It is Christmas, damn it!

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So, here we are again at that time of year when we are supposed to be filled with love, peace, and harmony – celebrating the birth of one of the best loved men in the world and beyond. Right. Sure. At least that is how it was when I was a kid, and when my children were small. Not today.

Today we have the progressive left, atheists, and general whiners and moaners who try to stand in the way of Christians celebrating one of their most important HOLY DAYS. Christmas, people, is a Holy Day for Christians. Yes, I know, it is also the celebration of Hanukkah for the Jewish people. It is also the winter festival for tree huggers, pagans, and people who like to dance naked around a bonfire. Fine, wonderful for them too! A Holy Day that is sacred to so many is something to enjoy.

Not Christians, however. We aren’t supposed to be allowed to have a Holy Day. No celebrating in our traditional ways that have come from all corners of the world along with early immigrants. Nope, not according to atheists, who worship non religion more fervently than most people who profess to be religious – no matter their faith. No celebration for Christians according to the progressive left, because someone, (THEM), just might be offended by the American traditions of celebrating a religions HOLY DAY.

However, having a secular day of celebration with Santa Claus and presents is fine. But no Christmas tree, it must be called, instead, a holiday tree. Holiday tree? But that has the words HOLY DAY in it, and therefore can be construed as religious. Still, those that hate Christians can go with the holiday theme, as long as it stays secular.

If a town has traditionally put up a manger with Joseph and Mary, and the usual cast from the story of the birth of Jesus found in the New Testament, in the book of Luke, the secular anti Christian people have a tantrum, file law suits, and insist that it be removed because it might be insulting to some. Yet, no one complains about a menorah, being placed in the town center, or pagans doing their dances, or Muslims, Hindus, or Buddhists doing what ever it is they do for this season. So why the war on Christians?

The Constitution says nothing about separation of Church and State only that there will be no state religion. Try telling that to an atheist or secular progressive wonk. American was founded by Christians. It was settled by Christians. The very fiber of America comes from a solid base in law and morals of Christianity. Granted, the Indians were here first. But even they had strong religious beliefs that often mesh with Judeo-Christian philosophies. But there is still a war on Christians.

It is bad to be religious, it is bad to have our beliefs displayed by having a Christmas Tree, bright lights, candy canes, gifts for our loved ones, and a feast to remind us all of the feast of words from the Scriptures. But, you see, for Christians, it is what we do to celebrate our Holy Day. So, we are under siege to forget our traditions, forget our religion, forget the meaning behind all we do at this time of year, and simply go with the Santa Claus theme.

Sorry, folks, but in my house, it is CHRISTMAS, damn it. And that is what it will always be. If you don’t want to be part of the Holy Day as we celebrate it, more power to you. Don’t celebrate as I do, do your own thing, or not, as you choose. However, I have the same right to do as I wish.

Without Christians, and Christmas, there probably wouldn’t even BE a holiday this time of year across the world. December 25th would be just another dreary winter day, or summer day if you live at the bottom of the world, without meaning or great value. Now wouldn’t that be miserable? Instead the world has the joy of Christmas, (or secular holiday), to lighten our lives for a few minutes.
It used to be that Christmas was just a simple day of prayer and worship for Christians. Then the pagan feasting and other traditions were added, followed by gift giving, Christmas trees from Germany, and Sinter Klaus from Holland, nativities from Italy, songs from all over the world, right up to modern lights and decorations. But, at the end of the day, it is still a day for prayer and worship, and remembrance of the baby that was born who changed the world – and died for our sins.

It is CHRISTMAS, a time to count our blessings, love one another, forgive one another, and let one another celebrate as their beliefs dictate. May God Bless and Keep you, each and every one. Because it is CHRISTMAS, damn it!

Sometimes, women really tick me off.

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Today, my husband told me about an exchange he had on his social media site. It was with an obviously very uninformed woman. She posted a photo of a person holding a sign insisting that incoming Freshmen boys have a mandatory course on not raping women. It should be what all Feminists would want. What?

First of all, sexual assault is a horrific act of violence, and I think men or women who do that sort of thing should be de-sexed and put on death row, especially if it involves children. So put that in the back of your brain for a moment.

