Thursday, May 23, 2013


Hello Friends;

  I've been silent for a while.  Sometimes I just don't have a lot to say.  This time, I just couldn't remain quiet.

  I found this picture today.  It made my heart ache.  Alone, he says.  Etched, enscribed, cut into his skin.
 Alone.  It makes my heart weep.  Why do you feel so all alone, I would ask?  I would want to hold him, comfort him, make the pain go away if I could.  
  I wonder, what does it mean to him that he feels so very alone as to be naked, with his pain so clearly defiling him?  What does it say that he finds the spoken word insufficient, yet his silent screams come off the page  in deafening waves like a tide rolling over my soul?  Why does he feel so very alone, and why can I do nothing but ache for his pain?
  Today I read and heard another of our illustrious congressmen, our "leaders", stand so righteously and declare himself burdened and bullied by those who are seeking nothing but simple equality.  Another such "leader" queuing up for his public chance to be pompous and hateful in a squandered moment in the public's attention.  Another who seems fully justified in abandoning those who need him to be more than a reactionary parrot of the hate-filled far right.  Another who has stood up and declared this young one unloved.  Unwanted.  Alone.

It is interesting to me the change that a night of sleep makes as I look at this picture again.  I stand by what I wrote above, but I wonder if part of my writing is more from the pain in my own heart rather than the pain from this young one's?  
  I am so tired of those who say one thing and mean another.  I am tired of the Bible thumpers who pound their lecterns with the condemnation of God for things Christ didn't seem so concerned about, yet ignore those very things Christ spoke upon repeatedly.  I am tired of a government run by opportunists and hate mongers filling their pockets on my dime then condemning me.
  And, perhaps that is why I've been so silent for a while:  being tired has an effect upon a person.
  I had a dream last night.  I don't have many bad dreams, but this one had me in the grips; I dreamed that the scarlet letter had returned, but somehow in the form of a brand - people were branded for their sins, with the letter of the brand indicating which crime they had committed.  The only way to not be branded was to run and create a new identity.... and odd that I dreamed I was out in the middle of no-where, alone.... 
  I wonder, as I write this, the brand for condemnation, for hate, for those who fail us so miserably?

Monday, May 13, 2013

Three rights make a left.

Hello Everyone:

  My Dad sent me this article.  He's worried about me - I went through a rough period, as you all know, and this is his way of cheering me up.  It's him telling me that he loves me.  
  I don't know who wrote the article.  I enjoyed it, and I hope I learned a bit from it.  I hope you enjoy it as well.
  Remember to watch those left turns!


My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I
should say I never saw him drive a car.

He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car
he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car
you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and
look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and
enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, baloney!" she said. "He hit a horse."

"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The
neighbors all had cars - the Kollingses next door had a green
1941Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth,
the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford - but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to
work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the
streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks
to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and
sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but
we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain,
and that was that.

But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys
turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us
would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my
parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts
department at a Chevy dealership downtown.

It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded
with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less
became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father,
but it didn't make sense to my mother.

So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach
her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I
learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I
took my two sons to practise driving. The cemetery probably was my
father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember
him saying more than once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the
driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of
direction, but he loaded up on maps - though they seldom left the city
limits - and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout
Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that
didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of

(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20
years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church.
She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the
back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that
morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a
2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking
her home.

If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and
then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and
"Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother
whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If
she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or
go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running
so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then,
when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire
on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so
the multimillionaire on third base scored."

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry
the bags out - and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said,
he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88
and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a
long life?"

"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I
read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen
when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.

"As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your
depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to
make a left turn."

"What?" I said again.

"No left turns," he said. "Think about it.. Three rights are the
same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three

"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It
But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I
started laughing.

"Loses count?" I asked.

"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a
problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."

I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said, " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call
it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put
off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me
her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in
1999, when she was 90.

She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next
year, at 102.

They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and
bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother
and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom - the house
had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew
the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily - he had me get him a treadmill when he
was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted
to keep exercising - and he was of sound mind and sound body until the
moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I
had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three
of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging
conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first
hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point
in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going
to live much longer."

"You're probably right," I said.

"Why would you say that?" he countered, somewhat irritated.

"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with
him through the night.

He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing
us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No
one in this room is dead yet."

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no
pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone
on this earth could ever have."

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now
and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because
he quit taking left turns.

Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
So love the people who treat you right.
Forget about the ones who don't.
Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a chance, take it & if it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely
be worth it."

Saturday, May 4, 2013

Even the best things must end....

Because even the best of things must end, I guess I'm ok with it.  But, I hurt for a long time.....   
I have gone separate ways of the rescue organization with whom I so enjoyed working alongside.  My poor Gracie was the recipient of many hugs, and I think she is still unsure of what the wall did to receive such a punch.
   But, knowing that I gave my best to them, that I did nothing wrong,  and knowing that they have actually shown themselves to be very concerned about the welfare of the animals and not very concerned about the welfare of people, I am ok leaving.  I will take the wonderful lessons, the great memories, and the strength that I learned working with them.       I leave them themselves.

  I will miss the dogs, though.