Airline Security

No doubt I'm not the only one with thoughts about airline security. I will fly to the east coast in April, then to Europe with Alyce and Ben. And, of course, we'll come back.

I don't know if my thoughts should concern Delta/NW or TSA. Both have been in the news lately--and it has not been good.

NW pilots so involved with their laptops that they fly 110 miles beyond the airport where they're supposed to put the plane down. They don't have enough to do in the cockpit. No excuse.

And just last week, on Christmas Day, the Nigerian passenger on NW manages to get through all security in The Netherlands and US with an incendiary device on his person (I don't know what security measures exist in Nigeria, where he began his flight/mission) and sets it off as they land in Detroit. Fortunately, and I choose the word willfully, he was the only one burned.

Oh yeah, this guy, and the other one from Nigeria they "caught" the next day--they were both released from Guantánamo Bay and soon ended up in Yemen, today's terror/terrorist hot spot and Al Queda's protectorate, so to speak. For that I look to Obama and his policy to release all those people. I hold him responsible. Doesn't he know anything?

Yes, I have thoughts about it all. Don't you?

Oh Joy

The Senate democrats are united now. They'll pass the "key" health reform bill by Christmas. Whichever version that is and whatever difficulties it foists upon us and however much it costs us, it is our Christmas gift from them.

Duh

So last February Obama returned to the British the statue of Winston Churchill which had been in the White House since England sent it over after 9/11. It was a loan, apparently, but they did not ask for it to be returned.

When Obama sent it back, the British were, according to reports, "non-plussed" and protested it did not need to be returned. Obama said something like thanks but no thanks, we don't need it.

He has replaced the Churchill statue, say stories, with one of Lincoln.

Okay. I love Lincoln, too. But I think it's . . . can't think of a better word than stupid . . . stupid to get rid of the the Churchill statue, and offensive to our English friends. Yeah, take it all around, stupid.

How to . . .

12 Ways to Reuse Wine Corks

Today's WikiHow. Not something I need, but I did read the whole thing, because I do know folks who are probably throwing their wine corks away. Maybe even as we speak, so to speak.

So if any of you cork discarders should happen to read this blog of mine, go to WikiHow right now. You could upholster an easy chair--a big one--or clean your carbon steel knife blades or make a sculpture (the one pictured seems to be an ox; yes, we're talking lots of corks), or use them to start fires (I assume in your fireplace), or even make a cork board.

Comment

I saw a question, submitted via the internet to the public, about celebrities and their right to privacy. Do I believe they do or do not have such a right?

Well, why should they not? Actually, why should I be put upon by those who think every hangnail or beauty mark or blemish on the body of certain people is news I'm waiting to know? And I certainly do not need to know of their faults and misdeeds. That I will hear of them is a given, that I want the details of them is not a given.

I'm thinking of Tiger Woods just now, who has asked that people and the "news" media in particular respect his right to privacy. Okay by me.

Winter Poem, Another Look

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves--

pulled, swept off

by an impatient wind.

Leaves whose ambers,

rust reds, fuchsia pinks

have heightened

the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

as if, like the trees,

we have forgotten

what we always know—

that spring will come.

Winter Poem

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves,

swept off by an impatient wind,

leaves whose ambers, rust reds,

fuchsia pinks have heightened

the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

knowing, as we do, that

death can come

before spring.

Going Rogue, Sarah Palin

It started before the book was published. I mean, it started up again in earnest at the news she would publish her memoir. I even heard criticism of her for writing it so fast.

Well, now it's out. Time to ratchet up the trash talking.

She has been on Oprah (Oh thank heaven). Her words are on the air everywhere, her picture, and the numerous statements from those who are "firing back" to refute her claims. And everyone who can get air time has some "important" criticism of her to get out before the public.

Obviously, she has enemies. That's not news. And certainly she knew they and the press and the groups of TV "smart people" (Ha!) would rip her to pieces. As they are.

She has guts. And I've read her recent pieces in the Wall Street Journal, which indicate she has brains, too. But can she survive the constant sniping and joking at her expense? Can she withstand the scrutiny and the badmouthing?

