T. K. THORNE

The Magic of Mother’s Music

Posted on October 4, 2009 by T. K. Thorne

When the goldenrod plumes beckon in the autumn season, my mother would pull the car to the side of the road and wade into a stranger’s pasture to gather an armful.

I can still see her–standing at the sink, snipping the unwieldy stalks into line, singing a song, softly, as though only to the flowers, maybe promising them that once snipped and arranged, they will bring joy to all who behold.

And they did.

I can hear her at the piano, Chopin’s passion mingling with the smell of dinner cooking. It remains a mystery as deep as cosmic swirling how she concocted wonderful meals and dresses for me and my sister, kept our household going and our little genius brother occupied, and worked on improving education, the environment, and ethics laws in Alabama without seeming to lift a finger.

But I think maybe she danced to the music.

Once, Tchaikovsky flooded the house, and I discovered her lying prone on the back porch. She looked up at me and said, “I tried a little pirouette .” —Groan. “I was the Sugar Plum fairy in the Nutcracker when I was sixteen, you know.”

“Oh, Mom, you’re not sixteen anymore.”

She sighed, “I know; I know.” Then she fixed me with her hazel eyes, “Don’t tell your father.”

Father was always fussing because Mother danced through life to music only she heard. She was oblivious to the open kitchen cabinet doors and the proximity of their points to her head as she moved about preparing a meal, not to mention the annoying cars and other road accessories that dinged her car because her attention was . . . elsewhere. With the music maybe. But she always returned right back down to earth when her children needed her to Band-Aid the hurt or feed them or give wise advice.

Only later, when she was gone, did I understand the challenges life dealt her or tried to. She never showed her hurts to me.

Once, during Thanksgiving I skipped down to the basement to retrieve the chocolate pies for our twenty-plus guests. My hands full on the return trip, I tried to switch off the light and ended up juggling both pies for a dicey moment before, like Mother’s pirouette, they performed a graceful flip in midair, landing with a smack, face-down on the cement floor. In tears, I reported I had ruined Thanksgiving.

“Of course, you didn’t,” Mother replied, snatching up a spatula as if it were a spear. “Follow me.”

And, of course, I did, trying to hear, between sniffles, the marching band in her mind.

With surgical skill, she slid the spatula between the floor and a layer of splattered chocolate and rescued the majority that had not actually contacted the floor onto a plate. “We’ll clean this up later,” she said, closing the basement door. I thought I heard snatches of the band as I trailed her back upstairs, but the glorious, perfect round pies were history, replaced with a chocolate mass, starred with Picassoesque bits of graham crust. In the kitchen, Mother sculpted the chocolate onto individual plates and smothered them with Cool Whip. With a smile, she handed me two to serve to the waiting guests and said, comfortingly, “Nobody will ever know.”

And they didn’t.

Mother even danced down grocery store aisles. Canned music was music, still. At an age where such behavior horrified, I lagged behind, lest someone connect me with that woman who randomly kicked a leg sideways and sang out loud as she pushed the cart. Though my feet dragged with a young girl’s reluctance to be singled out as different, my heart glimpsed secrets:

• One could dare to be.
• A disaster is only one if you allow it.
• A wildflower has the potential for just as much beauty as a rose.

You just have to hear the music.

Jane Lobman Katz (1931 – 1986) – Alabama Women’s Hall of Fame

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T.K. Thorne is a retired police captain (Birmingham, Alabama), director of City Action Partnership, and an award-winning author of fiction and non-fiction.

Posted in Mother's Music | Tagged mother, music | 11 Comments

Grandma’s Bag

Posted on August 26, 2009 by T. K. Thorne

Leaders sometimes appear in unexpected guise. “Grandma” Becky Davis would not have earned a second look had you noticed her on the street. You would’ve seen only a thin homeless woman with stringy, steel-grey hair and a bag on her shoulder. If you looked closer, you might have deduced a dose of Native American heritage in the straight back and the strong cheekbones. Grandma had no income, but the bag she carried held an assortment of food. Everyone on the street knew about her bag. If folks were hungry, they could reach into “Grandma’s” bag. If they had extra, they put something in.

If you followed Grandma “home,” two years ago, you would have found yourself in strange camp on the outskirts of downtown where a few people huddled around a fire. When Grandma grew tired, she bedded down in the shelter of an abandoned tractor-trailer cab. It reminded her of younger days when she drove an eighteen-wheeler across the country. She was also an honorary member of the Hell’s Angels. If you watched her giving another homeless person “what for” for slipping off the wagon, you’d understand that she could still hold her own. No drugs or alcohol were allowed in her camp. She, herself, had been sober for seven years, though she had her vices—smoking and a virulent sweet tooth.

