A Moment Out Of Time


My husband and I were in Venice, Italy. He had a business conference and I went along. We had walked to St. Mark’s Square after a late dinner. We were standing in the crowd listening to music when a tall man, wearing an old fashioned cap, walked up to me and handed me a red rose. He asked if I spoke English. I said, yes. He bowed then said, “I heard your laughter. When I turned to see who was laughing, I did a true double take. You reminded me of someone I deeply loved that I recently lost. Your laughter is just like hers, filled with happiness and love. I give you the rose in remembrance of her, and to remind you to always love your man like you do now.” Before I could say a word, he bowed again and disappeared into the crowd. Tears filled my eyes, he sounded so sad, so lonely. I wanted to run after him and promise him I would always love my husband.

My husband was standing behind me while the man spoke to me. When he left, my husband, who had never shown an ounce of jealousy in all the years we had been married, nearly growled, “Who the hell was that? Why is he giving you a rose? I explained what happened. He was still glowering and grumbling about how guys shouldn’t give romantic roses to another guy’s wife on the way back to the hotel. I was girl enough to be secretly thrilled that he was jealous.

Something changed between my husband and I after that bitter sweet moment between the stranger and I. The fading romance between us was reignited, and a quick business trip to Venice became a second honeymoon. Today, years later, just the mention of Venice, makes us look at each other with that special smile. Every couple should have a Venice moment in their lives. A moment out of time where they can rekindle the romance and passion in their marriage.

To this day, I wonder about the stranger and hope he found a new love, because a man like that, who loved that deeply, deserves a woman who can love just as strong. Thank you stranger, for bringing back the love and joy between my man and I. I will always remember. I promise. God bless you.

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Bon Appetite!


I am cooking today. Real cooking, from scratch, no boxes, cans, or frozen stuff. Just fresh ingredients and spices. Every now and then I get the urge to do this sort of cooking. It is always an all day thing, and I make a huge mess for the Mr. to clean up after. He is the official dishwasher in our home. I cook, he cleans. He says its worth it because he gets to eat delicious food in return. Not sure how delicious it is, but he likes it.

I started cooking simple things when I was around ten years old. By the time I was fourteen, I could make a descent cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I got married at sixteen, and I had to learn to cook even better, so I started collecting cookbooks and recipes. Eventually, I took a year of cooking school to fill time while my boys were in school. I learned to love to cook. I will never be a real chef, but I am a good cook.

Women in my family have always been good cooks. Sometimes in the most difficult situations. My maternal grandmother used to work at a laundry in town. In the evening, she would come home and do her farm chores and then cook on a wood burning stove. She cooked simple things, but we always had biscuits. I don’t know how she did it, but she made the best biscuits ever. (Scones to the British out there.) They were warm, with melted butter and homemade jam, or sometimes served with sausage gravy. Either way, or plain, they were good. My fraternal great grandmother made the best vanilla cookies. She used to let us “help” her bake them, and we got to eat them fresh out of the oven with cold milk. Grownups got coffee instead. Grannie always smelled like vanilla cookies and coffee, two of my favorite aromas to this day.

My mother had to feed a family of six on a shoestring budget. She makes the best goulash, a recipe she got from another Army wife when we lived in Germany. Her potato salad and deviled eggs are beyond merely good, they are in a class all their own. Her biscuits are top of the line too. My husband nearly drools when he knows she is making breakfast because he know biscuits and gravy will be on the table along with sausage and eggs. I grew up on plain food, nothing fancy with odd named ingredients. We ate a lot of vegetables, very little meat (that’s probably why I love it so much), and pasta.

Interestingly enough, none of the women in my family who taught me to cook baked all that much. Dessert wasn’t on the table daily, dessert was a special treat – except for Grannie’s cookies. Learning to bake from scratch was a hit and miss thing for me for years. After cooking school, I got better at it, but we still don’t have dessert on a daily basis. Part of that is because when I bake it barely makes it from the oven to the plate before the Mr. or one of the kids finds it and spreads the word. When our youngest was a teenager, he and his friends would turn up out of nowhere every time I baked brownies. I always made a double batch because I knew that somehow, somewhere, the whole bunch would turn up at the farm in the middle of nowhere within half an hour and power through the brownies and two gallons of milk. I had to hide some for my husband or there would be nothing for him by the time he got home from work. That is one of my happiest memories, all those boys (ten or more) filling my house with laughter and loud noise as they wrestled over “Mom’s Brownies.”