Having said that, nothing annoys me more than a helpless woman. Suck it up sister, and get some training on how to protect YOURSELF. If a woman is a true feminist, then her whole mantra for the past 30 odd years is, EQUALITY. But, you say, men are stronger than women. True, so you equal things up by learning self defense, or better yet, carry a gun and shoot the jerk. You don’t have to kill him to stop him, just take out his knees or put a bullet center mass.

In a pinch, almost anything can be used as a weapon, including your own body, the nearest rock, sand, dirt, alarm clock, dish, shoe, or even liquid. Get off your princess cushion and be a real woman who CAN take care of herself instead of waiting to be rescued like some wimp.

By the time a woman is off to university, she should be smart enough and trained enough to know better than to do certain things. Don’t go out alone. Don’t get so drunk you don’t know what you are doing or who you are with. Don’t dress like a street walker and rub up against men (or women if you are that way inclined) and tease them with sex. Don’t dance with someone and hint that you want more than a dance if you aren’t going to follow through. There are names for girls like that, and they aren’t kind at all. Don’t walk places in the dark that are dangerous. If you are afraid, or untrained, get campus security to walk you home or to your car, it is their job to do so. Don’t expect some randy boy who thinks more with his nether regions than his brain to keep you safe, or to keep his hands off you if you so much as touch him. Flirt and you get what you ask for.

OK, you say, well boys need to be taught to be in control. Excuse me, woman, but if that young man hasn’t been taught by his parents how to treat a girl with respect by the time he is off to university, it is FAR too late. Some wimpy two hour class on how not to be a date rapist or stalker isn’t going to make a difference. Besides, most girls know by the age of 12 that they control the guys around them by the way they act toward them. If you don’t, then you are far too immature to even be out of the house on your own, let alone at college.

I can hear all you anti male feminists gasping in outrage from here. Get over yourselves. You want equality, you got equality. Deal with it and stop trying to play at being both an independent feminist woman and a helpless little princess. Either you learn to take care of yourself, or you learn to be weak and dependent on others. There is no way in hades I am going to allow myself to be weak and at the mercy of others.

True story. When I was seven months pregnant with my first child, we were living in rural Oklahoma. I came home one day to find my house being burgled. I slipped in the back door, grabbed our hand gun, and walked into the living room. They took one look at my gun, another at my belly, and thought I would be an easy mark. I wasn’t. They ran like hell when I pointed the gun at them. They also had four very large bullet holes in the back of their van. Made it easy for the cops to find them. Fortunately, they hadn’t had time to actually put anything in their van. But they had made a huge mess of my house. I protected myself, my child, and my home. I would do it again today. There is a reason why I have a carry permit and keep a gun near or on me at all times.

It is NOT the university’s responsibility to train boys about sexual assault. It is the responsibility of the individual female to know how to take care of herself if she finds herself in a bad situation. But, you say, what about being kidnapped or given date rape drugs? Back to the rules, don’t go anywhere alone. Guard your drinks, and if you get off the dance floor, get a fresh drink – don’t drink from the old one unless someone has been keeping an eye on it. Don’t go home with a stranger, or allow him to take you home. Girls watch out for each other, and that means keeping each other from doing stupid things. Stop getting stinking drunk and making yourself a mark. It is up to YOU to do what you need to do to be safe. And stop blaming guys for everything when you don’t do the basics to take care of yourself.

To be clear, I think feminism is a joke. All blather and screaming and no substance. Because when things get difficult, they always return to the same crap. I am woman, hear me roar, but I am helpless in the face of men, so protect me. Gag a maggot, grow up and be responsible for your own safety.

I Love Words

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Being in the middle of my first century, I have a different understanding of words and their usage than kids young enough to be my grandchildren. Sometimes it bugs me to no end when I hear kids talk in what is generally text speak slang, and I loathe reading text messages that use “UR” for “you are, or your” and the like. But, what bugs me most, is how the meaning of words are twisted around from the way I learned them.

