Monday was my birthday.

Tuesday was my God daughters.

Wednesday is my Grand Son's.

An this Friday is my close friends.

My Grand Father (rest his soul) was born 9 days before me.

The man who works at my Walmart store was born 2 days before me.

Where having one Big Party for all of us this week.

I'm cleaning the fish from my fishing trips for all of us to eat.

It sounds a little crazy but I swear this is all true.

I'll be surrounded by lots of Cancer's

Each is adorable and cute.

All of us have good hearts but our ages are 4 to 72.

I plan to be here next year and we'll celebrate anew.

(transcribed)

When I first joined here it was a good distraction and at some point I thought I was doing some kind of good. I hope I did. Now I am down to just voting, seeding and making one or two word comments. That was fine, but all of a sudden those who would not say hi to me if they came across me in the street (even sick), are trolling seeds and attacking me in emails. The stress will simply kill me at this point...so good-bye.

My Family is more important than overseeing a bunch of petty extremists and nut jobs.

To the MANY who have been friends..Thank you! I am not dead...I still enjoy many of your articles and seeds and will pop in and out for a vote and a wink.

Warning: When and if things improve and the doctor ok's it, I will be back.

Maddad

Mark

Well so far June, 2011 will go down in history as a fairly crappy month. Right up front this is not about "poor me", in fact the point I hope to get across is quite the opposite.

It is certainly one thing for a person to be struck with an illness or disease that no one could have seen coming, or explain. Then there are those moments in time, when you realize and begin to accept that you have earned every bit of pain and discomfort you are experiencing. I want this to serve as a warning to the young and still stupid. You can make better decisions now.

I picked up my first drink at around 12 years old. I stole a sealed bottle of Lord Calvert from the 3rd step-father....I blacked out, got my ass kicked...and couldn't wait to do it again....

There are few old school drugs I have not at-least tried...from my first duty station in the Navy to mid-life I periodically went on binges that would often end in unexplained head injuries and county jail cells.

The fact is, although I am a recovering, productive (as much as health will allow) member of my family and community today, the damage done has a good memory....So what did all that FUN get me?

After 3 years of misdiagnosis...I was told I was having "Panic Attacks" I had my 1st gran mal seizure of 3 within 24 hours on June 2, 2011....apparently I was having little ones for awhile. (around 3 years...)

My memory has been weak since 2005 after I came out of a 6 day coma that my family was told I would never wake from, now my daily thought life is like an "Etch-n-Sketch", after every petite mal, my day starts over. The meds they gave me 1st are not working, so I have started another, both poison and I can't stop the original for at-least 2 months...they have put me in a study using Aricept on multiple brain trauma patients with memory loss....along with about 4 other "wonder" drugs my stomach has become a toxic mess.

At 44 years old, one more gran mal without someone around, and it very well could be over....

So youngins, you have the same choice we all do. It didn't seem to matter when I was 18 or 25, but today with 2 boys at home under 10 and the most beautiful little 5 year old girl on the planet.......well you do the figuring.

I am positive all will work out, the mini stroke didn't effect much long term, and one of these manufactured poisons is going to work.

So by all means, have a good time, drink, smoke and party all night...just once in awhile, think of those who one day will be lost after your funeral...

Just My Experience & Opinion.

Maddad

It's Fathers Day weekend

It means we'll get more ties

Some of us will get socks

Some might even get new tires

It's Father's Day Weekend

I might just get a new Grill

Means I'll be doing the cooking

But I know I'll just have to break it in

It's Fathers Day weekend

Will we get breakfast in bed

Will we get a new Lawn Mower

That John Deer looks to be expensive

Will it be a new weed eater

Or a nice mulcher will do

What ever we get it surely come from you

It will come from the heart

It will come with a smile

It will be gladly accepted

On this day of days

The one day for us

The real Fathers this day

With the Fourth of July right around the corner, many of us will be getting together to spend the holiday with family and friends (furry or human). There will be family reunions, picnics, parades and of course, barbeque's! We might watch fireworks or light them off ourselves and there will probably be some good food cooking on the grill and great music playing in the background. So that got me thinking.......What songs would you want to listen to while you celebrate the 4th of July? In honor of the American holiday and with a nod to a "Lady" (Bug) viner who did something like this once before, I will write the name of a song and the artist or band who performs it and then the next person has to take any word out of the song title and come up with another song and list that artist or band........and so on and so on.

So for just a little while, let's forget our troubles and let's have some fun!!

Memorial Day, a day to remember those who have died in service to their country.

Many towns and villages began to honor those who fought and died during the War Between the States. Some while the war ground on and some when the smoke finally cleared exposing the horrific sacrifices of so many.

“…Memorial Day was officially proclaimed on 5 May 1868 by General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, in his General order #11. The day was first observed on 30 May 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. The first state to officially recognize the holiday was New York in 1873. By 1890 it was recognized by all of the northern states. The South refused to acknowledge the day, honoring their dead on separate days until after World War I (when the holiday changed from honoring just those who died fighting in the Civil War to honoring Americans who died fighting in any war). It is now celebrated in almost every State on the last Monday in May...”

So many lives cut short in service to their country.
Worldwide there are similar celebrations honoring, and immortalizing, people who gave their lives for a cause they deemed greater than the continuation of their life.
Lives sacrificing all that could be.
That moment with a loved one embracing the future, as if you owned it, gone in a flash of unheard light.
Taking your child’s hand as you cross the road erased from the future, by present urgencies, demanding you do things you never believed possible.
The stories, true and fabricated, that mold a family history, now include an abrupt footnote for many.
All gone in the snap of uncaring time!

It is right to honor so many that gave up so much. Lives traded so the present generation can struggle with creating a world that doesn’t need armed conflict as a ready resolution to disputes.

Thank you for fighting for Irish freedom, for the Union Army, against the Kaiser and his hordes, against the Nazis and the Japanese.
I only knew a few of you - I wish I had known all of you.
Thank you to those friends who lost so much of their innocence in Viet Nam. Some stayed there forever, and some returned to their homes trying to carry a burden only those who were there comprehend.
Past and present conflicts tearing at our youth, chewing them up faster than they can be raised to serve.

Honor life while rejecting death.

Perhaps the greatest honor we can bless the dead with is the promise to quit killing them in the future.

A Message On Memorial Day

When I joined you I was a dumb Hillbilly From West Virginia.

At home I barely ever talked to your kind.

I thought there was nothing we could ever have in common.

I tried to stay separate from you and never learn your names.

I tried my best to stay alive so I could someday go home.

What does a chicken @!$%# war hawk that has never worn the uniform know about staying alive?

What does a silver spoon puke know about the love and respect created in combat?

What could a career student or politician know about horror and blood and loss?

Why can't all those bigots, racists, sexist, homophobes, corporatists and religious zelots understand that when you are fighting for your life and your friends, FRIENDS are dying all around you, that its not the Color of your skin, Sex or Sexual orientation that matters...

What matters is that your friend is dying, and you have failed, and now there is no one to watch your back.

What matters is that every hop and every op is a piece of your sanity and your soul ripped from you, making you less human and more animal. And if you are not vigilant there is no help waiting to turn it off when you come home.

What really matters in the end, what determines whether you live or die and come back sane or insane... is tossing out the bull@!$%# of whether you are black or white, brown or yellow or red, gay or straight, male or female, republican or democrat.. what truly matters in the end... is either we are brothers now and forever...or we are dead...I got your backs Bro's... thank you for getting mine.

Thank you for teaching me the most important lesson of my life.

Thank you for helping me to learn what truly matters in this world.

Thank you for covering my back when in the @!$%#.

Thank you for helping me get home alive!

You will all be welcome at my table now and forever.

May God protect you in the time you have left and come home safe.

I love you guys.

In Country 69

As Mothers' Day quickly approaches, my mind is all about Mom. With a twist.

I could tell Mom for hours on end what she means to me and everything about her that is integrated into my being from my earliest memories forward. I could tell her she is one of a kind. That her graciousness and beauty and talent for entertaining and sociability put her in a class all by itself. How I channel her at times without even trying—good and bad—almost as if I'm having an out-of-body experience. That for the basic characteristics we share, we are every bit as different in others.

Not only could I tell her, I do. And continue to.

Except there's no indication she comprehends. Alzheimers has taken her so far away that we will never get her back.

When I share these more intimate details of my life, I feel like I'm exploiting Mom and my family for attention and consolation. But that is far from my intent. In fact, I often don't know what to say when people react sympathetically. I mean, what can you say? My writings are a reaction to some situation or stimuli; I share my work in hopes others can relate or find comfort/worth in my words.

For fifteen years, we have watched Mom fade away at a snail's pace. There were almost humorous incidents at first. Absentmindedness…Like not absorbing the simplicity of writing an address as simple as "1414."How do I write that? She ended up writing the words "Fourteen-Fourteen." She just couldn't wrap her head around writing the numbers. The disconnect was surfacing.

Within five years, Mom could no longer live alone and family members took turns as her caretakers. By the tenth year, it was time for a nursing home because her needs were beyond our capabilities. Now in her sixth year there, staff marvel at Mom's resilience and physical health. "She eats well," they say. She's practically their poster child to contradict people's fears that a nursing home expedites decline.

That being said, Mom stopped speaking about two years ago. She barely opens her eyes. When pressed for a reaction, it's as if you're pulling her out of an alternate universe and back into ours. But her trips here are extremely brief; it's almost as if she can't wait to retreat back to where she lingers. My fantasy is that she's in a happy limbo surrounded by those who have passed, assuring her that wherever she is, she is loved. As naive as it sounds, it's one of the ways we who struggle to understand this mind boggling condition cope.

Friends of mine who have lost family members with Alzheimers usually lose them within five years. Why Mom continues to dwell in this netherworld, I do not know. It's not that we want to lose her; we just don't understand how it's possible someone can "live without living" years on end.

Watching the deterioration is beyond sad. Even worse is the inability—and accepting the inability—to improve Mom's status. Coming to that realization has at times caused bouts of depression and upheaval among those of us closest to her because we know the direction in which she is moving but we are in our own state of suspended animation as it continues for as long as it continues.

Not without faults, Mom's greatest failing in life was a lack of confidence in herself and her potential. She never really had an opportunity to spread her wings and fly, nor did she believe herself capable of doing so. Still, nothing Mom has done warrants this sentence. In fact, it's not something I would wish on the most despicable of people.

So you'll understand if I give in to nostalgia this Mothers' Day and prefer to remember what was--instead of what is. If I publicly explore the overwhelming challenge of letting go of someone in slow motion as heart strings stretch beyond threadbare.

The only solace is letting myself feel Mom's love and believing she loves each one of us to the best of her ability. Sincere and deep, not overly demonstrative but never cold, she strived to do the right thing in every situation and you rarely left her feeling anything but warmer for the experience.

I love Mom. Her legacy will always be unconditional love. She gave it, ached for it and in the oddest of ways, somehow communicates it—even in her current state.

Perhaps the greatest irony of all are Mom's words in her productive days when faced with frustration or pressure: "I just want to be left alone." I'm pretty sure this isn't what she meant.

Here I sit in-front of this infernal machine, wearing the stretchy pants this afternoon.....

The food was great! Although I generally do the cooking at the Maddad house, on holidays I step aside. The best arrangement on earth.

After dinner I started thinking....about family that although live within an hour's drive, I have not spoken to in at-least 5 years. I remembered big family dinners at grandma's house when I was young. The aunts, uncle, great-aunts, cousins, etc....that I have either completely lost track of over the years, or who have died......some I found myself shedding a brief tear for, others I was shocked had even flashed before my eyes. Who would I invite to the holiday dinner to end all holiday dinners? Old friends, family, hell, even viners....who would you have at your table if distance, death and old resentment were not stumbling blocks?

Thanks for your time & I look forward to your thoughts.

Maddad

With the rain pouring down With the wind howling around The lights going out Those fierce and unearthly sounds. We did not sit in silence We did not sit in fear We laughed amongst ourselves We played games and told stories dear

This morning the boys are at the bus stop and heading back to school. Spring Break has been a learning experience and one that I am already planning how not to have so much next year.

I love all my children with everything that I am, I would never stop fighting for them or their rights as human-beings and Americans, I am just happy as a pig in his own crap that the public school system, despite some political ram fighting, is up and running and these kids are back to learning the most valuable lessons in life.

So the real question comes down to who learned what during this preview of the summer heat? Looks like me.

My sons are 8 & 9, up till this past couple of weeks, they have been restricted to a large yard (1/4 of an acre). As some of you may recall from my early writing here, I have been the victim and father of a victim of childhood sexual abuse. One of the apparent results for me has been my unwillingness to let the kids go and ride their bikes and play with their friends in our neighborhood. Well, I gave it a whirl....The oldest almost got killed pulling out in-front of a car...he didn't think those signs were for kids....and the youngest was wheeling and dealing, trading up toys and electronics. The last 3 or 4 days they were back in the yard, along with 4-6 neighborhood kids. Thanks goodness for bottled water!

So now I know. No matter how much I think I am doing to protect these kids, they are going to grow, spread their wings and will be exposed to a world that can be dangerous and perverted. But, they are also going to find new ideas and see things they never knew could exist. It seems we just keep rediscovering our world and finding things that were missed. They will make friends that will stand by them for the rest of their lives and some that will be fighting with them on the bus in a month. They will find their way, I can either loosen my grip slowly and with caution, or they will rip themselves from my grasp.

I will always walk around with a daily delusion that I am in some kid of control, and in many ways I have to be. However, much of it is an obvious illusion, an illusion that is serving this father just fine.

Maddad

"It is important that you recognize your progress and take pride in your accomplishments. Share your achievements with others. Brag a little. The recognition and support of those around you is nurturing." Rosemary Rossetti

Last Valentine's Day I received an email in response to a story I wrote in which the writer suggested I was subtly thumbing my nose at the never married and/or divorced. The writer, a man, told me that, by referencing all the years I have been joyfully married, I was basically proclaiming, "I did it right," while others, less fortunate than I, had gotten it all wrong.

I've been stewing over those comments for awhile now. Is it possible that people, women in particular, find it offensive that I publicly stated my "success?" I suppose that someone still looking for her knight in shining armor might be a little jealous. Heaven knows I was after my first marriage debacle.

But that was then and this is now. Should I pretend to be someone I'm not? Should I allude to dissatisfaction I don't feel just so others will feel better about themselves? Isn't knowing that happiness is not just an illusion something to celebrate?

The first twenty-five years of my life were spent in hell on earth. At the time, it was located on Polk Street in West New York, New Jersey. Then I met my husband. He rescued me when I was at my lowest point and damn near drowning in self-pity. Long before we said, "I do," he made it clear that he would stand beside me without complaint through whatever trials and tribulations came our way. Yes, I did say trials and tribulations. Does anyone really think that two people, living together for more than a day, have not had hurdles and hoops to jump through on the path to happily ever after?

First of all, I came to this marriage with baggage -- lots and lots of baggage. My childhood was aggressively dysfunctional, which propelled me into an early first marriage to the male equivalent of my mother, the original Wicked Witch of the West. Surviving that foray into matrimony with my life was a miracle. Like any soldier returning from battle, I suffered post traumatic stress disorder long before it had a recognizable name.

When I married my present husband two years later, I was combative, surly, distrustful, fearful, suspicious and just out and out nasty if the pressure got too great. My "run" reflex was strong, and I fought it daily, especially when doubt got into the ring with reason and threw a few too many punches at my self-confidence. Rarely during the first year did I speak to my husband in a civil tone if I felt threatened. Yelling at the top of my lungs was SOP. My mom was a screamer and no one took advantage of her so, naturally, I thought that was the way to prove my superiority. Luckily, he never raised his voice in return and potential arguments died from lack of sustenance.

Whenever I rode the seesaw of emotions, my husband sat calmly on the other side, placed his feet firmly on the ground and balanced my world. He kept me level when I felt my life was somersaulting around me. I lost count of how many times he said, "You don't have to yell. I'm standing right here. I can hear you. Just talk to me." Eventually, I realized he not only heard me, he was also listening very carefully; and he was smart enough to understand the meaning behind the words I babbled in pain and frustration.

Together we've grown strong not from the good times but from the bad. Failed business ventures, accidents, injuries, disease and death -- we've seen our share. We've struggled through little problems like the toilet seat being left up and the cap being left off the toothpaste, and we've stood strong against people both outside and inside our families who were intent on seeing us fail. We are each other's buffer when the winds of misfortune blow at hurricane force.

Thirty-five years later, we're still standing hand and hand against the enemy at the gate. Is our life perfect? Of course not, but when the door closes at night and we are home together, there is nowhere else I want to be. No one gets through this life without having to contend with lots of bumps and bruises. That I have found the one person I want to massage the weight of the world off my shoulders is, indeed, a miracle. That he feels the same way about me is a gift for which I am forever and always grateful.

So, yes, I claim bragging rights. I've earned them. I have a good marriage not because "I did it right," but because somehow I was lucky enough to find a man who loves me with all his heart despite my shortcomings. I don't take that for granted. Each day in every way, I make sure he knows how very grateful I am.

The only sage piece of advice my mother ever gave me was, "If you want something bad enough, you'll get it." On this Valentine's Day, I wish you all an abundance of love and laughter in your lives. Now, go out there and get 'em.

Why is winter white so blue?

Well I'll tell you

it is reflection

did a light go on?

then there was introspection

the season of white may be a Polar blight

to some on further inspection

I think that is not right,

Winter breeds thoughts so bright

that the moon at night

is but a wee light bulb,

Blanketed beneath that snow and frost

are words and pictures not yet lost

that are new seeds that ripen

and spring across

the new morning gloss,

Cold may be blue across that tundra view

but underneath is life for you

deep inside that earthen muse

a mind of red fire lit

just a bit

by thoughts of dreams

and quiet schemes

of days that do not end,

Age retires

but in those fires

burns the sage of life

those people older

are not colder

and may be bolder

because they overcame much strife,

Winters season

is our lasting reason

to capture all we can

youth has spring and summer

but winter comes after

the Fall for us all

do not wait for a call,

Wisdom of the ages

are in those yellowed pages

sitting home right next to you

listen to their stories

and all of their past glories

because they have been looking out for you

for all this long.

