down in writing--crippled me.I just couldn't sit down in front of the computer.
So, I went back to basics--pen and paper. And I used one of tools of my craft--Haiku. Nothing breaks the chains of writer's block like a good dose of Haiku. The Japanese poetic form forces the writer to convey in a few words and syllables a complete idea, a description of one moment in time or a visual image.
Haiku is a tool used in the craft of wordsmithing. It has rules and structure. Each of the three lines has a specific number of syllables--5, 7, and 5. It takes wordsmithing to select the precise word that conveys the meaning you want and the right number of syllables for the line.
Wordsmithing is a craft, much like welding or carving. It must be honed reg
ularly through practice. But if you use the craft with thought, imagination ad creativity, you can create somethig profound or intriguing, provocative or evocative, something that clarifies or confuses.
ularly through practice. But if you use the craft with thought, imagination ad creativity, you can create somethig profound or intriguing, provocative or evocative, something that clarifies or confuses.In the coming days and weeks, I hope to an artist with my words. I have a lot to say, and fear no longer grips me, cripples or confines me. But fr now enjoy the following Haiku featuring my amazing cat, Juju, who never fails to inspire and amuse me. ..she is my muse.
Wonder Cat Juju
Targets, pounces and attacks
Another foe foiled
Green-eyed cat Juju
Her stare bores through my blue eyes
Piercing my reserve
Loving Cat Juju
Drapes my chest with her body
Purring in my ear
Her stare bores through my blue eyes
Piercing my reserve
Loving Cat Juju
Drapes my chest with her body
Purring in my ear
Sneaky Cat Juju
Climbs up cabinets and drawers
Seeking adventure
Napping Cat Juju
Climbs up cabinets and drawers
Seeking adventure
Napping Cat Juju
Curled up, face tucked under paws
Dozing and dreaming
Content Cat Juju
Stretches and yawns sleepily
Across laptop keys
Stretches and yawns sleepily
Across laptop keys
Goddess Cat Juju
Peers regally out window
Claiming her domain
Agile Cat Juju
Springs up my shoulder with ease
Perching and posing
Leaping Cat Juju
Falls short of goal, shrugs and says
“I meant to do that”
Silly Cat Juju
Bats at me from hiding places
Keeping me amused
Bats at me from hiding places
Keeping me amused
Letting go of the binding grip of secrets...
I just watched a History Channel program entitled “The Secret History of the Ku Klux Klan”. I’m sill recovering.
I was feeling so overwhelmed by the horrific tales of violence and politic power wielded by these people for over a century that I called a friend in California in hopes that she could calm me down. Her first advice? “Turn it off!!”
But I couldn’t. I have secret of my own that I only tell people occasionally, and when I trust they won’t judge me when they find out. The town and county in which I grew up is the hotbed of Klan territory in Indiana. I’ve been both repelled by the Klan stories I’ve heard throughout my life and morbidly curious about their history…I’ve wanted to know why they are the way they are.
Whenever I hear about the Klan, I immediately feel guilty by association. It’s been a source of shame for me since I first heard about the meetings in the woods outside of town when I was a very young child. So when I told my friend this, she recommended—strongly—that if I felt compelled to watch it, I find a way to cleanse myself of its impact on me.
So this is my attempt at cleansing my soul from this terrible legacy that’s been foisted on me against my will. The Klan kept our town all white for decades.
First, let me say that no one in my immediate family or close circle of friends had sympathies for the Klan or their ideals. When my parents were in college, they participated in sit-ins at a local diner who wouldn’t serve Blacks at the counter. And my friends shared my own horror disgust that our hometown had a reputation for bigotry and the violence and hatred that always accompanies such attitudes. It was part of our collective feelings of inferiority.
There was a story that haunted me when I was growing up. It was about a murder in the county seat that took place in the 60’s. A young Black woman was selling encyclopedias door to door and she mysteriously disappeared. Her body was eventually found just outside of town. I don’t remember how she was killed, whether she was beaten or shot, but the case has never been solved. I suspect it’s a shared secret that some folks have taken to the grave and others continue to grasp tightly.
In my own hometown there is a popular cafeteria-style restaurant. There weren’t very many people of color going through the line, but on the occasions when one dared to, the server who took the entree orders would step back and cross his arms over his hest. It was a showy gesture that made it clear to everyone around him that he was refusing to serve anyone who wasn’t white. The server died several years ago. But why it was tolerated by the owners and managers of the restaurant for so many years is unfathomable.