Food is a common denominator in every culture. Feeding guests is a time honored tradition everywhere. We have lived all over the world, and no matter the culture the first thing we are offered is something to drink, followed by an offer for food. In some places refusing is rude, in some it is expected until your host convinces you to eat. The food, no matter where we were, was always amazing. I could eat my weight, and it is considerable, in the rice Florence Kaulu used to bring to our church pot luck meals. I could eat jerked chicken until I couldn’t move. I could eat any traditional Chinese food that Winnie Mak made, and I am downright addicted to Adobo from the Philippines. I love English scones, and Yorkshire pudding – which isn’t a dessert, but a roast beef meal. And bread from Bird’s Bakery on the high street in Debden, England is to die for. Okay, I have an issue with Carbs, so sue me. Food is something we all need, why not enjoy it?

As I age, I cook less, and we tend to eat out more. Lately, however, it has become boring to eat out. The majority of restaurants are chain restaurants, and the food is always the same. I would love to find a mom and pop greasy spoon old fashioned diner, with good food from old recipes. Or a new twist on traditional food, or an honest to goodness old fashioned Southern restaurant that serves fried chicken like we could get back when. And I don’t mean KFC or Popeye’s, I mean pan fried chicken like Grannie used to make on Sunday afternoon. Real food, not the la-di-da meals served in fancy places where you leave as hungry as you were when you walked in. I want something different, or traditional, like they always have on that TV show Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives. Not bar-b-Que, heaven knows I can get that anywhere in Mississippi or Tennessee, but real food.

One of my soap box issues is how so many younger people simply haven’t a clue how to cook, unless they nuke something in a microwave. Most folks under 30 are clueless when it comes to making a meal from scratch. Teaching a child to cook is a great bonding moment, it is also beneficial to the child because some day they will live alone, or with a partner, and someone needs to know how to feed the family. I regret that I didn’t do more of that with my children and grandchildren. My boys learned enough not to starve or to have to eat cereal every day. My oldest granddaughter is learning how to cook on her own, she too, is collecting cookbooks. I really need to start teaching my great granddaughter more. She loves to “help” me bake now that she is five.

I better go give things a stir, get the bread in the oven, and figure out dessert. No, it isn’t a special occasion, but if one makes a full dinner from scratch, dessert is a must. Bon Appetite!

All You Need Is More Than Love


I saw a sticker on a car that said, “All You Need Is Love.” It was printed with a tie-dye design, with lettering circa 1970’s. A very nostalgic, Magic Mushroom, vibe was attached to the meme like design. At first glance, it is a neat saying. But like most bumper sticker/meme tag lines, it falls down when logic is applied.

First of all, to whom or what does the “you” in the incomplete sentence apply? Me? People? Dogs? Aliens? What kind of love is needed? Is it needed, or wanted, and how will it change anything? Exactly what is the expected outcome of the love? How will it change or complete the life of the “you” mentioned in the blurb? I don’t know about most people, but I need a lot more than love in my life to exist, survive, be at peace, and live a healthy life.

To begin with, I need all the basics of survival. I need air, water, food, and shelter. Without those, love isn’t going to do me a bit of good. It won’t replace the need to breathe, and it sure won’t give me the moisture I need to replace what my body has to have to live. Water is one of those things that is more important that love. I can’t live without food either. Love won’t replace the energy I need to do things like walk and hunt for food and water. I can do without shelter as long as it isn’t too hot or cold. But if the weather changes, I need a place to get warm, and a fire will trump love in a contest of survival.

