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Embracing the Puritans?

Embracing the Puritans?

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I’m finishing up Marilynne Robinson’s book What Are We Doing Here? Throughout her career, Robinson has been fascinated by erasures and omissions, and in an essay titled “Our Public Conversation: How America Talks About Itself,” she asks us to rethink our Puritan heritage, its spirit of reformation, its genius for education and institution building.

Puritans get a bad rap, Robinson says, in so many words. Some of their greatest achievements have been forgotten, including a code called the Massachusetts Body of Liberties (1641) that anticipates the Bill of Rights. The abolition movement flowered in colleges founded by Puritans. There is much to appreciate about them. But they are not hip.

This latter point is my own opinion, and an extrapolation, but I make it because Robinson opens her essay by mentioning an article about herself in which she is described as “bioengineered to personify unhipness.”

She laughs off the characterization — figuring that it’s because she’s in her 70s, a Calvinist and lives in Iowa — but she takes seriously the fact that Americans are inclined to “find their way to some sheltering consensus that will tell them what to wear, what to eat, what to read, how to vote, what to think.”

Anyone watching the Democratic debates last week would be hard pressed to disagree with her.

(Picture of the Westminster Assembly by John Rogers Herbert, courtesy Wikipedia)

The Boys in the Air

The Boys in the Air

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Today, as we celebrate the 75th anniversary of D-Day, I think not just of the boys who stormed the beaches but also of the boys who flew above them. One of them was my dad.

Frank Cassidy was 20 years old when he took the trip of a lifetime, courtesy of the U.S. government. It was an all-expenses voyage to and from what Dad called “Jolly Old” England. He was stationed at a base outside the village of Horham in East Anglia.

On June 6, 1944, Dad had just turned 21. He had become adept at crawling into the tail-gunner’s seat of a B-17 bomber and firing the gun when necessary. That day, he and his crew would fly two missions, softening up enemy defenses, backing up the infantry, the men who were landing and dying on the beaches of Normandy.

Dad always insisted that what he did was nothing compared with them. “I don’t think the American people appreciate what some of those men did,” he told a newspaper reporter in 2009. “Those guys, they deserve all the honors.”

With all due respect, Dad, I disagree. I think you deserve the honors, too.



Last Monday in May

Last Monday in May

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It’s Memorial Day and the dust is flying. Though today is the holiday, the big celebration is two days away when my youngest daughter and her husband arrive from Seattle. There has been more cleaning than usual going on here.

One of the things I found in my dustings and scrubbings was an American flag. There’s no pole to fly it from, though, so I’m thinking of hanging it out the window (after I figure out which way to arrange it).

As I do, I’ll be thinking of my favorite veteran (my dad), all who’ve served, and all who are no longer with us. I wish we could all be together on this last Monday in May.

Grand Journey

Grand Journey

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Mom and Dad would have been married 67 years today. They made it to their 61st, which is quite a long run by modern standards. I bet I’m the only person remembering this today. Maybe not. My sister or brothers might be remembering it, too.

I was thinking a lot about their honeymoon when Drew and I took our road trip a couple weeks ago. Mom and Dad were married in Lexington, Kentucky, their hometown, but they took off immediately in an old Chevy bound for California.

The roads were barely all paved in 1952 — the interstate highway program officially began the next year — and though they were fine if they stuck to Route 66 … they didn’t always do that. They were prone to taking detours to “Kit Carson’s Cave” and other spots that piqued their curiosity.

Still, they made it to the West Coast, where they planned to start their married life. It was glamorous and exciting … but it wasn’t home. A few weeks later, they turned around and drove back.

It was the beginning of a grand journey together — and I’m thinking about it, and them, today.

Two Graduations

Two Graduations

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On Friday, I watched my son-in-law Appolinaire graduate from Northern Virginia Community College. Yesterday I watched my niece Maggie graduate from Johns Hopkins medical school. Two very special achievements, two very different graduations.

The Johns Hopkins ceremony was held at Meyerhoff Hall in downtown Baltimore, home of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. The NOVA graduation was held at the outdoor concert venue Jiffy Lube Live, where you can hear Dead & Company or Wiz Khalifa. 
The Johns Hopkins event was only for Ph.D.’s and M.D.’s, so everyone was hooded. The NOVA event was only for associate degrees and certificates, so no one was hooded.
At Maggie’s graduation, the newly minted doctors rose and recited the Hippocratic Oath, which Maggie’s sharp-eyed great-aunt noticed did not include the phrase “First, do no harm.” (That’s because those words aren’t in the Hippocratic Oath.) 
At Appolinaire’s graduation, the dean asked graduates to “rock this house” as they answered a series of questions she posed to them. Questions like: How many of you were born in another country? How many of you speak a language other than English? How many of you are the first in your families to go to college? It looked like three-fourths of the graduates rose and cheered each time. I know that Appolinaire did.