The word ‘nice’ used to be a compliment. Now it isn’t at all. I have come to loathe the word as it is used as a dismissive, if subtle, insult. When I hear anyone under 60 use the word, it is always drawled in a tone of voice that absolutely grates on my nerves. Superlatives have to be super words now. We can’t say, “oh, that’s a lovely dress.” Now it needs to have more “oomph” when we compliment someone. We have to use words like amazing, cute, darling, smashing, hot, sexy, and always a word or phrase that invokes a meaning of thin.

I think a lot of the super superlatives are due, in part, to two generations, or more, of kids sitting in front of televisions as companies hype the products they sell to stay in business. Loud, excited, or oozing suggestions of seduction and sex, commercials overwhelm our senses with the urgent need to buy a product that will make us all beautiful, rich, popular, smell good, eat well, or any number of things. All of it is, of course, hyperbole. However, all those super Superlatives have become ingrained in our cultural brain and skip around in our verbiage. Insincere, in the deepest way, gaggles of teenage girls and middle aged women squeal and giggle at one another from the moment they meet until they finally shut up and go home. Generally, less than five minutes of meaningful conversation will take place in an hour.

I was shopping with my granddaughter last week. She is five, and very into shopping. We were standing next to a mother and daughter as they looked at clothes. Every other word was something inane. “Oh that’s cute. You will look hot in that (the kid was all of nine). That’s cool, you will rock that color.” Bella looked at me after the mother held up one particularly horrific outfit and said, loudly, “Nana, that girl is too fat for that outfit. She will look like a fat grape.” It took every bit of self control I had not to laugh. She was right. She was also not buying the babble. I was very proud of her for being both honest and straight forward in her comments. We will, however, need to work on her vocal volume a bit. The mother stomped off in a huff. The kid didn’t even pay attention to Bella. She was too busy cooing over the outfit that will make her look like a grape.

I, like, you know, hate it, when people, like, kinda, you know, never really say a full sentence without one of those, you know, like stupid phrases. I also get impatient with folks who hesitate and pause every other word, and fill in the silence with uhh, mmm, err, ahh, or any other nonsense noise. How about simply stating, “I need to think for a second before I answer that question?”

Now the Christmas season is here. Yes, I said, gasp, the C word. CHRISTMAS. I know all the history behind the X in Christmas as the symbol for Christ. Got it. Greeks, spell things weird. I also know that it is a holiday season for the Jewish and the made up one for all the ‘former slaves’ in America. And I also know that it is held during what was a Roman celebration of some god or another. However, traditionally, since the death of Christ, and the rise of protestants, Christmas has been a holy day celebration for CHRISTIANS. So, I don’t like words and phrases like holiday tree, and Xmas. I dislike people trying to secularize what is a sacred holiday for me. So the modern terms that take all the true meaning from the holy day annoy me.

With all the new technology around us, people don’t actually speak to each other very much. I know my teen texts her friends more than she every rings them on the phone and chats with them. Chat has come to mean typing furiously on the keyboard while on line with a bunch of other people. Chat rooms, a new use of an old term, are now electronic pretend places on line where a bunch of strangers type at each other and generally end up in “flame wars” over their comments. In my mind I see a vague, hazy room with a fire in the middle of the floor and people screaming at each other.

Sometimes I long for an intelligent conversation with someone who actually knows how to have a conversation. One where I speak, they listen, then they speak and I listen. A conversation using words that have more than two syllables would be good. A conversation that invokes laughter, concentration, and lightening quick thinking would be incredible.. A conversation with an adult, teen, or child that doesn’t have slang and hesitations throughout, but the proper use of complete sentences and a tendency to maintain at least a hint of a link to the original subject would make me happy. Too many of us are simply too distracted by shiny things, ringing cell phones, and movement to concentrate on a long conversation. Soon, like handwriting letters, conversation will be a lost art. Eventually, we will all communicate through the typed word, and only gesture and grunt like original cave dwellers when we actually meet in person.

Oh well, I still love words. Shakespeare, Spencer, Pope, Bronte, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Dickens, and even a few Science Fiction/ Fantasy writers use words that say what they mean and mean what they say. The words can make me laugh out loud, cry, ponder, and fill me with an overwhelming urge to write. I can only hope that future books aren’t filled with one word pages written in text speak.