Love is a luxury when it comes to survival in the harsh reality of life. Before love became a “thing” everyone strives for, people came together who were compatible to survive together. A woman looked for a man who was strong, capable of protecting and hunting for the survival of the woman and offspring. It didn’t matter if he was sensitive and understanding, it didn’t matter if he was as ugly as a mud fence. It didn’t matter how well spoken, or how well dressed he was, what mattered was if he could do his share of work for the family. A man looked for a woman who could gather or grow food, medicine, and herbs that she would use to feed the family. She needed to know how to help dress out the animals he killed, build a fire and keep it going, cook, and take care of the illnesses that might come along. She didn’t have to be sexy, pretty, or wear the hottest new clothes. She needed to know how to nurture the family and the man who helped provide for her. They bonded by surviving and bearing children together. They took care of each other, and love wasn’t even a word in their vocabulary.

Love was a luxury between men and women who mated with each other via marriage and ceremony right up until the twentieth century. Only once survival wasn’t tied to living from hand to mouth, hunting and gathering, did love become part of the lexicon for couples. Oh, yes, it was bandied about for centuries, but when it came right down to it, survival was always more important. Women married successful men or married into successful families, men married for social advantages, and often for money. Love was for mistresses and lovers, not the spouse. Fidelity was a fluid commodity, often something that applied legally, but not morally, throughout many societies.

Then along came modern love. No longer did men and women need to marry or mate for survival, Movies, books, advertisements, media all made love a glowing part of finding a spouse or mate. Linked to that love was romance and sexual attraction. Suddenly the way a woman looked was more important than how she acted and what she could do. Men needed not only to be successful, they needed to be handsome, well built, and oh, my, sexy. When the two of them met, they had to be eye-crossing sexually attracted to one another. Then boom, love was in the air. That trend has continued since.

However, human beings cannot survive on love alone. We still must work together as a couple, whatever that looks like, to have air, food, water, and shelter today just as we have from the beginning of time. The way we get those may have changed, but we still have to support our partner and they have to support us in those endeavors. Many people still marry for protection, many join each other to maintain a healthy way of life. Some people marry because they are lonely, some because it is expected. At the end of the day, love is still a luxury, even a necessity, but everyone needs much more to survive and thrive.

This is one of my favorite love songs, from Fiddler on the Roof, Do You Love Me? Enjoy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSF8l_Yh_gY

How Weird Is That?


I woke up very early this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. What woke me was a dream I was having. I was teaching a class of first year college students (do they still call them freshmen?) and we were discussing who the real protagonist in Romeo and Juliet was. I had a list on the board, The fathers, the prince, Romeo, etc., ending with the Friar. After a minute everyone got a wrong answer so I told them it was the Friar and launched into a dissection of the history of England, the anti-Catholic sentiment of the age and how Shakespeare used his plays to promote the propaganda of first the Queen and then the King of England against the Catholic church. I won’t go into the entire lesson, it is one that I taught several times during my teaching days.
 
One way I kept younger kids, meaning teenagers, awake was to compare the feud between the families to modern day gang wars and how the warring factions of the government today were much like the war between the King of England who was also the head of the Church of England and the Catholic Church in other countries and the Catholic Kings. The kids ate it up with a spoon.
 
After waking up, I lay in bed contemplating Romeo and Juliet and other Shakespeare plays where the bias was blatant if one knew the history of the era in which it was written. Personally, I like the comedies best because he used outright parody of the pomposity of the gentry versus the vitality of the commoners to poke fun at everyone from royalty to the servants, merchants, and country bumpkins. He walked a close line between mocking and sneering and lecturing against the unpopular ideals of the King and his Lords.
 
What I find interesting is that after all this time, I remember all the details of the lesson, history, and play and could stand up in front of a classroom and give it again with a few peeks at the play to get my quotes right. How weird is that? No really, I wonder how weird it is.
 
Anyway, now I have Shakespeare on my mind. And I really, really miss teaching.