You learn from your family, you learn history, memories, lessons, you learn hardship and fellowship.

Family is life.

Don't forget them and hang on for dear life to them.

We all disappear as quickly as a snow flake.

I grew up in Colorado, and back in the 1970's there were places in the mountains you could go and pay a flat fee of about $10 to cut your own Christmas tree. Sounds like a great family outing... in theory.

Dad always managed to plan the tree-cutting event on what would end up being the absolutely coldest day of the winter. I don't know if he did that on purpose, or if it just ended up that way. The year I was about eight years old, we woke up on a frigid Saturday morning and Dad made the announcement at the breakfast table: "Bundle up, kids! Today we go get our tree!"

Dad had a circa-1951, Korean war era, Willys army Jeep, painted baby blue and covered from stem to stern with bumper stickers sporting things like "Ma Bell is a cheap mother", vintage beer logos, and several VFW, Elk's Lodge and American Legion insignias. The top was the original canvas snap-on soft top, slightly the worse for wear... not all the snaps worked and it flapped violently in the wind as Dad drove, and the clear, plastic zippered windows were cracked and yellowed. The zippers had separated from the canvas in several places. The Jeep floorboards had rusted all the way through sometime during the Eisenhower administration. Dad had laid down pieces of plywood to cover the holes so you couldn't see the street rushing by under your feet, but it wasn't very effective at keeping out rain or snow, so you could expect to feel cold, moist bits of wet ice hitting your face at high speeds. It had a manual choke sticking out of the dashboard and three gear shift knobs. I never did find out what they were all for.

Shortly after lunch, Mom dressed my brother and I in several layers of clothing and we piled into the Jeep. Dad tucked an overstuffed, canvas army rucksack behind his seat by my feet. It was about minus-twelve degrees Fahrenheit at two o'clock in the afternoon. The sky was a smoky-steel gray and it was too cold to really snow properly, but there were frozen snowflake pellets flying in the wind. They stung when they hit your face.

Mom was bundled in a wool blanket over her coat, with a ski cap pulled so far over her head it was hard to find her eyes. My brother and I sat in the back on what passed for back seats in the Jeep, but were actually just the metal bumps over the rear wheels. The plywood floor under our feet had a crack down the middle and blobs of gray road slush would fly through, soaking our pant legs. I sat behind Dad - he was clad in a flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled up over his meaty forearms and a down vest, no gloves or hat, smoking a cigarette with the zippered Jeep window open for air.

Cold air.

Really cold air.

As we drove, Dad sang Christmas carols in Gaelic at the top of his lungs, his baritone voice booming over the flapping of the Jeep top and the windy noise of the snowy mountains flying by.

Within 20 minutes, my butt had frozen into a block of indescribable numbness. My body heat had condensed into a layer of moisture beneath my clothing, and as a result my long underwear froze to the skin of my ass. The denim of my jeans froze to the metal of the Jeep wheel well, and my wet, slushy pant legs froze to the top of my socks and over the laces of my boots. My feet were the only things still semi-warm; my boots were hand-me-downs from my older brother and were two sizes too big, so I was wearing three pairs of socks and had newspapers stuffed into the toes to keep them from falling off.

My older brother, sitting across from me, had hunched into his coat so far he looked like he should be hanging off of a bell tower. The pale skin of his cheeks was bright pink and he kept trying to sing along with Dad, but his lips wouldn't move. At one point he tried to smile at me and for just a moment I thought his face might shatter. I would have laughed but my cheeks were too numb. Dad kept singing.

We drove about 50 miles up into the Rocky Mountains, then Dad turned off the highway onto a barely-discernible dirt road, which bumped and bounced the creaky-sprung Jeep and its icy inhabitants. Upon the first big bounce, I heard a shredding sound as my frozen jeans parted from the sheet metal of the wheel well. When I landed, a sharp, frozen fold of my long johns wedged its way in between my butt cheeks. I shall remember that sensation as long as I live.

We went another five or so miles, nearly flipping the Jeep in the process, and finally pulled up to an ancient Airstream trailer with a haphazard squiggle of Christmas lights strung over the door. We stayed in the Jeep while Dad went inside to pay the fee. Behind the trailer was a frozen, rut-filled mud lot. There was a dilapidated pickup truck parked next to the trailer, presumably owned by the man running the tree farm, but no other vehicles. Probably too cold for most people to go traipsing up the mountains to cut down a tree, but never too cold for Dad.

We parked on the far side of the lot under an anaemic worklight on a folding tripod pole. There was a fence around the parking area, with an opening at one end leading into the cold forest of ready-to-cut Christmas trees.. By now it was close to four o'clock and the sun had dipped below the ridge of mountains, and the temperature had dropped by at least another ten degrees.

My brother and I extricated ourselves from the rear of the Jeep with slow difficulty. Our muscles were stiff from the cold, and we tried to walk without actually letting our frozen clothing touch the skin of our legs. We looked like two demented penguins, walking with our fanny muscles clenched tight, holding our butts as far away from our jeans as we could. Dad grabbed the khaki canvas rucksack from behind his seat, slung it over his shoulder and led the way into the forest, whistling. Mom, wool blanket still draped around her shoulders, smiled back at us and followed. My brother and I brought up the rear.

As soon as we left the packed mud of the parking lot, we found ourselves in thigh-deep snow. The trees were planted in fairly neat rows with about ten feet between them, but the bitter cold had turned the snow into a dry, dense powder that wouldn't pack down underneath our feet. It muffled all sound, and Dad's whistling sounded strange and far away. Every time one of us brushed against a tree branch, we were rewarded with a whoomp of snow dumped over our heads. The walking re-ignited my circulation, and as the blood inched its way back into my extremities, my nerve endings first responded with pins and needles, and then a dull ache as my frozen skin thawed.

After about fifteen minutes, Dad stopped and opened the rucksack and produced a dented metal Thermos. He gathered us around and doled out sips of miraculously still-warm hot chocolate from the chipped Thermos lid. When all of us had had a cupful, he screwed the lid back on and put the Thermos back in the sack. At this point, Mom asked, "What kind of tree are we looking for?"

Dad squinted up at the gray sky and smiled. There were sparkling ice crystals in his spiky flat-top hair and his eyebrows and beard stubble were frosted white. He looked for all the world like a jovial, military-grade Sergeant Santa. "We'll know it when we see it."

We kept walking, looking carefully at each tree and judging it for size, colour and fullness as we passed. I was much warmer from the exercise, but my nose was running and I sniffed to clear it and the insides of my nostrils froze together. For one panicked moment I was afraid I would suffocate, so I wiped at my nose with a snow-covered mitten and I felt the tiny ice crystals crumble inside my nose. My Dad glanced back at me just in time to see the expression on my face and laughed. He grabbed the pompon on my hat and pulled it down over my eyes. As I pushed it back up I grinned up at him.

"This is fun, eh?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm," I agreed, and I meant it. It was fun. I would have said yes, but my face was too numb to speak.

After a few more turns through the forest, Dad stopped abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, that Mom walked into his back, my brother bumped into her, and I came crashing into him, and then bounced back to land on my butt in a drift of snow over my head. We all laughed and Dad picked me up and set me back on my feet and made a big fuss of dusting me off. Then he held my shoulders and turned me to look at the tree.

He was right; we knew it when we saw it. It stood about a foot taller than Dad and it was a perfect, symmetrical cone, covered in clumps of powdered snow. Dad walked all the way around it, looking for bare spots. He parted the branches and pulled on the needles, checking for freshness. He plucked a few off and cracked them under our noses to smell. We all smiled at each other and nodded without speaking. That was the one.

Dad opened up the rucksack and took out a small, folding hacksaw and an ingenious tool that he said was standard Army issue; It had a wooden handle, and on one end there was a hinged axe blade, and on the other there was a hinged shovel. Both tools folded in neatly for carrying. He unfolded the shovel end and quickly knocked the snow from the branches and cleared the snow from around the trunk of the tree. Wiping the snow dust from his head, he folded the shovel and stood back, holding the hacksaw.

He stood there for a minute, frowning at the saw and looking thoughtfully at the tree, his head tilted sideways. He looked at Mom and squnited with one eye and asked, "Do you have a big pot at home?"

Mom understood immediately and smiled. "Yes, I do," she grinned. They did that all the time. They could have entire conversions and only speak a single sentence and my brother and I were left looking at each other and wondering what we missed.

"Help me clear the snow away, kids, as far as you can," Dad said. He knelt at the base of the tree and started chopping at the icy ground. We brushed away the snow with our boots and then got on the ground with him and swept it aside with our arms. He kept chipping away at the ground, and soon we were moving frozen clumps of earth. The last of the afternoon light faded to darkness, and Dad took out an old lantern with a metal box encasing a 6-volt battery from the rucksack. It took a couple of smacks with the hacksaw handle to get it to turn on, but soon we were digging away in its wobbly beam.

Finally Dad stood up, and without a word, Mom handed him her wool blanket. He laid it on the ground next to the trench we had dug around the tree. "Okay, stand back," he said, and planted his feet on either side of the tree trunk. Then he reached through the branches until he had a good grip on the trunk with his bare hands, took a deep breath, and heaved. The tree groaned and creaked. He rested a few seconds and pulled again.

On the third pull, the tree came out of the ground in a mound of flying dirt and snow. Dad fell backwards onto the blanket and the tree toppled on top of him. There was a split second of silence and then he started to laugh. "I've snow in my pants!" he shouted, and pushed the tree onto the blanket. We all helped him out and then held the tree upright while he wrapped the blanket around the ball of roots and dirt. "Boy, go into the sack and get a rope," Dad said to my brother. He then tied the whole bundle into a tidy package.

We quickly gathered the tools and my brother walked alongside Dad and the tree, holding the lantern to light the path while Mom and I took turns carrying the rucksack. We stopped halfway back to the Jeep to finish off the chocolate in the Thermos. It wasn't hot any more but it was still fairly warm and it tasted wonderful. Mom asked Dad at one point if he knew where we were going and he looked at her with loving smile and said "I don't get lost, silly woman."

He was right. I think my father had a compass embedded in his skull underneath his flat top and no matter where on earth he might be, he always knew exactly where he was.

Sure enough, we soon got back to the thin light of the worklight in the parking lot. The man in the trailer came out and shook Dad's hand, saying he was just about to send the dogs to look for us. Dad reached for his wallet and tried to give the man another ten dollars for waiting, but he waved Dad off and shook his hand again and offered to help us load the tree into the Jeep.

My brother and I looked at each other with big, round eyes when we realized that loading the tree meant that Dad had to take the canvas top off of the Jeep. By now it was full dark, and the tree man said it was twenty-two degrees below zero.

"Ah, we'll be fine. It's not that far and the tree will break the wind," Dad said.

The man laughed and invited us all to thaw out in his trailer. He gave us cookies and had a huge, industrial coffee urn full of hot cider with which Mom refilled the Thermos. Dad rummaged around in the bottom of the rucksack and took out three little silver boxes, each about the size of a deck of cards. He slid them open and used his cigarette lighter to light the a tiny wick inside. He explained to my brother and I that they were "standard Army issue" hand warmers. He gave one to each of us and said to keep it in our pocket and it would keep us from freezing.

As we left the trailer, Dad slipped a twenty dollar bill into a cup next to the coffee urn and winked at me.

The ride home was even more frigid than the ride up. Dad had folded the Jeep top and put in on the floor behind Mom's seat. The rucksack was stowed behind Dad's seat. The tree filled the entire rear compartment of the Jeep and my brother and I huddled up as close to the front seats as we could, butts freezing to the wheel wells, the tree branches pulling at our hats. I kept my hands buried in my pockets, clutching my hand warmer in my mittens, switching hands as one hand froze and the other thawed. My brother remarked that his nose was running but the tree was in the way and he couldn't do anything about it. By the end of the ride, a tree branch had frozen to his upper lip. Powdered snow flew off the tree in gusting clouds and at one point I blinked and my eyelashes froze together until I blinked again.

It was late by the time we got home, and Dad quickly unloaded the tree and put it on the back porch. Mom got a giant clay pot from her greenhouse that she used to store gardening tools, and Dad placed the blanket-wrapped root ball into the pot and declared it would be safe until morning while Mom warmed up some soup. After we ate we all took baths and my frostbitten bum ached and itched from the hot water.

We all huddled on the sofa after our baths and listened to Christmas songs on the radio while Mom tended to Dad's cracked and cut hands. I fell asleep listening to them talk in quiet voices and Dad carried me to bed.

It ended up that Dad planted the tree in the big clay pot, using earth he dug from the yard, and brought it into the house to decorate. After New Year's we placed the potted tree in a sheltered spot on the back porch to wait out the winter. We checked it every day to make sure the roots didn't freeze.

In the spring, Dad dug a great hole in the front yard and together we planted the tree where Mom could see it through the kitchen window.

~

My father died in 1992. The tree stands in the front yard still, now almost thirty feet high, a quiet reminder of a happy Christmas past and the undying love of a father for his family.

Another Christmas season is upon us and once again I find myself scrambling to get ready.

We had tickets to attend a special event being held in a city close to us; I was excited to be able to get a few hours off so we could attend as a family.

You ever notice how the best laid plans of mice and men always have a way of going awry!

First of all our dryer is acting wonky and decides when it wants to work and when it doesn't. To say the least; it decided it wasn't really in the mood to work well while trying to dry a load of blue jeans much too late in the afternoon. My fav pair as well as my hubby's were in there. Can you hear the choir yet? I proceeded to yell at my hubby because he decided to take a nap this afternoon instead of ensuring the jeans were clean and dried. Of course I conveniently chose to exclude myself from any of the blame; because after-all,... I was busy finishing putting the decorations out in the dining room. This after I had announced my intentions to anyone that was listening that I had had it and was only putting up the tree this year. Well you can't have Christmas without the Nativity, and you can see where this is going. Suffice it to say the decorating has once again become a flurry of activity of epic proportions.I digress here though, so I shall move on.

I had instructed my hubby to run through a drive thru on the way home from grabbing the boys after school, so we could eat in a hurry and be on our way. We downed the cheap-o burgers in a flourish with a Rolaids chaser so as not to suffer needlessly later.

After carrying on about what to wear and when we had clothed ourselves presentably, we headed to the car. Armed with the tickets as well as the trusty Tom Tom to point us in the right direction. We were counting on Tom much like the Shepherds were counting on the star so long, long ago. Well Tom was being difficult and decided he wasn't going to give up directions, so we were on our own! How did the explorers of old ever manage without technology?

The kids were going with us so I had asked them to meet us at our house promptly and we would leave from there, so of course they were late. This meant we would have to drive faster than the leisurely, relaxed pace I had envisioned, it now became a mad dash to get there in just the nick of time. Since we didn't know where we were going, the challenge was even larger and only added to the frenzied pace. I was sitting there thinking "I am not having fun yet"; as we circled back and forth trying to find the address. My hubby cursing under his breath that all businesses etc should be required to put the street number on their signs. One of the boys in the back seat was snoring softly and I envied his ability to "not sweat the small stuff".

After several detours and finally some directions from a kind parking attendant, we finally arrived at our destination only to find that the group we had reserved our tickets with had departed precisely on time and we missed it by 15 minutes!

The next departing group was the Spanish speaking tour, which would have been fine except for the fact that we don't speak Spanish. They were kind enough to trade us our now useless tickets for replacements 30 minutes later. I was lamenting the wait when my daughter piped up to say that "had we known where we were going we would not have been late". To which I snarled, "had they been on time to the house, we would have had time to find it when we got to town". The kind ladies sitting at the ticket desk just looked at us, mouths agape. I am sure they snickered about our churlish behavior as soon as we turned to join the others waiting for the next departure.

We finally departed with the next available group, and you will be pleased to note we did so without any further outbursts or quarreling. We thoroughly enjoyed the entire event and even had some hot chocolate at the end of the tour. My grandsons were delighted in the petting zoo, and decided they really wanted a baby pig of their very own after giggling over the adorable, tail wagging, ones we saw in the zoo. There were also camels,bunnies and miniature donkeys as well as a pea hen or two.

I felt a twinge of regret as we loaded up to go home, and apologized for snapping at everyone. The Brady Bunch we are not, more like the Conner's with a dash of the Simpson's thrown in for good measure. Families are funny creatures, and ours is no different.

So if you're feeling a bit of the pressure of trying to mete out the perfect holiday; take solace in the fact that you are not alone. Relax enough to enjoy the season and all that it brings. Bite your tongue before that next zinger you have aimed at someone you love. My sweet little grandson so innocently reminded me the other day as he was chiding his uncles for their misdeeds, "we're family, and families don't treat each other that way"!

The time is almost here It's not to far away For all of us to give Thanks This Thanksgiving Day It's time to be with loved ones And friends from far away The reasons to be Thankful This Thanksgiving Day Be grateful for your family

I've tried to live a life that's nobel Each day I do my best Life has tested me so much Sometimes I just wish to rest We have known you'd be here for sometime Last week you came at last Your one more reason to live my life From this day forever more

Epiphany, it would not be a breakdown! Not that a breakdown could not happen to be, but all that is going on has not begun to get to me, I still get up every morning with a spring in my legs. This past few weeks I have had so much to take in that so many things are starting to come out of the haze. First the two musicals, which have imprinted themselves in my mind, then some crap with Madison's mother, then certain things that really bother me at home with my house-mate, then an ex-girlfriend tels something that for some reason really bothered me, then Madison's school is not doing some thing correctly, then I have an argument with Jim that really put me in a different place, and through all this this I have on my mind that a friend of mine that would exchange e-mails every two days or so has little time to now because she is going through some difficult times at home as well, and of course court tomorrow stemming from my single vehicle accident about two months ago is on my mind, and for some odd reason a good friend of us all hear passed and although I did not know her so much she pops into my mind, how very weird.

