The Gray Studebaker

      She drove a Studebaker and she lived in a little one-room house down the hill from the town cemetery. The house was gray and square. There was no yard and no flowers except the occasional wild crocus or the wandering daffodil. The ground was hard, bare, and barren. If the woman had ever been married, it had been a long time ago and she wasn't married now. If there were children, they didn't live in town and they never came to visit her. She lived alone. Like the house, she seemed gray, square and resigned to fate. The Studebaker, with its stylish, distinctive design sat gloriously in the front yard. It too, was gray, and seemed unhappy with the choice. It seemed oddly out of balance with its surroundings.

      There were two double beds opposite one another inside the large front room of the house. A row of kitchen cupboards, a kitchen sink, and an old stove ran the length of the front wall, interrupted half-way by the front door. The wood stove sat in the remaining front corner. On the back wall another small door opened into a tiny bathroom added on in later years when indoor plumbing became the vogue. Homemade curtains made the two windows look even sadder and no family photos or paintings adorned the walls. 

     The child, just a little thing, sat dangling her legs over one of the beds. She could think of none of the curious questions with which she usually peppered older people. The woman paced back and forth across the room in a nervous way. The child and the woman were new to one another that day. But the child knew the gray Studebaker. She saw it speeding down the street quite often and  whenever she did, the playing in the barn or in the old abandoned car down by the vegetable garden would screech to a stop as the child gazed and dreamed. She loved that Studebaker almost as much as she loved Zorro.

     "What shall we do today while your Daddy and Mommy are in Holbrook," the woman brusquely asked. Her tone hinted that she wouldn't have minded if the child stayed put and dangled her legs over the bed all day. This was indeed a woman unacquainted with children. The child, in her Sunday best dress with her white anklets and black patent leather shoes, had to process the question for a moment. She was the youngest of a gaggle of cousins and she had never been asked what she would like to do by anyone. What a novel idea. Carefully, she considered her options. 

     The one thing the child wanted most of all was the one thing she dared not ask. A ride in the front seat of that big, gray Studebaker. With the windows down and the wind blowing her detestable curly hair straight out. She wanted to whiz down the road past the cousins' house and casually deliver a limp wave in their general direction as they gazed from behind the broken picket fence. Who knows why children love the things they do, but this child loved that Studebaker. 

     Time has erased the memory of the moment the child and the woman agreed upon a ride in the Studebaker. Timidly. Oh, so carefully. With perfect politeness. "Can we go for a ride in your car?" The woman's face broke into a careless grin and the child, suddenly sure of welcome, flew from the bed and across the room to her. Together, they walked out of the gray, square house and to the Studebaker. It was an afternoon of sheer delights for two kindred spirits cruising the streets of the little town, speeding down the dirt roads of the surrounding farmer's fields, and traveling down the gray-topped highway toward the White Mountains. 

     Many years ago, the woman moved up the hill to the cemetery. The house, while still standing, has fallen into disrepair. The rafters have collapsed and only the strong adobe bricks support what is left of the roof. Cows graze among the carcasses of old discarded cars and farming machinery. The Studebaker, that blazing dream of possibilities, is of course, long gone, too. And that's a good thing. I could not bear to see it abandoned and rusted, sitting on its axles. 

     Neither time, nor distance, nor age, nor circumstance has dimmed the memory of a little girl in her white anklets and the woman in her sensible shoes and their wonderful afternoon together in a magnificent gray Studebaker. 

     That's how I remember it. 

For better or worse, in sickness and health . . . . . . .

Everyone draws a line in the sand sooner or later. We may not realize we have drawn one, but Karma kicks in sooner or later. We either set that sandy line in stone or we erase it. Our choice. Our consequences.

For me, that moment came knocking yesterday. The topic of open marriage, not a favorite one among my friends and family, was forced upon me without warning. I rapidly became involved in a hotly contested online argument. To use the word 'debate' would lend the conversation a respectability it does not deserve. I'm no stranger to controversy, but the ferocity of this exchange surprised even me. Among other even less complimentary adjectives, I was called an 'ass'. Duly noted.

I have spent the better part of the last ten years advocating for Marriage Equality, a position that has cost me the esteem of many of my personal friends and family. Time and again, I have stood alone in the face of considerable religious, social, and family pressure. I believe and I will always believe that marriage is a civil right that ought to be extended to all couples, regardless of orientation. Marriage is a sacred sacrament. It is a legally binding document. It is real. It embodies not only many privileges, but also many responsibilities and promises.

I feel betrayed. Yesterday, as I listened to a few shrill voices bat marriage around as if it was so much dirty laundry, I began to look at my hard fought advocacy as a king-sized waste of time. What on earth was I fighting for? Personally, I have enjoyed the myriad benefits of marriage and family for a very long time. I have no 'skin in the game' and I could have lived a much calmer, more serene life without even bothering to care about the rights of a sizable minority.

