What History Will They Read, If Any?

As I sit here pouring over an account of Elihu Washburne – the onetime friend and confidant of Presidents Lincoln and Grant, and ambassador to France during a time of tremendous tumult and drama in the streets of Paris – I find myself marveling at how unaware we are of what is an undeniably riveting story of American honor and personal sacrifice, embodied in the valiant actions of a dutiful public servant in a hotbed of chaos and disorder. If I had ever even heard of Elihu Washburne in my youth, I have long since forgotten it. Yet here I am in my mid-40’s, and had I not encountered the story in the chapters of David McCullough’s The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris and my current reading of Michael Hill’s biography of Mr. Washburne (taken much from the latter’s own diary and dispatches during the Parisian tumult of the 1870’s), I would still know nothing of this remarkable piece of American history.

Mr. Washburne is most notable for his heroic actions to aid and protect American citizens and other foreign nationals in Paris during the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-71 and the civil strife and political disorder shortly thereafter. Interestingly, the impact Mr. Washburne had on American history may be even more consequential, for it was Elihu Washburne who first befriended and advanced the career of a certain Ulysses S. Grant on the eve of the American Civil War. It was Congressman Washburne who, as a close confidant of President Lincoln, convinced the Commander-in-Chief to promote Grant to the rank of brigadier general, leading to the eventual rise of Grant to the command of the entire Union Army. It is a fascinating plot line, and to think that until a couple of months ago, Mr. Washburne was a complete unknown to me.

I am fortunate, I suppose, in that I had a teacher who instilled in me a love of history and the stories it has to tell. While the practical world holds me in bondage, relegating my passion for history to a mere hobby or pastime, I continue to adhere to the advice of that beloved teacher: if something interests you, go find a book about it and read, and then find another and read more, until your curiosity is sated.

I’m not inclined to rail against the trends of public (and private) education in this regard, although it is a vitally important topic. History is but a collection of accounts centered around people and events in time, and the unique perceptions and perspectives of what occurred and why. I have long thought that a proper study of history’s figures and events require not a view from a single vantage point, but an overlapping panoramic from a great many such points. I have no major qualms about the selection of topics and stories to be taught, provided that care is taken to ensure that students are presented with the opportunity to explore the different perspectives and accounts of those people and events. All stories have a bias; only the degree varies. At the very least, the history that is taught should serve not as an end to knowledge, but a gateway to further exploration and discovery of what we have collectively forgotten about our own heritage and civilization.

No, my greater question is more abstract than simply developing a list of what should / should not be taught, or identifying what is “essential”. I find myself pondering not just “What history should they read?” but perhaps more importantly, “What history will they read?”. What stories of the past will prompt the next generation to put down their phones and pick up a book? Will they even pick up a book, or wait for someone to produce a movie or an original series on Netflix? What does it take to create a genuine thirst for knowledge that goes far beyond the base need for entertainment and sensory stimulation?

I have no answers, only concerns. Meanwhile, I have left the brave Mr. Washburne on the cusp of the great siege of Paris at the hands of the relentless Prussian army. It is quite a tale, and in his own words, no less. See you on the flip side.

What to Do with Old Class Notes?

I am not a pack rat. The periodic purge has never been a cause of angst for me. I prefer to travel light, and whether this is due to my upbringing in a military family or the byproduct of having my belongings strewn across barren acreage in the aftermath of a storm – “things” just don’t have a great hold on me. I keep that which has value to me, be it sentimental or useful for a future purpose, but it is no great trauma to let stuff go that meet neither of these criteria.

Virtuous words, maybe, but full of feigned vainglory. For I daresay that I must confess an area of weakness that undermines my claim: the archaic relics of my college education.

My remaining textbooks are non-negotiable. One, because they are “books”, and I don’t get rid of books. Two, each represents a not-insignificant financial investment, and the severely depreciated resale value limits the incentive. It does not matter that some have been unopened and unused in 25 years. It does not matter that a couple of them have faithfully served my needs as a makeshift monitor stand for the last 10 years. I’m keeping the books.

The problem, alas, are the binders and binders of class notes (queue Romney jokes here), spanning a variety of math and engineering courses, labs, and even those silly business and humanities courses they require to ensure each engineering student leaves the university with a “well-rounded” education. Most contain that wonderful, green-shaded engineering paper, now faded along with the mechanical pencil scratchings of a bygone era. I have notes for MH420, EE475, and EE530, containing countless complicated formulas I clearly used to know, but are nothing but mere hieroglyphics at this point. It is just further proof that I was once far smarter than I am now. I have copies of marked up homework and tests (thank goodness for scaled grades). Heh. A stray phone bill – I wonder if I ever paid that? Here’s a piece of paper with a phone number – a forgotten girl? No, probably just some dude wanting study help. A section of the school newspaper, announcing the resignation of Coach Dye – hm, I didn’t know I had kept that. Finally, a slip of paper with a small love note from the girl who remains my beloved bride to this day. That one brought a smile.

