Each year on Halloween, I hang my bat wreath on the door, place the big bowl of candy next to the door, sweep the leaves from the sidewalk, plunk my jester hat (complete with bells and lights) on my head, then sit at my computer desk waiting for the ghoulies and ghosties to knock. And when the onslaught is over, I prepare my After-Action Report about the highlights and lowlights of the evening's activities.
The weather is 53 degrees and has been gloomy/misty most of the day, although now dry for the costumed visitors. I can officially say that there were more fallen leaves on the sidewalk to my door this year than there were last--but many less than the years previous to that. We've had a slow autumn!
Most of the trick-or-treaters to darken my front stoop this evening have been the older variety. One group was actually a party of eight younger teen girls. Earlier, one lone boy had a voice that had changed into manhood. (Now that I think of it, there were quite a few deep-voiced critters at the door.) What I noticed this year, unlike some years, was that these older youngsters were well-behaved, well-mannered, and cheery. One even turned back to wave at me as she reached the street upon departure. That was nice.
Also--purely conjecture of course--I have observed that this may be the first year that I have failed to guess several costumes because...shall we say...society is passing me by? I always try to establish what the children represent in their costumes. I'm sorry to say, I missed a few this year!
Miss #1: (Young man dressed up like a cardinal [bird])
Me: Let's see...you are a cardinal!
Kid: Nooooo....
Me: (Thinking of my Alma Mater's mascot) Then you're a redbird!
Kid: Nooooo....
Kid: I'm Angry Bird!
Me: Of course! I knew that! HAHAHAHAHA! (Truth be known, I had no clue. I mean, I've heard of the game, but had never played it. How was I supposed to know that? DUH!)
Miss #2: (Three children at the door.) The tallest was the scarecrow, from The Wizard of Oz, in the cutest homemade scarecrow costume I've ever seen. The second tallest was most obviously Dorothy from the same movie. And the littlest one--maybe five years old, dressed in black and somewhat hiding behind the scarecrow--I guessed to be Toto, Dorothy's dog. WRONG! He stepped forward, stuck his chest out to show the word SWAT in big white letters and said, indignantly, "I'm a SWAT guy!" By way of excusing myself for my stupid error, I said, "But it would have been cute if you'd been Toto, because here is Scarecrow, and here is Dorothy..... Or you could have been the lion or the tin man." He looked at me with such innocence. I could tell nothing was getting through, so
I said, "Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?" He admitted that he had not the slightest notion. I chuckled to myself. Talk about feeling ancient!!
Miss #3: (My granddaughter is just going to have to forgive me for this one.) The young lady at the door was dressed as Hermione, a character from a Harry Potter book. In my own defense, I've never read Harry Potter books, nor have I seen any of the movies...and didn't really get a good look at the costume before someone in her group volunteered who she was supposed to be. If I'd had a few more seconds to think, I would have guessed "a character from Harry Potter". Really. I would have. (That's my story. I'm sticking to it!)
I also had a "near miss": One kid took one look at me and realized that I could never guess who he was supposed to be, so he just blurted out that he was So-and-So, and even volunteered that So-and-So was a character in a computer game. Thank you, kind young'un, for thinking fast on your feet and saving me from what would surely have been my Senile Embarrassment!
Also apparent on Halloween is how times have changed since I was a kid. All of the younger children were accompanied by adults, who stood on the sidewalk by the street while their children approached the door. MOST of those adults, while not trick-or-treating, were in costume. When I was a kid, I had an older sister that was expected to take me trick-or-treating. Our parents never went. (I expect they enjoyed the hour or two of solitude!) I think I would have been delighted if my folks had ever put on costumes to take us out shamelessly asking for candy at every door, but it was a different time.
I also notice parents' training when it comes to the little ones. I won't give out candy to kids until they first say, "Trick or treat". I want to keep the tradition alive. If someone knocks and forgets to say it, I always ask, "What do you say"? Both last year and this, I've had to coach the really young ones. Most of the time, they say...."Please?"
