Seattle Trip--Our Early Travels

When in the Pacific Northwest, one must make hay while the sun shines, so to speak, because the sun doesn't shine very often in winter!  Shari (my sister) and I arrived on a Monday.  As tired as we were, we would have liked a day to rest up, but Megan (my daughter) took one look at the weather forecast for the area and decided that we really needed to take advantage of the clear weather for Tuesday and Wednesday if we wanted to see anything.

A word about weather forecasts in the Seattle environs.  The geography and topography of the area, with ocean and two mountain ranges all around, Seattle has what I term micro-climates similar to Northern California.  (In CA, one can travel from sunny and mild, to cold and snowy mountains, then down into hot desert valley in less than a hundred miles.)  Considering Seattle's northern latitude and proximity to Canada and Alaska, the climate is quite mild in winter, controlled by ocean currents and mountains.  It doesn't get too cold in winter or too hot in summer, and snow is rarely ever much.  The winter days are a full hour shorter on daylight than in the Midwest because the sun never rises in the sky much above where it would be at 2:00 or 3:00 PM at home, and there always seems to be moisture in the air so that the streets never really seem dry.  (Black ice is a problem.)  I watched morning TV weather forecasts.  They talked about how things would be near Puget Sound and how things would be in the mountains...and again how things would be in the valley (where the Seattle suburbs are).  At the end, I would think, "That's okay, but what is the weather supposed to be here??"  Apparently, with so many geographical features driving the weather, getting an accurate forecast is a bit of a crap-shoot.

Thus, on Megan's recommendation, we went out touring on our first full day there.  (Tuesday.)  With clear skies, we hoped to get a good view of the Seattle sky-and-coastlines and maybe get a good view of Mount Rainier.  We drove to the ferry that would take us across the Sound to Bremerton, WA, where the Navy shipyards are.  (Our family had docked there when returning from Japan in 1958.)  Neither Shari nor I had been on a car-carrying ferry boat since we lived in Coronado, CA, many years before in our youth.  It brought back a lot of memories!

We got some skyline pictures with us as we pulled away.  Rainier was visible but not clearly.  (It's awesome to see!)  In Bremerton, we drove around a bit, stopped for a late lunch at a little Mexican cantina, then headed back to the ferry.  It wasn't a COLD cold day.  Let's just say it was crisp.  The inside of the ferry, the car, and the house felt pretty good!  Got home just after the grandchildren returned from school, ate dinner, and just died when we laid our heads down for the night!  Shari and I were pooped!

The next day (Wednesday) was also sunny and crisp.  It was December 7th--Pearl Harbor Day, and Shari's 75th birthday!  We spiffed up and were out the door by 10:00 AM for a long-planned 11:00 brunch reservation at a high-end restaurant at Snoqualmie Falls in the Cascade Mountains.  We drove up and up and up...from no snow to mountains totally covered with it.  The evergreen boughs were heavy with snow, and the drive was absolutely gorgeous!  Of course, as we got closer to the falls area, a cloud of fog settled over everything and we couldn't really see the falls!

I have to say, Shari looked like a million bucks!  (Denis, my son-in-law, took one of the best snapshots of her that I have ever seen!)  Our server sprinkled real rose petals on the table all around Shari's spot and the ordering began.  Meals in the PNW are specific to the PNW.  Home made honey; fish for breakfast; goat cheese and fresh eggs from free-range chickens, etc.  Not your common Midwestern fare.  Megan and Denis shared a HUGE breakfast for two with several courses.  Shari and I ordered separate meals, and we all had a mimosa toast for the Birthday Girl.  It was elegant...and expensive.  (Happy Birthday, dear sister!)

On our way back down the mountain, we stopped at Snoqualmie Pass at a little trading post in a ski area for a bathroom/souvenir stop.  A little farther down the road, the snow was gone, and we were back to normal.  Another big day for two ol' ladies whose bodies still hadn't adjusted to Pacific Standard Time.  We slept well!

The next day, Thursday, was the third performance of my granddaughter's play.  The final performance and cast party was to occur the next night, Friday...but Robin sprang the notion that she needed to go shopping for a Secret Santa gift for one of the cast members in between getting home from school and having to go back for makeup, etc.  Nobody was really ready for that.  Shari and I had prepared an early supper just to accommodate schedules.  Megan has an online business, and  the holidays are her busiest time, so she had to be doing other things.  We dropped Robin off at school then went to Target to find SOMETHING that would suit for a Secret Santa gift and so Shari could pick up some needed things.  Then back to school for the performance.

I'll never understand this, but Leota Junior High School has entrance to its rooms from the outside.  As in, REALLY...the outdoors.  Kids move from class to class outside, even in winter.  I don't get it.  Anyway, when we arrived, Ryan (my grandson) wanted to sit front-and-center, which put Shari and me close to the outside door.  Needless to say, we got cold because they left the door open for people to enter, etc.....  The play, The Election, was both funny and cute because, even though it was written before this year's presidential election, the parallels were obvious.  The audience was clapping and laughing at lines that would not normally be funny were it not for how well they went along with the 2016 election.  Robin did a great job.  I was so proud!  And when we left, it was snowing to beat the band...but we stopped at Menchie's for self-made frozen yogurt sundaes.  They were trying to close by bringing in outdoor furniture and left doors open.  Those of us who were cold got even colder...and then we discovered that Ryan had left his brand new $200 coat in the auditorium at school!  We went home anyway.

The next day, Friday, we awoke to a whopping one-and-a-half inches of snow on the ground.  And school was called off!!  Hard to believe for this ol' teacher from the Midwest.  The neighbor kids were out making snow angels and having snowball fights.  I guess it was the first measurable snow in two years.  Yay!  Friday's play performance had to be rescheduled.  I don't remember much about the rest of the day...only that it was the first real action break Thelma and Louise got!   

Seattle Trip, Part Two

My sister drove over from Springfield, IL, a day ahead of time to accompany me on our adventure to Seattle.  She packed and re-packed, having not flown since before 9/11, and hardly knowing what to take because the climate in the Pacific Northwest is...well...just different from the Midwest.

The first leg of our flight was to leave for Chicago Midway at 7:00 AM, which meant that we needed to be at the airport by 5:30 AM.  Ugh!  I had booked a cab, but my neighbor volunteered to take us in my vehicle since he claims he is always up by 4:00.  Fred calls himself my nosy neighbor.  He and his wife have lived in their house across the street for far longer than I have lived here.  He has a key to my house and does so many little things to help me out...and this was one of them.  Saved us close to $30 in cab fare and tip!  We only live 10 minutes from the airport.

Fred was on time.  He dropped us off at the curbside check-in for Southwest Airlines and drove off. The Skycap took one look at our itinerary and said he had to take us inside to the ticket counter.  I was confused because that hadn't happened to me before.  After the fact, he informed us that Midway Airport was closed due to bad weather in Chicago.  We were re-ticketed for Kansas City, which wouldn't leave for quite awhile.  That meant that, instead of arriving in Seattle before noon, we would get there late-afternoon.  It also meant that we didn't have to arrive at the airport so blasted early in the morning!

The rest of the trip went without a hitch.  Our baggage arrived in Seattle with us.  We had no problems with security.  And when we touched down, my family was there to meet us at the baggage claim area to take us home to their house in Bothell, WA.

Of course, our bodies were still on Midwest time.  Megan (my daughter) knew we would be hungry since their clock didn't say the same time that our stomachs did, so she had a spread of hors-d'oeuvres, from shrimp cocktail to crackers and spread, nuts, snacks--you name it.  And then we had an early supper of hot soup that was just what the doctor ordered.

Meg and Den had also thought of every detail in setting up a room for my sister and I.  Our bedroom was actually what would normally be the living room--the first room in the house when you enter the front door.  They had brought down my grandson's single bed with brand new bed linens and had made up the futon for me.  They had put the TV and clock up high where both Shari and I could see it and arranged a table for us to have back-to-back computers, and two night stands together for our matching nebulizers.  There were boxes of tissues everywhere and surfaces on which to put our luggage.  They had a matching Christmas stocking with Shari's name embroidered on it hanging from their mantel.  (I already had one.)  There was even a Santa Claus candy dish with candy in it and tissue boxes scattered all around for my miserable nose!!  It was all just really special and showed how very much work they had done just to provide for two old ladies who would reside with them for 15 days!

To be honest, I had worried for weeks that Shari would not be able to sleep well in the same room with me because I don't sleep well...and I snore...and need the TV on all night.  If I can believe what she says, that never became a problem.  She says she slept very well and was never bothered....nor was I...with our differing sleep patterns.  It worked out.  Hallelujah!

Seattle Trip in Pieces--Part I

My sister (from Springfield, IL) and I were booked to fly to the Seattle area to visit my daughter and family for a couple of weeks.  It was her first trip by plane anywhere since 9/11, and my second trip to the Pacific Northwest this year.

