janeswritingaddiction

Politics and Lies

2008-10-27T14:21:00.000-07:00

I really try not to get too involved in politics. I find it depressing. However, as a member of the despised media (everyone hates us), I'm getting more involved than I ever wanted to be. And I'm coming to a conclusion here: none of these turkeys is worth spitting on. It doesn't matter what side of the fence they sit on. I don't care. Right, left; conservative, liberal. Doesn't matter. They all say nasty things about each other, and neither side can come up with any solutions worth two cents. Same old answers, just different mouths spouting the "solutions."

We're getting all kinds of garbage-worthy, cringe-inducing e-mails about the elections. The Republicans stole the 2000 election and Barack Obama is a radical Muslim terrorist. Let me bang my head against the wall. Here's the deal, folks: the Republicans didn't steal a doggone thing and Obama is not a terrorist. Both are lies, pure and simple.

You know, Florida screwed up in 2000. If Alabama had the money to install and use optical scanners, Florida sure to heck did. Optical scanners tend to eliminate a lot of problems. It was 2000 and Florida was using a balloting procedure obsolete in 1980. They screwed up. Not the GOP, not Bush, not Jeb Bush-- the state of Florida. O.K.? It was their habit of keeping their collective heads stuck in their pristine sands that created this problem. Only a total idiot wouldn't have foreseen the potential landmine inherent in the "butterfly ballot" system. The state of Florida messed up. That's life and you deal with it. A mistake is one thing: at least all the people who voted in Florida were actually ALIVE at the time. Unlike the mess in Illinois in 1960 during the Kennedy election. Now there was some serious, intentional voter fraud for you.

Barack Obama is neither a Muslim nor a terrorist. Quit reading those STUPID e-mails that have all this "proof." It's crap. If you believe it, you've got rocks in your head. And here's a reminder: it isn't against the law to be a Muslim, and there's nothing in the Constitution that says a Muslim cannot be president of this country. So get that clearly in mind.

If you want to disagree with Obama, do it on the issues. Talk about his voting record in the Senate, his economic plans if elected, his stance on the war in Iraq. These are real issues. Trying to crucify the man on his supposed religious beliefs and his "radical" friends is stupid. I don't remember people criticizing the Clintons when Bill was elected because they were all cozy-wozy with all those Hollywood types. Not until later, that is. And some of those Hollywood crazies are way, way more radical and a lot scarier than anyone Obama has called a friend.

I'm afraid the trouble is largely that so few people go into politics because they are interested in public service. No one can put "statesman" on a resume' any longer. Statesmen, by and large, no longer exist. Most people seem to go into politics because of the potential for personal gain. They don't seem to be too interested in serving -- just in being a great high mucky-muck. There are a few exceptions. There are members of Congress, whose names will not be long remembered, who served because they actually wanted to make a contribution. God bless those men and women.

I'll hold my nose and vote. I usually do. But I maintain most of the ones running still aren't worth spitting on. And I'm sick of watching them spit on each other.

Communion Matters

2008-03-13T10:01:00.000-07:00

Communion. The Lord's Supper. The Eucharist. Called by many names, this Christian ritual is found in nearly every Christian denomination. It commemorates the last supper Jesus Christ had with his disciples and is usually considered the holiest time of any service where it occurs. Communion is a time of reflection, of examination of conscience, of coming into the intimate presence of God.

Communion also reminds Christians of what price was paid for our salvation. We remember Christ died that we might have eternal life, and know forgiveness from our sins. "He died once, for all, that we might have life and have it more abundantly." The true nature of Communion was brought home to me a couple of weeks ago when we celebrated the service at church.

In our church, we go to the altar rail and kneel (those who can) and receive the elements. The minister dismisses us with a blessing and we resume our seats as the next group goes up. One of the ladies in our church is suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. She is still mobile and comes to church most Sundays, although she rarely recognizes anyone any longer. Her devoted husband is her primary caregiver and is always with her.

During the service, I saw the couple standing at the altar rail and my eyes filled with tears. The husband took his bread from the plate, ate it, and then took a piece for his wife, and so gently, fed it to her. He did the same thing with the wine. He took his cup, drank, and then held another cup to his wife's lips so she could drink.

He did not merely do his wife a kindness, in helping her participate in a familiar ritual. No, he helped his wife participate in the salvation that also includes those who no longer remember what Communion is all about. He loved her enough to help her make her slow, unsteady way to the altar, to receive the gift of Communion, to help her participate in an act of grace. This grace is still extended to her, even if she no longer realizes it.

That small scene encompassed so much of what Christianity is all about: it's universal accessibility, it's emphasis on loving one another, on sharing each other's burdens, on the availability of grace to all who are willing to receive it. I have to believe the Lord may have dropped a tear as He looked on this act, and the sweet love that enabled it.

In our hurry of the everyday, we may overlook many small gifts of grace. I'm so thankful the Lord allowed me to witness such a grace-filled moment as this. I was blessed by it.

Honor and character

2007-12-01T12:28:00.001-08:00

In Alabama, football is something of a religion. There are great traditions at both major universities. Personally, I root for the Alabama Crimson Tide. Of course, we had Bear Bryant at the University for all those years, bringing home national and conference titles. It's a grand football tradition. However, as storied as Alabama football may be, it suffers from many of the ills plaguing big-time NCAA. In recent years, Alabama has been placed under NCAA sanctions, has lost scholarships and bowl privileges. They have had problems this season with players engaging in less than ethical, and bordering on illegal, conduct. Coach Nick Saban has been faced with a group of young thugs on his team. But this situation is endemic as Division I schools find themselves the farm teams for the NFL. And the character doesn't get much better in the NFL, either. Just read the headlines about player conduct.