Another encounter with a young cutie tonight showed what her parents were thinking. My guess is that she was five or so. She was with slightly older kids, but when she held out her bag, it was totally empty. I commented on it. She said, "I know. That's because I dumped it in my mom's backpack." I suspect she was required to do so. Smart! Like a money dump in a store, so there's not so much in the register in case of a robbery. Kid deposits candy with Mom so Mom can dole it out later. Kid can't eat it before Mom has a chance to inspect it. Several problems solved!
And in the Cute Department, I had a T-or-T'er who arrived at the door in one of those huge Tyrannosaurus Rex costumes. The only part of him that was visible was his face, from his ears forward. OMG! What an adorable little face it was! Totally reminded me of my grandson at that age! Hope he had a fun night!
The one downer I had was a woman--an adult--who showed up at the door. There were two children there at the same time, but she didn't seem to be with them. She barely even grunted at me. I make it a point to give candy to anyone who knocks because we never know the circumstances. Whatever...
My favorite door visitor was a teenaged young lady who wasn't in costume at all. She was wearing her (Plainfield High School) marching Bands of America hoodie. I commented on her non-costume. She mumbled, "I'm masquerading as a band kid who actually has one night off." I chuckled in recognition. I know how hard and how long marching bands work, and this is competition season for them, which means even longer and harder hours. I gave her double candy!
Halloween of 2018 is in the books. I still have a few pieces of candy left, which are earmarked for the Homeless Feeding Mission that my co-grandparent Phil takes care of at our church.
May the ghost of Halloween turn into the saint of tomorrow (All Saint's Day) for you. And I hope you had what is now known as a Happy Halloween!
And, of course, Happy Birthday in Heaven to my brother who would have turned 65 today. Eligible for Medicare! I miss you, Doug.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Thursday, October 18, 2018
Staying Inside the Lines
Years ago, a man named Robert Fulghum published a book entitled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. I'm sorry to admit that I never actually read the book, but I think I should have. It contains the basic, simple truths of living in the world. Among other things, Author Fulghum lists the following as things he learned in Kindergarten:
1. Share everything.
2. Play fair.
3. Don't hit people.
4. Put things back where you found them.
5. Clean up your own mess.
6. Don't take things that aren't yours.
7. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
8. Wash your hands before you eat.
9. Flush.
Later, he also mentions taking a nap every afternoon. I'll drink to that!
I would respectfully suggest that he missed one thing that he learned in Kindergarten that maybe I didn't catch or he accidentally left out: 10. Stay inside the lines.
What lines??
The coloring lines, of course! In those very early years of learning and gaining control of your hands and fingers, you and I were all encouraged to color inside the lines of the figures we were bringing to life with crayons. Oh, those wonderful crayons! "Color inside the lines" was a common admonition. In time, we learned. I even learned to outline the lines, darkly, with the color I was going to use to color inside the lines. To me, it made all the difference.
Kindergarten also taught us that we were to walk the school halls in single-file lines behind the teachers, like little ducklings following the mother duck. Act up in line or get out of line and you were scolded and/or punished. If you were really good, you got to be the line leader--a position of considerable pride and envy. (Truth be known, many unworthy kids end up toward the beginning of the line just to be close to the teacher for control purposes. No teacher worth his/her salt EVER lets an unruly student bring up the rear!)
Walking in lines in school is all about discipline and control. The teacher is one adult in charge of 25 (more or less) children. If you've ever worked with a group of two or three young children at a time, you surely understand the need for lines. I was behind a woman with two young boys in the check-out line at the grocery store today. Oh my! Try more and see what you think!
The ability to stay within the lines is a marker in society. If you aren't patient enough to do it, you are "in line" for anxiety and disappointment. We stay in lines at the grocery store, the drive-thru, the bank, the theater. Even at restaurants. It's all about taking turns and sharing...and being fair.
