Beyonder Logic

Job Corps Update

2011-05-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

Well, life has intervened and my blog has fallen victim. The good news is that I have a literary agent! The other good news is that I have a lot of writing to do...There is actually not a lot of bad news in my life right now.
But the GREAT news is an update on our experience with Job Corps at Chadron, NE.

Normally, I would have a number of off-the-wall comments to make here. Humor. The thing is, I am so overwhelmed with our son Matt's weekend visit that no sarcasm or wit surface.

If you have not read my first blog on the Job Corps, here is the link. That page DOES have some humor in it.

http://beyonderqueen.tripod.com/id95.html

We took Matt to the Chadron center the first week in March. He was nervous and so were we. There was a rainbow of kids there, and Matt is used to thinking in terms of brown and white. There were kids from big cities, from farms and from small towns like ours.It was a new world and we weren't sure matt was ready for it.

Fast forward 2 1/2 months. A paltry 10 weeks. The young man who came home for graduation was not the young man who entered the program. Okay,maybe he was, but with major improvements. This young man stood tall and walked with confidence. His eyes had a spark in them. His voice rang with respect and resolution. I cried.

You see, I can envision a bright future for this young man now. And things may go south; they often do. But Matt has seen his potential; which is what the teachers at Job Corps tell us they see in him. POTENTIAL.

Charlie and I believe God ordained us to go to the training where we began to think about Job Corps for Matt. We believe God said ( in His gentle way) You two have screwed this up. Let me take over. And THERE WAS LIGHT!
YAY

What's the Good Word

2011-04-20T07:36:00.000-07:00

Got an email from a home schooling site today about the ten words we should use with our preschoolers every day. I think they are good words to use with EVERYONE every day. The words are:

Thank you. Sounds like a no-brainer, doesn’t it? Well, it is. I mean it should become instinct to say thank you. The harder thing is to be really grateful. And I admit that sometimes when I am not feeling kindly to a child, I say thank you with a snarl in my voice. Being polite. Word but not intention. I mean, the kid has just hammered two horseshoe nails into your 100-year-old stair banister and told you that the teacher’s complaints about his school behavior were lies. He hands you a spoon so you can stir the eggs into the casserole and you’re supposed to say thank you and mean it? In a word: yeah.

Tell me more: Okay, this kid can go on for twenty minutes about the booger on the principal’s nose before he tells you that the science class did a special project. And you’re supposed to encourage him to elaborate? Again, yeah.

Please. Another no brainer. Except, this kid won’t respond to please. You have to follow it up with a raised voice and a threat or two. Okay. But I guess we’re supposed to start with the please thing.

How about a hug? Okay. Maybe not with everyone. But lots of grownups need them too and many never get them.

The others are: Let’s all pitch in, you can do it, how can I help, it’s time to…(this one is about setting boundaries) and I love you.

The thing is, saying these things isn’t enough. You have to mean them. And one other thing: God could use a few of these sentiments from us, too.

Thank you God. Please help me. I know YOU can do it, so I won’t worry. The pastor read some good words from You on Sunday. Tell me more. You expect your people to be your representatives on earth. How can I help? Let’s all pitch in.

And the #1 thing we could tell God every day? I love you. How about a hug?

" In a Relationship"

2011-04-06T14:40:00.000-07:00

I'm in a relationship. <3 If you are in to Facebook, you know that supposedly means "I have a significant other." Unfortunately, people seem to be getting into relationships earlier these days. How young is too young? The other day I heard a three year old talking about his "old woman." And she IS old. She's four. Robbing the cradle, that's what she's doing. Abercrombie-Fitch has its finger on the nation's pulse. It is marketing padded bra bikini swimwear to 8 year olds who otherwise would have no padding. God slipped up, it seems but man has intervened. And, come on, if not for the padding, how else is an 8 year old to get a "significant other?" The rule at my house is, and has always been, you are old enough for group dating at 14 and for single dating at 16. That doesn't mean the kids have not claimed to have girl or boy friends. They sit together in assemblies and talk on the phone. THEY DO NOT DATE. Date means go somewhere together. And someone usually pays. But things are different today. Anna and Brandon used to date last year when they were both 12. But at 13, Anna has clearly outgrown Brandon's boyish humor. She wants a real man. Someone who can belch the alphabet. Someone like 14 year old Jonathan. She's seen the condom he carries in his Velcro wallet. He tried to use it last semester as a water balloon but couldn't get it to break before his homeroom teacher Mrs. Robertson caught him and called his parents. As it turned out, it wasn't a big deal because his dad gave him the condom. (I believe he gave it to Jonathan the day Jonathan's mother announced she was going to wash the car. The little package had been in the glove box, and his dad was pretty sure Mom wouldn't believe the water balloon thing coming from someone 36 years old.) But enough of Jonathan's parents' problems.) Jonathan and Anna are dating now. He walks her to American History and she saves him a seat at the lunch table. Everyone knows they're a couple. And therein lies the trouble. because Brandon used to sit in the seat next to Anna, and he's ticked. So he posted to Facebook that he was single now, and below that, he added that Anna was the class "ho." Several people commented, including ten of Anna's friends. They hotly contested Brandon's claims. Four of his friends commented as well. Three of them had also "dated" Anna and they agreed with Brandon. She'd eat lunch with anyone who could belch his name. "Not true," said Anna's supporters. "She wouldn't sit with Brandon." It isn't easy to slow Brandon down. His parents could take away his computer time, but he has his own laptop and keeps it in his room. AND his $200 cell phone is Internet enabled so he can access Facebook whenever he wants. Truthfully, though, they don't know what to do. Yesterday, his mom saw one of his comments on the social network. he is "in a relationship" again. It's this Russian chick who wants to come to America to meet him. He responded to an email he got from her. When his parents confronted him about it he got testy. "I don't know what you people want from me," he said. "She's a poor girl stuck in Communism who got my name from a friend of hers who once sold me real estate." That was a little scary, but after all, the girl was far away...in Russia...and she was 29, which is certainly old enough to be "in a relationship."

Welcome Zoey...some thoughts

2011-03-19T08:04:00.000-07:00

My newest great granddaughter just made the scene. She is beautiful. But someone asked the question on Facebook, "How many grandchildren do you have?" The answer is 14 1/2 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren. AND if you add to the grandchildren total the husbands of my older granddaughters, you get 16 1/2.
Why did I choose to have such a large family?
Okay, well, I probably didn't choose. I just didn't discover what was causing all those kids until I had four. Then,I adopted three more. And those kids can't get it figured out either. The reason our family is so large is that my kids are SLOW LEARNERS.
Zoey, kids in our family miss out on a lot. You won't get the high-ticket gifts at holidays; there are simply too many of us for that. And you won't get a lot of one-on-one time with relatives because there isn't time enough for three on threes, let alone one-on-ones. And those "vote with your wallet" cute baby contests? While other grandparents can stuff a twenty in their grandbaby's jar, I have to ask the clerk at the register for change for a twenty. And divide it.
I guess I miss out on things too, like being THAT SPECIAL grandma. I mean, when I do something for one, I just about have to do it for all. I can't spoil the grandkids like other grandparents do; we have foster kids who deserve our attention too.
But the feeling I get when everyone is together at holidays? I can't describe it to you, Zoey, but you'll experience it yourself,and you'll find it is sometimes too sweet for words. The room rocks with the noise of babies and toddlers and the chatter of teens and adults, and we are all part of something much bigger. FAMILY.
I didn't actually choose a large family, Zoey; it just happened. But I would not trade one of my kids or grandkids or great grandkids or "sisters from another mother" for anything or anyone. I am proud of each of them. I am proud of YOU.
FAMILIES ARE FOREVER.

Harold Hill Wouldn't Like It Either

2011-03-11T07:19:00.000-08:00

Several nights in a row I have found myself in the middle of the parade scene of “The Music Man” marching down the Main Street of River City pumping a baton and singing “thundering, thundering all along the way.” When I awake, the only part of the dream that remains is the bass pounding in my ears. Pounding.

As a matter of fact, the bass is what wakes me. You know those cartoons where the character is trying to sleep and some noise starts a rumba beat? Everything in the room moves in sync to the rhythm. Well, it turns out that cartoon has roots in reality. The beat of that bass coming from a neighbor’s house at 11:00 PM seems to shake the bed.
(All right. I KNOW it’s only 11:00 and we’re in bed…have been since 10:30… we’re old.)

I could be wrong, but isn’t that much volume injurious to one’s hearing? I SAID isn’t that much volume injurious to…oh never mind. I see I’m talking to the wrong crowd. When I was a teenager. I figured the best place at a concert was next to the speakers. I was wrong. But fortunately I didn’t get to that many live concerts. And the main injury to my health from loud noises has been my recent loss of sleep.

I played my music loud. But then, I had good taste in music…stuff I knew the neighbors would want to hear. And I offered variety. Lots of nights I would play my organ until bed time and then close out the concert with “Taps” on harmonica. (This may sound like tongue in cheek, but it is sadly true.) And I either stopped or turned down my music by 10 or so. If I hadn’t, my parents would have cancelled all future performances. They figured that other people’s rights should be considered too.

My parents had a crazy idea that my rights stopped where my neighbor’s nose started. The notion that my rights should not infringe on the rights of others made sense to me then, and it does now. We have the right to kill ourselves with tobacco smoke, to drink ourselves to death, to let our “butt cleavage” hang out and to deafen ourselves with our music. But here’s the thing: that right is not greater than the next person’s right NOT to be subjected to us. Many of us choose not to inhale poisonous smoke, not to drink until we vomit and not to watch someone’s bare behind jiggle when they walk or spread on a bleacher when they sit down. And we enjoy nature sounds and silence, especially late at night.

Which brings me back to my dream. I can’t get restful sleep when I spend the entire night marching behind Professor Harold Hill. I wake up tired. Cranky, too. And I’m apt to voice my ire in grouchy tirades such as this.

MEET MOLLY

2011-02-27T12:26:00.000-08:00

At the bottom of Molly's prosthesis is a happy face. She leaveds happy prints wherever she goes

Meet Molly.She's a grey speckled pony who
was abandoned by her owners when Hurricane
Katrina hit southern Louisiana .. She spent weeks
on her own before finally being rescued and taken
To a farm where abandoned animals were stockpiled. While there, she was attacked by apit bull terrier
and almost died. Her gnawed right front leg became
infected, and her vet went to LSU for help, but
LSU was overwhelmed, and this pony was a welfare
case. You know how that goes.

But after surgeon Rustin Moore met Molly, he
changed his mind.He saw how the pony was
careful to lie down on different sides so she didn't
seem to get sores, and how she allowed people to
handle her.She protected her injured leg.She
constantly shifted her weight and didn't overload
her good leg. She was a smart pony with a serious
survival ethic.

Moore agreed to remove her leg below the knee,
and a temporary artificial limb was built. Molly
walked out of the clinic and her story really
begins there.

'This was the right horse and the right owner,'
Moore insists Molly happened to be a one-in-a-million patient. She's tough as nails, but sweet,and she was willing to cope with pain.
She made it obvious she understood that! she was
in trouble.The other important factor, according
to Moore , is having a truly committed and compliant
owner who is dedicated to providing the daily care
required over the lifetime of the horse.

Molly's story turns into a parable for life inPost-Katrina Louisiana ....The little pony gained weight, and her mane finally felt a comb. A human prosthesis designer built her a leg...

The prosthetic has given Molly a whole new life,
Allison Barca DVM, Molly's regular vet, reports.

And she asks for it. She will put her little limb out,
and come to you and let you know that she wants
you to put it on. Sometimes she wants you to take
lt off too. And sometimes, Molly gets away from
Barca. 'It can be pretty bad when you can't catch
a three-legged horse,' she laughs.

Most important of all, Molly has a job now. Kay,
the rescue farm owner, started taking Molly to
shelters, hospitals, nursing homes, and rehabilitation
centers... Anywhere she thought that people needed
hope. Wherever Molly went, she showed people
her pluck. She inspired people, and she had a
good time doing it.

'It's obvious to me that Molly had a bigger role to
play in life, Moore said. She survived the hurricane,
she survived a horrible injury, and now she is giving hope to others.'
Barca concluded, 'She's not back to normal, but
she's going to be better.To me, she could be a
symbol! for New Orleans itself.'

This is Molly's most recent prosthesis. The bottom
photo shows the ground surface that she stands on,
which has a smiley face embossed in it.. Wherever
Molly goes, she leaves a smiley hoof print behind.

Send this and share it with all of the
animal lovers that you know.

God's creatures often reflect the character to which we aspire.

HOMEWORK: NECESSARY EVIL?

2011-02-25T12:49:00.000-08:00

NOTE TO READER: You may find it necessary to take notes on this article. There is a short self-test at the end.

Well, that was a turn-off, wasn’t it?
I just finished reading a book entitled “The Homework Myth” by Alfie Kohn. ( Lifelong Books, 2006.) It was interesting, though heavy reading. The book targets academia, not parents, and so I had to slog through it to understand its principals.
Why would I do that? Well, at first, I thought it might give me some insight on the problems I have with getting my kids to do homework. After reading the book, however, I suppose its greatest value is in CE (continuing education) hours.
It isn’t that the book is off-base, it is only that it is an idealistic view of a complex issue.

Do we learn anything from homework?
That depends. Are we discussing the kids or the parents? How often have you told your kids, “I just don’t know how to communicate this concept to you”? The translation of that phrase is “ I haven’t got a clue what this means. Ask your teacher.”

I had a foster child who came home with a math assignment to compute the area of a circle sector in congruent planes. Or was it to figure out the area of a plane flying over congruent crop circles? I didn’t have a clue. I asked him where his textbook was and he had not brought it home. Evidently, he believed that without the guidebook we wouldn’t venture into the forest.

According to Mr. Kohn, Most studies show only an associative relationship between homework and learning, not a causal one. Or, in terms I’m more comfortable using, studies show that kids who do a lot of homework sometimes perform better when their learning is assessed than kids who do no homework, but it cannot be shown that they do better BECAUSE they do the homework.
A lot of other factors enter into the results. Did some teachers do a better job of teaching the skill in the classroom? Are the grades used to measure progress skewed? Are the teachers too subjective? (Okay. If I show up to teach a class of 7th graders and I have a migraine headache, I might not be as effective as I would if I felt fine. AND teaching a class of 7th graders could result in a migraine, a factor that should NOT be overlooked.)
And Kohn points out that many studies that support the idea homework fosters learning rely on faulty data. That is, they ask the kids how much homework they do and they get one answer, another answer comes from the parents and still another from the teacher of how much he or she assigns.

In fact, in the National Assessment of Educational Programs, kids who did little or no homework fared as well as those who did.

And Kohn cites a teacher named Phil Lyons who taught social studies. According to Lyons, in the beginning of his teaching career he gave out homework, but as he himself mastered the subjects less homework was necessary for the class to learn. Finally, he stopped giving homework at all. The results? His students scored higher on advanced placement tests and had more enthusiasm for learning.
In other words, Kohn raises the question of whether the amount of homework a teacher assigns might be inversely related to that teacher’s effectiveness in the classroom.