But the news is not all grim where college football is concerned. Although I didn't attend a service academy, I usually manage to catch some of the Army-Navy game every year. Daddy was in the Army and always pulled for the Cadets. I like to see Army win, but it's such a joy to see those young men play the game. You don't see calls for unsportsmanlike conduct or hear trash-talking against the other team. People don't get service academy appointments for being good players. They get the appointments for having sterling character. And it shows in every game.

Army, unfortunately, received a sound thrashing from the Midshipmen. However, there were no fights after the game, either on the field or in the stands. Players from both teams congratulated each other like gentlemen. The Navy MVP didn't toot his own horn, even though he ran a kickoff back for 98 yards for a touchdown. He talked about the help he got from his teammates, and how hard Army played.

At the end of the Army-Navy game, the bands play each team's alma mater. As each team's alma mater played, both teams stood at attention, as did the spectators. The heartwarming highlight ws when MVP Reggie Campell stood on the drum major's stand and conducted the Navy band in their alma mater.

Annapolis and West Point are not farm teams for the NFL. As one of the announcers said, there were no signing bonuses to be considered, no endorsements, no big contracts. These young men were playing for the honor of their respective academies. And every one of them who graduates will be commissioned as an officer in the armed forces -- during wartime. Some may go on to the pros after their service commitment, but these days, that's not likely. More likely, these young men will go on to success in their chosen careers, military or civilian.

As I watched the teams stand at attention for their alma maters, congratulate their opponents and be gracious in victory and in loss, I felt tremendous pride for those players, who will be defending their country in just a short while. They are choosing to commit four years to the service of their country, in war and peace.

I also felt disgust. I was seriously annoyed that my football team, the Alabama Crimson Tide, cannot muster the quality of character as seen at these service academies. Not that there aren't players with character at Alabama. But there does seem to be a preponderance of little hoodlums in the lineup.

It would be nice if Nick Saban got the support from the university and the alumni association, and could bench the thugs, he might have more success as far as discipline goes. But he might not win so many football games, and that's just not an option.

When Alabama and other Division I schools start taking some lessons from our service academies, NCAA football will regain some of its polish and prestige. Right now, all the honor is on Army and Navy.

Just a Snack

2007-11-26T14:35:00.000-08:00

Peanut butter on cheese crackers. It's a favorite snack that dates back to my childhood.

A pack of crackers was about the cheapest snack going when I was little, and when we went somewhere, it was usually on the cheap. We weren't a wealthy family. Then, we could get a can of Coke for 50 cents, and a pack of crackers for a quarter. So, when my sister and I went with Daddy somewhere, we could all get a Coke and a pack of crackers for about $2.50. And usually, someone would get peanut butter on cheese crackers. We all tended to get something different, so we could trade a cracker for 2 chips, for instance, or a cheese on wheat cracker for a peanut butter one.

Going somewhere with Daddy was always something of an adventure. We could be certain we wouldn't return the same way we got there. "Going somewhere" in the summer might mean going to the Bank of Lexington when Daddy deposited his check, or it might mean a trip to Athens, and consequently, to my aunt's house, also a good thing. On some rare occasions, it meant hitting salvage yards in the area to look for a part for a car.

In the fall or spring, particularly, "going somewhere" often meant a trip to Blount County. I've been awakened on a beautiful spring or fall weekend morning with the words, "Come on girls. It's a good day to go to Blount County." My paternal grandmother grew up here, and several of her sisters still lived in the Oneonta area. Daddy loved his aunts and always felt it a pleasant duty to go see them a few times a year. Depending on who was home, we would go see Aunt Annie, Aunt Matie, Aunt Lulamae, Aunt Allie and Aunt Willie. Going around Christmas almost always meant an offer of German Chocolate cake from Aunt Lulamae. Hers were delicious.

I think I need to mention a little more about Aunt Willie, here. She had many nieces and nephews, but Daddy was one of her favorites, for sure. Why? Well, she was very close to my grandmother, and saw a lot of Daddy his whole life. Also, he was faithful about coming to see her. That means a lot to older people. Who comes to see them? Who remembers them? Daddy always remembered Aunt Willie. She remembered him, too. You never got out of Aunt Willie's house without having a snack. She wouldn't hear of anyone leaving her home without eating. Consequently, she always kept a package of diabetic cookies in her kitchen, just for Daddy when he came by. She knew he had diabetes and wanted to be able to offer him something he could enjoy.

Years later, my sister and I were in Oneonta for a cousin's wedding. We were worn out, and didn't want to make the drive back home that night. The hotel was full (of wedding guests) and a call to another cousin gave us the idea of calling Aunt Willie and asking her if we might stay the night with her. "She will be thrilled," Jeanette said. She was, indeed. She also had been to the wedding, and was tickled to have someone to talk it over with. She was overjoyed to share her hospitality.

I will never forget her coming into my bedroom that night, checking on me, and on my sister, as well, as though we were her own children. She also cooked breakfast for us the next morning. All this, and well past 80 years old. But nothing could have pleased her more. I told Jeanette later I felt we might have been imposing, but she said, "No, no. Willie talked about your visit for weeks. She was just tickled you thought to call her." It was such a small thing, but I am grateful it brought her such joy.

After my sister went to college, Daddy and I drove to Madison to school every morning, and to Florence on weekends. Peanut butter on cheese crackers figured in many of these trips. We talked of the news of the day, of history, of books we had both read, of the Lord, of living the Christian faith daily. Those days and hours in the car with Daddy are beautiful and blessed in my mind.