What struck me most, however, was how in the deep-down important ways, these ceremonies were the same. The graduates grinned just as broadly, the families whooped and hollered just as loudly and “Pomp and Circumstance” (as usual) brought a tear to my eye.
An accomplishment is an accomplishment. I’m so proud of them both! 
Three Years

Three Years

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As if I needed another reminder of time’s quick passage, today I celebrate three years at my “new” job. Three years sitting on the fifth floor of a steel and glass building, staring out the windows but mostly staring at my screen. Three years traveling to report on stories, visiting places I never thought I’d see, meeting people around the world.

I won’t say it seems like yesterday that I began this new adventure. In many ways it seems longer (which, I guess, is a vote against time’s quick passage). But it seems longer in the way that new and familiar things often do.

Already the years are speeding up here. The time between my first few months, when I could barely tell one project from another, and this time last year seems like quite a stretch compared with the past 12 months.

On the whole, though, I’m feeling quite lucky on this three-year anniversary. I work harder than I have to, but it’s work that engages, and sometimes even inspires. Can’t ask for much more than that.

On Earth Day

On Earth Day

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Over the weekend I learned that a tornado touched down in my neighborhood Friday night. It must have been just the barest glance of a tornado, because the damage was minimal. But an expert was called in and he explained that the direction in which the trees fell and the crack down the middle of one proves that the tornado which hit Reston Town Center also hit Folkstone. It was a good reminder that nature is always ready to rear up and remind us who’s boss.

Perhaps Earth Day is a good day to remember this fact. Earth Day, which I remember from my youth as green-tinged and vaguely hopeful but which has taken on a grimmer tone in these days of global warming and Extinction Rebellion.

I have a much more protective feeling about the Earth now than I ever used to. And while I’m adding to the carbon load with my work flights to foreign shores, the travel those flights made possible is opening my eyes to the work we have in front of us, to the need to protect this good old Earth, which grows more vulnerable and more precious every day.

Mellow Mueller

Mellow Mueller

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Everyone was talking about it, reading it and tweeting about it, but by the time the Mueller Report finally came out yesterday, I just felt fatigued about it. I imagine many of us did.

I perked up a bit this morning, when the banner-headlined Washington Post landed in my driveway. (As is typical for a newspaper reader, I take my news a day old and more digested, thank you very much.) But on the whole, I’ve been ignoring the media feeding frenzy.

Maybe it’s because I’m distracted by the new leaves on the Rose of Sharon bush, or the carpet of petals underneath the Kwanzan cherry.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve been preoccupied with tech problems lately (email issues, Skype for Business issues, RAM issues, even voice recorder issues!).

But whatever has made me mellow about Mueller, I’m grateful for it.

Cathedral Time

Cathedral Time

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I’m not used to reading good news in the newspaper, especially not these days, so I was surprised last night when I finally settled down with the paper to learn that the walls of Notre Dame are still standing and the exquisite rose window is still intact.

Yes, the roof and the spire are gone, and some priceless treasures are lost, but many others were saved. Already stories of heroism are emerging: the chaplain who braved the blaze, the human chain that rescued precious artwork. Donations and pledges are pouring in. Notre Dame will be rebuilt, though it will doubtless be on “cathedral time,” not at the pace we might expect in the 21st century.

Even more encouraging were the perspectives the articles contained: that cathedrals are patchwork creations. The fallen spire we lament was a relatively late addition to Notre Dame. Europe is filled with cathedrals that have risen from fires and firebombing: St. Paul’s in London, the cathedral in Dresden. Besides, in many ways the places are as sacred as the buildings, and they remain sacred even when the stones are singed and the rafters give way.

The most optimistic accounts mentioned the survival of the gold cross on the altar and the votive lights that remained lit throughout the ordeal — also the fact that the fire happened during Holy Week, the most sacred time in the Catholic church’s liturgical year, a time when we celebrate redemption and resurrection.

I’ll end with this from the Washington Post’s architecture critic Philip Kennicott:

Meanwhile, the roof will rise again, and in a century some bored teenagers will stand in the plaza before the great Gothic doors and listen as their teacher recounts the great fire of 2019, just one chapter among all the others, and seemingly inconsequential given the beauty of the building as it stands glowing in a rare burst of sunlight on a spring day in Paris.

Remembering Notre Dame

Remembering Notre Dame

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You tell yourself it’s just a building, not a person; that it was not an act of terrorism; that it’s silly to feel this way. But there is still something so sad about the fire at Notre Dame Cathedral.

Maybe because we already have so much destruction in this world, so much war and cruelty. Maybe because it is so beautiful and had survived so much.  Maybe because it has been with us so long and connects us with so many.

I find myself saying what we say in times of loss: How grateful I am to have seen the cathedral; to have climbed its towers and glimpsed its gargoyles; to have taken my children there; to have strolled through it as a young woman and a middle-aged one.

Once, long ago, I was ambling along the Seine on an April evening. The light was slanting low in the sky and throwing the old stones and the spire into high relief. It was a scene of incomparable beauty. I had no camera at the time, so I told myself, remember this, remember it always.  

I did — and I’m remembering it now.