It's also an applicable metaphor for a way of being in the world. You can be a jerk to assert your demands on society, or you can decide to be kind. I've read too many stories about people who decided to live their lives outside of the lines because it is their right to do so, but then complain when they lost their jobs or their loved ones gave up on them.
Yes, dear Americans, you have rights. You don't have to stay within society's lines; HOWEVER, if you represent a church, a school, a business, a club, or any other entity whose very existence is based on its good name, you have to stay inside the lines. If you don't, they are going to cut ties. Period. Your "rights" don't mean crap in those cases.
Yes, the squeaky wheel does get the grease. Not everyone who plays by the rules wins. Still, the whole idea of a conscience has a place.
Why do I write all of this? I am angry that the president of our country has thrown all rules to the wind. He is outside of every line that I've always considered civil and respectful and honest. The only lines to acknowledge are the ones HE has established. The rest of us who believe otherwise can just go pound sand. You will not witness me calling him names, however, because he is the president of our country, and I stay inside the lines--lines that even he can't stay within.
Although I end this on a negative note, I'm really not feeling so badly about things. I still have faith in the goodness of people. I still have faith that MOST people stay inside the lines. Wisely or foolishly, following the rules of civility, decency, and respect will go so much farther in the long run than running amok on the coloring sheet.
I may be a dinosaur in modern society, but I do care about the rules of law, the rules of fairness, and the rules of staying inside the lines. What does that make me? A brontosaurus???
1. Share everything.
2. Play fair.
3. Don't hit people.
4. Put things back where you found them.
5. Clean up your own mess.
6. Don't take things that aren't yours.
7. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
8. Wash your hands before you eat.
9. Flush.
Later, he also mentions taking a nap every afternoon. I'll drink to that!
I would respectfully suggest that he missed one thing that he learned in Kindergarten that maybe I didn't catch or he accidentally left out: 10. Stay inside the lines.
What lines??
The coloring lines, of course! In those very early years of learning and gaining control of your hands and fingers, you and I were all encouraged to color inside the lines of the figures we were bringing to life with crayons. Oh, those wonderful crayons! "Color inside the lines" was a common admonition. In time, we learned. I even learned to outline the lines, darkly, with the color I was going to use to color inside the lines. To me, it made all the difference.
Kindergarten also taught us that we were to walk the school halls in single-file lines behind the teachers, like little ducklings following the mother duck. Act up in line or get out of line and you were scolded and/or punished. If you were really good, you got to be the line leader--a position of considerable pride and envy. (Truth be known, many unworthy kids end up toward the beginning of the line just to be close to the teacher for control purposes. No teacher worth his/her salt EVER lets an unruly student bring up the rear!)
Walking in lines in school is all about discipline and control. The teacher is one adult in charge of 25 (more or less) children. If you've ever worked with a group of two or three young children at a time, you surely understand the need for lines. I was behind a woman with two young boys in the check-out line at the grocery store today. Oh my! Try more and see what you think!
The ability to stay within the lines is a marker in society. If you aren't patient enough to do it, you are "in line" for anxiety and disappointment. We stay in lines at the grocery store, the drive-thru, the bank, the theater. Even at restaurants. It's all about taking turns and sharing...and being fair.
It's also an applicable metaphor for a way of being in the world. You can be a jerk to assert your demands on society, or you can decide to be kind. I've read too many stories about people who decided to live their lives outside of the lines because it is their right to do so, but then complain when they lost their jobs or their loved ones gave up on them.
Yes, dear Americans, you have rights. You don't have to stay within society's lines; HOWEVER, if you represent a church, a school, a business, a club, or any other entity whose very existence is based on its good name, you have to stay inside the lines. If you don't, they are going to cut ties. Period. Your "rights" don't mean crap in those cases.
Yes, the squeaky wheel does get the grease. Not everyone who plays by the rules wins. Still, the whole idea of a conscience has a place.