Did I think she was an asset on the Republican ticket? No. Did I like her? Yes. Do I think she could ever be elected president? No. Do I think she should be president? No.

I do know she'll make money off the book. I do not know what else will come of it for her. Popularity? I don't know. Popular with the people she's already popular with. That's what I think.

I figure, though, she will never be as popular as Levi--the father of her daughter's child--is becoming, because all those important celebrity-focused media folks like him, like to show him, listen to him, follow his photo shoots. He's a pretty boy, and this recent media enamoration with him features not only his unclad body but sympathy for him (for some stupid reason). Today's story is about his response to Palin's book; his overwhelming feeling is "disgust" for Sarah Palin and the entire Palin family. That seems to count with those folks, but, then, we know they will say anything, and they like people who will also say anything.

So, I have no doubt of it, he will make lots of money off of his "heroic" failure to be a decent human being, off of his gaping lack of morality.

Makes you think of David Letterman, doesn't it.

As for Going Rogue, I might just go out and buy it.

Note: I went out to buy the book, came back without it. Make of that what you will. For me it was three things: 1. Money; the book is $28.99, quite a chunk of change. 2. I'm into light, non-political reading right now, trying to keep my head in the sand a little bit. 3. Money.

The Poor Guy

I detest the media's immediate jump-in to let us know that the murderer of thirteen soldiers at Fort Hood is the real victim in this whole thing. Because he's muslim he was sometimes called "camel jockey." This is the first story I heard about Maj Hasan. Next was he was about to be deployed to Afghanistan. Both good reasons, apparently, to go on a shooting rampage and kill "fellow" soldiers. (Those quotations marks are mine. You can probably figure out why I use them here.)

What kind of a world is ours coming to be? We cannot be outraged about this. We're not allowed to weep and decry this as evil. We're not to speak ill of muslims, even when they are terrorists, jihadists, murderers. Don't jump to any conclusions, said Obama. I'm guessing he meant the rest of us, not the news media, because they had already jumped to theirs.

So he and they have been willing to excuse this killer, to "understand his motivation," almost entirely disregarding the great harm and destruction he perpetrated, setting aside the sorrow and confusion of the families of the real victims.

I wonder what Obama will say to those gathered today at the place of that massacre. Will he have garnered some sense of the truth by then? Will he speak it?

Jury Duty, my civic duty done

As John Milton almost said, They also serve who only standby and wait for a call-back from the Idaho Jury Commission on a Wednesday morning after they have done their obligatory after 5 PM check-ins with said commission Friday, Monday, and Tuesday evenings.

All Is Well for Harry Now

Well, I guess he'll be re-elected. He didn't cave. There is a public option in the bill. Oh joy.

Harry's Hard Times

I am no fan of Harry Reid, but even I have some sympathy for him just now. He is being threatened, blackmailed, virtually man-handled, by the liberals in his party who are more liberal, even, than he is.

If he "caves" on the public option of the new health care plan, they say, or the article says they say, he will not be re-elected. And the article quotes a nurse from Nevada who says she's always been open-minded and willing to vote her conscience. Her conscience tells her she won't vote for Harry if he "caves." This to back the claim in the article headline.

1. Of course it would have to be a nurse. Hmph.
   
2. I hate political blackmail.
3. I hate "news gathering and disseminating" organizations that pretend to be unbiased in their gathering and disseminating.
   
4. Is the news article about this story the least bit objective? Take a guess.
5. Have you ever tuned in to the documentary-like programs on the issue of health care on PBS? The P is a lie, by the way.
   
6. Too bad, Harry. It's a dilemma, because there are--I sincerely hope--people in Nevada who hold views opposed to the nurse's.
7. Do principles ever enter in?

There's more, much more, I could say, but I'll spare you.

A Little Help Needed

So I'm thinking of canceling my subscriptions to magazines I have taken for years. I already canceled The Reader's Digest--don't like the new editor's sense of how that magazine should look and be and so on. We took that magazine for decades before these new marketing-minded changes. And Wayne read it. Always.