The National education Association uses a term called Time On Task. They say that the more TOT there is, the greater the learning that occurs. But, Kohn says, all time is not quality time. Spending much time on a subject is useful only if we want the student to repeat a specific behavior, not understand a concept.
He compares the TOT concept to practicing skills. Practice is important to train our minds and bodies to respond without thinking. Consider playing the piano or learning wrestling moves. But time is NOT a factor in understanding concepts.
Kohn says students given a lot of math problems to practice, for instance, are less likely to consider what makes sense in solving a problem and more likely to concentrate on what they should do.
Okay. Back to my foster son. I sent him back to school to retrieve his text book ( we live half a block from the school) and read the section myself. I could conceive of no way to relate the information to him in a way he would understand. Finally, I resorted to doing the problems the way I had learned to do them eons ago when the only writing tools we had were charred sticks we plucked from the fire (once we had mastered making fires.) In steps.
He refused to even consider that I might be right. I did not use the same procedure his teacher did. I did not understand the concept. In short, although I could prove to him that my answers were right, he would not accept them because I hadn’t arrived at them the way his teacher did. Now, understandably, his perceptions would differ from a child who was not delayed, but the idea is the same. He was not taught why the problem was solved the way it was, how it might apply to him in later life (arguably it will NOT be of use to him) or even shown how to think the process through. He was simply told to repeat a formula over and over. And that’s okay if the student understands when the formula applies in life. But without that understanding, it is no more than a bit of useless trivia he’ll forget as soon as the class is beyond that chapter.
So to this child, the homework was nothing more than an irritant between him and me; a source of conflict over him “getting it done.”
To be honest, I have been concerned over studies which show the US is ranked with 3rd world nations in science and math. Many educators seem to feel more time in school
( longer days, more homework, fewer and shorter holiday breaks) would even the playing field. But an international study found that the top-ranked country was Japan, and students there spend less time studying than American kids.

So, if homework is not effective in teaching concepts ( which Kohn says should be done in the classroom) what is its value?

There are some homework advocates who say that homework teaches study skills. But if, as Kohn says, learning is not related to the amount of homework a child does, are those study skills useful only for learning how to do more homework? Or how to perform well on tests ( by rote.)

HERE is the first conflict I find with Mr. Kohn. I believe his idea is sound. BUT in an ideal world.
To get into college, a student must have a good high school transcript. That translates into grades. Grades that the child must accumulate throughout junior and senior high. Financial aid is based on tests, as well. Cramming may not net us lifelong learning, but it gets us high enough scores to get in to a university. Grades are a reality.
And Kohn feels that if adults trusted kids to manage their own learning, they would be more interested and learn more. Maybe your kids. Not mine. Kohn says they would tire of video games and TV and spend more time out shooting hoops or reading books about things which interest them, and which would pique their interest in furthering that learning.
Some kids, maybe most, would. Ideally. But our system doesn’t give them that kind of time. It demands performance today. Now. On demand.
And kids who have been in the foster system for a while would probably be slow to make that move, if they ever did. We also have to factor in the concepts of entitlement and low self-esteem and lagging skills. Many long-term foster children have been disrupted from their educations many times. They read and reason at a level several years behind their peers.
For those children, homework does serve a purpose. It is an underscoring of the boundaries we must put around them. It brings an interaction (though admittedly not always a good one) between foster parent and child.
But it can become a power struggle, too.
My foster son hates homework. He would rather go without privileges for a week instead of doing ten minutes of reading. And he will say you cannot make him do the work. He’s right. I can take away his privileges, but he is a fatalist who will then just think, “My life is terrible, now I don’t have TV” or “Now I’m grounded.” It will not occur to him to change his behavior to alter his circumstances.

What do you do?
Well there are some homework helps on my website http://beyonderqueen.tripod.com/id41.htmlAnd, reassured by Mr. Kohn’s insight, I resolve not to stress over homework. I ask my foster son to put out some effort. If he really doesn’t understand it (or if I don’t) I tell him to put it away and then I have him read for a while. This way he hasn’t “gotten out of” anything. He can ask his teacher for help and she will understand the difficulty in teaching this child one-on-one ( as opposed to lecturing a classroom of kids) besides using her expertise to teach him the skills. And he still has to spend his “homework time” doing something profitable.
Oh, that’s another of Mr. Kohn’s theories. Children will manage their own learning in time. They will not always choose video games over a good book about a subject that interests them. They will not opt to watch TV instead of being physically active.
Hey. Mine do. Do always opt to watch TV or play videos. That’s why we have a rule that, in summer, the TV goes off at 9 A.M. and stays off until it gets dark.
Because I believe what Mr. Kohn says. I believe that in a perfect world kids would choose the right from the wrong and the profitable from the worthless. But the world hasn’t been perfect since God threw Adam and Eve out of Eden. And I KNOW KIDS. I was one once.

Goodbye to a Good Guy.

2011-02-22T06:21:00.000-08:00

He was one of the most aggravating men I've ever known.
Blunt as a butter knife.
Opinionated beyond belief.
And very, very dear.
I met Bernard Speicher when I crossed the threshold of the old Assembly of God Church in Holyoke. He attended there with his first wife Wilda and his mother-in-law Grandma Brethower. Wilda and Grandma B. played the piano. Bernard ran the church.
Having no contact with my own family, I found in Bernard a father.
He adopted me, too.
Through the years, even as my own father has come into my life again, Bernard has loomed large. He steered me, prodded me and guided me. He comforted me through the death of his beloved little granddaughter, and again when I lost my own son. He chided me for whispering to my young husband during the church service. Once, when I decided to let my hair grow back to it's natural shade, he complimented me on the color of dye I was using. The old rascal knew perfectly well...

And he has always been there for a kiss on the cheek or a hug.
After Wilda's death, Bernard remarried.
To say he and Ilene were a dynamic duo is a mild description. They kept one another active, and irritated the daylights out of one another. And the two of them, like teenaged sweethearts, whispered all through the church service.
He wasn't ashamed to tell everyone how proud he was of his family...even to making public proclamations from the front of the church. I think he cried through every music special Darlow ever presented.
Charlie hit the nail on the head about Bernard when he told someone he felt badly because he hadn't been at the hospital as much as he should and the person said, "well, but you aren't blood" and Charlie said "not far from it."
There isn't much to add to all the eulogies I've seen for Bernard except this one thing: I sure loved the old goat.

STUDENT "COUNSEL"

2011-02-17T07:44:00.000-08:00

I had an interesting discussion with my 13 year old this morning. He wanted to wear wind pants to school and I told him I thought that was against the dress code. Turns out I was wrong. Sweats and wind pants are allowed. But should they be?
Okay, I come from a different generation. ( Gen X-Lax) and things were different when I was in high school.
Girls did NOT wear pants to school. (I mean slacks or jeans. They did not wear slacks or jeans. That is DEFINITELY not the same as going commando, which I don’t know if they did or didn’t.)
Boys wore pants that DID NOT show their underwear. (And admittedly, they COULD have been going commando, but under those dress codes, no one would have suffered with that decision but them)
We DID NOT call our teachers by their first names. Or by a nickname (to their faces. My principal was bald, and we called him Old Chrome Dome behind his back. But no one would have shortened that to Mr. CD and then used that in addressing him.) Mr. Kiefer, my chemistry teacher, would have made me sit in front where the room smelled like sulphur for calling him Rick. Okay, his name was Robert, but still…
I suppose I am hard nosed, but I just would like to see kids become students again. My generation was no smarter, nor were they more inventive, than today’s kids. So why was America ranked with the major players academically then and now we can’t even compete with third world nations? I think it comes down to attitudes.
CONSIDER: There was a wide debate over whether to use red pencil to correct student papers because the red color seemed so judgmental. It could traumatize them. Maybe they could use some trauma.
We have no way of knowing if our kids have done their homework (or have done it correctly) because they get a couple of periods a day to work on it and they don’t bring it home. In other words, kids don’t really have homework any more. My 13 year old dashes something off on an assignment and hands it in, correct or not. I HAVE NO OPPORTUNITY TO CHECK THE WORK. Okay, again, admittedly I don’t remember how to do a lot of the math, but I am STILL a force to be reckoned with when it comes to English or history

There is some evidence that, under certain circumstances, use of an Ipod during class might help a student tune out voices and other noises that could be even more distracting. Okay. I can sort of see that. I guess, to old people like me, it just seems disrespectful to teachers to attend their classes with an earbud in you ear and a cord hanging down your body.
But cell phones are another matter. Kids are allowed to bring them to school, but not use them in class. Like that happens. Stats say most of kids texting happens during class time. AND older teens spend an average of nearly two hours a day texting in addition to half an hour talking.
I’m going to investigate this Ipod-vs. distraction thing further. There may be something to it.
And I am not against girls wearing slacks to school (though low rise jeans give them that little belly bulge (the new term for it is muffin top, I think) which is SO attractive.
But I believe that dress DOES affect attitude. And if we want kids to respect us, we have to model that for them.
AND IF THEY’RE GOING TO BRING MUSIC TO SCHOOL, I VOTE FOR TEXAS SWING OR SQUAREDANCE.

Happy "Ha-ha-ha I Just Got a Ten Pound Box of Russell Stovers and I'm Gonna Eat it All" Day

2011-02-14T07:08:00.000-08:00

So. Are ya gonna? I mean, it's the day...and you have to. You have to be my valentine. And do you know why?
Well, one story says it's a Pagan rite. Young men who were "coming of age" (like we don't know what that means) were allowed to draw the name of a young maiden from a bowl. AND that was his date all year.
There's another story. The government ( Which government? I don't know which government. Let's call it Upper Turkissandwich) outlawed marriage to preserve a reservoir of single men from which to populate its army. But one man--Bishop Valentine--was performing secret marriages anyway. well, the Turkissandwich-ian government found out and imprisoned old Bishop Valentine and had him executed. But before the ax fell, he managed to get a note out to his sweetheart that he loved her...and he signed it "from your Valentine." Get it? Valentine? Valentine's Day?
But the thing about Valentine's day is that it's a fraud.
National "Look what MY sweetheart got me. Don't you wish you had a sweetheart that sweet? "
Day.
National "Man, I'm a loser because I'm single" day.
National "Buy my cards and my candy and my lingerie to give to your sweetheart" day.
The thing is, we tell ourselves that the ULTIMATE goal for each person is to find that "right one" and settle down to produce 2 1/2 children.
That anyone who remains single has no worth. That there is someone out there for each of us...if we are just lovable enough.
IT'S NOT TRUE.
I mean, what jerk told a teenager he or she wasn't worth a second look if he was still not "in a relationship" by the time he was 18? HAVE YOU NOTICED HOW OFTEN PEOPLE CHANGE THE FACEBOOK STATUS "IN A RELATIONSHIP?" What kind of relationship changes every three days? So let's be honest. We aren't talking about love here. We're talking about sex. Or maybe just the comfort of someone to hold us and tell us we aren't alone.
EVERYONE is not intended to fit into the married mode. YOUR WORTH IS NOT MEASURED BY YOUR MARITAL STATUS. That only counts if you are adding up Federal deductions for taxes.
Okay, you say. But you aren't single. How can you know?
You're right. But I have friends who are. I have friends who are admirable, trustworthy, attractive and single. What do I say to those people?
I wish you love. I wish you a certainty that you matter to people. I wish you many fulfilling relationships in your life...not just romantic interludes.
And I want to remind you that Valentines Day only comes once a year. Love--all kinds of love--endures forever.

Put Away the China

2011-02-07T09:43:00.000-08:00

I heard an interview with a politician the other day. It was shortly after the China visit. The politician was dragging China over hot coals because of its dismal record on human rights. Now, China may not be forthcoming with aid to its poor, and they may be stuck on this one-child thing. They may jail their disidents, and burn negative publicity, but:
In 2009, American owed China around $750,000,000,000 in long-term debt. That's seven hundred and fifty BILLION dollars.
So, looked at from that perspective, Chinese money is giving American students financial aid. It is reaching out to victims of natural disaster all over the globe.
It permeates every level of what should be our national budget.

Okay. I am not bashing the USA. America is a great and proud country. BUT consider:
I left a generous tip for a waitress the other day. I knew her, and her struggle to make ends meet. I gave her money I had earned, not borrowed. If I was mortgaged up to my eyebrows and borrowing more just to live, I could not have given the woman a tip. I could not have eaten out. I WOULD NOT have eaten out. I would have spent that money making sure my family had the essentials.
But our politicians don't understand that concept. They vote to borrow money from other countries, then go wild spending it on earmarked projects and congressional benefits. They send it overseas to help the starving in third world countries, and ignore our own poor. And then they have the guts to ask Americans to tighten their belts so they can go on doing it.

AND the guts to tell China off.

We throw billions at the world community ( billions we have to borrow) trying to make them like us. Trying to live up to the image we once had. AND THEY DON'T LIKE US NO MATTER HOW MUCH WE SPEND.
If Americans have to live within their means, why doesn't America?
That's all I'm saying.

ARE YOU TOO OLD?

2011-02-03T12:46:00.000-08:00

When is "old" OLD?
I mean, when do you cross over that hair's breadth line between middle-aged and old?

I thought about it the other day, when the question of MY age came up. (When are you going to apply for your Social Security payments? You know, you are eliglible now.)
I decided age is in the eye of the beholder ( provided he's not too vain to wear his bifocals.)

You are old when: You wear your sneakers untied not because it is the fashion, but because it will take you ten minutes to tie them IF you can bend down that far.

You are old when: You can't rush to the bathroom at the high school basketball game half-time because it takes you eight minutes just to get off the bleachers.

You are old when: You put your jaw out by biting down too hard on the dried cranberry in your granola cereal.

You are old when: You experience a horrific moment in the bathroom because you are desperate and you can't get your skirt up, but then you remember you're wearing gauchos.

You are old when: You keep asking questions at a parent teacher conference because you suspect you won't be able to get out of that little desk when your turn is over

You are old when you take the time to read through a blog entry like this just to see if it applies to you.

Job Corps

2011-01-27T09:45:00.000-08:00

Okay. I rant and rave about people taking advantage of the system. By taking advantage, I mean people who get welfare because they don't want to work. Because they can get more for sitting on their behinds then they can from earning a paycheck.
But on Tuesday, I saw an attempt to address that.
On Tuesday I toured Pine Ridge Job Corps.
Job Corps is a federal program for "at risk" kids who otherwise might end up being a drain on the system. It is NOT a blank check, nor a lifetime membership into the Federal Dole. What it is , is a new take on the old problem: Is it wiser to put a fence at the top of a steep hill or to buy an ambulance for those who end up at the bottom?
Like the Armed Services, Job Corps covers every need ( room and board, living expenses, medical etc.) for a specified time ( up to two years)while kids are gaining skills and attitudes and ethics which translate to being useful citizens.
( Read: TAXPAYERS, not SYSTEM USERS)
Kids who come into the program with high school diplomas take a test to determine if they are proficient in math, English, etc. and if they are not proficient, they MUST take remedial classes. Imagine that. They have to be proficient before they graduate the program. WHAT A CONCEPT!
They get a great vocational education as well as some character building. They are expected to adopt the rigorous discipline of the centers as their own and to take that self-discipline with them when they graduate.
AND when they graduate, Job Corps helps them find employment. They even get 1 year of free job counseling, someone to follow them on the job to ensure success.
I HATE people who expect to live supported by the system for life. We spend a lot of money on "ambulances."
But Job Corps is a genuine attempt to put a fence at the top of that steep slope into welfare dependency. Yay.

My Husband's Affair. A Remote Chance To Salvage My Relationship?

2011-01-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

Charlie is in the grips of a tumultuous relationship.
I've watched it grow, and I fear that my husband is headed for nothing but heartache. I could give in to jealousy, but it would be of no use. The object of his affections can offer him things I can't.
For one thing, I am not sleek. I've noticed the way his hands caress the slim form of his beloved... the tight, bulgeless lines.
And the object of Charlie's fickle emotions is so available. He does not want for company or attention. But with all that, my rival is not demanding.
Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I sometimes have my own agenda, and I ask for chunks of his time. I require him to answer my questions.
Oh, his love asks for input as well, but only when he initiates the contact.
The relationship offers him such peace that he sometimes drifts off to sleep embracing his beloved. And when he does that, my rival simply waits, unoffended.
I would be livid.
Instead, I can only sit by and watch the relationship unfold. I find it hard to believe that he is so callous to my feelings.
My only hope is that the relationship will cool over time. That more and more effort will be demanded of him before his needs are met. That the shiny newness of everything will wear off.
Oh yes. This is not his first dalliance. I've seen it before.

The last remote we had got lodged in the side of the recliner and several buttons were hopelessly jammed. We had to get a new one.
I, on the other hand, am still here.