I grab that humble package now and always think of Daddy.

Knowing too much

2007-09-25T09:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, the miracles of modern medicine means your doc can know a little too much about you. I like my doctor and had to do the yearly physical thing. Her verdict? "Well, we're to the point that, if you want to stay on birth control, I'll have to give you something for your blood pressure." See, I've been flirting with hypertension for years. Yeah, a risk of being fat. Tell me something I didn't know. Also my overly stressful job. See some older posts for a picture.

Soooo, I'll get my scrip filled, take it dutifully and look at diets for high blood pressure. Let's see. For optimal health, I need to avoid: alcohol, chocolate, sugar, salt, butter, meat, fat, pasta, breads, ad infinitum. Which leaves me with a lettuce and broccoli salad with grapes and cashews on top. Yay. Of course, then there's the studies that suggest extremely low-fat diets are not healthy, either, when controlling hypertension.

I have come to the conclusion no one knows what we really should eat and should avoid. Years ago, if you had heart disease, you were supposed to avoid eggs like the plague, because of the cholesterol content. Nowadays, eggs aren't off limits, because they contain "good" cholesterol. Red wine ostensibly can help heart patients, but docs say don't start drinking it if you don't already drink. Huh?

My main goal right now is to get the junk food out of my diet. In years past, I didn't eat that much. However, the past couple of years, I've eaten way more of it than I ever have, probably. I'll try to eat more fruits and vegetables. I don't salt my food that much, so that's not such a problem, but I'll have to watch the sodium content of any soup or other food I buy that I don't make. I've resolved I'll exercise more. I got out of that habit when Mama broke her hip and running back and forth to the nursing home all the time left me too worn out to do much of anything.

All my life, all I've ever wanted is to be slender. And all my life, all I've ever been is fat. It's very difficult to accept yourself and love yourself when the world around you vilifies you for being what you are. I've dieted, exercised until I could barely crawl up the stairs, gone to support groups-- you name it. And still I'm fat. People see the obese as lazy, weak-willed, stupid, ignorant, neglectful--and in some cases, that's true. It's also true of slender people. I've spent my entire life in self-loathing because I don't look like the fashion magazines. I despise myself and the way I look. I avoid mirrors and never allow my picture to be taken, if I can help it. I wish the greatest compliment in the world someone could pay me was NOT, "Wow! You look like you've lost weight!" I live and die by my weight, which is why I rarely step on a scale. I can't stand it. It's just too painful to work out, eat right and do everything I can, and see that stupid needle on the scale hardly budge.

And when people think they are doing me some kind of favor by pointing out my obesity, or by letting me know Weight Watchers is available, well thanks. I know I'm fat and I know a lot of people have a lot of success in Weight Watchers. And if I made about $10 more an hour, maybe I could afford to go. As it is, I'm pretty much on my own in this venture. I've considered lap-band surgery, but I don't know.

If anyone reads this, say a prayer for me. I need it. I still believe in God's good purpose in my life. I just need a little miracle, right now.

When evil comes to town, love must respond...

2007-09-16T15:42:00.000-07:00

I've seen ignorance up close. I've seen anger, grief and addiction. I don't know that I'd ever seen pure evil any closer than I did yesterday. I was part of a peaceful protest against a KKK rally in the town were I went to college.

Some may think, "She's from the South. A KKK rally is a big deal?" Well, yes. Things have changed in the past 40 years. Klan activity is not nearly as prevalent as it used to be, thank the Lord. There have been some rallies in Pulaski, Tenn., but nothing around here. Until, citing their right to free speech, a KKK group from Indiana got a permit from Athens. Their permit was granted--under duress-- and they came to town.

It's an interesting side note they wanted to hold their "anti-immigration rally" at the same time police were needed a mile away to control traffic for bikers coming through for the annual Trail of Tears ride. That, fortunately, was denied them. They stood on the steps of City Hall and yowled for an hour or so. Seeing this on television, reading it in the newspaper is a whole different experience than seeing it in a town I have visited all my life. Even on television, there's a disconnect. In person, it becomes very real and immediate.

My part was to participate in the Silent Witness of Love counter-protest. This was put together by the rector of the Episcopal Church in Athens. Rev. Lucas is a trained nonviolent protester and decided, along with several other churches, that Christians could not, must not, ignore this. It was next door--20 yards from the front door of the Methodist Church!

Our methods, however, were a little different. We held up yellow signs with "Love" written on them. We remained absolutely silent during the rally. We did not engage Klan members or supporters. We just stood across the street and held up our signs.

My "rubber meets the road" moment, and that of my husband, came when we were standing with about 20 other protesters on the front lawn of the Methodist Church. We had our signs and were just waiting for the rally to begin. Then, coming across the street, walked about eight Klansmen--one in a red robe and pointed hood. When they stepped on the sidewalk on church property, we all held up our signs. We did not say a word as they walked through our group. The senior pastor at the church civilly informed them they were on private property. Their excuse was they thought the church was City Hall, not the unimpressive brick building next door.

I know that isn't why they did what they did. They were hoping to engage us. They wanted to start something at that moment. They saw our signs and yelled, "We love, too! We love our white children!" None of us said a word, but I know we were all apprehensive. We certainly weren't armed, but it's a safe bet they were. Fortunately, two police officers arrived about then to escort them to city hall.

There were 40 or so of us who anchored the street corners at the beginning. We felt a little exposed, but stood our ground. The KKK spewed their hate and venom to a curious, if not supportive, crowd and they had the momentum on their side, it seemed.