She started drinking after her first husband died. When her second husband tried to kill her, she took a long, hard look at herself in the mirror and realized she was doing the job for him. She left him. . .her home. . .and her addiction to alcohol.

If you saw Grandma on a downtown street in midwinter, you might have wondered why she didn’t stay in a shelter or join her daughter in Georgia. It seemed bizarre that this elderly woman preferred a rat-infested shell of a truck cab to a roof and heat and regular meals. What was true, but harder to understand, was that when you have nothing in the world but the clothes on your back and your ability to make small decisions—when you can come or go; who your companions are; when you eat and sleep—those choices become precious to you. When you have little control over your life, small freedoms define your sense of dignity and self. Grandma’s daughter had her own problems as a single mother struggling to raise three children, and Grandma refused to add to her burdens by revealing she was homeless.

When Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and the coasts of Mississippi and Alabama, an organization in B’ham, CAP, collected more items than the refugees that landed there needed and started sending donated supplies to the coast. Volunteers from the community came in to help sort and pack. One of them was a thin woman with stringy, steel-gray hair and a bag on her shoulder. She said, “Those people down on the coast have it worse than I do!” And she worked all day and came back the next day…and the next. When the relief operation expanded to a warehouse, she gathered other homeless people she trusted, brought them in, and assigned them duties, but woe unto those who came to our door with any type of scam in their hearts. Grandma did not tolerate fools. Eventually, she earned the warehouse keys and the title of Warehouse Manager. She wore her red “CAP volunteer” T-shirts with pride almost every day for two years, explaining CAP services to anyone who asked …and probably to several who didn’t.

Grandma shared her idea about implementing a transit program she’d encountered where a homeless person looking for work received a two-month bus pass, free of charge. After those first months, if he’d found a job, he repaid the price of the ticket, so another person could use the pass. Sort of like Grandma’s food bag.

It took two years to get Grandma a disability check and housing. With the first income she’d had in a very long time, you might think she would buy herself something, but what she stubbornly insisted on was taking the people who had helped her to lunch.

Despite her years of sobriety, the damage to Grandma’s liver finally caught up with her, and she was in and out of the emergency room many times. To the medical staff’s surprise, the parade of visitors to her room included parking enforcement folks, homeless people, fellow hurricane relief volunteers, and CAP officers. Along with flowers and potted plants, several “illegal” milkshakes somehow slipped through security.

Each time Grandma returned to the hospital, she had to endure painful procedures, but she never lost her spirit. If you could have seen the woman who sat so straight in her bed, her face a road paved with life’s lines, you might have seen the ghosts of Native American ancestors who sat with her. You would understand that courage and determination…and leaders sometimes appear in strange guise.

Grandma knew she was dying. She had income now and could contribute, and she returned to Georgia to be with her daughter and grandchildren. She wanted the youngest to have some memories of her. If you had looked down and seen Grandma during the last days of her life, you would have seen a thin woman with steel-grey hair and a straight back, spending time with her granddaughter, teaching her that if you carry the bag for other people, someone will put something in it and someone will take what they need from it.

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T.K. Thorne is a retired police captain (Birmingham, Alabama), director of City Action Partnership, and an award-winning author of fiction and non-fiction.

Posted in Grandma's Bag | Tagged Homeless, Katrina, Native American | 1 Comment

The Forgiveness of Whales

Posted on July 21, 2009 by T. K. Thorne

Until recently, scientists thought humans were the only species with the specialty brain neurons responsible for higher cognitive functions like self-awareness, a sense of compassion and language.

They were wrong.

Fifteen million years before humans, whales began evolving these special cells*, and now a strange phenomenon is occurring off the Baja coast of Mexico.

Humans have been slaughtering Pacific whales there for a long time, first with harpoons, now with sonar from Navy ships. Whales live a long time, up to a hundred years. Some whales alive today still bear the scars of harpoons. Many scientists believe that it is implausible to think the whales do not remember this or associate humans with death and anguish.