Open Marriage is a flimsy excuse used by some who have become disenchanted with the hard work and sacrifice of living in monogamy. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage is demanding the right to be unfaithful to someone that has been promised the very best part of yourself - and then demanding a merit badge for it. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage, while some may believe that the arrangement is only the business of the couple involved, affects children, parents, in-laws, neighbors, friends, employers,  . . . . . . . but this is the crux of the matter, isn't it? It's actually NOT all about you. Which is kind of the problem. Open Marriage is about willful selfishness. It's a pathetic attempt to have your cake and eat it, too. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage. What to do, what to do? What if your 'playmate' decides that he or she has actually done a dumb thing and fallen in love with you? Friends, what we have here is the plot for a very scary movie. Oh. Wait. That's been done. It was called 'Basic Instinct'. Remember the pet rabbit? Or what if either spouse contracts a serious STD, because, darn it, the people participating in Open Marriages have probably been with a few sexual partners. How will the spouse feel when he or she is given a healthy dose of genital warts? Will the bloom be off the rose, then? Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage. Oh, yes. Those pesky children. How do we explain multiple sexual partners to them? Telling them it's none of their business just isn't going to go down very well. But it really is all about you, isn't it? Your desires. Your marital 'arrangement', your fantasies, your unfulfilled libido. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage: Elevating rationalization to an art form. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Yesterday was hard for me to hear, too. But it galvanized me in a way that I needed to be. I listened as several people engaged in such tortuous rationalizations for their behavior that I actually felt embarrassed for them. I want them to know that I did NOT advocate for Marriage Equality just so I could watch a vocal minority degrade what I hold sacred and what I did my best to extend to my gay friends and neighbors.

I was not in this fight for you, my Open Marriage friends. I will never be in a fight to protect your 'rights'.

Count me out. You'll have to figure it out on your own. You can bet on it.

BJ

Why The Equal Rights Amendment Mattered - And Still Does

      In October of 1978, The Equal Rights Amendment granting fair and equal compensation to women in the workplace was narrowly defeated. With just two states left to ensure ratification of the Amendment, three states including Utah and Arizona voted 'No' and consigned equal rights for women to the dustbin of history.

     Why did it matter? Why did it matter to anyone except working women? Here's my 2 cents and it's worth every penny.

     1978 was a much different social environment than 2015. Women, for the most part, stayed home and raised kids. It was 'Ozzie and Harriet', 'My Three Sons', and 'I Dream of Jeanie'.  The people I admired and trusted deified the likes of Phyllis Schafley and her 'Eagle Forum', and demonized pesky 'bra burning' feminists like Gloria Steinem.

     I have always been bothered by the role I played in helping to defeat the ERA. I was a young, typical housewife with two babies already. My ecclesiastical leaders and the Church I belonged to were staunch opponents of the ERA. My Church played a formidable role in the state politics of both Utah and Arizona. As a young wife, I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to be seen as an obedient follower. I was Moldable. Malleable. Gullible. And Dumb.

     I have been wanting to get this off of my chest for a long time. When I consented to the use of my name in the signing of blanket opposition statements and mailings to government officials, when I stepped onto the bus headed for the Capitol Building in Phoenix for an anti-ERA rally, I was wrong. When I was tutored not to let anyone know that I belonged to a concerted, powerful Church-sponsored campaign to defeat the ERA, and I agreed to that deceit, I was wrong. Let me repeat that. I was wrong.

     I am sorry. For every woman still working at 70 percent of the pay scale that her male counterpart earns doing the same job, I am sorry. For every divorced, single, or widowed woman counting on a fair paycheck to support her family, I am sorry. To both of my well-educated daughters, who STILL face sexual harassment and discrimination in the workplace, I am sorry. To every single woman who has faced painful, agonizing decisions requiring that she return to an uneven playing field called the 'workplace', I AM SORRY.
 
There are a myriad of reasons why women have returned to the workplace in ever rising numbers. When they get there, they still face hurdles that my generation should have had the courage to overcome for them. I am sorry.  To my daughters, my seven granddaughters, and all the young women whose lives have touched mine, forgive me. When I should have stood alone, I was afraid and naive. My soul, my heart, told me that the defeat of the ERA would have long lasting consequences. I was young and anxious and scared.

It will never happen again. I am a FEMINIST. And I'm not ever getting on the bus again.




   

Say You're Sorry

Welp. It's been something like 36 hours since I returned home from a long trip and I have already had an opportunity to say I'm sorry not once but twice. Once to my husband for calling him an unfortunate name, and twice to my daughter for . . . . .oh, I'll let her tell you.

So let's get down and dirty here. Why should I even bother to say it? "Hey, I'm really sorry about what I just did. It was a mistake and I hurt your feelings. I feel bad." Why can't I just get away with whatever surprise is coming out of my mouth and ignore responsibility for what I say? Because that is NOT the way it works, my friends. And family. And acquaintances. And leaders.

When a person says, "I'm sorry for having hurt you", that person is accepting responsibility for inappropriate actions and words. There is acknowledgement. There is an effort to make amends and to make things right with other human beings. Asking somebody for their forgiveness requires a humbling of a proud heart. If it's done right, there is growth and understanding. There is a promise to do better the next time around. Saying you're sorry makes you more human and yes, more divine.

It's so ironic. We tell children all the time that they should be sorry. In addition, they ought to think of some way to make the hurt they may have caused go away. We could learn a lot by sitting in a nursery class and observing. Children understand. They get it. They know that being contrite will make their little nursery world more civilized.

How healing it would be if government leaders, ecclesiastical leaders, families and friends could say they were sorry. How wonderful if we could all remember that no one is above seeking forgiveness for mistakes.  Rectifying the wrongs. Binding the wounds. Healing the broken hearted.

So think about it. If, like me, you're just as surprised at what comes out of your mouth as anyone else, you will have plenty of opportunities to humbly ask for forgiveness. Say you're sorry. Be sincere. Mean it. Change your behavior. Show forth afterward an increase of love.

I'm going now. I need to call my daughter. Say I'm sorry. Tell her that I love her. And that my offense to her spirit won't ever happen again.

Life is beautiful when things work out, isn't it?

DONE. WITH. THAT.

Hi. It's been awhile since I wrote anything on this blog. I'm not sure why. I still have stuff to say that I really shouldn't tell people. Perhaps I have lost my nerve. Or I decided that no one was listening. Nothing I have to say would make any difference, so why bother?