Shari (my sister) is more mobile than I, but she has COPD as I do.  In short, she could not have walked the airports without having to stop and catch her breath every whipstitch.  I, of course, could not have walked the airports at all due to back problems.   We were slated for handicapped support.  Thank God for the wheelchair pushers!  Some are better than others, but my two experiences flying to Seattle have shown the Indy pushers to be the best.  The dude that was pushing us from our flight in after 10 PM was pushing our TWO wheelchairs simultaneously and pulling our TWO carry-on bags behind him.  (Not sure how he did that!!)  When we got to the baggage carousel, he had called for help because we had three checked bags between us, plus the two carry-ons.  When we got to the curb, the additional dude went out and stopped traffic to let our taxi in.  We tipped both of them handsomely!

When we got back to my little house-on-a-slab, the driveway was slick with ice from the previous storms.  We managed to get stuff in the house, then collapsed with some wine.  Home!

One of my sister's friends on Facebook had dubbed us "Thelma and Louise"...after the movie (that I never saw)...but I played it up on FB.  When we were deplaning at one point, the flight attendant that was escorting me off the plane wasn't flustered at all when I mentioned that she should take my sister next because we were traveling together.  She joked, "I've got ya, Thelma.  I'll go back for Louise in a second."  She had no clue...but it was funny!!

The taxi trip from Indy International to my house is about $20 and 10 minutes.  Totally worth it!  Home to the heartland.  Love it, yet still miss my experience with my Seattle family.

God provides!

If You Voted for Donald Trump...

Back in the early throes of the 2016 election process, when Donald Trump threw his hat in the ring as a Republican candidate for president, I chuckled to myself.  Yeah, right...  I live in the Indianapolis area.  Just a couple of years before that, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway announced that they had secured Donald Trump to drive the pace car for the Indy 500-mile race.  Some 500 fans started a petition to have him removed from that honor.  Why?  The fans reasoned that Mr. Trump had nothing to do with Indiana, with racing, with history, or anything else other than being rich.  The petition gained momentum and came to the attention of the big wigs at the Speedway.  They were in a tough spot.  They had already talked to Trump about it, so it would have been embarrassing to shut him down due to fan unrest.  Word got back to Trump, somehow, and suddenly he had "something come up" that caused him to cancel his planned appearance at the race.  He sent his regrets, saved face, and everyone was happy.  Including me.  If he isn't qualified to drive a pace car for a stupid race, what makes him--or anyone--think he is qualified to lead the most powerful nation on the planet?  Like the fans signing the race petition, I reasoned that he has nothing to do with politics, no experience in government, nothing to do with history, or anything else other than being rich.  (Have we heard this before?)  Thus, I considered his candidacy to be a colossal joke, knowing that the Republicans would get him under control for the sake of their political party.  

To be honest, I have never liked Donald Trump as a person.  In all of his pre-political public appearances, I saw him as an arrogant narcissist, so full of himself that he couldn't see beyond his vain orange comb-over.  So he has money.  Whoop-de-doo!  So do other people, but they don't make such outlandish public asses of themselves as he did.  In his private life, he has been investigated, litigated, bankrupted numerous times, and involved with shady charities and "universities" that didn't produce a thing.  He is on his third wife, the current one being a former immigrant model of which there are naked pictures all around.  It seemed to me that he had lied, cheated, and maybe even stolen his way to success, and I am not impressed with his money.   This was all before his candidacy.  After he declared for office, I just knew he wouldn't get past the primaries.  On the Republican side, there were six or seven (I forget which) serious candidates for office.  On the Democratic side, only two--both of whom were more qualified for the presidency than any of the others.

And then things got insane.  Through the course of the campaign process, he insulted just about everyone he could insult.  He made fun of another candidate's wife's looks.  He ridiculed a reporter with a physical handicap.  He called Mexicans druggies and rapists.  He used horrible, demeaning words in reference to female reporters and his female political opponent.  He insulted another politician who had been a prisoner of war in the service of our country.  He said he would deport all Muslims from America.  He decried companies that outsource their labor to other countries, yet his own clothing line carries tags saying "Made in Mexico" or "Made in China".  He uses tax loopholes to pay no taxes.  He has blatantly lied about his life, his qualifications, and other people.  He kicked women with crying babies out of his rallies.  He suggested violence, and even (to some opinions) incited it.  He said he would build a wall at the Mexican border of the US to keep illegal aliens out, and said that he would make Mexico pay for it.  As the days went on, he got more and more outrageous.  At the Republican Convention, his wife spoke--his third wife--his immigrant wife.  Her speech, which she claimed to have written herself, contained whole verbatim paragraphs of a speech given by First Lady Michelle Obama at the Democratic Convention years before.  (There was no denying it.  There is video of both speeches.  The plagiarism was word-for-word.)  Imagine my incredulity when, in spite of all of this, Donald Trump gained the nomination as the Republican Party's candidate for President of the United States!

Then things got worse.  More lies.  More insults.  More stupid campaign rhetoric.  More implicit faith on my part that this man would be stopped at the voting booth.  But then the unthinkable happened:  Ol' "Grab-'Em-By-The-Pussy" Trump actually won the election!  As in Mr. President-Elect.  As in Commander-in-Chief.  As in the person parents point to in order to inspire their children: "Someday, Johnny, you too could be President just like him."  Unbelievable!  Terrifying!  Absurd!  When I went to bed on Election night, I was disheartened by the fact that my candidate, Hillary Clinton, was running behind in spite of polls that said she would win.  And when I got up this morning, I was crushed with the news that she had, indeed, lost the election.  Clearly, we have lost our marbles as a nation.  I'm embarrassed.  I'm ashamed.  I'm shocked.  And I'm afraid.  But there it is.

With this one election, some things have changed.  If you voted for Donald Trump, you have reduced your own rights and have altered American values, probably for good.  If you voted for Donald Trump, your candidate won the election.  Congratulations!  Throughout the campaign, I watched his fanatic followers exhibit the worst kind of behavior, American against American, that hasn't been seen in this country for 50 years.

If you voted for Donald Trump, you:

*Have shown that racism, sexism, disrespect, and homophobia still exist in this country because you voted for a man who displayed them all and encouraged them in his rallies.

*Have lost the right to complain about the "dumbing down" of America--the lowering of standards.  You swallowed his rhetoric without fact-checking or doing your homework.  You gullibly accepted whatever came out of his mouth as the truth.

*Have lost touch with what truth really is.

*Have lost the ability to hold anyone in leadership to a higher standard.  You can't object if your child's teacher used to be a stripper because the First Lady of the U.S. has nude pictures on the Internet.  You can't pretend that people who are arrested for drunk driving should be severely punished because a former elected Republican President had been arrested for DUI in his earlier life, yet he got elected anyway.

*Can't brag about how Donald Trump represents American "family values", because he doesn't, and you've overlooked that.  He's been married three times to trophy wives; has been accused of inappropriate behavior with women; and was heard on an open microphone to say that he just grabs women "by the pussy" because "when you're a star, they let you".  He publicly encouraged his followers to tell his opponents to "go f**ck themselves".  He lied every day of his campaign

*Have no leg to stand on when confronted with the dozens and dozens of hypocrisies that have occurred in and around the man you voted for.  You saw them; you heard them; but you voted for him anyway.

*Cannot complain about how things go in government for the next four years.  The Republicans dominate the House of Representatives, the Senate, and the Executive Branch, so I hope you get what you voted for--whatever that is.

I have to admit that I am shaken.  I've always been one of those who believed in our government system as a well-oiled machine that worked.  I'm naive, of course, but I've had faith in the whole notion of "my country, right or wrong".  I knew what America stands for--or thought I did.  Perhaps I knew what I stand for, and thought America did, too.  It's a shock to find out otherwise.  If the majority of Americans can vote for the likes of Donald Trump to be our leader in the free world, then I simply don't know what we're about anymore.

I came from a non-political family.  That is to say that the adults didn't talk politics around us kids.  I was aware that my grandparents could be considered Democrat because FDR took the nation through the Depression and they were able to save their farm.  I did learn, however, all through the petulant 60s and part of the 70s--from my military father--that the Commander-in-Chief is the boss, not because of who he is, but rather what he is.  My faith in America's election process and the common sense of almost half of the nation that voted for Mr. Trump has been shaken.  I have no respect for the man, but he is now the President of the country I love.  "Hail to the Chief" may choke in my throat, yet I will carry on in the legal avenues provided to me as a citizen.  We, as Americans, obviously have taken too much for granted.  I wish I had my younger years as a non-political animal to do over.  I think maybe I've lived too long.

God bless America.  We have some serious work to do!

Halloween Highlights, 2016

Mom (dressed in a very low-cut costume) brought her toddler son to the door by the hand, coaching him all the way.
"Knock on the door.  Now say Trick or Treat."  (He really couldn't even talk yet.) " Now stand back so she can open the door.  Now put your bag out for the candy.  Now...what do you say?"
"Dat-doo".
Yeah...that'll work!

