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The Iron Curtain

The Iron Curtain

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I grew up with the Iron Curtain, the dividing line between the Soviet Union and the West. A strange image, “iron curtain.” Not iron wall, though the Berlin Wall was part of it. Not iron fence, though barbed wire and guard towers were part of it, too. But iron — hard and unbendable — combined with curtain — soft and pliable.

It was Winston Churchill’s phrase, part of a March, 1946, address where he said, “From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an Iron Curtain has descended upon the land.” I didn’t know he used these exact words until I looked them up just now.

But I did know that something was terribly wrong with the world, that adults were afraid of the division, that it posed harm. The Iron Curtain was not just a dividing line; it was a feeling. It was rigid and gray and hopeless, life drained of color. The Cold War. Nuclear stand-offs.

My children were born as the Berlin Wall was falling. They grew up with a far different Europe than I did. To them, Russian’s invasion of Ukraine must seem preposterous. To me, it seems all too familiar.

(Prague, capital of the Czech Republic, a city I never dreamed I’d see. In the old days, it was on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain.) 
The Big Picture

The Big Picture

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As the sky slowly lightens on this Valentine’s Day, I think of all the ones who are dear to me.

The little ones and the big ones, the old ones and the young ones (including a great niece born on Saturday!), the human ones and the furred and feathered ones, the ones who are no longer with us, too.

Happy is the day set aside for love and chocolate, so today I resolve to keep the big picture in mind. 

And that is, and always will be, love.

An Even Dozen

An Even Dozen

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This morning I made my way down the hall in the dark, thinking I would read a while and fall back to sleep. I quickly discovered it was later than I thought, the sky already lightening. I’d slept through the night — and there’s always joy and excitement in that!

It’s with similar joy and excitement that I write today to celebrate 12 years of blogging: a dozen years of collecting my thoughts and sending them out into into the world, a dozen years and 3,643 posts. 

As I figure out this new writing life, A Walker in the Suburbs remains a constant. It’s a laboratory, a playground, an experiment. It’s where I celebrate books, travel and the strange little thoughts I have.

And on this clear, bright February 7th, my birthday wish for the blog is … more of the same.

January 6th

January 6th

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It was only after I had posted yesterday that I remembered the date: January 6, the Epiphany, Little Christmas, a day set aside (by me, at least) to celebrate insight, discovery, the sudden revelation.

But since last year, January 6th has taken on a different meaning, one of anger and fear and ignominy. The opposite of light and wonder. 

You could say that last year’s January 6th was a revelation. It revealed a dark truth about this nation. But I’d rather keep the day free of politics, let it stay in my mind the capstone of the season, a day to reflect with hope on the year just dawning. 

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

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Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, which I wrote ten years ago. Merry Christmas!

12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper’s paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we’ve ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we’ll have time to watch in the next few days. In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he’s been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he’s had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn’t take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that. 

Two Solstices

Two Solstices

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We have one Christmas, one Easter, one Independence Day. But we have two solstices: one for the shortest day and one for the longest.

As I sit here this morning, watching the world slowly lighten, I think about the imminent wisdom of these dual celebrations. You could see one as our pinnacle and one as our nadir. But there is a hopeful message in each, too.

In summer we revel in the long twilight, the early morning, the profusion. In winter we tell ourselves, it’s all up from here. 

We live in the present for one, in the future with the other. Surely we could do with a little of each.

For Mayfield

For Mayfield

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I heard about Kentucky when good friends wrote to ask if my brother was OK. I checked the news then and learned of the horrible tornadoes that ripped through the country’s midsection. So this post is a lament: it’s a cry of solidarity for the residents of Mayfield, Kentucky, a town I’m embarrassed to say I had never heard of until Saturday, native Kentuckian that I am. 

At first, I thought it was Maysville that had been hit, a river town near where some of Dad’s kin were born. But no, it was, as I often say about Kentucky towns whose names I don’t recognize, “in the western part of the state.” And it truly is there, close to both Tennessee and Missouri, more midwestern than southern. Dawson Springs is there, too—another town hit by the deadly twisters. 

I keep thinking about the folks in the candle factory, perhaps some of them working an extra shift since it’s Christmas time and they could use the money. I think about the malls where those candles might be sold. Do we need those candles? Not really, but yes, because the residents of Mayfield need those jobs. 

It could have been any kind of factory, though. And it could have been any place. But it was in Kentucky, so my heart is even heavier. 

(Dark clouds outside of Nicholasville, from my August trip to Kentucky)

Eighty Years

Eighty Years

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Shortly after publishing yesterday’s post, I realized that yesterday was the 80th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Eighty years … 

I looked back to see what I’d written on the 70th anniversary, and there was something I’d forgotten about: a special showing of the movie “12 O’Clock High” at a Lexington, Kentucky, cinema, which Dad had organized and hosted. 

I remember that now, how excited he was about it, how he had a little display area out in the vestibule of the movie house, with uniforms and medals and other memorabilia loaned by members of the Kentucky chapter of the 8th Air Force Historical Society.

Now, the World War II veterans are almost all gone. One of the more famous, Bob Dole, just passed away at the age of 98. My dad was not one of the more famous, except to me and the rest of us who loved him. But Dad was World War II to me, and since he’s been gone, I read as little about it as possible. 

(Photo: Genealogy Trails History Group)

Already Advent

Already Advent

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We come now to one of my favorite times in the liturgical year. It’s a short season, one ever more likely to be buried in tinsel and outdoor lighting. It’s the season of Advent, of preparation, of prayers and devotionals.

It is almost lost in this world, buried by frantic list-making and shopping.By nonstop carol radio and the Hallmark Christmas movie channel. Every year I hope the prayer and devotional part wins out. Every year it does not. But Advent is early this year, so maybe it has a chance.

Advent reminds me of medieval stone abbeys, of kneeling on hard surfaces, of chanting the divine office in the wee hours. No doubt informed by once reading The Cloister Walk, a fine book by Kathleen Norris, during early December, but also, I think, by the hymns and carols of my youth. 

Now these are mostly memory, but still captured in a few plaintive melodies — O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, for one. I played it on the piano last night, trying to capture the hope and longing of this fleeting season. 

Shopping Online

Shopping Online

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I did my best to pretend that yesterday wasn’t Black Friday, but by the end of the day I caved and went online. And yes, there was the hysteria I remember from years gone by, or at least a virtual version of it made possible by pop-ups, reminders that there are “only five left … order soon!” and countdown clocks.

It’s the clocks that affected me most, their hours, minutes and seconds all winding down to midnight. Perhaps because I’m time-sensitive, accustomed to packing as much as I can into whatever time I have. Why should shopping be any different?

Well … because it should, that’s why. It should be a deliberative process — not the digital equivalent of pawing through lingerie in Macy’s basement. 

But darned if the online marketers didn’t figure out a way to make us care … and rush. 

Black Friday — it runs through Sunday, from what I hear.

(A real shopping experience, complete with masks.)