Flipping through these binders, a few have awakened memories. But with most, I find the dullness of a past so long forgotten that it seems alien, with words and scribbles that were seemingly produced by someone else entirely. It is kind of disconcerting. But enough. To the matter at hand: what value do these pages upon pages of Fourier transforms and differential equations hold? What value do these digital control and microelectronic circuit designs have for me at a time when I find myself doing less and less true engineering and more and more management of those who do? Am I ever going to do this stuff in real life again? Can I bear to toss them into the trash bin?

Ah, the mid-life naval gazing over decades-old class notes! No sense wasting any more of my time (or yours). The decision is made. I’m still an engineer, and the direction on my bias is set to “practical”. On with it, then.

5 Years: A Final Look Back

It is a testament to the passage of time and immeasurable grace that I find myself almost reluctant to pen this retrospective. Not because it isn't worth looking back, but rather because I'm not sure how much I need to anymore. A new normal is now fully established, a normal that is arguably better than it was before. But it is for this reason, perhaps, that I should look back, so that I do not fail to appreciate the journey that brought us here.

March 2, 2012. The day of our tornado.

Most of our community's collective memory centers around other storms. There was a horrific tornado in 1989. Then there is the woebegone neighborhood known as Anderson Hills, hit at least three times since 1995. And more recently, the major tornadic outbreak of April 27, 2011 that left hundreds across the state dead and all of us around here in the dark for a solid week. But the one usually not remembered is the one that hit too close to home. A direct hit, actually.

It was a Friday morning. The boys were at school, my wife and I at work at our respective employers. The day was very warm and muggy, somewhat unusual for an early March morning. There may have been a weather watch, of that I'm not sure. But there were a couple of storms about, and one cell in particular had my attention as I tracked it on internet radar. Various reports were coming in, and a phone call from my brother-in-law (who was on his way to work) confirmed that it looked pretty serious. It wasn’t long before a spotter reported a funnel cloud on the ground, and the projected track was taking the storm on a direct path to my neighborhood. I knew my immediate family was safely out of the way, but my in-laws live in the same area, and I found myself desperately praying that the cell would weaken or shift direction.

Suddenly, everything turned surreal. We have internet voice mail, and around 10:15, I got an email with a hurried, cryptic message from our next door neighbor: "… it got your house. Wait, are you there? Hello?" My first thought was simply that a tree had crashed through the house (we had a lot of trees). I called my wife, who had moments earlier gotten a text notification from our alarm system, an error indicating that the basement door had been opened. Our initial conclusion was that changes in air pressure caused the basement door to bulge and break the signal. At least, that is what we were hoping. Not knowing what to expect, but knowing that I needed to know, I left work and took off for home.

I don't remember what I was thinking on the drive home. There was another phone call from my brother-in-law, who was en route to the area. As I approached my neighborhood, a feeling of dread began to settle in. Dozens of trees were strewn across the road, and there was no immediate access to the area. I parked the car next to a block house (incidentally parking next to my brother-in-law), and ran up the hill into the war zone. Several of my neighbors were outside, already cleaning up, in shock, taking stock. Everyone seemed okay, for which I was very grateful. I asked one in particular how they fared, and the response was "Better than what happened in the cul-de-sac up there." My breath caught for a moment, but then I steeled myself and walked toward my street. I stopped at my in-laws, who were deeply shaken but okay. From there, I made my way to where my home once stood.

Standing over the rubble, I remember feeling strangely calm. Perhaps it was some level of shock, evidenced by the fact that in my report to my wife, I kept saying "the house was completely gone", creating a false picture. In fact, we salvaged a good deal more than I would ever have expected, looking at the destruction. But in a larger sense, I also knew that my Father in Heaven had a very tight hold on me right in that moment. For I knew, even in the moment, that it was just a house. My treasures, the people I love more than anyone in the world, were alive and safe. Ours was the only house in the neighborhood that was destroyed, and no one was home when it happened. Many of my neighbors were taking cover inside their homes when the tornado came through, and every one of them was safe. We had lost nothing that could not be replaced, and we would recover.

For the next week, it was a massive salvage operation. Slowly and steadily, we picked through every corner of the pile, pulling books, computers, files, and more. We found clothes and pictures, covered in drywall dust and insulation, but salvageable. We climbed through the collapsed kitchen to retrieve whatever wasn’t broken (excepting a memorable moment of fatalistic whimsy, in which my brother-in-law and I took turns hurling a set of old Corelle dishes down the hill like Frisbees). We rented storage units and filled them to the brim (in the end, even most of this would be hauled to the dump). We rented a house, and did everything possible to keep the boys in a normal routine (they did not miss any school). We were surrounded by people - family, friends from work, church, school, Scouts, and more, all of whom came alongside us in those first weeks. That memory, being the recipient of such great grace, is one memory I will always, always treasure. In fact, I want to be sure that if I hold on to anything, it is that experience of God's loving hand through the kindnesses of others.

That isn't to say it wasn't difficult or draining. Once we had picked through everything, it was time to clear the property. I remember well dealing with the emotional emptiness that people say so often follows traumatic experiences. Some days, it was very hard to soldier through. But we weren't really alone, no matter how we felt sometimes, and we did come through it.