All came to a sudden slow down, as I was taking Maddy to school, late, for picture day, listening to "Fallen Angel," Jersey Boys, my heart caught me by surprise when my heart started beating like if a lion had gone inside and was now trying to get out. I felt one single tear roll down my right eye, at the same time Maddy turned her head and stared at me for a few seconds and said nothing. A minute later when I stopped to put gas in the truck, she told me I was crying. I answered her my eyes hurt. But as soon as I returned to the truck I told her I was because the song makes me sad, she said nothing (if she only knew that I could have wrapped my arms around her and never let go). A lie, sure, but I corrected immediately.

At the time I was arguing with Jim, something form inside halted me, I could have exploded like never before, but instead I did something that I knew would not only keep me calm, but would also infuriate him, and I am not sure, yet, if it was a good or bad thing. After raising my voice two or three times I stopped, I just would not raise my voice any more and when he would interrupt me or what I was trying to say I would simply stop and tell him to keep going and that I would not raise my voice any longer. When he told me he had to go to work, it was about three in the afternoon, I told him to go and that I would be waiting for him when he returned, I was sitting on a chair with my feet raised on a ottoman. He sat next to me and told me that he would listen to what I had to say, but I told him to go to work that I was not ready and that I did not want to tel him anything right then and there. He went to work, I sat with my feet on the ottoman, I heard his car, I heard someone call his name, I sat, he came up the stairs, I sat, he came in to his apartment and I was still sitting in the same chair, it was about six thirty. When he sat next to me and asked me what I had to say, I told him I had nothing to tell him, I could have done many things, I could have left, gone to the restroom, moved from that freaking chair, after three or so hours my ass was very sore, I could have started another argument, I could have take it out on someone else, I could have cried, I could have done so many things, but I did nothing but sit there and say nothing.

During the argument, I started smiling and laughing at the way Jim was getting angrier and more frustrated (I already told him this) and I told him to recall the interview with the Dalai Lama we had seen and he was so happy all the time because he was enlightened, I told him thats not it, he was happy because each day when he woke up he decided then and there that he was going to be happy, and that at that moment in front of him arguing with me I had decided to be happy and smile contently. I think that was the most horrible and uncaring thing I have ever told told anyone, and the worst part of it, at that specific time I meant it and I was really smiling from ear to ear. Why would I do that to a really good friend cause I was also angry and had found a better way to "win," a better way to end the argument, was it simply that I did not want to engage, did I sense something more was coming, was I the better man for not engaging! Hell if I know anything, but every single day of my life I learn something about people or myself, and although I can't specifically remember the events, the lessons stay with me and as I told Jim that night, I will not stand for people making fun, hurting, wring or take advantage of others, and if they can't stop their actions when I ask politely, I will simply walk away from them, and never be part of their lives again. I really can't take all the crap going on everywhere with lies, games, hate, or utter disregard of how it is to be kind and human, I AM DONE!

WORLD, you oh so Big

World

give me

just a little of your space,

A PLACE

to call my own

a home or shack

out back

that can keep me

warm,

SPACE is there for all

keep it that way is my call

we must all still have SPACE to go to

when we need to leave our place

we must be able to still roam,

FREEDOM of space and place must always be our

cry

from all those guys

who would creep in

and shadow our

place of space,

LIBERTY is there when we

protect

space and place and home,

These are what we all want

and need

to have place

and a space

to call our own

a forest to walk in

a desert to roam

a mountain to climb

and a hearth

to come home.

We started slow. I made hm wonder what was coming until it was time for the bus stop to start filling with kids.

5:00am- GET UP!

8:45am- Took trash bag & picked up all of front yard...about 3/4 of an acre. Just before the bus came, I had him walk the roadside across from the bus stop and pick up all the crap drivers throw out. I thought the audience would put some memory on it, especially since the little girl he "likes" was right in the front row.

9:30am- Our house is all ceramic tile, he swept every room to inspection. Cleaned his room & then the most fun I had all day....He was privileged enough to clean the toilet top to bottom that he shares with his 4 year old sister and 6 year old brother. When he finally passed inspection, he walked out of the bathroom and muttered..."I am never getting kicked off the bus again".....

10:30am- Started writing sentences, 250 times, I will obey the rules on the bus. then his full name. He had to do 50 of them if he wanted lunch.

11:45am- Lunch.

12:00-1:00pm- Rest in room.

1:00-3:00pm- Mopped entire house to inspection

I got sucked into a crisis with my other boy. We will continue tomorrow.

Maddad

Everything we do, wrong or right, well intentioned or not, will come back to bite us square in the ass.

Just a little less than 5 years ago the boy run ended. After 3, close to carbon copies of the best of Maddad, I hit the jackpot and fathered my youngest and LAST child, an absolutely beautiful little daughter.

From day one she was "Daddy's Little Princess". This baby girl can move me to action with just the cut of her brow or look in her eyes. I love all my children with all that I am, but this one broke my heart.

All that was great till she figured out how to manipulate & make crap up. She is also very smart, already sounding out and correctly spelling words that seem advanced for her age to me. The problem is that she watched a bit of Disney and figured out what a Princess was.....So the negotiation begins....

I am waking to the fact that she is also a little girl that is more demanding of other people in the family, than she is cute. I am now saying "no" regularly and following through with it. She is slowly learning that the pouty lips and instant tear filled eyes, won't get her through real life. The times she forgets that??...well, it is amazing how loud and horribly pitched the screams of a 4 year old can be.

Negotiations continue.....She is still "Daddy's Little Princess", but the definition of that position in this particular kingdom is a matter of parenting & perspective.

Thanks for your time.

Maddad

This is a story I wrote and illustrated for a "Reluctant Dragon" of a boy that rarely went to bed without diversions first.

Last night, Jim, invited Madison and I to attend the new Peter Pan, now playing at the Orange County Performing Arts Center under a huge tent, show and in my opinion it was great. It runs fairly fast and the effects of the 360 degree projection is fantastic. The actors felt a bit weird to me since they are supposed to be kids and are played by adults, but even so the acting was very good. The effects of the projections do make it feel as if you are in the clouds, if you let your imagination wonder a bit. The acrobatics of the actor who take flight are great moving and holding their form steady. The props where also extremely well thought out, from the tiny house, to the crocodile, maneuvered by two in what seemed a purposely uncomfortably build position, to the smell the smoking cannon ball. What stood out was the performances of Captain Hook, Tigerlily, and Tinkerbell, what a nasty, touchy, impulsive bad little fairy. I must see if anybody gets a chance.

As we got to the venue Madison was a bit tired, but she held of until start time, two minutes into our seats and she was getting restless and bored, and five minutes after the show started she gave out a huge sigh, figuring it was going to be boring. She had asked what the hangers on stage where for and ass soon as Peter pops out from the top of the stage she knew the answer. Now she sat up and payed more attention. She really enjoyed the flight to Neverland, she looked in all directions of the projections. As the kids approach the island there a huge blast of a cannon ball, she stayed in her seat but the guy next to me on the other side jumped a foot off of his. Madison really enjoyed the show, in fact she wanted to stay and watch it again. A few other things she wondered were whether the trees were real, and if not why they moved, she also asked if the show was over when it stopped because Tinker's and Peter's lines got tangled and the timing of the projections was lost. I very enjoyable outing to a different type of show.

question: When are a pair of wings worth 17 dollars? When she makes a straight line to them and picks them up, and answers me this is not a costume, they are real, when asked why she wanted another costume for Halloween.

A sexually transmitted condition, one hundred percent fatal. It comes fully assembled, but without instructions, warranties, or guarantees. Your actual mileage may vary.

We all enter life the same way: helpless, naked, wet and screaming (some also exit life like that). We rely entirely on caregivers to make sure we're warm, fed and safe (again, results vary).

If you've ever seen a baby interact with the world at large, it's quite delightful. Eyes wide open, happy to giggle and chortle at anything colourful. Babies have no knowledge or real fear of anything - they're just absorbing everything they see, taste, hear, smell or touch and everything is a shiny, brand new discovery. It doesn't matter what country or culture the baby is in - all babies behave exactly the same way in any given situation. Grab it, taste it, spit it out if it's icky, drool all over it if it's not. Eat. Poop. Sleep. Repeat.

When we're old enough to walk and begin to communicate, we learn to interact and play with other children. Watch a group of four-year olds in the park - they don't notice differences in skin colour or whose clothing is a designer label. The don't ask the other kids about what church their families attend. They accept each other at face value - who has the ball, who wants to play on the swings, do you like bugs?

But once we begin developing higher intellectual interactions, all bets are off. This is when life begins to get complicated. Our parents and mentors begin to point out that little Tommy isn't the same colour we are, or his parents are divorced or (god forbid) both men, and so he's different. They make it sound like a bad thing, and even though we may not understand why, the intent is lodged into our little developing subconscious, left there to fester until another day. We begin to learn that "different" means "bad" or "less". We start looking at our friend Tommy with new eyes. Poisoned eyes. We don't get it - Tommy likes bugs and Tommy's family has always been really nice and they always make sure the snacks are fresh and they take us to the park. But the people we trust the most have surreptitiously suggested that Tommy isn't as good as we are, so Tommy and his family must be bad.

They start teaching us other things, too. They teach us that there are people all over the world that don't believe in our god. Their god is different. (We begin to see a repeating pattern of different equals bad, here). But again, these are the people we trust and love the most, so of course they know everything about everything and they want to teach it to us so we can be as smart and wonderful as they are. So, eyes wide open, we listen. We learn. We begin to distrust Tommy because he's different, just like the people who have a different god over on the other side of the world. Tommy ceases to be a friend. Tommy never learns why.

This same conversation goes on between children and their caregivers and teachers all over the world. Someone, right this minute, 15,000 miles away, is telling their child that our god is different from their god. Different. Bad.

As we get older and more responsible for our lives, we begin to seek out further knowledge. Our efforts are often limited to the font of information that is immediately available - and since people tend to congregate in communities where beliefs and cultures are shared, we find that our neighbours seem to have received the same basic information that we did. Therefore, it must be Truth. Any argument to the contrary must be Untruth. We begin interacting with larger groups of peers, many of whom spent their formative years in a different culture or community. Different. Bad.

We learn about conflict. We learn about manipulation. We get very defensive over what we have always been told is truth, and very offensive when someone tries to tell us a different story and paint that as truth.

The real truth?

Go back to when we were four.

I have been accused on a recent article I wrote of hating the rich, red necks and other kinds of hate. Why, because I wrote two articles called "500,000 or 87,000. The Glenn Beck rally and the "live" head-less woman" and another called "What the Hell is a real American and why the Hell do you want to be one".

if you read the articles and gather together all the words and their meaning, I was not being derogatory to anyone, I was making some good points about how we get stuck arguing numbers and definitions and never get past that to discuss issues.

Of course those who didn't get it probably didn't get past the grabber headlines I wrote, they were boiling before they even got to the page and wanted to show me how little I knew, how I was spewing hate and they were "just not goin take it" from some liberal crybaby (their definition of me).

First, I don't hate rich people, I have taught many of them to paint and create art. I also have many who are my patrons and support my work and efforts to live as an artist. It is a symbiotic relationship and I will not cut off my nose to spite my face, besides many of them have become good acquaintances. I am not jealous of others who have more, if I did I would have to hate a lot more than just rich people, I would have to hate my siblings, my friends and my parents and most of you here too.

Second, I am a city boy who loves the country and finally was able to move and live on a farm in a very rural section of my state. I have made many friends who call themselves rednecks and I have been accepted as a redneck by other rednecks. They still kid me about my education and my background but that is a part that I like also. Pulling my leg is a part of the scene and it means they have accepted me into the fold. They also respect my thoughts and knowledge and ask me things about art and painting and they always compliment my work when they see it. many of them have my work on their walls because I gave it as a gift to them for all their help to me.

Third, hate is a stupid stupid emotion to carry for long, it is destructive to others and to the person doing the hate. Why would I want to harm others or myself when I can get over it just as easy as shaking hands with someone. Forgiveness is a virtue I hold high on a list of things I learned as a child from my grandparents and parents. A person who can forgive is a hero and a stand up person who would get my apprectiation and gratitude for doing the right thing every time, no matter who or what they are.

Do I hate, yes, do I hate people, no.

I hate the simplistic notion that some are better Americans than others, I hate the idea that you can define a person without knowing them. Defining them and hating them for their color, their religion, their economic status, for their political views, for their country of origin, for their outlook on life, for their sexual orientation, for the lack of education or for having more education, for the type of work they do or for the work they don't do and for the words they write.

You want to hate me, go right ahead, I will not suffer, or cry or belly ache, I will not even hate you for hating me. I am protercted by my moral upbringing, my knowledge and my understanding of humans. I am protected by the love of my family, friends, peers, neighbors and even acquaintances. I am protected by the respect I get from my students, my wife and anyone else that I have known, dealt with or worked with in my 55 years.

Do I hate you for attacking me or my work or my words, nope, you are not worth that much pain, sorrow and anger that go with hating you. In fact the people who have shown their hate towards me seem pitiful and less interesting in the long run.

I have made friends here who I would never agree with on many issues, we disagree and then we laugh about it. I was accepted to be in the Unstable Bastards group by relentlesscomedy because we could argue and laugh about things together.

Politics makes strange bedfellows and stranger enemies. I will continue to use my voice and my words to point out irony, deception and the stupidity of politicians and pundits. I will not be cowed, manipulated or scared off by hatred, I am stronger than hate, I am better for standing up to it. And our country will be better off for standing up to it also. We must not let those whose job it is to stir the pot manipulate our emotions.

Join me in fighting hate but please be careful you do not fall into this ugly trap. Hate breeds violence and I want no one to get hurt for something as simple as a poltical discussion.

Peace of mind to all today.

In a nutshell: Through a natural need to belong, but feeling unwanted, excluded and undervalued.

A sense of belonging dictates our level of confidence. Try as we might, we cannot function without others as we are social beings. From the moment we are born and bond with our parents, we begin the social cycle of inclusion: in family, relatives, schools, friends, relationships, associations and work. There is no escaping others because they validate our existence and reinforce our culture and identity. Others act as mirrors which reflect our presence. When this reflection is confusing, or does not match with our own self perception, it leads to isolation or an identity crisis.

Other people's attention, recognition, praise, affection and love are lifelines to our endeavours, reinforcing who we are and giving us the purpose to continue with our lives. When others we care about reject us, we are likely to reject ourselves too, internalise the hate and spew it back on the family and community in the form of deviant, selfish behaviour. Most juvenile and adult problems are caused by a deep sense of not belonging to anyone or anything. Such people are most likely to have experienced rejection of some sort in childhood or in a relationship which leaves them with a sense of isolation, probably a desire to be destructive and a feeling of not having anyone on their side who really cares about them or their future.

For example, this bright, but sensitive, young 14-year-old girl was always being called nasty, hurtful names because of her surname. She had a terribly low opinion of herself and didn't see herself advancing far, despite her abilities. Having being picked on constantly, she felt 'unloved' and 'lonely' and wanted to leave school as soon as she could. She saw the greatest event in her life as 'getting married to a nice guy who loves me as I am'.

Lack of Affirmation
Her peers' cruel behaviour did not affirm who she was so she had begun to reject herself too, rating herself very low in esteem and refusing to acknowledge that her surname had little to do with her looks or talent, or that she could still be anything she wanted. As the social mirror did not reflect her self-perception, she was very hurt and began to reject her schoolwork, precipitating her steady decline. This girl's negative feelings came as no surprise but they are disturbing. At this age, the friendship of her peers and being considered 'one of the gang' are very important in her development. If she is continually teased and rejected it makes it difficult for her to appreciate herself and her potential or to recognise herself as someone worthy of respect and love, especially at this important transitional phase when she is moving from childhood to adulthood.

In fact, one of our worst emotions come from a sense of total rejection by those whom we care about most, hence the traumatic effect of any broken relationship which is not mutual. The sense of not belonging is very obvious when a relationship breaks. The loss of a partner is an immediate loss of self-esteem. We suddenly cease to be attractive in our own eyes, not caring about anything for a while. We become non-persons whose value has dramatically fallen. Yet we would still be very desirable to an awful lot of other people. At these times, it is pointless telling someone to 'snap out of it' or that 'things will get better'. Their sense of exclusion and lack of belonging mean that they cannot see what well meaning advisers can! They have to go through a painful period of denial, anger, acknowledgement, acquiescence and finally full acceptance of their situation before they can begin to come to terms with the loss and rebuild their self-esteem.

Some people never reach this final stage of acceptance and remain bitter and vengeful for years. They cling to the past because the memories and sense of rejection are so painful they are often difficult to relinquish. The present means little to them because the past remains unresolved. By hanging on to the pain, as hurtful as it might be, they still have a 'cause', a status and a 'good reason' to do nothing to change their situation. However, along the way they lose their sense of purpose in relentless negativity, they loss their confidence and self worth and they create an emotional void which gradually affects their capacity to develop truly positive relationships or trust in others.

Anxious and Isolated
A sense of not belonging, especially with those who matter to us, destroys our confidence utterly because it is the reactions of others which moulds, confirms and maintains our self-image. Who we are and where we belong are dictated by our cultural history, individual background and significant others around us and when they cease to care, so do we, which has the biggest effect on our personal value. If our loved ones do not share our perspectives, hopes or aspirations, we become more anxious, isolated and unproductive. We cannot achieve our potential because our ambition disappears too.

A sense of belonging to someone or something is therefore our greatest need. We identify a niche for ourselves, according to the roles of those around us, and take on that persona. That is why two people cannot occupy exactly the same position in any family, friendship or work unit because a sense of belonging depends on individual uniqueness. There would be problems of social and personal identity. Our own confidence is controlled by this feeling of belonging because most of our actions are geared to align with, or to disrupt, our environment, depending on our sense of security. If it is strong because we feel wanted, there are fewer hang ups, as we feel less threatened by others. If it is weak, we are plagued by insecurity and find it really hard to be positive. When we feel isolated, insecure or rejected, our self-esteem takes a nosedive.