Why do I write all of this? I am angry that the president of our country has thrown all rules to the wind. He is outside of every line that I've always considered civil and respectful and honest. The only lines to acknowledge are the ones HE has established. The rest of us who believe otherwise can just go pound sand. You will not witness me calling him names, however, because he is the president of our country, and I stay inside the lines--lines that even he can't stay within.
Although I end this on a negative note, I'm really not feeling so badly about things. I still have faith in the goodness of people. I still have faith that MOST people stay inside the lines. Wisely or foolishly, following the rules of civility, decency, and respect will go so much farther in the long run than running amok on the coloring sheet.
I may be a dinosaur in modern society, but I do care about the rules of law, the rules of fairness, and the rules of staying inside the lines. What does that make me? A brontosaurus???
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Music Hath Charms...
Just slightly two years ago, we buried my brother-in-law. I humbly officiated the services, but my heart was only in it for my sister. I had asked if a bagpiper could be present at the gravesite because my BIL was originally Canadian and loved the bagpipes, as I do. The funeral home had one they call on, and my sister was willing to pay for it.
The day we buried Roger was a mild and sunshiny day in September. The piper was already in place as we gathered at the graveside. He soon started with Amazing Grace, which is what we had requested...and then he played something else. Something strangely familiar but NOT Amazing Grace. Long after we returned home and were relaxing after the sad services, I got online on YouTube and typed "funeral bagpipes" in the search engine. Instantly, the song of the piper appeared and made me cry: Going Home. Roger was "going home" to the Master, and all the rest of us could do was celebrate that. I'll never, ever forget how the piper finished his performance by simply walking away toward the woods, fading into the distance. What a powerful moment it was!
I am also reminded of another family funeral song. My favorite uncle--my mother's brother--was a career Army officer. When he passed, it had already been established that the Gary Owen would be played at his funeral. In order to find it on YouTube, it has to be recognized as garyowen. If you hear it, you will recognize it. Every movie with an old-fashioned cavalry in it plays the Gary Owen. Now, every time I hear it, I am reminded of my uncle whose life was devoted to the United States Army. May God rest his soul.
My turn will come, some day soon. I'm trying to decide what song I want to represent my life. There are so many that I love!! Time will tell.... Time will tell.
The day we buried Roger was a mild and sunshiny day in September. The piper was already in place as we gathered at the graveside. He soon started with Amazing Grace, which is what we had requested...and then he played something else. Something strangely familiar but NOT Amazing Grace. Long after we returned home and were relaxing after the sad services, I got online on YouTube and typed "funeral bagpipes" in the search engine. Instantly, the song of the piper appeared and made me cry: Going Home. Roger was "going home" to the Master, and all the rest of us could do was celebrate that. I'll never, ever forget how the piper finished his performance by simply walking away toward the woods, fading into the distance. What a powerful moment it was!
I am also reminded of another family funeral song. My favorite uncle--my mother's brother--was a career Army officer. When he passed, it had already been established that the Gary Owen would be played at his funeral. In order to find it on YouTube, it has to be recognized as garyowen. If you hear it, you will recognize it. Every movie with an old-fashioned cavalry in it plays the Gary Owen. Now, every time I hear it, I am reminded of my uncle whose life was devoted to the United States Army. May God rest his soul.
My turn will come, some day soon. I'm trying to decide what song I want to represent my life. There are so many that I love!! Time will tell.... Time will tell.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
My Little House on a Slab
Once upon a time, I was a married lady.
We had moved to Indiana from Illinois so that my then-husband could fill an administrative position in a school district in Cloverdale, IN.
We started out in a rental house, then bought a nice home in the community, but everything soon went awry when his eye turned away from me and to his school secretary.
I filed for divorce.
I had not been an Indiana resident long enough to know where to go or what to do. Guided by a colleague, Phyllis, I set my eyes on Plainfield, and rented part of what is called a "double" in Indiana but the rest of the world calls a "duplex". It was big enough for my daughter and me, but it wasn't mine.