Put the Scrubs In

2011-01-08T07:01:00.001-08:00

I went to a "C" game last night. You know what that is: There's varsity, junior varsity and the "C's." The coaches say they do it that way so that the other kids, the kids who can't usually dribble without losing the ball and the ones who shoot and miss the basket by feet, can play.
The "C" kids practice with the rest of the team. They suit up and support the varsity and junior varsity at their games. And they wait eagerly for the few games that they have scheduled. ( Not every school has enough kids out to make up a "C" team, so many times all that practice leads to four hours sitting the bench.)
The thing is, when those kids play, they play hard. To them it's not the "scrub" game. It is THEIR game.
So when the coaches decide to play the junior varsity in the "C" game, cutting down play time for the real "C" team kids to a paltry 4 or 5 minutes, it seems unfair. But the coaches want to win. They want that badly. And they put in those kids who aren't really on the "C" team to achieve that goal.
I got to thinking last night. What does it say to a kid who isn't good enough to make the varsity, nor the junior varsity, and then can't even play in the last league? Does it tell them they are valued, or does it convince them the world isn't interested in "losers?"
Life can be like that, I suppose. So maybe the lesson is warranted. Maybe they need to learn, and learn early, that not everyone is created equal. That hard work and determination are not always rewarded, and that sometimes we work desperately and achieve the prize only to have it snatched away and put into the hands of someone who "deserves it more."
Don't get me wrong. Few things infuriate me more than the concept of entitlement-- the idea that society "owes" us because of who we are or what we have been through. Career welfare recipients ( those who won't work because they get more from the system) are thieves.
But when someone works hard and finally surmounts obstacles to gain the prize, however small that prize may seem, they deserve to keep it...even if the "team" doesn't win.
Just sayin'.

CHANGE PICTURE?

2011-01-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

Every time I get the mouse pointer ( does it have a name?) anywhere near my profile picture, a pop-up suggests I change it.
I have news for my mouse. It doesn't get any better. You are who you are.
Oh, I've tried.
I hid out in my bathroom once, set my camera for automatic timer and tried to get posed before the flash went off. I almost made it. There is just a bit of my forehead visible. See, at the last moment, I realized that the camera was pointed up, and I climbed up onto the tub edge, grabbed the shower curtain rod and smiled. The flash went off just as I fell, and caught my forehead. The tub caught the rest of me.
And once, I rested the camera on the place where two huge branches of my catalpa tree converge just over my deck. I set the timer and got into position before I heard the bird above me. As the flash went off, I looked up...
My daughter takes lovely pictures, and she has attempted to photograph me. Unfortunately, her camera can do only so much. And I've tried those touch-up features on the online photo programs. When you get to that degree of touch-up, the program asks you to upgrade your membership.
No, You just are what you are, and I suppose I should be grateful. My wrinkles hide most of my imperfections...things like my eyes and my nose. People don't study my pictures too much. Peering into those wrinkles is a little like looking into dark caverns: you can't see anything, but you can hear the bats flying around.
I'm just glad you can't smell guano.
As for my mouse, he'll have to get used to the profile picture I'm using. It's the same one I've had posted in the kitchen for years. Sure repels his cousins.

A New Years Note to My Family.

2010-12-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

Dad's been bemused lately by a semi truck we saw when we were going to Ogallala. Well, not really the truck; he sees those every day. It was the message on the side.

Jesus is coming back on May 21, 2011.

Now I'm not into dates. I mean, not that kind. I think Jesus meant it when he said that no one knew the day or the hour when God would decide to send Him back for the "kids."
But each day we stay on this planet is one day closer to the day we leave it. And those of us who don't go out feet first, will rise. We aren't guaranteed a definite stay. It's not like a motel where you know checkout time is 11:00.

Chad wasn't planning on leaving on Sept. 23, 1995. He probably had an agenda for that Saturday. But he left.
And that's my point. We span the gamut between preborn and 94. Some of us are in to cars and some into tatoos. Some of us like sushi. Some of us won't even eat a steak rare. But this we all have in common. We all will leave at one point or another. And this is my point. It COULD be May 21st, 2011. Or tomorrow morning. Or in 10 seconds.
But on this New Years Eve, I would like to ask you all to think about your lives. Have you asked Jesus to be the savior of your eternal life? The preserver of your soul?

The most wonderful gift God has given me, outside of His Son, is you. I don't want to leave you behind in 2010. Or in 2011. I don't want to leave you behind at all. I want to know that when the rapture takes place, those of us who are still walking this earth will join those of us who have gone on ahead. I want to know that the great times we have on Christmas day when all of us gather won't be over.

So if you haven't made that decision ( and you know who you are) PLEASE make it now. Tomorrow comes sooner than you think.
I LOVE YOU ALL

ETHICS? WHERE?

2010-12-30T07:24:00.000-08:00

Here's a riddle for the new year. How many electricians does it take to screw in a light bulb?
NONE.
They won't come to your house to screw in a light bulb, or to install a light fixture, or to fix faulty wiring. They won't come unless your entire house needs to be rewired and they can see a thousand dollar tab in the making.
In September of 2010, we contacted a local electrical company to help with some problems in our rental house. I'm not using their name, but it was LOCAL. To their credit, they made an appearance and did a bit of work (basically a honey-do.) They said it would be a little bit before they could get back.
I understood. I'm no more important that the clients who called before me. THAT WAS SEPTEMBER.

In October, I called them and was told they would get to us as soon as they could.
In November I called them and --guess what? They were just about to call me ( or so they said.) They would be there VERY SOON. Probably that week.
In early December, a friend of ours whose cousin works for another electrical contractor said to call his company. I did, and explained our problem. They said no one should be treated like that, and they would put us on their schedule and someone would call us. Guess what?
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BUSINESS ETHICS?
I understand that the priority is bucks. That's hard to swallow, especially in a small town where we supposedly care for one another, but....
The thing is, why lie? If you don't intend to come, why not say so?
I have no idea how good the companies in question are. All I know about them is that they are LIARS.
So here's the plan. We get together and bring in a homeless electrician's family from Denver. We give him free rent for 6 months and get the city and gas company to do the same. And we scare up some jobs for him until he gets on his ( or her) feet.
We welcome him into the community with open arms and let him do all those jobs the other guys are putting on hold for the day when they have nothing else to do. And pretty soon, maybe "nothing else" will be ALL the other guys have to do.

Twas the day after Christmas...

2010-12-27T08:34:00.000-08:00

WE KNEW where the Paperjam Drums were, but where was the back to the battery case? For that matter, where was the package of twenty double A's I bought? Never mind. Paperjams take triple A's, like the camera and the remote control vehicles. Which makes the fact that I bought double A's irrelevant...unless you actually wanted to USE any of those things.
Irrelevant like the stack of Christmas cards I found around 2:00pm. Too bad I didn't find them earlier...say, two weeks ago for instance. I could have mailed them.
They weren't with the dish of cranberry relish I found on the dryer, or I would have discovered them when I found THAT delectable bit of slime.
SO, off to church. The family was singing Oh Holy Night. We prayed about it, and I knew it would go well in spite of the fact that I had misplaced the accompaniment track we were supposed to use and we had to sing accapella.
But THAT went well, as I said. God was not surprised that I lost the music.
The dog's food bowl was empty. I felt terrible; I wasn't sure I had remembered to feed her on Christmas Day, and she spent much of that day alone. So, the fact that she stared at me with baleful eyes didn't shock me. But my remorse over forgetting her needs led me to do something which I would regret later. I gave her the leftover turkey drippings. I poured all that rich, golden broth over her Kibbles and Bits and she lapped up every drop.
She was one happy pup.
For a while.
That evening, as we watched one of the beautiful Christmas programs we had recorded, Charlie went to the kitchen to refill his coffee. We heard his hard-soled boots as he left the carpet of the dining room and stepped onto the kitchen tile.We heard the whoosh as he left the tile and hit the air. We heard his landing as he came down on the puddle of dog throw-up he had slipped in.
We rushed into the kitchen, where we saw Charlie sitting on the floor, wiping his goopy hands on his already gooped slacks. He was fine.
That's when one of the kids made the statement which I can only compare to Tiny Tim's sage, "Gawd bless us, every one."
"Dang," said Marques. " I can't even do the splits!"

HEY KID! YOU CAN'T WEAR PJ'S TO SCHOOL UNTIL YOU CAN SPELL PAJAMAS AND USE IT IN A SENTENCE.

2010-12-21T07:05:00.000-08:00

So the kid comes down ready for school in the pajamas he wore last night. I tell him he can't wear them to school and he tells me he's going to.
My thirteen year old ( not the kid in pajamas) says, "Lots of kids wear their pajamas to school."
REALLY? I thought there was a dress code.
You mean kids are sitting in class in lounge pants, without enough respect for their teachers or for their classmates to dress?
AND THE TEACHERS AND PARENTS WONDER WHY KIDS HAVE SUCH BAD ATTITUDES IN SCHOOL?
I can just envision English class. Several kids are draped over their desks, some barely awake. Many haven't combed their hair or ( from the smell of their breath) brushed their teeth.
TEACHER: Can anyone give me an example of a compound sentence?
KID: (Yawns and scratches head) Jim and me went to the store and bought us some sodas? Is that what you mean Danky?
( Notice here that the student is calling the teacher by a nickname.)
TEACHER: Well, the grammar wasn't correct, but you have the idea. Anyone else?
ANOTHER "STUDENT": ( Takes long draught from "waterbottle" full of Mountain Dew) I broke my Playstation 3 controller so I had to use my one from my number 2, which didn't work?
TEACHER: You guys are getting the hang of this. (Ducks as a half-eaten candy bar soars overhead...laughter errupts. Another young man says, "D###**" I meant that for Manny. I missed."
Suddenly, a young man in the back pulls a knife and threatens another student. A kid at a desk against the wall fondles a giggling girl and another student is backed against the wall shaking in terror. The teacher stands, his glasses broken and his prized collection of jazz records smashed to pieces, and...
OH, wait.
That's a movie I saw. Blackboard Jungle. I wondered why all this sounded so familiar. Nothing like this could happen in real life. COULD IT?
Then again, even in Blackboard Jungle kids weren't allowed to wear their pajamas to school....

Poem For A Moment of Self-Pity

2010-12-16T07:47:00.000-08:00

Underfoot, the crunch of brittle leaves.
Overhead, newly-naked branches, stiff-
Embarrassed, being caught off-guard,
Bare, open to the gaze of strangers.
Fall shrinks back from such and shrivels down
Curled-edged, with seedpods rattling and brown.
Steps taken on the road less-traveled
Lead to unbroken paths, alien wilderness.
Snow pitted with tracks of rabbits, deer,
Bright ringed pheasant …but no human trail.
Fall, bellwether to stark winter:
The old fraud lures us with warm, soft-edged days
Scented with wood smoke and apple cider,
Then delivers us to icy halls of frail and aching bones.
Trails traveled with mincing, timid steps,
Stooped back, weak and watery gaze.
Dreams tinged with bittersweet,
The memories of summers long-since passed.

Christmas Thoughts

2010-12-10T08:04:00.000-08:00

In church, last Sunday, we prayed for people whose Christmas is colored by sadness. People like the family of the Evans, Co. officer killed in the line of duty. Like the mother whose child was the victim of a hit-and-run driver in November. Like the dads whose sons are serving overseas. Like the beautiful teenager who looks into the mirror and sees failure and ugliness.
No one has a corner on sadness. Not me and not you.
People, especially we Christians, tend to pontificate at this season about how we need to get our eyes off our troubles and onto the Savior. He came to give us joy, we tell all the sad-faced, teary-eyed people we meet. And it's absolutely true.
But I remember so well my first Christmas without my son...how my heart reacted to those messages when they were aimed at me. It shriveled. It hardened. And it whispered to my spirit, "They have no idea how dark our world is at Christmas."
You see, faith without works is dead. And dead things can not warm cold hearts nor encourage failing hopes. Oh, the words are true enough, but the life is in the Spirit. Dead words delivered to a drowning soul will not save them from the "sorrow that rolls like sea billows."
But a smile will, even without words. A hug might, if it is given at the right time. And empathetic silence covers a multitude of well-intentioned but ill-delivered platitudes. A bag of groceries delivered anonymously. A gift certificate to eat out. A giving of whatever it is you have to give.
And the prayer. Because ultimately at Christmas, as at all times, God asks us to partner up with Him in loving his world.

Death By Hot Tub

2010-12-08T05:51:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, we went to Branson and stayed in a condo complex. One of the features of the units was a jet tub. A huge jet tub in a glass enclosed cubicle. That jet-tub ( or the cubicle) was our undoing. Who knew you couldn't use bubble bath in a jet tub?
It started out innocently enough. We stepped into the tub and hit the jet button.It stuck a little, and we had to coax it to life, but when it whirred into action, well...
Anyway, the bubble bath smelled like lavender--soothing lavender---and the bubbles sprouted rainbows as they rose. The water poured in like a warm waterfall and we giggled in wonder. We had never been in a spa-tub before. The bubbles rose, and rose...and...rose.
We shut off the tap. The bubbles kept rising.
We felt for the on/off button, now completely covered in suds. It had disappeared.
Aliens had zapped it away, and now--like an old Star Trek episode I remembered--they were watching our reactions to this life/death struggle, studying our survival instincts.
And it was a life/death struggle. As the bubbles rose to my chin. I got to my knees. We finally found the switch but it was stuck on. I thought, momentarily, about opening the cubicle door, but the bubbles were above the tub level and they would have cascaded out onto the floor and all that expensive carpet, and the complex would charge us...so I stretched my neck as far as I could and tried to keep the soap out of my nostrils.
My life passed before me and I knew I was going to die ( either that, or I was hallucinating from all the chemicals in their bubble bath.)
I thought about screaming for help, but the chances of someone hearing me were slim...which was more than I was... sitting in my all together in a tub of murderous bubbles. Did I really want the firemen to find me this way? The answer to that was a resounding NO! ( not alive, anyway. Dead, I didn't care.)
That's when the motor shut off of its own accord. Maybe it came unstuck, or maybe the aliens got bored. But we were saved. We found the drain and let the water out of the tub.
The reason this episode came to mind is the morning news. The President is hot under the collar because "they" wont let him pass "his" agenda. His policies would, he says, fix everything. Without them, we are sure to go under.
"They" ( the other side) are sure of the answer. It lies in their agenda, which he won't let them pass. Meanwhile, the debt grows higher, our kid's scores in math and science and English slip lower and lower,the hungry get hungrier, insurance rates get higher, banks get greedier...all in spite of throwing trillions of dollars at the problems.
Who knew you couldn't use bubble bath in a hot tub?

Merry Christmas, Deadbeat.

2010-12-06T06:07:00.000-08:00

Congress battles over many things: building a bridge where there is no reason for one, studying the mating habits of slugs and, oh yes, extending unemployment benefits another year. I understand the bridge thing...maybe it's esthetically pleasing. And the slugs? Well, if studing the mating habits of slugs keeps some of our politicians from soliciting call girls...hoorah!
But unemployment?
Okay, I know it's hard to find a job in today's economy. At least, the right kind of job. In some areas of our country, there is employment available, but it doesn't pay what unemployment pays. Or even welfare.
I get that people are struggling. I get that an unemployed CEO wants employment as a CEO, or at least he wants a job which allows him to use his business savvy and to sit behind a desk. But you know what? THOSE jobs are the ones that disappeared...the jobs that are out there right now are for restaurant servers and street workers and tire shop employees.
The idea that some people have ( I'll just stay on unemployment until something in MY field opens up) doesn't work. SOME people have found a new career: they're Professionally Unemployed. I know of some people who are making more than $30,000 a year on benefits. Hey! THEY WORK FOR YOU. YOU ARE PAYING THEM TO SIT ON THEIR BUTTS.
I AM NOT against unemployment benefits, but I think there should be some way to get at them case-by-case. And if people can't make enough to get by on salaries, the State could supplement their wages...SUPPLEMENT, not SUPPLY.
There are great people out there who aren't milking the system...who are trying to find ANY employment, and it's those people who deserve our assistance. But the minority...the ones who are home watching daytime TV and taking middle-of-the-day naps on your dime...the ones who say they can't afford to work because they make more on the dole...HEY, YOU! THE COUNTRY CAN'T AFFORD FOR YOU NOT TO WORK.
There are too many honest people out busting their butts doing hard work at minimum wage, supporting you.
If the benefits expire, I'll bet a lot of people will just "suddenly" find work. But that won't help the honest people who really HAVE been looking for anything. Whose self-esteem will not allow them to sit on the public dole. It's a difficult problem. We need to figure it out.