Elaine Sihera(MsCYPRAH) 2010
Emotional Health Adviser
"Respect and love begin with the self. If we have none, how can we give away any?"

A couple of decades ago, in the most prosperous state of Brazil, a young man in his early twenties seemed to be doing well (by most standards), with a very bright and promising future. Then he turned his back on everything to follow the path his faith desired. Foolish or wise? Coward or brave?

During the day he worked in the Finance Department of the Brazilian Government, a position which meant good wages, flexible hours, stability and opportunity to progress. At night, from 7 to 10:30pm, he was wrapping up a four-year-long University course on computer studies. Programming main-frame IBM's during the day, and studying in the same field at night, part of him was thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. Pascal, 80-column cards, Dbase, and Fortran seemed like sweet music to his ears.

But part of him was unhappy. Living in one of the five largest cities in the world, surrounded by violence, viciousness and vice, he longed for something more meaningful. Believing in a personal God, and in an eternal future after death, he wanted more time to dedicate to serving this God. Week-ends were all he had at the minute; and it was going to get worse. The hectic pace of life in São Paulo, and the direction in which his career was heading, both were sure signs that the next few years would see him more and more involved in the world of computers.

What had sounded like sweet music, slowly began to be eerily similar to an orphaned sigh; what had seemed like a sweet dream at first, slowly began to exude a bitter perfume. So before death had the opportunity to wake him up to an eternal nightmare, he gave it all up. Moving back to the interior he opened a little shop, married, and threw himself body, soul and spirit into another kind of life. A life where the hours are longer, the stress and demands are greater, the immediate rewards fewer, and yet which has the promise of eternal joy.

Twenty years later, in a contemplative mood late one night, he looked back on the decision of his youth (life-changing, to say the least), and on what he had turned out to be.

He lived in the poorer part of a small town. His earthly possessions were limited to the house where he lived, and a car nearly as old as his memories of São Paulo. As the world (or at least, his neighbours) slept outside, he gazed down on the sleeping form of his darling little girls, sleeping so peacefully (the elder, impetuous and vulnerable like her mother; the middle one, quiet and moody like himself; and the little one, a charming mixture of everything he loved). He looked out the window at the moon, gazing through the leaves of the tree in the garden, reflecting in her smile the peace in his heart. He went back to bed, and cuddled up close to his sleeping wife, who had been with him during all those changes, challenges and tears.

As she murmured in her sleep and returned his embrace, he felt the warmth of her body against his, and thanked God for how rich he had turned out to be.

Around 1969 or 1970 I would have to check to see which year, my dad left farming for awhile and went into construction. He helped build what we call the "old dam" on Big Lake. It is located at the south part of Big Lake Wildlife Refuge, highway 18 runs across that part of the lake. I remember him coming to grandma and grandpa's where my brother and I would stay while he was at work and my mom was chopping cotton in the fields. That day around noon he came into grandma's house and said "mom grab all the wash tubs you have and get whatever tubs the neighbors have. We are going to be cutting the water off from the main channel of Big Lake and draining it and I am going to pick up the fish that can't get down stream. I remember that evening when he came over to pick us up he had four number 2 washtubs full of fish, lord they must have cleaned fish till midnight. Our freezer was full of fish for the winter.

Well the next morning dad took me and my brother back over to grandpa and grandma's. Around midday my grandma asked my grandpa to walk to town to the ice house and pick up some coal oil, some call it kerosene. Grandma had gone through the Great Depression and still used oil lamps to save on electricity sometimes. Grandpa asked me if I wanted to walk with him and I said yes I would. So grandpa and I start out on our adventure to the ice house which was about 1/4 of a mile from where they lived. On the way I found a soda bottle, now I could stop by Jolliff's or Roach's grocery store and turn it in for a nickel. I asked grandpa if we could stop by the grocery store and turn the bottle in and of course he said "y' sure suggie dumpy, that will be a shiny nickel for you and if you are good when we get to the ice house I will give you a dime to go with your nickel. Then on the way back to the house we will stop by Ms. Hale's five and dime and you can pick out a toy and I will get one for your brother Bubby."

We stop at the store and I turn in the bottle and finish up at the ice house with the coal oil, boy I was excited about going to Ms. Hale's five and dime. Just as grandpa promised he gave me a dime to go with my nickel. Ms. Hale's was a neat place, it had high ceilings and fans that dropped down. There were shelves and shelves of all sorts of dry goods and display cases that lined the creaky wooden floor. Ms. Hale's sat behind the counter with her red hair piled high on her head in a long dress with a high collar and long sleeves. She belong to the United Pentecostal church in town. She was a very pleasant soul and I found out last week that she is still living, she has to be in her nineties by now.

So Grandpa is looking around at some nick knacks and what knots while I run to the toy part of the store. I am looking at marbles, packets of cowboys and Indians, wild animals and dinosaurs. All of a sudden my eye catches a big wooden plane, I am looking at it and oh my God it is least two feet long and you could throw it and it was suppose to glide up to a hundred feet. Well now for an eight year old, hair lipped cows be damn I had to have it so I pulled out my fifteen cents but there was one problem, it cost twenty-five cents. So I go running to grandpa and grab him by the hand to go and look at it with me. He tells me that it is a nice looking plane but that if he was going to get my brother a toy he didn't have an extra dime for me. Well that was not going to settle the discussion with me so I did what most eight year old's do...."Please grandpa, please I promise I will take good care of it and I will never ask you for a dime every again I promise, please please". Now my grandpa was a patient man but he had, had enough and he replied "Knowlton now I told you no, you have fifteen cents to spend and if you can't find something else....well you will just go home with nothing. I was not pleased in the least and I made a big mistake, I said to my grandpa "GRANDPA IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME AN EXTRA DIME I AM GOING TO KICK YOU IN THE SHIN." Oh Hell, he yanked me by the arm and said "if you kick me in the shin boy, I will slap you so hard your teeth will rattle." Then he proceeded to take me home, said goodbye to Ms. Hale and we left.

Well all was calm by the time we got home he and I got along real well. He even played a game of marbles with me and my brother......My grandpa loved playing marbles with us kids and believe it or not some of the older men played marbles in town. At one of the bars they had a table that had 2X4's nailed around it and packed with dirt so the men could shoot for money, it must be an Arkansas thing. One time I remember standing on the porch with him when grandma asked him what he was doing and he told her just watch in air go by..lol she said "Cleo have you lost your marbles?" Grandpa just reach in his overall pocket and pulled three or four out and showed her and said "no mommy they're right here." ]

Anyway back to the story, everything calmed down but I was still mad over not getting the plane and not getting anything before leaving. Well the day went on and we were playing with the neighbor kids. Grandma would bring us out some lemonade because it was the hot and humid part of July, of course we didn't mind because we were running, playing and having a good time. We took a break and drank our lemonade and I noticed grandpa come out of the house with a roll of toilet paper.....hummmmmm.....grandpa is going to the outhouse I thought to myself. I let him get into the outhouse and waited for a little bit, then I sneak over so he couldn't hear me and raised the old log chain they had for a lock and tightly placed it over the big ole nail, locking my grandpa in the outhouse.

About ten minutes later dad came to pick us up and we were inside. He asked grandma where grandpa was and she told him that he had been having some stomach problems and was in the outhouse. Well me and my brother get in the car with mom and dad and head home. About half way home I tell dad I needed to tell grandma something, of course he told me it could wait till morning....but I insisted until mom told dad to turn around and let me tell grandma what I needed to tell her. Dad turns the car around and we pull to grandma's. Dad tells me to hurry up and he sat in the car while I went in. I get in and tell grandma if grandpa doesn't come in from the outhouse in a few minutes she might want to go and let him out. Oh she was out that back door like a flash.

Now neither we or my grandparents had a phone back then, so dad didn't know what I had told grandma. The next morning when dad took us over to grandma's Oh hell, did I get it, from dad and from grandma. Grandpa like I said was a patient man and just patted me on the shoulder and said "Suggie dumpy don't ever do that again to grandpa."

I was turning 14 July 27th in 1976, Mom and I had gone to Blytheville Arkansas to do some grocery shopping and Dad took us to Sears to look at a well pump. It was great news, we were finally getting to by the property that dad had been renting all those years. I remember that we rented the house and a 3/4 acre of land for 25 dollars a month. Our land lord had passed away, and he was so impressed with my dad and had known my dad's family for so many years that he told his wife before he died to sell the property to my dad. She called us to come over to her house and when we got there she told dad that she had the deed already fix up and also my dad's parents old house that set behind the levee was included. My grandparents had worked for this man for several years and were furnished a 4 room house, it had sat empty for several years after grandma and grandpa moved to town. She sold the shotgun house, 3/4 acre of land and the 4 room square house to dad for $1000.

This was just great news, dad went to the bank and got a loan for the land and borrowed an extra $500 to have the house moved and other things to get it set up. This meant that my brother and I would have a room to share. We were getting tired of sharing the bedroom with mom and dad on one side and us on the other. Maybe that is why there are only me and my brother...lol Mom and dad had no privacy.. it also meant that we would have running water. Dad cut two rooms off of the shotgun house and attached it to the 4 room square house giving us a Bath room and a wash room for mom. The other part of the shotgun house dad enclosed and made a bait shop. We lived next to highway 18 and were on the main route to Big Lake National Wildlife Refuge, in fact we were just a mile from the boat ramp. We would go to the hills and pick up night crawlers and bring them back and place in our worm beds. We sold them for a dollar a box. Friends, we sold enough fishing worms that year to pay dad's loan off and put some money back in the bank.

I had to fill you in on that so we can continue the story. While we were at Sears mom and me were looking around at all sorts of things that we though were just neat. We were doing our window shopping but knew we couldn’t afford any fancy items....nope we went there to look at a well pump so we could have running water. But something caught mine and moms eye. There it was, like a crowned jewel setting over in the entertainment center. It was long and slender with its walnut veneer finish and velvet red speaker covers. The lid was raised so you could look in and see the latest high tech record player that played 33's,45's, and 78's vinyl albums. It also had an AM and FM radio complete with speaker balance and three graph equalizer, bass, middle and treble. Then in the middle was the greatest of all things, being in love with music and playing music since I was 7 years old, this item made my heart stop right there. I was in love....in love I tell you when I looked at the brand new 8 track tape recorder complete with two microphones to record with. I said "Mom we have to get this for Christmas. Mom, do you realize that me and the boys could record all of our music....I had a four piece band by that time and we were always looking to record our music.

She said son I am sorry but I don't think we can afford it with just buying the house and trying to get it moved. I was down hearted. The next day Shorty Wagner came by our place and was talking to dad. I came around the corner of the house and Shorty said "R.G. that little Knowlton is sure growing up." Dad replied that I would be 15 in a few months. Shorty turned to me and said "son how would you like to have a job for this spring and summer". I said "Boy would I". Shorty said that he would put me to chopping cotton with his crew. So I did, I chopped cotton along with my mother that summer. My brother who was younger sold the fishing worms and I helped when I wasn't chopping cotton. Anyway mom and I had made an agreement after we talked to dad, we decided to go into a partnership and buy that beautiful stereo console 8 track tape recorder.

Well the day finally came that we went to pick it up in dad's 1972 Ford pick up truck. I invited my "boys in the band to come over to try it out. Worked like a charm for us 14 and 15 year old young redneck musicians. I got to be very good at repairing those 8 tracks, you had to have a fast flicking wrist when you popped that tape back into place...lol

Well as you know my dad loved to have a beer or two and we lived about 1/2 of a mile from what is known around here as "The skull cracker" It's official name is "The Fisherman’s Inn" but over the years it was known to be a rough place and someone was always getting their skull cracked. One day after work before dad came home he stopped off at the skull cracker and shot pool, drank a six pack or better before coming home. Mom was not happy. Dad came home and proceeded to have another six pack, just sitting in his chair not bothering any one smoking his cigarette and drinking his Bud. What we didn't know was dad had taken a valium that the doctor had prescribed for him. So dad after a twelve pack and a valium began to get sleepy. Mom told him to get up and go to bed but he wouldn't do it. He told her he would just sleep in the chair. Mom told him to do whatever he felt like and went to her bedroom.

My cousin from California I was down to visit and was sleeping on the couch, he has a stuttering problem. I am in my bed, from my bed I can see into the living room where dad is sitting. He turns out the main light and leaves the lamp on. Little later I hear him get up and start walking around. I am thinking maybe he is going to bed, then I hear the lid to the stereo open. I think well maybe he is going to listen to the radio. Then I hear something that I am not sure what it is. Then I hear my cousin start stuttering ....unc unc unc le.....GGGGGG Geee......WWWWhhhat aaaarrre yyyooou doo ddddooo doing. Well at this time I am out of the bed and into the living room. I yell at my dad.....DAD... he turns and says "Boy get out of the bathroom when I am in here taking a piss. I told him he wasn't in the bathroom that he was pissing on mine and mom's new console stereo. He finishes and lets the lid down and goes back over to the chair and passes out. Mom is up by this time Oh God was she mad, we took the stereo out on the front porch with a f()ckin 5 gallons of piss running out of it.

The next morning my dad told us he was sorry but he thought he was in the bathroom and the stereo lid was the toilet lid. That 8 track tape recorder never ever worked the same. Mom put dad on the wagon for about six months after that caper. Trust me my mom was the woman that kept my dad in line.

I sit alone here on the farm this evening, my wife is away. She is traveling to Pittsburgh and staying with a friend and on saturday they will be driving for two hours to a wedding of another friend. I wanted to stay home for a number of reasons, a new painting to start, I hate to travel, the garden needs tending and I needed some time for my thoughts. I was sitting on the back porch watching the animals and listening to the birds and thoughts of my grandfathers crept into my head. Not just one of them, both of them were there inside at once. How odd for this to happen. I don't think this has ever really happened before. So I thought more and more about them and started to see the things that made them the same and made them different.

My Paternal grandfather was 'Highland Scots' by blood, hated anyone and anything that was not Scottish even though the family had been in this country since 1746. He would be a very good example of a 'nativist', he hated blacks, Jews, Poles, Italians, Russians, name a European country and he hated them, and he especially hated the Irish. He even disliked my grandmothers family because they were 'lowland Scots' that came over later. But he married her anyway.

He was only one generation away from the farm and he was haunted by that fact, he hated the city and he longed to go back to the country. He was a master welder but every single moment he was not working he was hunting or fishing or working in his large garden.

On sundays he took us out to the country, he hated that we were growing up in a housing project and thought the best thing for us grandkids was a day in the country. He taught me all the names of all the birds and trees and flowers, he showed me the tracks and told me what animal made them, he taught me to shoot and hunt with a rifle, shotgun and bow and arrow. We fished for every kind of fish and we went frog gigging and turtle hunting. We picked all the wild fruits when they were in season.

He also took me into the garden to learn how to grow things, he taught me about the soil, how to enrich it and to keep it from compacting. He showed me how to plant things from seed and how to tend and nuture the plants and then we would harvest our crop and he showed me how to clean, cook and how to jar everything up for the winter.

His one other vice, he drank like a fish. But I loved him in spite of this and his proclivity for hatred and bigotry.

Well, my father married a girl whose father was of Irish blood and Catholic to boot. Don't worry it wasn't that bad, the few times both my grandfathers were at a family gathering together they were both very civil to one another.

My maternal grandfather was a friendly man who got along with anybody and everybody, he never ever had a bad word to say about anything or anybody. He didn't drink or smoke and he went to church every sunday. He was a railroad man, a freight conductor and he was always on the road. I got to see him when he was off and we would go to the city and look at the buildings and into the shop windows. If something interesting caught his eye we would go in and explore. We would even go into churches and synagogues to look at the architecture. He was fascinated with everything and we would have fun just looking at everything.

When he found out I could draw, he bought me a large wooden drawing box with all the tools an artist needed. He was always happy to look at a new drawing. When I decided to paint, he got me all of the paint and brushes, an easel and canvas and would come over just to see how I was progressing.

By the time I was getting good and interested in attending saturday classes at the museum, he was retired and on a small railroad pension. My parents did not want to spend the money and he told them he and my grandmother would go with out food for a month and pay for school if they were to cheap to pay for it (he used those exact words). I got to go to saturday art school and I eventually went on and got my masters degree in painting. (with the help of my wife of course). my wife and I eventually moved to a farm in the country and we plan on never leaving. (so far, so good).

I had to sit and write this because I came to realize that I am my grandfathers. I am a melding of these two very different men.

They each brought me something, they each taught me about the world around me, they taught me about simple pleasures and they each provided me with the things I love.

I love the country, farm-life, growing things, looking at things, creating art, going to the city and looking at everything. They both taught me how to be who I am and how to live my life the best I can.

That is all we ever really need.

New study tells me that mom's cause childhood obesity. I think Mom's also cause Dad's obesity too, what do you think?

If we can be honest with ourselves and each other for a minute or two, we can honestly say that there are many things going wrong with this country. I think that we can get a set of alphabet flash cards, throw them into the air, catch one and come up with a problem that begins with that letter; no matter what that letter might be.

Everyone has heard about, tried to achieve, reached for, caught and lost, living, "the American dream," but it is not having a home in the suburbs with a white picket fence, two cars, a dog, a nine to five job, and a few kids. The American dream is very hard to describe or to give a list of what it might be. It ultimately means many things and whatever any individual might set his/her dream to be, or can "the American dream" be more of a state of mind than achieving a certain list of material things. It can be a state of mind, having a comfortable place to live, an easy way to get around, a pleasant job you enjoy, helping people in need, having great friends, enjoying the little things and the huge ones as well, allowing yourself to embrace every possibility this life might bring us. I myself have never thought I would own a home, in fact I usually give everything away because I hate having to take care of things, if I don't want to be home for a few days and I simply don't go; I don't want to worry about a pet, the lights, the alarm, etc.