Another little fellow and Mom showed up at the door.  He was dressed in black, head-to-toe, but his costume was outlined in front by bright blue LED lights.  (I saw him coming from a block away!)  Mom prompted him to say "Trick or treat", then watched as he refused the candy I was offering, took some out of his little pumpkin, and handed me a piece!  Mom said, "I don't think we've quite got the concept yet..."

A group of three young lads came to the door.  I recognized a ninja costume but was stumped on the other two.  I said, "I can't keep track of the characters from those fantasy books you kids read."  After they said their thank-you's and had turned to walk away, one of them muttered to the other, almost under his breath, "We aren't from any books!"
(Heaven forbid!  Books???  What was I thinking?)

Had another group of three middle-school-looking young ladies come to the door.  One was costumed as a police office, in skin-tight black leggings and an equally skin-tight top, with a wide black belt with bling on it, and had purple braided hair extensions piled on top of her head and down the sides.  Oh...and a badge.  Sexiest looking policeman I ever saw!

My daughter texted me, "Want to see my wiener?"
Then she sent me a picture of my grandson in his Halloween costume.  He went as a hot dog.  :)
The next picture she sent showed my granddaughter in her costume.   I thought she was a witch because I knew they had been looking for a witch's broom for her get-up, but all she had on her head was a big red bow instead of a witch's hat.  When I inquired about it, I was informed that she wasn't a witch; she was Kiki.  You know... as in Kiki's Delivery Service?  Sorry to say, I didn't have a clue!  Had to Google it.  Turns out that Kiki's Delivery Service is Japanese anime (a genre of cartoon animation from Japan) of which Robin is a big fan.  Who knew??

Plainfield set trick or treat hours for 6:00-9:00, and my visitors pretty much shut off by 8:00.  I think I only had three ghoulies and ghosties after that.  And I have to hand it to the "helicopter parents" of Plainfield: almost no child of any age was unaccompanied by one or more adults in the background. Still, turnout was light tonight, even though temps were in the low 60s.
SO...WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL OF THIS LEFTOVER CANDY??  Poor me.  I guess I'll just have to eat it!

 

By Accident of Birth

Let's assume, for the purpose of my missive here, that if you are reading this, you are a WASP--white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant.  In other words, the assumed "norm" for Americans.  Let's also assume that you were born in the United States and take for granted the rights and privileges that go with that. You probably are older than 30, and have formed lots of opinions about society, politics, mankind, religion, relationships, etc., all based on your experiences in life and the American culture in which you were raised.  You have established your fears and biases, also based on those, and are surrounded by people who believe as you do because THEY are American, too.

Now, suppose for a moment that, by accident of birth, you weren't born in the U.S. of white parents. Or that, by accident of birth, you were born with a physical/mental handicap.  Or that, by accident of birth, you were born to drug-addicted parents.  Or your family fell on hard times and you were homeless.  Or you were born gay.  Or...or...or...  How would your reality change?  And what could you do about any of that?  The answer is: nothing.  You certainly didn't choose those circumstances.

I had a 4th grade student once whose mother and one brother were killed in a car accident.  He was the cutest thing, but he was lost.  His father was in prison somewhere in Florida.  When Mom died, no one had custody of him.  Stepdad tried to help, but had no legal rights.  Sometimes, he didn't know what bus to get on at the end of the school day.  Was he supposed to go to his aunt's?  His grandmother's?  Who knew?  At recess one day, he came to me to complain that someone had treated him badly.  Whatever the issue was, the other kid had said, "Well, at least I have a mother!"  Words cannot express the anger I felt toward the other child.  He had broken no playground rules by which I could punish him, but all of the love and hugs I could give to James would not change the hurt he had experienced with those words.  It certainly wasn't his choice that his mother was dead.

I had another student in 8th grade who was autistic and stuttered.  He was very bright--in fact had the highest grade in that class one term--but the other kids taunted him mercilessly because he was different.  I provided preferential seating to keep him away from his tormentors but had to keep a watch on him at all times because, when he reached the end of his tolerance, his eyes would get wild, and he would explode.  Most of the time, it was easier to work with just him than it was to deal with the tormentors, which just wasn't fair.  One day, I took Sean to the hall to try to calm him down because the other kids had driven him to distraction.  I tried to explain to him that people who put him down were just insecure about their own reality, and that the problem was with them and not him.  His response floored me.  He said, "If they are insecure and unhappy, then they must know how it feels to be me".  It broke my heart.  I wept in front of the child.  Sean didn't choose to be born afflicted.  HE couldn't change how he was, and I couldn't change how he was.  I sent him to safer surroundings that day, then lit into the class about their treatment of him.  Did it make a difference?  I don't think so.

I wish I could attribute these things to immature minds.  Kids.  Yeah, kids.  Unfortunately, it isn't so. I've seen worse from adults.  Adults who are so egocentric that they don't get it.

Don't like black people?  Better be grateful that you weren't born black.  That means don't go to the tanning beds to make your skin darker and don't get collagen injections to pump up your lips, or butt implants to give you a booty.

Don't like immigrants?  Don't look too far back into your own history.  Unless you are a Native American, you are the product of immigrants.

Hate gays?  Why?  How many do you know well?  What have they done to you?  Do you think it will rub off on you?  Do you honestly think that people would choose to be someone that society shuns? And what business is it of yours??

We can't choose how we were born or what happens to us in life.  We should NOT judge others by conditions not of their choosing.  God didn't bless me with a lot of hair.  I didn't choose it.  I can't change it.  If you judge me by what's on my head...or the color of my skin...or my sexual preference...it's YOUR problem, not mine.

If, by accident of birth, you were lucky enough to be born in a sanitary hospital somewhere in the U.S. instead of in a dirt-floor hut in the Congo, you are blessed, indeed.  But you need to understand that we are ALL children of God, in need of care and concern.  Before you judge others for whatever they do that counters all of your beliefs, make sure you understand the culture.  Because--guess what? Being American does not excuse you from being a world citizen.

Even if your birth was an "accident", you are special.  The accident of your birth has changed the world.

Profanity

As a classroom teacher once upon a time, I began each school year with my lecture about what my class rules were.  One of them was that I would not accept profanity in my class, nor would I accept less-than-profane-but-almost-equally-unacceptable use of crass vocabulary.  (For example, if I student came to me and said, "I have to go pee," I wouldn't give permission to leave the room until the request was made more socially acceptable.)  My usual comment was, if you wouldn't say it to your minister or your grandmother, don't say it to me.  (Of course, that was usually followed with, "You don't know my grandma!")

Without fail, during the course of that class, one or more students would ask, "Who decides what is a bad word and what isn't?  They are just words, so what's the big deal?"  I was ready for that.  I pointed out that "bad words" are divided into two classes--curses and profanity.  Curses are more religiously oriented--hell and damn--with which a person wishes ill on someone else by condemning them to eternal damnation in Hell.  Profanity, however, refers to body parts, bodily functions, and sexual acts--all of which polite society used to consider as private.  If it's okay to use those terms in public, why is it NOT okay to DO those things in public?  Why do we have gender-separate bathrooms?  Why not just drop your trousers and defecate in public?  No?  Why?  Or...perhaps you'd rather just talk about it in graphic, profane words.  What's the difference?

One reason to refrain from using profanity is to keep a civil society.  If we all give in to profane/crass language, where do we go from there?  If you call someone a motherf'er, what's left?  What's beyond that?  And if one uses that kind of language in a minor situation, what will be available in a worse one?  When I was active in dramatic productions, I was always coached not to go to the ultimate in volume or drama because there would be nothing left for other situations.  I took that to heart.

We all--every stinkin' one of us--knows the words.  Choosing to use them or not is what makes the difference.  Over the last couple of months, I've done battle with a dear relative over her choice of language.  She wasn't raised the way she comes across, but she thinks that she should be accepted for whatever comes out of her mouth, no matter how much disrespect it creates.  I'm sorry.  I love her too much to accept it.  Disrespect?  Using those words means she has no other resources.  Profanity means there is nowhere else to go to express oneself.  It spells disrespect for the recipient and disrespect for the self.  Some of us--although the number is dwindling--would like to keep respect as part of our family heritage.

I will not dishonor my parents' and grandparents' memory by giving in to the "gift" of unleashed profanity.  When my generation dies out, polite society may also.  I don't know.  I'm no prude, but I DO understand that a curse word here or there is a whole lot more effective when used sparingly.  I refuse to give in to today's so-called standards.  So I'm a dinosaur!

The Strong Woman

Heroes are made, not born.  So are strong women.
As a gender, females are petted and pampered as children.  Some of us never make it past the Entitled Princess role.  Others of us transcend the make-believe world into reality fairly early in life.  Nature or nurture?  Who knows?  Why should it matter?  To quote an overused saying, it is what it is. Nothing can change that.

I've just returned home from nearly a month at my sister's in Illinois to attend and assist with the funeral and funeral aftermath of her husband of 55 years.  My brother-in-law had Fronto-Temporal Degeneration.  Dementia.  He was first diagnosed in 2011, although the signs were creeping in several years before that.  Shari endured untold years of disrupt and tantrums and a mind that was slowly, slowly slipping away, made worse by the fact that he knew it and fought with it every step of the way.  He was "[raging] at the dying of the light"...and she had to figure out how to get them both through every day of that.  She kept him home and took care of him, in spite of the increasing isolation, until health issues took him to the hospital, perhaps one month before he passed.