Ruffled Feathers on the Holiday Goose or how I learned to quit struggling and embrace the ignorance of the ACLU

2010-12-02T07:21:00.000-08:00

They're at it again, according to the news. the ACLU wants the nativity set in Denver moved to a church. The government should not support ANY religion, they say. I would refer them to the scripture found in Matthew 7, which has nothing to do with Christmas and everything to do with fairness.
The ACLU challenged the rights of a charter school, which was largely Muslim, to allow school closure on Muslim holidays and to offer Muslim food in the cafeteria, among other things.
One of the observances during the legal proceedings?

"The danger here is that since essentially all mores have some religious origin, when the ACLU sues about mores it objects to, it is in effect using the courts to establish religion by selectively labeling "religious" those mores originating with religious beliefs it dislikes but not mores based on religions it approves of."

Santa Claus, for instance, has his roots in Christianity. His given name is ST. Nicolas. SOOOOOOOOO no Santa for you, ACLU.
That's right. Forget the presents, too. Oh, that isn't a Christian tradition, especially. It comes from the celebration of the Winter Solstice, which had a lot of religious participation...Celts and the Japanese...
So do the lights.
So no tree, for you. And the state should certainly NOT be lighting up the city and county building!
And on December 25th, feel free to report to work. After all, that's one of the traditional celebration days of Winter Solstice. Christianity just adopted it. You wouldn't want to observe it as a holiday from work, would you?
Another thing which originated with the Winter Solstice celebration was the feast
(So you can't, in good conscience, have a big family meal on December 25th-- or any of the other traditional Solstice observance days, for that matter)

You see, there are a lot of religions besides the mainstream ones against which you rail. Paganism is a recognized religion, for Pete's sake! A lot of customs and behaviors have their roots in observances of these religions: think Halloween, funerals and even wedding rings.
So, strip that cherished wedding band off your hands. The nerve of some people allowing that thing in government recognized marriage ceremonies! Close your drapes at Halloween and never, ever allow your children to dress up ( and if the post office hands out Tootsie Rolls to the kids that day, take them to court!)
And if the flag is lowered to observe a state funeral, well...you just march right up there and raise it again. Feel free.
Unless, of course, it's for one of your kids killed during combat...fighting to protect the real rights of EVERYONE and not just the silly nit-picked rights that keep your lawyers employed and your names in the local media.
In the words of the great WC Fields: "Go home, kids. you bother me."

YOUR TAX MONEY AT WORK!

2010-11-29T07:32:00.000-08:00

Did you know that the government is requiring cities and villages all over America to change their street signs? No more all-capital letters. The new signs must be small case. And the letters are going to have to be six inches high and reflective. One of the supporters of the new law ( and the entity which paid for the safety studies) is 3M...the company which makes the reflective stuff for the letters. Go figure. The government has decided that we aren't safe with the present street signs, and this traffic safety eclipses other community needs ( for example, feeding the indigent.)

I got an idea this morning, as I watched the boys eat breakfast. Some of their bites were too large. As a matter of fact, they let some of the bites hang out of their mouths and chewed bit-by-bit until they had managed the whole piece of food. We need some help here. The boys could choke on a too-big bite. What we need is a government agency to make some guidelines.
It should be simple. We could require every home to purchase a measuring device
( of course they would have to be uniform.) We'll award a contract to a manufacturer and budget some amount...say, $100 apiece for the items. We'll award that extra funding to the states based on population.
Then, of course, we'll need an enforcing agency. We can require every municipality to provide a Food-Bite-Size Code Enforcement Officer. It will add to their financial burden, but we can help by appropriating some funding to help pay for the position.
Then, of course, there's the matter of getting into the homes to make sure the new policies are being followed. But we can amend the Constitution and give the government those powers.
We'll cover the expenses of all this government generosity by a tax increase on the wealthy ( who can afford to pay for their own measuring devices.)Of course, some of the financial burden may trickle down to the lower economic echelons when those wealthy business owners go belly up and lay off the workers, but we'll think about that later.
How about it? Are you on board? Hey! wait! I just found a whole tray of measuring devices in my kitchen drawer. They're called spoons, and I'll wager you have a few of them, too. This discovery could save the country millions, if not billions of added debt. Unless, of course, they don't meet Government standards.

The Reason I Don't Do "Black Friday."

2010-11-26T07:47:00.001-08:00

Black Friday—a tradition which I have no desire to begin. Consider the experience of a friend:

Laura (not her real name) entered Wal-Mart at 4:10 am after circling the parking lot for 45 minutes waiting for a spot to open up. The store was packed tight. Shoppers filled every aisle. Laura retreated to the clothing section where there was walking space between displays.
There, on a clearance rack, she saw a dress which she never would have bought; it was clearly something meant for a stick-figured teenybopper. But having some time to kill waiting for the crowds to thin, she took the dress, and a necklace displayed to accessorize it, into the fitting room. She took off her sweatshirt and pulled the dress over her head…which was as far as it would go (willingly.)
Laura made a bad decision at this point. She doesn’t deny this. But she stretched as tall (and as thin) as she could, took a deep breath and tugged the garment down another ten inches. She heard the seams rip, but it couldn’t be helped. To make matters worse, she felt the pull on her own undergarments and realized that the threads from the fraying seams had wrapped themselves around her hooks.
Laura panicked and yanked the hem of the dress up over her head, effectively turning it inside out. The zipper on the enemy dress caught in Laura’s hair. Now Laura’s arms were pinioned against her head, imprisoned in the inside-out fabric bag. She remembered the little service bell to the right of the door and got to her knees so that her up-stretched arms could find it, and that’s when she recalled that she was wearing her husband’s underwear.
That morning, in the darkness of their room, she’d rummaged in the clean laundry basket (which she should have folded and put away earlier, but didn’t) and pulled out what she thought was a comfy old pair of granny underwear—perfect for pre-dawn shopping. By the time she discovered her mistake, she was just too tired to rectify it, so she had slipped the briefs on under her sweatpants.
Now, kneeling in the three- foot -square dressing room with her arms up over her head, her top half encased in inside-out fraying fabric and her bottom half sporting Hanes-For-Him, she couldn’t bring herself to press the “help” button.
It was at that point a tentative knock came at the door.
“Is someone in there?”
Laura bit her lip.
“Is this room in use?”
Laura took a deep breath and the seam finished its deathrip. “Could you help me, please?”
The door opened and a part-time saleswoman entered. She assisted Laura in pulling the dress down but no amount of effort would allow them to remove it. When the dress was off her head, Laura came face-to-face with the salesclerk: a woman in her nineties, barely over four feet tall, who was face-to-face with Laura’s husband’s tidy whities. Her expression said it all.
The clerk cut off the price tags from the ruined dress, and Laura pulled her sweatshirt over it. She meekly followed the elderly woman. Not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze, Laura kept her eyes down as they walked, matching her stride to the lights which flashed with each step of the old lady’s sneakers. They reached the checkout, and Laura scanned her credit card through the machine before the clerk escorted her to the door.
At that point, an alarm sounded and a mechanical voice told her she had activated the security system and she should step back into the store.
The greeter, another senior citizen in tan pants and a blue shirt, reached up and removed something from her hair. “I’ll take this,” he said.
The necklace.
The perfect accessory for the teeny-bopper dress had slipped itself under her thick matted curls (maybe she should have brushed her hair out at home, but it was Black Friday and four am, for Pete’s sake) and it had been fitted with one of those smart tags which screams out as it is abducted.
The four-foot black-belt karate clerk from the women’s section took her arm. The other senior spoke into his phone, and the manager arrived at a sprint.
Laura didn’t buy the necklace. ( Who knew Wal-Mart sold hundred-dollar jewelry) and the understanding manager allowed her to leave without calling the police. They banned her from the store for a year.
Still meek, Laura asked if they needed her ID so they would have a photo reference.
Not necessary, the manager assured her. They could pull up any number of still photos to identify Laura. You see, he told Laura, each dressing room was fitted with a surveillance camera.

Just a Thought

2010-11-23T07:23:00.000-08:00

The other day one of my granddaughters posted a comment on Facebook about not changing a thing about her life. I don't know if it was just a status shuffle or her true thoughts, but it is a question I have thought a lot about too.

If by changing things, you mean things like walking out of the bathroom at church with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose...(as I recall, my friend tackled me and shoved me into a Sunday school classroom so I could make the required repairs) then, yeah.

Or if you mean the time Charlie and I came to the end of a beautiful duet in the morning service and I tripped in front of God and everybody, and rolled down the steps landing with my dress up over my head, then probably.

And the time I left the farm auction in the 1949 camper bus we had just bought, turned the wrong way and drove nearly to Yuma before Charlie caught up with me? Most definitely.

Charlie would probably change the time he saw one of our children (who didn't have a driver's license) in his grandmother's car and chased him into someone's country driveway. The person who got out of that car ( and who wasn't our child) was mildly curious at who the fool was who had tailgated him to his own front door.

But if you mean the pivotal moment in our history...the murder of our boy, then I'm not so sure. At first blush, I would jump up and down at the chance. But then I would think about all the ripples that boulder caused when it was thrown into our lifestream.

Would Sarah still end up with Greg? Or Shawna, Doug? Would we have still adopted our boys and Michelle? Would there still be Hunter and Tyler and Annabelle and Aaron? Would we have gone into fostercare and touched the lives of so many children?

So many other people and events have been affected by Chad's murder. Would I have the right to change those parts of their lives, too?

And then there's my little boy, himself. I think about the families disrupted by the Vietnam War...those who were able to get their children out of the country before it was overrun by the enemy did so. I know they were torn apart by the hole their child's absence left. But their kids had gone to better lives, and to safety. They would not have wished them back from their security and peace to a place where their very lives were at risk.

I miss my son more than words could ever tell. The wound in my heart will never heal. I still cry over him. But would I tear him out of the arms of God to have him in this world with me again?

No. I wouldn't.

I wouldn't change the past. I would bear the dark parts of it, and be thankful for the parts which were ( and are) rich and sweet.

Electric thoughts

2010-11-20T06:23:00.000-08:00

I needed some electrical work done, so I called an electrician. Not a hard choice; there were only three listed for our area. He said he'd try to work us in. The work didn't need to be finished for three weeks, so that was fine.
He came and looked the job over. He even did a couple of things. He said he'd be back, but he didn't say when. That should have tipped me off. But I am naive and I still believe people who tell me things face-to-face and business-like.
I called him three weeks later. He said they were really busy. They had some outside work to get out of the way before the weather changed. He said they would come the first day it rained. In this country, that could mean next spring, but I trusted him. After all, he is a businessman. The rain came...they didn't.
I called him the other day...almost two months after I first contacted his company. He said ( and this is hard to believe) that he had intended to call me that very day! He would come by the end of the week. The trouble is, he didn't say what month.
I'm getting put out.
I know when he'll show up. He'll drive his pickup truck up behind the tanker that's pumping water on the last of the flames that lick at what's left of our house. He'll get out and walk up to where we stand shivering in the cold, and he'll say ( with a straight face) " Well, we can get started on this next week."

2010-11-18T13:42:00.000-08:00

Are you on Facebook?

And if you are, what color is your soul? What city do you belong in, and do you have enough points to unlock the answer to a question someone answered about you?
How many friends do you have? Facebook friends, that is.
Facebook friends are different than real friends, although a real friend could be a Facebook friend too.

A lady I know lives alone, and her Facebook account has become her life. At precisely 10 each night, she posts, "Good night, dear Facebook Friends."
In the morning, she posts, "I ghussw i shuoldn't tyr to type befor e I've had coffoe."
Why would your Facebook account be your first thought in the morning?
And now she has access to family squabbles...her own and other families. You see, people now hang out all that dirty laundry on VERY public Facebook. People who don't know you from Adam now know that you wear Victoria's secret underwear and so does your wife.

Susan posts that her husband made her mad this morning by criticizing her hair.
The lady I mentioned posts that people who love you should accept you for who you are.
Which is what Linda, who isn't our lady's friend, but who IS friends with Susan and so has access to HER comments on the lady's post, reposts on her status, adding her comment: Everyone who has an ungrateful husband or wife, copy this to your status.
Which fifty people who are ticked off at their mates do.
But that includes ten husbands and a wife who were the object of the original posts.
At one time, families waited until Christmas and Thanksgiving to solve disagreements. And they did it privately. Uncle Joe and Aunt Gerry would go off into a corner, share some hard words, and come out hugging. Then they would go home and not speak to one another until the next holiday...when it would all have been forgotten.
Now, they post on Facebook. And "friends" take sides. Before you know it, a simple "baditude" has become a family feud.
And the lady I mentioned?
She is incensed that people who don't even know what's going on would get involved. She gets so angry, she forgets to harvest her cranberry crop in Farmville. That little incident bums her out for the rest of the day. And she is all ready on antidepressants.

See, if she wasn't on her computer all this time, she'd be outside. In the sun, or the rain. She'd be talking to her real friends ( who would care if she got rained on) and getting some exercise ( which is good for depressed people.) She'd be getting into real arguments with real people and solving them with real hugs. ( Not little hearts posted next to her comments.) She's know her soul wasn't ANY color. She'd be satisfied with the city where she lived, and if she wanted to know what someone else had said about her, she'd go ask them, whether or not she had the points.

I'm not against Facebook. I have an account. I have 130 plus Facebook friends...most of whom I haven't seen or talked to in years. Maybe, after all, I'm just bitter.
I wanted to post this to Facebook, but I was over the allowed number of characters.

"It's No Vacation For Me

2008-03-12T12:48:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or is the summer getting shorter?
I mean-- when I was a kid, you knew, by the dwindling of the August calendar, that school was just around the corner--the September corner. August was still summer. There still were days for walking barefoot and sleeping in and--oh yes. for school shopping.
Now, you don't dare spend that extra hundred on vacation...school starts two weeks later and supplies come out of the same check. You can't just decide to take off for the cabin for one last hurrah---the kids have to register and go to two-a-day sports practices.
Maybe it's global warming that's to blame. The polar ice caps are melting causing a sense of impending doom. We must get this new crop of high schoolers educated so that they can save the world. Maybe the higher ozone level has warped the time sense of the entire teaching establishment.
Maybe it is something simpler. A glance at the school calendar shows TWO no-school days in September ( teacher inservices) TWO in October ( teacher inservice and parent-teacher conferences) ONE in November ( teacher inservice) as well as a seperate no-school day just for the elementary) ONE in December ( inservice) THREE in February ( inservices) TWO in March, and ONE in May. BESIDES VACATION DAYS! That's twelve days.
That's two school weeks PLUS!
SO, maybe teachers really DO need all those planning days. Maybe it's harder to teach these days. Maybe the kids are smarter ( or the corollary--the faculty is not.)
I think if it was justified by the need to have more days to pour knowledge into all those empty little skulls, I might understand. BUT it isn't. It isn't about the children at all. It is about teachers who want to get paid for their prep time. And it probably was unfair that teachers once made out lesson plans on their own time--at home or after school. Or they grabbed a few hours during the week while the kids were in the library or at study hall.
But teachers are different these days. I got a note one day from a teacher, and there were more misspellings and grammar errors in it than I find in my sixth grader's essays. When I mentioned it to a school board member, I was told that English was not that teacher's subject. But wouldn't you think that high school teachers would have at least a high school competency level? Social studies instructors can't do basic math. Math teachers don't know what country borders Iraq.
Anyway. back to my main rant--school pictures are being taken the second day of school. When a lot of students will be still on vacation with their parents--who WILL NOT be penalized by cutting their own summers short. Some people can only take vacations late in the summer. Some people have jobs where they can't change everyone's schedules so they can have an in-service.