My American dream is very different than everyone else's. My dad's american dream when he can to this country was to have us all together again, but when he had us together before he came to the USA he would stay away. Now his dream, nay, hope is to keep what he has worked hard and many times ask me to work harder along side him. When he decided to buy a house he picked one that he could afford and live for a long time, oh and that it had room for his two kids, three dogs, and my mom's 13 cats. Now he is working even harder to try and keep the house, not because of pride or because he could not be comfortable in another home, or to make sure his two grandchildren have something after he is long gone, but because we have put in a lot of work and satisfaction when we finished the roof, patio, restrooms, gate, patio cover, driveway, shed, porch, brick, etc. It is not about the countless tears, the blood shed, the scrapes, the falls, the near misses, the hammer to the finger, the stepping on the nails, or the burned fingers, but it's about the stories, memories, foot through the roof, hitting the fence with the car, almost falling from the roof cause it was raining and I had flip flops on, grandkids taking their first steps, gatherings, building together, arguments, fights, learned lessons, grandkids helping with the car mechanics, days of heat and cold, power outages and hail storms. He wants to stay there because he wants it still, more than when it was his first day, more than when it was worth two and a half times the original purchase price, more then when he decided that was going to be his new home. He wants it because he has never felt any more comfortable or at peace.

I know he is not the only one that ran into problems and the economy was not the only factor, and that many people have already lost their "American dream," but I just thought I would write about it!

It's turkey season here in Missouri and my cousin John went hunting this morning with his dad. John and I both signed into Facebook early this morning and, as we often do, had a little chat via instant messages.

I don't think I have ever heard a child use a phrase like the one John used to describe the weather conditions and I'm sure I've never seen a child write such a phrase.

John amazes - and amuses - me!

---

Susan: Hi John!

John: Hey. yawn yawn

Susan: Yawn yawn here, too!

John: Ya but you didn’t go hunting this morning.

Susan: Did you get one?

John: No the wind was a howlin’ and it was raining.

A 9-year-old relative recently befriended me on Facebook.

A woman who paid £100 for a locked trunk belonging to Agatha Christie has uncovered some of the author's most personal possessions, worth £100,000.

Lucky Jennifer Grant bought the battered brown leather case at an auction held at Greenway House, Christie's former home near Kingswear, Devon, and found another box inside.

I recently wrote an article about my father and the lessons that I learned from him, and decided that I would do a series of these.

I started with something that happened during my High School years, but as I was writing the second one, I decided I would introduce this man to you before I went on with any more of these articles.

My dad was born in the mountains of Arkansas in 1917. He was born to a Baptist preacher and a simple country woman. My grandfather share cropped for a living to support his preaching habit, and pastored as many as 4 little one room churches at a time, holding services one Sunday a month in each church. He was paid with whatever came in an offering plate, or more often, with a couple of chickens or some vegetables from someone's garden. Later, the family roamed into Missouri and down into Texas, hoeing, chopping and picking cotton as day labor. Dad was working in the fields by the time he was 4 or 5, along with his brothers and his dad. During times when the family picked cotton for money, instead of farming someone's land, he was paid 10 cents a day to the grown mens' pay of 50 cents.

My dad, over his lifetime, saw wondrous changes in the world. He began his life with horses and mules as the main source of transportation. I have an old photo of the family when my father was about 6, all dressed in their Sunday Go To Meeting clothes, sitting in a buck board pulled by 2 mules. They were leaving for home when the picture was taken by one of the members of the churches my Grandfather pastored. From this, he saw the world change to men walking on the moon, computers in homes, and space flight so common that it doesn't even rate being the lead story on the news anymore.

He, just like his brothers, was taken out of school after 4th grade. My Grandfather informed them that they could read, write, and "do their sums" and a man did not need to know more than that to walk behind a mule on a plow. This was the way these people lived, and the expectation was that it would always be that way. Nobody ever moved far from home, and nobody was expected to. I still have cousins that live within 10 miles of where my father was born.

He enlisted in the Navy at 24, a couple of months after Pearl Harbor. He was working on a dairy farm at the time, on a deferred job, and didn't have to go, but he went anyway. He was in the Pacific through the war, on a Destroyer Escort.

After the war, he went back to Arkansas, but didn't stay long. He felt that he could make a better life in the city, and he chose Dallas. His brothers ridiculed him, and told him he'd come back. They told him he couldn't make it in the city, but he remained in Dallas the rest of his life.

He met my mother here in Texas, and they married. Like many others, their start was short on money and long on hope. They lived in one room apartments and rooming houses until they could afford to rent a house, and finally buy one. They had my 3 sisters, and then, in 1963 they were blessed (or perhaps cursed) with a son. And, so, I came into the world, the 6th member, the 4th child, and the only son, in this family.

Even though his education was limited to say the least, he made it. He went to work for Singer Sewing Machine, and eventually worked his way up to Regional Manager of 5 stores. He eventually purchased one of these stores, and supported a family out of it. He was a born salesman.

By the mid '70's the world had changed to the point that people weren't making thier own clothes anymore, and the demand for sewing machines was drying up. He sold his store, and went to work for a local company that produces sausage and bacon for the retail market. As I said, he was a born salesman, and he sold sausage as well as he sold sewing machines.

After a few years, he was an area merchandise coordinator, then a regional account manager for Texas and Oklahoma, with 3 major supermarket chains as his main clients. I remember him writing up his sales reports and customer contact reports, and bringing them to my sisters, and later to me, to rewrite them for him so that the spelling was correct. He could add numbers for 5 figure sales in his head, but he could not spell the names of the supermarket he sold it to. He had never learned to write in cursive at all, other than to sign his name.

But, even with his lack of education, he was the smartest man I ever met. He had more common sense than anyone I have ever encountered, and he could read a person within minutes of meeting them. I never knew his instincts to be wrong.

He retired in 82 while I was in the Navy, and when I came back home, he became my best friend. I lost him in 1997, at the age of 80.

I am going to be publishing a series of articles about the lessons I learned from this man, and I just wanted you to know a little about him while reading those articles. It might make how and why he taught them a bit clearer to you.

My father had let me drive out in the country since I was 12 years old, and I had driven trucks and tractors on my uncles' land since I could remember, so by the time I was 14, I was more than ready to get a truck so that I could get it all fixed up and ready to go by the time I had my license at 16.

I went up to Dad, and told him my plan.

"Dad, I will be getting my driver's license in a bit over a year. I want to have a truck all ready and fixed for when I get it, so I want to get a truck, now."

He gave me a wise, sage look, and imparted upon me these words of wisdom.

"You want a truck? Well, Son, get a job."

Well, I had been working a couple of hours a day a couple of days a week at a convenience store, racking soda bottles (remember when we used to take the bottles back and get a nickel or a dime for them?) but I was not making anywhere near enough money to buy a truck.

So, I got a job with a roofing company, loading shingles onto houses in the afternoon after school. I could load a house in an afternoon, and would load one 2 or 3 days a week.

I was making about $10 - $20 per house. I was rich.

A few months went by, and I soon saved up some money, and began looking for a truck to buy. After arduous looking and searching, I found a 1959 Chevrolet Apache 31 pickup. It had the short fleetside bed, and was turquoise blue. 235 Inline 6 cylinder engine with a 1 Barrel Rochester Carb, 3 on the Tree, and factory installed AM radio.

The body was a little beat up, but no rust, and it ran, so I bought it. Cost me $300.

I knew that it needed some engine work, so I kept loading shingles, and started spending money. My cousin and I did all the work rebuilding the engine on that truck, and I spent several hundred more on parts, but by the time I was 16, it ran like a dream. I had replaced all the gaskets, main bearings, rings, valves, had the cylinder head resurfaced, replaced the clutch, new carb, new starter, and a new master cylinder.

I drove that old Chevy to and from school, all over town with friends, and to and from work, still loading shingles on houses, and now doing some roofing on weekends.

I never worried about refinishing the interior or recovering the seats, just about the mechanical condition of the truck, which I kept in perfect order. After all, that was all that mattered. The seat was torn, there was no carpet, no air, and the heater only worked when the moon was in the right phase with Jupiter, but these didn't bother me or my buddies. It was just the way the truck was. We accepted it.

I soon found out, though, that girls were not so accepting of my old truck. After going out on a couple of dates in the truck, I began to get the vibe that they were not accepting of it at all.

I drove that truck all my sophomore year, and listened to disparaging remarks about my old truck from one girl after another, I finally decided that in the interests of my pursuit of comfort and companionship from the fairer sex, I would have to replace my old truck with something a bit more modern, and that provided a higher level of style and creature comforts.

I again went to my dad for advice and direction.

"Dad, girls hate my truck, and they don't want to ride in it. I have to get a better truck."

He gave me another of those wise, sage looks, and told me the secret to acquiring that for which I longed.

"You want a better truck? Well, Son, get a better job."

Yesterday for the game some family showed up to my parents house, uncle cousins, the regular people. I was not there I watch the game like I usually do , alone, not really, I enjoy it more when I am alone. About an hour after the game ended I get a text from my sister that my nephew had gotten in a fight with my cousin's son, about 4 months younger than my nephew. She went on to tell me that my nephew, Douglas had hit hit a few times and had bruised the other kids face a bit; my nephew in 4 and a half. I asked her why the fight started, what did my cousin had said, and if she had punished Douglas. Her answers where that Antony, my cousin's boy had been bothering Douglas, Antony a tough kind of kid, you know the kind. I can always play a bit more rough with him without any worries of him complaining, he just keeps going at you until he tires you out. I also know that Douglas is the kind of kid that goes up to you and pinches you when no one is watching and then tells everyone that he did nothing wrong. Who started the bothering I don't know, it does not matter? She told me that my cousin had given her a bad look to which my sister responded, that ifd he did not want his kid to be beaten up to tell him not to bother other kids. Punishment? For what! He had not started it.

Ok, I have been involved in a few scuffles, some of you might have read about the time I almost lost my thumb, but I you have to push me very hard for me to lose it that way. And I always know its wrong, but at those times I am the one who will lower his head like a bad little dog does and apologizes even when the fight was not my fault. My nephew is 4 and a half and he has to learn that he could have walked away. He is the instigator most of the times, and even when you have told him to cease, he continues to bug people. Was it his fault, maybe, maybe not, I was not there, so I will give him the benefit of the doubt and say it was not my nephew's fault, but he needs to learn to control himself, If I have so can he. He is already out of control the only one he listens to is me, maybe cause I do not give him any slack, because the moment I do, who will stop his shenanigans. He should had been punish for the act of fighting alone.

Not only did he not get punished but he got a new fire truck toddler bed. Great, reinforcement! I am not a psychologist, in fact I don't like them, but I can see everything that is wrong there, why can't they? Seriously, why even try? Because I am his uncle. Many have told me to not try so hard. Really, damn, that's too bad! I am not saying I am an angle or should be a saint for trying to get my nephew in line. I am doing it because he is little and needs to learn. How could I look at myself 15 years from now if I don't do anything. What if I fail? I can still say I tried, and hopefully soon Douoglas will see that.

Man mysteriously shot after leaving girlfriends home around 5: AM one morning. There are few clues and many questions.

I've gotten tired of all the political drama on the 'vine. With the holidays around the corner, thought this would be a nice change.

So, what is the best gift you've ever recieved and given?

There are friends and then there are those who stand on completely different level. I have three such friends that take me as i am, an arrogant, loud, cry-baby, strong, stubborn, moody, etc., and I truly do not understand why they are so willing to put up with the negative side of my personality. Sure i might have some good qualities, but sometimes even I can't stand myself, so I stay away from everyone. These three friends have been really great in this time that i was out of work, had no money, was pissed of half the time, and was well just an irritable person to be around.

Jim, many know who he is, he helped me with well talking and calming me down, taking me to places I never expected to be, he loan me money for the rent and to have a few bucks in my pocket. i have learn a whole bunch about myself with the conversations we have. He has allowed me to stand back, escape my life even if for a few hours or days, to collect my thoughts.

I have spoken about my house mate from time to time, Yvonne, has been a great friend. She is the kind of woman whom would do almost anything for someone she calls a friend or family. She has been so good in just leaving me alone to figure out what to do with my life, never has she asked me where I go or stay when i don't go home for days, and when i was having the financial problems, she was really great in well dealing with my lateness of the rent.

The last one is Alex, whom has always contacted me at the very appropriate times it would seem. If at any time i was upset or angry or in a sad, emotional mood, he always seem to know the exact time when to text me a joke, ask how i was doing, just say hello and keeping me a bit calm. He would just sit and listen or rather read all the crap I was talking, or rather all the anger I was exhibiting.

All three are held in the some part of my heart that no one goes into, not even myself, it is that protected. How to return the, for lack of a better word, favor is unknown to me. Actually, I think to them it is not necessary, which makes them even more kind. It seems that in my life, even though I do not believe in god, I can safely say that I have "seen the face of god," a few times.

Forget all the material help they gave me, their kindness helped my state of mind in a huge way. Unlike Tevye, I can bend without breaking, but I would be a very unhappy pretzel.

By David J. Hudson

He's slouched against the buff colored wall. Hiding behind the curtain that is his hair. His hands alternately clenched, dirty fingernails digging into his palms, or jammed into the pockets of his worn, unwashed jeans. His frayed, faded flannel shirt is buttoned crooked. The tails hang out. His tattered sneakers are untied.

Everyone and yet no one notices him. One moment he appears to be a confused young teen., the next, a wizened old man. It's hard to tell. His eyes appear to be closed all of the time. His lips constantly move. His matted shoulder length hair and unkempt beard blend together in a dirty brown mask that nearly obscures his face.

When he finally moves he doesn't simply walk away. He spins and turns, often moving backwards. He never stumbles. He is a graceful confusion of movement from side to side. His slight figure becomes a forgotten message on a crumpled scrap of paper bouncing and bobbing down the street. Propelled out of sight by the merest breath of wind.

B. suffered from schizophrenia and was in and out of both the criminal and mental health systems in Davis, California. He was a student at U.C. Davis. I believe his disease didn't present until he got to college. When his family discovered what had been going on, they took him home, somewhere in the mid-west, where he was hospitalized and stabilized on medication. He returned to Davis and resumed school. When I saw him I could not believe it was the same person.

It didn't last. Not long after he started reappearing in the same condition as before. It was as though he had never been treated. I remember he used to carry around worn, folded pieces of paper with what looked like very complex math formulas, drawings and notes. He looked at me once, and gave me one. I still have it. I could see someone behind the eyes that rarely opened. Weeks later he was found under an overpass, dead from exposure. It was one of the saddest days of my life over the loss of someone I didn't really know.

Here is the definition I found on family. Not sure what yours might fall into, but as luck would have it, tonight I was let into something so beautiful that brought tears to my eyes. My house-mate had a gathering of all her "cousins," but of course some are a bit more distant than that but were there. As my house-mate finished her blessing, her house after all, everyone was going to give thanks, and although some skipped it like me. The oldest of the bunch made it know that he was not going to say a prayer but give thank to the good things for this year, not much huh? Well you would be surprised! He is thankful to a death, a death in their family brought them together again, a death in the family made them cry together, made them remember the old times when they were young. A death of a loved one made them put their differences aside, and I was lucky to see the fruition of it all. I certainly hope that their new found togetherness lasts.

You might ask what about my family, well for that there must be more time, i do not hate them, I put up with them. Love them as much as I can, do not hold them in any contempt, in fact I hold them to a standard they don't understand why! I would do almost anything for my family and the same for someone on the street.

Tonight I felt included in someone's else family, not because of who I am, but rather because of who they are. I don't think I could be at another of their gatherings, i might start crying, wait I there was another gathering were I cried! ha!

10: a group of people who are generally not blood relations but who share common attitudes, interests, or goals and, frequently, live together: Many hippie communes of the sixties regarded themselves as families. very interesting!

Some great words of wisdom here.

We all have lots of things we can immediately think of that make us happy: family, possessions and leisure things, for a start. The real dilemma comes in trying to reduce all of them to just three, if they were the only ones you could have. That must be very difficult!

But that is the real challenge of this question. If nothing else at all was there, what three items, elements, people, or whatever, would do the trick for you; make you feel wonderful and very happy?

Over to you. Please stick to the requirement in your own comment. Thank you.

Kids I mean. Seriously, come on there is no other rational or practical reason to have kids other then to make them work for you for free! Right? I read once that by the time kids get to the age of 18 parents would have spent 500 thousand dollars. I have been working since I was 14, alright there were some periods of time that I did not for one or another reason but I had my savings, and I have barely made over that amount and most of the time I was only paying for me, damn, fine sometimes there were girls and friends. This means In the next 13-14 years I will have to make about 1 million dollars. Ouch! So why else do we have kids?

Well if I was a farmer I would have to have a bunch of children, expected to help me as they grow up to plow the lands, milk the cows, egg and kill the chickens, "tend the rabbits," and every other shore needed to be dome. And you know me girls and boys would have to do the same things, there is no difference in them. Yeah that is it , free work. Of course they would get their new shirt and pants every year, and a roof, three meals and I would even throw in some snacks here and there. Of course for their hard work they would have my undying thanks and a hug here and there.

That must be it because I have been thinking of these all day and I can't figure out why else! Ok there is that of having something that came half from you and hopefully half from someone you loved, but hell, love does not last, ah but it does you see, it does. The love for a child of yours can never be taken away, not even by you yourself. You might never talk to one of your kids because of an argument or a decision they made, but the love you have for them will always be within you. To watch Madison run around, learning her letters and numbers, telling me her shapes, and just having a conversation with her, if I was a woos, I would be in tears everyday, but since I am thew "macho" I am, I can fight them off most of the times. Of course, I have nothing to be proud of except of being her father other than that she is all her, I got lucky. All I do is give her a little influence to do the right things occasionally, other then that she is pretty much always on track. The joy that she has brought into my life is second to none I don't think that even the strongest of happy pills can compare.