Then, the cavalry arrived. The Episcopal rector led the crowd from his church, a little farther away. He had a large sign and at least 100 people marched silently behind him, carrying their signs. My heart lifted. As the crowd saw them, they broke out into applause. Those of us on the sidewalk fell in behind them and ringed the crowd with our signs, still silent. Television cameras were everywhere, and they caught the solid mass of people, holding up signs saying "Love." It was quite a sight. We outnumbered Klan members at least 3 to 1, if not more.

We didn't speak or respond to their hatred. We just met them with a solid wall of love. We fell back to the Methodist Church, at the police's request, but still were very visible to the KKK.

It was a victory for the Lord, because we met in His name, and in the right way, with the right motives. We upheld our commitment to complete nonviolence.

But those KKK members still walk in such grim darkness. They are so consumed with hate. God's grace is available to them, too. If you read this, pray for them. Pray with me that the love of God will displace the hate in their hearts, and His Spirit will overcome their darkness. I pray God's grace will intervene in their lives.

One Angry Woman

2007-06-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

The Lord is teaching me a lesson in forgiveness this week. It's a lesson I struggle with frequently, and I'm learning it all over again.
In the grand scheme of things, what my boss did to me last week is small potatoes. It doesn't even rank with those who have suffered violence in their families or who are facing the death of a loved one from a terminal disease. I really try to look at it in those terms.

Of course, being tortured by constant pin pricks isn't pleasant, either.

I've talked about my boss before in my blog. He's an expert at making people miserable, and that's really sad. Trouble is, he just seems oblivious to it. Well, sometimes. Sometimes, his enjoyment is apparent. I'm not sure which is worse, honestly.

So a few weeks ago, our controller went around asking people if they wanted new chairs. This is a pretty big deal, considering the last wholesale purchase of chairs for the newsroom was in about 1994 or so. Seriously. A few people have had new chairs since then, but the majority have been sitting in the 1994 models.
We have two great office chairs at home. I love them. They also cost $20 less than the ones the controller was looking at. So, I asked the controller if I could have one like that. He said yes and ordered one for me. Early one morning before I got to work, the maintenance guy was putting my new chair together for me. My boss comes out of his office, sees this and says, "What the $%^& are you doing?"
When the guy told my boss he was putting together my new chair, bossman said, "Well stop. Send it back. I want all the chairs in this newsroom to MATCH!" Match. We have 40 people in that newsroom, of all shapes and sizes. "Match," he says.

Soooo, the new chairs arrive. The chairs, incidentally, meant for guys who are at least four inches taller than I. This means their backs are oriented differently. Well, the lumbar support in those chairs hits right around my shoulder blades. There's about a four-inch gap between my lumbar and the back of the chair, even when I'm sitting perfectly straight in them. My back was aching so after a couple of hours in the new chair, I said, "Forget this. I'm going back to my old chair." So I did. Bossman was distinctly not happy that I had so spurned the company's generosity in providing me with a chair I should have obviously been tickled with. It bears mentioning his chair doesn't match anyone else's, either in style or color. The office store guys brought in about 20 for him to try before he was satisfied. Naturally, the rest of us didn't have that opportunity.

But I had another chance to be a total ingrate that morning when I told bossman I wasn't interested in his offer of the company footing the bill for me to "participate in a fitness program" and have the paper cover my "progress." Yep, that's me: "The Biggest Loser." He said, "But you could be a STAR!" Um, yeah. Those who know me understand that would be the seventh circle of hell for me.
Yes, I'm a big girl. And it just drives my fat-o-phobic boss crazy. I want to be healthy, and I'm working toward that goal. But bossman can't stand it that I'm not slim and trim like some of the other girls in the newsroom. See, he's just such a control freak, he can't swallow the concept that he can't dictate what our bodies look like. It's a constant irritant to him.
He and his equally fat-o-phobic editor wife consider obesity to be the ultimate in mortal sins. Of course, many people do. And it's wrong. Even if obesity is unhealthy, holding every woman to some unrealistic ideal of feminine beauty, and effectively taking away her civil rights because of it is evil. People come in all shapes and sizes, and all of his so-called liberal Democrat "open-mindedness" doesn't include accepting someone who doesn't meet the insurance charts' ideals. His opinions on weight are borne out in his editorials and no doubt affect others' perceptions.

So, I'm praying for daylight and for the grace to forgive. It ain't easy. But I keep on. With the Lord's help, I'll get through it.

"At the end of the tunnel, you can see the light. Well, if that ain't a train, you made it through the night." Well, Jeff or Ibby, whichever one of you wrote that lyric, you had it pegged.

I refuse to live in quiet desperation.