Today, at church, during our women’s meeting, we were asked to stand one at a time and introduce ourselves by telling everyone something unique about ourselves, something we were good at doing, and a hobby or interest. One thing that really bothered me was that almost every single woman said that there wasn’t anything special or unique about themselves and they didn’t have any particular talent or anything they were particularly good at. They were, in fact, rather ordinary and though they could do a lot of things, they didn’t excel at anything. It was all I could do not to stand on my proverbial soap box and launch into a heartfelt, if some what annoyed, lecture on what it means to excel and the meaning of uniqueness. The largest portion of them started with “I am just a” and filled in the blanks.

There is no such thing as being “just a” anything. It vastly annoys me to hear a wife, mother, single, mature, or young woman demeaning themselves as “just a” followed by a put down of what they can do or what they create. God does not make “just a” woman. God makes strong, individual children whom he would never judge against other children. He doesn’t do mediocre, half measure daughters who are lacking in anything. We do it to ourselves, to each other, enough. Stop that! Simply Stop!

Each one of us is unique, leaving God out of it if you must, science proves that with our DNA. We may have DNA in common with others, but our DNA is unique to us. No one in the world, save maybe an identical twin (and that is debatable), is exactly the same as we are. We have different talents, interests, abilities, knowledge, experiences, and desires from one another. Not one of us is the same. That’s a GOOD thing!

All of the women who are stay at home mothers and loved being one were almost apologetic in their acclamation that they didn’t work outside the home. Why? What a blessing to your children that their mom is there for them every day, all day and they know she will be there when they need her the most. It is the most powerful job any woman can have. She will literally bring up a generation for the future of the world. How can that be “just a” anything? She will be raising devoted children who will look back on their childhood with wonderful memories. Before all the feminists get their knickers in a bunch about how it might not be all that fulfilling for a mom who is “stuck” at home with kids when she would rather be working on a career, working is fine if a mom wants to juggle the pressures of a job and a family. Good for her. I think it is high time working mother’s back off the criticism for those who see staying home and raising kids as a full time job that is more beneficial to their children than day care. Many mother’s who have to work due to financial issues and many single mothers who have to support their families do so because it must be done. Ask most of them, and if they are honest, they would rather be in a loving relationship with a partner who supports the wife staying home. If given a choice, many women would be stay at home mom’s in lieu of climbing the corporate ladder. Many wouldn’t want to because a career is their ultimate goal. So working women, back off, stay at home mom’s, stop apologizing and stand proud for your chosen profession. It isn’t a contest.

The biggest thing that bothered me beyond being unique was the claim that none of them were particularly good at anything, implying that they were mediocre at a lot of things. Wait a minute ladies. There are a million things I am not good at doing. I muddle along with a lot of things I wish I were better at doing. I know people who are brilliant artists and musicians, while I can’t draw a straight line and barely read music. I admit to envy a bit, okay, a lot, but if we were all brilliant artists and musicians, it would make it ordinary not brilliant. I am a good cook, but not a chef like some of my friends. I can drive anything on four wheels, but I am not able drive a race car because it scares me to go so fast. What I can do is write a good story, teach a great lesson in any classroom with nothing more than a book and a chalk board, I can raise children to be competent adults, and I can take care of animals. If you ask my grandchildren, I can do magic and I have eyes in the back of my head because I always catch them when they are trying to be sneaky. I love fiercely and I am a good friend.

My point is, all of us are good at something. Maybe you think you aren’t because you don’t feel like you can compete with women who do things you can’t. Maybe you give great hugs when someone needs it the most. Maybe you are a great listener who doesn’t judge others, maybe you are someone that doesn’t gossip and spread lies, but are trustworthy when someone needs a safe place to speak out. Maybe you can do hair, or sew beautiful garments (I sure can’t), or are an amazing source for genealogy information. Maybe you give of your time freely, not asking for anything in return. Maybe you have a great singing voice, but are too shy to share it. Maybe you are a soft place to fall for those in emotion turmoil, or maybe you are a loyal and loving friend in a world of mean spirited people. Small talents are as important as great talents. Nothing is mediocre about any of us, some women are just better at things than others. There IS something each of us excels at, we just may not see it as something special when it is to all of those who know and love you. Giving of your time can be one of the greatest talents of all.