Although, Madison was unplanned and I had to make choices in my life suited to her well being and not mine, I would never or will never say I did not want her for a second, the moment I found out AI was going to be a dad, my life was for her. My life would be extremely different if she would not have come along, I probably would have never started writing here in the Vine, I would probably be in another part of the world, doing who knows what wrongs or rights. No regrets here. never specially her. So you think raising a child is hard, sure it is, sometimes! There can be many things wrong with a kid, but I got lucky! Hard!? Only if you make it that way. A friend gave me this
link which described exactly how I feel about children but could have never expressed it that way.

To Madi: If you should ever deem it worth your while to read any of these dumb article know only one thing, that you gave me Salvation. You saved me from myself, you gave me a path to follow, you are the light that makes me shine, you are all yourself and I am your dad.

Being unemployed certainly has its drawbacks but on the other hand it has its joys too. Now I have the time to do all the things I put off until tomorrow. Like going to the park with my great nieces and nephews. Canning my own jellies again. Redoing the flowers in my yard. Taking time to go hiking alone. Curling up with my book outside in the swing.
I am teaching a flower arrangement class at my mom's senior citizen center. I have taken my granddaughter and her friends to a couple of baseball games and I am teaching them to jitterbug as well as like my "old" music. My older sister and I have been hitting the second hand stores for bargains. And best of all I have time to prepare and cook a romantic dinner for me and the love of my life instead of going out for one.

Although I learned along time ago to make time for family and friends no matter how busy I was it just was not quite the same. Now there is no frantic rushing around to finish up one thing so I could do another. I have taken the time to find some old friends I had not been in contact with for a while. I am writing "real" letters again..the two and three page kind. I am writing poetry once more and have finally finished that elusive fourth chapter of a book that I have been working on for my granddaughter ever since she was born. Thirteen years and I have four chapters, not exactly what I had hoped for when I started it but maybe now I will do a little better.

I have driven around the small town I grew up in and realized I have missed much of its growth even as I watched it do so. I have visited some of the local landmarks that I had not been to in years. Taken long leisurely drives down the country roads that used to be the only roads around and driven past my grandparents old house. I have finally gotten around to sorting through old photographs and bringing to mind some wonderful forgotten memories. I lost both of my dads in the last couple of years and I had been given some things of theirs that I had just boxed up. Going through those boxes also brought tears and laughter and some feelings of closure that I had not realized was needed.

If and when I find a job I know that things may change again but for now I will count my blessings and be glad I have had this chance to stop and smell the roses...the ones I planted myself and that are growing in my own backyard.

Shortly after I turned 40 this summer, my friend's daughter turned 14, prompting a comment from her Grandmother that she did not like teenagers. I posed a question, which is worse turning 14 or 40? Here are my conclusions.

My best memories of the 4th of July are from when I was young. Our family used to spend it at my Grandma's house. Many of my aunts , uncles and cousins would be there. There were never less than thirty people at Grandmas tiny little two-bedroom house. Naturally it was always steamy hot, but as kids we didn't care!

There was always a barbeque with hamburgers and hot dogs. I still love the smell of charcoal briquettes. The aunts would bring salads and sides dishes. Baked beans, potato salad, tossed salad (ick), jell-o molds (yum) and many others. Sun-tea for the grown-ups and lemonade for the kids. Giant slices of watermelon afterwards and the memory of the juice dripping down our chins, spit those seeds out or you'll have watermelons growing out of your ears!

The adults would be sitting in a group talking and smoking. Boring! We would be playing the typical kids games, tag, hide and seek, hopscotch on the front sidewalk. Anxiously awaiting dusk and our chance to light our fireworks.

We always knew the time was near when the ice cream churn came out. We would watch grandma or an aunt pour the rich vanilla liquid into the metal cylinder. The container in the churn would be surrounded by ice and rock salt. My cousins and I would fight to turn the crank and 'make' the ice cream. In the beginning. Of course after awhile it became harder to turn and we would struggle to turn that handle but we knew that meant it was closer to being ice cream and tried, oh we tried to be patient. Finally, usually after an adult completed churning, it would be done. Yes! Someone would carry the frozen tub into the kitchen. Oh…the best part. We kids got to clean the paddle. Fingers and spoons scraping frozen heaven off of the ladder-like dasher. Nothing has ever tasted better. And we still got to have a bowl of ice cream!

By now the sun was setting and it was time for our fireworks. Making swirls and designs in the air with our sparklers. Writing our names. Chasing each other when we thought we could get away with it.
Someone always burning their fingers on the hot wires of the burned out sparklers. Squatting down on the ground watching a small black disc become a writhing snake and then fluttering away at the merest breath of air. Dancing in the colored clouds of smoke bombs. We made quick work of it. The adults would move their lawn chairs from the shady back yard to the front. The finale was about to start. Grandma lived about half a mile from the county fairgrounds. Of course this was the place where the 'real' fireworks show took place and we had a perfect view. All of my cousins, my brothers and I would plop onto the grass and marvel at the display. The only time that day we had been still. It was always magical.

I would love to do that one more time.

Tonight, my deepest darkest wound was opened up, by someone who had no intention of hurting me. All because this person did not take the proper precautions to protect me from the pain I once felt. However this person is not the one to blame. This person is an innocent bystander. They inadvertently reminded me of the most painful situation I ever had to live through. I spent more than ten years putting this tragedy behind me, and in one word, they rehashed years of torment.

This all could have been avoided had this person kept in mind the feelings I had expressed to them in the past. Had this person used their filter, instead of speaking off the cuff, they would have remembered this pain. Yet, this particular person had nothing to do with the anguish in the first place. The anguish was caused by who I thought was another great friend. Someone that at one point, I thought I could trust.

None of this ever would have happened had both parties kept in mind that there are some things that you just don't say to another person. I guess what I am getting at is: Be careful what you say to people. There is honestly nothing that hurts more than words or actions from a confidant.

"Christianity is the most ridiculous, the most absurd, and bloody religion that has ever infected the world"~Voltaire

There are many people that have biblical knowledge, Priests, Imams, Preachers, Laymen and even Atheists. Yet, with so many people with the knowledge of how we should treat each other, how easy it is for us to cast aside the spiritual principles.

I understand your confusion in regards to your spirituality. As you pointed out in your email:

"I have seen your posts on Newsvine and the True2ourselves website, and I am impressed with your knowledge of everything. I need some advice, but have no one else to turn to.

I have been taught to be a Christian all my life by my parents, but I see my parents sinning everyday. When I tried to talk to my mom about it, she grounded me and said I needed to mind my own business.

I was not being rude or smart with her. I was really asking her a serious question. How can I have faith in the truth, when my parents, who can recite scripture at the drop of the hat, uses it to justify their behavior? In history class, we talked about the Spanish Inquisition and how tons of innocent people got murdered in the name of god. How can I have faith in that?"

In reality, the application of Biblical Principles is a very uneasy subject for most. Ever since humans have existed, questioning of any intention has been looked at as disputation of authority. Though many are believers, we must also remind ourselves that we are all sinners as well, and come short when trying to follow G-D's will.

We humans are confused creatures. We are confused creatures walking around and interacting with other confusing creatures. One of the main reasons for our confusion is that we have a triune interaction with our universe. We have our body, we have our mind, and we have our heart. We are in a constant battle between our fears, our desires, our thinking, and our physiology. One of the purposes to having faith is to bring a type of equilibrium. We have many examples, today, when the balance is upset:

If we focus on our bodies, then we will enact and react physically. One example of this is the need to constantly find sexual pleasure in the world.

If we focus on our minds, pride sets in. We lose the ability to admit when we are wrong, without abundant evidence.

If we focus on our heart, then greed can set in and our love of money, power, and prestige can be a driving factor in our lives.

This is not isolated to individuals either. It can also be evident in large groups. History has given evidence of when large groups fall into the wayside and focused on different aspects of our carnal nature. Since you mentioned the Inquisition, I will use that as an example:

During the Inquisition period of the Roman Catholic Church, I believe that many had faith and cerebral knowledge of the scripture. There were those within the church that started that era with greed and avarice in their hearts, but many of the inquisitors had faith that they were doing what was right in the eyes of G-D. Many had cerebral knowledge of the scripture, to the point of being able to recite most, if not all, the bible from memory. Yet, out of this time period we see many innocent people killed in the name of the Most High.

The one thing that really allowed the many heresies they caused, was pride. We need to have cerebral knowledge. and faith in the truth of that knowledge, so that we can keep our deceptive and prideful hearts in check. Pride prevented the church from allowing itself to see the evil that it was sponsoring in the world, at that time. Pride in the control of others, pride in the ownership of land and money, but the worst of all, pride in its own self righteousness. It was that sense of pride that allowed the church to judge others, but not judge itself in accordance to biblical standards.

During the inquisition period, the church had become a horrendous prideful creature. Instead of focusing on the spiritual principles in a believers life, and the proper terms of salvation, and accountability to one another, they focused on capitalistic tendencies and a nepotistic reward system for bringing leaders up. If those that had cerebral knowledge of the truth, simply recalled the "Beatitudes (Matt. 5:3-12 )" they would have felt shame and guilt for the folly of their ways.

Unfortunately, even in the event an individual inquisitor did feel bad for the torture abuse they were committing, the concept of the "infallibility of the church" gave them the ability to continue, free of guilt. Those that did not subscribe to that ideal, were often forced to continue on in the evil intent, or face poverty, torture, and death, themselves.

This did not reflect the truth that G-D had enlightened the world with through Jesus' ministry. Though it is good to think of G-Dly things, it is just as important to act in G-DLy ways as well.

"If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth." ~1 John 3:17-18 NIV

I believe that Matt. 5:3-12 lays down the specific frame work in the differences between contemplating and acting in accordance of G-D's will toward his fellow man:

"Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them saying:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger,
for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see G-d.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called sons of G-d.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

"Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you." Matt 5:1-12

In the G-Dly walk, we want the blessings of G-D upon us. I believe that Jesus outlines exactly what it means to live a G-Dly and blessed life.

When you are poor in spirit, you realize that we are nothing compared to the creator. Someone who is poor in spirit will also beg to be enlightened toward better spiritual principles. The poor do not have "pride" that prevents them from asking for exactly what they need, and they are gracious when they receive it.

When you are sensitive, you mourn. Not just for yourself, you will feel saddened for those around you as well. It is in the fellowship of a broken heart that one may find comfort. It is in fellowship can you feel truly accepted with the best you have in life, and the worst.

When you are meek, you realize that you deserve nothing, and everything that is given you is a blessing. Meek people do not haughtily achieve anything. They are well aware of their abilities, and aware of the skills they are lacking. You can be confident that a meek person will honestly let you know what and how much they can handle, since their pride will not be in the way of their honesty. The meek will inherit the Earth, because they want nothing that is not theirs.

The hungry will be filled. Though to be hungry can mean many things. You can be hungry for food. You can be hungry for friendship. You can be hungry for knowledge. You can be hungry for love. To be hungry is to appreciate it when you find the thing that satiates your appetite. If you cannot value what you have found, then you were never hungry for it in the first place.

"Blessed are the merciful." These words ring true today, as they have through out human existence. Just as ones ruthlessness is acclaimed worldwide, so is ones example of mercy. When faced with an opponent, whether out of anger, fear, or loathing, an opponent that is known for mercy breeds the hope for peace on both sides of the issue. Those that fight hardest are the ones that face hopeless defeat.

What does it mean to be "Pure Of Heart?" Pure of heart is focused intention. G-D is one, whole, creator. He is indivisible. He does not need to confront man with deception and malevolence. When G-D spoke to the prophets of the Bible. He did not lie, cheat, or manipulate them.

"So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth. "~Rev. 3:16 NIV

G-D requires us to be just as honest, just as steadfast in our decisions in life. If we make a good choice, we do it for righteous reasons. If we make a mistake, we should have the same focused approach, and be willing to take full responsibility for that decision. Purity of heart also means purity of responsibility. There is no pointing the blame to another for the decision we make for our lives.

To be a peacemaker should be the aspiration of all G-Dly people everywhere. A peacemaker is not one to choose sides on who is right or who is wrong, unless the call is made objectively. The ultimate goal of a peacemaker is to create a spirit of compromise and peace between both parties involved. Where people who know of you can say there is a man who finds facts more important than opinion. Here is a man who is fair in his judgment. A peacemaker is not corrupted by prejudice or greed. He only strives for fairness and truth, for all involved.

In regards to righteousness, the Bible is speaking about more than just belief or faith. Righteousness is a matter of relationships - with God, with things, and with other people. A righteous man has integrity, equity, justice, and straightness in everything that is put into his life. The persecution of the righteous is usually for a political gain of some sort. The persecution of the righteous is never straightforward. The purpose is not readily seen to the public, but just as in Jesus' time, many in the public will join in in the persecution. It is for these that "Blessing Of The Kingdom Of Heaven" is most important. Without the strength, knowledge, and support of G-D, what value does it have to fight for what is good.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you." Philipians 4:8-9 NIV

In regard to your parents, your mother could have had just a bad day, or she may be going through some sort of crisis situation that your not aware of. I would talk with her again about it, but do it at a time when it is most peaceable for her.

In regard to your faith, all believers go through trying times. What is an easy question for one person can drive another into turmoil. We are all responsible for our own faith. As you mature, you will find plenty of reasons to doubt the existence of G-D. You will have questions about the church, what is the right church, who is the right pastor or priest. In this, just remember:

It is not the church that saves you,
It is not any man's sermon.
It is not how much money you contribute
It is not how many Bible versus you can recite

What it IS, is the relationship you have with the almighty. It is OK to doubt. G-D has never condemned a person for having doubt, G-D condemns wickedness.

In closing, I just want to say I will pray for you. Take strength in the fact that we have a god that wants us to question, to study, to delve into the mysteries of his ways, so that we might find enlightenment through him. You are responsible for your own actions, your own thoughts, your own feelings, and your own faith. No one else's, just your own.

"I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."~Mahatma Gandhi

I wasn't scared when my Governor decided to cancel all school and public events due to the Swine Flu outbreak, in fact, as a teacher, I secretly welcomed the unexpected break from class.

She, was not supposed to exist. Eleven years ago, my wife came home from the market and demanded we start remodeling our home. Granted she had been nagging me for six years previous, but by the tone of her voice, I knew she was no longer requesting.

I was reminded recently of just how short and uncertain life can be, not that I needed any reminders. My brother is active duty military, so we live with the danger of his job every time he deploys to a war zone. My father was diagnosed with stage 3 prostate cancer back in 2004, which recurred two years later (there is currently no sign of the cancer). Then he got diagnosed with a 2nd (unrelated) cancer last year (they think they got all of that one). So, after all of this, I am usually pretty aware of the transience of life, and the fact that we need to cherish the time we do have with the people we care about.

But every once in awhile, the world at large decides more reminders are in order, just in case you missed the message the first ump-teen times it sends it.

The first recent reminder came last fall when we found out that my uncle was diagnosed with stage 1 prostate cancer (they think they got all the cancer in the surgery and that he will make a full recovery). Then Monday came the latest reminder - a close family friend, the man that would be my godfather were I baptized, has also been diagnosed with prostate cancer. We are still awaiting information on his condition.

So the point of all of this? To remind us all that life is short. Every minute is precious. Cherish your life, friends, and family, because you don't know how long you will have them.

To begin with, I need to let you know that this is the first time I'm writing and publishing. Forgive me if it becomes offensive to anyone, though I believe there is nothing offensive. It's a story I used to tell my daughter which my mom told me.

No matter how bad things in your life may seem, we all have something to be thankful for. Here are some of the things that I am thankful for:

Isabella has died several times in the last two decades . Each time she dies a small death, she feels as if people who once loved her are waiting for her to simply go away.

For some reason Isabella never actually dies. Isabella has asked herself why, and often she wishes that she would simply be allowed to leave this earth. People always say she is here because she is "strong," or she must be here for a reason. Or she has something to offer to the world.

Isabella analyzes each of those answers.

She writes in her journal:

I am so strong that I have lost my ability to feel. The only way that I feel is through writing. It has always been cathartic. I have looked to other books for ideas, but the truth is that I start a thought and then I get stuck. I can never get to the end.

I must be here for a reason. Or I must have something to offer the world. Maybe this lifetime was the one that was supposed to teach me about all the possible mistakes that a person can bear. Yes, people say I should be grateful to be alive, and that the things that I have done in this lifetime have been important. Maybe it is the work that I have done in the area of domestic violence. Teaching women that they do not have to live in abusive relationships.

Isabella chronicled her "deaths," because her therapist told her that she had never mourned the losses.

January 1995: The first and last time that Isabella would be pregnant. Isabella lost her child to a miscarriage before she married her husband. She was back at work the next day. As an associate at a large firm, Isabella knew that it was better if people had no knowledge of her pregnancy or her miscarriage. She never took a vacation until her marriage in August 1996.

April 2001: The end of Isabella's marriage with a man who was dishonest, egocentric and an adulterer. A man who, to this day, keeps tabs on Isabella through mutual friends but refuses to speak with her. A man who openly hopes each day for Isabella's downfall. Isabella still has not understood what she did to deserve this treatment. Except that mutual friends have told Isabella that her ex-husband has always had a theory about women: They are on this earth for one reason -- to be used, and when they are no longer willing to be used, you find another who is. He was on his third marriage at age 34. Isabella was his second wife.

June 23, 2003: A massive stroke at the age of 41. Paralyzed on her right side, she had to re-learn how to balance a checkbook, she could not remember phone numbers, peoples' names. She went through over a year of physical therapy, speech therapy and occupational therapy. She had to learn to walk and talk again, had to take stupid tests to improve her speech. Eventually her dragging right leg corrected itself, but not without hours of work. Six months after her stroke, the law firm that she was working at told her that they didn't need her anymore. Imagine starting your own law firm six months after having a massive stroke. Isabella got back in the game, ran three marathons and continued to attempt to practice law. But it was difficult. She was slower, which was a blessing. She could no longer work fourteen hour days. Her billable hours were no longer on an annual 2700 billable hourly rate pace. She had heart surgery to correct the problem that led to the stroke. She was no longer a Type-A personality. She used to be proud of that competitive side. But it was gone. Forever.