Ozark Country Christmas

2007-12-14T08:44:00.000-08:00

Well, we did it.
Charlie and I went to Branson on Thanksgiving.
The trip went fast...we actually left Wednesday night so we wouyldn't have to get up at 3 am on Thursday. We drove to Hays Kansas and stayed overnight. So guess what time we got up on Thursday.
You got it. 3 AM

But we got to Branson and checked into our motel just a bit after noon, their time.
We normally stay at the Shepherd of the Hills Quality Inn. This time, we decided to be adventurous. We picked a motel from Internet listings...off the beaten track, with a facade like a Victorian Painted Lady.
The picture on the Web wasn't detailed. Purposely.
The Queen Anne was, at one time, a charming place. Now, it is run down and a bit shabby. But the proprieter was VERY friendly. He had warm eyes and a wide smile under his turban. His English wasn't good, but it was far better than our Arabic.
Our room wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible. The curtain hung by two hooks, Charlie found them and fixed it. The bed was old, but comfortable.
And that pretty much describes us...old, yet comfortable.

We went out to The Branson Landing Shopping Mall for a couple of hours. The employees had posted a forum of disgruntled online comments...the mall owner had ordered the stored to open Thanksgiving Day. Most refused. The ones which were open were suprisingly cordial. We ate at a fast food Chinese restaurant. Their menu that day was limited. You got to choose between sweet and sour chicken or Asian chicken. And rice. They had lots of rice.
But the performers from the Legends Theater who do the Blues Brothers impersonation were at the fountain area doing a short free show...followed by another group with a tribute to The Eagles.

After leaving the Landing, we went out to Silver Dollar City ( Easily the most magical place in the free world IMHO)
Three million lights outlined the buildings and lanes. There were live concerts and carolers and roasted nuts and hot chocolate. There was a three story Christmas tree that put on a heck of a light show to a Manheim Steamroller number and a Parade of Lights with St. Nick.
And there was the Wilderness Church...a nineteenth century church transported to Silver Dollar City years ago. It has handhewn wooden pews and an open beamed ceiling. The tree there was dressed in holly sprigs and white snowballs. It was so quiet sitting in the soft light.

We shopped the nexy day and caught an evening performance of Pierce Arrow. (GREAT!)

The races in Springfield were COLD and my heavy knit cap kept slipping over my eyes. In order to move it up, I had to take my hands out from under the blanket ( I didn't want to) and remove my thick gloves ( I couldn't--the lining kept coming out and I couldn't get them back on if I did) From what I heard, Danny Lasoski led the whole time.

So...we did it. We went to the Ozark Mountain Christmas. It was beautiful.

UN-CREATING THE MONSTER

2007-11-30T07:50:00.000-08:00

Out foster daughter wants to live with someone in her family. For months she has schemed and manipulated to make that happen. And it's about to. Happen, that is. It's about to happen. We're happy for her.
And the Department of Social Services asked that she pack some of the things she doesn't need. They thought she'd be excited.
Her comment? "Yeah, make it hard on me."
Did she expect someone to pack for her? Does she think that if she waits until the last moment, someone will?
Fat Chance.
I have decided that if she isn't packed the day the caseworker appears at my door to take her home, I'll just smile and say..."Oh, well."
The problem is that the caseworker won't. Won't smile or say "oh well."
She'll pack for the kid.
Now, if it was my call, I'd say "If you aren't ready to go, we'll just try to get back here next week...or next month...whenever we can fit it into our schedules."
But DSS won't.
How do I know?
It's the nature of the beast.
A former foster child here, who is gifted, attends an alternative high school ( read: a school to help kids who can't make it in the mainstream)
When she was in school here she had a 3.0 average. But she is being allowed to go to the alternative school so that she doesn't have to work too hard. She also has a child and a job.
BUT THOSE WERE CONSEQUENCES OF HER CHOICES, AND IN A REAL WORLD SHE HAS TO DEAL WITH THEM.
She needs to see that she can't count on public assistance all her life. (Right now, she factors it into her budget--for years ahead.)
Some group paid over a thousand dollars to buy her new furniture ( so she could feel better about herself ) WE USED TO TEACH THAT IF YOU WORKED HARD AND GOT AHEAD IT INCREASED YOUR SELF ESTEEM. NOW SELF ESTEEM SEEMS TO COME FROM WHAT YOU GET FROM THE SYSTEM.
And it occurred to me, as I pondered these things that the system is self-perpetuating. The Bible says " Go and multiply and fill the earth. " That's what the system is doing.
The system ( Departments of Human Services, community mental health centers, and non-profit organizations) is multiplying the heck out of itself.
It is making consequences inconsequential by taking away the sting.
It is rewarding indolence and manipulation with privileges and excess.
BASICALLY, THE ONLY WAY YOU GET REMOVED FROM MANY GOVERNMENT PROGRAMS ( DOLES) IS TO NOT SIGN UP FOR THEM AGAIN.
The system is teaching kids that they can live their lives relying on others, and it's OKAY.
They're victims. We owe them. And Public Assistance is just another lifestyle.
When my husband and I got married, we didn't have a lot of money. In fact, we probably were poor. But it really never occured to us to get on the county dole. We were able-bodied and we could help ourselves. We furnished our first rented house for about a hundred dollars total...with second-hand furniture and appliances we got at an auction ( It was late in the day and the dwindling crowd had stopped buying so we got a "deal." )
Anyway, back to the girl who is moving soon. My husband found boxes for her to use and brought them down from an attic at his work. He cleaned them up and delivered them to the child.
Did she say thanks?
NO, she said "Where am I supposed to put these?"
We both had a suggestion, but we didn't offer it.

FOSTER BASHING

2007-11-15T08:11:00.000-08:00

Tune into any prime-time drama long enough and you will see a show about the horrible conditions in foster homes.

Listen to any call-in radio forum long enough and you'll hear the same thing.

Talk to former foster kids and many of them will tell you about all the abuse they suffered at the hands of their foster parents.

YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU'VE GOT ME. I CONFESS.

One of our current foster children is mad at me. Do you know why? I found out she hasn't turned in an English assignment since the first week in October. (Of course, I would have known this sooner, but the teacher hasn't updated her parent bridge in all that time either)

And her math teacher emailed me to let me know she's 8 assignments in arrears for her class...she's set up dates to get extra help ( as I asked her to ) but showed up only twice.

SO WE TOOK AWAY HER WEEK-DAY PRIVILEGES. THAT'S RIGHT...NO "MY SPACE" OR TV MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY, UNTIL SHE GETS THE "F'S" OFF HER GRADE CARD.

The nerve!

AND WE WON'T LET HER SPEND AN HOUR TALKING ON THE PHONE ( EVEN TO HER MOM) IF HER HOMEWORK ISN'T DONE.

SO, she's sulking and freezing us with her eyes. I wouldn't care, except the last time she got mad at us, she made allegations against us.

Her family thinks foster care is terrible, too. But when the girl and her sister were first put into foster care, no one in their extended family would take them. When we took the girls to their father's funeral, the family came up to us telling us how different the girls looked and acted now. What a great job we'd done parenting them.

Now, we're horrible, hateful people. I expected that. The girls have been talking to them. And the girls trash anyone who doesn't do what they want them to.

IT'S A FACT. FOSTER PARENTS LEARN TO EXPECT KIDS TO BACKSTAB THEM IF THEY GET A CHANCE. WE don't expect thanks and kudos. We're part of the system that interferred with their lives.

One of our foster kids kicked in our back door.

Several have stolen money.

One of our bedroom screens was ripped by a foster child who wanted to smoke in his bedroom.

I've been kicked, hit, pushed and called names. My husband went through the embarrassment of having a law officer call in a check on him in a crowded restaurant because a 7 year old froze and refused to tell them he was a foster child ( he was Hispanic and so young...he obviously didn't belong with us.)

Kids have screamed at us because we asked them to vacuum...make their beds or do their laundry.

Insulted our cooking and our home ( because theirs was so much better)

And you know what? We accept this. We know it's only because they are hurting, and because they've had no one to teach them the things we're trying to teach them now.

We can even accept the allegations. From the kids.

It's the rest of the world that bugs us.

When allegations are made, foster parents are assumed guilty until proven innocent. They have no right to face their accusers, or even to know who their accusers are.

Foster parents put themselves at risk of physical and emotional harm from strangers...

see their possessions and their home mistreated and/or destroyed by kids who don't know how to take care of them or who don't care.

AND THEY DO IT FOR THE MONEY, RIGHT? THE WELFARE DOLE?

The average payment for the care of a foster child is about $600 a month for a teenager, less for a younger child. You do the math. What do you think we pay out in extra food, electricity, gas, school fees, clothing ( there are some funds for this...I think in our county it's a one time per child check for $80. We've never used it.) allowances, hair appointments, and other expenses?

AND THE REST OF THE $600, IF WE WANT TO, WE CAN COUNT AS WAGES FOR OUR 24/7 JOB.

But according to prime time TV, we're animals. We lock our refrigerators and we won't let the kids go for "walks" without us. OR we don't discipline them and let them act out in public. ( We aren't allowed to use any discipline that causes discomfort to the foster children...withhold meals, make them stand in a corner for long periods of time, spank them, or even send them to bed early as a punishment) I pulled a teen into a hotel room because she was standing in the hall screaming and disturbing others. Three weeks later, when she got angry about a boundary we'd given her, she used that incident to make an allegation. So what would you do?

Prime time blames foster parents...not the biological parents who put these kids at risk in the first place...when the kids turn into killers or sex offenders. But they assume wrongly that the kids placed into our homes are normal. THERE ARE NO NORMAL KIDS IN FOSTER CARE.

That's because they all have been traumatized...by the conditions that caused their removal in the first place and by the removal itself. Most foster kids lie, many steal, some are cruel to our family pets, some hurt other kids in the home, most have little idea of normal family life and responsibilities.

BUT IT'S OUR JOB TO LOVE THEM. TO TEACH THEM. TO KEEP THEM SAFE. AND MOST OF US ARE DOING THAT JOB WELL.

I'm through venting now, and I feel better. I remember why I'm in foster care. I love the kids.

And I get that our job is thankless, hard, gut wrenching and tiring.

I just wish the people in prime-time did.

FREAKED

2007-11-12T07:50:00.000-08:00

I'm excited. Kind of. Well, maybe excited is not the word. Maybe more...anticipating.

No, not that either. Not anticipating. It's more...freaked. That's the word. Freaked.

This year, my husband asked me if I wanted to see the Ozark Country Christmas. I did.

He said it was the week after Thanksgiving and we'd drive to Branson, MO. for the event, then swing back through Springfield to go to the races at the Springfield Speedway ( the real reason for the invitation.) Danny Lasoski will be there.

For anyone who doesn't know Danny Lasoski, he's a very successful and famous sprint car racer.

But I don't care what the reason is. And I like races too.

And Branson is my favorite place on earth. It's a family friendly, fantasy world. We've been going there for summer vacations for 16 years, but have never seen their Christmas lights or shows. This is our year!

But then Charlie found out we'd have to leave on Thanksgiving day, not the week after.

I'VE NEVER BEEN AWAY FROM MY FAMILY ON A HOLIDAY.

THAT'S WHY I'M FREAKED.

All these years I've thought we hosted dinners at holidays for the kids. Now I know they're for me. I love my family. I love every screaming kid, every posturing teen, every son-in-law glued to the TV watching the game. I love my girls, trying to outdo one another with their holiday recipes. ( One year our oldest daughter got our elderly aunt drunk on brandied sweet potatoes...the alcohol doesn't burn off if they don't cook long enough.) I LOVE MY GANG.

This year, I'll be in Branson for Thanksgiving. The kids said "Go. It's only Thanksgiving, It would be different of it was Christmas or Easter." So on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, we'll have our family dinner. On Thanksgiving, we'll hit the road at 3 am for the twelve-plus hour drive.

And we'll go shopping at Branson Landing, a really world-class outdoor mall. We'll see the live nativity and listen to Southern gospel and stroll hand-in-hand through the million lights at Silver Dollar City.

The thing is, I've been thinking more about people who don't have families. People who don't freak at the thought of a holiday away. People who would give their right arms to have screaming babies and peevish teens and snoozing grandpas around them...to have someone who forgets to bake the yams long enough and someone who always overcooks the turkey.

And I guess you don't have to celebrate family on any special day. When you're blessed with a bunch like mine, it's always Thanksgiving.

LOW LIFE SELFISH PIG

2007-11-09T09:44:00.000-08:00

I'm Ticked!

I just found out that I'm a low-life, selfish pig.
A loser par excellence.
I don't like me.

I was monitoring a foster child's conversation with her parent. Not listening, really, just monitoring tone as I watched TV. It wasn't until I heard my name mentioned that I snapped to attention.

Yeah, Caryl bought me a cheap shirt. It will probably last a week.......

I don't know. I need some more. I don't have anything to go with the new jeans.......

Probably not. It's like pulling teeth to get her to buy anything for me.....

Okay. It wasn't a $50 shirt. It was a J.C. Penney shirt. On sale. But the kid didn't even need it. I just bought it to be sweet. But system kids ( read: foster care) get the idea that the world owes them.

But don't foster parents get money to take care of the kids?
Yes. We do. We get about $600 a month for a teenager. (That's it. If you consider it wages, we donate the extra food and electricity and clothing and allowance and school fees and still make under 40 cents an hour ....if you consider it expense money, we donate our time 24/7.) And there is a one time (That's one time, not one time per season) allowance of $80 to pay for clothing. DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PAIR OF JEANS COSTS THESE DAYS?

A conversation occured at our home last week that might interest you.

ME: Please turn off the stair light. You left it on again.
CHILD: It wasn't me.
ME: No one else is home.
CHILD: Well, maybe I left it on...but we need it so we don't fall over anything.
ME: You mean, like your tennis shoes? They've been there for two days.
CHILD: Well, I couldn't wear them with my GAP jeans. The legs are too short and they won't touch.
ME: Touch what?
CHILD ( INCREDULOUS): The ground. Otherwise they look like high water.
ME: So, what did you wear for shoes?
CHILD: My Journey shoes. The ones I bought last week. I took the money out of my savings.
ME: I told you you couldn't have those shoes. They were too expensive.
CHILD: But that's the kind of shoes I like. The kind you get me are way lame.
ME: You mean you like the kind of shoes you wore when you were at home.
CHILD: No, we couldn't afford them then. But now I'm in foster care and you can afford them.
ME: You mean, like I can afford the higher electric bill when you leave on the lights?
CHILD: It wasn't me.

Get the picture?
The system ( read: me) owes them something because they're in foster care. And some of the parents urge the kids to get all they can while they're in the system so that they'll have a lot of stuff when they come home. We've even had kids ask for things and then give them to parents or siblings who aren't in foster care. THAT'S NOT EVERY KID.

But it is rare to get a child who has been in the system any lenght of time and has not developed the syndrome.

GRATITUDE. THAT'S WHAT I GUESS I EXPECT.

I don't want anyone to fall down prostrate before me.

I don't want to be canonized.

I just think it would be nice if we could teach kids that, even if the world gives you some hard knocks ( most of us have had them) IT DOESN"T OWE YOU ANYTHING.

