Trying to Understand How People Become Disappointed

I have been working with At-Risk Youth since 1994 and the following is also a prt of that work and the book I am writing about mentoring at-risk youth through story.

In my work with at-risk youth, I have developed four principals for successful negotiation. They are Judgement, Expectation, Trust/Respect, and Presentation. These are the things we take to the table when trying to reason with others and also when trying to understand our relationships with them.

Expectation: What do we hope for ourselves, the other person, and the relationship?

I think it is safe to say that most of us hope not be hurt in any relationship and that the relationship will be long-lasting or at least successful. But what we hope for in the other person is really the tipping point. We do seek others with common interests, viewpoints and even the same ethics, but what do we do when we have not chosen the relationship, such as in a family? The other person may have been raised with similar beliefs and traditions, but it may be that over time they have developed their own ideas and customs, even gone far astray of what was traditionally taught in the family. In this case, do we throw the "baby out with the bath water?" How do we cope within these more complex relationships? What happens when we discover after many years of being in a relationship, the other person has changed for better or for worse? It’s a difficult question.

So where to begin. Well, it may be simpler than you realize. Begin with safety first. Are you safe, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even economically? If yes, then the next step is to begin with you. Begin with how you think, not how the other person acts. In other words change what you can control.

The first thing we need to do when we are learning to dance with another person is learn the dance steps for ourselves. Make sense? Getting along in a relationship is like dancing. You learn the steps and then sometimes you move together, sometimes you dance the same steps and sometimes you move apart, yet the movement make up a beautiful full and complete whole. Would you expect anything else from dancing? So why expect anything else of your relationship.

Allow your dance partner the space they need to be who they are. Don’t expect anything else of them and you won’t be disappointed. The exception is when dealing with someone who just doesn’t try to keep up or move with you. In this case it may be necessary to stand off and watch them dance from a distance until they move toward you, leave the dance floor, or just get another dance partner. But in most cases, if you approach a safe relationship without expectation, your partner will approach you in that way too.

This doesn’t mean you won’t find sadness in those times you drift apart. You will because you are a caring loving individual. But you will also find great joy in those times you come together, if you make up your mind that you will be joyful and focus on those positive moments. Attitude makes a big difference.

*Note. Expectation in this context does not mean the same as standards. We should set high standards for our success and that of our children. This acts as motivation and does not have anything to do with our acceptance of their failures. People fail. People learn. People can improve, but the definition of improvement is what we are talking about when we discuss expectation in this article. Does improvement mean that another person is only acceptable or successful to us if they do as we do, do things the way we would, think like us? We need to weigh the value of our lives with or without others in terms of what we are willing to have or sacrifice for that relationship.

More on Judgement, Trust/Respect and Presentation in the next posts.

Balance by Spencer Pope

My great grandfather, Spencer Pope, was an entrepreneur in New Berlin, New York and wrote poetry and prose for the New Berlin Gazette. I have the full collection of his writings and opened to find the following titled "Balance."

Balance by Spencer Pope, May 25, 1933

The Sun was made and sheds its heat and light upon the earth;
But its continued intense radiance will sere and blast
the very life its power gives, and so the clouds are hung underneath
to veil the earth and protection give to life.

We are given pleasures and joys in our short human lives,
Which like the Sun can sere and stunt us from ambition’s aims
And so the clouds of grief and pain are interposed with them
To bring us back to stern realities and more sane thoughts.

The raven’s song is dismal croak, the meadow lark’s a song of joy
Continued, either one can pall, yet both have place on earth.
There’s things that crawl and things that fly, but if all crawled or flew
Congestion would obtain and rational balance be gone.

God’s balance is not upon one single thing, but as a whole
It’s not ordained that one should know or do all things in life
But what is given us to do, we should strive to do well;
That there be some to learn and some to teach, is in God’s plan.

And those that now can teach are those who one time had to learn.

My Soul's Home

The Catskill area is where my family is rooted. My great great great great great grandparents settled there from my mother, father, and biological father's families. These roots are very deep and many family members still live there or are buried in the region. Every time I work there, it is like going home, comfortable, soothing, real. I get to return there to work June 12 and 14.
June 12: Oneonta Storytelling Festival featuring Laura Simms, Marni Gillard, Lorna Czarnota, and Susan Trump.
http://thedailystar.com/communitynews/x433575145/Area-storytellers-sought-for-festival/print

My recently deceased mom and dad met at the Oneonta Hotel. The story goes that Mom was giving out kisses and my dad bought one for a dollar. I don’t doubt that at all since Dad used to carry a pocket full of nickels as a young man and bet the girls a nickel he could kiss them without touching them. I suppose the dollar had to do with inflation, and I am sure my mother was worth much more than that.

