BY EDWIN COONEY
Like most everyone else, almost any time I hear of a tragedy, the first reaction that enters my mind or crosses my lips consists of the word—why? Very often, however, the question why just isn’t enough.
The tragedy that has recently gripped my attention happened during the third week in January in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania about six miles from Center City, Philadelphia. Fifty-three year-old Barbara Killian -- blinded from an accident when she was a baby -- and her little white lap dog A-Rod died in the basement of their home by the hand of Barbara’s eighty-four-year-old father Robert Killian who then turned the gun on himself. Mr. Killian had just been released from a local hospital having been treated for advanced cardiovascular disease. Convinced that he didn’t have long to live, Mr. Killian apparently believed he had to provide a permanent solution for what he perceived would be Barbara’s troubles in his earthly absence. Thus, believing, as he did, that Barbara would be both alone and helpless in the world, he decided that her life should end with his. So, sometime between Tuesday, January 15, 2008 when Killian was released from the hospital, and the following Saturday evening at six pm, Robert Killian shot Barbara, their little dog, and himself to death in the basement of their home on Cheswold Road.
According to the sum of all reports out of Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania: Barbara and Robert Killian had lived alone since the death of Shirley, Barbara’s mother and Robert’s wife, in 2001; the Killians “minded their own business”; Robert Killian was extremely protective of Barbara; and, finally, there was a lot of love in the Killian home as evidenced by Mr. Killian’s constant devotion to Barbara.
So there you have it: the who, the what, the where, the when, and, superficially, the why of the story. Surely, however, knowledge of these guidelines which every news reporter knows brings one no satisfaction. If you’re anything like me, perhaps you need to pause and take it all in before reading on.
In the emotional wake that occurs as one learns of this tragedy, there is the natural tendency to be outraged, not only with Killian’s murder of his daughter, but even more with what was clearly his demeaning attitude about Barbara’s very existence as a person with blindness. There are reports that neighbors called area social services from time to time to complain that Barbara was being “held captive” by her parents in her home, the response to which caused the Killians to retreat further into seclusion with their daughter. Inevitably, one wonders what exactly went on in that household upon Mr. Killian’s January 15th return from the hospital. How long had Robert Killian contemplated this irrevocable deed? What religious or moral matters did Mr. Killian consider before taking Barbara to the basement of their home to meet her death? Did Killian tell Barbara in advance of his intention or was there a reasoned or even gentle pretext to the basement visit? Did Robert Killian see his act as one of love or one of despair?
Information out of greater Philadelphia regarding Barbara Killian’s existence is sketchy but still revealing. A 1973 graduate of Overbrook School for the Blind, Barbara was shy, intelligent and fun loving. She was a baseball fan of the Yankees, especially Alex Rodriguez whom she had met through an organization for the blind. Thus, she named her little dog A-Rod.
What happened to Barbara Killian has to be very personal on some level to everyone who lives with a disability—especially those who live with blindness. All of us, whether born able-bodied or disabled, are vulnerable to our parents’ individual environments, values, and attitudes. Even more relevant to the Killian family tragedy is the strong parental instinct, the overwhelming need to protect our children from the world’s many outrages.
While we’re certainly justified in our righteous anger toward Robert Killian, that anger alone is as destructive to you and me as Killian’s thirty-eight caliber pistol was to Barbara. It would be more helpful, I think, for us all to re-examine what it means to love and protect one another as well as one’s children.
It would be arrogant for any of us to question Mr. Killian’s love for his daughter. However, Robert and Shirley Killian’s love for Barbara was clearly misdirected as evidenced by their decision to reject a college scholarship, choosing to have her stay at home instead of broadening her horizons. Their legitimate mission was to protect her life and to empower others to ensure her security after they were gone. It’s quite apparent that Mr. Killian was more overwhelmed by his fears than he was sustained by “the better angels of his nature.”
Nothing we can say or write, no wish we can wish, no prayer we may pray can undo what was done to Barbara Killian by her father. Love is a powerful force. As such it can nurture, sustain, encourage, and therefore foster growth and even greater love. However, if love is administered with jealousy or fear, it can destroy. It appears that the Killians’ powerful love for Barbara went awry and, hence, it destroyed.