BUT what do I know? I'm a low-life, selfish pig.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T this is what it means to me

2007-11-06T07:06:00.000-08:00

I love Aretha Franklin. Well, not exactly. I don't know Aretha, but I love her voice. And that's a great song. I was reminded of it at a teachers' meeting at my children's high school the other day. I was talking to them about the needs of foster children, but the pre-meeting talk had taken another tack.

"I don't know," said one young male teacher. "I just can't get my kids to pay attention in class. They're always goofing off and talking over me. "

Yeah," said another. Makes me think about that movie..."

"Blackboard Jungle?" I asked.

Blank stares. Then the young woman who had spoken said, "No. 'A Walk to Remember.' Because when they act that way, I wish I was with my boyfriend on a walk, instead of at school in class."

"Yeah," said the first teacher. "I wish I was out on my Wave Jumper or something."

I agree with them. I know their classes, and they might as well be at the movies, or on a Wave Jumper. They aren't doing much teaching. AND IT ISN'T ALL THE FAULT OF THE KIDS.

These younger teachers ( and some of the older ones) encourage the students to call them by their first names...or, even worse, by their nicknames.

"Hi, 'G', " one says to his English teacher as he meets him in the hall.

The teacher is Mr. Gregory. He is in his late fifties or early sixties. I imagine it might be flattering when a kid likes you enough to call you by your nickname. It means you're his "bud," his amigo. THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT MEANS.

So, can you blame the kid when...two hours later...he is in class and he doesn't understand the relationship with the teacher has suddenly morphed?

OKAY. IN THE DARK AGES ( THE SIXTIES) WHEN I WAS IN SCHOOL, WE CALLED OUR TEACHERS "MR. _______ " AND "MRS. _____." For the most part, we didn't talk over them and we certainly didn't give them sarcastic answers in class. If we didn't want to listen, we did the honorable thing and slept. ( If you could sleep with your eyes open.)

And our culture is teaching children that there are no boundaries between what is acceptable public behavior and what is best said and done in private.

Our foster daughters frequently ask my husband Charlie if their blouses make their "boobs" look too big. Now, I don't believe that parts of the body are "dirty." But I do believe that we should reserve some things for the privacy ...and the security...of our best friends. We have tried to impress upon the girls that: 1) we don't approve of the indiscriminate use of the word and

2) we believe that you should only ask that of someone you are SURE is comfortable answering that intimate a question. We ask them to rephrase the question using the proper name for the body part.

"Does this shirt make my breasts look too big?"

AND YOU KNOW WHAT? USING THE ANATOMICALLY CORRECT NAME EMBARRASSES THEM.

We understand that this is the generation ( or the kids of the generation) that gave us Brittney Spears. They are accustomed to dress and language that would take Hugh Heffner aback.

SO we're old fashioned. Prudish. Well, maybe, but what do you think the girls would have said if my husband asked them if his pants made his penis look too big? Of course, we wouldn't say anything like that, especially to foster children, BUT WHAT IF?

I guess it all comes down to this: The kids are what we teach them to be. A lot of schools are going back to uniforms. Not only does it take away the competitive nature of fashion, but it puts kids in a frame of mind to learn. It signals that this time is different from time on the court or at the mall. I THINK I LIKE THE IDEA.

And we can require the students to respect one another and the teacher. To differentiate between the two.

And while we're at it, we can teach the teachers. ACT mature. DRESS mature. Cleavage is for the club, not the classroom. Sweatshirts belong at the gym or in front of TV, not in front of thirty students. YOU'RE THE ADULT. YOU KNOW MORE THAN THEY DO. IMPRESS THAT ON THEM. DRESS THE PART. ACT THE PART. DON'T ALLOW THE KIDS TO THINK OF YOU AS THEIR PEER.

Anyway, back to the meeting. I opened my big mouth and opined about all the above to those teachers at that meeting. They were polite. After all, I am a Beyonder and older than most of them ( But younger than several...ha ha.) They humored me.

BUT I STILL THINK I'M RIGHT. WE CAN'T DEMAND RESPECT FROM KIDS UNLESS WE SHOW THEM WE'RE WORTHY OF IT.

We need to teach some r-e-s-p-e-c-t to a generation which believes "modest" is a dirty word and "boobs" is a cute euphemism.

HALLOWEEN HOWLING

2007-11-01T11:57:00.000-07:00

SO, last night was Halloween. If you have never experienced a small town Halloween, you've led a sheltered life. Creativity runs amuk in small towns at Halloween, So, for that matter does the police force.

As a lady Lions Club member, I've judged several children's costume parties. Let me add that these are children's parties only in the sense that the Westminster Dog Show is for the dogs.

Parents at the annual Halloween costume party begin working on their progeny's dress in July.

Last night, we had a four year old dressed as a monk. Now, I know that the child probably wanted to be a monk. He probably has monk trading cards, a monk bedspread, a monk action figure...he begged his mother to buy him that costume. One poor child had toilet paper rolls painted yellow and glued to his yellow hood. He was macaroni and cheese. There were some children in typical costumes...puppies and Spidermen and Sleeping Beauties. But they didn't win any prizes.

No, the kids in the monks' robes and the chicken suits won the prizes. $5. That's what they won. And the moms won bragging rights. Next year, their kid will be the kid to beat. ( or beat up.)

One year, a sweet-faced three-year-old stood embarrassed while her mother yelled at me. Mom had made her kids' costumes. She'd spent big bucks and countless hours crafting them. They were a set. But they were both pre-schoolers. Mom wanted us to divide up that group so that each of her kids would win first prize.

Anyway, this is an excerpt from one of my stories about the Lions Club planning their annual Halloween costume party.

Les Mooney had suggested that the women might be more suitable than men to judge the annual Halloween costume contest. The other men agreed. It was the primary reason many of them voted to admit women into the Lion’s Club. But it was like tossing the lions to Daniel.
Mary Ann and Susie Smith, wife of the club treasurer, met at the club at 5:30 pm with a bag of fifty-cent pieces and a lot of courage. The first kids arrived about fifteen minutes later, dragged in by their mothers.
There were some clever costumes. One child—Susie thought it was a girl—came in an outfit held on by wide suspenders. It was a horse body with floppy little legs in chaps attached. The kid’s legs fit into the horse’s bottom half. It looked like the little girl was riding the pony. Cute as all get out, it was.
Another child was covered head-to-toe in green taffeta. He was supposed to be lettuce, he said. A Slinky, tubed in brown felt, wriggled out of one side like a worm. The kid kept falling down, tripping over his wilted outer leaves.
Then, there was an assortment of store-bought costumes. Spidermen and princesses and fairies and three Hulks. The kids stood real still against the outer wall. As if they didn’t want to be there. As if they knew what would happen.
Mary Ann announced the pre-school category. Immediately, thirty women with babies in their arms charged the judges’ table. A lot of the little ones screamed—furious with whoever put them into outfits where they couldn’t move their arms. The mothers ignored their children’s cries and paraded them before Mary Ann and Susie.
The Lady Lions put their heads together, then chose three tykes: one sleeping darling dressed like a bottle of salad dressing, a spotted cow with pink udders and a baby dressed like a banana in a white snowsuit and yellow fleece peels. At first, there was shocked silence. Then one of the moms broke into language Mary Ann had heard switching past the premium channels with her Dish remote. The woman shoved her baby at Mary Ann and Susie. Her child was dressed to match her brother, the woman said. A pair of dice. She herself was evidently dressed for the holiday in a pair of shorts and a halter top. Like it was summer. Like it was ninety-eight outside instead of thirty degrees. Anyway, the mom told the women that the baby’s brother was in kindergarten. Otherwise, standing next to one another, it was obvious they would have won. It was those stupid age classes that ruined everything.
Mary Anne nodded and shrugged. The men had told her this was the way it was done, she told the mothers. But what did men know? Next year—next year, they would come up with different categories. The woman was finally persuaded to sit down..
Susie called for the kindergarteners. Mom dragged the other die up. Then another woman pushed through with two little guys in tow. Her boys wore matching white plastic raincoats painted to look like teeth. Baby teeth, and—judging from the smell—one was decayed. There were thirty-seven kindergarteners. The Lady Lions again conferred and chose the teeth, a fire hydrant and a policeman. The tooth-mother raged at them. One of her kids should have first and one second, she said. It was only fair. There were two kids. Why did they have to share one prize? Mary Ann dug two quarters out of her own purse and gave them to the decayed tooth.
Susie called for first graders. There weren’t as many of them, and the judges felt a little easier. That was before two kids came up dressed in identical costumes. They were mummies—their costumes authentically aged and shredded. Mary Ann told Susie she voted for the kid on the right. At that point, a shrieking mother bounded out of her seat and demanded to know how the judges could pick the other child when the boys were dressed alike. Her kid started shaking when his mother towered over him like that, and he turned to his friend and gave him a horrific punch in the nose.
The mom of the kid on the left was still screeching when the mummy on the right cried for his parent. She arrived with the speed and ferocity of a she bear protecting her cub. It took the Lady Lions about three minutes to get the mothers separated and settled down. When they did, the judges again pointed out the right mummy, citing the little stream of red blood running from his nose as the deciding factor—it added realism, they said.

BACK AGAIN

2007-10-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

THE "BEYONDER QUEEN"

I was AWOL for a year. Herding rugrats. That's time-consuming and it's dangerous to be on the computer while the little ones are running amuk.

But I'm back, and it's been an eventful year. This summer, we took our whole family ( kids and grandkids) to Branson. Mo. We've been there 16 times...it's my favorite place. There were 30 of us. The theaters and restaurants loved to see us come ...AND GO. The photo at right is a SMALL part of our group at the Branson Belle Waterfront

ALSO, this year...after being in foster care since 2000, we had our first false allegation placed against us. It is a devastating ( but survivable) experience.

You see, I know that child abuse does happen in foster homes. BUT it is an abberation. Otherwise, it wouldn't make the news. The reason that kids are placed in foster care is that they need a TEMPORARY safe place to live. In most cases, foster care is a safer place than their own homes, OTHERWISE, THE KIDS WOULD NOT BE PLACED.

And, we have two visits a month from DSS. We are required to have 20 hours of continuing education every year.

DID YOU KNOW that the first year a foster home is in existence, chances for false allegations are about 1 in 8? By the time you've been fostering 5 years, your chances are 50/50.

It is not a question of IF you'll have false charges made against you, but WHEN.

And the state and county governments are getting so gun-shy with all the liability. So, out of all the false allegations that are placed, 2/3 are classified " unsubstantiated." Not "unfounded," but just "not proven."

We had two counties investigating us ( we live in one county but are certified by the other) and they both considered the claims false. Unfounded. Without merit. But the state changed the report to read "unsubstantiated." We were lucky enough to have caseworker supervisors who wanted to get in the last word. on our recore, it does say "unsubstantiated," but then the county added...WE feel the charges were unfounded. That made us feel better, but WE STILL ARE REQUIRED TO ATTEND A DE-ESCALATION CLASS.

Oh well, after it's over, we'll go back to Branson.

SAD TIMES

2006-09-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

We went to the funeral of a 27 year old last week. A vibrant young man with two small boys and a mom and dad who adored him. On the day he was killed, he was taking the oldest child to preschool.

It seems he wasn't paying attention. There was this intersection, see, and the truck driver wasn't paying attention either. Semi trumps pickup in almost all circumstances.

The kids weren't really hurt. They wore seat belts. but Dad was thrown from the vehicle and hit the semi with such force that the "F" from the semi grill was chisled onto the young man's forehead. He ended up under the truck--buried in grain.

He just wasn't paying attention.

The accident brought back so many memories and feelings. My son's death was no accident. He was murdered, and the murderer is in prison. Still, the result was the same as my young friend's outcome: death.

My son became trapped in the world of alcohol addiction before I realized it had happened. He withdrew from us, his grades plummeted, he forsook all his friends in favor of the "wrong crowd." A crowd he felt sure would accept him.

And I wasn't paying attention.

If only Dusty Martin had worn his seatbelt that day. If only he had slowed at the country intersection.
If only Chad had stayed away from the kind of people who use one another to feel self worth. If only I had watched more carefully and intervened sooner.

If only we all had paid attention.

2006-08-18T13:15:00.000-07:00

SCHOOL'S IN!

2006-08-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

School's in. Guess it's time to get off the bench and quit griping...after this one last complaint>>

The sure sign that you're getting old is when you keep referring to the past as "the good old days."
You know: In the good old days we wore garter belts--darned if I know how we managed to walk when we hooked our bobby socks up to 'em!
In the good old days parents didn't hear the kind of disrespect they hear from teens today. Of course, hearing aids have improved----
In the good old days, we had to memorize the names of all the presidents--of course, there were fewer then.

But that brings up the subject of school. Of course it could just be that time seems to go faster for a Beyonder, but school seems to come sooner each year. It started here on August 17th. A lot of parents haven't even taken their summer vacation by then.

WHAT ARE THEY THINKING! ( The school board, I mean.)

I noticed on the school calendar that there are 12 no-school days built into the school year besides holidays for something called "teacher inservices."
Now, if a teacher isn't teaching, isn't he "out of service?

Presumably, they need this time to plan and learn new teaching methods and drink Pepsi.
Oh, the poor teachers of yesteryear!
How did they survive without teacher inservices?

And if we, the parents, decide to take our child out of school and treat them to a tour of--say, the Denver Mint, you know, an educational field trip--it rocks the system. We need pre-excused absences. We need permission to take our own children with us. And if we don't get that permission, the child is docked a grade point. How is it that we can't take our children out of school one day, but teachers can dismiss them 12 days a year?

My foster child had counseling in a neighboring town once a week. In previous years, we just had them note that on his charts. Now, even if I sign him out, I have to have a note from the psychologist saying that is where I actually took the kid.

But school is in session, and there is nothing I can do about it. I am back to checking homework ( hey, did you ever look at an answer, go "HMMM" and tell the kid to check it again--all because you had no idea of how to solve it? I have. Ha ha. ) Seriously, there are a number of sites that offer free online IMMEDIATE help with homework questions. There are links to several on my web site, along with short descriptions of the sites. Click on this page: http://beyonderqueen.net/id19.html

And, if your back's been bothering you lately, try unhooking your bobby socks from those little metal fasteners on the garter belt. Oh well, even that looks a lot more comfortable than having a thong shoved between---oh well, you get the point. In the good old days, we didn't------

COMMON SENSE? THE WAY THINGS WERE

2006-08-06T12:51:00.000-07:00

OKAY. We have a sixteen year old foster daughter and her 4 mo old baby--new ground for the DSS and for us.

"Mentor her, " they said. Teach her how to parent. So I tried. turns out, everything I did with my kids was wrong.

I put my kids on their stomachs to sleep. Why? The doctor warned me that putting them on their backs could lead to them spitting up and choking to death. But we don't put babies on their stomachs to sleep now. We put them on their backs. By the time the foster baby has kids, they'll want you to suspend them upside down from a harness.

Doctors warned parents against giving kids pacifiers when my children were little. I did it anyway--it made the nights longer. But they said not to do it. It creates dependency and malformed teeth.
The WIC nurse told our foster daughter to give her baby a pacifier until he was 9 mo old, then take it away. It seems to lessen the incidence of SIDS, she said. But after 9 mo, it deforms their mouths. That explains why my kids always talked out of both sides of their mouths when they were teenagers.

I gave my babies bottles of water once in a while. Especially in the heat--especially when I ran out of formula and couldn't fix a bottle until I went to the store ( first I had to find my shoes)
That was wrong. You should never ever ever give a baby water. Nowadays, wisdom says they could drown if given too much water. Who knew?

And when my babies had constipation--when all they could pass was hard little rabbit pellets, I swished a little Karo syrup in their formula. ( I used the rest to stick bows into their hair)
Another no-no. The sage advice now? Give them a little bit of water ( but they just told us---)

I kept my babies warm. Wrong, they say. If you are warm, your baby is warm. Don't cover him.