"How" isn't that important

2007-06-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

In this corner, evolution! And in this corner, creation! Who's going to win the prize of hearts and minds worldwide?
You know, it doesn't really matter. It's not going to change minds, and in the end, it's not important from a theological standpoint. What I'm talking about is the seemingly-unending argument on HOW the world was created. Creationists vie for their cause because they feel espousing evolution leaves a Creator God out of the equation. Evolutionists feel their cause is the only scientifically defensible one, and for many, it is far preferable to lack a Creator God. But in the final analysis, all this wrangling will not matter. I'm very familiar with the evolution theory and find nothing in it to change my mind that a Creator God was, and is, active in the process. The same goes for the Creation story, particularly since I'm an English major and I know symbolism when I see it.
I don't have issues with evolution vs. creation for one reason: I've got the WHO part straightened out. I believe in a God Who created the heavens and the earth. I have not the foggiest notion how that kind of creative power works. If it could be explained, I seriously doubt my finite brain could comprehend that kind of might. I believe He is perfectly capable of doing it in seven earth days. For that matter, He is capable of speaking a fully formed world into existence in the blink of an eye. Did His creative work that way with this earth? I don't know, and I'm fine with not knowing. I don't have to know absolutely everything to be happy.
I know I see His hand in the fact that the leatherback sea turtle comes to the same beach in Trinidad every spring to lay her eggs, which she then carefully covers with sand before she heads back into the sea. How can a creature of that order know to do that? Instinct? Surely, but how did that instinct form? At some point, I feel it had to be directed.
I see God's thumbprint in the double-helix spirals of DNA. How elegant! Isn't there something about that design that has instinctive appeal and beauty? God likes swirls. He imprinted them in our DNA and on our fingerprints. The cochleas in our ears and even our outer ears, all bear a swirl motif. Clouds swirl, wind swirls, seashells swirl. To me, the intricate designs of even the smallest leaf bear the signature of their Creator.
Only a sense of humor could have created the ostrich, the platypus, the frilled lizard, the otter. Only Someone with an innate sense of symmetry and grace could have created the cat. His knowledge of loyalty and faithfulness inspired the dog. I see my Creator in the rings on a tree stump and in the endless ocean breakers. Not only did He create a beautiful world, but He gave us the capacity to appreciate and enjoy beauty. We know He loves beauty because we love it.
How the world got here is a mystery. I believe though, with the Apostle Paul, that "now we know in part, but then we shall know in full, even as we are fully known." But I know Who created the earth, so I can live happily without understanding the How.

Cindy and Rosie and stuff

2007-05-29T08:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not crazy about the war in Iraq. I think we've done about all the good we can do there. It's time to allow the Iraqis to govern themselves--or not.
I understand those who oppose the war. I understand those who protest. This is their right as Americans. What I do not understand is Cindy Sheehan. Her son was killed in Iraq, and she started a grassroots protest of the war. Again, this was her right as an American. However, her "resignation" reported in the news today really irked me. She gave me the distinct impression that the whole U.S. government was supposed to stop in its tracks and give her everything she wanted, when she wanted it. When this did not happen, she sat down in the dust and cried like a thwarted 5-year-old. "I just won't play anymore!" Some might say she is a grieving mother. I understand that as well, but it seems to me she went a little crazy after her son was killed.
Sheehan spoke of sacrificing a 29-year marriage for her cause. I'm sorry, but rational people do not do this. I'm sure her husband is grieving the loss of his son as well, but only her grief seems to matter. Only her grief is legitimate. Sadly, thousands of mothers are grieving the loss of their children, slain in battle these past five years. But only Sheehan's grief is "real," because she's the one doing the protesting. Maybe Mr. Sheehan could have used his wife's support, but she was out protesting.
Mind you, it's not as if she doesn't make some legitimate points. Our government is a bureaucratic mess--but this is not news. The political parties are entirely too involved in fundraising to care about what their constituents are saying. No one in either party is interested in hearing much truth about anything. However, these issues are not irredeemable. Americans must be willing to examine candidates carefully and vote accordingly.
Cindy Sheehan has and had every right in the world to protest the war in Iraq. I do not deny that to her. I think it is a mark of the respect this country still gives the Bill of Rights that she is not rotting in jail somewhere. Not all countries would be as understanding. But even a grieving mother does not have the right to command the world to stop turning and bow down to her.
It is difficult to put into words my feelings about Cindy Sheehan. I don't hate her. I don't wish evil on her. On the contrary, I feel great pity for her, and for all those who have lost loved ones in this war. But in what she continually terms her "sacrifice" to make her son's death "mean something," unfortunately, I see a disturbing degree of selfishness. I've seen a lot of Cindy, but not that much about anyone else involved in her cause. The media spotlight has been trained largely on her. I have to wonder if that wasn't her intention all along.
Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. When are you going to learn that people have the right to disagree with you? When are you going to learn other people have a perfect right to their own opinions? Just because someone disagrees with you doesn't mean the person doesn't respect you.
Although I enjoyed Rosie's talk show, this always needled me where she was concerned. Rosie has a hard time accepting dissenting points of view. Those who disagree with her are automatically Republican (Boo! Hiss!), right-wing conservative (even worse!), Christian (how dare they?) and homophobic (better get the vaccine!). She has a nasty habit of even listing someone being a Christian as a reason she doesn't like them.
Again, I don't hate Rosie. I think she is funny a lot of the time, and I appreciate people who are outspoken. Do I agree with a homosexual lifestyle? No, but she didn't ask my opinion, and she doesn't live her life to suit me, does she? Of course not! I don't hold it against her.
And this brings me to another point. She must still have real issues with being a lesbian, since she constantly plays the "gay" card. People don't like her because she's gay. Well, let's see: almost everyone likes Ellen DeGeneres, and she's gay. People don't like Rosie because she's obnoxious! She's started to act a lot like the playground bully everyone hated in elementary school. "You play MY way or nobody plays at all!" She uses her outspokenness to browbeat people into acquiescence. She screams and shouts over people so her viewers will hear the only opinion that really matters: hers.
And she says she never "fit in" on The View. Well, bwess her wittle heart. She had seen the show, I'm certain, before she signed on--what did she THINK it was like? She knew who the co-stars were. And I'm sorry, but Elisabeth Hasselbeck's views represent those of many Americans, and she shouldn't be asked to compromise her feelings to make Rosie happy. You learn to accept the differing opinions of those around you, and adult people learn to discuss those viewpoints in a rational way. But Rosie has a hard time with that since, after all, her views are the only legitimate ones. I have friends whose religious and political opinions differ widely from mine. But we're still friends because we've learned to respect each other's differences.
Rosie needs a big bottle of get-over-yourself tonic. She should look at this fiasco as an opportunity for growth and change. To be accepted, one has to extend acceptance. She has a difficult time with that concept, obviously. She also needs to grow up and to learn to discuss issues like an adult, not like a bratty 13-year-old. Mostly, she needs to remember those who disgree with her are not evil. Until she learns that most important lesson, she will continue to have trouble working with anyone.
O.K. Rant over.