I've been a National Review subscriber for more than ten years, but I . . . you know, it's hard for me to think of canceling it. But two things: I don't read it all; I get pretty upset when I do. Upset, worried, sometimes frightened. No, I don't want to stick my head in the sand, but I sort of do.

We have been members of the National Geographic Society since 1972. I really love the magazines, but I just don't get them read. Wayne always did. It's pretty hard to keep paying for them when I don't read them. Pretty hard to stop them coming to my home, too.

So. What should I do?

I know. They're only magazines. But what should I do?

Nobel, Oh my goodness

I am stunned but not surprised, and I echo the question of others, "What has he accomplished?" besides being elected. I mean, he may want to change the world, but so far he hasn't. And, said one, he'll win no prize for creating jobs here in the US.

And if he does change the world, will the change be good?

Enough said.

Excuse me, Is that your dog?

I will use the word trendy, although it may not be quite the right word.

It is trendy these days to have a dog or dogs instead of children, and it is trendy to speak of those dogs as if they were children. As in, "I have one child. He's a yellow Lab," or "We never have to put Fido in time out," or "He never talks back," or "He doesn't point or laugh when he sees us naked." (I've never actually heard someone say that. I just thought it would be funny if somebody's dog did point and laugh.)

I like dogs. Ask Ann. She knows this is true. I loved my dog Sweetiepie and considered her part of our family, in a manner of speaking. And I allow anyone to follow his or her tastes.

But I somehow resent the idea that a dog is better than a child. Easier, maybe. Better, hardly. I resent that it is the "green" thing to do to have a dog instead of a child, and so we should choose that alternative, for the sake of our planet. Come on, people, even Al Gore had children. I vigorously resent these ideas being promulgated, as I get a strong feeling they are.

And, by the way, I think clothes for dogs are silly, the idea ludicrous, although I know there's big money in it these days. Oh yes, I see dogs dressed in Snuggies and other strange little garments. Anybody see last week's Pet Parade? Talk about point and laugh.

Yesterday in the grocery store I did not point or laugh, and I did not see the dog, exactly, but I saw the woman--thirty, maybe--with her dog carrier in her grocery cart. Right, carrying her "baby" with her. That was a first for me. No doubt not a last. It'll catch on. It's trendy.

And dogs in parks on the children's playground equipment? Don't get me started on that. Ann may have to write about that one.

A Word About David Letterman

Although he's hardly worth my time.

I have long objected to his politics--his and his writers'--and that they shove their views down the audience's throats. I have never appreciated his negative sense of humor.

I have watched only minutes of his program in the last many years. I watched after Obama's election to see if Letterman would finally shut up about Bush, Cheney, Palin. No.

Now I read that he has revealed himself as a low life, a person with questionable, if any, morality, a person without integrity. And I wonder, will he stop making jokes about others whose values and behavior match his own? I doubt it.

When politically prominent people behave as Letterman has, that is, without personal restraint, without moral strength, without regard for others, even their own families, we usually hear a public clamor that they be publicly censured and/or step down from office. And yet, I suspect Letterman will continue to stand forth every week night. Perhaps even gain personally from this nasty business he was forced to bring out of secrecy.

More's the pity.

No. I will not watch to find out.

Recession Recedes

I hear the recession is "over" or soon will be. Stocks are higher, though we are cautioned to--what?
What should be our attitude, our hopes?

Does it mean I'll recover the nearly 50% I lost? I hope so.

Optimism is always a good strategy.

Learning from the Past

Did you ever read about the Hitler youth groups?

Let's just hope there are always enough people in this country to keep an eye on this Obama guy, to keep a check on him, and to speak up.

He speaks to the school children today, and he has had to modify his speech, thank goodness. Apparently, he won't be asking the students to figure out what they can do to help him, the president of the United States, more particularly, Barack Obama. How subtle. So he won't say exactly that, but what will he say? I don't trust him.

I am looking for his speech online. It's supposed to be posted.

Oh, and by the way, I really don't like that label "silly" being slapped on those who have questioned his planned remarks, in short, those who think differently from Obama and his crew. How snobbish of those Obama people, how dismissive, how name-calling.