Heartsick

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You don’t know me at all, so let me clue you in. I have lived in 11 countries and all over the US. I am as pro America as anyone can get. I believe in the Republic, I stand firmly by the Constitution and all that the Founding Fathers of the country professed as necessary for the republic to succeed. I know, to my bones, that socialism and communism are simply modern day enslavement governments. Nothing makes me cry more easily than seeing the flag go by in a parade, or against the sky of our country, except for hearing the national anthem or holding one of my grandchildren. I love my country. And I am heart sick at the way that worm in the white house and his minions are raping her every day.

‎Big Fish, Small Fish, Fisherman or Cat?

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‎”Some people like to be a big fish in a small pond, some a small fish in a big pond. Me, I would rather be the cat that knows the fisherman.” KJC

In an exchange on a social network, I posted the above. It was simply something that fell out of my head and engendered a bit of conversation.

So, to explain it in a way that made sense, I started applying it to areas of my life. The more I thought about it, the more I could find metaphores that fit the example.

‎1. Poltics: The cat, one can go for either fish. A good fisherman, like a cat, is independent and thinks for him or herself. They both tend to go their own way to do what they want to do. However, the fisherman can be lured away to a different fishing hole by promises and stories. He or she can also be tempted to use a different bait than usual so that the fish bite less, but if they are big enough, he feels he has a good return. The cat still gets to eat, either way. So, in a political situation the only one who comes out ahead, without compromising its position or morals, is the cat.

2. General Life: However in other areas of life, a cat is simply someone who stands above the fray, keeps a calm head, and does what has to be done. Those who do well tend to think smart. have a plan, skip the big pond and other competition, skip the small pool and the big fish, because they will all be food for the fisherman. Who, once he catches them, will clean the fish and leave behind food for the patient cat. Be prepared, be patient, and be strong to succeed.

3. As a religious metaphore: the Fisherman is the Savior, the fish in the large pond are lost souls, and the fish in the small pond is evil. The cat is the wise person who knows that as long as he is friends with the Savior and stands by his side, then he will be spiritually fed.

I get it. My brain works in weird and weirder ways as I age. But, hey, it works for me.

New story idea

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I haven’t been writing much here because I am taking wild leap and writing a story that *might* turn into something more. So here is the first few pages. Opinions welcome, but don’t be too mean!

Arelia watched as her Fool morphed into a frog, then a snake, and finally a small rodent before he regained his normal form of a twelve year old boy. She was so used to his sudden morphing that she didn’t bother to pause in her rant about the lack of freedom she suffered. Jason, her Fool, was her constant companion, his purpose was to keep her entertained and out of trouble. She knew she vexed him beyond self control when she complained, bitterly, about her fate. Hence, the constant and rapid changes taking place before her eyes. But it simply was not fair that her fate was set in such a way that she could not take a short cut, evade, or refuse the road set before her. Up until her naming day last week, she could dismiss the fate as something in the far distance. However, she was now 16 summers old, and her naming day was the final day of freedom.

Arelia knew she was spoiled, and as far as spoiled princesses go, she wasn’t all that bad. Although, she did have a temper, and she had a wicked way of saying things that were cutting when she was angry. The entire country knew she could easily provoke a Holy One to lose its temper with her antics. It was not, as she often pointed out to the long suffering Fool, her fault people kept annoying her with nonsense and boring court functions. After all, a princess should have some control over her own choices.

She was still fuming and stomping back and forth across the stone floor of her bower when Fool got himself back under control. The creature he morphed into often reflected his thoughts. The frog was his inner fear that he would be stuck with Arelia forever, while the snake represented his disgust with the powers that made his fate twine with hers, and the rodent was the not so subtle refection of his feelings about the entire creepiness of the fawning members of the court. Nonetheless, Fool had heard the entire diatribe because when he morphed he didn’t the lose senses of his humanity.