Yet, in the same area where humans hunted them nearly to extinction, then tortured them with sonar, whales are approaching humans and initiating contact. A N.Y. Times article detailed the experiences of the reporter and the stories of locals who tell about mother whales approaching their boats, sometimes swimming under it and lifting it, then setting it gently down. Almost all the stories involve the whale surfacing, rolling onto its side to watch the humans–reminiscent of the surreal moment in the movie, Cast Away, when a whale rises from the night sea to regard Tom Hanks with an eye cupped with starlight, an eerie intelligence, and a gentleness that moves us, for we know the massive creature could kill the castaway with a nudge or a flick of a tail fluke.

These real grey whales off Baja swim close enough that people invariably reach out to touch them, and they allow it. One person, reflecting on the experience said, “I have never felt more beheld.” It seems reasonable–given the position the whales place themselves in–that they seek the contact. In many cases, a mother whale will allow her calf to do the same. There is no food involved in these exchanges, only a brief interlude of inter-species contact and rudimentary communication: I come as friend.

Why?

Where will humans be in another hundred years? I suspect we will be technologically advanced, but emotionally pretty much the same, even in a thousand years or ten thousand. But what about a million years? Can we evolve (if we survive) to a more sane, more rational, more loving species with a broader sense of our place in the universe and in life itself? Is it possible that these creatures with 15 million years of intelligent evolution on us, might regard us as a young species, children who don’t really know better, and grant us leeway for our mistakes? Grant us . . . forgiveness?

If we humans could only do such a thing! Beat our swords into ploughshares, at least among ourselves. It’s unlikely, but we might yet be targeted by alien invaders, so we shouldn’t throw away all of our weapons. Even whales have enemies, and they do not hesitate to defend themselves when attacked and even take the battle to the enemy! Recently, there are increasing reports of whales, specifically humpbacks, who are defending not only their own against attacks of orcas, but other mammals, such as other whales, sea lions, fur seals or walruses. They only attack mammal-eating killer whales, not orcas that primarily feed on fish. They feed and fight in a coordinated manner, communicating with each other.

There is proof that we humans are capable of realizing the power of peaceful cooperation and partnerships. Not long ago, for example, a team of over 2,000 scientists representing six countries worked to determine the human genome, all 3 billion parts, and then made that data freely available on the Web.

Perhaps one day we will stop slaughtering the fellow creatures on this blue-and-cream jewel that is our world; perhaps we will make friends and share discoveries, meeting whales on the mutual ground (or sea) of respect.

Our survival may depend on it.

*New research is indicating that glial cells may be responsible for imagination, creativity and probably play a role in consciousness. Einstein’s brain had an abundance of these cells, especially in the area responsible for spacial awareness and mathematics. Mice injected with human glial cells became 4x smarter. Glial cells can communicate with each other (via calcium waves) and with neurons, even signalling neurons to fire. Although whales don’t have all the “levels” of a human brain (and so their thought processes are probably distinctly different), whales have a much higher ratio of glial cells to neurons than humans in the neocortex, the area thought to be responsible for intelligence.

Resources:
http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/news-blog/are-whales-smarter-than-we-are/
http://scientificbrains.com/5-reaons-why-glial-cells-were-so-critical-to-human-intelligence/
http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/guest-blog/glia-the-new-frontier-in-brain-science/
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-other-half-of-the-bra/http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/brainwaves/know-your-neurons-what-is-the-ratio-of-glia-to-neurons-in-the-brain/See below for other links.

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T.K. Thorne is a retired police captain (Birmingham, Alabama), director of City Action Partnership, and an award-winning author of fiction and non-fiction.

http://www.takepart.com/article/2014/07/21/whales-and-dolphins-danger-obama-administration-approves-offshore-oil-exploration

http://www.salon.com/2014/07/18/choosing_big_oil_over_whales_obama_opens_east_coast_for_offshore_exploration/

http://animalperspectives.com/2014/07/20/oil-and-gas-exploration-on-the-eastern-seaboard-of-the-u-s-is-the-wrong-answer/

http://www.pressherald.com/2014/07/18/obama-opens-east-coast-to-oil-exploration-with-sonic-cannons/

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/19/us/white-house-opens-door-to-exploring-atlantic-for-oil.html?emc=edit_tnt_20140719&nlid=36553356&tntemail0=y&_r=1

http://news.msn.com/us/obama-opens-eastern-seaboard-to-oil-exploration

http://barnegat-manahawkin.patch.com/groups/politics-and-elections/p/court-rules-seismic-blasting-off-ocean-county-can-move-forward71876?ncid=newsltuspatc00000003#new_comment

Posted in The Forgiveness of Whales | Tagged brain development, dolphins, intelligence, off-shore oil, sonar testing, survival, whales | 12 Comments

Why Noah’s Wife Has Asperger’s

Posted on July 11, 2009 by T. K. Thorne

Noah’s wife has Asperger’s because walls and characters talk to me.