Understand that she and I were always in daily contact by email or phone.  All I could do was sit back and provide words from 200 miles away.  I visited when I could--the last time in August just before his first trip to the hospital.  I was worried about her; worried from the standpoint of wondering how much more she could take.  During his entire 3-week hospital stay--one week the first time, and two weeks just a week after that--she spent almost every night in the hospital with him, just to help keep him calm.  He really didn't want her out of his sight.  No one else mattered to him, as it should be. Then, when the doctors said they could do nothing more for him, she was faced with The Decision because of the prognosis of the quality of his life then.  There was no going back.  I think she was scared and feeling vulnerable and alone.  She did the right thing by putting him in hospice care, then started the vigil of being there every day as he declined into the inevitable oblivion.  Strong?  Yes.  What other choice did she have?  There was nothing else she could do that would honor her husband's life and allow him to pass peacefully.

Over the last five years or so, I have seen/heard each of her two daughters and a grandchild or two tell her that she is a "strong woman" and that they get that from her.  Ha!  They don't have a clue how to be strong like she is!  Throughout it all, only one of them hasn't asked for/taken money to help them out of financial situations, not all of which are legit.  Daddy/Grandpa was dying, but oh well!

So, how did my sister become a Strong Woman?  She, like me, was born with it and lived it.  Our grandmother was the matriarch of the family.  She was born in a Poor House in Savannah, IL, of a crippled mother and no known father.  Orphaned by age 12, she was raised by an aunt and had to find her way in the world.  She became a teacher, traveling around to find a place to be.  She ended up as a school teacher on the frontier of South Dakota where my grandfather from Illinois gathered her up to marry her and bring her home to the farm in IL.  She was too proud to admit her humble beginnings, so she over-achieved.  She raised three really respectable kids during the Great Depression when they weren't always sure if they could keep the farm.  The livestock and garden provided food when there was otherwise no money.

Years later, my dad went off to war with the Navy, and my mother and two sisters lived at the farmhouse with the grandparents.  (I wasn't born yet.)  One fine April day, the house caught fire and burned to the ground when my mother was in town.  When she returned to see the house mere smoldering ruins, she began to cry, and our grandmother who met her at the car said, "Don't you start!  I have been through this whole day without crying, and you will, too!"  And that, my friends, tells the whole story of where my sister's strength comes from.  A scant few months later, the youngest of the sisters, a mere toddler, strangled to death from a blinds cord hanging too close to her crib at the grandparents' new home in a garage.  That sealed the fate of the women's strength.  Get through it.  Get over it.  Move on.  What other choice is there??  Or, as my friend Phyllis would say, "Don't fold up.  You'll just have to unfold again."

I think my sister's children are all expecting her to fall apart in grief.  I know better.  She will have her moments, which she is entitled to have.  Will she feel all alone?  Yes.  Will she be scared?  Of course. Will she fall apart?  Not on your life!  She started grieving the loss of her husband long before he died.  She carried herself well all during his ceremonies--better than some of those who had no real reason to behave as they did.  She has taken control.  Why?  Because she has to.  Who will do it if not she?  She's pretty awesome, in my estimation.

In the midst of all of the comments from family about how strong she is, there is no commentary about how old she is.  She puts up a strong front...but the fact is that my sister will turn 75 on Pearl Harbor Day in December.  She doesn't look 75.  She doesn't act 75.  Yet it stands to reason that the family should no longer expect her to finance their family meals or holidays, or keep the swimming pool open for their pleasure unless they are willing to come and do the work.  Ultimately, it is up to her.  In the meantime, she is my hero.

Shari Andrew wasn't born with her hand out.  She and her husband worked their buns off through thick and thin to have what they have.  Now half of that income is gone.  I hope the rest of the troops are ready because my sister, the strong woman, is about the become a whole lot stronger to shut them all down and take care of herself, first.

Are you listening, Shari??    

My Experience with the Poor

As I was preparing my Sunday school lesson for this week, I had reason to remember an experience I had in order to illustrate a point.  Here is the story:

One of my dearest friends (now deceased) was the Director of Emergency Disaster Services (EDS) for The Salvation Army (TSA) in the Metro Division of Chicago for 15 years.  Major Pat and family lived in the northwest suburb of Elk Grove Village, not far from where my first husband's family lived so many years ago, and having been somewhat raised in a western 'burb (Oak Park), I was not unfamiliar with the area.

I had accepted the responsibility of SATERN (Salvation Army Team Emergency Radio Network) Coordinator for Indiana's EDS responses.  Major Pat took it upon himself to train me for EDS.  He included me in virtually everything, even though we lived 200 miles apart.  I would travel up there to visit him and his wife, Carmella, to help do projects a number of times.

As it happened, in one of those visits, "we" were called to go on an EDS run.  There was a trailer park in Robbins, IL (southern suburb) that was slated to be closed down for whatever reason.  Residents--almost all African-Americans--had been warned in advance but weren't moving out.  In a last ditch effort to motivate them to move, power to the trailer park was shut off.  Still, they didn't move.  They had no money to move and nowhere to go.  They preferred to stay in the dark.  The Rev. Jesse Jackson stepped in and asked TSA to help feed the residents of the park until things could be resolved, and TSA responded.  Twice a day, a mobile feeding unit (canteen) was sent to Robbins to feed the residents.  Thus, in one of my visits to the north, I went on a run to Robbins with Major Pat and another volunteer.

When we got there, it took a few minutes to prepare the food and the foam trays to hand out from the back of the canteen.  I went with charity in my heart and the love of God's work on my lips.  Before we started handing out food, I had asked if there were any rules.  I was told, basically, that we gave one tray to each person who presented him/herself to the truck.  I was down with that.

Most of the people we served that day were happily grateful for what they got at no cost to them:  hot dogs, chips, fruit, milk/juice/water, condiments, plus snacks for after the canteen left to get them through until the next canteen delivery.  And then there were the rest.

*One complained that the truck was late.  (Traffic.)
*A couple complained about the food choice.  (They had hoped for better.)
*Quite a few asked for more than their share and/or came back for seconds claiming that there were people back at their trailers still to be fed.
*Several weren't even from that trailer park.  Word had gotten around.  They learned to watch for the canteen.

Through all of it, I kept looking for direction...for someone to tell me, "No, don't serve them"...but it didn't happen.  Later, after we had left the location to go back to the EDS Center, I asked Major Pat about it.   My questions centered around the abuses of resources.  To me, it seemed like a bottomless pit without solution--a virtual grab-bag of "grab what you can before everyone else takes it".  I was focusing on the ones abusing the system rather than the ones who were doing the best they could to feed their families on limited resources.   "You do this all the time, Pat.  TSA does not ask for nor accept donations at the point of service.  Doesn't it bother you that some people seem ungrateful and demanding?" I understood in that moment that it is so much easier to help someone who is appreciative of what you are trying to do for them.  Patrick told me that, yes, it can be frustrating but that feeding these people for personal reward was not what the ministry is about.  The ultimate goal of the mission is to bring folks to Christ, but since it is difficult for people to concentrate on their immortal souls when their bellies are growling, we feed God's children first and hope that their hunger will transfer from their stomachs to their spirituality.

I learned a lot that day and in subsequent experiences working with The Salvation Army in disaster situations.  More than once, I had grown men show up at my SATERN booth at Indiana amateur radio hamfests, with tears in their eyes as they thanked ME, as a representative of TSA, for the free cups of coffee and donuts that they received from The Salvation Army in foreign places during war time, decades before--how much it meant to them to know that someone was thinking of them and caring for them in war-torn places, not asking for a thing in return.  That moved me.

What else did I learn?  I learned that if you don't believe or trust the people you are serving, you don't require proof that they need what they ask for.  That just makes it necessary for them to lie (at worst) or humiliate themselves (at best) in order to succeed in getting their needs met.  If they need food, give them food or a voucher to get food locally.  If they need gas for a vehicle, you give them gas or a voucher to get gas at a station that has an arrangement for such vouchers.  If they need winter coats for the children, you take them shopping.  In short, you don't give cash to someone you suspect might only spend it on alcohol or drugs, but you DO take care of the need, if you can.  It is our Christian duty to care for the less fortunate.  Jesus did it.  We need to, also.  

I also learned that lives of poverty create lives of crime.  Get a traffic ticket and can't/don't pay the fine?  A bench warrant for your arrest may be issued--which creates more fines, and maybe jail time, which means you can't work to make the money to pay the fines, even if you wanted to.  See how that works?  I once had my driver's license suspended because I could not prove that I had insurance at the time of an "incident".  (Couldn't prove it because I didn't have it!)  I received written notification of the suspension on the very day that I was leaving on a 13-hr road trip for a vacation where people were waiting for me on the other end.  I damned the torpedoes and went on with my life.  Drove illegally for months, all the while knowing how humiliated I would be if I got pulled over.  (Thank God, I didn't.)  When I could, I took care of the problem...but not before I realized that there are probably millions of people on the roads whose licenses have been suspended, for one reason or another.  To society, they are criminals.  To themselves, they are simply in survival mode.  And this is just a minor example.