The hotel later became a bank and I don’t know what it is now, perhaps vacant. The first time I told stories with the Oneonta storytellers, I recall visiting what had been the hotel and touching the exterior wall just to be able to say I had been there, in that place where my parents met.

Mom and Dad's first photo together.

After meeting the Oneonta tellers for the first time, I realized what wonderful people they were and was invited to return many many times to not only tell with them, but teach them about storytelling. They became my family. As with many things in my life this year, I think this is their farewell festival, not enough young tellers to carry on the tradition and the work of running and organizing a guild.

It maybe no real coincidence that I will return there now that my parents are gone, a sad and fitting end of their journey, and the happy ending for the Oneonta Storytelling Center too.

I will also present Wild and Wooly Tales on the morning of June 14 at Downsville Central School and my dear friend and storytelling partner Merri Lee will join me in the afternoon to present "Letters Home, Stories of the North and South" at Unadilla Elementary School in the afternoon.

The following is a little history of my roots which spread across the region from Oneonta (where my mom, myself and my deceased younger sister lived for a while when I was just a toddler) to Delhi, Walton, Morris, Unadilla, Laurens, and New Berlin.

Cobb/VerValin my mother’s side of the family: Mom was born in Unadilla and may even have attended the school where Merri and I will visit on the 14th. My grandmother’s family VerValin has a small cemetery on a back road in Unadilla. I found it mentioned in the archives at the Cooperstown Historical Library and visited it a few years ago. The small cemetery is located in a farmer’s field and is surrounded by an old wrought fence with the name VerValin on the gate. There were four stones there but trees had grown up through everything and it was sadly in need of work and may not survive. There is no telling what condition it is in now. The farmer kept a path mown to it but that was years ago.

MacDonald/Beers : my dad’s side of the family hails from Delhi, Walton, and Beerston. Yes, the town is named after them. Pretty cool huh? Personally, I know little about the Beers. I think my dad’s mother was a school teacher.

I know more about the MacDonalds. They arrived in the early 1800s at Fayetteville, North Carolina from Dunbarton Scotland. They moved north and settled in the Delhi, NY region where years later, my dad was born. I’ve never had the chance to work in his old school or in Walton either, but spent much of my childhood there at memorable family reunions, clambakes, and Christmas’. My deceased sister is buried in the Walton cemetery with my dad’s mother and father. Her name was Pamela Irene and she died at age 3 when I was just 5 years old.

There is one Beers uncle, Neil, who fought in the American Civil War.

Southern/Pope my biological father’s family: The Southern’s settled in the areas of Morris and Laurens and became farmers. I forget which great it was but it was at least four generations ago that one of my grandfathers brought the first long haired, bred sheep from Sheffield England to Otsego County. I know we have Sheffield roots but have not been able to trace them to England.
The Popes settled in the area around New Berlin, NY. I know nothing beyond my great grandparents history but that is very rich.

My great grandfather Spencer Pope was an entrepreneur in New Berlin. At one time he opened the first bicycle shop and later ran a grocery. His wife, my great grandmother, Hattie was a milliner and had a shop on the main street. I don’t know where Hattie is buried but Spencer is in the New Berlin cemetery. His grave is shown on a cemetery map but there is no headstone. I may remedy that as Spencer was a writer. He wrote poems and stories for the New Berlin Gazette for years. I have a bound notebook of all his writings that a local farmer had gathered and published. Their only daughter, my middle namesake, Theral became a dressmaker.

One great grandfathers and an uncle who fought in the American Civil War are buried in the Morris Cemetery, at least that is the war I recall. I know there was a grandfather who fought in that war as I have a photocopy of his letter to his wife from the hospital where he recuperated from a wound. Theral is buried in that cemetery also. I never found her grave.

So you see, my history is full of people who influenced me, though I never knew most of them. There were poets and storytellers, teachers and entrepreneurs, shepherds, a milliner and a dressmaker, all things I have done or aspired to do in my life. And the Catskills really are home to my soul.