Talking wall:

I once organized the painting of a 140 foot mural on the side of the Police Administration building in downtown Birmingham, AL. The mural design is a teenager’s winning interpretation of the Birmingham Pledge. In the wall’s previous lifetime, it was attached to an adjoining structure. When that section was ripped away, the repair left the outer wall smooth and white, pristine, a tabula rosa that shouted, “Paint me!” every time I walked by. A radio station host blasted citywide that I was unstable because I heard walls talking.

In spite of this, the mural remains on the building, and it is my fervent hope that it speaks to other people every day.

Talking Characters:

When I learned that the Bible gave only one brief mention of Noah’s wife, another tabula rosa opened before me. This unnamed woman had a story, a big story, and she was shouting “Write it!” As I started to explore the possibilities, a scene formed in my mind of a young girl in an ancient culture speaking with her grandmother about the role of women. As they talked (and I listened and typed), I realized Na’amah was special. “My name means pleasant or beautiful,” she announced. “I am not always pleasant, but I am beautiful.” This girl saw the world in a different, literal way. She spoke only truths because lying distressed her. I could see that this was going to get her into trouble in a culture that depended on the whims of the gods for survival.

I have had a long-time interest in autism, partly because it has affected my family and partly because it is a glimpse into the marvelous workings of our minds. In Noah’s Wife, Na’amah is an Asperger savant, a person with remarkable mental skills. The term “Asperger Syndrome” was, of course, unknown in ancient times, but there is no reason to believe that the condition did not exist. Most experts put it on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, although there is disagreement about whether it should even be classified as a “disorder.” Although every person on the spectrum is unique, persons with Asperger’s are usually highly intelligent. Some (about 10%) have extraordinary recall and obsessive knowledge about areas that capture their interest. Na’amah’s passion was the sheep she tended on the hills of ancient Turkey. She preferred their company and her skills of observation gave her a deep knowledge and understanding of their behavior.

Why did I gave the central character Asperger’s? The answer is multilayered. Brain developmental disorders and particularly the phenomenon of savants have always intrigued me. If it is possible for some brains to perceive the world differently and to have extraordinary skills, the potential must exist for all humans. In fact, there have been experiments where scientists have used magnetic pulses to temporally “shut off” a portion of the brain (anterior temporal lobe) in non-autistic persons, resulting in the temporary production of savant abilities. Fascinating stuff!

Also, I believe my own family has been affected by undiagnosed autism or Asperger’s. My uncle clearly had mental developmental issues and displayed several of the symptoms of Aspergers. Only after reading one of Dr. Temple Grandin’s books (as research for my novel) did it occur to me that my uncle might have a visual/audio processing issue as well. All my life I thought he hated me because he would not look at me or respond to me at all. After reading Grandin’s Animals in Translation, I visited my uncle in the hospital (dreading it) and asked him a question, knowing he would not answer me, but this time, as an experiment, I waited and didn’t say anything and, after what seemed a long while, he looked at me and responded as if we were having a normal conversation. It was quite a moment, and we were able to converse until he died some months later.

For my novel, I wanted to have a character who did not automatically accept all the precepts of her culture, but I had no conscious intention of giving her any kind of syndrome. As I wrote Noah’s Wife, however, the character of Na’amah began to take on a life of her own (one of the joys of writing). She surprised me with her unique perspectives, her obsession with sheep, her propensity to be literal and, by the end of the first chapter, I realized that she had Asperger’s. To be honest, I struggled with this for a while, but in the end, I conceded that it was more important to let Na’amah be who she wanted to be than to put her in the box of who I thought she should be.

I was in for an interesting journey with this story, a unique twist on the Biblical account based on evidence of a great Black Sea flood 6.5 thousand years ago, and I wanted to see what Na’amah would do and say and where she would take me. She often surprised me with her observations, the depth of her spirit, and how what seemed her handicaps became strengths. When the book was finished (four years later) I missed her.

Yes, my characters tell me things I don’t know, and walls talk to me. I admit it.

Aren’t I fortunate?

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T.K. Thorne is a retired police captain (Birmingham, Alabama), director of City Action Partnership, and an award-winning author of fiction and non-fiction.

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