I Don't Think So

So Barack Obama thinks the federal government should get into the health insurance business. Now wouldn't that be swell.

A Lift at MSP

You know how it is. You have to get up at some unearthly hour, like 3:45 AM, and so you don't sleep for fear you won't wake up and you'll miss your 5:45 flight home from Canada.

That was my story last Saturday night.

But I made the flight, got to Minneapolis/St Paul airport, walked around for half an hour or so, found a quiet spot, comfortable chair, pulled out my book, and started to read. Of course, I fell asleep, head down, quite like an old person. But that's okay. I'm very tired, traveling alone, no one knows me. And so on.

Suddenly I hear, "Mrs. Schiess?"

What? Is it a voice from heaven? From dream? From some official someone?

Perhaps you can imagine what went through my head as I became aware of this voice calling my name in a place where no one knows me and I'm asleep--and now embarrassed to be asleep--and I open my eyes wondering what on earth has happened.

I look.

He says again, "Mrs. Schiess."

Now I am awake, able to focus, and see the face is one I recognize. I say, "You're Kip."

And it's true. He is Kip, a former student of mine, about 11 years ago, he says. We chat a few moments, then he says, "We'll probably be on the same plane." That turns out to be true, and we sit across the aisle from each other, purely by chance.

He is a parole officer, he tells me, and he also fetches troubled kids and takes them to a wilderness camp. He's got a Latino kid from New York with him, heading to Gooding, and the kid, says Kip, is worried as we approach Boise because everything looks so brown and desolate. I say something clever, like what does he expect when he hears the word wilderness.

Kip tells me he loves his work. He also tells me he is always glad to see me, which, I have figured out, is twice in 11 years. It's nice to hear.

I tell him he's not as slender as he used to be, you know, he's grown up, filled out. He says, "Guess I'll have to thin up for the next time." I say, "Yeah, me too."

Today

I have loved this day.

The Real

I write about squirrels and other rodents. I write about my lawn. Such things have no consequence, and, of course, I know that. They are froth.

But I do it because I want to take my mind off of what I see happening in this country, for starters, off of the hourly reminders by the news people in magazines, news broadcasts on radio and television, and the internet,and lunches with Cherí, of who's in charge here. It's Barack and Michelle, and we can know of their every breath. It has only been six months and already I am weary, weary, weary of them, of it.

Obama, king of the world, flying off to everywhere--at my expense, by the way--to fix the world, to make sure the people see him. And what a body of liberal gurus he has behind him, feeding him words and plans. How he talks of grand changes and programs and always as if there is never a cost, never a price to pay. I do not know numbers high enough--in the trillions--to speak about this country's budget deficit and national debt, by the way.

He, the king, said in a not very specific, not very convincing, not very moving speech on the 4th of July, that we need to have the same kind of strength and courage that our founding fathers had. He's right, but why? I know why I think we'll need such courage and strength--to live through what his policies will leave in their wake, to stand firm and work for a different change. I think of my children and grandchildren.

I, for one, do not want this country to be a socialist democracy. I believe he does. I am not a Europhile. He is. And so on.

I want to know why this government supports Zelaya, the Honduran president who has "served" the two terms he is allowed by that country's constitution and who is trying to push through a change to the constitution so he can stay in power. Is this the kind of thing Obama may try to do? (I'm just sayin'.) Why do we support Zelaya and thus allign ourselves with Hugo Chavez? Why does the news media call what has happened there a coup when it is not? I think I know why.

I do not want people like Nancy Pelosi doing my thinking for me or Sonia Sotomayor interpreting the Constitution for me. (I know, she hasn't been approved yet, but I suspect she will be.) This is the time to guard our Constitution, I say.

I want to have the right to speak or hear--in public--the name of God in connection with this country, its foundations and its greatness. That is not allowed, you know.

I do not want all decisions to be made by the government. I do not need their help as much as they want to think I do.

I do not believe in the government, or the president, as God.

I believe I speak for many, but we have to be careful what we say now or we will be labeled--Racist with a capital R.