My mother fad me with a bottle. Doctors told my mother breast feeding wasn't good for babies--not enough nutrients.
My doctor assured me it was best to breast feed. But on a schedule.
My girls were told to feed their babies whenever the kids wanted to be fed. Now that's a good idea. They walk around with the equivalent of two milk cartons on their chests. The law of supply and demand. They are constantly re-filling.

I am living with a load of guilt today. It seems my children were lucky to survive with me as their mother. I am a horrible example to follow.

So why is DSS trusting me to mentor the sixteen year old mother?

They figure I've raised four kids of my own and maybe I have what it takes to raise some others.
Common sense, i think is what you call it.
Wait. I don't think we're supposed to count on that any more.

Batter Up

2006-07-26T15:15:00.000-07:00

I am reminded today of why so many Beyonders are becoming foster parents.

You see, Charlie and I just finished working concessions at the state 13-15 year old Babe Ruth tournament in our small town. We are Lions. Charlie is in charge of getting crews to run the concession stand (which is our main club fundraiser) and I am in charge of keeping the stand stocked. WE are the default crew.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Other people worked the stand too. It’s just that we always worked with them, Pretty much. Mostly.

And some Lions said they couldn’t work because they were too busy. They had jobs. Their kids were playing in the tournament and they wanted to watch them. They couldn’t work because they had lives.

Young people today just don’t understand life. They don’t get it that you have to pay forward. Life is like social security. You pay in now to get back later. ----Okay, so life isn’t like social security. I mean, like I paid into social security for all these years and I won’t be able to retire until I’m 94, but some young punk is faking a back injury so he can get SSI and my money is paying his bills so he can buy a Mustang convertible with leather seats and a GPS. Uh—sorry about that. Life is like an investment. Yeah, that’s it. A long-term investment. And you gotta pay in to get out.

So we pay in, Charlie and I. And we argue.
Last night, I had a number in the “missed calls” message on my cell phone.
“Do you know what 854-2-5-0-0 is?” I yelled back to him from my place at the concessions stand counter,
“Yeah, it is slow, what inning is it?” Charlie answered flipping another burger on the grill.
“No. Not slow. What is that number?”
“Thunder? No, I didn’t hear any. There aren’t any watches out, that I know of.”
Someone in the stands asked us to be quiet. He couldn’t hear the announcer.
“They want us to be quiet,” I told Charlie.
“What about tonight?” he asked.
“Not tonight,” I said. “Quiet.”
“That’s okay, honey,” he said. “You’re real tempting, but I’m too tired for tonight too.”

Batter up.

I Feel Old---Real Old.

2006-07-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

I don’t think of myself as old. Usually.
But last night, lying in bed, Charlie and I were pondering our aches and pains. I have a pinched nerve from wrestling with my 280 pound son-in-law. (Not bright, I know, but wisdom doesn’t ALWAYS come with age.) It hurts from my shoulder to my forearm some days.
Charlie played tennis on his lunch break yesterday. In 100 degree heat. Then he stood on a ladder to help me wash the outside of the kitchen windows. After work he pulled weeds, cleaned the leaves from our rain gutter and washed the siding. He was complaining about being stiff last night. ( Well duh…)
See, when I look in the mirror, I see what I believe I will see. Me. But it’s the me I was 15 years ago. I don’t notice the wrinkles and the added gray in my hair. I see the rolls under my chin, but what the heck…it’s just baby fat. And the bags under my eyes are because I stayed up past my 9:30 bed time. Aren’t they?
Coming face-to-face with my age is scary.
I am only 7 years away from traditional retirement at 65. At restaurants, people routinely ask if I want the senior discount or would like to order off the senior menu.
And I have a nine year old. What the heck was I thinking?
Anyway, I found this “real age” test on the Internet and thought other Beyonders might be interested. Turns out, I’m not as old as I thought!
I’m younger. A lot younger. Okay, only two years younger. But in two years, Liz Taylor could go through 5 husbands. (I’ll bet THEY feel old.)

http://www.oprah.com/health/lifestages/realage/health_real_main.jhtml

And science has proven that, on the whole, Beyonders are more satisfied with their lives. That keeps us younger, too. We have GREAT memories.

1)Remember Howdy Doody? Okay, so what was the name of the human partner of the famous dummy?
2)Who was The Lone Ranger’s Indian sidekick? What did the name mean?
3)Who was Rudy Gernreich?
4) What did Beaver’s dad do for a living?
5) How much did a gallon of milk cost in 1960?

1) Buffalo Bob 2) Tonto --One story is that it is Potowatomie for “Wild One.”
3) inventor of the topless swimming suit 4) he was an accountant 5) 49¢

Okay. Enough fun for today. I have to go remind the nine year old to be quieter in the house. The kid is a real loud breather.

Values: Love and Hat

2006-07-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'm old.
People age. Values don't.

The Fourth of July has always been a family day to us. Until about five years ago, it was a big day for our town, too. Then some idiots decided to use the money Holyoke always spent on kids races and a "town feed" on something they call "Dandelion Daze." the Chamber of Commerce thought it would bring some money into the community. Yeah. Money. That's what it comes down to. They have a semi-well attended car show ( mostly the same cars every year, but some of us are old enough we forget and it's like all new. ) There is a cruise-in, which only the car owners enjoy ( and most of those are from out of town) and sidewalk sales ( but most of us "townees"already have sidewalks)

The point is, the town does nothing to celebrate the Fourth of July except the fireworks in the evening. So our family has its own celebration. There are usually 18 or more of us and we have kids games, water balloons, volleyball, tennis and baseball. There is always plenty of good food and we enjoy the privelege of family.

And family is a privilege. That's what the kids we foster get...that not everyone has family.
the park is full of people who do not get that: punk kids, boys in gangsta attire--pants down below their butts ( I guess if they need to go, all they have to do is squat) and girls in skin-tight tops that bare bulging bellies with stretch marks and navel piercings and shorts that bare their butt cheeks on one end and their thong underwear on the other. ( there is a reason they call it UNDERWEAR)

I don't want to deal with that when I am celebrating family. I want to provide a healthy alternative to that kind of lifestyle--and that lifestyle is where many of our foster children come from.

Society is coming around to values again. Much is being made of the WWII generation ( which is before my time, thank God) and the contributions thay made to the world. So why don't people speak up and let these park punks know that THEY ARE NOT AMERICA? Why allow that
culture to slip into our kids lives through its music and fashion (???)

I held an interview in my head the other day, sitting in the park, admiring some hot 200 pound chick in her shorts and green thong underwear. I asked the kid why she wore clothes that showed her cleavage in front and in back. She said it was to attract the boys.

"All boys, or just plumbers?" I asked.

And our foster daughter has issues as well. She is sixteen and has a three month old son. The other day she dressed for church in a sweet skirt set. She pulled the waistband down so that her belly button was visible. I pulled it back up. She has a baby-flab belly and a navel piercing.

"I'm not wearing it like that," she said.
"Yes. You are."
She huffed but left the skirt at her natural waist.
"And another thing, What is that on your knuckles?"
"It's a tatoo," she said. "Well, not really a tatoo. I drew it on with ink. It says love and hate."
"It says love and hat," I corrected.
"I know. The pen stopped working."

So there you are. What kind of values can this generation have when they wear love and hat tatooed on their hands? The answer is " the values we give them."
That's where we Beyonder" parents come in. Values are our specialty.

RECIPES BEST FORGOTTEN

2006-06-26T14:18:00.000-07:00

Celery seed. It just occurred to me I don’t have any celery seed.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
My mother-in-law made stews even in summer—beefy concoctions with chunks of potatoes, parsnips and turnips. She peeled carrots and sliced them into the pot along with onion and celery. It was a hot, time-consuming job. them
At lunch (the big meal of the day) she served big plates of the stew with sliced bread, butter and homemade jam. For dessert, there was always a bowl of canned plums and a sugar cookie or two.
I tried to make stew like Mom Harvey did. I used beef cubes and frozen stew veggies—they were already cut up. And I used celery seed instead of celery. My stew was okay, but I don’t imagine any of my kids will brag about it.
The sacrifice was missing.
And the pride in doing something well.
The kids we older parents foster are from a gas-and-go generation. A single-serve microwavable world measured in gigabytes and milliseconds.
Their parents are, too.
That’s where we come in. We remember waiting for the TV to warm up before the picture came on. We remember when, if you wanted mashed potatoes, you had to mash them yourself—after you peeled and boiled them. When you bragged to the neighbors that you mowed your lawn in perfect diagonal lines. We remember when summer was a time for kids to play and get bored and secretly wish for school to start.
I decided to teach my foster children the value of taking pride in hard work. We made homemade cinnamon rolls.
It was fun at first. We sifted flour and heated milk and yeast and butter and sugar. We stirred it together and waited for it to form dough.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have put in that extra half-cup of milk,” one said.
“Aw, that didn’t make any difference. I saw you do it and I dumped a little more flour in to make up for it.” The other child held up his dough encased hands. “But I’ll bet this would go faster if we put the dough in the blender to mix.”
“You’re not mixing,” I told them. “You’re kneading.”
“Needing what?”
“I put in extra salt. So that isn’t the problem.” The sweet faced nine year old grinned.
“No,” said the other child. “And we don’t need any more yeast. I dumped in all three bags.”
“You put in three bags of yeast?” I asked.
“Yeah. It said fast-rising, but I waited a whole minute and nothing happened. So I put it all in.”
I took the bowl and covered it with a clean dry dish towel. “Let’s just let it rest.”
“Already?” said the oldest. “I’m not tired yet.”
“Imagine that,” I said.
After five minutes, the kids were elbow-deep in dough again.
“Didn’t I tell you to let the dough rest,” I asked them.
“It was bored,” said the little red head.
“Dough doesn’t get bored.”
“You said it got tired,” he replied.
“I never said the dough was tired.”
“Well, you said it had to rest.”
“Go out and play.” I told them, covering the bowl again.
“Play what?”
“In the street,” I mumbled. Go play in the street.”
But after a quick nap, I felt better and I called them back in. We flattened the dough out, covered it with sugar and cinnamon and rolled it up again. We sliced it and put it in pans, and we baked it.
It made 144 cinnamon rolls—lead-heavy and chewy as an old tire. We gave cinnamon rolls to the pastor, to the neighbors and to the boys’ Sunday school teachers, none of which spoke to us for a month afterward.
I suppose one should choose his projects (and his battles) with care. I guess we often remember the Good Old Days as being brighter than they were.
At any rate, here is a perfectly acceptable alternative for homemade rolls. Make them in disposable pans and share them with everyone.

Four tins of biscuits ( they often come four to a package)
Margarine
Sugar
Cinnamon
Butterscotch pudding mix
Walnuts, pecans, peanuts—whatever suits you

Melt the margarine in a bowl. Meanwhile, open the biscuit tins and separate the biscuits. Fill a large flat bowl with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. Make the biscuits into balls and roll them in the margarine, then in the cinnamon-sugar. Put them in a cake pan
( bundt pans work best) starting at the edges and working in. Leave a circle in the center empty. When you have three rows, sprinkle on some of the pudding mix and a few nuts and repeat with another layer. When you have used all the biscuits, pour some of the left-over margarine on the top and sprinkle with remaining sugar mixture. Bake at 350 degrees until the roll tops are brown and the middles are set. ( about thirty minutes)
Place a plate over the pan and invert it. The rolls will pull apart in single servings. THIS IS VIRTUALLY NO FAIL. KIDS WILL LOVE THEM.

HAPPY FATHERS' DAY

2006-06-19T20:17:00.000-07:00

Sunday was Fathers' Day. The pastor asked all the fathers to line up across the front of the sanctuary. Then he asked everyone whose father was in front to come stand with him. Charlie (my husband, you know) was surrounded by children--kids and grandkids and fosters. He glowed.
On Mothers' Day, we did the same thing. But they gave out cool gifts--book marks and seedlings in Styrofoam cups and pens. I don't klnow many mothers with the time to read, and the seedlings always depress me by dying on Monday and the pens never do work. But dads get cookies. Chocolate cookies.
After church, we all went out for dinner. There were fifteen of us at the table. We weren't all there, but we had enough for a quorum.
Then, we went to the lake cabin for a few hours. Charlie and I sat on the deck and patted a fussy baby while her teen aged mommy got to be a kid for a while. Our two boys ( adopted a month ago) and the 16 year old girl splashed and screamed and ran through the waves.
Charlie and I were content( yes, thats the exact word: content) to watch and sink back into the chair cushions in the sand-scented air.
On the way home, we stopped for burgers. It was dark when we pulled into the driveway at our house. The boys asked to go downstairs and watch some TV, but the 16 year old wanted to call her father to wish him a happy Fathers' Day. We heard her as we sat in the dark on our deck.
"Is Dad there?" she asked.
"Is he drunk again?"
"Yes?"
It was quiet except for the strange whirring noise made by some little owls nesting in our Catalpa tree. Finally, the 16 year old joined us on the deck.
"We're sorry," we told her.
"It's okay," she said. "He always gets drunk on Fathers Day."
Charlie is a great dad. I think the kids see Jesus in him. He is sometimes quick-tempered and over-reacts, but the kids know he loves them. And he is always there for them.
He doesn't see that, he feels inadequate--run down--worn out. He feels old--like he is shortchanging the boys we just adopted. Like he is too impatient to foster the young mother with the unhappy baby. But kids see that dads can blow up and still be loving. They can grouch and still joke.
Not all kids have great dads. Some don't even have mediocre dads. Some, like our foster kids, have a dad like Charlie only for a while. That's too bad. The world could use more dads--more foster dads--like Charlie.

A BLAST FROM THE PAST

2006-06-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

A WORD FROM THE BEYONDER QUEEN

THIS COURTHOUSE IN OUR LITTLE TOWN HAS AGED MUCH MORE GRACEFULLY THAN I. IT GOT ME THINKING.....

OKAY, SO SOMETIMES IT'S UNCOMFORTABLE BEING AN OLDER PARENT. I HAVE TO ADMIT GETTING OLD IS THE PITS. I CAN'T WAVE AT PEOPLE. IT'S DANGEROUS. THE FLAP OF SKIN UNDER MY ARMS IS APT TO FLY UP AND POP ME IN THE FACE. AND IF IT MISSES MY FACE, THERE ARE OTHER PLACES IT CAN HIT THAT ARE SENSITIVE TOO. AND, IF IT DOESN'T HIT ANYWHERE, THE CONSTANT MOTION STILL WEARS ME OUT. MY WORST NIGHTMARE IS BEING NAMED GRAND MARSHALL OF OUR LITTLE TOWN'S FAIR PARADE--HAVING TO SIT ON THE BACK OF A CONVERTIBLE AND WAVE TO THE CROWD. I'D BE BLACK AND BLUE FOR A MONTH.

I'M AFRAID MY YOUNGEST KIDS WILL GET EMBARRASSED WHEN THEIR FRIENDS ASK WHO I AM.
I JUST COLORED MY HAIR TODAY--TO GET OUT THE GRAY. GRAY HAIR MAKES YOU LOOK OLD, I THINK. STILL, NO MERE DYE JOB WILL ERASE THIRTY YEARS FROM MY FACE. MY GRANDDAUGHTER TOLD ME SHE WISHED I WEREN'T OLD.
"BUT YOU'RE NOT AS OLD AS AUNT GRACE," SHE SAID.

YOU SHOULD KNOW---AUNT GRACE IS DEAD.

BUT JUST WHEN I GET TO FEELING SORRY FOR MYSELF, SOMETHING SNAPS ME BACK TO REALITY. TONIGHT, IT WAS THE CAR SHOW AT THE PARK. DANDELION DAZE, THEY CALL IT. AND THERE WAS A DJ PLAYING SIXTIES SONGS.
"CALIFORNIA GIRLS" AND "HANG ON SLOOPY." "LITTLE DEUCE COUPE" AND "HELP ME RHONDA."
SONGS THAT MADE MY HIPS SWING AND MY FEET MOVE. SONGS TO GROOVE TO.

