In late May, children finish their final flurry of field trips before summer, and adults long to burst bonds of office and household walls. Stargazing and Lake Walking By Marianna Bartholomew Lake Michigan is today as deep-hued and inviting as the Mediterranean The Planetarium bobs on its surface like a misplaced Pantheon I sit like some pith-chewing philosopher in my 30th-floor office perch my eyes turned to the shore Today is a business day But what means that to the resplendent turquoise waters the reeling gulls or to neck-craning school children gazing at the stars In my thoughts, I join them Orion, Cygnus the Swan then half-melted Milky Ways on the lawn with a peanut butter and jelly lunch The wind, the nostril-pinching sniff of alewives The crunching of city grass and candy bar wrappers underfoot A frisbee, crack! in the back laughter
Photo of Chicago's Adler Planetarium courtesy of Dee W.
on Yelp
And always, the beckoning of the blue and, if you pretend, pure lake water lapping like the sea Like the Mediterranean It's a magnet My computer is no competition I should be star-gazing and lake walking on this late May day. Okay, it originally read "late April day," but I adapted that last line for this post. I also have to chuckle at the "lake walking" bit. No, I'm not referring to walking on water, but beside it! I wrote this poem years ago as I was feeling tortured in nylons and heels, trapped in my glass office cage, overlooking an exquisitely beautiful Lake Michigan in spring. The Adler Planetarium really did look like it was "bobbing" on the waters. As I struggled to focus on my work, with an incredible, panoramic view laid out before me, I found myself with that surge of "Spring Fever" to cast it all aside and go play...to join those field tripping kids on the Planetarium lawn.
Anyway, milder, warmer days are bound to soon arrive, although I was wearing a winter coat last week, temperature highs are predicted for just 56 degrees for tomorrow, and vacillating cold and warm fronts are stirring up fierce weather.
I was finishing up this post when news came through of the devastating tornado that hit Joplin, Missouri. My heart and prayers go out to all those impacted by this horrific 2011 Tornado Season. I pray May closes out like a lamb and that no further lives might be lost to devastating storms.
From one of my 2005 journal entries: "Sweltering heat. Rotten wood, warped flooring and artificial altar flowers in old St. Catherine Church. Flies buzzing bowls of condiments at a near-empty food shack, the only 'diner' in town. A Main Street so empty of businesses it looks like a ghost town. Shacks like houses of cards along Bayou Teche.
Vivid memories remain of my visit to Arnaudville, Louisiana in 1992, when I visited Catholic Extension subsidized missionary Sister Mary Bordelon. Talk about hidden poor. In this Cajun town of about 1,400 people less than 50 miles north of the Gulf of Mexico, dwelled the 'River Rats.' On a sunny day 13 years ago I met them, and still shudder that some locals likened fellow townsfolk to rodents. So-called 'River Rats' rented shacks along Bayou Teche, a spot romanticized by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in his poem 'Evangeline.' The reality I saw was three- or four-room homes weathered gray and roofed with corrugated tin, elbowing each other in a wobbly row, along a curbless, cinder road.
An image of Arcadia, from the reprinting of Evangeline, shown above.
'You want anything fixed, you do it yourself!' one resident told me, about how her landlord seldom dropped by. 'But when rent's due, you can bet he's here!' Outside, two children rode double on a bike. A teenager lounged against a doorway. A middle-aged man hunched on a lawn chair, nowhere to go and no way to get there.Then I met a 'hidden hero.' Amidst gray boards, cinders and bayou green, one screen door creaked open and a young woman named Cytina beckoned warmly, scarlet and blue ribbons flashing joyfully in her hair. Sister Mary and I stepped inside, and three was quickly a crowd in the shoebox-sized living room. Sweat beaded our foreheads as we chatted. Furnishings were spare: a sagging couch, a table, an old dresser against one wall.Nearby hung pictures of three brothers who died fighting for America in Okinawa, Korea and Germany.From a side bedroom came gentle murmuring. There lay Cytina's elderly mother, suffering after a stroke. She prayed constantly, statues of the Blessed Mother and Sacred Heart nearby.