I learned not to judge.  I have a right to an opinion about their circumstances, but I haven't walked in their shoes.  The gal with the fancy fingernails loading Food Stamp groceries into a late-model car may look like someone who doesn't need food stamps, but in fact, may have done those nails herself and is using Grandma's car to shop.  We just never know!  Jesus reminded his disciples that "the poor will always be with us".  I don't have much, but I try my best to help others as I can.

Go thou and do likewise!        

Why I Never Remarried

Every once in awhile, I get asked this question.  Actually, now that I am totally in the "senior" category, no one asks so much anymore, but I have asked it of myself quite often.

There is a short answer and a long answer, one very much simpler than the other.  The short answer is:  I never found anyone available that I thought I could bring into my life at any given moment.  (The emphasis is important.  I'll discuss that in my long answer.  You knew I was going to talk about the long answer, didn't you??)

So what is the long answer?  If it doesn't matter to you, stop reading now.

First of all, I was married (and divorced) twice.  My first marriage only lasted five years and was childless.  Thus, when the end of that relationship happened, my then-husband and I pretty much just shook hands and said good-bye.  I moved on.  So did he.  On my part, no anger, no hurt...just "good luck to you".  Not sure on his part, but I never talk about that relationship because there was nothing left to tie us together.  I'm not ashamed of it nor tried to hide it from anyone.  It was what it was--although I think I shocked my granddaughter about a year ago when she first got wind that Grandma had been married twice.

When I remarried, I was totally dedicated to that relationship.  I was head-over-heels in love; made some emotional decisions in spite of red flags that were popping up...and because of those emotional decisions, decided that I could ignore the flags because so much of me was already invested in us.  His past behavior be damned!  It will be different for us, right?  He won't do those things with me, right?  Guess what?  I was wrong.  Our marriage was wrong.  It began on shaky ground and didn't get better.  Still, I hung on for 13 years.

We were somewhat okay in the beginning.  What changed things was the advent of our daughter--his third child; my first.  Then the struggle got real.  I'll spare the gory details.  Suffice it to say that I became a single parent even though married.  I had no help with the child.  No help at all.

When the inevitable split came, due to his un-admitted infidelity, although I had all of the hard evidence and he knew it, our daughter and I moved to Plainfield (from Cloverdale).  We began our new lives as single women.  I was instantly aware that my ex would take care of himself.  Period.  It then became my job to take care of myself and our child, and to keep him honest.  (That's a full time job!)  At the time of our divorce, Meg was 12.  A mature 12.

At that time, I had been out of circulation for probably what amounts to 25 years.  I had no doubt that I could get back out there, when the spirit moved me, to find someone with which to share my life.  Oh, what a dreamer I was!  I blocked virtually every opportunity I had because...well...I wasn't ready.  I had a new home to establish...new household rules...new routines to figure out...and a hormonal teen.  I was acutely aware that she and I were in the same situation.  I was preaching morals and precepts to her, all the while understanding that she was watching me to see what I was doing in my own life.

I knew that any serious relationship I had would be subject to criticism from my daughter, for one, and my Significant Other, for another.  I knew that she and I had developed a tight relationship that could make her jealous or him jealous, unless I found someone who truly cared for both of us.  I simply could not accept someone who demanded more of me than what I felt I could give.  My experience in past relationships let me know that I always became a caregiver, even when I should have been expecting others to care for me, somewhat.  I was 100% dedicated to getting my kid through high school and college.  I was a Show Choir Mom.  I struggled to keep her in vehicles when she was able to drive.  I did a lot of the denial things with her that I did with my marriage, but for a different reason.

At one time, I was drinking heavily to mask my pain post-divorce.  I probably embarrassed my kid a time or two, but (I think) we got through that.  Not sure.

After I became an amateur radio operator (1997), I had no end of male friends--most of them married.  I had a whole cadre of guys to rely on to help me get through house repairs, etc.  God love them all!  Still, it seeped into my brain over time that I wasn't going to find Mr. Right.  And honestly, I gave up.  I didn't even recognize opportunities when they presented themselves.

I wish I had a nickel for every divorced or widowed woman who said they would never remarry.  It is NOT the mark of a good marriage for women to say this.   If a woman lives a happy marriage, she is most likely willing to try again.  If she has been sucked dry by her marriage, she is likely to say (as I have), never again.

And that is the long answer.  I'm happy that my ex is still with the woman he cheated on me with.  (Bad grammar.)  Do I wish to put myself back in the fray of marriage?  No.  Not again.  Not for any reason.  Not sure anyone would have me, anyway!  I get lonely sometimes, but when I think about the other ramifications of marriage, I realize that I'm done with all of that.  Done, do you hear me?  Done!  :)

             

Phone Call to Heaven

I picked up the phone and pressed (000) HEAVEN-2...that's 000-432-8362.
Ring, ring.  Ring, ring.

"Hello?"
"Hello.  I'd like to speak to Floyd Covill, please."
"This is he."
"Dad?  Oh, Dad!  It's so good to hear your voice!  I've been wanting to talk to you for the longest time!  I know you have better things to do, so just listen while I talk, okay?

First of all, we continue to miss you every single day.  I've come to know you and understand you so much more than when you were here with us on Earth!  And speaking of life on Earth, things are a mess here.  Shades of the 60s and 70s with all kinds of political and philosophical unrest.  I know how much you hated all of that.  You'd hate it now, too.  One interesting thing, though:  people have gone bat-crap-crazy over veterans.  If you were living today and wearing one of your American Legion caps, you would be stopped on the street and thanked for your service.  You would probably have liked that if it had happened in your day, but in your day, thousands and thousands of men joined the military because we were at war.  You signed on because it was somewhat expected.  You weren't in it for glory.  You considered it your duty as an American, fighting a war so your descendants wouldn't have to.  I think you'd be embarrassed by the "new" patriotism.  It's all show and no go.

But, Dad...that's not why I called.  Do you remember telling your daughter, Shari, to "be a good wife" when she married Roger?  Well, she took it to heart.  You may not be aware of all of the things she went through in her marriage to him, even when you were still with us, but I'm here to tell you that it wasn't easy!  Roger was demanding, critical, judgmental, and petulant, at times or all at once, but she remained strong either because of or in spite of him, with a lot of happy times in between.  (She is definitely an Armstrong/Covill woman!)  I used to say that either she was the most patient woman in the world, or the most stupid.  She has stuck with him through thick and thin.  At one time, they had a lot of friends and did a lot of fun things.  I envied them that.  Roger turned into a kick-ass provider for them because of wise investments and good decisions.  They've been together 55 years now.  Imagine that!

A few years ago, Roger was diagnosed with dementia.  In the very beginning, she told him, "We are in this together".  And she meant it.  Dad, she is being a "good wife".  And now that he has descended into some major health problems and mind problems, she continues to roll with the punches.  She could easily send him to an institution, but she is doing everything she can to make things "normal" for him at home.  Her every waking moment deals with his needs, from cleaning a soiled diaper to finding things he can eat.  He isn't very cooperative, but she hangs in.  I want you to know that she has gone way beyond your admonishment to be a good wife.  She is a saint!  You'd be so proud of your eldest!

Those of us who know and understand what Shari is going through worry about her.  I mean, she's no spring chicken, either!  Dad, if you can pull any strings with the Big Guy where you are, please ask for mercy.  She won't give up on Roger until she is absolutely forced to, but even she deserves some peace.

I just wanted you to know how your words impacted Shari's life...and the rest of us, as well.  She rose to the occasion to care for you through your last days on Earth.  She has done the same with her husband.

Thanks for listening, Dad!  I love you!"

"Thanks for telling me, Peg.  I already knew, but it sounds good hearing it from you.  Be well!  We here in Heaven are making a place for you when the time comes.  Don't be afraid.  It's all good!  We love you."

*Click*    

Damage Control

Every successful manufacturing company has people whose job it is to check on the quality of the finished product.  They might be called Quality Control Inspectors.  They are to make sure that what leaves the factory is up to standard, worthy of the manufacturers name and reputation.  It's a big responsibility.  In our litigious society, one slip-up could cost the manufacturer millions of dollars, and the cost of the inspector's job.

The temptation, of course, is for everyone to blame everyone else for what goes wrong, both in manufacturing and in life.  When one is attacked by criticism of any sort, the natural temptation is to respond self-defensively.  I have a great deal of respect for companies--and people--who respond, instead, by taking responsibility and vowing to right the wrongs.