In the divorce, I had willingly given up the Cloverdale home because I had no desire to stay in the community and could not have afforded the house by myself, but a huge part of my heart said that our child should not have to suffer in a rented duplex while her father had the luxury of a house with 2,000 square feet of living space.
The owner of the duplex was a real estate agent who had faith in me as an educator. After about seven months, I began to wonder if there wasn't someplace I could buy. I called and talked to her. I asked if she could find a house for me and my daughter, and if she would be willing to let me break the lease for a sale. She was willing. She directed me to a couple of homes in the Hillcrest subdivision--both of which had similar floor plans. One had a half-bath that the other didn't have, and a covered patio, both of which were a big draw for me. Although it didn't have central air conditioning, I figured I could always add AC but that it would be far too expensive to add another bathroom...so I went for the one with the extra half-bath. The gal directed me about how to put in an offer, and the rest is history. I will never forget her saying, "Peg, this is the only house you will ever need." I think there were times when both Meg and I wished we had more space, but the gal was right. We managed.
I needed a downpayment, and the kind of loan available to me required that the downpayment be a gift rather than a loan. I approached my father. Dad really, really wanted me to move back to the farm in Illinois. He agreed to give me the money, saying only, "I suppose this means you'll become a Hoosier"...and he spat out the Hoosier word as if it were a curse. In spite of that, he didn't even blink about giving me $5,000 to put down on my little house-on-a-slab. Since the house was all on one level, I just knew that I would move him in with me when the time came. It didn't happen...
We moved in at the end of March of 1992. As soon as summer came, I contracted to have central air put in and taught summer school to help pay for it. Over the years of living in the little house, things went wrong. (They usually do!) I always, always had one or more friends who helped fix things. I almost lost the house once to foreclosure when stupid things happened. All I could do was contact the mortgage company and beg for forbearance. It worked, but for almost a year, I was making close to double house payments just to catch up. It was a horrible time. I lost a lot of sleep over this but saved my house!
This tiny little house was more than just a place for us to live. It became the roots that I never had as a kid...the roots that I really wanted my own child to have after several home moves that had her unnerved. After the year 2000, she was old enough to begin to test her wings to move on. She married and had children and left my nest. I dug in. I wore out a couple of cars driving to where she was at any given time, thinking I could help, while always maintaining a place for us to be.
Along about 2007, my daughter left her husband and moved in with me, with the children. I didn't know it was coming. Had no clue. (Neither did he.) But I did everything I could do to make my little house a home for them. We remodeled the house to create bedrooms for us all. She provided most of the funds through school grants, etc. It worked until she fell in love with a foreign student out of Indiana State University. She gave up custody of the children to their father in a horrible way, and followed the student to California. I was devastated, but I still had my little home that had housed us all. In time, all of that changed again. They moved back to the Midwest as husband and wife, then regained custody of the children through some not great circumstances, and things settled down.
Through it all, I've still been in my little house. Since I bought the house, I've done everything I could to keep it, in spite of lack of funds, made somewhat worse when I retired in 2009.
Then yesterday, in talking to a rep from the mortgage bank, I found out that there is such a thing as "netting the escrow". That means that there is more money in escrow than the balance on the account. I learned that I could direct the bank to pay off the mortgage with the escrow money, seven months early...which I did today. Thus, after 26 years of struggle, I am suddenly to be the owner, free and clear, of my tiny little house on a slab of concrete. Am I happy about that? You betcha!
Although I am patting myself on the back a lot, I am soooo grateful for all of the people who helped me get through, starting with my father's gift back in 1992. All that I have, I've been gifted. Except for the stubbornness to push on, which came from my mother and grandmother. (I guess those are gifts, too!) Until I have the papers in my hand that say that my mortgage is paid in full, I'll hold my breath, but they're coming. Praise God, they're coming! And praise God for sticking with me all these years!
We had moved to Indiana from Illinois so that my then-husband could fill an administrative position in a school district in Cloverdale, IN.
We started out in a rental house, then bought a nice home in the community, but everything soon went awry when his eye turned away from me and to his school secretary.
