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.
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
R-E-S-P-E-C-T this is what it means to me
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.
"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.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
HALLOWEEN HOWLING
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
BACK AGAIN
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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.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
SAD TIMES
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.
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.
Friday, August 18, 2006
SCHOOL'S IN!
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------
Sunday, August 06, 2006
COMMON SENSE? THE WAY THINGS WERE
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.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Batter Up
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.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
I Feel Old---Real Old.
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.
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