I WAS A TEEN ONCE--WITH ACNE AND BRACES. I WORRIED ABOUT GETTING A DATE TO THE HOMECOMING DANCE AND WHETHER I LOOKED LIKE A DWEEB IN MY NEW MINISKIRT. I SPENT HOURS ASSESSING MY THUNDER THIGHS. I WONDERED ABOUT MARIJUANA AND LSD AND PREMARITAL SEX. I HATED MY PARENTS BECAUSE I WANTED TO GROW UP BUT I WAS AFRAID I COULDN'T MAKE IT WITHOUT THEM. AND I KNEW THAT EVENTUALLY THEY WOULD DIE AND LEAVE ME ALONE.

BUT I'M NOT ALONE. I HAVE A MATE OF 37 YEARS WHO LOVES THE BEACH BOYS JUST AS MUCH AS I DO. I DON'T HAVE ACNE ANY MORE. NOW I USE WRINKLE CREAM. ( BY THE WAY, IF BOOMERS ARE MAKING AS MUCH OF AN IMPACT ON SOCIETY AS THEY SAY WE ARE, WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE INVENT CREAM THAT WILL PUT WRINKLES IN WHILE YOU SLEEP?) I DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE RUBBER BANDS ON MY BRACES POPPING OUT ANY MORE. NOW IT'S MY TEETH THAT POP OUT. I KNOW NOW THAT SPIKED HAIR AND PIERCED NOSES ARE JUST FADS AND DON'T MIRROR THE SOUL ANY MORE THAT MY ORANGE FISHNET STOCKINGS MADE ME A LOVE GODDESS.
I HAVE STUDIED THE EFFECT THAT MARIJUANA HAS ON THE BODY AND MUCH PREFER DARK CHOCOLATE. I NEVER DID LSD. AND PREMARITAL SEX? THAT'S WHERE MANY OF OUR FOSTER KIDS CAME FROM.

I WEATHERED THOSE AND ALL THE YEARS IN BETWEEN THEN AND NOW. I SURVIVED, AND I AM IN PRETTY GOOD SHAPE, IF YOU DON'T COUNT THE BULGES WHERE MY PANTY LINE SQUEEZES MY THIGHS. I KNOW STUFF. STUFF THAT IS VALUABLE TO KIDS AND TO YOUNG PARENTS WHO WATCH THE WAY I HANDLE SMALL EMERGENCIES AND BIG DRAMAS. AND EVERYBODY DIES. SOMEDAY.
BUT FOR NOW, I HAVE A LOT TO LIVE FOR. I AM A LEGITIMATE ANTIQUE. AND AN ODDITY. I HAVE KIDS YOUNGER THAN MY CHILDREN DO.
SO, I THINK--WHILE MY HAIR IS DRYING--I WILL LISTEN TO SOME MORE TUNES AND PLAY A LITTLE DONKEY KONG. REMEMBER? CLICK ON THE WORDS, AND JOIN ME.

DONKEY KONG

REPAIRING MY REMEMBERER

2006-06-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

I AM RECOVERING FROM A WEDDING. WE HAD THE WING-DING SATURDAY, AND I'M TIRED. I DON'T REMEMBER BEING THIS TIRED AFTER THE LAST DAUGHTER'S WEDDING AND I KNOW WHY THIS ONE IS AFFECTING ME DIFFERENTLY. IT ISN'T THAT I AM OLDER, THOUGH I AM. IT ISN'T EVEN THAT THIS WAS THE LAST DAUGHTER'S WEDDING. I HAVE TWO SONS AND MORE GRANDDAUGHTERS THAN I CAN RECALL RIGHT NOW. THEY ALL WILL PROBABLY HAVE WEDDINGS.
NO, THE PROBLEM IS THAT I HAD TOO MUCH HELP WITH THIS ONE. TOO MANY UNANSWERED QUESTIONS. TOO MUCH UNCERTAINTY. THAT TIRES ME OUT.
THE SAME IS TRUE OF MY FOSTER PARENTING. OF COURSE, ANYONE WHO DEALS WITH KIDS KNOWS THAT YOU CAN NEVER ANTICIPATE EVERYTHING, AND BEING SPONTANEOUS IS IMPORTANT TO STAY YOUNG. BUT CONTROL IS IMPORTANT TO STAY SANE.
THE GROOM'S SIDE OF THE FAMILY WANTED TO HELP WITH THE RECEPTION AND I HAD NO CONTROL OVER WHEN AND HOW THE FOOD WOULD GET TO THE PARK WHERE THE RECEPTION WAS HELD. THE WEATHER WAS "IFFY" AND I DIDN'T FEEL I COULD MAKE THE DECISION TO MOVE THE PARTY TO THE CHURCH.
I NEED CONTROL!!!!!!
I'VE LEARNED, WITH MY FOSTER KIDS, TO THINK THROUGH THE MAJOR ISSUES OF SITUATIONS BEFORE I FACE THEM. I ANTICIPATE THE UNEXPECTED MIGHT HAPPEN AND PREPARE FOR THE EVENTUALITY. I MAKE LISTS SO I WON'T FORGET THINGS AND I PUT THE LISTS IN PLAIN SIGHT. ( I ONCE PUT SOME RENEWAL PRESCRIPTIONS AWAY IN A CABINET SO I WOULDN'T LOSE THEM AND DIDN'T FIND THEM UNTIL THE LAST PILL WAS GIVEN. ) I KEEP IBUPROFIN IN MY PURSE ALONG WITH TUMS, ETC.
I GUESS WHAT I'M SAYING IS THAT I COMPENSATE FOR DIMINISHED STAMINA AND MEMORY ( AND ARTHRITIS) BY PLANNING AHEAD. I SAW THIS ARTICLE ( AUTHOR UNNAMED) THAT DESCIRBES-IN A NUTSHELL--MY PREDICAMENT AS AN OLDER PARENT. I'LL BET YOU CAN IDENTIFY WITH IT!
I decided to wash my car. As I start toward the garage, I notice that there is mail on the hall table. I decide to go through the mail before I wash the car. I lay my car keys down on the table, put the junk mail in the trash can under the table, and notice that the trash can is full.So I decide to put the bills back on the table and take out the trash first. But then I think, since I'm going to be near the mailbox when I take out the trash anyway, I may as well pay the bills first.
I take out my checkbook that is on the table, and see that there is only one check left. My extra checks are in my desk in the den, so I go to my desk where I find the bottle of soda that I had been drinking.I'm going to look for my checks, but first I need to push the soda aside so that I don't accidentally knock it over.
I see that the soda is getting warm, and I decide I should put it in the refrigerator to keep it cold. As I head toward the kitchen with the soda, a vase of flowers on the counter catches my eye--they need to be watered. I set the soda down on the counter, and I discover my reading glasses that I've been searching for all morning.
I decide I better put them back on my desk, but first I'm going to water the flowers. I set the glasses back down onthe counter, fill a container with water and suddenly I spot the TV remote. Someone left it on the kitchen table.I realize that tonight when we go to watch TV, we will be looking for the remote, but nobody will remember that it's on the kitchen table, so I decide to put it back in the den where it belongs, but first I'll water the flowers. I splash some water on the flowers, but most of it spills on the floor. So, I set the remote back down on the table, get some towels and wipe up the spill.Then I head down the hall trying to remember what I was planning to do. At the end of the day, the car isn't washed, the bills aren't paid, there is a warm bottle of soda sitting on the counter, the flowers aren't watered, there is still only one check in my checkbook, I can't find the remote, I can't find my glasses, and I don't remember what I did with the car keys.Then when I try to figure out why nothing got done today,I'm really baffled because I know I was busy all day long, and I'm really tired. I realize this is a serious problem, and I'll try to get some help for it, but first I'll check my e-mail.

SOUND LIKE YOU?? MAYBE NOT, BUT--REST ASURED--IT IS ME TO A TEE. ANYWAY, I GOT THIS TIDBIT FROM A GREAT SITE FOR OLDER PARENTS--http://www.getorganizednow.com

LOTS OF TIPS ON ORGANIZATION FOR KEEPING UP A HOUSE, REMOVING STAINS, ETC.
I AM GOING TO END FOR TODAY--I NEED TO FIND A LIST I MADE OF THINGS I WAS GOING TO ACCOMPLISH YESTERDAY.

Too Pooped To Parent?

2006-06-06T06:17:00.000-07:00

It happened again.
The eight-year-old wanted to go on the roller coaster one more time. I didn't.
I knew, if I did, my insides would slip past my partial bridge and slide right onto my lap.
I knew that my knees would buckle as I crawled out of that snug little coaster car and I would crumple to the rails underneath.
So there he stood--huge brown eyes just beginning to swim in tears.
What else could I do? I crawled onto the ride. 90 seconds later, when I got off, my knees didn't buckle. They'd been bolstered by my large intestine, which had somehow twisted itself around my left leg.
"Did you and Grandma have fun?" the ride operator asked.
Fun. Yes, at 9:00 that morning, I had been having fun. Silver Dollar City, in Branson Missouri, is a great place. Full of steep hills. And heat. And humidity. Five rides after the coaster, I was beginning to fade.
See, kids' bodies come equipped with stamina as standard equipment.
Thirty-year-olds get it as an option--provided they're willing to spend the extra time in the gym it takes.
For fifty-somethings, stamina is a pleasant surprise--capricious in its comings and goings.
I go to the fitness center. And--for my age-- I do all right. I don't even need a fan on me--the flapping of the skin under my arms generates quite a nice breeze.
But being the fifty-seven year old parent of a young child is a challenge.
Getting enough sleep helps. When we get older, that can be hard. Nature beckons at 2:00 am and we trudge to the bathroom, then get a drink on the way back. How crazy is that? But we can train our bodies to sleep. First, we need to remember that the bedroom is a place to sleep, not watch TV or play ( with one exception.) We need to condition our minds to that: Bedroom = sleep. Second, avoid drinking anything two hours or less before retiring. Remember: A toddy at ten brings a tinkle at two. Third, keep your bedroom cool--no more than 68 degrees. Fourth, keep your bedroom dark. And if you absolutely cannot sleep, get up. Watch a boring TV show. Play solitaire--alone. There are more tips on my website http://www.lifeplusone.net
Using mentors is a great way to let your child be active without killing yourself in the process. We get our kids ( foster and adopted) involved in all kinds of activities--school clubs, summer rec, cheer leading, pee-wee wrestling, scouts, almost anything they're interested in. And each activity has adult leaders. Translate: MENTORS. We try to give a little something extra to the group--financial support, providing snacks, offering to mail out schedules--and the leaders take a greater interest in our kids. It's a win-win thing.
Keeping up with your meds, diet and exercise. Do NOT sacrifice taking the time to check your blood sugar or swallow your medications. Don't be tempted to think your body will thrive on the same diet your nine-year-old eats. Hot dogs are not fiber. AND a day without fiber is like a day without --well, you get the idea.
There are more ideas on the web site.
But, I was telling you about my vacation--sort of.
We just got back from Missouri. Branson is the greatest vacation spot in the world for families. It has just about every activity under the sun, for adults and kids, and it costs a lot less than Disneyworld.
There are miniature golf courses and go-carts, amusement parks and hiking. Para-sailing and boating is available at scads of marinas. Then, there are comedy and music shows--most tailored to hold the interest of all age groups.
There is a new attraction: The Titanic Museum. You buy your ticket to the huge ship-shaped building and get a boarding pass with the name of a Titanic passenger. At the end of the tour, you find out whether your passenger lived or died. Cool. huh?
There is shopping and ice cream stands and antique-looking cars to rent to drive the winding streets. There is a fish hatchery to tour ( for free) and the mansion of a famous nineteenth century artist ( Rose O'Neil, the woman who originated the Cupie Doll) to explore.
Branson is probably my favorite place in the world.
So, back to my roller coaster ride.
I climbed off and tried to get to the exit without looking like a doddering old woman having a stroke. I wanted desperately to look cool. It helped that my eight-year-old adopted son is big. He pulled me up the wooden walkway.
As I made my way through the crowd exiting the ride, I saw a lot of young people with forced, blue-lipped grins on green faces. Motion sickness. They were sauntering, best as they could on wobbly legs, vowing to ride again. Bravado, that's what it was. Silly. That's one thing I have found out as an older parent--I don't have to prove anything to anyone. But I want to--desperately. I don't want to shortchange my kids. Sure, I know there are lots of things I can give them that a younger parent couldn't. Yes, I understand that --at the very least--I have given my adopted kids a forever home. But I don't want them to be ashamed of having an older parent.
"Did you and Grandma have a good time?" the ride attendant asked.
"She's not my grandma," my eight-year-old said. "She's my mom."
I felt the hot tears welling as I gave him a squeeze. Then, I grabbed one of those green-faced, grinning kids getting off the coaster after a solo ride and asked,
"Will you go on the ride one more time with my child? I would go with him, but I want to take pictures from the observation deck. "

Meet the Beyonder Queen

2006-05-27T07:28:00.000-07:00

I am the Beyonder Queen.

You are my subjects.

Tax notices go out next week.

I am a foster parent--have been for six years. Impressed? Wait, there's more. I am in my fifties. AND we've adopted three of the twenty-five kids who have come through our home. I am now waiting for a collective "WOW."

Along the way, I've discovered a few things about fostering as an older parent--things that make my job a little easier. That's what I want to share in this blog. Resources, tips and bang-your-head-against-the-wall frustrations.

There will be about a week's lag in posts to this blog while I collect my thoughts and wait for my Metimucil to work. AND, if you don't believe that humor has a place in foster care, this isn't the blog for you. If you like, have a peek at my web sites: http://agoodread.bravehost.com/ and http://www.lifeplusone.net/

I have written a list of ten rules to give my children ( adopted and foster) to help them adjust to having an older parent. This is one of the few times my blog will address kids' problems. I want to help the adults. The REAL adults. The people 50 and Beyond. You know who you are.

1) GERITOL IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE SUBSTITUTE FOR PANCAKE SYRUP. I KNOW IT IS UNFAIR, BUT THE FACT IS THAT THE REVERSE WORKS FOR US...THE USE OF A LOT OF PANCAKE SYRUP MAY WORK MUCH LIKE THE GERITOL.

2) WE REMEMBER WHEN THERE WERE NO VIDEO GAMES AND WE BELIEVE YOU WILL SURVIVE US DELETING THE 35,000 FILES THAT YOUR VIRTUAL BATTLE GAME HAS INSTALLED ON OUR COMPUTER.

3) THE FACT THAT WE CAN'T CATCH YOU IS A FALSE SECURITY. WE DON'T HAVE TO CATCH YOU. WE DON'T EVEN HAVE TO RUN AFTER YOU. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

4) YOUR ROOMS ARE UPSTAIRS. DON'T MAKE US COME UP THERE. AS A MATTER OF FACT, DON'T MAKE US EVEN BEND OVER. WE CAN'T BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONSEQUENCES.

5) YOU MAY HAVE ONLY ONE SODA A DAY. I DON'T CARE IF YOU THINK IT IS UNFAIR THAT OUR SODAS ARE UNLIMITED. LOOK AT OUR BODIES. WE HAVE ALREADY RUINED THEM. LOOK AT OUR TEETH--THEY COME OUT.

6) YOUR FRIENDS ARE WELCOME AT YOUR HOUSE. AS LONG AS THEY DON'T SCREAM. WE HATE SCREAMING. WE EVEN HATE LOUD BREATHING.

7) WE INCLUDE, WITH THE CLASSICS, RE-RUNS OF GUNSMOKE AND BONANZA. YOU WILL BE REQUIRED TO WATCH THEM. THERE WILL BE A TEST.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO WATCH RE-RUNS OF tHE MONKEES. WE ARE OLD--NOT INSANE.

9) HAMBURGERS AND PIZZA MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY SALAD. GREEN SALAD. WITH LETTUCE.

10) THERE ARE MORE RULES, BUT I DON'T REMEMBER WHAT THEY WERE.