As he watched Arelia work herself into a fine tizzy, he pulled his smock and trews back on, and began to search for his shoes. The most embarrassing thing about uncontrolled morphing was the sudden loss of clothing. Fortunately, his small clothes seemed to morph along with his body, but standing around in his under wear whilst searching for his clothes did leave him feeling rather at a loss for decorum. Being trapped in the body of a twelve year old boy, when he was really a man long grown also rankled. No one, not one single person in the Keep paid any attention to anything he said. As long as he was doing his job of Fool, they ignored him, or, in the case of a few of the young men, shoved him aside in contempt.

Arelia wound down from her snit eventually. Thankfully, for Fool, it was in time for him to prepare for the evening. There were more visitors and suiters than normal since the princess had just passed her naming day. The suitors were more underfoot than a starving hound. Every time he turned a corner, yet another swain was leaning against the wall in feigned lethargy with mooning eyes. When they saw it was only Fool, the pose would disappear until they thought they heard the light footsteps of the newly minted woman of the Keep. It was all Fool could do not to morph at their ridiculous behavior as it irked him beyond measure.

The Lord sat at the head table with his Queen and retinue laughing with the fathers of the young Lords. Although the atmosphere was jovial, the undercurrent clearly stated the seriousness of the courting at hand. Arelia was their only daughter, and the Lord and his Lady planned to make sure they got every bit of gold that she was worth. And she was worth a great deal since she would inherit the title of Queen and all the holdings as was the custom in Balewicks. The object of discussion spent the evening trying to escape the clutches of the suitors and their unwanted attention. She eventually settled between Fool and her childhood Nurse to maintain a measure of safety. Still seething about the news that she was supposed to choose one of the pimply faced, obnoxious twits as a husband, Arelia made no attempt to pay attention to any of them. She knew her father and mother would expect an announcement by week’s end, and her fertile mind went round and round, doing its best to find a way to stop the inevitable nightmare of being married to someone she barely knew and certainly did not love. Her mother told her that love would come after the marriage, or at least mutual respect, but a future Queen had no right to expect to actually marry for love. In her heart Arelia knew her mother had to be wrong. She had to be. Before she gave into her despair or temper, she prodded Fool and told him to do something to distract her.

Fool had just downed the last of the meat on his trencher, he took a deep drink of his ale, climbed on the table. Thinking furiously, he tuned his small harp and began to sing a drinking song that soon had the people in the hall bellowing the chorus at the top of their lungs. As ladies were present, it wasn’t all that bawdy, but the men appreciated the meaning. Fool wasn’t all that great a singer, but he knew a great number of tunes and twiddles with which to entertain the folks around him. And if that failed to do the job, he could always morph and mock, or mock and morph as the case may be. All the while the music and song was going on, Fool was watching those around him with a sharp eye. He felt, in his deepest bones, that something was not quite right. Shifting from the drinking song into a ballad, he exaggerated the love song with longing sighs and batting eyelids, mocking the very thing that the song spoke of. The longer evening went on, the more dissonance Fool felt, as if there was a string out of tune just enough to irritated the ears of the player. Still, he could not lay his eyes or his fingers on the dissonance.

The more the men drank, the louder they sang. Eventually, the ladies withdrew, and the men began to sing truly bawdy songs from days of marching armies when men had only a bottle of spirits to keep him warm late at night. Fool played until his fingers hurt, and then he played even longer until the men began to fall asleep in the great hall. Wrapping themselves in their cloaks, they simply rolled up against the wall and began to snore. A few of the lucky ones found a dog or a willing maid to curl up next to them, and even fewer found a place near the great fireplace to help them stay warm.

Fool quietly jumped down from the table and headed up to his usual spot outside Arelia’s chamber door. Placing his foot on the stair, he heard a muffled squeal and a loud thump followed by more muffled speech. There was the trouble he’d been waiting for all night. Off he went at a dead run, forgetting that he was supposed to be the clumsy Fool. On the landing he heard a slam against the door to Arelia’s chamber. As his hand touched the latch, the door flew open and a young princeling flew out and dashed up against the opposite wall. Giving Fool the most peculiar look, he slowly slid down in a heap on the floor. Dreading what he would see, Fool inwardly braced himself as he turned back to the door.

