Husband at the Nail Salon


Today I made a memory, well actually, we made a memory, my man and I.

The weather has been horrid for the past several days, well below freezing and there is still ice everywhere on the roads. I managed, some how, to break one of my fingernails. I am not a vain woman for the most part, but I do like to have pretty nails. Since the nail salon was still open, but he didn’t want me driving on slippery roads, my husband drove me to the salon, and to keep from freezing to death, went inside with me.

Like most Saturday afternoons, it was pretty busy. But not as packed as usual since the roads were bad. We had to wait for about twenty minutes before they got to me. He came prepared with his Kindle and his tablet to kill time while waiting for me to get finished. It always take about an hour to get my nails back to perfection. He patiently sat and waited, no fidgeting, no complaining, no deep sighs or any of his other signs of dissatisfaction. Meanwhile, the shop slowly filled up.

The woman doing my nails asked if my husband wanted a manicure, I explained he was just waiting for me since he didn’t want me to drive on the bad roads. She, and the two women on either side of me thought he was pretty special to do that. I don’t think he noticed all of us glancing at him as we discussed why he would do such a thing. The lady on my right sighed, “He must really love you. How long have you been together?” I told them I met him when I was 15 and married him when I was sixteen. Neither family thought we would last, but here we are 46 years later. The lady on my left, did the “isn’t that adorable” coo women make when something touches their heart. The woman working on my nails smiled, “You so lucky, Ma’am.”

Apparently, she told her co workers in their language what was going on. All the women looked at me and smiled. Then all looked at my totally oblivious husband who was lost in his book. Then all of us did the woman’s coo thing. A round robin of chatting took place with women commenting on how long they were married, and how they didn’t have a man who would treat them with such sweetness. After a few minutes, everyone went back to their business. But glances were cast at my husband and myself every so often as the news filtered around the room.

When I was nearly done, I asked my husband to come take a look at the color I had chosen. They were the color of a stormy winter sky with sparkles. He loved them. Said they looked like I had stars on my nails. Everyone around me giggled. The lady on my right winked at me, the lady on my left sighed, “He is a keeper, honey.” I agreed.

When he went to pay for my nails, a lady who was waiting looked at me with shock. “That man your husband?” I said he was. “And he payin’ for your nail without getting mad?” I said he was. “Girl, you all gotta be newlyweds.” I laughed, “No, we’ve been married for 46 years, and he is almost house trained.” She laughed out loud.

My husband always helps me on with my coat. Always. Just like he always opens doors for me, and helps me up and down stairs. He is, quite frankly, a real gentleman. I know, quaint. But it is one of the things I love the most about him. When he helped me on with my coat, every single woman in the place was watching. When he hugged me, and then opened the door for me and offered me his arm, like he always does, every woman in that room collectively sighed and did the woman coo thing. I smiled to myself, feeling, a bit smug. But also, grateful for the man I love and the gentleman he is. And he never once noticed he was the center of attention of at least thirty women. It is a good memory. It will still make me smile years from now.

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Living in Her World


She lives in a world of princess dolls, tea sets, and toy horses, each enhanced with her imagination into a fantasy world of unending play and drama. She has deep conversations and interaction between her dolls and horses, and a tea party will include every toy she can find and her grandfather. She dances, prances, twirls, all in her tutu of the day – without an ounce of self conscious behavior.

In her world, everyone is expected to understand the rules that she sets forth and changes from moment to moment. It is her world after all. Her princesses posture, argue, share, and talk for hours, just like people in the grown up world. However, it is all driven by the imagination, intelligence, and curiosity of a four year old girl. When I over hear her say something that sound remarkably like something I have said to her, or her Mommy has said, it makes me smile. There are time she sounds amazingly mature, and other times it is clear she is fully engrossed in some magical moment of discovery.

