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
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
ETHICS? WHERE?
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.
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.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Twas the day after Christmas...
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!"
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!"
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
HEY KID! YOU CAN'T WEAR PJ'S TO SCHOOL UNTIL YOU CAN SPELL PAJAMAS AND USE IT IN A SENTENCE.
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....
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....
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Poem For A Moment of Self-Pity
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.
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.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Christmas Thoughts
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Death By Hot Tub
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?
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?
Monday, December 06, 2010
Merry Christmas, Deadbeat.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Ruffled Feathers on the Holiday Goose or how I learned to quit struggling and embrace the ignorance of the ACLU
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."
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."
Monday, November 29, 2010
YOUR TAX MONEY AT WORK!
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.
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.
Friday, November 26, 2010
The Reason I Don't Do "Black Friday."
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Just a Thought
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.
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.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Electric thoughts
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."
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."
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
"It's No Vacation For Me
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.
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.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Ozark Country Christmas
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.
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.
Friday, November 30, 2007
UN-CREATING THE MONSTER
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
FOSTER BASHING
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.
Monday, November 12, 2007
FREAKED
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.
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.
Friday, November 09, 2007
LOW LIFE SELFISH PIG
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.
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.
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