Connections

I just read Paul Graves' new column in the Spokesman-Review called "Elder Maze." Paul used to be our mayor. He also used to be the local Methodist minister. I functioned as the conduit once in uniting Paul with a fellow educator named Les Portner. I'd known Les about 20 minutes total. We met while sitting next to each other at the airport baggage rack in Spokane. We struck up a conversation and agreed to stay in touch. Les was the superintendent over in Wilbur, WA.

Some time later, I received a call from Les. He was getting married in Sandpoint, and he wanted suggestions on who to call to perform the informal ceremony. I immediately thought of Paul. We'd gotten to know each other at the Festival at Sandpoint as ushers. Les called Paul, got married, and I'm assuming he's stayed that way. Haven't heard from him since we both retired.

I think Paul's new column will have a healthy readership, cuz there are lots of babyboomers getting old and lots of babyboomers with older parents. He's promised some humor in the column, which tells me that Paul knows senior citizens. My mother and I have laughed through her senior citizen phase more than any other time in our lives. As Paul says, a sense of humor is a required staple in going through or dealing with the down sides of this living project.

With his new column, Paul has introduced a new phase in his continued journey of understanding. It's a bit ironic to see his new feature this morning because Paul and I both know another person who lives far, far away from Sandpoint. I heard from her this morning for the first time in a number of years.

Her name is Barbara Sofer, and she's a journalist in Jerusalem. I'm hoping that our mutual friend and I can now enjoy a new phase of our long-distant connection, which evolved just like my brief meeting with Les. She spent an hour visiting my classroom back in the days when I was advising the school newspaper.

Barbara had come to Sandpoint to research a story for Women's Day magazine. It focused on Sandpoint as the common denominator for a lot of bigtime hate activity. That was back in the days when North Idaho was better known for its unwelcome cottage industry of hate-filled wackos than its gorgeous scenery, trendy lifestyles and growing appeal to the rich and famous.

Barbara visited during those pre-Sunset Magazine "West's Best Small Community" days when we Loves lived next door to "the church" which was getting a lot of ink and television exposure for its connections with the Randy Weaver stand-off, Ayran Nations founder Richard Butler and the Spokane bank robbery-abortion clinic bombings. I never saw her article, but I did keep in touch after she visited my class and told of her own high school journalism experiences while growing up in Connecticut.

We enjoyed lots of good discussions as the emails flew back and forth between Sandpoint and Jerusalem. She was kind enough to endorse the back of my second book, and she put me on her list to receive a review copy of her novel The Thirteenth Hour. During those days of corresponding, we even talked about the concept of spending a week's time with each other, exploring our cultures and writing about the experience. We talked family, we talked horses, we talked Jewish holidays.

In our discussions, I often found myself challenged with responding to her call for me to become more of an activist in my community. I had to remind her that I was a simple person, with a relatively simple mind, living a simple life whose activism comes one step at a time in the way I react to others, rather than going to meetings and rabble rousing. Though I've done that a time or two, I feel more comfort in opposing hatred by consciously doing my best to treat others with respect and dignity. That, in itself, can be a difficult job at times, but it's something we can work at every day, hopefully leaving a positive mark on the world.

Of course, my life is much simpler than what my friend Barbara encounters in Jerusalem. I never take that for granted, often thinking of the "what if's." That was a question I loved to pose to my students. What if you were born in a third world country rather than little ol' podunk Sandpoint? What if you had to grow up fearing for your life at every street corner? Often, Sandpoint would suddenly seem a lot more desirable in their eyes as my students pondered the possibilities.

As for Barbara and me, busy lives for both of us led to fewer and fewer email exchanges. Then, the spam epidemic in cyberspace put a damper on my last name appearing in email addresses. It often gets rejected. As I learned from Barbara's letter this morning, my notes to her more than likely got zapped by the spam doctors. Sad that a name like "Love" has its poisons.

These days, Barbara, who's won a lion's share of writing awards, publishes a column (http://www.barbarasofer.com/html/current.html) and puts out a newsletter from her home in Jerusalem. She's still a busy lady who continues on her own constant journey of understanding just like our mutual friend Paul Graves, whom she met on her Sandpoint visit.

Her most recent column reflects an interesting transition she's taken in her Jewish faith. And, as I continue to stumble around searching for a comfort zone in my own Catholism, I find that Barbara's column reflects one more reason that even though the two of us live diametrically different lives, our similar interests help us find common ground for spirited discussion and a better understanding of each other and the world we inhabit.