In her world, her teddy bear, toy cat, and prized princess horse can have an intense conversation over pretend tea and cookies, while her imaginary sisters squabble in the background. I don’t know how she keeps the story lines straight. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because it is her world and subject to change without notice. And, like it or not, those of us on the peripheral are involved when we are needed to further the narrative.

Living in her world includes frequent costume changes, and requires a fashion show for each change. Sometimes it requires a new way of doing up her hair, different shoes, and a full change from the skin out. She dances her way through the day, fully aware of her beauty, and proud of her ability to be a princess one moment and a baby the next.

In her world, where she displays supreme self confidence and control, she has no fear, except a fear of the dark. She faces monsters, outrageous characters, stubborn dolls, and the occasional grumpy horse that needs a talking to. She laughs and dances through the story, the moment, the magic. And, at the end of her day, she crawls into her Papa’s lap, asking for a story to go to sleep by. Then, the next day, that story finds its way into her world, continuing on in her imagination.

Living in her world is a delight, a blessing, and an unending adventure. Her favorite living companion is her Papa, who willingly joins her world, and deeply misses her when she is away. We are old, she is young, but with her in our lives, in our hearts, we have learned to play again. Time to go see what is next, a tea party or a pretend trip to the barn. Either way, we will be in her world, and it will be an adventure worth remembering.

Dancing in the Kitchen


We were newlyweds living in a house built in the 1800’s up in the hills above Mill Valley, California. We were deeply in love, but still adjusting to each other. It was a bad day, we had argued off and on all day about silly things. He made me cry, I made him swear. It was a typical lover’s spat made worse because we were so young, both of us were still teenagers.

I went into the kitchen to start cooking dinner. As I usually did, I put on music to help me deal with the stresses of my emotions. The Everly Brothers were, and still are, one of my favorite groups. I always sing along with music I love. The song “Let It Be Me” came on the stereo. I started to sing along, when I felt my husband’s arms come around me. He turned me to face him and we started slow dancing in the kitchen. That was the first time we danced barefoot in the kitchen.

We’ve been married for 46 years, over the years we have danced barefoot in kitchens all over the world. Last week we danced in our kitchen here in Mississippi to the same song. It still makes me teary eyed to feel the deep love we still have for each other. The last dance I ever have, when we are so old a decrepit that we creak, will be dancing barefoot in the kitchen. And we will be just as in love then as we were the first time we danced barefoot in the kitchen back in 1972 in that old house on Rose Avenue in Mill Valley, California.

https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=everly+brothers+let+it+be+me

 

 

Do You Remember


I noticed, last time we were out to dinner, that there were a lot of couples and families around us who were sitting at the same table, but not in the same space. The adults were never looking at each other. They weren’t talking to each other. And they looked, well, alone and lonely. I have been married for 46 years to the same man. We always have things to say to each other. Sometimes they aren’t always nice things, because we do argue about stuff like all couples. But we rarely sit at the same table and ignore each other – unless we are arguing, and that never lasts past the first course. What has happened between these couples who are older? Drifting apart? Different interests or hobbies? Bored with each other? Have they forgotten why they fell in love in the first place?

I know, we all look different from our youth. Gained wight? Gained wrinkles? Slower to get around? Tired easier? Of course. But so what? Under the age, and changes, you are still the same people who, once upon a time, met, fell in love, and knew you were meant to be together.

Oh, I know, modern marriages are a mishmash of divorce, remarriage, loss and remarriage, and folks who never want to marry but are so lonely they want someone in their lives in some permanent way. I get that. But, for those of us who have stayed married, who are so much a part of each other’s lives that we understand each other without words, we are in danger of becoming strangers living in the same house.

So, let me ask you a few questions:

Do you remember the first kiss and how overwhelming it was?

Do you remember the first time you knew this person was the love of your life?

Do you remember the fear of the commitment, but how much you wanted your love to be your love forever?

Do you remember how bereft you felt when you had to leave his or her arms?

Do you remember that magic moment when the love of your love looked at you and smiled, and your knees went weak with happiness?