Population of Arnaudville, LA, July of 2009 was 1,401. Estimated median household income averaged $21,204.
At 28, Cytina was like a glowing ember amidst a spent campfire. She leaned forward eagerly when Sister Mary told her a new choir was forming at church. She clutched a novena book and spoke of getting more involved at the parish. Her eyes were deep and expressive. Her smile enlivened her pretty face. When she was a girl, doctors told her she had sickle cell anemia and might never live to be 21. Then a 'walkin' man' visited town, peddling 'blood-building' tonics to poor African-Americans. Cytina was convinced his tonic cured her. She blinked away tears and said, 'Here I am at 28! God must want me here. Now I want to be a nurse to help others.'
Intersection of Bayou Teche and the
Atchafalaya River. Photo by U.S. Army
Corps of Engineers.
It seemed a pipe-dream. After losing three babies and the break-up of her marriage, Cytina had returned to the poverty of her childhood home. Now her address made her an undesirable. In fact, a 'River Rat.' People in town ask why these people don't work, Sister Mary told me in her gentle voice. 'But they have no cars and no way to get anywhere.' Today I recall those words as hurricanes rampage through the Gulf Coast. Evacuate? For the poor, mobility is a luxury. 'With how the world's going, I am praying more,' Cytina told me thirteen years ago. 'I want to help make things better.' At 41, does this bright-eyed woman still dream of helping others? Or have cruel winds of circumstance and nature dimmed the light in those eyes? 'With how the world's going...' Sometimes it keeps me up at night...all the Cytinas hidden along all the bayous and cinder roads of the Gulf Coast. Countless hidden heroes are struggling to weather yet another misery, in already stressed lives. People are strangers until you're introduced. Sister Mary introduced me and now a piece of my heart has been buffeted by the winds of the 2005 hurricane season.At night in my comfortable bed in suburban Chicago I wonder, where is Cytina now? Dear God, where and how are all the Cytinas?"
Sent by EXTENSION Magazine to Cajun territory, I saw pristine grounds, and an innovative and gracious approach to learning at Grand Coteau's historic Academy of the Sacred Heart, founded in 1821. I toured New Orleans' French Quarter, and boarded a fishing vessel for a shrimp fleet blessing. I was hosted for dinner by a family whose gorgeous home rivaled those found in any upscale suburb. But I also was privileged to visit with the hidden poor on remote crawfish farms, within the Atchafalaya Swamp, and along the banks of Bayou Teche. "Poor" is such a relative term. I was captivated by these people's rich faith and culture, strong family and community ties, their warmth and humor.
Different faces of those I had met haunted me at night after Hurricane Katrina hit in 2005. I worried over their possible fates. I wrote the above reflection about Cytina and Sister Mary Bordelon in my journal, then asked colleagues at The Catholic Church Extension Society if they would like to use it in some way (I was freelancing for Extension Society at the time). They offered the piece on Extension's web page under its "Hidden Heroes" section.
I later learned that Arnaudville is on high ground, so escaped catastrophic flooding. But the Cytina I met there, stranded without a car or job and with an ailing mother, represents to me countless hidden poor throughout the region. Click on this link to see the stretch of homes I visited where Cytina lived: http://www.catholicextension.org/bordelon/. The photo was taken during my visit to Arnaudville in 1992.
Today, Arnaudville's described online as a "great little town to raise children," and a charming place with lush trees and quaint shops. One of the oldest remaining towns in St. Landry Parish (settled late 1700's), it serves up a thriving Cajun culture, let loose in gatherings like the Etouffee Festival, held each April. After Hurricane Katrina, the town opened its arms to artists and musicians who needed a new cultural home, so a revival was sparked. A new cultural arts center established there in 2005 was attracting visitors from around the world, until it burned down four years later. Residents are determined to rebuild, an uphill battle since many struggle financially. With Lafayette just 14 miles away, jobs are to be found in factories, retail, and health care, for those who have a car and can afford the gas. But I can't even imagine the impact high gas prices are having upon this population. In 2009, more than 23% of Arnaudville residents fell beneath the poverty level.