Sadly, Robert Killian believed that the world wasn’t sufficiently trustworthy to match his love for Barbara, hence he took her with him for her own protection.
Happily, most of us know that the world is worthy because you and I are worthy of the kind of love that sustains and nurtures.
Thus the question is: what’s our love for one another all about? If our love is laden with fear or controllingly possessive, perhaps it’s best to keep it to ourselves. However, if our love is about nurturing and trusting, even at times when others’ needs are beyond our full comprehension, then in the words of a popular song of the mid-seventies, by all means “let your love flow!”
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
Updated: originally published February 18, 2008
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
FRIENDSHIP: THE FOUNDATION OF ALL THAT REALLY MATTERS
By Edwin Cooney
It’s true, I’m neither a psychologist nor a sociologist -- although I very briefly considered majoring in sociology in college. Still, as I see it, anyone who spends sixty plus years on this planet of ours and pays careful attention to the lives of people around them ought to be eligible, at the very least, to receive a certificate in sociology. Even more than family, the most precious earthly institution is “friendship.”
Some people will tell you that they have lots of friends. Others will say that they don’t have a lot of friends, but the ones they do have are very close indeed. Of course, some of us are by nature very self-analytical while others don’t really feel comfortable with
self-reflection. Thus, the non self-reflective would probably insist that their lives are more decorated by friendship than the self-reflective types would assert.
Since everyone considers U.S. presidents fair game for critical analysis, let’s examine two self-reflective vs. non self-reflective presidential personalities.
On the night of Monday, November 1, 1976 -- election eve -- CBS political commentator Eric Sevareid made the following observation about the two major party presidential candidates, Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Carter, said Severeid, seemed always to be re-examining his psyche as a progressive white southerner, a nuclear engineer/businessman and born-again Christian, while President Ford didn’t seem to realize that he even possessed a psyche! He further suggested that Jerry Ford followed a combination of his experiences and instincts and thus left his mind alone. Jimmy Carter was far from friendless and comfortable in his own skin, but one could reasonably assume that Jerry Ford probably had more “friends” than the self-probing Jimmy Carter.
Like people, friendships are born and die everyday. However, it is my experience that the deaths of most real friendships are seldom peaceful. Sometimes all it takes is one genuinely principled decision or act to destroy the intellectual and emotional bond that has been in existence between two people for decades. Invariably, that occurs when the root of a misunderstanding is poorly handled by one of the parties in the conflicted friendship. Usually, the sense of having been betrayed is what triggers the conflict.
Friendships are invariably of different types and levels. Like the foundation or scaffolding of a physical structure, friendship invariably bears the weight or pressure of human relationships brought about by both internal and external forces.
It has become fashionable in recent years here in America to proclaim that the “family is the foundation of our society.” (This is one of the many “politically correct” assertions that Conservatives, who insist that only Liberals suffer from “political correctness,” themselves insist on.) Yet this proclamation has many holes in it.
If the family unit has been handed down to us from our “Founding Fathers” as the absolute moral core of our national worthiness, it’s indeed remarkable that George Washington, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had very little regard for their mothers. Mary Ball Washington complained too much about her son’s financial parsimony. (According to author Kenneth C. Davis of the “Don’t Know Much About…” series, as an adult, Washington never introduced his mother to his wife or invited her to his home.) Susanna Boylston Adams was too fiery tempered for her son’s comfort and she is little mentioned in the voluminous Adams’ family papers. Jane Randolph Jefferson was said to have a “zero existence” in Jefferson’s life. Also, there are numerous multifaceted social, religious, and even financial conflicts within many families. Invariably, children quarrel over inheritances, brothers struggle for the most powerful position at the top of the family corporation, and widows often bear the jealousies of stepchildren. Absent genuine friendship within families, the family loses its ability to be a nurturing force in people’s lives.