Do your remember where you were when you had your first fight and you knew you blew the whole relationship?

Do you remember saying the words, “I love you” and knowing you meant it with every thing in your heart and soul?

Do you remember the first love letter? Not a note, text, or email, but a real letter. On paper. Do you still have it in a treasure box somewhere?

Do you still feel that goofy feeling of joy when you see each other after being apart for a time?

Does your heart ache with emptiness when you have to be separated for long?

Do you remember the one habit drives you crazy with frustration, but you still put up with it because it is a part of who they are?

Do you remember the first time you felt like you were home when you were held in his or her arms?

Do you remember when you stopped being embarrassed to be seen less than perfect, like when you were sick or in a bad mood?

Do you remember when you knew this was forever, not just until you drifted apart?

Do you remember when you decided that you would fight for this relationship come hell or high water, because this was the only one you would ever want so much?

Do you remember saying yes to, or asking for marriage? (I know, marriage is so yesterday, but that commitment is still vital no matter what you call it.)

Can you still look at the love of your life and know that he or she is still the love of your life?

Do you let life, kids, family, work, hobbies, and technology get between you? Why?

If you are feeling distant, or as if there is no spark left, then do something about it.

Write a love letter.

Make sure to tell him or her, that you love them daily. And not just an off hand “love you” as you leave for work in the morning. Take the love of your life in your arms, share a kiss – not a peck, and say the words like you mean them.

Spend time doing something you both enjoy.

Take a long weekend – and don’t tell any of your kids where you are going.

Turn off your phone.

Make time together special – whatever that may entail. It doesn’t have to always be romantic either, just special.

Take a moment to let other people know how wonderful your love is and why.

It isn’t wrong to be madly in love with your spouse or whatever you call each other, even after years together. Let them know. Just say it. Often. When least expected.

Laugh together.

Love together.

Support each other and encourage each other.

Take time just to be together, doing nothing in particular.

And remember, one day, it will be just the two of you again. You will have to speak to each other about things other than the mundane. Talking about how much you love each other is a great topic.

One day one of you will be gone, you don’t want to have regrets because you didn’t take the time to say what you felt, thought, and how much you loved.

Taking my own advice, “I love you, Harold B. Combs. Always have, always will.”

Please Stop.


Last week, a man fulfilled horrific plans he had made over more than a few months. He stockpiled weapons, ammunition, and bomb making materials, holed up in a hotel room, and opened fire on a crowd below him who were doing nothing more than enjoying a concert. He killed 59 people, injured hundreds of others, and like the coward he was, he killed himself rather than face his crimes against humanity. Most mass killers are like that, cowards at heart who die rather than face their charges.

Seeing all of the sadness, the horror, the pain, the deep unending need to know why will overwhelm everyone who is touched by this madman and his desire to kill. How do I know this is what they are feeling? Let me tell you.

On a cold winter’s day in January 1996, my son was murdered along with his friend Ralph. It was and is a very painful event in our lives. After 20 years it is as much a part of who we are as our names. One learns to live with and through the pain, but it is ever present. A man shot my son and Ralph. I don’t blame the gun, it is just a tool, I blame the man who pulled the trigger.

For all of you who are on your high horse about how bad guns are, just stop. Stop making this about YOU and your political agenda. Stop talking, just stop. Take a minute out of your IMPERSONAL outrage, and allow those who are directly involved to talk. Listen to them. Just stop and listen! They will want to tell you about how wonderful their loved one was. How they lived, what they thought, how much they are loved. They don’t give a flying damn about your politics right now. It isn’t about YOU, or gun control, or where you were, or how oppressed you feel, or any of that.

This is about human beings who were living and laughing and having a great time up until a bullet took their lives.

So just shut up, stop talking, stop arguing, stop all of this crap that has nothing to do with the LOSS OF A LIFE of someone’s son, wife, husband, mom, dad, daughter, child, friend. Stop making about you. By all that is holy and loved in your life, have some compassion, gentleness, and love. At least let them bury their dead, mourn them, and get used to the new emptiness in their lives.