I filed for divorce.
I had not been an Indiana resident long enough to know where to go or what to do. Guided by a colleague, Phyllis, I set my eyes on Plainfield, and rented part of what is called a "double" in Indiana but the rest of the world calls a "duplex". It was big enough for my daughter and me, but it wasn't mine.
In the divorce, I had willingly given up the Cloverdale home because I had no desire to stay in the community and could not have afforded the house by myself, but a huge part of my heart said that our child should not have to suffer in a rented duplex while her father had the luxury of a house with 2,000 square feet of living space.
The owner of the duplex was a real estate agent who had faith in me as an educator. After about seven months, I began to wonder if there wasn't someplace I could buy. I called and talked to her. I asked if she could find a house for me and my daughter, and if she would be willing to let me break the lease for a sale. She was willing. She directed me to a couple of homes in the Hillcrest subdivision--both of which had similar floor plans. One had a half-bath that the other didn't have, and a covered patio, both of which were a big draw for me. Although it didn't have central air conditioning, I figured I could always add AC but that it would be far too expensive to add another bathroom...so I went for the one with the extra half-bath. The gal directed me about how to put in an offer, and the rest is history. I will never forget her saying, "Peg, this is the only house you will ever need." I think there were times when both Meg and I wished we had more space, but the gal was right. We managed.
I needed a downpayment, and the kind of loan available to me required that the downpayment be a gift rather than a loan. I approached my father. Dad really, really wanted me to move back to the farm in Illinois. He agreed to give me the money, saying only, "I suppose this means you'll become a Hoosier"...and he spat out the Hoosier word as if it were a curse. In spite of that, he didn't even blink about giving me $5,000 to put down on my little house-on-a-slab. Since the house was all on one level, I just knew that I would move him in with me when the time came. It didn't happen...
We moved in at the end of March of 1992. As soon as summer came, I contracted to have central air put in and taught summer school to help pay for it. Over the years of living in the little house, things went wrong. (They usually do!) I always, always had one or more friends who helped fix things. I almost lost the house once to foreclosure when stupid things happened. All I could do was contact the mortgage company and beg for forbearance. It worked, but for almost a year, I was making close to double house payments just to catch up. It was a horrible time. I lost a lot of sleep over this but saved my house!
This tiny little house was more than just a place for us to live. It became the roots that I never had as a kid...the roots that I really wanted my own child to have after several home moves that had her unnerved. After the year 2000, she was old enough to begin to test her wings to move on. She married and had children and left my nest. I dug in. I wore out a couple of cars driving to where she was at any given time, thinking I could help, while always maintaining a place for us to be.
Along about 2007, my daughter left her husband and moved in with me, with the children. I didn't know it was coming. Had no clue. (Neither did he.) But I did everything I could do to make my little house a home for them. We remodeled the house to create bedrooms for us all. She provided most of the funds through school grants, etc. It worked until she fell in love with a foreign student out of Indiana State University. She gave up custody of the children to their father in a horrible way, and followed the student to California. I was devastated, but I still had my little home that had housed us all. In time, all of that changed again. They moved back to the Midwest as husband and wife, then regained custody of the children through some not great circumstances, and things settled down.
Through it all, I've still been in my little house. Since I bought the house, I've done everything I could to keep it, in spite of lack of funds, made somewhat worse when I retired in 2009.
Then yesterday, in talking to a rep from the mortgage bank, I found out that there is such a thing as "netting the escrow". That means that there is more money in escrow than the balance on the account. I learned that I could direct the bank to pay off the mortgage with the escrow money, seven months early...which I did today. Thus, after 26 years of struggle, I am suddenly to be the owner, free and clear, of my tiny little house on a slab of concrete. Am I happy about that? You betcha!