Before Gaylord ate Nashville

2007-04-17T23:09:00.000-07:00

I still love to go to Nashville. There's a lot I either haven't seen in years, or haven't seen at all, and I'm still rediscovering the city as an adult.
But I remember Nashville before Gaylord Entertainment moved in and took it over. The trips we made to Opryland, USA when I was a child will always feel like happy times. Those were the days when National Life Insurance owned Opryland, and was a main sponsor of the Grand Ole Opry.
I've never been to Six Flags over Georgia, but I know from what friends have told me, that it is a nice park, but it's flashy. Opryland never was flashy. It was always the most family-friendly place. Huge magnolia trees provided welcome shade. Benches were plentiful, as were restrooms, and air-conditioned venues. Opryland was one of the few parks where my dad and I could ride a majority of the rides. Both of us were (and I still am) very prone to motion-sickness, and that included anything much wilder than a merry-go-round. I probably had a higher tolerance than Daddy. I could, after all, ride the Tennessee Waltz, which were the swings that go around and out. But mostly, he and I stuck to the skyride, the wonderful train, the Tin Lizzies, bumper cars and the like.
My sister and I would ride the Little Deuce Coupe, which was a teacups ride inside a geodesic dome. The lines were short, but it was a great ride for several reasons. The dome was pitch-black inside, lit only by strobes. Sis and I were not interested in making our teacup spin in the opposite direction, so it was like a big merry-go-round, they played 50s music inside, and best of all, it was air-conditioned. Perfect for a 90-degree July day.
I remember getting Mountain Dew flavored Icees there, drinking grape juice from a plastic container shaped like a bunch of grapes, seeing some shows, watching the train go by at Grinder's Switch. Something else we could do then: my sister and I could strike out by ourselves (the two of us together), synchronize our watches and meet Mama and Daddy at a particular place and time. You can't do that now, but we felt perfectly safe.
A few weeks ago, I was in Nashville and my sister and I drove by Opry Mills Mall, which occupies the parking lot of the now-defunct Opryland. Nothing is behind the mall anymore, and it looks very desolate. Oh, there's the overpriced, overblown Opryland Hotel and plenty of businesses, and the Opry House, but no trams taking people to the gates of an amusement park, no skyride visible above the trees, no smells of popcorn, no more Carousel by the Lake, no more Flume Zoom, no more Wabash Cannonball. All since Gaylord came to town. It depressed the heck out of me.
Even downtown has gone completely tourist in the past 15 years. The Gaylord Entertainment Center squats on Broadway like an Ed Wood flying saucer concept. Everyone crams into Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, which used to be a respectable dive. There's "Legends Corner" and a neon sign over Printer's Alley. One of the few escapees from the madness is the original Ernest Tubb Record Shop. The store is still in the same building, with the same wooden floors, and the same stage in the back, where WSM broadcast "The Midnight Jamboree" for years. They still sell music, sheet music and books about music. It is a delightful place.
Sun on Second is worth a visit, too. This shop sells Sun Records memorabilia in a suitably aged building, also with wooden floors. It seems to fit nicely on Second Avenue, calling forth memories of old country and rockabilly.
Music Row is a hoot, with recording studios and publishing houses sitting cheek-by-jowl to dentist offices specializing in cosmetic dentistry. You go where your market is, I suppose. But everything on Music Row is very manicured and nicely landscaped. Then there's the naked people sculpture in the traffic circle. Lordy.
So there's some original Nashville to be found. Hang out at the White Castle on 21st Avenue to see some of it. Just don't get caught downtown when the Titans are in town. It's a nightmare.
I'll just slip off down to tony Green Hills and check out the talent at the Bluebird Cafe. Ciao, ya'll.

Computer nonsense

2007-02-21T08:55:00.000-08:00

Two words: Vista stinks. Hubby has a new laptop with Windows Vista, and aside from the onboard diagnostic tools, I can't think of anything nice to say about it.

It bears mentioning that I am not a gamer. I play the occasional game on the computer, but they are mostly of the pinball/rollercoaster tycoon types that have little in the way of combat or need for networking with other users. I generally use my computer for writing and surfing the Net. I use it for e-mail and watching old Duran Duran videos on YouTube.

When I got my new computer at work in 2005, I upgraded from 98 to XP. Although I really liked 98, XP is a good OS for my needs. Notice, I said "my needs." Other tech-heads and geeks may scoff at this idea. And for their needs, XP may not be the best thing. But it works nicely for me.

I like important features to be in the same places when I want them. Vista scatters them all over creation. As a matter of fact, I like having stability so well, that when I got my new computer, I changed all the display settings to the "Classic Windows" version. That way, I know where everything is and it looks like how it is supposed to look. I griped in an earlier blog about XP's cartoonish graphics, but even those are better than the tiny little icons on Vista. At least the user could see the cartoons!

Man, the ganja in the Microsoft offices in Seattle must be going from "Maui Wowee" to "Toledo Window Box." Those dudes are trippin', and not in a good way. For the Home Basic version of Vista, are all the security precautions REALLY that necessary? Having to click on an authorization box every 5 minutes is a productivity killer.

