May 29, 1980

The morning was bright and already uncomfortably warm. Puffs of cottonwood white hung lightly in the still, humid air. We pulled over to the edge of the dusty road and stopped the car.
"Why are we stopping here?" asked the short person.
"I need a picture of a cemetery."
"Why?" she asked climbing from the front seat.
I walked ahead and didn't answer.
"Why do you need a picture here?"
"It's Memorial Day," I said, focusing on a crumbled gravestone, its markings almost smooth from the sanding of one hundred Kansas summers.
"Who put the flowers there?"
The shutter clicked and we started back for the car. Birds in the trees surrounding the cemetery were disrespectfully noisy. "People come on Memorial Day to honor people they knew who have died."
"Why do they bring flowers?"
"It's a sign that someone still remembers. I suppose people bring flowers because they add some color and life. It wouldn't really pay to bring a steak sandwich, would it?" Me feeble attempt at levity brought no response. "You'll bring flowers to my grave, won't you?"
Ignoring my words she looked across the yard, studded with grey monuments and now sprinkled with brilliant spring flowers, and said, "It does look pretty, but I don't think they care." I took it she meant the cemetery's inhabitants.
"You're probably right."
We got into the car and headed north toward other duties. The cemetery was forgotten. Or at least I thought it was.
Well down the road she turned and said, "I think I'll bring you a steak sandwich Dad."
We both smiled.... ~T.Stucky

May 21, 1981

You are only a few hours old--your eyes don't see, your ears hear little, your mouth makes only the most basic sounds. Yet, some things need to be explained to you.
If you were able to reason and speak, you would be excused for asking why it was you were brought here. As you took your first breath, men were starving themselves to death in Northern Ireland, children were starving to death in Asia and Africa, and people were starved for attention the world over. Why would people allow this to happen? Well, that's just the way we do things in this world.
As the doctor was checking your vital signs, the Pope lay near death in a Rome hospital, the victim of a gunshot wound. Our own President is still not fully recovered from the attack on his life. Why are we so intent on snuffing out life, the very thing which you are fighting so hard to maintain? Well, that's just the way we do things here. Someday, maybe you will understand.
We have recently changed the course of our nation. (That's right. You are officially a citizen of the United States.) We have decided to reduce funding of school lunches at the same time we escalate our military budget. That was we can produce even more sophisticated implements of destruction. In fact, only a few miles from where you were pulled into this world, an atomic missile is poised beneath the ground, pointed toward our communist enemies. Yes, there are babies in that country too. But that's the way we do things here.
Is this any place to bring a baby?
Well, maybe not. And yet maybe it's because things are not perfect that we need you. Because you hate no one, because you are dumb to the distinction between communist and capitalist, because a Catholic looks the same as a Protestant, and a Black the same as an Oriental, you are an example of what we yearn to be. You are free of malice, greed, discrimination, and hate. You are the perfection we all so eagerly seek.
You give us hope. In return, we wish you a long and peaceful life.
Welcome to our flawed world, Carly. It is already nicer for your being in it.... ~T.Stucky

May 14, 1987

"Would you please let me read this book to you?" she asked, her teeth freshly brushed, her pillow fluffed, good-night kisses properly distributed.
"It's Tuesday night," we said. (Tuesday night equates to a black hole for weekly newspaper people-typing final articles, laying out pages and writing headlines won't permit the escape of attention to familial duties.)
"But I'll read it fast," she said. Being the shortest of the short people who lives with us, she can be particularly persuasive. "And this is a good book."
She lifted the ragged book from beneath the sheet. Its binding had long ago been doctored with masking tape. The cover was fading, ink was worn from the picture. This book had been read hundreds of times-hundreds of times to each of the three short people who preceded the one who held it aloft now.
"Whistle for Willie" by Ezra Jack Keats, the escapades of a youngster who, after failing several times, learns how to whistle for his dog, was Allison' favorite when she was barely old enough to sit and listen. The opening line, "Oh how Peter wished he could whistle!" was the first piece of literature she committed to memory.
That, unbelievably, was twelve years ago. Those distant days are now just pictures in the photo album. The sounds, the smells, the feel of squeezes from tiny hands are no more. So quickly they have gone.
She, who as an infant empathized with Peter in his diligent attempt to whistle for his dog, is now intent on learning how to ease the clutch out while softly pressing the accelerator. She's learning how to downshift and signal for a turn. She's learning that you can't be as cautious as your parents want you to be and still drive a car.
The ancient Greeks would appreciate what we are going through. When their teenage offspring wanted to take the family chariot out for a spin, they'd gather around the fire and tell the tale of Phaethon, son of Helios, who pleaded to experience the thrill of driving the sun's chariot across the heavens. Given the chance, he drove recklessly and almost set the world on fire before being struck down by a bolt of Zeus's lightning.
Icarus, you may remember from Greek mythology class, suffered an equally unkind fate. The son of Daedalus, he flew from his homeland on wings formed by his father. But when he soared too high, the sun's heat melted the wax holding the wings together and he fell into the sea.
Parents are willing to use myth to keep children children, to keep them home, safe, sheltered from the evil out there. But we know it doesn't work. Like Phaethon, they naturally have the urge to break free, to streak across the sky. Today they are toddlers, tomorrow they get their first bicycle, and by Friday they are off to college.
An elderly woman, haunted by the memories of the glory days when her young children would all gather around the dinner table to eat and tell the events of the day, removes the many pictures of her children and grandchildren from the mantel. A young parent yanks a child's arm and berates him in public for doing what children do. If only the elderly woman could talk to the parent.
Seldom do we fully appreciate the moment. There seem to be so many more waiting. We can waste a few here, a few more there. We can go without saying the things we know we should say. We can go another day without doing what we know we should be doing. We can get caught in the race for advance, scrambling priorities, because we have time to make it right.
But then, too quickly, the days are gone.
"I'll read fast," she said. "'Oh how Peter wished he could whistle!'".... ~T.Stucky