I'm tired of talking of these matters because, for one thing, talk does no good. I have my blood pressure to think about, and I do have the right to think about that. I could go on.

So I write about squirrels.

Yep, That's It

So this is what Ann told me.

Jeremy was reading to the boys from the children's version of the Book of Mormon. (Stories are shortened and include pictures.) They were at the part where Laman and Lemuel are angry with Nephi because he insists they keep trying to get the brass plates from Laban. They're murmuring, and they're trying to do harm to Nephi.

An angel comes, straight from heaven. He stops Laman and Lemuel and gives them a talking to, no doubt. I don't know how much is in the children's version.

Anyway, this angel comes. They, Laman and Lemuel, see him. They hear him. But as soon as the angel leaves, they start in again with their murmuring and their threats.

I don't know if Jeremy asked a question. Ann didn't say so. I think what Charlie said was just his honest and immediate response.

He said, "They don't have anything in their hearts." He's nearly four.

Reading

My fond hope is to find a book that does not have those helpful book group questions at the end.

Rain Rain

Standing on my driveway a few minutes ago, I heard the thunder roll across the whole sky, from right above my house clear over to the airport. I went in . . . for safety. And then, the sky broke apart, I think, and poured rain like we seldom see here.

I went out to the deck and watched and said aloud, "Could it possibly rain any harder?" The answer came within a few seconds, "YES."

Now it's finished. Brief. Violent. Like there was no time for a gentle rain. The sky just had to get it dumped in a hurry.

Still Here

I’m trying not to see the elephant in the room, trying to carry on as if it weren’t there, here. I don’t know if I can. It’s big.

I don’t want to write about the elephant. I wrote a word or two about it in my small hand-written journal last week. Didn’t help. Didn’t make the elephant go away, which is what I want. Life without elephants. Because I have to say that Life, note the capital L, presents sufficient difficulty for me without elephants, without my having to step around an elephant--or plow right into it.

I did take some measured steps towards it recently, touched the actual elephant a couple of times, if gingerly. Maybe it's friendly, I must have thought. But no. The beast was unmoved and remains unmoved. See. I’m writing about it, which is what I did not want to do. But it's still here, and at this moment, I can hardly see anything else in the room.

I wonder if elephants left unattended just go away on their own. Or do they destroy the house? I wonder.

Speaking of Books

This blog is not a book review blog. I was going to write about D-Day, which we commemorate today, its 65th anniversary, and I have read an article about a Spanish spy, codenamed Garbo, a double agent, whose existence few know of but whose contribution to D-Day and its success was crucial.

But I also have books on my mind today, having spent much of yesterday reading.

The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich. That's what I'm in the middle of. I chose it because I know her writing, and it's good. I read Love Medicine; I've read other stuff of hers. This novel is like a mosaic, with chapters or whole sections narrated by the character under scrutiny, so to speak, in that section.

The book I just finished, Belong to Me by Marisa de los Santos, is a mosaic. And now that I've read it I see it's also a sequel . . . to her first novel, Love Walked In, which I have not read.

Belong to Me is a Desperate Housewives type, written with the author's hope--I'm guessing--to be movieized. Not that the writing is poor. I mean, I did finish it and liked it, sort of. She writes well, and she knows things, which is not always true with young writers. I did not like or find necessary to the story or character development the use of "four-letter word" profanity by nearly everyone in the book, no age discrimination in its use, or any other kind, I'd say. Is that really a selling point? One thing I liked about it: good names.

The book was an airport bookstore purchase, which means total guesswork on my part. Yes, I did read it, but I have given it away.

This book, The Plague of Doves, is by an author with 14 novels, poetry, children's books, short stories to her credit. That meant, for me, that the book promised to be really good. I can't say it is, and I have to complain that it took a turn into total . . . I don't know what. Just into things and characters I could hardly stand to read about. Stuff, although I skimmed and skipped, I hope to eventually forget but haven't yet.

Don't Bother With This Book

I went to PA. Lancaster County. My friend Greg gave me a book to read, Shadows In Lancaster County, saying, "It's great. You'll love it."

Wrong on both counts.

Some of the poorest writing I've read. Ever.