Arelia stood in the doorway, hair standing on end like a mad cat, hands clinched into fists, and a rage filled countenance that would frighten the most stalwart of men. “He . . . that little . . . he tried to kiss me!” She scrubbed her hand over her mouth then spit at the limp body. “Is he dead? I hope to the Holy Ones that he is dead!” Arelia suddenly realized she was standing in the corridor in her night dress as she grabbed Fool and hissed at him to get inside before anyone else came along. “Do you not think,” he ventured carefully, “that we should make sure he is not dead?” She gave him a withering look, shoved him inside and slammed the door.

60 years.

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I was sitting in the doctor’s office this morning waiting , as usual, and filling out paperwork, when an elderly couple came in. She was a tiny, sprite of a woman, who moved with quick, birdlike starts and stops as she urged her husband across the floor to the sign in desk. He was a tall, heavy set man, with a manual laborer’s hands, and pure white hair that contrasted beautifully with his dark mahogany skin.

She was talking as fast as she could, and just kept on talking as the receptionist asked the man questions. He was, I understood, the patient. She was, however, his designated speaker. She answered every question, told him where to sit, told the receptionist that she didn’t want to wait long, and to hurry up the nurse and doctor so they could go have lunch. She fussed and fiddled until the elderly man reached up and took her elbow. And just like that, she stopped talking and sat down next to him.

While he filled out paperwork, she started telling him what to write down, he just kept on doing what he was doing, as if he didn’t hear a word she said. Soon she was carrying on a conversation with the woman next to her, and they set about solving the problems of the world. Well, she did, the other woman’s end of the conversation was pretty much, “mmhum” and “I hear ya on that one Sister.”

When the man got up to return his paperwork, he reached over and patted the old woman’s shoulder. She stopped spouting words, and sat still in her chair. When he got back and settled, she started talking again, and he reached over and patted her knee. He noticed the other woman and I exchanging a “can you believe that” look, he grinned at me and winked. Leaning toward me, he said, “It’s the signal we came up with years ago when she was talking too much or too loud. She can’t hear a thing, deaf as a post, but she surely does like to talk anyway. She reads lips real well, so you’d never know she can’t hear a word you say.”

I asked him how long they had been married. “Almost 60 years, now. And she is still the most beautiful woman I ever seen.” Then he turned and patted her arm, as she was talking a mile a minute to the woman next to her. He pointed at the door where the nurse had just called his name. The woman got up and started fussing and hurrying him along as if he were a toddler. He winked at me again. “Don’t tell her I said that though, cause I will never hear the end of it.”

When I left the doctor’s office, they were getting in their car. She was fussing and fretting as usual. I wondered if she was a backseat driver, or if she just prattled on until he reached over a patted her to remind her to let other’s get a word in edgewise.

Election Season

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I am, unashamedly, an American Patriot. As such, I tend to lean to the right on most issues. Although I am an independent, it is the right side of the political spectrum that most closely matches with my personal understanding of what our Constitution, History, and purpose as a country mean. This particular election ‘season’ is filled with frustration for me and most people I know.

First of all, I have no respect for the man in the White House. I believe him to be a liar, anti-business, anti-constitution, anti-military, and anti-American. The man has not followed through on anything he ‘promised’ when he was elected four years ago. He has only thrown our country into further financial difficulties, embarrassed his office in the world arena, and made the United States look weak to our enemies. Not to mention he is friends with some of the biggest criminals and terrorists worldwide. In short, I loathe the man, so much so that I refuse to use his name.

On the other side of the election is Mr. Romney. Despite all the press digging to find dirt on him, Mr. Romney is proving to be an honest, decent, patriotic, and intelligent man who deeply cares for our country. I don’t care what his religion is, I do care if he can fix the financial mess we have before us, and if he is willing to protect the constitution of the United States of America. I do care that he is pro-life, and I do care that he has been faithfully married to his wife for over 30 years. I care that he understands how hard it is to be a parent, I do care that he is pro-second amendment, I do care that he will appreciate every single man or woman serving in our military and the service that they provide the country. And, I do care that he is a man who will stand by his principles, fulfill every promise he makes, work with both sides of the congress, that he has integrity, honesty, and humility.