Although I am patting myself on the back a lot, I am soooo grateful for all of the people who helped me get through, starting with my father's gift back in 1992. All that I have, I've been gifted. Except for the stubbornness to push on, which came from my mother and grandmother. (I guess those are gifts, too!) Until I have the papers in my hand that say that my mortgage is paid in full, I'll hold my breath, but they're coming. Praise God, they're coming! And praise God for sticking with me all these years!
Monday, October 1, 2018
Lights and Sirens
Am I the only one that gets goosebumps when emergency vehicles force me to pull over and wait until they pass?
Yesterday, I got into a mini-traffic jam due to an accident on the roadway going to a lunch date. Bother! When I got close to the crash site, I was humbled. It was a nasty one, on a road with a 45 mph speed limit. A car had hit the rear of a box van, and the car was totally destroyed. If the car's driver survived, I'd be surprised. Going past things like that kind of slows one down, ya know?
In my granddaughter's Catholic Phase of her development (an entirely different post), she would hear sirens and say, "Somebody's in trouble." She would cross herself and say a little prayer for whatever or whomever the sirens were for. I was so impressed by her innocent care for those she didn't even know.
Once upon a time, those lights and sirens were for me. I got up on August 1, 2009, and didn't feel well. Things weren't working right. I finally told my daughter (who was living with me then) that I needed medical attention. We weren't thinking properly, so instead of calling for an ambulance for indistinct symptoms, she drove me to the fire department, at my request. They put me in an ambulance to take me to the hospital. No big deal. Nothing going on, really. No lights and sirens along the way...until we got close to the hospital when my heart decided to act up. The EMT asked for the driver to turn on lights and sirens "just because he didn't want to be stuck in traffic". The real reason, of course, is that I was having the heart attack that my earlier symptoms had foretold, right there in the ambulance. My poor daughter, who was right behind the ambulance, got confused, looking for the emergency vehicle that was sounding off. It was right in front of her and contained her mother!
To this day, whenever I see lights and hear sirens, I do what the law tells me to do. Whoever is "in trouble" deserves this. I get the same feeling when I am in a funeral caravan, and drivers on the opposite side of the road pull over out of respect for the departed that they don't even know.
Bless those that respond to emergencies. Bless those who need the help. Bless those who need the rest of us to understand what got them to that place of respect. May the lights and sirens never have to be for you!
Yesterday, I got into a mini-traffic jam due to an accident on the roadway going to a lunch date. Bother! When I got close to the crash site, I was humbled. It was a nasty one, on a road with a 45 mph speed limit. A car had hit the rear of a box van, and the car was totally destroyed. If the car's driver survived, I'd be surprised. Going past things like that kind of slows one down, ya know?
In my granddaughter's Catholic Phase of her development (an entirely different post), she would hear sirens and say, "Somebody's in trouble." She would cross herself and say a little prayer for whatever or whomever the sirens were for. I was so impressed by her innocent care for those she didn't even know.
Once upon a time, those lights and sirens were for me. I got up on August 1, 2009, and didn't feel well. Things weren't working right. I finally told my daughter (who was living with me then) that I needed medical attention. We weren't thinking properly, so instead of calling for an ambulance for indistinct symptoms, she drove me to the fire department, at my request. They put me in an ambulance to take me to the hospital. No big deal. Nothing going on, really. No lights and sirens along the way...until we got close to the hospital when my heart decided to act up. The EMT asked for the driver to turn on lights and sirens "just because he didn't want to be stuck in traffic". The real reason, of course, is that I was having the heart attack that my earlier symptoms had foretold, right there in the ambulance. My poor daughter, who was right behind the ambulance, got confused, looking for the emergency vehicle that was sounding off. It was right in front of her and contained her mother!
To this day, whenever I see lights and hear sirens, I do what the law tells me to do. Whoever is "in trouble" deserves this. I get the same feeling when I am in a funeral caravan, and drivers on the opposite side of the road pull over out of respect for the departed that they don't even know.
Bless those that respond to emergencies. Bless those who need the help. Bless those who need the rest of us to understand what got them to that place of respect. May the lights and sirens never have to be for you!