TO BE OR NOT TO BE

TO BE OR NOT TO BE...THAT IS THE QUESTION IN 2009I have always been a bit of a politico but for the wrong reasons. In 1948 I argued on the playground at Emerson Grade school that we should have Gov. Thomas Dewey as our new president because Truman was a bomber. Growing up as a motherless child in Montana I watched the women who passed through my life for clues on who and how I wanted to be.I was fifteen when Dwight Eisenhower brought his lovely lady to my attention. I promptly cut my bangs like hers even though I did not have a cute little nose like Mamie. Richard Nixon, infamous for other reasons, still created a lasting memory for me when he danced at his daughter's wedding to the tune, "Thank Heaven for Little Girls."And when the democrats returned with Amy Carter and her kitty kat I gave in to my little boy's plea for a kitty.Bill and Hillary, dreaming of their future, chose their daughter's name from the song "Chelsea Morning" and later traded in their sandles and beads for Mr. President and first lady bringing with them a twelve year old who was beyond hopscotch and jacks, but was still her daddy's little girl. The first time I cast a ballot in a general election I had a personal interest in the outcome because I had met the dynamic John F. Kennedy in person while he was on the campaign trail. He shook hands with my young daughter and patted my baby on the head. As a young Air Force wife and mother of four I searched for ways to rise above the mediocrisy of my life and the Kennedy's were my models. I bought adult coats at the Salvation Army and cut them down to sew double breasted coats for my little ones. There were no flip-flops or clogs or shoes with lights that blinked when they walked. They wore laced up hightops that were polished white daily. Little Francis, three years old at the time, suffered through home haircuts in which I trimmed around a bowl I had placed on his head. The girls and I wore hats (mine was a pillbox type) and gloves to Mass on Sunday and I bought huge sunglasses and tied a scarf on my head when I shopped for groceries. On that fateful day in November, 1963, I saw that mourning is indeed grief gone public and I drew on that lesson for many personal losses that were ahead of me. Now I watch for ways to be, not how to look, or how to live or how to succeed, but how to be. I join in the emotional outpouring over the election of our first black president and I find myself melonchaly for other reasons. Once again the White House will echo with the laughter and running footsteps of children and pets. Young people everywhere will look to a young family struggling with bedtimes and allowances and puppy accidents as role models. They will look to a father who bends to kiss his daughter on election night and a husband who stands not in front of but beside his wife.We as a nation are and will be learning how to be and this time we will show the world how to be.