Thursday, December 24, 2009

All is Calm, All is Bright

Tuesday night, my parents and I loaded up and went down to our Civic Center Music Hall to see Mannheim Steamroller.

I've always loved their music, since I was a little girl. It was my Aunt Suzanne who gave Mom the Christmas Live! CD years ago. It quickly became a favorite. Every year, armed with a bag of gingersnaps and packets of apple cider, Mom and I would trim the tree to the rousing sounds of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen and Angels We Have Heard on High, as well as the sweetness of Carol of the Birds. When they played those songs Tuesday night, I was thrilled. It was a beautiful experience, full of memories. But there was one song in particular that made me cry; even as I'm listening to it now, I have to dab my eyes a little.

It was many years ago that my mother's mother, my Mimi, attended Midnight Mass with her parents. At the parish of St. Boniface in Ft. Smith, the "German Church," as it was called, because it had been built of near-eternal limestone blocks and eternal love by the German immigrant population of the town, it wasn't uncommon to sing most if not all of the songs in German. One that they performed every year was an old, old carol, Stille Nacht.

Even when it wasn't Christmas, my Great Grandpa Bender would sing it as a lullaby to his children, especially his youngest daughter, his "Little Miss." My Mimi.

She in turn would sing it (in English) to her four children when they were young.

My favorite lullaby when I was growing up was Silent Night. Even now I can close my eyes and remember her voice, soft and low, as she sang me to sleep, rubbing my back lovingly.

Two Christmases ago I had the privilege of singing Stille Nacht to my Mimi, in German, as she would've heard it back then. She cried and hugged me close, "It sounds just like when Daddy sang it."

And so, I cried Tuesday night. They were tears of love and joy. In this past year, I've moved into an apartment with a friend of mine. I've completed a year of college. It feels strange to have been on this earth for nearly two decades. It feels strange not to have my mother right down the hall. I held her hand and leaned on her shoulder, and smiled through the tears.

The gingersnaps are homemade now. The cider is mulled. And the Christmas tree looks much more elegant now than it did covered in my kindergarten projects. Things change. They may be for better, they may be for worse, they may just be for the sake of change. But if we don't dive into them with the knowledge that God knows what He's doing throwing them at us, we're only hindering ourselves.

My mother and I are separated by a fifteen minute drive. My Mimi and I are separated by three hours on the highway. My Mimi and her beloved Daddy, who I pray I will someday meet, are separated by decades and distances man cannot measure. But it's alright. We will always have Christmas.

And we will always have Stille Nacht.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

This Weekend...

When I have some time to come up for air, I'm going to be posting some pictures, of our kitchen, a few endeavors we've been up to, etc. And in the next week or so, I'll be putting the finishing touches on a post about a "new" genre of music I've recently fallen in love with, that I want to share. It's utterly moving and deeply faithful, and I can't wait to show it off!

Sunday, August 16, 2009

The Real "Enemies"

I grew up in rural Oklahoma, and have lived in the state all my life. On things pertaining to our proud history I tend to be a bit of a stickler. I'm not a fan of Steinbeck for reasons of inaccuracy concerning my fair state in his writing, and it tends to set my hair on fire when people misrepresent parts of our history. And anyone with roots in Oklahoma will tell you one of our defining decades was the time between 1929, the crash of the stock market, and 1939, the outbreak of World War II.

It was a time of hardship and resilience, when the next generation of homesteaders, some of them my own ancestors, dealt with dry and overfarmed land that yielded little but dust storms. When the fledgeling government held the state together amidst economic depression, and where armed remnants of an age of outlaws crisscrossed their way through the state on their way to their own brand of fame and fortune.

Oklahoma had then a brand of lawman known for their toughness, Marshalls and Sheriffs unafraid to track down outlaws and bring them to justice, by court or bullet; the decision was often the fleeing suspects' themselves. They were men who got their rough hands dirty, who knew their guns like an extension of themselves. They were the men the FBI called on in its young years, when their polished agents had trouble tracking the country's most notorious lawbreakers; its designated Public Enemies.

Of course, it's doubtful J. Edgar Hoover would've called on these men to do what they did so well, had it not been for the advice of one man, a man who had worked with them before when he was head of the Investigation office in Oklahoma City.

A few weeks ago, my family and I went to see Public Enemies, the crime drama about the manhunt for John Dillinger. Johnny Depp of course plays the outlaw, and Christian Bale plays the man I've already mentioned, Mr. Melvin Purvis.

I couldn't quite get my finger on what bothered me about the movie as we watched it, so I pulled out my old Oklahoma History reader from high school when I got home. And there I found it.

To be fair, I think that the movie did a fine job of portraying him as an honorable, competant and human man. Evidence of his character is frequently shown, but too many facts are misrepresented.