Tomorrow, you will get out of bed and go on with your daily routine. Your lives aren’t changed forever, your normal is still the same. You can go on your merry way, doing your own thing, whatever it may be. But some of those families will be burying their loved one. Some will wait minute by minute to see if they need to make funeral arraignments, or plans for a long recovery for a wounded family member, some of them will weep in sorrow and deepest despair. And the weeping will go on for the rest of their lives.

In unexpected moments, a memory will come to them that will bring them to their knees in pain. Or someone will laugh, and they are sure it was the one the lost, or they will see someone in a crowd that looks like him or her, and the pain will wash over them in waves of agony. And it will go on.

While you, in your self contained world, will natter on about political this, and demanding that because a mad man killed a bunch of people in Las Vegas, Nevada in October of 2017. Meanwhile, the urgency of the event will fade for you, become part of the history of your life, and lose its meaningfulness in furthering your agenda. Other people will die in other events, and for a few days that will grab your attention, but it will fade. And life goes on.

For those who lost someone in that horrific blood bath, it will never fade. Never. They will remember each and every second of the moment they knew they had lost someone. It will take conscious effort to remember to breathe, move, even speak at times. It will never end.

With time, they will learn to live through and with the pain and loss, if they are fortunate to have others to uphold and help them. Some will give in and stop living, some will end it all. Some will find a reason to live and some will simply survive until they can take a breath or a step without feeling like they are going to break into a million pieces like shattered glass.

I know this, because I have been in their shoes and walked that mile. If you haven’t, then shut up, sit down and listen to those who have been there. You are not qualified to know how we feel, what we think, and where our hearts and minds dwell.

Just stop, stop, stop….please.

Soap Box Rant


WARNING: SOAP BOX RANT

I saw a commercial today for Little Cesar’s Pizza Company. I found it absolutely disgusting.

A little prince of a brat was sitting in a chair while his Dad brought him a pizza. He told his dad about a sale at Little Cesar’s Pizza and when his dad shamefully admitted he didn’t get that deal, bratty prince told is father to bend down and the bratty prince removed the #1 logo from the Dad’s hat and threw it over his shoulder in compete contempt for his father.

Was that supposed to be funny? Was it meant to diminish the father in importance? Was it supposed to make parents want to buy pizza for the little brat prince from a store like Little Cesar’s Pizza? Was it supposed to make the bratty prince look smarter than the dad? Was it supposed to make a statement on family dynamics? What the hell was that about?

Why would anyone who is a parent, who acts and behaves like a parent, not a peer of the bratty kid, ever buy anything from a company who has so little respect for fathers? Would they have that same role filled by a woman who was supposed to be a mother? Nope. Would the dad role be filled by a gay guy, black guy, Hispanic guy? Nope. Only a white guy can be such a schmuck. A middle aged, somewhat paunchy, white guy to boot. Why? Because we all know a middle aged white male is nothing more than a schmuck who is worthless, and the only good he does is bring home the bacon, or pizza in this case.

Subliminal messages abound in advertising, movies, television and even in books. We are all rotten parents because we don’t give our little princes and princesses exactly what they want, when they want it, and how they want on a daily basis. We are no longer #1 Dad or #1 Mom or grandparent, we are failures in the eyes of the men and women who run big business. We are failures to be mocked and insulted on a daily basis, yet it is folks like the dad in that advert who actually pay the bills and buy most things for the household and the bratty kids.

Every time I see that ad, I get ticked off. If my child had ever behaved in such a way, they would be doing chores for a month straight, and that is after being told off in no uncertain terms about how much of an ungrateful, wretched little monster they were! Makes me want to reach through the screen and smack that kid right out of the chair he is lounging in along with his hateful attitude.