Those who find themselves orphaned or rejected from the family unit definitely must rely on friendship if they are to realize the tenderness and nurturing gifts of the human heart. For such people, the possibility of abandonment is ever present. If the ever present possibility of rejection is their prevailing lot, so too is the ever present opportunity to dare to build friendships.
By definition, rich lasting friendships are sanctuaries in which one’s personal assets and liabilities may find loving acknowledgment and gentle adjustment, where tolerance prevails over temper, and where encouragement enhances even the sternest advice.
Individually -- as the product of our mutual social, emotional and spiritual dependence -- friendship is the haven of caring we offer one another in which we may safely, however haltingly, strive and ultimately fulfill all of the things about which we’ve ever dreamed.
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
It’s true, I’m neither a psychologist nor a sociologist -- although I very briefly considered majoring in sociology in college. Still, as I see it, anyone who spends sixty plus years on this planet of ours and pays careful attention to the lives of people around them ought to be eligible, at the very least, to receive a certificate in sociology. Even more than family, the most precious earthly institution is “friendship.”
Some people will tell you that they have lots of friends. Others will say that they don’t have a lot of friends, but the ones they do have are very close indeed. Of course, some of us are by nature very self-analytical while others don’t really feel comfortable with
self-reflection. Thus, the non self-reflective would probably insist that their lives are more decorated by friendship than the self-reflective types would assert.
Since everyone considers U.S. presidents fair game for critical analysis, let’s examine two self-reflective vs. non self-reflective presidential personalities.
On the night of Monday, November 1, 1976 -- election eve -- CBS political commentator Eric Sevareid made the following observation about the two major party presidential candidates, Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Carter, said Severeid, seemed always to be re-examining his psyche as a progressive white southerner, a nuclear engineer/businessman and born-again Christian, while President Ford didn’t seem to realize that he even possessed a psyche! He further suggested that Jerry Ford followed a combination of his experiences and instincts and thus left his mind alone. Jimmy Carter was far from friendless and comfortable in his own skin, but one could reasonably assume that Jerry Ford probably had more “friends” than the self-probing Jimmy Carter.
Like people, friendships are born and die everyday. However, it is my experience that the deaths of most real friendships are seldom peaceful. Sometimes all it takes is one genuinely principled decision or act to destroy the intellectual and emotional bond that has been in existence between two people for decades. Invariably, that occurs when the root of a misunderstanding is poorly handled by one of the parties in the conflicted friendship. Usually, the sense of having been betrayed is what triggers the conflict.
Friendships are invariably of different types and levels. Like the foundation or scaffolding of a physical structure, friendship invariably bears the weight or pressure of human relationships brought about by both internal and external forces.
It has become fashionable in recent years here in America to proclaim that the “family is the foundation of our society.” (This is one of the many “politically correct” assertions that Conservatives, who insist that only Liberals suffer from “political correctness,” themselves insist on.) Yet this proclamation has many holes in it.
If the family unit has been handed down to us from our “Founding Fathers” as the absolute moral core of our national worthiness, it’s indeed remarkable that George Washington, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had very little regard for their mothers. Mary Ball Washington complained too much about her son’s financial parsimony. (According to author Kenneth C. Davis of the “Don’t Know Much About…” series, as an adult, Washington never introduced his mother to his wife or invited her to his home.) Susanna Boylston Adams was too fiery tempered for her son’s comfort and she is little mentioned in the voluminous Adams’ family papers. Jane Randolph Jefferson was said to have a “zero existence” in Jefferson’s life. Also, there are numerous multifaceted social, religious, and even financial conflicts within many families. Invariably, children quarrel over inheritances, brothers struggle for the most powerful position at the top of the family corporation, and widows often bear the jealousies of stepchildren. Absent genuine friendship within families, the family loses its ability to be a nurturing force in people’s lives.
Those who find themselves orphaned or rejected from the family unit definitely must rely on friendship if they are to realize the tenderness and nurturing gifts of the human heart. For such people, the possibility of abandonment is ever present. If the ever present possibility of rejection is their prevailing lot, so too is the ever present opportunity to dare to build friendships.