I read in the techie mags that the reason for all this is that MS is trying to copy the best of the MAC OS. Trouble is, I don't like Macs. I own a PC because I like PCs. I've used Macs and find them frustrating beyond words. Some people I know have called the OS "elegant." I call it "clunky." Macs are just not my favorites.

My advice to the gadget gurus in Seattle is to allow users to configure their own OS. WOW! What a concept! Without a bit of programming knowledge, we could shop for what we want. MS could offer the basic Windows, and users could then choose what features they wanted. Don't need the graphic-intensive features of Vista? Don't install it! You like the "Classic" visuals from Windows? Install them! Want a "widgets" option? Just click the box. I mean, who am I buying my computer for? Am I buying it for other gamers? People in my office? Bill Gates himself? No, friends and neighbors, I'm buying MY computer for MY use, and to meet MY individual needs! So, there are bound to be features on Vista I neither need nor want, nor do I even care about them. Call a make-your-own OS Windows Buffet, Windows Cafeteria, Do It Yourself Windows. I don't care. But it should be more open platform for 2 reasons: I might want to play older games, and second, having to upgrade software so frequently is for the birds. It goes from being good old-fashioned capitalism to being little short of coercion.

So Bill, listen up. Your new OS stinks. It's ugly. It's inefficient. I don't like it and MS laid a great big egg with this OS. Spruce up XP some more and allow us ordinary computer users to work in peace and stability!

Future revgal?

2007-02-16T14:09:00.001-08:00

A revgal, for those who are not in the know (as I wasn't a week ago), is a woman who has a vocation in the ministry. From the blogs I've seen, these vocations can range from minister to Catholic sister.
Well, much as I hate to admit it, I'm discerning that very vocation, myself. Minister of some kind, that is. I like preachers, and have no objection to women in the ministry--I just never thought I'd be one of them. In fact, I proclaimed vehemently to my parents when my sister went to seminary that I. Was. --NOT-- called to the ministry. I was going to teach college English. And I may yet. I don't know.
I talked to my pastor about it, after having the Lord poke me several times with various things, including a posting for a scholarship specifically for women over 35 who are considering a second career. I don't know if that would exactly fit me, since I never got my first career off the ground--I've just been working at the same place for 14 years.
A week ago, I went to a conference on church growth, and in looking for some feedback on that conference, ran into a blog by a woman pastor in this area. I left a comment on her blog, she left a comment here, I e-mailed her, and she said I could join the revgal ring if I wanted to. Sometimes, the Lord's sense of humor is downright mean.
There are things that don't excite me about pastoral ministry. I don't know that I could sit with parishoners at the deathbed of a loved one. Hospitals depress me and make me nervous. I admire those souls who are hospital chaplains. They are true angels of mercy.
I feel like I'm too blunt and opinionated to be very diplomatic with some difficult people. It's generally acknowledged in my family that if you don't want to know what I think, don't ask me, because I will absolutely tell you. Perhaps not in the terms I would have told you 20 years ago, but clearly and with emphasis. My dear hubby is the same way.
There are other aspects of my personality I don't feel are very compatible with pastoral ministry. I just don't know exactly what else the Lord might have in mind for me. Sometimes, I do wish His habit was to send me a note in the mailbox! E-mail, maybe? IM? It would help.
On cold days like today, it would be nice to have an appointment to the Tahiti Conference. No luck there, either.
So, I pray, I discern, I go to work in the media jungle every day. Just a-waitin' on the Lord.

Hope in Dark Days

2007-01-29T15:09:00.000-08:00

I added my condolences to a board dedicated to the memory of the racehorse Barbaro. On the board, I saw some nice tributes to the horse, some unbelievably sentimental, maudlin ones, and some comments that were completely unnecessary.

I realize some people were born to be party poopers. They've rained on parades all their lives--generally because theirs were always rained on. They are obviously sad people, and I do feel sorry for them. However, some of the comments were just nasty and incredibly bitter.

Many people voiced opinions against horse racing in general, and I can certainly understand these. I even feel these were appropriate in that forum. Then, there were the "just a dumb animal" comments, which don't deserve the dignity of a reply. The ones that made my blood boil were those implying that, with all the problems in the world today, no one should care about Barbaro. The story was of no significance whatsoever. One person went so far as to say that since he had complications from the AIDS virus, that he hoped people posted all these condolences when he was gone. I believe I mentioned the word "Bitter."

This country has had some dark times the past several years. I'm not that old, but I am older, I know, than many of those posting on those forums. Many of them have grandparents whose memories go back to right before Vietnam. Most of them don't know people who remember, or fought in World War II, to say nothing of being alive during The Great Depression. They don't even know what that was. My parents were raised during the Depression. My grandfather fought in World War I.

In dark times, people, tired of hearing news of global warming, malaria and bird flu epidemics, the razing of the rainforests and war, very often reach oout for what is positive, hopeful. This was true in the 1930s, when the frothy Busby Berkley musicals thrived. For a nickel or dime admission, people could forget their troubles for a while. They could at least imagine a world where there were no soup kitchens or apple-sellers on the corner. Screwball comedies and fantasies like "The Wizard of Oz" thrived in these years.

Barbaro's story was one that appeals to most Americans: the gallant soul fighting against the odds, and succeeding. Americans just naturally root for the underdogs. When the human heroes in sports have been arrested for drugs, fined for steroid use and charged with sexual crimes, it is natural for people to reach out for an uncorrupted hero--and animals are naturally incorruptible. What about the long-ago popularity of Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, and lately, Seabiscuit? Little boys used to dream of having a Silver or Trigger as their noble steed, and little girls read "Misty of Chincoteague," while millions have found comfort and a measure of self-worth in the love of a faithful horse.