It isn’t right to portray parents who are trying to feed their kids as inept imbeciles. It creates the idea in kid’s heads that their parents aren’t Number One in any way. Sure teenagers feel that way, but that is part of the whole distancing themselves from their embarrassing parents that happens to every family. By making this kid in the ad ten years old or under, the subliminal message to all kids that age who see the ad, is that Dad is just one stupid mistake from being a total failure who doesn’t deserve the kid’s respect.

Next time a commercial comes on that your child is likely to see, pay attention to the subliminal messages, as well as the context and content of the message. Kids remember what they see and hear, and many copy it as well. And folks, never, ever, buy the products that are using ads that promote division, insults, or politically correct attitudes toward parents who are adults that actually parent, or their children. They don’t deserve your money, time, or loyalty.

I am getting off the soap box now. Going to go educate my cussing corner for a minute. Have a good evening.

Family Reunion


Last weekend, I took my mother to a family reunion down in Texas. I hadn’t been to an event like that as an adult. I knew three people in the entire room, one was my mother. I felt odd, awkward, out of place, and strange. As a mature female of over 60, it was like being back in junior high where everyone else had gone to school together forever and I was the new kid. Awkward.

So, I sucked up my shyness and talked about genealogy, family history, and said hello a lot. I also smiled a lot and I ate far too much good food. It is no wonder all of my family tends toward the round shape, the good cooking gene runs in the family line.

As a child, I grew up away from my parent’s home town. We lived all over the place with the military, and as an adult my husband and I both wanted to be on the move. So I don’t really understand knowing all about one’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and extended family. I know my dead relatives better than the living because I am a family history addict. I am a bit like the odd duck in the family.

They grew up together, or at least with knowledge of one another. And that was a great thing to see. My memories of my grandparents are strong, and real, but these cousins are from different places than my branch of the tree. Still, you could see the solidarity, love, and strength in knowing their family was there in any time of need.

My mother loved every minute, she had looked forward to the event for months and could hardly wait to get there and meet everyone. She kept telling me that she couldn’t belove we were blood relatives to so many people. Of all of her generation, in her family line, she is the only one left. Her parents had two daughters, and my aunt passed away long ago.

Another interesting thing was how the faces looked like faces I knew as a child. The same nose, eyes, mouth, laugh, hairline, walk, and even the way they stood reminded me of other long gone family. Funny how DNA directs how one looks and moves. Strong blood lines tend to breed true. This one certainly does.

I am thankful I went. It was good to see my cousins, two of the few, from my youth that I actually remember. I am thankful that family is so important to our extended family of cousins that they have this reunion every year. I am thankful that I was able to visit the graves of my great great grandfather and grandmother who started our family lines in Texas and Oklahoma.

Maybe next time, I won’t feel so disconnected and awkward. And, perhaps, I will know more than three people in the room.

It Was A Nice Visit


I went to visit my son in Oklahoma last week. It was his birthday. I was glad to have a bit of time alone with him, and had a nice chat catching him up on everything going on with his family, his daughter and granddaughter, and us. I shared a few photos, and gossiped a bit about things, and of course, complained about the politics of the country and the craziness that the left is doing its best to force on the rest of us hard working folks.

It was a nice visit, sitting in the warm sun as the Oklahoma breeze fluttered by. The grasses in the fields nearby danced along to the song of the birds and bugs flying about. I spent a few minutes arranging the flowers I brought in lieu of a gift as I chatted on about how nice the area was looking, and that the quiet was so peaceful around him. Everyone seemed to be keeping their places nice with flowers and trees.

I reminded him to say hello to everyone as I packed up my things to go. Told him I love him too. It’s a nice place at White Dove Cemetery, up on the hill. I’m glad to know he is there and that he would like that particular place to spend his rest.

It was as good as it can be when a mother visits the grave of her son. Yeah, it was good, for what it can be.

That’s How We Roll


The Mr. and I went to our standby comfort food restaurant for dinner. I didn’t want to cook, neither did he, such as he can. Dinner was filling, and if you get the chance, have the yummy pumpkin custard at the Cracker Barrel near you.