By definition, rich lasting friendships are sanctuaries in which one’s personal assets and liabilities may find loving acknowledgment and gentle adjustment, where tolerance prevails over temper, and where encouragement enhances even the sternest advice.
Individually -- as the product of our mutual social, emotional and spiritual dependence -- friendship is the haven of caring we offer one another in which we may safely, however haltingly, strive and ultimately fulfill all of the things about which we’ve ever dreamed.
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
Monday, September 13, 2010
REMEMBERING ARCHIE
By Edwin Cooney
Saturday, May 5th, 1945 was a lovely spring day in southern Oregon. Reverend Archie Mitchell, the newly appointed pastor of the Christian and Missionary Alliance in nearby Bly, was on an outing with his pregnant wife Elsie and five members of the church’s Sunday school class. The hiking and fishing picnic was a “getting to know you” activity. Suddenly and tragically, without warning, Elsie Mitchell and the five children would make history by becoming the only casualties on the U.S. mainland during World War II.
Anxious to get into the woods to start exploring, Elsie and the kids got out of the car while Archie searched for a good place to park. By the time he was pulling their lunches and fishing gear from the back of the vehicle, Elsie and the children were well into the woods.
Suddenly, Elsie called out to Archie that they’d discovered something. It was a balloon-like machine in the middle of the woods. Archie yelled back that they shouldn’t touch it, but someone, one of the kids perhaps, did.
Before Archie was within a hundred yards of them, there was a powerful explosion. Large clumps of earth and branches from trees were hurled through the air. By the time Archie and a road crew working nearby reached them, the five children were dead and Elsie, lying in her flaming clothes, would live, mercifully, hardly a minute longer.
During the 9/11 tragedy, you’ll no doubt remember that much of our incredulity stemmed from the insistence on the part of our leadership (from the president on down) that this was the first time Americans had suffered violence from foreign attack since the British burned the White House and the Capitol in 1814.
During World War II, the Japanese government had sent thousands of balloon bombs into the atmosphere. They were designed to explode on impact into American cities, towns and villages to create panic. However, the explosion mechanism on these vehicles was faulty and the bombs were ultimately too heavy for the balloons. Most of these balloon bombs landed in the Pacific or on Pacific islands and several hundred were sighted and destroyed by our military. However, at least one was neither lost nor destroyed. (Note that not until June 1, 1945, nearly four weeks after the incident, did the U.S. government identify the source of the balloon bomb.)
Even if the source of the explosion had been immediately identified, events on Saturday, May 5, 1945 were rapidly superseded by the news the following Tuesday (May 8th) of Victory in Europe and the whole world celebrated.
In comparison to the worldwide scourge of war, the deaths of Elsie Winters Mitchell, age 26, Sherman Shoemaker, 10, Jay Gifford, 11, Edward Engeen, 13, Joan Patzke, 13, and Dick Patzke, 14, seemed to be personal rather than national tragedies. Thus, as long as they were considered so, the full comprehension of the tragedy’s significance was hidden from Archie, the children’s families, and the world.
Of course, loss of life is always devastating, but one has to wonder if the revelation of the cause of this accident affected the feelings and perspectives of the victims’ families.
I became familiar with this incident a little less than two years ago when the late Paul Harvey told of it on one of his last “Best of the Story” broadcasts. Although Mr. Harvey told you “the rest of the story,” he didn’t come anywhere close to telling you Archie Mitchell’s entire story. Paul Harvey’s point was that it’s only realistic to understand that innocent people increasingly will be the victims of war.
Two and a half years following Archie’s first tragedy, on December 23, 1947, Archie Mitchell and his second wife Betty Patzke (older sister of Joan and Dick Patzke who were victimized by the Japanese balloon bomb), set sail for Vietnam where they would start the first of three tours of duty as missionaries for the Christian Missionary & Alliance Church. Their goal was, of course, to spread “the good news” and to do God’s work by improving the living conditions of the poor and sick of Southeast Asia.
On the night of Wednesday, May 30, 1962, while working at the Ban Me Thuot Leprosarium, Archie, the Reverend Daniel Gerber and Dr. Eleanor Vietti along with a generous supply of medicines and equipment for the benefit of their sick and wounded were removed from the clinic by a 12 member unit of the Vietcong.