Just stop denying your uniqueness, stop denying your talents, stop denying your special abilities, and for heaven’s sake stop saying you are “just a” anything. BE A daughter of God, BE A proud and strong woman, BE YOU, and simply BE.

Despicable VS Decency


I have always maintained that politicians are in it for themselves and their pocketbooks. The people they are supposed to represent are simply an inconvenient part of the deal to go to Washington D.C. to make money for themselves and their cronies. Sitting on important committees is the main goal, because that is how they meet the movers and shakers with whom they make backroom deals for power. The longer they are in office, the less the people they represent matter and the more power has a hold on them. Those who are already corrupted become even more corrupt over the years and anyone who got into the game with an honest desire to help their state or country becomes more corrupt the longer they hold power.

Those backroom deals are their life blood, they are supposed to win every race, fulfill every deal, pocket money and power for the people who pull their strings. If they don’t, they lose what power they have, and money stops flowing into their hands. They will do anything, destroy anyone, climb over anyone in their way, just to keep their deals. Power and money are deeply addictive things, there is never enough of either for politicians and their backers.

The average American wants a good job, a place to live to call their own, and a safe, decent place in which to raise their children. They want their kids to have a good education, and to retire some day with a way to live comfortably. They want fewer taxes, less intervention from Big Brother Government, and to pursue Life, Liberty, and Happiness. They want their Constitutional Rights, including freedom to bear arms, worship as they wish, the right to free speech and a vote as a citizen of the United States of America. All are concepts we took for granted since the founding of our country until the 1970’s or there about. Something we no longer have because the leftists have spent the past forty plus years slowly and methodically taking those rights away from citizens under the guise of equality, fairness, and social adjustments in the way we live our lives.

No longer are we encouraged to excel, it makes it unfair to those who don’t or won’t have the self determination to do so. Therefore we must all fall to the lowest common denominator. No longer are we allowed to think for ourselves and form our own opinion and ideas. In fact, with common core forced into every level of education, our children are actively discouraged in their desire to standout or think critically among their peers. The outcome is making our young adults and children into fearful, inept, indoctrinated zombies to the system. The very things that made America stand out as a world leader in science, technology, art, music, intellect, and inventions are squashed in all children before they get out of elementary school. If Steve Jobs, Bill Gates and their generation were being educated today, there would not be Apple or Microsoft, because they wouldn’t have the stepped outside the acceptable lines and developed their products. That would be the job of the government, after all.

This past week we saw, the world saw, the way in which politicians will go to any lengths to maintain power and control the country for their wants. We saw how bitter losers of the last election are desperate to hang on to their control rather than allow a man who, by everyone’s definition, is a brilliant judge who lives by the laws of the Constitution become a Supreme Court Justice. They tried desperately to destroy a descent, honest, faithful husband and father, by refusing to follow the standards and rules of generations in the choice of a Supreme Court nominee. Instead of following the process, they used despicable, dishonest, disgusting methods to try and undermine a good man rather than lose yet more control to the opposite side. It was horrific to see a man have to try to defend a negative in front of his wife, parents, and, worse, his children.

The Senator who started this entire debacle, Diane Feinstein the senior Democratic Senator from California, purposely withheld information from the Committee to use as a last ditch effort to derail Mr. Kavanaugh’s nomination and approval for Supreme Court Justice. In doing so, she exposed not only Mr. Kavanaugh to ridicule, she also exposed Dr. Ford to the world as a slightly mad, angry woman who is obviously is in the control of the Democratic Socialists who will do anything to regain control of the country. Dr. Ford is now despised and held in contempt by any reasonable, thinking people not under the same control of the party of hatred.