Contrived, stupid, poorly put together, a gross underestimation of the intelligence of readers (which may reflect the intelligence of the writer), mistakes in the book--editing and proofing--too many words and too much extraneous detail, very predictable, except for the ending, which came out of the blue and led me to think even the author didn't know who dunnit until she had to come up with someone and this someone just happened to be the only "spare" person, if you know what I mean.

And the main character, someone we need to like, is someone I can't like. She is a skip tracer. We know that because she tells us and because she keeps getting out her skip tracer forms. One second she is smart and experienced and capable of just about anything, the next incapable of even intelligent thought. Why? Because she still loves Reed who kissed her once 11 years ago.

Oh yeah, and God is her co-pilot, so to speak. She brings in religion from time to time, and it's like, "Oh, I haven't mentioned prayer for a while or God or going to church. Better get something in here about that."

I am religious. Things spiritual matter to me. But her use of these things DOES NOT WORK in this book.

Here's one plot jiggle for you. A guy is murdered--turns out by his mother-in-law, the botanist, who is divorced (making her "spare") from his father-in-law and employer, the drug company owner, who is a good guy after all--and the murdered man's wife, I think so she won't have to grieve much, is suddenly dying of cancer. Handy.

And here's another thing. No one in the book is just a person. Everyone is something else important sounding. Except for the Amish.

I finished it so I could tell Greg I read it. But I wonder, did he love it? Think it great? Can I tell him what a mess it actually is? These things are difficult. Maybe I can tell him two of the characters had lunch at the Greenfield Inn, just a walk from my hotel in Lancaster and leave it at that.

Really!

How to Make a Poncho from a Shower Curtain

Well, duh. I'm pretty sure I know how without reading the directions.

A Few Good Words

President Monson, speaking at UVU's commencement after receiving an honorary Doctorate of Public Service:

Glance backward.

Merely a glance at the past. It is not practical to think one can return to dwell in it.

Reach outward.

“To find real happiness, we must seek for it in a focus outside ourselves. No one has learned the meaning of living until he has surrendered his ego to the service of his fellow man. Service to others is akin to duty, the fulfillment of which brings true joy.

“We do not live alone—in our city, our nation or our world. There is no dividing line between our prosperity and our neighbor’s wretchedness. Try as some of us may, we cannot escape the influence our lives have upon the lives of others. Ours is the opportunity to build, to lift, to inspire and to lead . . .”

Press forward.

“Whatever part you choose to play on the world stage, keep in mind that life is like a candid camera; it does not wait for you to pose.

“Learning how to direct our resources wisely is a high priority. We don’t have to keep up with change—we have to keep ahead of it.

“ . . . for we understand full well that complaining is not thinking. Ridiculing is not reasoning. Accountability is not the for the intention but for the deed. No person is proud simply of what he or she intends to do.”

Nothing Much

Carlotta Torres is a name my husband called me sometimes. Just for fun. That answers the two questions I have received about it.

This is a blog no one reads; that should be freeing.

I spoke, along with the temple matron, in the Columbia Village ward Enrichment meeting; they had invited Oregon Trail ward, too. I suppose it went well. I mean my talk. Hers was good.

The Thumb Generation

Let's see. How to put this.

I am fed up with kids and their constant texting. It doesn't matter what's happening, who's speaking, and I don't think it would matter if someone were dying, when that little thing in their pocket or hand or lying next to them on the church pew buzzes, they're on it. Thumbing away.

They are slaves. Willing slaves, I guess, but slaves anyway. This little plastic box is their master, their all-time bf, their whole life. Heaven forbid they might go somewhere without the "phone." I've seen that happen, and the kid had a meltdown panic session. Some fun.

No need, I suppose, to suggest that the whole phenomenon is RUDE.

There. I think that's direct enough.

And I Call Myself a Writer

I did not have an unhappy childhood. My parents did not beat me, never even spanked me, not once. For all I know they loved me. They were not alcoholics, never divorced, died loving one another and, if I know anything, still love one another.

My brothers and sisters were brothers and sisters, and if you have any of either you know what that means.