Tonight, Louisiana is again suffering, as 3,000 square miles of farms are flooded by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to try to divert worse flooding from more populous cities like Baton Rouge and New Orleans. People of Louisiana, you have had much to bear. I remember one crawfish farmer telling me about Cajuns' infectious "Joie de vivre." May you never lose your joy.
Investigative journalists should aspire to
shed light in the darkness.
I had a dinosaur moment two days ago, when the way I learned and lived my chosen profession of 20-plus years was described as nearly extinct -- or, at least, on the endangered species list.
Jennifer Lahl, Producer of the award-winning documentary Eggsploitation was describing on Relevant Radio (950 AM WNTD, Chicago) her research into the practice of targeting female college students for egg harvesting.
On college campuses across our nation, ads promise young women thousands of dollars for contributing their eggs to fertility clinics. Women with high SAT scores and the "right" color skin are a hot ticket item for this industry.
Lahl, President of the Center for Bioethics and Culture Network, suspected a scam. Some ads offer upwards of $100,000 for egg harvesting. There had to be a catch.
Thankfully, Lahl wouldn't let the matter rest, and did some good, old-fashioned investigative journalism. She found female donors had suffered horrific side effects after undergoing ovarian hyperstimulation procedures used in egg harvesting. Many of these young women, sacrificing their bodies for profit (often to earn funds for repaying student loans), became permanently infertile. Others suffered strokes, comas and even death. Lahl publicized her findings in a documentary awarded "Best Documentary" this year at the 13th Annual California Independent Film Festival.
Relevant Radio asked Lahl how such abuses could persist and why this story wasn't covered by media.
This is where references to journalism came to the fore, and I perked up my ears even further. In the old days, reasoned Lahl, more investigative journalists dug deeply for stories. She described our modern era of pared down staffs and budgets. Desk journalism prevails, where stories for broadcast and print media are churned out at a frenetic pace. Imagine the scenario: some helter skelter browsing on the internet, a few phone calls, and voila, another deadline met.
With such an approach, many stories begging to be told are slipping through cracks. If the public remains ignorant of certain inhumane conditions and injustices, won't more injustices flourish? On the flip side, many an inspiring development will go unreported, if no one is taking time to glean the details.
Nothing beats getting out there in the world to chase down stories first-hand and in-depth. Every time I've ever left my desk for this purpose, I've returned with renewed passion and greater insights about the topic, and enough material to generate several articles. The whole, unadulterated truth is always so much richer than initial perception.
Thank heavens, good investigative journalism conducted out "in the field" is not yet extinct, even if it is, in some ways, tottering on weakened limbs. Foreign and war correspondents, and those heading into disaster areas, are still active and unfathomably brave. Both secular and religious journalists still venture into the unknown, and are kidnapped, harassed, beaten and killed, all in the line of duty.
"An investigative journalist is a man or woman whose profession it is to discover the truth and to identify lapses from it..."(De Burgh, Wikipedia)
These people are heroes, providing a vital service at a time when synthetic pursuits of reality abound. At their best, when they are anchored in truth and fleeing fabrication, journalists help us never lose sight of "The Real." They stir us to stay informed and get involved in everything from charitable causes and a deeper faith pursuit to politics and community life.
In my own life as a writer, I've had to learn to be flexible to survive and produce. Digging out stories has taken me into every possible setting: from the cardinal's mansion in Chicago to interview the late Cardinal Bernardin and St. Peter's Basilica in Rome to grasp the hand of Blessed John Paul II (I did not interview him, but was in a special audience), to an abandoned shell of a building in the mill town of Lawrence, Massachusetts, where I viewed remains of a dog sacrificed in a satanic ritual.
The pursuit of a good story has taken me to awards dinners and Indian powwows, Cajun shrimp fleet blessings and soup kitchens. It's been a real life of, well, living! Being blessed to have these experiences and share them with others through the written word has been one of the greatest joys of my life.
The media has "an enormous positive potential for promoting sound human and family values, and thus contributing to the renewal of society."