There is no proof of the allegations, there are no corroborating witnesses, and there isn’t anything more than her non-specific, vague, recollection of a drunken teenage party in which she claims someone tried to sexually abuse and/or rape her. Suddenly, according to the leftists, an accusation is equal to proof, therefore the accused is automatically guilty of said accusations. There is no due process, no investigation needed, if a woman accuses a man, he should automatically admit wrong doing and pay the consequences of the accusation. Facts don’t matter, nothing matters but the word of a drunken woman thirty years after the supposed event happened. Thanks to the lies and what many consider criminal behavior of Diane Feinstein, Dr. Ford, and the Democratic Party, the rights of women have been set back three generations because now the real victims of sexual assault and rape will have an even harder time convicting those who are sexual predators.

Regular Americans, unless indoctrinated by the leftist education and the leftist government of past years, are watching the whole abomination of the actions of Diane Feinstein and her cronies in horror. Men and boys are now victim of a witch hunt that marks each and everyone of them as predators, no matter how circumspect they are in their behavior. If this keeps up, men will simply stop asking women out, and if they have needs will go to a professional sex worker rather than take a chance on being accused of something they did not do.

I find it profoundly embarrassing that Senators of our great country are willing to squabble like a bunch of idiots over how much a seventeen year old boy drank thirty years ago. The fact that they are willing to stoop to digging around in a High School yearbook and trying to make sexual innuendo out of what some teenager wrote in it thirty plus years ago is disgusting. I am horrified they are doing this in front of the world stage, and still expect to be treated with deference and dignity. They are becoming the laughing stock of the world.

I, for one, believe Mr. Kavanaugh is innocent of the charges, he has proof of where he was and what he was doing that long ago summer, unlike his accuser who can’t even remember when and where the incident took place. I think Dr. Ford was, and is, a patsy for the desperate leftists. Shame on her, and shame on them. May God Bless him, and anyone in the Senate with an ounce of common sense will stand firm and vote for Brett Kavanaugh to be the next Supreme Court Justice. And once he is on the court, I hope he continues to be a fair, descent, protector of our Constitutional Laws. Should he not be confirmed, I hope he sues everyone involved into the ground for defamation of character and anything else he can. But, he won’t do that. He is too descent a man.

Music Of My Life


I grew up in the late 1950’s and 1960’s. I listened to music on the radio all the time, and my parents played and sang with a band my whole life. Artists like Sam Cook, The Platters, Neil Sedaka, Bobby Vinton, all of the early Motown artists, and early rock and roll stars along with country singers were the mainstays in my home. As far back as I can remember, music was the way I expressed my feelings and learned to understand what others were feeling.

I fell in love listening to the pop and rock of the 1960 and 1970 hippie era. The first song I dance to with the love of my life was Never My Love by the Association. It still makes me want his arms around me when I hear it. Today, when I listen to songs from that era, memories overwhelm me. And it is always the man who became my best friend, lover, and husband who is forefront in those memories.

I remember rocking my babies to music from the mid 1970’s, and singing to them along with the radio in my car right up until they were nearly teenagers. I did the same to my grandchildren, and now, great grandchildren. Recently, I was listening to music on satellite radio. I ran across the Elvis station, and every song they played was one I could sing word for word. Funny how that works, I don’t remember a conversation from a week ago, but I know the words to a song I learned when I was nine years old. Maybe it is because the music makes us feel something, maybe our brains are wired to respond to rhymes and rhythm so it is easier to remember the lyrics. I don’t care, really, I simply want to always remember songs that lift me up, make me cry, long for my love, or feel joy.

Today I was listening to a song list of love songs I compiled. I put it together to help me concentrate as I worked on my newest novel. I didn’t realize how powerful the music was until I found myself trying to type with tears in my eyes. It was a song by Bette Midler. The Rose is the song I associate with the loss of our oldest son. The last lyrics are:

When the night has been too lonely/And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only/For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter/Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun’s love/In the spring becomes the rose

Because I believed with all my heart, that beneath the bitterness of his loss, we would all grow and one day, with the love of the Son of God, spring would come to our hearts and lift us out of our sorrow and bitterness. Years have gone by, and we have begun to see the spring around us and the rose is his beloved daughter and her daughter that brought life back to our sorrowful hearts.