Consider the poor delivery nurse attending to my daughter's last pregnancy.  She had been in labor for awhile, but the doctor decided to hurry things along by inducing stronger contractions with pitocin.     Although Meg had already had one child with inducement but no real anesthesia, she was calling for pain relief, telling me, "This time is different, Mom".  Her husband and I were asked to leave the room for about 45 minutes while the technician administered an epidural.  We went to find fast food. When we came back, we were expecting to find a pain-free mother preparing for delivery.  Instead, we saw nurses and doctors rushing around in a near panic, and Meg ready to deliver.  Her first words to me were, "They tried to kill me."  It seems that the delivery nurse had "spiked" the pitocin directly into Meg's bloodstream instead of putting it through a device that would regulate the amount and speed of the drip.  In short, her uterus was in one big long contraction without any breaks at all.  When this was discovered, Meg was given a shot to counteract the pitocin.  The nurse was in tears, admitting her mistake.  The doctor had been called to get this child delivered before anything else could go wrong. This all happened within minutes.  Thank God, baby Ryan was born without incident, healthy as can be.  Meg recovered normally.  Not sure what, if anything happened to the nurse.

Frankly, I was a bit surprised that the nurse had admitted her mistake to her patient.  I would think that fear of a law suit would prevent that from happening.  The potential of the situation was that Meg's uterus could have ruptured.  But it didn't.  The only real harm (that we know of) is that she probably experienced more intense pain than she needed to.  What had started out as quality control, with everyone doing everything that is expected and normal, soon turned to damage control, trying to fix what had gone wrong.  The nurse felt bad.  I mean, accidents DO happen.  But still...

I could write on and on with examples of this sort of thing, especially since I experienced a need for damage control in my own life this week.  Who was at fault?  ME!!  I caused the damage, and I had to mop up after myself.  My dear sister's husband was hospitalized with multiple health problems.  Because of his dementia, she had to be with him 24/7.  I got on Facebook in an attempt to be supportive, saying that she was weary of the whole thing...and then I tacked on the sentence:  "Notice to family:  Step up to the plate".  I meant no criticism.  Her children and grandchildren had been attentive in the hospital, but there were things that needed to be done at home in her absence.  I was hoping they would show up to mow or clean or take care of things.  (One daughter actually was taking care of the family dog, so no worries there.)

Suddenly, my comment took on a life of its own.  Both of my nieces and my sister's granddaughter lambasted me.  They had been at the hospital with her.  They had offered for her to take breaks.  They didn't appreciate my criticism.  I tried to defend my intentions but soon came to realize that anything I said was only going to make the drama worse.  When I went back to look at what I had written, I could see why they felt accused.  (It didn't help that a friend of my sister's was throwing in some unwelcome comments.)  Mea culpa.  Mea maxima culpa.  (My fault.  My BIG fault.)  So...what to do by way of damage control?

The first thing I did was to write an email to my sister, apologizing for the firestorm that I had created which most likely contributed to her stress.  The second thing I did was delete the whole conversation thread on Facebook.  The third had to do with trying to decide how to apologize to those I had offended.  Putting it on FB to reach the whole tribe would only put things "out there" publicly to create more drama.  I decided that I needed to apologize by phone, but since the only phone number I have is my sister's (where one of my nieces lives), I called there.  She seemed to take my apology well.  However, since there is some animosity between the nieces, just the fact that I talked to one and not the other will probably be a source of consternation.  (Laurie, if you are reading this, please understand that I don't have your phone number or I would have called you, too!)

The hardest thing for me to accept in Damage Control Mode, is that I know better.  I am a communicator.  I know how the written word can be misinterpreted.  I know how drama-attracted my family can be.  I know that, in my old age, I tend to speak the truth as I know it rather than the truth that others experience.  I know my own intentions; others don't.  That doesn't mean that I am right and they are wrong.  It only means that I'm still a work in progress, even at my ripe old age.

It's not too late to teach an old dog new tricks.  Every day is a humbling experience as I come to realize that the rest of the world doesn't necessarily want to hear what I have to say.  And that's why I write this blog!!  I'm not taking the family mistakes on myself, but I do know that when I'm wrong, I'm wrong and will take responsibility for it.  It's so much easier to do quality control than damage control.  That's my lesson for the week.  Prevention is so much better than the aftermath of screwing up!

Clothed and In My Right Mind

As it happens, I belong to an adult Sunday school class at my church.  Members are put on teams to teach the weekly lessons, quarterly.  This is my team's quarter.  Unfortunately, the members of my team have dwindled--some with health problems, some with the health problems of family, and some that simply have too much stage fright to teach a group of adults.  Thus, the responsibility tends to fall on me (a retired teacher) and my grandparent-partner-in-crime, Judy Heffelman (a retired nurse).  Bless her, Judy is one of those people to whom people look to get things done.  She's in everything, does everything, and knows everyone--which, I think, is what keeps her young at heart.  She also sings in the choir which makes her sometimes unavailable to teach Sunday school on an expected basis.  I, however, have been very spotty in my church attendance of the last few months for one reason and another.  I promised her faithfully that, as soon as I got back from my sister's last time, I would take on teaching the lessons for the duration of our quarter.  And I have.

The series that I am teaching from is called Lazarus Awakening, which takes the miracle of Jesus's raising Lazarus from the dead to provide us with lessons in how to release ourselves from our own tombs.  (It isn't as simple as that, but you get the picture.)  Today's lesson had to do with the things that cause us to stay apart from ourselves and apart from God.  Part of that lesson had to do with another of Jesus's miracles: casting out demons from a demoniac who lived among the tombs.  I had long ago forgotten that story, or maybe never knew it, because I didn't understand it.  I do now.

Tombs in the Holy Land were often grottoes dug out of rock, with two rooms:  one was a vestibule with a stone seat, and the other was a place where the dead were lain to let decay do its job for a year or so before the bones of the dead could be removed and put in an ossuary to make room for the next family member to die.  According to the author of the series, it was not at all unusual for the poor or insane--outcasts of society--to live in the vestibules of graves..."among the tombs"...not quite out in the sunshine but not quite in the place of the dead, either.  (The metaphor is obvious.  Those of us who "dwell among the tombs" keep ourselves apart from sanity and grace.)

The story goes (in Mark 5), that Jesus and his disciples crossed a body of water and were confronted by a demoniac--someone who was insane.  (Psychiatry hadn't been invented yet, although mental illness surely existed in those days.)  This man was so far gone that he couldn't even be chained up to prevent him from hurting others or himself because he was so strong that he broke all of the chains and fetters.  Jesus drove the demons out of him into a flock (herd??) of pigs, and the pigs then ran down the hillside into the sea and were drowned.  Later, when others heard of the miracle and gathered 'round, they were amazed to see the crazy man calmly sitting there "clothed and in his right mind".

I had to chuckle to myself when I read those words.  My mother would occasionally call and ask if I was "up, clothed, and in my right mind".  I never realized this was a biblical reference.  I just thought it was one of my mother's quirky little sayings!  (I should have known better.  Mom had a very spiritual upbringing, although she rarely talked about it.  It showed in a lot of ways.)

For some reason, the lesson today was very successful with the class.  They were "with me" for the duration of our time together.  That is very gratifying to me, although I can't take credit for what it meant to the members of the class.  Talking about the lies we tell ourselves and the things that keep us figuratively in the tomb, worked.  Why?  Because there wasn't a single person in that room who could say they had never held a grudge against another.  No one could say that there were no issues that held them back from being the best person they could be in God's image.  Not one could honestly admit that they didn't feel sometimes unwilling to give up their normal way of responding to the ways of the world.  They/We keep ourselves entombed.

Today...just for today, perhaps...I am up, clothed, and in my right mind.  Tomorrow will happen as it does.  Still, I will take today's lesson into the week with me.  The walls we raise to keep us in the tomb keep out nothing except our understanding that we are loved and we are worthy.  God bless you this week!      

Hmmmm....

In this age of computers and immediate information, one would think that things would move along smoothly, but not so.  In some respects, the gears move slowly and uncomprehendingly, when the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing.  That's the sort of thing that went on BEFORE the computer age.

For example:

1.  Once upon a time, my father had need of his birth certificate.  He drove to the county seat where he was born and asked for a copy of the birth certificate for Floyd Darwin Covill--his name at birth. They didn't have one.  They could produce birth certificates for his brothers and sisters, but not him under that name.  They DID have one for Darwin Erskine Covill, born on Dad's birth date.  I don't remember how that all turned out--if I ever knew--but it's pretty clear that either Grandma decided to change his name after his birth certificate was recorded, or someone filling out the certificate was asleep at the switch.  I think Dad was in his 50s before this was discovered.

2.  My daughter and grandchildren moved in with me for a time.  She registered to vote here in Hendricks County, Indiana.  Then, in 2009, she moved to California and registered there, then Illinois and registered there, and now Washington and registered there.  (We are a mobile society!)  I vote in every election, and every time I do, there is my daughter's name under mine on the voting roster, and every time, I tell the people at the poll that Megan doesn't live here anymore and hasn't for the last seven years.  Still, nothing changes.