We were, as usual, discussing issues in the news and politics while eating dinner. It occurred to me that I am surprised some nitwit leftist hasn’t started opposing the name of the restaurant yet. After all, it is a Southern company, started in Lebanon, Tennessee. And the folks who own it are white. Ergo, it must be owned by white redneck extremists – also known by the derogative term “crackers.”

Therefore, in leftist think, they must be racists, as all Southern whites are by association . Yep, must change the name, I can hear the hue and cry going out amongst those with nothing better to do than take stupid to the farthest degree possible.

Trouble is, that sort of mentality fails here. As we sat there enjoying our meal, only four other tables were full. At one table was another senior couple, farmers from the cut of his clothes and his farmers tan. The Mr. and I represented the Indians in the room. Next to them was a man and a woman, she was black, he was white. Next to them was a table with two men, one black, one white. The server on our side of the room was white, and the server on the other side of the room was black. The cashier was white, but the greeter lady was black, and the cook in the back was white, but the guy busing the tables was black. So, I guess folks of all backgrounds were represented. As it generally is down here in the South.

Now, I don’t live in the southeastern part of the Southern states, I live in the mid-southern/ deep south state of Mississippi, right at the very northern edge of the state next to Memphis, Tennessee. So, maybe it is different here when it comes to blacks and whites than it is in other southern states. I’ve lived here ten years, and I have never had an issue with anyone due to my skin color (which changes from pink to medium brown depending on how much sun I get). As a matter of face, I grew up in the military where segregation ended long before it ended in the rest of the country. I’ve always gone to school with people of different colors, backgrounds, and lifestyles. So pardon me if all I do is shrug when leftists get their knickers in a twist over race issues.

When I look at the demographics for those who are screaming racism, generally it is from folks on the east or west coast, or places like Chicago. Mostly, though, it comes from young people who haven’t a clue what racism is really like. So, why aren’t all the folks in the deep south marching and breaking things? Well, most of them are too busy working and taking care of their families. Except, of course, for those with nothing better to do than make up offenses to have tantrums over. By and large, most of the BLM morons around here are just that, ghetto morons who are uneducated, unemployed, and unhappy because they don’t get everything they want on a platter. Ditto the ANTIFA – yawn – pampered leftist babies of the rich. Regular folks are too busy to waste time with stupidity like that.

Instead of breaking things and marching around trying to rile each other up, they are in church on Wednesday and Sunday, coaching kids in sports, taking kids to lessons or dance, or horse riding. Spending time as a family, often extended family – especially down here in the South, family is a big deal, or they are helping those less fortunate. And maybe, like the Mr. and I, they just like to be at home relaxing at the end of a hectic day.

My point is that I simply cannot fathom having the luxury of time that it takes to be out acting up and breaking things all in the name of faux freak-out issues. Only those with no responsibilities, jobs, school, or future plans have that sort of luxury. Most young people I know are working and going to college, working and raising families, or they are military and working to protect the rights of the whiny leftists rear ends who insult them every chance they get. I don’t live in a racist community, I live in a diverse community of folks with kids, dogs, and lifestyles devoted to bettering themselves and their kids. We have old folks, young folks, teenagers, and babies. We are just people. And that’s how we roll in the mid-south.

Reality Check


My husband and I support two young girls in Uganda, Africa through a charity for orphans and destitute families, by paying for their schooling every year. It isn’t all that much, but it is what we can do for them. You see, they live in such abject poverty that it is amazing they have lived as long as they have. Most do not have parents, they live with elderly grandparents at times, or other relatives or within the orphanage. Fathers leave in droves, because there is no money or food, and many parents are both infected with HIV. Some of the children are born infected as well.

Each day is a struggle for food, water, shelter and the most basics of hygiene and health. Recently a case of measles broke out among the children, most became very ill, and there was nothing to given them to do so much as relieve their fevers. Something as simple as an infection in the eye of one child was spread like wild fire due to lack of clean facilities and medication. The organization we work with, does wonders with the little they have to share with the children. They are even building a school bit by bit as they can afford it for the children.