When I meet an African-American from anywhere in Indiana, I’m hesitant to name the specific name of the town and county where I grew up. Once I reveal it to them, with an apology for the sins of my community, they say, “Oh yeah, we were always warned not to go there alone—especially at night!” They are always good-natured about it, almost like they have experienced that same attitude in other parts of the state and country.
But it’s not anywhere else; it’s my hometown. It’s personal. It’s shameful. And it makes me furious that they think they speak for all of us. In case I haven’t been clear, let me assure you--they don’t speak for me.
I haven’t mentioned the specific name of my home county or town here in this entry. It’s part of my profile here on my blog ad on Facebook. You can look it up if you want. But I withhold the names for a number of reasons.
1. It’s to protect the people I grew up with who are no guiltier of prejudice than I am. They may not want it revealed, and I want to respect their privacy.
2. I recognize that ours is not a unique story. There are lots of towns and areas of the country where the Klan is active. More’s the pity.
3. While this is a undeniable legacy of my hometown, it is not what defines its character. There is much more to the community that raised me than the Klan—a loving and spirited people, generous churches and other organizations, and compassionate individuals to name a few.
There’s a saying in 12-step groups—“You’re as sick as the secrets you keep.” In revealing my secret publicly, I wanted to cleanse myself of the darker side of my hometown. While I wasn’t wholly successful, it’s a start.
I was feeling so overwhelmed by the horrific tales of violence and politic power wielded by these people for over a century that I called a friend in California in hopes that she could calm me down. Her first advice? “Turn it off!!”
But I couldn’t. I have secret of my own that I only tell people occasionally, and when I trust they won’t judge me when they find out. The town and county in which I grew up is the hotbed of Klan territory in Indiana. I’ve been both repelled by the Klan stories I’ve heard throughout my life and morbidly curious about their history…I’ve wanted to know why they are the way they are.
Whenever I hear about the Klan, I immediately feel guilty by association. It’s been a source of shame for me since I first heard about the meetings in the woods outside of town when I was a very young child. So when I told my friend this, she recommended—strongly—that if I felt compelled to watch it, I find a way to cleanse myself of its impact on me.
So this is my attempt at cleansing my soul from this terrible legacy that’s been foisted on me against my will. The Klan kept our town all white for decades.
First, let me say that no one in my immediate family or close circle of friends had sympathies for the Klan or their ideals. When my parents were in college, they participated in sit-ins at a local diner who wouldn’t serve Blacks at the counter. And my friends shared my own horror disgust that our hometown had a reputation for bigotry and the violence and hatred that always accompanies such attitudes. It was part of our collective feelings of inferiority.
There was a story that haunted me when I was growing up. It was about a murder in the county seat that took place in the 60’s. A young Black woman was selling encyclopedias door to door and she mysteriously disappeared. Her body was eventually found just outside of town. I don’t remember how she was killed, whether she was beaten or shot, but the case has never been solved. I suspect it’s a shared secret that some folks have taken to the grave and others continue to grasp tightly.
In my own hometown there is a popular cafeteria-style restaurant. There weren’t very many people of color going through the line, but on the occasions when one dared to, the server who took the entree orders would step back and cross his arms over his hest. It was a showy gesture that made it clear to everyone around him that he was refusing to serve anyone who wasn’t white. The server died several years ago. But why it was tolerated by the owners and managers of the restaurant for so many years is unfathomable.
When I meet an African-American from anywhere in Indiana, I’m hesitant to name the specific name of the town and county where I grew up. Once I reveal it to them, with an apology for the sins of my community, they say, “Oh yeah, we were always warned not to go there alone—especially at night!” They are always good-natured about it, almost like they have experienced that same attitude in other parts of the state and country.
But it’s not anywhere else; it’s my hometown. It’s personal. It’s shameful. And it makes me furious that they think they speak for all of us. In case I haven’t been clear, let me assure you--they don’t speak for me.
I haven’t mentioned the specific name of my home county or town here in this entry. It’s part of my profile here on my blog ad on Facebook. You can look it up if you want. But I withhold the names for a number of reasons.
1. It’s to protect the people I grew up with who are no guiltier of prejudice than I am. They may not want it revealed, and I want to respect their privacy.
2. I recognize that ours is not a unique story. There are lots of towns and areas of the country where the Klan is active. More’s the pity.
3. While this is a undeniable legacy of my hometown, it is not what defines its character. There is much more to the community that raised me than the Klan—a loving and spirited people, generous churches and other organizations, and compassionate individuals to name a few.
There’s a saying in 12-step groups—“You’re as sick as the secrets you keep.” In revealing my secret publicly, I wanted to cleanse myself of the darker side of my hometown. While I wasn’t wholly successful, it’s a start.
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Easter Prayer 2005
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