According to Betty Mitchell, it was the Vietcong’s original intention to take her and her children captive along with Archie, but the plan changed when Archie insisted that he wouldn’t cooperate with them if they did that. (Keep in mind that this was well before large numbers of American troops were sent to Vietnam.) Surely Archie’s non-cooperation would have doubtless resulted in everyone’s instant death.
Although U.S. intelligence over the next several years had a pretty good idea where Archie and his two companions were located, however, they were guarded too well to be rescued. In 1969, negotiations for their release were near completion when they were suddenly broken off. None of the three have been seen since.
Thus, the fate of Archie Mitchell is unknown. Were Archie and his fellow companions murdered by the Vietcong? Or might they have been the innocent victims of our bombing? Who knows? Neither Betty Mitchell nor any of their four children have the slightest idea of Archie’s fate, or that of Gerber and Vietti.
Archie Mitchell was twice the victim of war; one has to wonder why this good man had to suffer so. We know that the Japanese government’s decision to send balloon bombs was, in part, revenge for the April 1942 firebombing of Tokyo by Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle. We know also that the reason for the seizing of Mitchell, Gerber and Vietti was largely due to the healing they could bring about for the Vietcong.
What is hard to grasp is what it took for Reverend Mitchell to keep on giving to a world that had taken so much from him. Even more amazing to this observer is the kind of strength required to handle these two potentially soul-destroying trials! What must life have been like during the final seven plus years of Archie’s life? Were any tender moments left for Archie Mitchell and his co-prisoners? Did they ever smile or laugh again? What, beside the threat of death, fueled Archie’s energy to keep on keeping on? What sustained his faith?
My point in telling you this story is that, as I see it, aggressive war is humankind’s greatest crime. Too often, too many good people make excuses for it. We explain it away as “legitimate national security,” but that’s where we’re all wrong regardless of our nationality or our political or religious convictions. As far as I’m concerned, human sin didn’t begin when Adam ate an apple; it began the second we decided it was legitimate to kill one another.
Archie Mitchell’s story is powerful for me because his suffering was brought about by humankind’s most impersonal act: war. Yet, he kept giving back in a very personal way. Too often when man chooses to expand or defend even the legitimate writ of his authority, he invariably destroys not only his enemy, but his enemy’s innocent brothers, sisters and children. The great statesmen of the world, even with all of the guidance mechanisms on their instruments of destruction, have no more control of their destructive force than did Hurricane Katrina or the December 2006 tsunami. Still the Archie Mitchells of this world appear to live their best dreams even amidst the uncontrollable outrages brought about by both man and nature.
Archie Mitchell, I’ve only just met you, but I’ll never forget you!
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
Saturday, May 5th, 1945 was a lovely spring day in southern Oregon. Reverend Archie Mitchell, the newly appointed pastor of the Christian and Missionary Alliance in nearby Bly, was on an outing with his pregnant wife Elsie and five members of the church’s Sunday school class. The hiking and fishing picnic was a “getting to know you” activity. Suddenly and tragically, without warning, Elsie Mitchell and the five children would make history by becoming the only casualties on the U.S. mainland during World War II.
Anxious to get into the woods to start exploring, Elsie and the kids got out of the car while Archie searched for a good place to park. By the time he was pulling their lunches and fishing gear from the back of the vehicle, Elsie and the children were well into the woods.
Suddenly, Elsie called out to Archie that they’d discovered something. It was a balloon-like machine in the middle of the woods. Archie yelled back that they shouldn’t touch it, but someone, one of the kids perhaps, did.
Before Archie was within a hundred yards of them, there was a powerful explosion. Large clumps of earth and branches from trees were hurled through the air. By the time Archie and a road crew working nearby reached them, the five children were dead and Elsie, lying in her flaming clothes, would live, mercifully, hardly a minute longer.
During the 9/11 tragedy, you’ll no doubt remember that much of our incredulity stemmed from the insistence on the part of our leadership (from the president on down) that this was the first time Americans had suffered violence from foreign attack since the British burned the White House and the Capitol in 1814.