WRONG. Regardless of whether you listen or not, whether you agree or not, whether you ever speak to me again, I've got something to say. Hang on.

I began this blog shortly after returning from India in 2012. I have always enjoyed writing, though it's a difficult mental exercise and sometimes it's an emotionally draining experience. When I started
stuffishouldn'ttellpeople.blogspot.com, it had a very different purpose and a different tone than the blog I wrote from India. Sometimes, my topics were all too personal and I addressed controversial subjects near and dear to my heart. I'm sure some of what I wrote offended some. That's a risk I took.

It's a difficult thing to really hang yourself out there for all the world to see, especially when there's a chance you are going to be losing friends. Blogging can be fun. It can be therapeutic. It can also be dangerous. Sometimes the comment section can be a hurtful experience.

This morning, I realized that by my silence, I have voluntarily surrendered my freedom of expression. I am still that little girl trying to be all things to all people, afraid of censure, unwilling to churn the waters. . . . . . . . DONE. WITH. THAT.

That changes today.  I'm done with the pretense. Done with disguise. Done with acquiescing. Done with silently standing by while actions are taken in my name that I adamantly oppose.

Spend some time reading a little bit of what I have already written. If you are uncomfortable with it, your options are very clear. Stop reading my blog. If yours is a tone of condescension or condemnation, or even worse, silent exclusion, you are in the wrong place.

I have big fish to fry. Welcome to the picnic. And I don't mind if you take a pass. We will both be happier.

The Dungeon of Dissent

     In 1933, an evil and corrupt regime took control of a wonderful country. When the horror ended twelve years later, fifty million men, women and children lay dead. Germany, the birthplace of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, had conceived and carried out mass genocide on such a scale that even now, seventy years later, we are still numbed with shock. How did it happen?

     For such evil to flourish and grow, average people like you and me were recruited. Mass murder was not the work of just a few psychopaths. It required cooperation. People allowed themselves to be deluded into believing that they possessed an inherent God given right to rule over their less worthy and somehow flawed brothers and sisters. As thousands of families trudged wearily to their deaths outside the villa gates, in the gardens ordinary people played silly childhood games with their children, the 'chosen' race.

     Evil people are manipulators extraordinaire. They seize upon irrational fears, unfounded ignorance and centuries old prejudice. They accentuate differences and they isolate and separate those who are different or deemed inferior. Theirs is the politics of exclusion. Shamefully, these masters of confusion, call forth the name of Jesus Christ, the Savior of all the world, as their exemplar and justification for what they do.

     Are we losing our courage to speak up and speak out? Have we forgotten how to use our most precious gift of free agency? Are we fearful when our Christian brothers and sisters question our commitment to God? Are we allowing someone else to approve who is and who is not invited to the table of Christ? When someone insists on interpreting scripture to fit a personal bias, with our silence do we tacitly approve the politics of exclusion?

     Of course I'm fearful. Simply advocating for the right to dissent marks me as 'disobedient' and 'disloyal' in the minds of some. God gave us a brain for a reason. We're supposed to use it. At all times and in all things and in all places. Since the world began, 'exclusion' has been a deadly weapon savagely wielded by Satan. He can buy nations, churches, homes and individual souls by accentuating our differences and separating us from one another.

     I choose inclusion. I choose acceptance. However you may be different from me, or I from you, I choose to enter eternity next to you. Excluding the heart and soul of another is not an option. When the forces of exclusionary practices and beliefs come for me, I won't be hiding. I choose the Dungeon of Dissent.
    

    

How To Raise A Girl.

     I'm no authority on this subject. Is anyone? I used to get sucked into believing that everyone knew more than I did about how to raise a girl.  I threw away parenting books almost as rapidly as I bought them. One day, I filled the trunk of my car with parenting 'help' books and puttered off to a book donation drop. I resolved to never again rely on a stranger's advice regarding my kids. And I haven't.

    I have formed some opinions. On how to raise a girl.

    Girls are not toys. They have formidable talents and intelligence. They are capable, enterprising, tenacious and ambitious. However girls choose to expend their energies, let's make one thing perfectly clear. Girls are not toys. They are valuable in their own right. They were not created to meet the needs or expectations of men.

    Girls have options. None of those options should include dependence upon men or a self image linked to how many men a girl can attract. From the clothes designed for girls, the movies, television, advertising - daily, the message to girls is that attractiveness is their sole important asset. If a girl can't snag a man, she's somehow deficient. Stomp out those messages. Don't let that attitude anywhere near a girl.

     Girls deserve and should receive a complete education in their chosen field. It's the best insurance policy around. Acquiring training and expertise means self determination and self-satisfaction. It also means that a girl is self-reliant. When push comes to shove . . . . . . . wait. Nobody pushes or shoves a confident, self-reliant girl around.

     Girls don't want to be lifted on a pedestal by men and worshipped as a 'goddess'. Girls want to be treated fairly in the workplace, at home, and at Church. A girl who is confident in her own abilities, skills, and intelligence will be equal to anyone whatever the circumstances.

     A girl who knows that she is not a toy weighs her options on an even playing field. She knows she is worthwhile and of infinite worth. She is educated and confident. That's the kind of girls I raised when I threw out all of the parenting books. Good luck to everyone lucky enough to have a girl.

    Oh. And one more thing. Remember that one day your girls will be your best friends.

A Scout is Kind

     The BSA leadership must be thinking that outdoor survival skills are a cinch compared to the mess they are dealing with now.

     What to do. What to do. Either the BSA continues its program of discrimination against gay scouts and leaders and they lose the sponsorship of small businesses like, oh, Intel and United Parcel Service, or they change the policy and lose the support of a majority of their Church sponsored groups.