Tonight, for the first time in a long time, I am all alone at home. My beloved is visiting his brother. I didn’t think I would miss him so much. Now I am spending the evening listening to music that reminds me of him and the times of our lives. I want to wrap each memory up in a song and put it away in my heart like the gift it is meant to be.

This is the newest song we dance to. It’s by Chris Stapelton, More of You. Because even after all of these years, I still want more of you, my beloved.

Treasure


Addie: What you doing Nana?
Me: Cleaning out the coat closet.
A: Why?
M: Because we need to get rid of the things we don’t use and take them to the charity shop.
A: How do you know we don’t need it? What if there are treasures in there?
Me:(Thinking, that most of it was probably junk) Well, if there are treasures we will keep them somewhere better than the coat closet.
A: Well, maybe they are treasures to someone at the charity shop just not to us.
Me: That’s possible, as I put in a coat four sizes too small for Addie into the give away bag.
A: What’s that? As I pulled out a hat and gloves that used to fit her mother. Can I have It for my dress up box?
Me: It’s a hat and glove set from when your mom was a little girl. Does that make it treasure?
A: For me it IS treasure! My mommy used to wear it.
Me: Here you go. Don’t lose the gloves.
A: Rolling her eyes at me. Nana! If YOU kept them for SO long, I can keep them safe too!

I didn’t know if she was commenting on her mother’s age or my ability to hang on to things. but she got her treasure, and she reminded me that even hand me down clothes can be treasure to those who can’t afford anything else for their little girl. She’s smart that way.

Where I’ve Been


On July 16, 2018, I had a heart attack. I wasn’t ill, in fact I was feeling pretty good until I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. I thought I had food poisoning, but I was getting dehydrated and went to the hospital. They made me stay there and the next morning, I had a stent installed in a tiny vein in the back of my heart. That back pain I thought was a pulled muscle, well it wasn’t it was a clogged up artery. A small one, but it still caused all sorts of trouble. I was sent home straight out of ICU later that day.

I started throwing up again later that night and ended up back at the ER. Guess what, I had an allergic reaction to the dye they used to figure out what was wrong with my heart. Not something that is all that common. It bunged up my kidneys, caused my blood sugar to get totally out of control, and made me sick as a skunk eating dog. Holy cats, NO ONE should be that sick, ever. And to make it all just ducky, I got a terrible migraine to add to all the misery. I ended up staying as a hospital guest for three long miserable days before they let me leave again, It took that long for my kidney function to recover. The details are pretty disgusting, so that is all I want to say about that.

I went to the nearest hospital, The Methodist Hospital in Olive Branch, Mississippi. Its a pretty new place, kind of out in the country, small but up to date with all the new gadgets and such. Clean, quiet, quick to get in and out of the ER, but the best part of the entire place is the staff. From custodians who had to clean up after me more than once, to the nursing and technician staffs, to the doctors who actually take time to have a conversation and answer questions, to the hospital chaplain who came more than once just to talk to me about how I was coping, every last one was kind, compassionate, genuine in their concern and care for and of me. And they were that way to each and every single person for which they held responsibility. Amazing and wonderful for someone who was feeling grotty, and yes, terrified of dying. When I mentioned that to the Chaplain after sharing a prayer, he smiled kindly and said, “Dear Sister, I saw a long list of things you still have to accomplish. Trust in the Father, he only has great love for you.” Yes, I cried. It was a good thing. Healing tears in the face of deep fear.

In 2011, I faced death more than once from a horrific infection at the sight of open heart triple bypass surgery. It resulted in two more open heart surgeries within three months. That was followed by nearly a year of recovery and several more years of regaining mobility and strength. I think of myself as strong willed and determined, but I knew I was very close to dying and my doctor confirmed the fact that he didn’t think I would make it through that final surgery. I thought I was doing everything right and never expected to have another heart attack. Not when I felt so healthy. I think I was beyond shocked, and went from, “Why am I throwing up?” to “Am I going to die?” at the speed of sound.
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I couldn’t sleep that first night. A young nurse was assigned to me. About three in the morning, she came into check on me and found me unable to express my fear. Patting my hand, she leaned over and hugged me. We chatted a bit, and when she left she said, “I wish I had a Nana like you. Mine died when I was little. I know you’ll be okay.” Yes, I cried. It was then that I made a decision.