-- Blessed John Paul II, on The Media and the Family: A Risk and a Richness, written for 2004 World Communications Day, January 24, 2004
Heaven knows, journalists don't go into the profession for money. They feel commissioned. And the world needs dedicated, ethical, talented, investigative journalists. Thanks to Lahl's investigations, the egg-harvesting industry must be shivering a bit in its boots. Her documentary is showing on law school campuses such as Harvard, Fordham and Yale, in other community venues across the nation, and even overseas. Informed women are being spared the horrific consequences of having their bodies invaded and their fertility destroyed.
What other darkness is out there, waiting to be brought to light?
As readers and viewers of media, we should not be content with hastily written blogs and tweets. We deserve and should demand meaty, fully-researched stories. And every one of us needs to become investigators and pursuers of Truth in all its fullness, no matter our professions.
I heard something amusing two nights ago at the library. A father was chatting with his two young children about too much screen time.
"For every one minute you spend watching Phineus and Ferb on television," he said, "you get ten minutes dumber!"
Humorous approach, with underlying truth. Thank heavens for the internet and its vast resources. I wouldn't want to do without it. However, journalists should do their initial research, then be free to leave the comfort of their cubbyholes and screens to venture forth and do some vigorous, face-to-face, investigative digging.
But people of every age and profession must also push those screens aside and get out into the world. We should remember each day to investigate. Explore. And return to loved ones to report.
How incredibly valuable to go on location, into whatever wide variety of settings Providence calls us, to dig for the Truth of it all.
"In the midst of the assembly I will praise You"
Psalm 22:23
Happy Easter! Dear mother earth, who day by day Unfoldest blessings on our way, O praise Him! Alleluia! The flowers and fruits that in thee grow, Let them His glory also show. O praise Him! Alleluia! Allelulia, alleluia, alleluia! -- St. Francis of Assisi, 13th Century
Even city lots bloom forth and show His glory...
All creation, praise His Holy Name!
The Season of Easter, or Eastertide, lasts seven weeks, from Easter Sunday until Pentecost Sunday.
Our neighbor's daffodils -- pristine and perfect.
We call ours "afrodils" for obvious reasons! Does
anyone know the official name for this variety?
Delicate sunset colors...
I love these pansies, given to me by friends,
for teaching a class.
"Just as the sun's rays in springtime cause the buds on the branches of the trees to sprout and open up, so the radiance that streams forth from Christ's resurrection gives strength and meaning to every human hope, to every expectation, wish and plan."
-- Pope Benedict XVI, given on Easter Sunday, 2011, from the balcony at St. Peter's Basilica, during his Urbi et Orbi (to the city and the world) message.
"Those who seek the Lord shall praise Him:
'May your hearts be ever merry!'" Psalm 22:23
It's All About Mercy...
Since this is Divine Mercy Sunday, and the day on which Pope John Paul II will be beatified in Rome, I have a great, true story for you. Sixteen years ago, I joined a group from Chicago traveling to Rome to attend the Mass in which Monsignor Edward J. Slattery was elevated to Bishop. (He now serves the Tulsa, Oklahoma Diocese.) Our group was granted a private audience with Pope John Paul II. Amongst us was a judge who was greatly struggling with the idea of mercy as regards to her profession. Of course, the Holy Father had no human way of knowing this woman's struggles, but at some point during the audience he drew near, gazed intently into her eyes, and urged her to "Mercy, mercy, mercy."
Pope John Paul II instituted the Second Sunday of Easter as "Divine Mercy Sunday," during the Mass of canonization of St. Faustina Kowalska on April 30, 2000, the year of the Great Jubilee. The Holy Father later died on the vigil of the Feast of Divine Mercy, six years ago.
The bestselling diary of Saint Faustina tells how Jesus came to this nun in prayer, shortly before the outbreak of World War II.
"I am sending you with My Mercy to the people of the whole world," Jesus told her. "I do not want to punish mankind, but I desire to heal it, pressing it to My merciful Heart..."
Attending Divine Mercy devotions on this Second Sunday of Easter is an amazing way to renew one's faith and start fresh during this joyous season! Praise Him for His enduring mercy...
Photos (except book cover) by Marianna Bartholomew
"Time to plant spinach," a friend reminded me last week while we waited for our kids to finish fitness class. That's all I needed to launch me into hours of gardening frenzy.