     Let's be clear. The BSA has struggled for years with Pedophiles. They have paid millions of dollars to settle child molestation claims. A pedophile is a person with a very immature sexual development who prefers children as sexual partners. Pedophilia is a despicable crime and it's against the law. A gay man or woman are NOT pedophiles. But I'll let you do your own research. I'm kind of tired of trying to convince people.

     The BSA ought to offer a new merit badge in tightrope walking. They're trying to make everybody happy with their latest appeasement which will include gay scouts, but not gay leaders. Excuse me? How does this make any sense at all? Do you know any scouts working on an "I'm gay and I want to tell the world" merit badge? Not likely. In fact, it's not likely that most of those young scouts even know they're gay yet and if they have any inkling whatsoever, they're scared and confused. They won't be into 'confessing' it around the campfire anytime soon.

     Which brings us to the problem. Little 'Timmy' is a good scout. He's diligent and prepared. He earns the required merit badges and he becomes an Eagle Scout. He grows up, becomes involved in scouting as a leader, and then the realization hits him. Tim is gay. Under the new BSA proposal, Tim will be excused from scouting. He's no longer welcome.  How exactly is that going to work? Who wants to tell Tim, the Eagle Scout, that he's a deviant and he can't be trusted any longer in the BSA program? Do you? Do you? Or maybe you? Not me. Not ever me. Because I understand the difference between a pedophile and a gay person and I would have trusted a gay person with both of my Eagle Scout sons. How is a person's sexual orientation any of my business? I just want that scout leader to lead my sons out of the forest safely.

     The BSA's wishy-washy position has definitely demonstrated some awesome skills in knot tying. I'm thinking the corporate sponsorships the BSA relies upon won't be backing the 'compromise' anytime soon and Church groups aren't going to be too happy, either. That's called  'Gordian' knot. Which ever way the BSA floats its canoe, it's rough rapids ahead.

     A scout is kind. Remember that. A scout is kind.

    

    

    

    

    

"A City Upon A Hill"

     In 1630, while still aboard a ship in Boston Harbor, the Puritan, John Winthrop, gave a church sermon. He reminded his fellow colonists that their new home ought to be modeled as a "city upon a hill", watched by the entire world.

     This week, just a few miles from Boston Harbor, a horrific act of violence was perpetrated on innocent people. Among the dead was an eight-year old boy. Just weeks ago, this little gap-toothed boy, in a tender photograph, held a hand-lettered sign of his own artwork. It read simply, "Peace".  The sign was his personal eulogy to the dead children and teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary.

     Today, in a most memorable act of cowardice, the United States Senate rebuffed reasonable, sensible efforts to pass legislation that would have begun moving us forward in the effort to curb the violence that clutches at our throats on a near daily basis. The Senate's arrogance is breathtaking. Ninety percent of Americans are in favor of some form of gun control legislation.

     What must John Winthrop be thinking of his "city on a hill"? Is the world still watching? If they are, what do they see?

     Today, nearly 400 years after Winthrop's sermon aboard the Arabella, our children are no longer safe at school, in theaters, at malls, or at athletic events. Evil permeates our 'city on a hill' from every direction. Troubled husbands shoot their wives and children, young adults gun down one another in our streets. The 'city' has become a blood-soaked, blood-thirsty, revenge-seeking cesspool of cold, cold hearts.

     Many have decided that the best way to fight violence is to respond with "an eye for an eye".  They will arm themselves with even more weapons. They will bathe their fears in paranoia. They will ignore the suffering and grief of our neighbors.  They will publicly carry their weapons and threaten to kill anyone who questions their value system. They have forgotten that our commission, as John Winthrop understood it so well, is to be a "city on a hill".

     Winthrop's hopes and dreams were that by escaping the old world already overcome with cruelty, we would become a different kind of nation and a different kind of people. Our 'better selves' would be guided by principles of compassion, kindness, and love for our neighbors. Winthrop saw the founding of America as a rare opportunity in a new world to create a new Country founded on eternal principles.

     Sadly, the lights of our 'city on a hill' are dimming. We cannot let them go out entirely. On Monday, amid the confusion and the fear of the Boston Marathon bombings, people were filmed running TOWARD the explosions. They had no idea if their lives were still in danger or not. People already in the first aid tents were seen ripping out their IVs in order to make room for the seriously wounded. As long as we have those people in our midst, there is hope that our 'city' may once again shine brightly.

     Perhaps our United States Congress was watching those unselfish acts of courage and brotherly love. They needed that courage today. Sadly, for today at least, the lights of Congress went dark.

    

    

    




 

Love, Limerance, and "Rope-A-Dopamine"

     One of our daughters has a friend who, with the exception of Hollywood stars, may have the shortest marriage on record. She and her eternal companion were married on Friday. The following Monday, the spell broken Bride bought a one-way bus ticket back home sans a be-fuddled Groom. The squabble over the divorce settlement lasted longer than the nuptials. I wonder who got the inevitable rice cooker?

Love, Limerance, and Dopamine. Let's chat, shall we? Limerance is an emotional obsession over another person that could sometimes be better known as "Affection Deficit Disorder". It is that state of mind that makes fools of us all. We meet that 'irreplaceable' someone. We obsess unceasingly about our special angel. Could anyone else be more beautiful or handsome? (Well, yes) We can't live, breathe, or think about anything or anyone else. We walk through sliding glass doors and we don't even notice. We forget the little things like where or even if we have a car that may or may not be parked somewhere.

Here's the good news. Limerance only lasts about eighteen months. Then your feet return to earth again and your object of affection is daily less god-like and increasingly the actual slob-like  clay feet they always have been. They haven't changed. You have. The dopamine levels in your head are normal again and you are free from "Rope-A-Dope". You are normal again.