I was going to tell every single person who came into my room how much I appreciated their help, their willingness to do a difficult job, no matter what it was, and that all they did for a patient made them a ministering angel and God’s hands here on earth. I did exactly that. I thanked everyone, I told them how valuable they were to me as part of a group who pulled together to help me survive and heal. I prayed with a few, I cried with a few, I laughed with more, and I was openly loving and sharing with everyone. Those that know me, know I don’t open up like that – ever. When I left, every single nurse and aide on the floor hugged me. Before I made it to the elevator, several others stopped us and said thank you and wished me well.

When I got home, I was still worn out (Never go to the hospital if you want to rest), but so grateful for the love I felt, and even more for the love of my family – especially my husband’s love. A few days later, a letter came for me from the hospital. It was a card, signed by all of the nurses who cared for me, thanking ME for allowing them to be part of the process of healing. Yes, I cried.

Once again, Thank You:

Taylor, Jason, Bobby, Sibel, Lauren, Terrinay, Mariah, Jennifer, Bernie, June, Ms. Dee, Miss Ruby Rose, Dr. Patel, Dr. Showkat, All the Surgery Team, Respiratory Team, Blood Team, ER Staff, Laboratory Staff, and X-ray Staff, and especially Brother Earl for reminding me that God never ignores those of his children who are in need of his attention.

You are indeed ministering angels and God’s helping hands on earth.

A Childhood Memory


When I was a little kid, my family went to a parade. It was wonderful. All the men marching in step, the tanks rolling by, all the armor, jeeps, and first and foremost, the flag flying high over everything. I remember the sky was bright blue, making the colors of the flag stand out, each color brilliant and fresh. A band marched by, playing loud and proud. When they passed us, they were playing Grand Old Flag. It was all so exciting. My mother kept us kids under control, but the entire crowd was cheering, like they were welcoming heroes home. It was the Fourth of July and we were in Germany in the early 1960’s. Somewhere among those marching men was my father.

I was too young to recognize the importance of that post WWII and post Korea moment. I grew up in the military, I thought everyone’s dad marched in long lines and wore a uniform if they were American. It was normal. All the kids I knew, except for the few locals in our area, had dads who wore uniforms. The women and children in our house area waited for dads and husbands to come home from “the field” just like we did. And everywhere we went, from the school to the doctor’s building, there was a flag with the same bright colors flying above it. It was normal.

When my dad left the military, I was shocked to see buildings without the flag, people without uniforms of any kind, and complete disrespect for any sort of organization. It was hard to become a civilian, I missed the comfort of normal. I missed the feeling of security I had always had, even in the midst of the cold war that could send us on a bus or train with one bag for our whole family at a moment’s notice. I was never unsure, I was never alone, as long as there was a man in a uniform like my dad wore.

One day, I was at school very early for some reason. I was wandering around waiting for school to open when I saw the janitor come out of the building. He unfolded a flag, and pulled it up the flagpole. There, against the bright blue sky, the colors of my flag unfurled. As the wind caught it, the flag waved proudly above the land around it. In my mind I heard Grand Old Flag, as the janitor stepped back and saluted with all the dignity and honor of a soldier. Tears came to my eyes, because to me, he no longer wore a gray shirt and pants of a janitor, he wore a uniform of a soldier, and I knew as long as there were men who had served, men who knew the value of freedom and sacrifice, we would be safe.

Today life is very different in our country. But still, men and women serve to protect what is ours, and our freedom. No matter what politics you hold, no matter what lifestyle you profess, no matter where you live, the military protects you. The flag some spit on, burn, and trample still flies proudly from front porches, flag poles, and buildings. Be it against smoke from a riot, storms, or skies of bright blue, the flag still watches over our land and our people. The little girl in my past and the old woman I am today salute them. In memory of all those who have served to protect our homeland from the Revolutionary Founders through today, Thank You and God Bless America.