First of all, Dillinger is portrayed as the films "antihero," and we're meant to grow attached to him, to root for him, etc. I'm pretty sure I was going against the grain to be pulling for Purvis the entire time, but I couldn't help myself. On the one hand, we had a man who broke the law, stole from banks across the country (thereby stealing from the bank's customers whether they realized it or not), and killed unsuspecting prison guards, not to mention, in spite of how plot-centric the romance was, was unfaithful to his girlfriend after she went to prison for his sake.

On the other, a farmer's son from South Carolina, a man devoted to true justice, who treated his men well and women, even suspects, with respect and kindness and chivalry.

*Shrug* Call me old fashioned.

In the film, as in American lore, Dillnger is often called a "Robin Hood" figure. Personally I find this very inaccurate. Robin Hood, in his best portrayals was a man looking out for an oppressed poor in a flawed monarchy, a just man in an unjust society. Not to mention his romances were virtuous. John Dillinger, on the other hand, robbed from the rich and gave to whom? Gun suppliers, speakeasies, and of course his own closet.

I read a fine article in a magazine of Jay's about the movie. It mostly focused on the highly accurate guns used, (including the GORGEOUS Mauser that Purvis carried in the Pretty Boy Floyd scene, but I digress...) but it did make some interesting points, being a conservative publication, about the morality of the film.

Christians have a comforting fact we can believe in, something that often perplexes those who don't believe in God's word and law as strongly. And that is that some things truly are black and white;

There is just killing, there is unjust killing.

John Dillinger was a criminal, and a murderer.

Melvin Purvis was an officer of the law.

Perhaps that was why, come the end of the movie, I wasn't sad for Dillinger's fate. I was sad for his "love interest," who spent years in prison for his sake. I was sad for the lives left shattered in the wake of his own. But I wasn't sad that a a man who dealt in death had met his inevitable fate.
One thing that did make me sad? In order to fit their version of the story, the filmmakers carefully worded the end notes to the detriment of dear Mr. Purvis.

Yes, shortly after the death of Mr. Dillinger he resigned from the FBI. However, most FBI historians assert it had more to do with Hoover than guilt over Dillinger. Hoover was all pomp and circumstance, the product of a wily publicist; the film did show this quite well. After several flashy arrests, on the virtue of his excellent record and personal style Mr. Purvis eclipsed his supervisor in the eyes of the press to become an absolute icon for several years. Jealous, Hoover privately pressured the better man to resign. Purvis was never after, nor entirely comfortable with the spotlight; he lived out the rest of his life back in South Carolina, where he practiced law. (And, interestingly enough, became partial inspiration for the timeless character of Atticus Finch.)

Finally, the filmmakers would have you believe, when they say "died by his own hand," that Purvis committed suicide over guilt and inability to live with himself owing to personal compromises he made during the manhunt for Dillinger. Melvin Purvis did die in his home, from a bullet fired from the gun presented to him upon his resignation from the FBI. All evidence suggests that it was a gun cleaning accident. It happens to even the best among firearms handling.

And thus ends my tangent on the late Mr. P, who, having lived in and been a part of Oklahoma and her history, even for a short time, is subject to the

LYDIA SLATTON SEAL OF REPUTATION AND FACT PROTECTION.

That's right. Bring it on, Hollywood. ;)

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Ah!

So sorry for the delay, things sudenly swirled into crazy around here. But I do have a plan, sometime in the coming week and a half for another juicy post.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Coming this week...

What I've been up to these past months...In pictures!

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Poking my head up again

After a long time, I've decided I need to start blogging again. I have some nice, meaty post ideas in the works, as well as few simple ones and picture posts, namely our newly redone kitchen and the first yields of our brand new garden!

A lot has happened, I can't deny it. But that will come later...for now, I'm glad to be back in blogland!

~ Lydia

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

History, Challenges, and Preparation

Hello, all! It's been some time since I've been able to post, but I've got some time tonight, so I thought I would update.

My discussions in history class have been very fruitful. I have a few classmates who have been surprisingly courageous in backing me up once I've started dialogue. I doubt I am changing our professor's mind, but I do believe I'm helping others like myself not be dissuaded. I have my first test in that class this Friday; wish me luck, we'll see how it goes.

I've found that college is a very indulgent environment, a microcosm largely unaffected by reality. At least half of the students I interact with on a daily basis smoke cigarettes, and another large percentage are involved in illegal drugs or underage drinking. Comments about the way I dress, flippant curse words, and frank talk about immorality are regularly filtered through my ears. I'm very, very grateful I do not live on campus, and can retreat to my home to think things through.

I know that trials are only sanctification tools in the hands of the Lord, and in that I can trust. As a Catholic, I am entering the season of Lent tomorrow. I will be getting up early to participate in a universal ceremony to mark the beginning of the season and remind us of our mortality. As a child, I loved the season of Lent more than any other. That still holds true now. Weeks of solemn chant, reflection, and fasting await me. It could not come at a better time, and I know my dedication to my obligations will keep me grounded in the whirlwind at college.

I wish you all a wonderful night and hope to update again soon.