I could go on, I suppose. But I am mindful that this was supposed to be a quick look back. With that, and knowing that I have chronicled our experiences with this storm and others before on this blog, and I suppose it would probably just be easier to point you, the reader, to these posts to read at your leisure. So let me list them here, after which I'll get on with my closing thoughts.

"When the Lights Can't Come Back On"
"One Year Later, Or Last Month"
"The Future Remains Unwritten"
"One Year"

The Rebuild Process (Chase Manor 2.0)

There's more of course, just scan any of my posts March - August 2012. But moving on now, to the present. Nearly four years have passed since we moved into the rebuild. It was certainly disorienting at first, and even a year after moving in, it was weird. Today, I still catch myself looking in cabinets for things that we no longer have, or looking for them in places where they would have been in the old house, instead of where they are now. Fortunately, this is happening less often, but it still happens. It is the ultimate cliché, I know, but life really has moved on. The boys are older and thriving. We are older, working as hard as ever for our respective employers, going to church, and simply trying to keep up with the pace of life. I walk around the house and the yard, and as always, marvel at the number of projects still on my to-do list. The scars from the storm still mark our property, and to an extent our hearts. But they are healing, and they are not holding us back in any way.

Yes, we lost much. But 5 years later, there is no question in my mind: we have gained more. The worst did not happen, and to compare our experience with those who have lost so much more than a house would be a grave disservice. To this day, I remain humbled by the grace and mercy that has been extended to me and my family by my Father in Heaven. And if ever I should fail to remember this, I merely have to walk outside and turn my eyes to the east, to the rising sun. I testify to this simple truth: if not for the storm, I would not have the view I have today - literally, and spiritually. His mercies are truly new, every morning.

Five years. The more I dwell, the more I remember. But - and I cannot say this enough – I will (and must) be intentional about remembering the love and the grace we have received, and that we experience to this day. And most of all, I choose to look forward to the new day, where hope rises and affords the possibility of joy, of new life, of new dreams. For there is still more life ahead to be lived and to be embraced, whatever may come.

It's All Part of the Process

Quietly, the sun rises over the eastern horizon,
The cold dark expanse advances and recedes
Along the mist covered sands.
Off in the distance
Seabirds cry out
As they begin their morning hunt.
The ocean breeze carries their sound to me,
And makes me shiver.
I stand there, alone in my thoughts
Trying to shake off the effects
Of another sleepless night,
Trying to capture that new,
Waking feeling that comes with
Each new day.

Trying, yet in vain,
For the feeling once again,

… eludes me.

I wrote the poem above almost 29 years ago, as a teenager feeling a little lost in the world. I have often observed that I have an old soul laced with melancholy, and looking back on those words I find it hard to deny. And here I am, all these years later, with a penchant for watching the sun rise over the hills and fields behind my house, feeling almost exactly the same way. I have so many wonderful blessings I can count: a loving, stable family, a nice home, a good church, and a job that while consuming enables me to take care of my family. We've had our share of troubles: loss of home, car accidents, health scares, but we've managed to do okay through it all. I really have absolutely nothing to complain about. I have been most fortunate.

And yet.

I watch the sun come up in all its glory, with a light breeze inviting the steam from my coffee to spiral away, and in the undeniably peaceful moment, I still find myself feeling a little lost in the world. I'm not certain where I'm headed, if in fact I am heading any particular direction. I've never been an overly driven person, and have only fleeting experiences with the kind of passion that motivates one to go beyond and immerse themselves into any particular thing. Hobbies? No, not really. Just haven't really found one that energizes me in any particular way.

None of this is uncommon to a man my age, I know this. Yet that knowledge does little to assuage the disorientation I feel at certain times. In Philippians 4:12-13, the Apostle Paul speaks of contentment, and the truth that such peace can be found in any circumstances through Jesus Christ. I've known contentment, even in some very hard circumstances. Being content, of course, is a state of the mind, a state of the heart. As such, that sense of contentment is subject to the meanderings of mood and the fickleness of feelings. But this idea of contentment has a cousin: the concept of fulfillment. Scriptures are a little less clear on the matter of fulfillment. But as illustrated by James 1:2-4, one can infer that fulfillment (becoming "mature and complete, lacking in nothing") is in fact a process. We all yearn to be "whole", and we are all at times very painfully aware that we are not. Oh sure, we get glimpses from that mountain top now and then, but it doesn't take much for that sense of incompleteness to reassert itself. I can only conclude that fulfillment, being a process, is an achievement that may be realized only after a lifelong pursuit. There will always be some part of me not yet complete, not quite whole - until the day comes when all things are completed, when all things are made whole.

The above can be summed up as simply as this: Contentment is a state; fulfillment is a process. The challenge: somehow being content within that process.

If any of this makes sense, and if any of it is true, where does that leave me? My coffee cup is empty, and the day still beckons. I still feel a little lost. I suppose I can rationalize it this way: it is okay to feel what I feel, because feelings are transitory and are a natural part of life. The key is to press on, remembering that fulfillment is possible. It just may take a while. And that allows me to be content in the hope that for those moments when I feel a little lost, they won't last. It's all a part of the process.