During World War II, the Japanese government had sent thousands of balloon bombs into the atmosphere. They were designed to explode on impact into American cities, towns and villages to create panic. However, the explosion mechanism on these vehicles was faulty and the bombs were ultimately too heavy for the balloons. Most of these balloon bombs landed in the Pacific or on Pacific islands and several hundred were sighted and destroyed by our military. However, at least one was neither lost nor destroyed. (Note that not until June 1, 1945, nearly four weeks after the incident, did the U.S. government identify the source of the balloon bomb.)
Even if the source of the explosion had been immediately identified, events on Saturday, May 5, 1945 were rapidly superseded by the news the following Tuesday (May 8th) of Victory in Europe and the whole world celebrated.
In comparison to the worldwide scourge of war, the deaths of Elsie Winters Mitchell, age 26, Sherman Shoemaker, 10, Jay Gifford, 11, Edward Engeen, 13, Joan Patzke, 13, and Dick Patzke, 14, seemed to be personal rather than national tragedies. Thus, as long as they were considered so, the full comprehension of the tragedy’s significance was hidden from Archie, the children’s families, and the world.
Of course, loss of life is always devastating, but one has to wonder if the revelation of the cause of this accident affected the feelings and perspectives of the victims’ families.
I became familiar with this incident a little less than two years ago when the late Paul Harvey told of it on one of his last “Best of the Story” broadcasts. Although Mr. Harvey told you “the rest of the story,” he didn’t come anywhere close to telling you Archie Mitchell’s entire story. Paul Harvey’s point was that it’s only realistic to understand that innocent people increasingly will be the victims of war.
Two and a half years following Archie’s first tragedy, on December 23, 1947, Archie Mitchell and his second wife Betty Patzke (older sister of Joan and Dick Patzke who were victimized by the Japanese balloon bomb), set sail for Vietnam where they would start the first of three tours of duty as missionaries for the Christian Missionary & Alliance Church. Their goal was, of course, to spread “the good news” and to do God’s work by improving the living conditions of the poor and sick of Southeast Asia.
On the night of Wednesday, May 30, 1962, while working at the Ban Me Thuot Leprosarium, Archie, the Reverend Daniel Gerber and Dr. Eleanor Vietti along with a generous supply of medicines and equipment for the benefit of their sick and wounded were removed from the clinic by a 12 member unit of the Vietcong.
According to Betty Mitchell, it was the Vietcong’s original intention to take her and her children captive along with Archie, but the plan changed when Archie insisted that he wouldn’t cooperate with them if they did that. (Keep in mind that this was well before large numbers of American troops were sent to Vietnam.) Surely Archie’s non-cooperation would have doubtless resulted in everyone’s instant death.
Although U.S. intelligence over the next several years had a pretty good idea where Archie and his two companions were located, however, they were guarded too well to be rescued. In 1969, negotiations for their release were near completion when they were suddenly broken off. None of the three have been seen since.
Thus, the fate of Archie Mitchell is unknown. Were Archie and his fellow companions murdered by the Vietcong? Or might they have been the innocent victims of our bombing? Who knows? Neither Betty Mitchell nor any of their four children have the slightest idea of Archie’s fate, or that of Gerber and Vietti.
Archie Mitchell was twice the victim of war; one has to wonder why this good man had to suffer so. We know that the Japanese government’s decision to send balloon bombs was, in part, revenge for the April 1942 firebombing of Tokyo by Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle. We know also that the reason for the seizing of Mitchell, Gerber and Vietti was largely due to the healing they could bring about for the Vietcong.
What is hard to grasp is what it took for Reverend Mitchell to keep on giving to a world that had taken so much from him. Even more amazing to this observer is the kind of strength required to handle these two potentially soul-destroying trials! What must life have been like during the final seven plus years of Archie’s life? Were any tender moments left for Archie Mitchell and his co-prisoners? Did they ever smile or laugh again? What, beside the threat of death, fueled Archie’s energy to keep on keeping on? What sustained his faith?