The reason I am bringing this up, is that despite all the hardship, the children smile, laugh, support each other, and find joy in every day living. Compared to the constant complaining of the leftists in America, they live in a hellish world. But the people constantly looking for a reason to be discontent and worried about their feelings are the people from a world that would be sheer heaven to our girls in Uganda.

Weak, ineffectual, pathetic snowflakes take umbrage because an inanimate object hurts their delicate sensibilities. How luxurious that they can afford the time and effort to indulge in each little idiosyncrasy their tiny minds can imagine. They can go home to a warm, or cool, house, with food, plumbing, showers, electricity, and all the toys they can ever use. And still, they moan and whine about how awful the world is to them.

Meanwhile, our girls struggle to find enough wood to heat the cooking fire, and pray that there is food for them at the end of the day. If fortunate, they get two meals a day. The water they carry home in old gas cans is filthy, but they are grateful to have it to drink and wash in. Our girls get fed at school, as part of the tuition fees, and that is just as important as the schooling, because without nutrition, learning is difficult.

Snowflakes rant and rave about how unjust their lives are, and demand that everyone bow down to their wants. Wants because they have everything they need. Our girls are grateful to be healthy and alive. They know all about what it means to be less important than the family goat. They know what it means to know that they will have no chance to climb out of the poverty/AIDS/ drugs/sex trade cycle that their people have been stuck in for generations. They know unjust means that even though over 10 per cent of all adults are HIV positive, there are no medications to save their lives, and many will die before they have a chance to raise their children. But the snowflakes and whining baby adults of American leftists think they have it hard if someone calls them by the gender that is part of their DNA instead of their preferred daily wish gender.

Our, for want of a better word, foster daughter, Bridgette, struggles so hard to do well in school because it is her only way out of the poverty cycle. She wants to be a nurse to help others in need. She knows she will always be able to provide for herself with an education. She works at it every day. And she is excelling. Even though she still has to help cook, clean, carry water and wood, and study every day, she knows there will be a day when it will get easier for her. Our littlest girl, Milly, is just a baby in the equivalent of Pre-K in the US. She wants to be a teacher some day. She has a delightful, mischievous little smile, and even though she looks tired, underweight, and, at times, lost, she too, knows, at her young age, that she has to work hard to overcome her circumstances. My great granddaughter is only a year or so younger than Milly. Every time I look at Addie Rose succeed at something, I know that it would take our Milly longer, just because of the tough start she had to life, and the daily struggle she has to overcome.

Yet, our baby adults think we need to allow them to vent and break things because they are not getting all the attention they want. They have tantrums and scream about a corrupt government and how evil those who disagree with them are toward their agenda. Really? Bridgette and Molly, and every other child they know don’t have time to sit around and make up excuses to whine. They are too busy trying to, literally, live another day.

Leftists think our government is corrupt and our country is an awful place to live need to trade places with our foster girls for a year. Corruption takes on a whole new definition in their home country. Just getting a package from the post office requires a bribe. Those with any power can take anything the poor have, including their innocence and lives if they wish. Prison is another word for hell, and damnation is spread by disease and poverty.

So, to all those ANTIFA, leftists, BLM, and idiotic people supporting their anti America hatred, go live in Uganda, or any other third world, poverty and crime stricken country for a while. A place that has no freedom, has no rights, and has laws that can strike down anyone who speaks out against those in power. Go live in our foster daughter’s shoes, please. Then come home and tell me how awful America is to you.

Our girls, with God’s blessings, will make it to adulthood and become strong women who will make a difference in their world. And we are blessed that they lovingly call us, Mother Karron and Father Harold. With all the negative in their lives, they can go to sleep at night knowing that thousands of miles away, someone cares and believes in their dreams of a better world.