A failure to recognize the role of Limerance in the love cycle contributes to why more than 50 ercent of our marriages end in divorce. It's also a sneaky culprit for why over 40 percent of our babies are born to single mothers. You, my friend, are not immune to Limerance. It is love's counterfeit and you should know the difference.

Which brings us to what love actually is. There may be some who believe that I'm not the best expert on what love is, but I just perfectly described that dastardly Limerance.  I can nail what love is too. Be patient.

Our children have all at one time or another, usually when considering their own choice of a spouse,  asked me what love is. I have stumbled around and hemmed and hawed and given no satisfactory answers. Here now is my answer: Love is a commitment to another person, no matter how difficult or steep the challenges. Love is unselfishness in its purest state. Love is about caring for someone else beyond death. Love is about compassion and forgiveness. Love is the heavy hitter in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and three runners on base. Love knows that there's somebody there who will hit that triple and knock you home every single time.

Love is history. Love is living with a person filled with integrity and honesty. Love really means it. When the lights of Limerance go out, love still illuminates the darkest corners of despair. Love walks the sick babies in the night, forks over obscene amounts of college tuition, provides a stable home, and forgets about wealth or worldly possessions in favor of stable, well-adjusted, well-educated children.

So, to everyone who may think that I'm no authority on much of anything, it's likely. I do know this:  Regardless of the challenges in our lives, and the recent public airing of a major obstacle that might have broken weaker bonds, Mike Johnson and I are still here. We have been married 40 years. And we have created a love that only we can define. That's enough for us. It's enough for our children. It will be enough forever.

Lights out.  

Camouflage Is A Choice

Last Thursday and Friday, I drove down to Salem and spent the day with organizations working to stem the tide of gun violence in the United States. We met with various members of the Oregon Legislature to discuss possible solutions to gun violence and we made some great progress.

Of course, the gun rights folks were well represented and easily recognizable. They were the ones dressed in camouflage and holding rifles. With firearms strapped to their legs. Spewing profanity-laced insults. I didn't see a single gun lobby hand-lettered sign without a spelling or grammatical error. The English language is a specialty of mine, so I'll be generous and let that last observation slide.

With the exception of two presentations I was asked to do, I spent most of the day observing and listening. Here is what I saw: I felt like I was in a surreal re-run of "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves". Virtually every gun rights individual that I saw was dressed from head to toe in a nifty camouflage outfit. Now, I have nothing against camouflage in hunting situations when hiding is of the essence. But in Salem, Oregon? On a public street? In front of the State Capitol Building? What purpose does camouflage serve on a busy city street? Will we be shooting the geese flying over and do we really believe they haven't espied our merry band of camouflaged hiders lounging on the Capitol Building steps? Camouflage does not mix well with marble walls.

Which brings me to my next observation. I saw more guns and pistols in one day than I have seen in  my entire life. Rifles were slung over shoulders just in case a deer came bounding down the street or something. You never know. Pistols were strapped to legs just in case of . . . . . something. I'm not sure. It looked to me like most of those leg strapped firearms were in serious position to blow somebody's fatherhood into the next County.

Someone annoyed virtually everyone, including his own delegation by running up and down the sidewalks and Capitol steps with his "Don't Tread On Me" flag. Honestly. I'm benign and harmless, but tripping this gentleman on his tenth jaunt past me did cross my mind. I wondered if he really thought I needed that many times running past me to rapid read all them words on his flag.

I feel bad even mentioning my final observations, but given the story I will finish this piece with, I feel a little justified.  I saw lots of obese, out of shape, unshaven, dirty, smoking, unkempt men in the gun rights group. Really, it was comical. No, it was sad.

Well, as nearly as I could tell when the fun was over and as I was leaving for the long walk to my car, I overheard someone in the Gun Lobby group shout quite loudly and spitefully, "All of you 2nd Amendment 'traitors' are so old, you're going to be dead and gone and then we'll get to do whatever we want without having to bother with you!"

Once again, I must beg to differ, Mr. Camouflage. Here's why. You are so obese and out of shape, you will be dead fifteen years before I am. Your smoking habit will probably buy me another five years of your life. I can already out walk you, out think you, and out run you if I have to. I'm going to be around a LONG time and I won't be offering to push your wheelchair in any parades.

If you really want to be taken seriously, how about shaving once in awhile? Perhaps you might consider leaving your firepower at home and wearing a shirt and tie. Camouflage is not your best wardrobe choice when attending a business meeting at your State Capitol  Building.  Consider enrolling in a beginning English skills class. Cease the profanity and the threatening gestures and looks? And tell that idiot with the "Don't Tread On Me" Flag to stay home next time.

Make some basic, sensible choices. Become the men you pretend to be. Guns will never make you men. My quiet observation revealed you as bellicose, bullying, insulting cowards. Find yourself a spokesman who makes the choice NOT to wear camouflage and who can complete a sentence without including a profanity or an obscenity.

How's your blood pressure? Your Cholesterol? Your lung capacity? Your reading comprehension? Mine are all just fine, thank you so much for asking. See you in twenty years at the next potluck.

The Color Red

So you actually thought that babies were delivered by storks? Until someone delivered the awful truth or you correctly deciphered the spray painted illustrations on the sides of an old abandoned swimming pool.

Some babies are delivered in the back of an old 1950 Chevrolet. This is true and I'm not making this up. Bud drove and Ruby sat next to him in the front. Two babies arrived at their new home in style in that Chevrolet. Here's how it happened.

Bud was a hopeless alcoholic. The babies in the backseat belonged to Bud. Ruby, you were not the Mommy. You were just along for the ride. A very long 1,000 mile ride. Only you and Bud knew that the babies were on a one-way trip.