This election has caused more divisiveness between myself and my friends than any other in my adult life. I am not quiet about how I feel about that man in the White House. My liberal and progressive friends are not happy about that. In fact, two of my oldest and dearest friends are no longer on my social network. Mainly because I got tired of all of the victim nonsense that most liberals spout. I also got tired of trying to explain things like finances, spending, honesty, and integrity. It hurts to cut them off, but it is either that or stay frustrated and upset every day.

I suppose I could try to let them whine and moan, and just keep my mouth shut, but to do that I would have to deny that which I know is true. Lying by omission is as great a sin as outright lying on purpose. I can’t do that. Not for long anyway. Eventually I would end up spouting my opinion and the whole thing would start all over again. It is very frustrating. And the choice was heart rending. The saddest part of all is that my progressive and liberal friends will never understand why I felt pushed into making this decision. Will we be friends again, maybe. But it won’t be the same because now I don’t really trust them and I don’t think that they will forgive me for being so daring as to delete them from my social network world.

So, here I sit, two of my oldest friends out of my daily life. It is depressing, but also empowering. Depressing because I will miss them, empowering because I stood my ground and made a difficult decision to protect my mental health. Sigh . . . sometimes I hate being a grown up with integrity.

I got an award!

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The Rules:
Nominate three bloggers. Place the award on your page. Write down seven thing about yourself.

I nominate:

http://memyselfandkids.wordpress.com/ A dad who posts about being, well, a dad.

http://accordingtohoyt.com/ A writer who writes about writing and other things.

http://www.fromthemixedupfiles.com/ Because it is always fun, they have contests, and the people there love to write.

Seven thing about me:

1. I am pretty boring most of the time.

2. I don’t like driving on the interstate highway.

3. I spent 13 years working with Boy Scouts of America as a leader and trainer.

4. I have always wanted to learn to be a painter/artist.

5. I was a tomboy growing up.

6. I like to cook.

7. I like road trips.

The Day before Mother’s Day – 2006

Posted on Posted in Children, Family, Habits, loss, ParentingTagged , , , , 3 Comments

There was a funeral on Saturday. It was attended by dignitaries, police officers from across the country, a motorcade of cars miles long. In one of the black limousines sat two young children with their father. Their mother was in the hearse in front of them. She had been shot and killed in the line of duty trying to stop a madman from killing other police officers. As with all tragic deaths, hers was senseless and inexplicable. She was one of the golden ones who changed the lives of those who knew and loved her. It was a sad day and the community grieved for the family so brutally torn apart.

Sunday was Mother’s Day. I couldn’t get the thought of those young children off my mind as I sat with my family and celebrated my years of motherhood. Those children will, forever, have to take flowers to their mother’s grave to honor her on Mother’s Day. No early morning breakfast in bed, sticky kisses, home-made cards, or presents hand-made with too much glue and glitter will be handed to their Mom. There will be no flowers from the garden, whispered secrets, or silly jokes to share with her. From now on, Mommy will become more and more of a memory and less real by the day. The grief will follow them for a long time, and then be pushed into the back of their minds as the move on into adulthood and life.

But, deep inside, that little girl will long for her mommy to help her grow into a woman and that little boy will long for her to help him understand how to be a good man. And every year, when it is Mother’s Day, they will remember the long line of cars, the speeches, the music, and the sadness on the day they lay their Mom to rest. In the blink of an eye, life changed for them, though they don’t yet know life will never be the same. They will have their Daddy, true, and he will love them with all his heart. But a Mother’s love, a Mother’s care is irreplaceable in a child’s heart and mind. They knew her very heart beat from the day of conception, and now it beats no longer. The rhythm of life is shattered beyond repair, and they will have to find a new rhythm with a heart that skips a beat where their Mother’s used to be.

I pray that she can be an eternal influence on her children. I will remember, even when I am very old, the quiet respect shown by all the bystanders as the funeral cortège slowly rolled by, and I will always remember the long black limousine where two young children sat as they followed their mother to her final resting place the day before Mother’s Day in 2006.