My point in telling you this story is that, as I see it, aggressive war is humankind’s greatest crime. Too often, too many good people make excuses for it. We explain it away as “legitimate national security,” but that’s where we’re all wrong regardless of our nationality or our political or religious convictions. As far as I’m concerned, human sin didn’t begin when Adam ate an apple; it began the second we decided it was legitimate to kill one another.
Archie Mitchell’s story is powerful for me because his suffering was brought about by humankind’s most impersonal act: war. Yet, he kept giving back in a very personal way. Too often when man chooses to expand or defend even the legitimate writ of his authority, he invariably destroys not only his enemy, but his enemy’s innocent brothers, sisters and children. The great statesmen of the world, even with all of the guidance mechanisms on their instruments of destruction, have no more control of their destructive force than did Hurricane Katrina or the December 2006 tsunami. Still the Archie Mitchells of this world appear to live their best dreams even amidst the uncontrollable outrages brought about by both man and nature.
Archie Mitchell, I’ve only just met you, but I’ll never forget you!
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
Monday, September 6, 2010
WHAT IS -- THE PRESENT -- THAT’S FUTURE’S GATEWAY
By Edwin Cooney
I began last week’s column by observing that I’m not big on “what ifs” in sports, politics or in my personal life.
One of you, a wise and wonderfully sweet former teacher of mine, wrote me observing that “what if” is far less important than “what is” and of course she’s right.
All our lives, those who have authority or influence over us urge us to freely and cheerfully offer and expect the best from others. The problem is that, as hard as we try, the world is filtered through our awareness and that awareness is inevitably affected by our experiences. If we’ve had largely rewarding experiences, then it’s reasonably easy to expect and receive the best. If our experiences have been less than the best, even traumatic on occasion, acceptance of the best the future may hold for us can be pretty hard to swallow.
Did you ever stop and wonder what empowers you to dare? My third grade teacher, a lady with the formidable name of Sophie Peruzzin, used to call me “the darer.” I wasn’t as brave as some of the bigger boys, but I would often accept a dare.
At the east and west entrances of our main building on the campus of our residential school for the blind, there were about 10 or maybe 15 steps from ground level to the approach to the doors as I remember it. On the sides of the steps, there were two broad side railings that you could sit on. You could also jump from them. You could jump backwards from them, too. The first time you did that, you got “oos and ahs” from the kids who were a tad less brave than you. That turned a dare into a thrill. I never got as brave as a couple of kids who would, from a standing position, leap from the playground swing as it reached its greatest height, yelling “happy landing” as they jumped out. I had more sense than that! However, I earned Mrs. Peruzzin’s nickname for me at least up until the fourth grade!
Hence, we’re left with two things, the reward and the thrill. So, what is the reward when we dare to dare?
As I see it, what makes us dare is the value we put on the perceived gratification the dare offers. Youthful dares generally offer temporary thrills. However, as life moves on, both the risks and the rewards we seek become more formidable. Since we see “what is” primarily through the window of our own perceptions and experiences, what we fear losing most is control as we dare to dare.
A few years ago, there was a speedy ballplayer named Mickey Rivers -- “Mick the Quick” they called him. “Mick the Quick” was something of a philosopher. His real name was John Milton Rivers, so he was actually born into his avocation. One of his many observations went something like this:
“Ain't no sense worrying about the things you got control over 'cause if you got control over 'em, ain't no sense worrying. Ain't no sense worrying about the things you got no control over, 'cause if you got no control over 'em, ain't no sense worrying.”
Very few of us live absolutely alone. Invariably, we are dependent on others who also have a lifetime of needs and fears that makes life as it is quite treacherous. I think the surest way to make the best of “what is” is to think of and invite friends, business associates, family, and especially your lover to be your partner. Partners share ideas, plans, experiences and feelings, thus building something that is greater than the number of people involved.