Ruby. you had a good heart. Perhaps you had a sad story of your own to tell. A three-year old can spot an imposter in about two seconds and Ruby, you were no imposter. You had compassion. At every gas station along the way, you herded the two babies into the public bathroom and cleaned them up as much as you could. You made them a bed as best you could in the backseat of the Chevrolet. You spoke with kindness. You were patient and soothing. You were in a tough place, on a long trip with a drunk and his two babies and you did your best.

Ruby. You disappeared from the babies lives forever after you helped deposit them in what would become their home. I have never forgotten you, Ruby. Whenever I think of the color red, I think of you, Ruby. Whatever your life was like, however it may have ended, for a few days in 1953, you shepherded and sheltered two bewildered, abused babies to safety. You were the best stork ever.

Thank you, beautiful Ruby.

Love,
One of your babies.

 

Wasps in the Pinata!

I much prefer that expression to "a bee in your bonnet". Imagining an entire birthday party of piñata swatters running for their lives makes me laugh. I have a waspish sense of humor.

Once, when I was a little girl, I had a third 'eye' for about three weeks. I purposely annoyed a wasp just to see if I could out run it on my roller skates. Fail.

But I made the best of a bad situation. My third eye was quite the center of attention in my second grade class. For about a week, nearly every previously loyal classmate ushered me to the front of the classroom for "Show and Tell". These days, I would have had my own show on "Fatal Attractions".

After the first week, when my third eye showed no sign of respectfully receding, I was then exhibited in the older health classes as a prime example of what a very small, angry, venomous, insect can do to the human body. Children drew pictures. They took measurements. They even invited the Principal. They did mathematical calculations of how many wasps it would have taken to kill me.

Then, just when I was beginning to bask in and enjoy the limelight of eternal fame and glory, I went wading in Silver Creek. I had been given specific instructions to "STAY AWAY FROM THE DAMNED CREEK." God and Mother took note of my disobedience. I contracted pneumonia and spent the next week in the hospital. My third eye disappeared there. I think the nurses with the penicillin needles did something with my third eye and it's probably in a formaldehyde bottle at some famous university like Harvard or Yale.

Go ahead and go to the piñata parties, but plan an escape route in advance. Unless of course, you think you can outrun a wasp. Good luck. Want to borrow my skate key?
 

Going Native

I'm going native. As in I think I'm turning into an Indian. I'm beginning to think in Tamil. "Nan Poyittu Vareanga". There is no word in Tamil for 'good-bye'. Did you know that? SURE you did. Essentially, I just told you that I was going away, but I'll be back soon because you mean so much to me. How's that for just charming as heck?

American made clothing is uncomfortable and hot. I don't want to wear any American clothes anymore. I love the four-hour Bollywood Movies and I actually think it's charming that I can figure out the movie plot within about five minutes, yet I sit through the entire 4-hour movie just happy as a . . . . . .rock. How do you think I'm going to live without rice? I want a Rick SHAW, not a Honda Pilot. I miss abusing and insulting the Indian men. They miss abusing and insulting me.

I miss the simple things of life - like surviving crossing the street to live yet another day. I miss the dogs, the cows, the chickens, the goats, and especially I miss the feeling of being so alive - and that condition could change in an instant. Every day brings a crisis, a problem, a conundrum, a frustration, and a joyful anticipation. Every night is a dreamless, exhausted, sleep. And I awaken with the sure knowledge that somehow, somewhere, someone, and something will be better off because I lived that day.

So, forget it. America, I'm on my way out. Vanhakkam. Aedhavadhu nalla angila padam oduhiradha.

I write this for the benefit of my grandchildren, all too young to read or to even care. Perhaps one day they will remember there is no such word in Tamil for good-bye. Poyittu Vareanga.

A Word About Government Regulations

When our children were learning to drive, we had a clear understanding with each of them. It went something like this: "Junior, you're about to take on a serious responsibility. Not only are you responsible for your own life, you're also responsible for the lives of others in the car and on the road. If you opt to drive dangerously, to break the laws, and to break our trust in you, you will pay. Oh my, yes, you will pay dearly."

Along with the driving privilege came other expectations. Juniors and Juniorettes were expected to keep their grades up. They had a curfew that if broken, had an established, painful consequence. If they received a ticket, they paid the traffic fine, in addition to the surefire 'hell to pay' at home.

Now, where am I going with this? What does this have to do with government regulation?

A car is a great blessing if used properly. It's also a tremendous responsibility. Without regulation, a car can become a volatile weapon, a tool of destruction, and an indiscriminate killer. A split second in a car can change the lives of families and friends forever. How silly would it have been if we, as parents, had meekly handed over the keys to our children without setting a standard of proper behavior? Who would have called that decision wise? Who has children who would have governed themselves in a mature way, even teaching themselves to drive? If so, send your children our way. We had terrific children and they all needed to be taught, tried, and tested in the furnace if affliction before they became fully trustworthy and responsible drivers.

As I have closely followed the great debate surrounding gun violence, I have noticed a clear pattern among gun rights enthusiasts. The majority are adamant in their refusal to be regulated, yet they are the very people who have made government gun control and gun regulations necessary. How have they done that? Through irresponsible gun ownership on the part of a few. How is it responsible to purchase a deadly weapon online, from a private home, out of the trunk of a car, or at a gun show without a background check? What does it speak of one's character when just days after the massacre of little children, he is trumpeting his "constitutional right" to bear any imaginable kind of deadly weapon and ammunition magazine, completely ignoring little children's constitutional right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Those 'pesky' gun registration laws aren't for the arrogant few. It cramps their style. Our big, bad government has no choice but to step in and teach gun owners that along with ownership comes a singular obligation to register firearms, lock up firearms, and demonstrate an adult responsibility regarding gun ownership. It was sickening to see the sight of empty shelves and the news of booming ammunition and gun sales before the little Sandy Hook children were even buried.