I was never locked in a room for years, kidnapped, assaulted. One student--but, of course, this was well after my childhood--called me terrible names and behaved in a threatening way when I put an F on his paper. Another tore up his F paper, threw it in the trash, and stomped out of my class, never to return. I was forced to watch with the rest of the class. Oh well.

Otherwise, the only times I have been trapped are once when my eleven-year-old boyfriend held my wrists and tried to keep me from getting away so he could kiss me and later several times when my grown daughter has come home for visits and has liked to corner me in the kitchen pantry as a little joke.

No one abused me, not an uncle or family friend--one family friend turned out to be unsavory but not in my presence and I only learned of it much later.

No one told me I was no good or worthless or ugly or without talent. No one even tried to discourage me in anything I tried to do. I have not been the victim of a crime or a victim of anything much except my own foolishness.

I myself am not an alcoholic or addicted to drugs or an abuser or a criminal, and I am not gay. I do have British ancestors.


I have also posted this on Carol's Corner.

Question

You write something and post it on a blog. On the internet. The whole world could read it. And yet you're not afraid to write personal stuff. Stuff you'd probably not tell any one person or group of people. Yet you'll blog it. I do it. Many do.

What is that?

Genesis

by Carlotta

He brought to the marriage

a duffel bag of clothes,

an old clock radio,

fierce blue eyes. She brought

the beginnings of a baby,

her mother’s warning,

assorted fears.

The wedding was a nice enough affair,

floral garlands on the mantle piece,

minister dressed in suit and tie,

hands folded, though not in prayer.

The bride wore white,

the groom a rented black tuxedo,

friends smiled, family

held up well.

Their honeymoon, a trip

bought by her ex-father—

a sin offering, of sorts,

for his neglect,

a show of normalcy

for the mother of the bride.

Now the two have come together,

officially, to build a life

on shame and morning sickness,

on hand holding, sweating palms,

and very little money.

Soon everyone will know

their secret,

hidden for now

beneath the wedding gown,

their only privacy.

Careful observers can

catch a certain look

they give each other,

some small hope, perhaps,

tucked behind their eyes.

Good

"Agony I don't connect with." Aaron Copland

Tax Time

by Carlotta Torres

I'm doing my own taxes this year. I think.
Wait. I don't want to talk about it.

Be Nice

here is today's "If I Had A Blog" entry:

by Janna Delange

When I was coming of age in the Seventies, being "nice" got a bad rap. There were lots of feminist tirades about the travesty of teaching young girls to be "nice" instead of assertive. There was a popular book called "When Nice Ain't So Nice." Well-known slogans were "Look out for Number One" and "Don't Be Nice - Be a Bitch" and "Nice Guys Never Win." Being nice and standing up for yourself seemed to be mutually exclusive ideas, although I never could really see what one had to do with the other.

So, a few decades later, we now live in a world where most people aren't really that nice. And as a society we have lost much of the civility that makes everyday life bearable. I am not ashamed to say that I think people should be nice.

I'm not talking about being nice to your friends (most people are), your colleagues (most people have to be), or your family (many people aren't, but know they should be.) I'm talking about being nice to strangers, to the people who make up your community, who are part of the social intercourse of daily life. Yes. I'm saying you should be nice to them.

I think people should hold doors open for those behind them, no matter who they are. I think people should put their shopping carts in the designated spot instead of leaving them randomly in the parking lot. I think people should NOT litter, that they should pick up their trash after a fast-food meal, a basketball game, or a movie. Yes, I know there are people hired to clean up the venue, but it's the nice thing to do. I think people should be nice in traffic. I am tired of being flipped off by motorists when I have done nothing more harmful than drive at the speed limit.

Even if I were to agree with a radio talk-show host, I will not listen to them because people interrupt and yell at each other. If columnists who disagree with a political opponent respectfully call him/her by name, I will read their opinions, but if they stoop to name-calling and ridicule, they have already lost me to their possible persuasions. I think everyone should treat senior citizens with respect and deference, not just tolerate them as nuisances.

Being nice costs us nothing and makes life more livable, more pleasurable, less stressful. That's what I think.