And no one would hire her after the stroke. She was damaged goods.

January 26, 2006:A botched suicide. Isabella did not try to kill herself because of depression, but from pain, caused from the stroke. When Isabella tries to explain the pain, she gives several examples:

"The stream of water from a shower burns my skin like red, liquid glass."

"The entire right side of my body feels frost-bitten, as if a knife is cutting through frozen meat."

"I cut off all my hair because blow drying is too painful. it feels like the strands are being pulled out of my scalp one by one."

"I can't feel heat, but if the right side of my body is hit with cold water, the effect is like a million needles piercing my skin."

Everyone thinks that Isabella is crazy. People don't believe that she lives with pain every day. Because she looks healthy, people forget what she endures. The pain on the entire right side of Isabella's body has never subsided for the past six years. Certain days are unbearable, making it impossible to face the world, to put on clothes, to deal with people.

Doctors don't understand it. They often misdiagnose it. This is what happened to Isabella. For three years, Isabella was told that she was anorexic, had anxiety and was depressed.

Lay people say, there must be a drug to take the pain away. There isn't. Studies estimate that eight to fifteen percent of people who have had a stroke have this syndrome. There is no known cure.

Isabella tries to explain to others that it is not muscle pain but nerve pain. A lesion has damaged an area of Isabella's brain that processes sensory stimuli. The syndrome can be caused by a stroke.

Suicide, therefore becomes a viable option for people suffering from this pain. And it was a viable option for Isabella. At times, it still is. According to doctors at the National Institutes of Health, in Bethesda, Maryland:

Pain is typically constant, may be moderate to severe in intensity, and is often made worse by touch, movement, emotions, and temperature changes, usually cold temperatures. Individuals experience one or more types of pain sensations, the most prominent being burning. Mingled with the burning may be sensations of "pins and needles;" pressing, lacerating, or aching pain; and brief, intolerable bursts of sharp pain similar to the pain caused by a dental probe on an exposed nerve. Individuals may have numbness in the areas affected by the pain. The burning and loss of touch sensations are usually most severe on the distant parts of the body, such as the feet or hands. Central pain syndrome often begins shortly after the causative injury or damage, but may be delayed by months or even years, especially if it is related to post-stroke pain.

Isabella remembers people getting mad at her for the attempted suicide. Her boyfriend at the time told her that she should have found a more efficient way of attempting suicide to ensure success: like placing herself in front of a moving train.

What no one understood was that it was the uncontrollable pain, the lack of relief, and the lack of everyone's failure -- and refusal -- to understand that the pain created the attempt.

Isabella was able to learn about the syndrome by her own research. She sent her parents literature on it. They still asked her how pain is and had it gone away. She wondered whether people would have asked her if the paralysis on her right side had "gone away," had she not been able to walk again. Or when her drooping face was going to look like it did before the stroke. Or when she was going to be able to add, subtract, divide and read again without mixing up words. That would be considered rude, insensitive. But people never hesitate to ask Isabella if and when the pain from a brain injury will "go away."

Isabella's brother always held the suicide attempt against her and grew more distant. He didn't realize that his sister would not blossom or grow without his or his family's love. Instead, he said that he and his family are praying for Isabella. That doesn't replace time spent together. But if Isabella would just learn to Praise the Lord, all would be fine.

December 12, 2007: The loss of Isabella's first home, where she lived for fourteen years. She lost it to the bank. Isabella went from a 1400-square-foot home to a 751-square-foot apartment. All of Isabella's money had to go into her new firm. She realized how expensive it was to run a business and gained a new appreciation for what entrepreneurs must go through each day to ensure the success of their business. She realized that the things that she had worked for were slipping away. That each day she was a shadow of what she once was. She simplified, lost most of her possessions and moved on.

These are Isabella's deaths, in chronological order. Isabella looks forward to moving past the grief and learning the joys of life again. Isabella has learned that she is on her own, with few friends. Her various deaths have taught her to be cautious about who she lets in to her world, to be wary of others' intentions. She has learned to care less about people who consider themselves better than others or believe that religion in and of itself is an excuse for hypocrisy, war and intolerance.

Isabella has learned to care more for those who have been misunderstood or disbelieved.

Most importantly, Isabella has learned that she is nothing close to what people believed her to be. And Isabella isn't apologizing to anyone.

Today I am feeling as sick as a parrot which the most awful cold, perhaps flu. If you came to my flat you would not think we are celebrating Christmas at all. There is not a single item of Christmas cheer around me, deliberately.

"We must always think about things, and we must think about things as they are, not as they are said to be." George Bernard Shaw

Recently, I have written two articles about the experiences of an abuses childhood. They are titled:

Adult Survivor Of Child Abuse: The Consequences In My Life Part 1

Adult Survivor Of Child Abuse: The Consequences In My Life Part 2

and I am concerned.

I have tried writing these articles in such a way so as to not impart any potential for embarrassment or pain for my parents. I have also striven to write it in such a way so as to mot to be revengeful, dishonest, or disrespectful.

I have tried to write them so that I express only the facts in a way to show my experience with them, but to not spread hate or contempt toward them.

I am also aware that due to my past, my intentions my be hidden in self righteousness and justification. Please, be brutally honest with me. In regards to my trauma, I have been diagnosed with mental illness. Major Depression. PTSD, and Social Anxiety can taint the perception in various ways.

This actually leads to another question. Do abused adult children need to respect their parents? Do non abused adult children need respect their parents?

For some the answer can be found in religious texts, others can be found in philosophy. But what do most people think? Can I respect someone who does not respect me? What is repsect?

"In all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane." Oscar Wilde

Two new Bibles targeting a young, hip — even secular — audience are hitting bookstores. One is a slick, illustrated version of the New Testament; the other is an environmentally friendly edition that takes advantage of the popularity of the green movement.

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Around the holidays, we all get nostalgic. Remembering things from the past that are gone forever -- until we bring our memories back to life.

So, reminisce with me, go back in time and re-create a few of your favorite old school memories.

I start my journey in Flint, Michigan, where I was born and raised. I remember walking one block to do everything in one trip by going to the row of corner stores to buy clothes, pick up dry cleaning, get a hair cut and have a great meal. There were no super stores. Just mom and pop shops. No need to drive. Just walk.

First stop was the mail box on the corner of Barth Street and Chevrolet Avenue, to pay the County water bill, the Michigan Bell phone bill, and the Consumer Energy bill. Next stop: Dolores' wig shop, to say hello and look at all the cool wigs. Maybe try a few on! Walk by the pool hall (that was off-limits -- but the owners were relatives so I snuck in for snacks after school). Next stop: the barber shop with my dad. Next stop: Ryckman's Pharmacy, where I would buy Chiclet's gum, mom and I would stop by the cosmetics counter to look at the blue eye shadow, dad would go to the back, pick up his favorite shaving cream, visit the pharmacist, Mr. Ryckman, and pick up his pack of Tareyton's cigarettes.

Next stop: Walt's Market, where there was a full-time butcher who always knew what cuts of meat my mother preferred. Don't forget the fresh loaf of bread from Balkan's Bakery! Go to the one-lane check out and pay with cash.

Then we would walk past the organ shop, where the owner would leave the front door open so that we could hear him playing. Next stop: The dry cleaners. Last stop: Ruggero's Pizza, where I would order my favorite steak sandwich and my parents and brother would order the best pizza in the world. We would fill the juke box with change and play our favorite tunes. Or, we would carry the food home and sit around the television and watch Archie Bunker.

Fast forward to the teen years and that same row of stores. Mom and I pass the organ shop to Robby's, for school clothes -- and the first fitting for my Teenform bra! (Not that I needed it. I just had to have one). We placed clothes on layaway about a month before school and would stop by once a week to make payments. Whatever happened to Layaway?

My new clothes, for my first day of junior high included high wasted polyester bell bottoms in brown, plum and forest green and polyester, shiny, geometric-patterned blouses to match. And to match my outfits; my first pair of Kalso Earth Shoes from the mall. Remember Earth Shoes? The "negative heel" shoes that were supposed to make you feel like you were walking in sand. My mother thought the shoes were hideous (and they were), but she approved because they were all about posture!

My first date was at Ruggero's Restaurant. I can't remember the guy, but I do remember the music. Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, singing "Beautiful Loser." Of course! Bob Seger, born and raised in Michigan. And, as I got older, I would read the Flint Voice, the alternative newspaper, founded by Michael Moore in 1976. I'm sure my parents would have disapproved.

Our family would head to downtown Flint, Michigan to do our Christmas shopping. Mom, my brother and I would travel in our light blue Chevrolet station wagon. You didn't drive anything but a GM car in Flint, Michigan. Flint is the home of General Motors. And my father worked for, you guessed it: General Motors.

Smith-Bridgman's was where Santa Claus hung out. So my brother and I would wait patiently as mom would purchase two or three jars of Maynard's Beautiful Lady Hand Cream at the first floor beauty counter. To this day, my mother only uses Maynard's. Her hands always smelled like sweet olives! I remember getting on the elevator to go to as high as the eighth floor. There was an elevator operator, who would ask, "Which floor?"

After the Santa visit was the trip to Bill Thomas' Halo-Burger for the Olive Burger and pop. Not soda! Pop! Our choice was Vernors. Halo Burger and Vernors are both companies started in Michigan.

Vernors is a ginger ale, created by Detroit pharmacist James Vernor before the Civil War. Michiganders love Vernors, but other Americans are not so fond of it because it doesn't taste like typical ginger ale. The Traverse City Record-Eagle reported that most non-Michiganders "think Vernor's tastes like urine. There's a reason no one else drinks it." (Traverse City Record-Eagle "Locals Favor the Flavor - Vernor's in Northern Michigan" July 8, 1987.)

Vernors is the best medicine if you have an upset stomach. And if you want a real treat, try a Vernors Float. Vanilla ice cream and Vernors. Yum!

Your turn!

I have to smile when I look at my sofa. There are not 1, not 2, but 3 dogs curled up, snoozing away. What were we thinking and how did this happen?

We have always had pets, and each one has been special in their own way. But to answer, how we ended up with three begins with Thai. Thai was originally our sons dog, but he was unable to keep him so we adopted Thai. He was an Alaskan Mala-mutt, our reference, to his breed. When he was about 6 months old he broke his hip.... two surgeries later, the left hip and leg didn't heal successfully. We did not have the leg amputated, because he still used it for balance. He wouldn't use his impaired leg when he ran, but that didn't stop him, he loved to swim in the pond, chase squirrels and fetch a stick. He was the fastest running, three legged dog, I'd ever seen.

Thai went everywhere we went. Lowes and Home Depot were his favorite places. He loved people making a fuss over him. Little kids would ask if he was a wolf dog. My husband being self-employed, would take Thai with him. Thai had been in more fire departments than "Sparky" the firehouse dog.

Thai had been our constant companion for 10 years. Then one day he stopped eating. We took him to the Vet and left him there for the exam and xrays. Later that day, they called to let us know that the news was not good. Thai had cancer of the spleen. Even now, though it has been four years, just remembering that day, I feel the lump in my throat and the sting, as tears well in my eyes. The Vet removed the 3 lb tumor and started him on a series of treatments to increase his blood platelets. We would go to visit him, and when we could, we would bring him home until he had to go back. After 2 weeks of treatments the Vet gave us the prognosis we did not want to hear......

As difficult as it was to let him go...we had to. We stayed with him until he was gone. That evening my husband and I vowed, through uncontrollable sobs, not to go through this again.....the loss was just too painful.

The next morning my husband gathered all of Thai's belongings and put them in his truck. He was going to give them away....didn't want the reminders. Our son worked for his dad, and knew how upset he was, so our son did the driving. It was a gloomy, rainy day in Sept. The road to the shop was curvy.......as they rounded a curve, there in the middle of the road, stood a sopping wet puppy. My son slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting it.....the little dog did not move. My son blow the horn and waved his arm to gesture the puppy off the road. Finally, the puppy ran out of the road and up the bank. They drove past where the puppy was standing. My son glanced in the rear view mirror, only to see that the puppy had gone back into the road. Now he fears, someone else will come around the curve and hit the little thing. He stopped the truck..... his dad ask him what was he doing and to leave the dog alone. But our son wouldn't hear of it....he whistles to the puppy and she comes scampering up to him. He scoops her up and plops her into his dad's lap. My husband was in so much pain, from losing his best friend, this was the last thing he wanted. But it was exactly what he needed.

I got a call from my husband that went something like this....He explains the turn of events that lead up to having possession of the puppy and then he says .......Hon, I know we said we didn't want another pet, but would you be upset if I brought her home.

The minute I laid eyes on her, she was mine, and Bella would be her name. My little Bella was about 12 weeks old when we rescued her. She is a Patterdale Terrier mix. She is so smart, within six weeks she could shake, high five, beg, and give me a kiss on command. I was fortunate enough, at the time, to work for a company that let employees bring their pets to work (everyday) if they wanted, so I did. I now, work from home, we especially like sleeping in, on those cold winter mornings. Bella is not the cute fluffy type, she is a diva through and through.

We had had Bella for about 10 months and my poor husband was still grieving for Thai. He loved Bella, but she had not filled the void for him, as she had for me. I was telling this to a co-worker and she told me, that her mom ran a foster home for abandoned dogs and she had a male available, that was about a year old. I called my husband and ask if he would be interested in going to check him out. He said sure. That afternoon we were on our way home with two dogs instead of one. What can I say about Buddy. This is the goofiest dog I have ever seen. His breed is uh..will...uh...I don't know what he is. If you look him in the eyes, he starts to make vocal sounds, like he is trying to talk to you. If you are too noisy while he is trying to sleep, he will make a low growl sound, as if to say "your bothering me"

I have Bella and my Hubby has Buddy, our happy little family is complete. It had been about two years since we adopted Bubby. We'd taken our grand kids to breakfast and before going home we stopped by Walmart. They went inside, I stayed in the car. I noticed a dog pacing in front of the store. I thought maybe she was waiting for her owner to come out. As my husband and grand kids came out of the store, she went up to them. My husband was taken by her right away. She was skin and bones and covered with ticks and fleas. He put the purchases in the car and we start to head home, but he was keeping his eye on this dog. We watched as she followed a group of kids, that were eating burgers. They headed across the road and she was fast on their feels. It appeared that she belonged with them, but then we saw, one of the girls try to shoo her away. That set my husband into action. We drove over to where the dog and the girls were, he asked them if they knew, who she belonged to.....they said they had never seen her before. We had pancakes left from breakfast, we opened the to-go box..... and the rest is history. Sparkle is her name, she is a lab-sheppard mix and she is our roamer. She doesn't go far, and she always comes home in a couple of hours. She's not stupid, she knows a good thing when she has it. We named her Sparkle because one eye is brown and the other eye is mostly blue, hence, a sparkle in her eye.

Well, three is the limit, there is no more room on the sofa.....we could get a larger sofa. Hubby, I'm just kidding!

Summers on the shores of the Great Lake Michigan in Milwaukee can be as steamy as down South. It used to be that the dog days only hit for a brief time in August, but with global warming or whatever, that seemed to spread into July. Our family had its own rituals for dealing with these sweltering summer nights.

What did a young family do during the pre-air-conditioning, pre-ceiling-fan days? One could just lie there on the sheets with the window open to a breeze-less night listening to the crickets and owls and the lonesome train whistle in the distance. Sometimes dad got us up and we drove to the lakefront hoping to catch a cooling breeze. But sometimes it was not, after all, cooler near the lake. Often the answer was to just get up and eat something cool and refreshing.

Number one option was watermelon. Never mind the water and potassium and other nutrients -- it was cold right from the frig and lots of fun to eat. Mom did the slicing, setting the half-melon on a thick wooden cutting board. Slices were about a half inch thick -- she thought anything thicker was just too uncivilized. The rest of us sat at our usual places with newspaper instead of plates, to hold all the rinds and seeds. This made cleanup a quick and straightforward business.

Slices were passed out. We set to the serious task of eating luscious pink melon, careful not to accidentally swallow seeds or let too much juice get away down our chins and hands. There always came a point when we were all pretty sure we had eaten enough watermelon. We had the pieces of rind to prove we had fought a mighty battle against the heat-induced enervation of an August day and night. The rind bodies of the fallen watermelon slices littered the field of battle, to be tidily rounded up and deposited into the trash bin -- admittedly a sorry burial for such valiant pink soldiers, but there is no Valhalla for melons.

A quick washing-up followed, and another round of good-nights before slipping between or on top the sheets once more. This time, sleep was more easily induced to visit our brains. We slid into dreams of watermelon fields and juicy nectar ambrosias, maybe with chocolate syrup on top or coconut trees to provide a tropical blitz of shredded white.

The other option was a quick drive over to the neighborhood ice cream drive-in, which was fortunately open quite late in summer. This is the famous Leon's of the neon signage and soft creamy frozen custard. At the time when I was a small child, they still offered what they called a baby cone -- a mini sized cone that held maybe a tablespoon or two of custard.

Dad had thrown on a pair of pants and tee, but us kids were still in pajamas. Mom must have tossed on a house dress that zipped up the front -- it had big pockets for a wallet or ice cream money and lots of napkins for cleaning up us kids.

Dad collected orders for what flavors we wanted. The drive in had a limited selection for fresh orders but a much larger list of flavors if we wanted to take home cartons of custard. Vanilla for the purist, chocolate for the indulgent, strawberry for the fruit-lover, butter pecan for those with educated palates. Maybe one or two others, but those are the ones I recall.

I usually took vanilla. (I was working on building my purist cred.) The sibs either took chocolate or strawberry. Dad, who was a chocoholic from way back, surprisingly often chose butter pecan, as did Mom. We hurried to lick up the sides of the scoop or the drips would run down the hand in the summer heat.

It may astonish you to know that we were not the only customers there at that hour. Leons was famous among Milwaukeeans of every stripe. Young people stopped in after cruising the streets in their hot rods or souped-up VWs and Chevys. Teens came by after school or football games or even prom. And because they were open past midnight in the summer, lots of people flocked there for a cooling cone or sundae to put a cherry on top of the day, so to speak.