Just a month or two ago, I received two post cards from the elections board--one for me and one for Meg--asking if we still live at my address.  I followed instructions and wrote on Meg's card that she no longer lives here and returned it.  I thought that would be the end of it.  But no...I later got a post card for Meg saying she could still vote in the election, even though out of state (absentee)...blah, blah.

Think about this for a minute.  Picture IDs have been required for voting in some states for a number of years now, but I don't think there is any central data bank that shows which registered voters have voted where.  Because of that, and in spite of the ID requirement in many states, I'm thinking that IF my daughter had wanted to break the law--which she doesn't--she could now apply for an absentee ballot for IN, IL, CA, and vote in person in WA.  People who cry "foul" at election time need not look at the voters but at the whole voting system to plug up the loopholes!

3.  My daughter tells me today that Lakes High School in Illinois called to inform her that Robin (her daughter) hasn't been in attendance at school.  True enough.  Robin doesn't live in Illinois anymore.  She withdrew from school there in order to move with her family to Washington State.  This isn't NEW news.  She withdrew last December!  Somehow, Lakes High School in Lake Villa, IL, didn't get the message from Palumbi Middle School in Lake Villa, IL, that Robin was withdrawn a whole semester ago!  Obviously, if they had communicated, or if someone were actually paying attention, they would have discovered this.  It could have saved them the trouble and the consternation they caused my daughter who wondered if they were ready to call the police to report truancy.  (Easy enough to verify, so no problem there...but still...)

I'm sure there are a zillion more examples of this sort of thing.  I hesitate to even bring up the whole health care system because I KNOW there are many slip-ups there.  It's just so unnecessary!  Link your computers, folks...then pay attention to them!      

New Furniture!

Once upon a time, along about the year 2005, my daughter and her then-husband decided to move from the Camby, IN, area to Muncie, IN, so Nathan could take a better job in order to support the family.  Things were looking up for them!  My grandbabies weren't much more than toddlers.  They had lived within a stone's throw of my house for the duration of their young years, but Muncie was one-and-a-half hours away.  Of course, I cried for three days but finally decided that it was time to suck up and get with the program to help them as best I could.

They bought a 3-bedroom Bedford Stone house in Muncie.  Compared to where they had lived in Camby, it was pretty nice although seriously outdated in a lot of things.  The living room was quite large.  Meg and I--and virtually everyone else in the expanded family--launched into cleaning/decorating mode.  Repairs were made.  Things were replaced.  And living room furniture was purchased.  They bought a brand-new wooden-framed futon couch with a matching futon chair, and a squarish end table to put in between them in an L-pattern.  The futon covers were like brocade in appearance--mostly deep orange with gold Oriental motifs.  We painted one wall in persimmon paint and another in tan to match...and when it was all clean and picked up, it looked great.  (The futon was necessary in order to have a place for Grandma Peggy to sleep when she was there...darn near twice a month for awhile.  I practically wore out two cars going back and forth from Muncie!)

Then, one day--which seemed suddenly to me but probably not to them--the marriage ended.  Megan and the children came for a weekend to help celebrate my birthday, but never left.  I had no idea about any of this, but did what I've always tried to do--just dig in and do what has to be done in any given moment.  Damn the torpedoes, etc...   In short order, her former husband asked that she come to get all of her stuff.  Flying on a wing and a prayer, she got a couple of helpers and I managed to snag one of my radio friends, and we rented a U-Haul to go up to Muncie to retrieve her things, including the futon furniture.  In one long, stressful day, we got her things out of Muncie and into a storage unit near--guess where?--Camby!  We had so many people to thank that day, including the cook and wait staff at Bob Evans who stayed open past closing time just to feed five very hungry and very tired people, and my friend who paid for it all, including a tip for the waitress that must have been huge because she asked, "Are you sure?" as we were leaving.  (Adam, you'll never know how much you did for this old woman and her daughter that day!)

 Meg got a job, enrolled in school, and arranged for day care for the children.  I was still teaching then so was somewhat strapped for time.  So was she.  We did what we could, but I felt that I was doing all of the cooking, shopping, laundry, and housework, and felt--well--I was worn out.  Please don't get the opinion that Meg was skating.  She handed me a pretty healthy check every month to ease the financial burden, and more.

Every weekend, the children went to Muncie to be with their father.  Meg did college class homework.  I did laundry and grocery shopping and housework, plus did what I could to assist with moral support when she was ready to drop courses because she felt overwhelmed.  We were both running full tilt just to stay in one place.  It was exhausting, frankly.  So one day, I asked her to please do more around the house to help out.  She said, (and I'm paraphrasing), "I don't know what to do.  It's not my house.  My stuff isn't here, so I don't feel all that comfortable."

I was stunned.  Back in 1992, when it was just the two of us and our two cats, I bought this house for us.  I never, ever, thought of it as just MY house.  She belonged here, as far as I was concerned, and so did my grandchildren.  What I hadn't counted on was that she had grown up in the years since. She had become the matriarch of her own home and her own family, and all of the "stuff" that she had accrued in that time was gathering dust in a storage unit in Camby.  A storage unit that she was paying for every month.  That day, I declared that we would incorporate her belongings into this house, one way or another.

Again, we enlisted friends to help.  (Thank you, Travis!)  My kitchen/dining room table and chairs went to Goodwill.  They had been my grandparents', but were quite well worn, although functional.  The living room furniture--couch, loveseat, and small swivel rocker, were sold for next to nothing.  They were getting threadbare anyway.  And in their place came the kitchen table/chairs that used to belong to Meg's McNary grandparents, and the futon couch/chair, and table.  Plus many other things, but these were the bulkiest.

My house is very small.  The futon furniture filled up the living room and made it all look quite wooden.  I did what I could to decorate around the orange/gold colors, and we made do.  We also remodeled and redecorated the rest of the house so that everyone had a bedroom of his/her own.  Once in a blue moon, it came in handy to have a futon bed in the living room, but most of the time, it just served as a couch.  An uncomfortable couch, as I got older.

And then, in 2009, right after I retired and had a heart attack, Meg fell in love with her now-husband.  In a series of events that are too sensitive to talk about right now and are resolved anyway, her children were sent to Muncie to live with their father, and she left with her Russian Hunk for California.  When they departed for CA, they went in a mini-van with not much more than the shirts on their backs, determined that they would buy new when they got to Sunnyvale.  I was left with the futon furniture...and the longer I had it, the less I liked it.

Most recently, I came to hate it, actually.  It took up sooo much space in my tiny living room.  I could barely sit on it with my bad back, but couldn't nap on it because of the angle of the seating.  For my disabled condition, it just wasn't functional for me, yet I had no money to buy new and--at my age--couldn't really justify such a purchase, even though I was considering what I could do to fix things.

And then, out of the blue, came an email from one of my Sunday school friends offering her couch and love seat to anyone interested.   I didn't see the email at first but was talking to my friend Judy on the phone when she told me about it, so after we hung up, I went to the computer.  I expressed interest and made arrangements to look at it the next day (along with picking up Sunday school materials for teaching purposes).  Apparently I was the first to respond (thank you, Judy!)  One look at what they were offering told me it would be perfect for my living room...and the price was right.  I went over the very next day with cash in hand to buy.

I had a few days of wiggle room.  I needed someone willing to take the futon furniture, then find a truck and a couple of young bucks to help move the new stuff to my house.  (A distance of maybe 1.3 miles.)  I got on Facebook and hit the mother lode.  My stepson's widow, Diana, had just read a post from one of her friends who was looking for a couch for one of his college kid friends.  She put me in contact with him.  They were prompt to pick the stuff up on Saturday, and I felt wonderful about giving college student Darius a couch, chair, and table for his apartment in Decatur, IL.  My friends Judy and Phil offered their truck, unsolicited, for moving the new stuff.  I had a former student who responded that he'd be here to help and could bring a friend.  (That story is a little more complicated than I am describing, but this guy really came through for me!)  At the appointed hour on Sunday, everyone gathered and carried my "new" couch and love seat to my home.  Absolute perfect fit!!  With the new to-scale furniture in place, my living room looks sooo much bigger and sooo much homier.  I think I'm in luuuuuv!

In the process of changing the way my house looked, I spent a whopping $145--$100 for the furniture, $40 as "tips" for the young men who did the moving work for me (and were not, at first, willing to take the money), and $5 for the overage of the gift card for Panera Bread that I got from the young man that took the futon furniture...which I spent on my friends Judy and Phil for letting me use their truck for the move.  (Plus their fellowship over lunch.)

As stupid as it may sound for someone who is considering a move in 12 months to spend money on "new" second-hand furniture, it feels like money well-spent.  I don't often do things just for me.  This purchase, however, is a blessing.  It makes me happy, however long it lasts.  It all came together fairly easily (but not without my worrying that it wouldn't).  God is good, all the time!



  

The T-Shirt I Don't Have....Yet

I spent my 40-year career working with teens and pre-teens, plus I am the mother of a woman who was once a teenager, so I think I know a little bit about how relationships between adults and adolescents work.  (Not to mention that both of my sibs and I were also teens once upon a time.)  The picture isn't always pretty, but there are no do-overs in life.  Sometimes you "gotta do what you gotta do" in order to keep the peace while moving forward...or trying to.