Three years ago, I was a shareholder of Angelic Organics Farm in Caledonia, Illinois. How I loved collecting weekly boxes overflowing with familiar and exotic vegetables. (Ever eat kohlrabi or fennel?)
Then my husband suggested we expand our small garden on our suburban lot to sustain our own little "farm."
Planting and weeding organic vegetables was springtime status quo around my house...
Growing up, my family organic gardened, and I have distinct childhood memories of facing dreaded mounds of zucchini on my dinner plate and bitter, green grapes Mom sweetened and jelled.
Successes were many, however, including sweet, juicy tomatoes, spicy-hot scallions and radishes, piquant swiss chard and tart, pink rhubarb we slathered with sugar and oats for "rhubarb crunch."
Through the years, I've had variable success with my own gardens. I still regret leaving behindnearly a dozen perennial herbs at our previous home, around twenty miles south, in a micro-climate particularly suited to herbs.
We've had years when our tomatoes multiplied and bore heavily on the vine through November, and years when foliage flourished and vegetables played coy (we amended the soil with too much nitrogen.)
"Square Foot Gardening" divides tasks into manageable, bite-sized portions.
Last year, we started "Square Foot Gardening," dividing tasks into manageable, bite-sized portions. I harvested more than 30 varieties of veggies from raspberries and gourmet lettuce to heirloom tomatoes and pumpkins. We paid miniscule produce bills for months.
How do we cram such abundance into a narrow, city-sized lot?
We have three raised beds, each divided into 16 little compartments. We fill each unit with a mix of 1/3 peat, 1/3 compost and 1/3 vermiculite. When I plant, I work just a couple squares a day, until, voila! My garden is seeded.
I admit I groaned when my friend said it was spinach-planting time, because, no matter how much I come to enjoy it each year, gardening is still a lot of work. Also, spring definitely roared in like a lion this year. It was hard to dislodge myself from my nice, warm house, to muck around in the dirt.
But all I had to do was don my old jeans and beat-up gardening clogs, and put hands to the soil, and my grumbling disappeared. My boys joined me, as we raked up debris, clipped overgrowth and anchored stone pavers to delineate planting beds.
One beautiful spring morning a few days ago, a bird full-throated warbled from a nearby bush and the skies smiled blue upon us. One of my sons planted peas, and then dug up handfuls of worms to relocate to our raised planting beds -- gardening at its best!
It seemed arctic cold today, and yet the planting season has commenced...
Today, temperature highs reached only the lower 40's and it sleeted much of the day. It was blustery and c-o-l-d. But the planting season has commenced, and I couldn't resist a quick dash out to the garden to gauge my seedlings' progress. So far, I have a nice thatch of chives and Egyptian scallions, fragrant spearmint quirling up through the earth, and ten or so spinach seedlings shivering in the breeze.
Of course, I also have dandelion greens, although I have to remind myself these are potential food, not just worthless weeds.
Two weeks ago, my garden patch looked grey and barren, criss-crossed by scraggly skeletons of dried squash vines – a fitting Lenten landscape. As Easter approaches and spring rains pelt, the whole plot is washing clean and furling into life.
It feels good to add my own special touches, to sow and water, and direct my kids’ hands to the earth.
Prayer of the Christian Farmer (or Gardener)
O God, Source and Giver of all things,
Who manifests Your infinite majesty, power and goodness
in the earth about us, we give You honor and glory.
For the sun and rain, for the manifold fruits of our fields,
for the increase of our herds and flocks we thank You.
For the enrichment of our souls with divine grace,
we are grateful.
Supreme Lord of the harvest,
graciously accept us and the fruits of our toil,
in union with Christ Your Son, as atonement for our sins,
for the growth of Your Church,
for peace and charity in our homes,
for salvation to all.
Amen.
Prayer Source: Novena in Honor of St. Isidore: Patron of Farmers by National Catholic Rural Life Conference
Image courtesy of http://www.clipartheaven.com/
Did you know? Amount of trash thrown out by average person annually averages 1,500 pounds. Amount of trash thrown out by person who composts: 375 pounds.
Clip art (except trash can and produce border) courtesy of "Designed to a T""
