XIV Passions: My Children, Teaching, and Nimrod The word passion has most often been associated with strong sexual desire or lust. I have felt a good deal of that kind of passion in my life but I prefer not to speak of it at this moment. Instead, it is the appetite for life in a broader sense that seems to have driven most of my actions. Moreover, the former craving is focused on an individual (unless the sexual drive is indiscriminant) and depends upon that individual for a response in order to intensify or even maintain. Fixating on my first husband—sticking to him no matter what his response, not being able to say goodbye to him —almost killed me. I had to shift the focus of my sexual passion to another and another and another in order to receive the spark that would rekindle and sustain me. That could have been dangerous; I was lucky. But with the urge to create, the intense passion to “make something,” there was always another outlet, another fulfillment just within reach. My children, teaching, and Nimrod, the journal I edited for so many years, eased my hunger, provided a way to participate and delight in something always changing and growing. from The passion to give birth to and grow with my children has, I believe, been expressed in previous chapters. I loved every aspect of having children conception, to the four births, three of which I watched in a carefully placed mirror at the foot of the hospital delivery room bed: May 6, 1957, birth of Leslie Ringold; November 8, 1959, birth of John Ringold; August 2, 1961: birth of Jim Ringold; July 27, 1964: birth of Suzanne Ringold (Harman). I love holding babies, rocking them, nestling them in the crook of my neck. As my four grew, I loved guiding their learning and participating in their play. They sparked my imagination and I, in turn, sparked theirs: taking long walks, usually with one in a stroller, the others close by; making pilgrimages through the “jungle of streets” and gardens; creating original family performances and collaborative stories about “Abercromby Dog,” “Lafcadio the Lion” and others. If I were to write in more detail about the rich lives of my children and grandchildren, I would never finish this memoir. Their lives, even just portions of each of their lives, are for them to write, if they wish. I don’t need to express my passion for them, my fascination with their individuality and growth, my preoccupation with their wellbeing or my love. I believe they know; and that is all that matters. Recently, I had the pleasure of taking a trip with my eighteen‐year‐old granddaughter, Emily, who shares with me and her mother Suzanne and sister Leah a love of books and writing. Emily is beautiful, brilliant (naturally) and shy. On this trip to San Miguel Allende for the annual Poetry Week series of workshops and readings, I watched Emily blossom. She had been terrified at the prospect of this singular 1 opportunity but willing to try it anyway. Cautiously, at her own pace, yet with a great deal of bravery, she became part of a group of ambitious, self‐critical, eager older writers. Yet she maintained her independence. She responded clearly and with a smile to adult questions, but within the group she was quiet—for the most part—reserving her thoughts for herself and private conversations with me, as well as with my close friend, Laura. Mature beyond her years, she evidently also felt free to become childlike in her enthusiasm for a passing dog, a sunrise, a view of the cathedral against a startlingly clear blue sky. Moreover, she was an enormous help to me in managing the hills and stairs and cobblestone streets. Two feet taller than I, she would extend an arm or shoulder or hug me like a pal. There was no pity here, no condescension. I have three other grandchildren, and I’m sure that if I can manage private trips with them, they will be equally successful. But as for this trip to Mexico with Emily, I am eternally grateful. Here was a passion fulfilled, a vision of past, present, and perhaps even future coming together with great beauty. I am beginning to understand that child and adult switch back and forth for the good of us all when there is love and care and passion spread heavily on all sides. And it is children, especially, not just my own but almost all children, that seem to me to be magic. Their honesty, enthusiasm, intelligence, spontaneous gestures and movements express life and give life — if, of course, they are not stifled. My grown children, each so different from each other, give me joy to this day, when they are 56, 54, 52, and 49. Perhaps that is because when they speak to me (and that is often, even if it is by phone), they are children again. They screech, or complain, or laugh, or tell me a story. They are not guarded (at least most of the time). They have, from time to time, become my parents, or at least they try to do just that. But still, most of the time, they have that pristine quality of life‐fullness that we all wish for. Since, as I implied, they are a part of everything I do and think, I’ll not dwell on this aspect of my fervor, appetites, hunger, and passion. They are always in my mind and heart. They walk with me. They hold me up even as I try to do the same for them — with a light touch, I hope, and even as I still burn to say more, do more. In E. L. Doctorow’s unforgettable novel, The Book of Daniel (based on the true story of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg who were accused of espionage during the McCarthy era and executed on June 19, 1953), the young son Daniel speaks to his grandmother who always hugs him fiercely, forces pennies in his damp hand, and smells bad. “Grandma,” he asks, “Why is it necessary to blow your mind in a way so frightening to children?” And his Grandma answers: “I sing to myself in the old language and my curses are my love . Do you understand? . .” [What we have, we old women] “is an excess of passion, that shimmering fullness of stored life. We offend. We stink with life. Our hearts make love to the world — not gently.” It seems to me now, that the men in my life, primarily Tony and Manly, could not accept that excess, that desire, as Walter Pater said, to “burn always like a hard gem‐like flame.” Was it a threat? Unmanageable? Certainly not on the surface. On the 2 surface, I was almost docile, rarely argumentative or demanding. But they felt it, flaming underneath — my fervor, my appetite for life. Did they need to distance themselves from it, from what they saw as the demands of my passion? I know that Tony did. That was a great shame. I don’t believe I demanded the same intensity from them. I asked for their support, their love, their companionship; I gave them my love, my care — and my energy. For, after all, that was, to a great degree, what attracted them to me, or so it now seems, as I look back — that “shimmering fullness of stored life.” It was as if I were a spark that would help ignite their own energy. But sparks, no matter how strong, need nurturing, need to be coaxed into full light. We are who we are and do what we can. Unfortunately, what we know in later life frequently surfaces too late. Teaching The classes I taught, the students who responded, the children of my body and mind were never threatened by the fire within. Even now at 80, as well as when I began teaching at the age of 31, I have “an excess of stored passion,” a desire to discover the world and especially the people in it, a desire also to give back, to share, to claim that space that brings student and teacher to a neutral and reciprocal ground. Often, as Henry Miller said, “I am digging deeper and deeper into life, digging deeper and deeper into past and future. Often I put down things, [I even say things], which I do not understand myself, secure in the knowledge that later they will become clear and meaningful to me.” Over the forty‐seven years that I taught, in many venues (The University of Tulsa, grade schools across the State of Oklahoma, prisons, homes for the physically and mentally challenged, nutrition sites for the elderly), I never failed to receive far more than I gave. Certainly, my “teaching career” (if one could call it a “career”) did not follow a typical path, but it was filled with the turns and twists created by love and responsibility, and the urge to reach out and to explore. I loved every facet of teaching, as I did child rearing. Through the generosity of Professors Zimmerman and Alworth of TU, I was permitted to take one or two courses in independent study each semester so that I did not have to haul my large tummy to class; and, thus, I earned a Masters Degree in 1964 (just before Suzanne was born). I accepted an adjunct teaching position at the University of Tulsa in 1965, after Suzanne, our fourth child, was a year old. Fortunately for Suzanne and for me, I did not accept that position when it was first offered, the year before, when I was still nursing and Suzanne was one month old, slithering on my lap, all glossy and wet, as I watched the others swimming at the Feldman’s pool.