Not all of your partnership experiences will be either easy or pleasant. Sometimes partners need steady support as they seek strength to perform their portion of the partnership. That may occasionally require a nurturing partner—-as all partners must be--to carry as much as 51 to 90 percent of the load. Partners offer quality time, sympathetic listening, acknowledgment and sharing. Each partner is required to protect and receive protection, to offer and receive respect and consideration, to care for and be cared about.
Together, partners can often replace the shadows of unhappy experiences to let in the golden light, not by magic but due to something they’ve been working for. Thus, acquaintances become friends, professional associates become teams, and business partnerships more likely become profitable. In families, healthy partnerships enhance life.
Once in a while, two special friends raise their partnership to a level that makes “what is” -- the present -- become the very best of all partnerships. I think they’re called romances!
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
I began last week’s column by observing that I’m not big on “what ifs” in sports, politics or in my personal life.
One of you, a wise and wonderfully sweet former teacher of mine, wrote me observing that “what if” is far less important than “what is” and of course she’s right.
All our lives, those who have authority or influence over us urge us to freely and cheerfully offer and expect the best from others. The problem is that, as hard as we try, the world is filtered through our awareness and that awareness is inevitably affected by our experiences. If we’ve had largely rewarding experiences, then it’s reasonably easy to expect and receive the best. If our experiences have been less than the best, even traumatic on occasion, acceptance of the best the future may hold for us can be pretty hard to swallow.
Did you ever stop and wonder what empowers you to dare? My third grade teacher, a lady with the formidable name of Sophie Peruzzin, used to call me “the darer.” I wasn’t as brave as some of the bigger boys, but I would often accept a dare.
At the east and west entrances of our main building on the campus of our residential school for the blind, there were about 10 or maybe 15 steps from ground level to the approach to the doors as I remember it. On the sides of the steps, there were two broad side railings that you could sit on. You could also jump from them. You could jump backwards from them, too. The first time you did that, you got “oos and ahs” from the kids who were a tad less brave than you. That turned a dare into a thrill. I never got as brave as a couple of kids who would, from a standing position, leap from the playground swing as it reached its greatest height, yelling “happy landing” as they jumped out. I had more sense than that! However, I earned Mrs. Peruzzin’s nickname for me at least up until the fourth grade!
Hence, we’re left with two things, the reward and the thrill. So, what is the reward when we dare to dare?
As I see it, what makes us dare is the value we put on the perceived gratification the dare offers. Youthful dares generally offer temporary thrills. However, as life moves on, both the risks and the rewards we seek become more formidable. Since we see “what is” primarily through the window of our own perceptions and experiences, what we fear losing most is control as we dare to dare.
A few years ago, there was a speedy ballplayer named Mickey Rivers -- “Mick the Quick” they called him. “Mick the Quick” was something of a philosopher. His real name was John Milton Rivers, so he was actually born into his avocation. One of his many observations went something like this:
“Ain't no sense worrying about the things you got control over 'cause if you got control over 'em, ain't no sense worrying. Ain't no sense worrying about the things you got no control over, 'cause if you got no control over 'em, ain't no sense worrying.”
Very few of us live absolutely alone. Invariably, we are dependent on others who also have a lifetime of needs and fears that makes life as it is quite treacherous. I think the surest way to make the best of “what is” is to think of and invite friends, business associates, family, and especially your lover to be your partner. Partners share ideas, plans, experiences and feelings, thus building something that is greater than the number of people involved.
Not all of your partnership experiences will be either easy or pleasant. Sometimes partners need steady support as they seek strength to perform their portion of the partnership. That may occasionally require a nurturing partner—-as all partners must be--to carry as much as 51 to 90 percent of the load. Partners offer quality time, sympathetic listening, acknowledgment and sharing. Each partner is required to protect and receive protection, to offer and receive respect and consideration, to care for and be cared about.
Together, partners can often replace the shadows of unhappy experiences to let in the golden light, not by magic but due to something they’ve been working for. Thus, acquaintances become friends, professional associates become teams, and business partnerships more likely become profitable. In families, healthy partnerships enhance life.
Once in a while, two special friends raise their partnership to a level that makes “what is” -- the present -- become the very best of all partnerships. I think they’re called romances!
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
EDWIN COONEY
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