At what price is peace?  I found out somewhat early in my learning curve that sometimes we get horribly embroiled in self-propagating arguments that are meant to place blame on the other guy for things that go wrong...to deflect our own responsibility for our share in it...and it never ends well.  When we were a whole lot younger, my little brother would build intricate card houses right smack in the middle of the living room floor where the family would have to pass it in order to get to other rooms in the house.  It irritated me because sometimes floor vibrations or tiny breezes from those who passed would cause him to get nervous about the stability of his card house.  He would place a new card with less security than the last, and the house would fall.  If I happened to be the one who passed, he would yell, "Now see what you made me do?!"  It was an accusation, as if I had deliberately tried to ruin his happy little project.  I would try to protect myself by saying, "If you would put that somewhere else instead of right here in the middle of things, that might not happen."  You know the outcome.  I was wrong, and he was right.  Every.  Single.  Time.  No matter what.

When doing playground duty at school, I would often have to tell students to stop running recklessly all over the place.  Their response always was, "But he's chasing me!"  To which I responded, "He can't chase you if you don't run."  They looked at me as if I had just arrived from Mars.  Not be part of the chase?  What fun is that?  He is chasing me because I am running.  I am running because he is chasing me.  If I stop running, he will catch me...and then who wins?  What will happen to me then?

Over the years, I learned that the immature brain does not understand that blame-placing doesn't make sense.  The person blamed will argue in defense of self.  Heck, I do it, too, to a degree.  But I understand my own intent.  Others don't alway think of me in the same way that I do.  So...as I was raising my own pre-teen, then teen, and sometimes even adult daughter, I decided that the only way to take the sting out of the Blame Game was to accept culpability, no matter the issue.  It tends to knock the slats out of a brewing argument.  You got up too late to do your hair properly for school because your alarm didn't wake you up, so you blame me for not waking you sooner?  Oh...sorry.  I should have done that.  I dropped you off at the football game too close to other kids who could see me?  Oops!  Guess I haven't perfected invisibility yet.  Sorry.  My fault.  I didn't really feel responsible for all that was wrong with the world, but I understood that by not engaging in the argument about who was at fault for whatever bad things happened--by saying yes, it was my fault--I was disarming the potential argument-to-come.  "If you had blah, blah, I wouldn't have blah, blah.  No, it's YOUR fault, blah, blah, because YOU should have blah, blah."  See how that works?

Which leads me to the t-shirt.  I swore, many years ago, that I was going to have a t-shirt made that said, "Just so we understand each other, EVERYTHING IS ALL MY FAULT."  When I announced on Facebook that I was going to do that some day, I had a couple of defenders who told me that I wasn't at fault and shouldn't take blame for things I didn't do.  Bless their hearts.  They didn't get my point.  At the same time, there were at least six people who wrote to me to say, "I want one of those t-shirts, too"!

It also applies to conversations (recently) about politics and religion.  I had an online discourse with a former student--now a mother in her own right-- who home-schools because she has a major beef with public education that teaches things that are different from what the Bible says.  She had posted a very negative meme about public schools.  I called her on it.  This gal was one of my honor students way back when, but I had no idea she was a Bible-thumper.  (It boggles my mind that intelligent people can be so blind!)  In any case, in the short order of our online discussion, I came to understand that it was pointless to continue to reason with her.  She believes that the earth is 5,000 years old due to things the Bible says...that carbon dating is flawed...that evolution is poppycock.  In the midst of it, I just bowed out of the conversation.  I have also done so with politics.  There is no reasoning with the unreasonable...so that's my fault.  It's ALL my fault.  Get it?

If I ever decide to actually create the t-shirt that declares my innocence by way of fault, you will be allowed to put yourself on the list of people who want one also.  I will celebrate your guilt-acceptance with you.  We blame-recipients need to stick together!



  

MIA: The Truth

John 8:32:And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

Simon and Garfunkel from the song The Boxer:  Still, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.

If someone were to ask me what I seek in a relationship, the first word out of my mouth would be "honesty".  The second would be "respect".  The two go hand-in-hand.  A relationship founded on untruths, whether they be lies of omission or commission, robs both parties of making life decisions based on what is real.  Real is "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth". Lying (the act of telling untruths) happens for a lot of reasons, but the bottom line is that it says, "I don't respect you enough or trust you enough to tell you the truth about a situation because I'm selfish.  I'm ashamed.  I'm afraid.  I don't want to take responsibility for the truth."  Me, me, me.  It is difficult to reason with that.  People who are so steeped in themselves don't see (or care?) about what they do to others.  If they can lie to you, they can cheat on you and steal from you and treat you, otherwise, as if your needs and desires are secondary to their own.  

Reasons for lying are many:

1.  To avoid punishment.  Children will lie about their misdeeds in order to escape the wrath of Mom and Dad that will surely come if they tell the truth about what they did.  This is the immature brain speaking.  Parents are much less likely to be angry with a child who fesses up to wrongdoing than with one who will look them in the eye and lie.  (Been there.)  A prisoner of war will lie because his captors require it, and the punishment for not complying can be swift and treacherous.  These lies are forgivable in the right circumstances.  Caught by the police with drugs in your car?  The traditional answer--and one the police hear many times a day--is "It isn't mine.  I didn't put it there.  I don't know how it got there."  The same as for driving drunk.  "I only had a couple of beers."    

2.  To save someone else's feelings.  As altruistic as this sounds, telling a woman that her jeans don't make her look fat when they do gives her false information on which she bases her future decisions about those jeans, that style, that fad...whatever.  There are ways to tell the truth without hurting feelings.  If I asked my mother if she liked something I was trying on to purchase, all she had to say was, "It doesn't do anything for you."  That didn't mean I was fat or stupid or even that she didn't like it.  She was saying that it wasn't flattering to me.  (Even with the perfect body and the pocketbook to buy whatever you want, some articles of clothing just don't work right you.  Fact of life.)  It saved an argument and a lot of feelings.  Before you lie in order to save someone else's feelings, consider whose feelings you are really trying to protect!

3.  To save face.  Humiliation is an extremely powerful factor in the lives of humans.  Hundreds of times a year, people will commit suicide rather than face the consequences of something shameful that they have done.  Murder followed by suicide is a common occurrence.  That's how strong an impulse saving face is!  If humiliation equals willingness to die before facing the music, imagine how hard people will work to prevent others from discovering the truth in a less-than-suicidal situation.

4.  To convince others to think the way that you do.  Here's where things get iffy.  The Internet--and in particular, Facebook--is rife with people posting memes with quotes and statistics (mostly political in nature), but they post these things without researching to see whether or not they are true.  In that regard, I have become a source of irritation for many of my FB friends.  

Addressing #4 here, when I see a meme that quotes someone that people like or respect, I research to see if it is accurate.  Honestly, 90% of the time, it isn't.  The quote wasn't said by the person pictured, or it was doctored and undocumented...or just plain made up.  Yet people post it as if it were truth.  When I call them on it, they respond that they just liked the idea...or they didn't trust the research I did...or were directly quoting from biased websites.  (I've been a de-bunker since early childhood.  Even my mother called me "Peggy De-Bunker.)  Worse yet, when these things are posted, sooo many people believe them as Gospel without checking first.  If I'm going to post something that has my name on it as the poster, I want it to be true and accurate.  Someone's opinion is someone's opinion, but posting a quote attributed to George Washington needs to be accurate since people place some semblance of honor to what the father of our country said.

So...what if you suspect you know the truth, or really do, yet are being lied to?  If you ask the liar if he/she did the deed you are questioning, that gives him/her another opportunity to lie.  You may think you are giving him/her a chance to come clean, but more often than not, it just creates more drama. More lies.  You want to believe.  It helps you to believe.  But when the real truth comes crashing down, you are more hurt than ever because these lies are coming from people you love.

My problem right now is not that I am being lied to by family but that I am being lied to by politicians.  The truth doesn't matter any more.  Donald Trump, for example, has been caught in dozens of lies, yet his followers deflect and deny and are convinced that the rest of us who don't support him are "sheeple". If the truth is no longer important, then our lives in the United States mean nothing.  Load the courts with judges that think as we do.  Don't consider the international ramifications of closing borders and rejecting immigrants. Discount women as trophies.  Further victimize the victims.  Mock the disabled.  Say the words with no understanding behind them, then sit back and watch the ignorant among us respond in kind.  I'm scared, boys and girls.  I'm really, really frightened.  

I had a beloved aunt, once, who was so stubborn that there was often no reasoning with her.  She said Mattoon, IL, was north of Chicago.  We told her it wasn't.  She insisted...so a map was produced to prove the point.  She said the map was wrong.  And that's what we are dealing with in today's world.  The truth is missing or ignored.  What is the source of your truth?  How much do you value it?  Whatever happens in the future depends on how you deal with it now.

I'm trying to find truth in my own life, so the challenge I make is not all about everyone else, so God bless you in your quest!