Government regulation is in our lives because as a people, we have amply demonstrated through our lack of self restraint and good sense that we need them. Regulations on Wall Street were steadily eroded and ignored until in 2008, we stood on the abyss of a depression that would have made 1929 look like a walk in the park. Power Brokers and Hedge Fund Managers were given the car keys without a commensurate accountability and they nearly drove our financial cars off of the cliff. Many of us will never have the time to recover from what we lost in that debacle.

From the pollution of our rivers and streams by the "Don't Tread On Me" types, to the pollution of the air we breathe, there is a vocal minority among us who insist on behaving like selfish little children. Their world encompasses the narrow clutches of their own demands, their own needs, and their own arrogant, ignorant, paranoid world views.

So, why do we need government regulation? Because we lost the right to govern ourselves when we believed that our personal stampede in the pursuit of personal freedom trumped the personal freedoms and rights of others. If we don't want to be treated like children, then perhaps we should stop the bellicosity and put on our 'big boy' hats. That will, of course, involve a recognition that we're all in this together.






 

God, Did You Really Want the Ostrich to Look Like That?

Sometimes I felt like an Ostrich. Did God really want me to look and act like that?

When I was growing up, I hid a great deal of young angst and insecurities behind a killer sense of humor. Didn't we all?

I didn't cook. I didn't sew. I didn't do much of anything, really. I could draw, I could read, and I had friends. I could also catch horny toads. Unfortunately, in the world I grew up in, cooking and sewing were the skills that mattered. I'm not saying I didn't try. I did try 4-H. Once. I do recall frying up a passel of chicken one day and I think there was a pie thrown in there somewhere. But I'm sure it was my Mom that actually made it.

I had to learn to sew or shop out of the JC Penney Catalog. Everything in the catalog had Peter Pan collars and loads of lace with puffy sleeves and full skirts. So I sewed. I made big shirts when I was little and little shirts when I was big. I just didn't fit. In.  My 4-H skirt, I kid you not, had seven gathered yards of fabric around the waistband. I looked like an Ostrich in a Sari.

So, I decided God had it in for me. I was supposed to look like a gangly little Ostrich.

Then I grew up. I left the nest. I realized that I wasn't, contrary to the confirmed opinions of some of my family members, the scum of the earth. I married well. I had wonderful children. I was a good mother. I hope. I realized that all Ostriches are created equal. Some don't cook and sew and they manage life just fine. I even saw Ostriches in plaid shirts and cut-off jeans. They looked just perfect to me. Ostriches are beautiful! God did intend for me to be an Ostrich!

What does an Ostrich learn when she is raised believing that ostriches are ugly and she will never be a beautiful Swan? And then one day, years and eons later, she realizes she just might be a beautiful Ostrich?

The first and most vital lesson is that no one has the right to label, judge or belittle another person. Especially within a family. The second lesson and almost as important is that an ostrich can learn to fly away. An Ostrich can peck and peck and peck in self-defense. But why bother? Fly away from the lack of respect for who you are. Fly away from the constant denigration. Fly away from the near constant belittling assaults on your intentions, your character, your intelligence, and your compassion. FLY. FLY. FLY.

God made Ostriches and God made Swans. He made just them just the way he wanted them. I'm glad I thought I was an Ostrich. It took me a while and a lot of loyal, loving, friendly Swans to convince myself that an Ostrich can keep mighty fine company with a Swan.

So, here's to all you beautiful Swans. Here's an Ostrich that's got your back.

BJ

Fatal Memories

I have pretty much spent most of this day feeling sorry for myself. It's been so bad, I espy a total stranger and I feel sorry for them, too. I'm feeling sorry for everyone on Facebook and anyone who calls me or emails me. I'm an equal opportunity pity person. So sorry if I extended you pity and you were actually having a good day.

I'm the only one I know that can hang on to a bad memory forEVER. I milk it. As a former friend also primarily responsible for most of my bad memories once so succinctly put it, "You love to WALLOW in memory." It's true. I'm a wallower. I can recount in colorful detail every single mistake I have ever made in my life. I can be out in the garden minding my own business pulling weeds in the tomatoes and suddenly a colorful memory envelops me and I've done a face plant into the green beans.

We're not talking about the nice things I have done. Nope. Nada. We're talking about the memories for which rugs and carpets were actually created: "Let's sweep that one under the carpet (rug), shall we?" We're talking about the bad stuff. On my worst days, I actually think my brother-in-law had it right. This may come as a surprise to you, but it was him who actually coined the phrase first when he pegged me as  "The Biggest Loser". Of course, he didn't have the good sense to copyright the phrase, hence he is now the biggest loser.

I don't suppose anybody here except me has these kinds of days because you, of course, have never done anything that you regret. Seriously. As in you wish you could get a lobotomy. Honestly, I remember wishing I would get in a serious accident and awaken as one of those lucky amnesia victims on TV. I would have a permanent short in my spin cycle and wow, would I be happy.

Fatal memories weigh you down. They can make a bright day sad. They can cancel out the good things you know about yourself and replace them with all the dumb, stupid things you have ever done.

Here are some fatal memory examples: Joe Rencher, I'm really sorry. You know why. So do I. Let's not wallow in it. Joe Langston, I'm really sorry I drove your pick-up into the lake. On purpose. I hope you have forgiven me. David Wilson, Melvin Hall, I'm sorry I shot a hole in your brand new pick-up. We should have had that hunting discussion before the date. Steve Palmer, Lawrence Turley, etc  . . . . . . . I'm really sorry. We just weren't on the same wave length, you know.