The neon signage was a beacon for the whole street. There was a major hospital about a block north, a Catholic Church about a block south, a high school across from the hospital, city parks south and west. Leons was the center of the known South Side universe as far as we were concerned.

So anyway, us kids were there in the back seat working on our cones. You might think this was a disaster waiting to happen, you might think that ice cream drips in all colors decorated our vinyl upholstery. But no, we were all quite adept at the cone-eating methodology.

I cannot recall a single dropped cone or scoop in the car, altho sometimes disaster struck while still at the counter. Occasionally the scoop was not firmly seated in the cone, and the first lick knocked it off and onto the cement lot. (Usually the cone was quickly replaced by the counter-person, especially if it happened to a child.) This hard lesson in the uncertainties of life led to a careful habit of making the first lick a firm press in a downward direction, to push the mound of custard deeper into the cone.

The delights of the dairy confections soon yielded to all of us and we drove out of the lot and back home. Another hot night conquered. And all of us piled into our beds again to dream of sledding thru custard mounds with puffy clouds of marshmallows overhead.

Thanks for the memories, Leons. And thanks for the memories, Dad.

For those who did not know the reason I started this group was because I found out my "Aunt" was diagnosed with cancer. When I say my "Aunt" I mean my brother and sisters mother. We have the same dad and different mothers.

It was February 28,2007 I received an email telling me that "Stacy" my aunt had small cell lung cancer the worst you can get. It is small spreads fast and can multiply. My first thought I smoke. I stopped the next day and have not had a smoke since. My aunt smoked for 30 years. She had a smoke going in every ashtray of her house. She was the classic chain smoker. She was also the most caring person you will ever meet. She would give you a meal and a place to stay any time and for any one. Stacy once was a pen pal with a British Soldier they talked during the first gulf war. She would preach to him and just listen to him. He was so thankful and so touched that after the war he flew to meet her in person. Steve stayed with her for about three weeks. He has remained a close family friend.

My aunt attempted kemo and radiation. They took x-rays and discovered it had spread and was in her brain. So they gave her more kemo and more radiation. She was getting weak and sick. She would have panic attacks and need to go to the hospital because she thought she was going to die. After a few more treatments they took more x- rays and they could not see anything. They took a second x-ray a mont later and saw that it had spread and now it was in her liver. She needed more medicine but her body could not take it. She was told that with out treatment she had 6-8 weeks to live. She was brought home and made comfortable. They sent a hospice nurse to watch over her. She was medicated but awake. I spent several days a week over with her and my family. I feel that we are going to become close once again. I hate that it took this to bring us close as a family. Each week that went by the worse she was. The difference between weeks was amazingOn Friday she was awake and responsive. On Monday she was in a coma like state. She had not eaten in weeks, she was bed ridden and needed help with everything.

Stacy passed away this past Thursday. The funeral arraignments was amazing. I was with my brother and sisters every step of the way I helped them purchase a plot in a cemetery at a reduced cost off the Internet. That will be a separate story about that one. Before this I have not spoken with my brother in the last three years. We upset each other and we are stubborn and would not talk until the other brought on the conversation. So that is one good thing that has happened because of this. Why did it take her passing away for us to let go of our anger?

The day of the funeral i walked in the funeral home and I saw her she looked great considering what the cancer did to her. I thought they did a great job but my mother her life long friend made the comment she looked different because her soul was gone and Stacy was pure soul. Stacy will be buried Tuesday at 12 noon. She will be missed by her family the amazing friends she has made over the years. Stacy gave her all to every person she came in contact with. Every person at the funeral home had memory after memory. She was a mother to my brothers friend. She was a friend to more than she will even know. She was a gospel singer and was a strong Baptist. Stacy leaves behind three children 7 grand children, 2 great grand children and a man that loved everything about her.

Stacy may you take your earned place in heaven and take trust in your family is strong and will support each other. Until we are united in time I love you

GOODBYE HOME

As this weekend approached, I have been having the feeling that everything was too simple to be true. My flight was booked about a month ago and child care arrangements made. I've been preparing my job for my absence, and took care of any projects that could not wait until next week.

All my ducks were in a row, all my Ts crossed and Is dotted...and in the distance I hear a child screaming. This is not unusual for my neighborhood. There are at least two kids to every adult and over 400 units in my apartment complex. Kids play, they get hurt, they scream; sometimes they scream even when they're not hurt. I continued my last minute packing and noticed the screaming getting louder...It sounded familiar.

I paused, and stood up straight, making my ears keen to the sound. Just as I realized that the screamer was my child, there was a frantic knock on the door. I ran down the stairs, and flung the door open to see my son standing in front of me bleeding from his head. There were about 10 kids with him, all of which tried to explain that the skateboard just flew up and hit the boy in his head.

All I could think about was stopping the bleeding so without even pulling my son in the house, I ran back up stairs to grab two towels: one wet to clean around the wound, the other dry for applying pressure. Back downstairs I grabbed the boy by the hand and sat him on the steps at the entrance of the door. The door was still open and the kids were standing in it asking if he was going to be okay.

"My skateboard!" The boy yelled, tears and blood still flowing.

"I'll go get it," offered one of the kids as he darted off.

After cleaning most of the blood off of the side of my son's face and head, I saw that the wound was not so scary after all. I dialed the emergency number and someone from the Long Beach Fire Department was outside my door in approximately five minutes. By the time they arrived, I had him holding an ice pack on his wound, calm enough to explain what had happened.

(Aside: It turns out he and one his playmates were throwing their skateboards to each other...uh...playing catch. My boy caught the skateboard with his head. He'll learn.)

Vital signs taken, reports made, I drove to the hospital myself under the recommendation from one of the firemen, to avoid the ambulance bill. We were in and out of the emergency room in less than two hours; had to be a record for emergency room visits. The boy received two staples and we were sent on our merry way.

I hope nothing else goes wrong.

The conjugation of the verb to be is a linguistic framework that can be seen to support an ethical and moral code.

As a copula, the verb to be is the link, the tie that binds language together, and language is the thing that binds us together...us humans. Suppose that you are: black, white, brown, sad, mean, happy, nice, Asian, Peruvian, being held down, being uplifted...all of the things that followed the colon are modifiers of you, and are secondary to the fact that You Are...just as I Am. The fact that you are and that I am and that everything in the world is, precedes the fact that you may have problems or a lack thereof. It is the equalizer that is of the Word. It makes the hills straight and lifts up the valleys of language/understanding/knowledge/communication/humanity.

If all humans understood the fact that the only way to use language is to use the the verb to be, whether implied as in the case of zero copula or explicitly used as in the case of God's answer to Moses (God answered, "I AM" when asked who Moses should say gave us the Ten Commandments); if everyone understood this they might understand that by speaking, even thinking, they are professing their unity with others. Knowing that you are, I am, and they are is what makes you human and shows you the way to accept, perhaps even love others as you do yourself. At the very least it shows the legitimacy of each person's existence.

As a human that actually understands the fact that he or she is, each of us is born with the right to life. The fact that I am rich or that I have power makes me no more or less of a human than the person who is poor and controlled by those in power. The fact that we know that we are is what makes us human.

Lincoln understood that, if the inherent right to life is evident, it follows that to infringe on this same right of others is to actually do yourself an injustice. Think on this for a while and then do some talking. You will find that you repeat God's name, at least the one that was given to Moses, all day long. It will be hard to act against your own existence once this becomes a realization, because by acting against others, you will realize that you are, in actuality, acting against your own understanding of your own existence.

By conjugation (see definition #2), we bring the fact that we are and you are together to fully define what it means To Be.

I have tons of books waiting impatiently inside my head to see the light of day. I am so prolific with my articles, I hardly find time these days to write another book. However, one of the books I would love to bring to life would be one about my past mainly for the benefit of my children. As they knew nothing about my time in Jamaica, or early years in England, and only saw their maternal grand parents once, being brought up away from my side of the family, I think they might benefit from seeing the other side of me: my past joys, pain, happiness, sorrow and family interaction.

Often we take our parents for granted and judge them from the comfort of our own lives, yet have little knowledge of their personal journey, their hidden fears and demons and how those shaped their existence.

My book would be entitled Mending the Fences: A Letter to My Kids. I hope I'll find the time soon to write it.

What would yours be?

Yesterday started out like any other day, except that it was my youngest daughter's 31st birthday. We planned to go to a movie and then dinner later on in the afternoon.

The day was partly sunny, and it was snowing again. This winter Minnesota has gone over its normal snowfall amount for December. As I looked out my window, I was very taken with the beauty of the snow. It was really picturesque, and actually reminded me of a snow globe. The snow was delicately falling, and had a glitter to it. I'm NOT a snow/cold lover, which is odd, if you think of where I live. I stood there watching the scene for about 5 minutes, and then decided to get busy.

I made my bedroom the project until it was time to get ready to leave for the afternoon. My bedroom has been a shambles for a while now, and I just haven't had the energy to attempt to put it in order. I had a plan that entailed sorting stuff into piles. One pile was for shredding, one was trash, and one was a "what do I do with the stuff I want" pile. As I was going through my 3rd box of stuff, I came upon some pictures. Some were of my oldest daughter's house that she used to live in, so I put those in my pile of keeping stuff that I'd sort out at another time. I also found a picture of a cousin named Debbie that I met only once, when I was 15 or 16 (way back in the 1960s). I thought about how nice it would be to have kept in touch with my father's side of my family, and I had a twinge of sadness. I then put the picture in my pile of throwing away stuff. I felt bad about it, but knew that no one in my family would know her, and would throw it away anyway when I die. I had a pretty good pile of "what do I do with the stuff I want" stuff. So I sorted for a while longer, and decided to get ready to go.

My daughter picked me up around 3:45, and we left to go see "I Am Legend" that stars Will Smith. It was a really good movie, but my daughter and I thought he over-acted some of his scenes. We thought that was odd, because we usually think he's a really great actor. So after we left the theater, we went to Old Country Buffet to eat. We had a great time.

When we got home the phone was making a beeping sound, and I immediately knew it would be my oldest daughter that had called. So I played the message. It was a woman by the name of Judy. She told me she thought she was my cousin, and she left me her phone number. So I called her. She is, indeed, my cousin. I'd never met her. She said she googled my father's name that day, and it led her to a posting that I had made in 2005, when I'd inquired about his whereabouts. I hadn't seen or had contact with my father since 1969. So she'd emailed me that day, too, and also left the phone message. That post led to other posts that I had when I was searching for my birth daughter, and also my poetry site. She'd read some of my poetry. She is also the cousin of the girl in the picture that I'd thrown away earlier that day. They grew up closely together. I was blown away by all this. I learned that my father had died in a veteran's nursing home, and he'd had both legs amputated because of diabetes. She is also going to send me letters and photos that she found in her mother's (my father's sister) things that she thinks I'd like. She also has the same picture of me, when I was 15 or 16, that I have on this site. We have decided to keep in touch, and we exchanged current email addresses.

My wife is pregnant and the arrival of our "little bundle of joy," as our doctor calls it every time we see him, is imminent - possibly as soon as next week some time. We're pumped! Jill splurged on a hip diaper bag, and when I protested that it was too girly for me to use, well, we splurged on getting me a hip manly diaper bag that's black and rusty orange and exudes testosterone.

Yesterday, I went with Jill to her obgyn appointment, and as always, we spent fifty minutes finding the appropriate wing of the clinic so that we could wait in the appropriate waiting room, and five minutes with the actual doctor. There are always interesting people to watch in clinics and hospitals, and the baby wing is no exception.

There were women in various stages of pregnancy either waddling around like they're about to explode, or trying unsuccessfully to fit into their old favorite pair of jeans. The gamut ran from young couples like us, to single moms with three other kids hanging on their legs. And then a different family stepped out of the elevator.

It was mom and dad, and what looked like a fourteen-year-old girl. Mom was all business, but not the kind that anyone looks forward to doing. Dad looked incredibly kind and gentle. And the girl looked down at the floor. She took a seat across from where we were sitting while her parents checked in at the desk. She sat looking down at her hands twisting the hem of her dress around each finger. She curled her toes in on themselves, and her shoulders sagged. She looked like she was trying to fold herself up like a tent and just disappear. Every once in awhile, she swept her hand across her wet cheeks.

When mom and dad came back with the paperwork, no one looked at each other or talked to each other. Mom started writing on the clipboard; dad handed his wife and daughter tissues; and the girl continued to cry and collapse.

Jill and I could hardly stand it. Looking into this little family's window, we saw the disappointment of the parents, and the shame and terror of that girl. There was such a stark contrast between what we were feeling and what they were feeling.

My youngest daughter Dannielle and I just got home EARLY this morning after spending 2 weeks in Virginia with my birth daughter Tonya. OMG! I LOVE HER SO MUCH! She's funny, sweet, generous, loving, and a precious gift from God.

This article is not really about football. Keep reading ....

In the Southeastern United States, the third Saturday in October always means the traditional clash of two of college football's greatest rivals, the University of Alabama Crimson Tide and the University of Tennessee Volunteers. The musical strains of "Rocky Top" compete with the martial stomp of "Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer," and the crimson and orange color riot inside the stadium is only barely rivaled by the turning of the Autumn leaves.

However, it's been 15 seasons since Alabama won its last national championship and 10 since Tennessee won its last one. Some cynics, such as notorious sports columnist Paul Finebaum, have suggested that this game has lost it's lustre. In the days leading up to this year's edition of the game, Finebaum announced, "This is not your father's Tennessee-Alabama game coming up later in the week....the game has become an afterthought. It's passe'."

Not your father's game, he says. An interesting choice of words from Mr. Finebaum.

My Father's Game

I grew up listening to Alabama football on the radio with my dad and his dad, my grandfather. One of my earliest memories is sitting around the table with them cheering and hollering as Bama QB Kenny "Snake" Stabler scrambled and passed the Crimson Tide to victory after victory. I had only gotten to see an actual Alabama game live on two different occasions, the last one back in the early 1980s when Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant was still prowling the Bama sidelines, but I loved to catch the games every week faithfully, whether on TV or radio.

Maybe it's because of those early childhood memories, but I always think of Dad and Grandpa (who has since passed away) whenever I think of Alabama football. It's all too rare nowadays when I can watch a game with my Dad - when I can, it's something that is very meaningful to me, whether our team wins or loses. Dad turned 70 this year, and I am much more aware of the priceless value of the times I can spend with him and my Mom.

Less than a month ago, a friend offered tickets to the Bama-Tennessee game for my Dad and I. However, due to a prior travel commitment, Dad was unable to go, and so I asked my wife to go with me. Now, my wife is a Baton Rouge native and a Louisiana State Tiger fan, but because she is also a wonderfully loving person, she agreed to go with me. We had a blast.

The Phone Call

My Dad is a hard worker and his job had called him to be in New York over the weekend. Unfortunately, the Bama-Tennessee game wasn't televised in New York, and my Dad - not being a computer/internet person - was struggling to keep up with the game. He told me that he might call me at some points during the game to get a report.

He called late in the second quarter. The clock was ticking down rapidly towards halftime. Alabama led 17-14 and had the ball near mid-field. The crowd of 92,138 in Bryant-Denny Stadium was shrieking like barrel full of banshees. At first, Dad just wanted a quick update - I could barely hear him and he could barely hear me. As I was giving him the score, Alabama's John Parker Wilson was scrambling for his life. "Hang on," I said. "What happened? What happened?" Dad asked. "First down, BAMA!" I yelled. "Hang on," I said. Tick, tick, tick, the clock was winding down fast.

I wish I could describe the joy of being able to do a play-by-play for my Dad there on the phone.
"How much time is left on the clock?" he asked.

"24 seconds," I said. "JP is going back to pass...he's running...here's the pass...COMPLETE!"

"How much time left? Where are we on the field? Do we have enough time to score?" Dad was into it now.

"Uh...yes, there's 18 seconds left, we're down around the 15, I really believe we're going to get a touchdown on this drive...here we go...JP is on the run, he's....AAAAAAAH! It's DJ Hall! Touchdown Bama! Touchdown Bama! Wilson hit DJ for the touchdown!"

How loud do you have to holler to out-shout 92,000 people? It's a question for sound technicians to answer definitively, but I can tell you that I did it. Dad and I were whooping it up across that 1,000 mile distance.

You know that scene at the end of Field of Dreams when Ray (Kevin Costner) asks his Dad for a game of catch? This was a little bit like that. For the rest of my life, I will be grateful for those few moments shared with my Dad on the phone.

Community is Where You Find It

Alabama went on to devastate Tennessee, 41-17. I called Dad a few minutes after the game. The Alabama "Million Dollar" Marching Band was still blasting away in the corner of the stadium, and many fans like me were still basking in the glory of the moment. He laughed as he heard the band and the excited buzz of the fans still echoing across the vast field. My wife and I lingered awhile longer before making the long walk down Paul W. Bryant drive to where our friends awaited with the traditional tailgate sacrificial cow.

It was a good day.

Football is meaningful in ways that far transcend what happens on the field. Maybe it's the same way with other community and family events - it's not so much the specific nature of the occasion as it is the gathering of loved ones that makes such times significant. We may or may not always remember the score of the game, or who made which play, but I will never forget that third Saturday in October.

Have you ever loved someone that you would fight for?
Not just words but literally go through hell and more.
When the weight of the world is on their shoulders,
You'd carry that weight on top of your own like a million boulders.

Have you ever dreamed of a world where your children could play,
In a playground without tripping on needles and bleeding away?
In a time where, sturdy and tough, the world has suffered
People are losing compassion for all the sisters and brothers.

Have you ever wanted to run away and scream?
The stress and heartaches seem to unreal to believe.
When you know that your family, the rock, will always persevere
Have you ever had so much joy in your life that the world can see?

Elated, my heartbeat will never be at rest
Knowing the joy of fatherhood is always the best.
Have you ever felt the need to protect something so dear,
That your family is the only logical reason for you to be here.