I used to work there often but not in the past two years. I am so excited to be going home once more. I will have Sunday between programs to try to find the old cemetery in Unadilla again and to visit my sister’s grave and tell her of her parents’ recent passing, although I am sure she is with them now.

There are cousins scattered everywhere in the area and I have not maintained contact with them. One aunt and uncle still live in Walton. Many others have moved to warmer climates, including four half-sisters and two half-brothers. Many others have passed.

But their memories and stories linger. They cling to walls of old hotels, stone walls separating farmer’s fields, and brooks that wind from one side of the road to the other. They live on in the smell of oiled dirt roads, and old wooden general stores, and in this storytellers dreams and words. For you see the very first story I recall telling, was told when I was 10 years old, sitting on the porch with my cousins at their home in Andes, NY, while looking at the foothills of the Catskill Mountains.

As long as I draw breath, I will keep them alive.

April 9, 2010, Burying Mom and Dad

After many days of warm sunny weather, this day had to be cold and breezy, just the kind of weather my parents didn’t like because it went right through them and Dad had difficulty both with breathing in the cold but also with Raynaud. Yet the ceremony was warm just the same.

Thomas and I arrived ahead of the funeral director who brought the urn and the flag. Once they arrived, we followed them up the hill to the Bath National Cemetery in Bath, NY.

The cemetery is situated up the hill behind the Veteran’s Hospital complex. The complex is lovely with many buildings serving a variety of purposes from dorms to crafts and chapels. It is wooded with the treed foothills as a backdrop.

My first thought of the cemetery is that it was peaceful and serene, secluded as it is but that its military uniformity didn’t really match my family. Dad and Mom were nothing like other parents and I really wish we could have placed them somewhere that we could have a unique stone. But Dad was proud of his military service, as he was of the country he served, and so are we. It was fitting that he be buried in the place he wanted since so much of his last few years caring for Mom were out of his control as were the last seven weeks of his life. Perhaps he got that control back in this way.

When our vehicle rounded the bend we were met with the sight of two military personnel, dressed in their dress uniforms standing at attention. When the car carrying the urn passed, they slowly raised their hands in salute. It gave me chills and stirred my emotions.

We parked behind them and waited silently as the soldiers refolded the flag. The rest of our family began to arrive but I really wanted to stay engaged in that peaceful beautiful moment. Thomas gave me his arm and escorted me to one of the six seats facing a table overlooking the cemetery’s main monument and flagpole. It was downhill from where we sat and took a few moments for me to realize, but the honor guard of three soldiers assembled below us at attention.

The urn carrying my parent’s was carried somberly by the color guard to be placed on the table with the American flag before it. Our minster began with an introduction. He backed away and Blam! One rifle sounded. I jumped because it was so sudden. Tears welled in my eyes as I realized my dad was getting a gun salute. Blam! Another and then a third rang out. A three gun salute. By now I was crying so hard I almost couldn’t see the honor guard and then I heard the piercing sound of a trumpet from behind us. It was Taps, one of the most hauntingly beautiful tunes ever written, in my opinion. There is something about Taps that reaches way down inside you, much the same feeling I get from bagpipes which we had at the memorial. I was so touched and so proud of my papa. It was just so beautiful.

Next the color guard took up the flag and in perfect unison they unfolded and refolded the flag once more. A slow precise salute and it was handed off to the female soldier who turn slowly and approached were I sat. She knelt and placed the flag in my lap. "Mam, the country is grateful for your father’s service. We are sorry for your loss." More tears and the brief thought that I hate being called Mam, except for now. Now it was a great honor. I said "My family thanks you."

Aware that my sister sat beside me and not wanting her to feel left out, I took her hand and placed it on top of the flag in my lap and held it as the minister led us through the religious rites.
Following the actual ceremony which took place in a small shelter, we had to wait 30 minutes for the urn to be buried. We returned later, my sister, her husband and son, Thomas and myself. Trying not to step in the mud we placed roses on the grave.

It is still so hard to think of my tiny dear mother and my big strong Daddy as ashes in the ground. But just today I had a sudden revelation, something I have really known all along but needed the reminder, they are still with us not as ashes in the ground but changed into another form. Their bodies are things we can no longer touch and that is part of my sadness. I took to kissing them both on the foreheads in the past year and Dad always gave me great big bear hugs at bedtime when we stayed over. I’ll never have that again, but I will always have his humor and his thoughtfulness and my mom’s generosity and sensitivity. They are nearby, I call on them everyday. They are nearby.