And those are just the people who have probably stopped wanting to kill me. I could name more names. But they're all living and they still want a piece of me. Or pretend they don't. Some of them get much more satisfaction from treating me as if I'm dead. That's fine by me. Zombies are so in, right now.

So-o-o-o. If you're thinking about doing something REALLY dumb. If you think it's worth it, stop for just a second. What you're about to read in five seconds will save you years of wishing for a lobotomy or amnesia - Whatever it is that you may think you want, you NEED, you deserve, YOU DON'T. Be happy with what you have. A good conscience is a lovely thing to behold - and even lovelier to own.

Memories can be fatal. Contrary to popular opinion, fatal memories never go away. They may fade with time. They may have been a painful, but unnecessary learning lesson, they might even humble you, remind you that you're human, give you empathy for the suffering of others. But always and forever, you don't need fatal memories in your mind.

Take this little tidbit from a friend: If you persist in gathering fatal memories, mark my words, One day, you will be out weeding tomatoes and do a face plant into the green beans.

Yours truly,

Your imperfect, memory wallowing friend.

The Case for Barack Obama

Okay. Remember. I own this blog. Sort of. I'm going to be blunt and direct.

Time is short and the river is rising. November isn't very far away and we have a lot of mis-information, vitriol, and ridicule to swim through. I will be voting for Barack Obama for a number of reasons. Here are three of them: Decency, Leadership, Heart.

Barack Obama is a decent man. He could have been a drug dealer, given the shaky start he got. Instead, he is the President of the United States. He has courage. He is the epitome of a self-made man. He has a gift for leadership. He is widely respected and revered throughout the world. He has presided over a Congress with the lowest approval ratings in history and he has done it with dignity and grace. He is a family man and his dedication to his family is publicly demonstrated.

Barack Obama is a natural leader. He inherited an economic mess that nearly plunged us into a depression that would have made the first depression look like child's play. How soon we all forget who was responsible. Our present situation is not something our government created. Corporate greed and de-regulation of Wall Street brought us to the brink. Barack Obama has had to preside over a painful recovery made even more difficult because he has had to deal with a congress filled with obstructionists and know nothings who are blocking economic and political reforms.

Barack Obama has a heart. He has repeatedly defended the rights of the disenfranchised and the poor. He has expressed concern for the growing inequality in our society. Through sheer force of will, Obama confronted a disastrous health-care system that will bankrupt our Country if we can't get it fixed. Barack Obama has consistently kept attention on the needs of those least able to advocate for themselves. He best emulates the teachings of Jesus Christ and I'm serious about that comparison.

Decency. Leadership. Heart. Barack Obama does not deserve the vitriolic, hateful comments and opinions I see daily online. He is the President of the United States and he has served our Country faithfully and with tremendous courage and honor. I will be voting for him and hoping that he will represent our Country for another four years.

There. I'm done. For now.

On Becoming a Poet

I still haven't paid that traffic ticket. For some unaccountable reason, I'm having absolutely NO guilt feelings about it. NONE. I might feel a little regret if I'm ever caught speeding in Arizona again and have to spend the night with Sheriff Araipahoho or whatever the heck that bigot's name is. Remember him? He's the pot-bellied jackass Sheriff of Maricopa County that delights in housing inmates in tents and making them wear pink underwear. What goes around, comes around, Sheriff. I can't wait to see you in your own pink underwear and I hope it's August when they haul you into your little tent in the Arizona desert.

Since I titled this blog "On Becoming a Poet", I feel duty bound to at least try, so, here's the beginning of my sappy poem:

"I used to count the days when last I saw you,
Now I can't remember how many years since then,
I'm better now, and I've worked it through,
But I'm a liar, it's been almost exactly ten."

Right now, I can't think of a single person, place or thing to insult, aggravate, or offend. I'm having a slow day.

I usually pull Barack Obama out of my hat and irritate everyone with my steadfast loyalty. It never fails to irk nearly everyone I know. I'm just not feeling the love right now.

I do have some important thoughts and opinions. Give me a day or two to warm up.

Later.

Lawsuits

Hello,

I have done some fact checking and bought some insurance coverage against accusations of libel and slander. I know an attorney now. I'm ready to blog (blab) everything I know about everyone I know - and if I have a slow day, I'll just make stuff up. I'll probably make stuff up about the current political situation since everyone else seems to be doing it. I'm not averse to offensive retorts and certainly no saint in the retaliation department. Be forewarned.

So here we go. My first victim.

The Show Low, Arizona Police Department has seen fit to award me with a $249 speeding ticket through a radar controlled area of oh, about ten feet. I was caught at 14 mph over the speed limit. I got a notice in the mail with my (oops, somebody's) picture on it and the police are asking me if that's MY picture. Truthfully. Honestly. Candidly. What would YOU do?

"Why yes sir, that is most definitely my picture you took in that short ten feet speed trap. Yes, it's me, the speeding bandit. So sorry. Where can I pay my $249 speeding ticket? May I kiss your feet ?  May I enter Show Low, Arizona into the "best places NOT to EVER visit" contest?"

SHOW LOW,WOULD YOU MIND TAKING A FLYING LEAP INTO THE GRAND CANYON ALONG WITH YOUR RADAR CAMERA?

I never saw that woman in the radar photo before in my life, though I must say, she's a looker.

Nobody ever accused me of being a good person. No one's even mentioned it. No one's even come close. But I'm not bitter about that. We're about to find out the depth, the width, the breadth, and the heighth of my lack of a good reputation. Stay tuned.

You're going to get mad once in awhile. Just let me know and I'll make it worse for you.