I hope these bitter cynics never lose a pet or a loved one. Equally, I hope they never have to care for an elderly parent or other living being that has "outlived its usefulness." I doubt there were very many people who put Barbaro's welfare above other world problems, and if his owners spent more money on that horse than is often spent on humans, well, it was their money and their choice to spend it so. They didn't ask for money from other people, or from the government. Funds raised for the laminitis treatment research fund will benefit all equines, not just racehorses. I'm very aware of the world's troubles, but I checked the website for Barbaro's progress.

Admiration for a horse or other animal is a safe admiration. It cannot be corrupted by greed or crime on the animal's part. Yes, Barbaro was only a horse, just another horse in a world of horses. But his story gave people something positive to think about and focus on. Maybe it will raise awareness about the dangers of horse racing.

There are a lot of lonely people in the world. Maybe they felt part of something in rooting for that horse. Hope is a precious commodity these days, and I'm all for anything that boosters it. Those cynics can go rain on their own parades. I'm tired of hearing them clatter.

Mea maxima culpa

2007-01-26T08:47:00.000-08:00

Well, I was soooo wrong in an earlier blog. The Associated Press has reported that a Scientology great high mucky-muck has officially announced Tom Cruise is Scientology's "chosen one." He is their Christ.
My, my, my. Did I screw up or what? I simply cannot believe I have been so very wrong about this demi-god! How can I have failed to see his obvious divinity all this time? I just thought he was a good-looking guy who went looney-tunes. And all this time, he's been worthy of worship! Wow! It isn't often you get to see a real-life Messiah being proclaimed as such in your lifetime. What an honor! I am simply overcome with emotion.
You know, there's nothing like having a Messiah complex, and actually being proven right! How often does that happen? David Miscavige, the aforementioned great high mucky-muck said, "Cruise will be worshipped like Jesus all over the world as he becomes a prophet for the religion.” And he should know, right? Being the mucky-muck, and all, and former personal assistant to the great man, L. Ron Hubbard himself. So, he should recognize a messiah when he sees one.
Anyone who wants to see truly creative "religious" beliefs needs to check out Scientology on Wikipedia. It is as eye-opening as it is confusing. But I can't get into that here. No, this blog entry is specfically to apologize to Messiah Cruise for my earlier blindness.
This does bring up an interesting issue. How does one address a Messiah? He's not Jewish, so "Rabboni" or "Rabbi" doesn't work. What about "My Lord", "Your Majesty", "Your Holiness." But all those titles are simply too commonplace, too ordinary--too earthbound. No, for this new Messiah, we must bring our pitiful language skills to bear and create a brand-new title for such an exalted being: "Your Celestial Beingness" , "Your Cosmic Awareness" , "Your Inner Sanctumness." Hmmm. Somehow, they all fall far short of the magnificence that is Messiah Cruise.
There are other terms, however. What about "Wonderful, Counselor, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace"? What about "The Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end" or "King of Kings and Lord of Lords" or "The Lion of the Tribe of Judah"? All these terms are in use, of course, by the only Messiah who has ever proved worthy of the name: Jesus Christ.
I've got news for Cruise: he never told me, "Drink of the water I offer and thirst no more." He doesn't know me, doesn't number the hairs on my head, doesn't offer eternal life. Most of all, Tom Cruise never died for me. He never took my sins on his shoulders so I don't have to carry them. He's never atoned for my sins, or paid my debts that I could not pay. He doesn't answer my prayers and doesn't hear me when I cry in the night.
What Tom Cruise is, in reality, is a sad, pathetic, tragic human being, headed for a mental breakdown. As tempting, and admittedly, amusing as it is to ridicule his megalomania, I really shouldn't. This man needs prayer if a human ever did. Anyone involved with Scientology does. I hope Nicole remembers him at Mass and in her Rosary. May God have mercy on him.

Bad Day at Blackrock

2006-11-16T10:55:00.000-08:00

Bad day at Blackrock... Daddy used to say that when something went wrong, when Alabama lost a football game, when the Cubs lost, when life in general was not going well. That’s been this week for me.
When the newspaper decided on the redesign, we redid the stock market page as well. Who knew a redesign of the stock market page would change the course of Western Civilization as we know it? I guess these old people just can’t get through the day without finding out if Kapoopsie Fire and Life is up a quarter of a penny per share. And if they can’t find it, they call me and yowl about it. I guess all they have to look forward to every day is that stocks page. And if they’re not howling about the stocks, it’s that the obituaries are in a different section than they used to be. It’s not like we have an index on the front page, which lists all the features in the paper, or anything helpful.
Trouble is, the first person on the phone is obviously the person responsible for the whole mess. The irony is that I probably had less to do with the new design than anyone in the company. Doesn’t matter, though. People feel very free to scream at me, cuss at me, call me names and in general, treat me like garbage because they are disgruntled with the changes and simply must vent their ire on the person who answers the phone. I do have the option of hanging up if they start using profanity, but if not, I have to sit there and take it. Needless to say, my nerves are a little frayed from the abuse I’ve been taking from readers this week.
Then there’s my boss. He is a neat freak, with all its attendant traits. He simply cannot abide any kind of disorder in his little kingdom, a.k.a., the newsroom. Therefore, those of us who are packrats and keep less than pristine desks, drive him nuts. My desk, although undeniably cluttered, is by no means the worst in the room — not by a long shot. It does not hamper my productivity, efficiency, etc., but it’s a problem for him. No matter that I really do need to keep certain things in order to keep track of when they were published. As the boss, he has very little to do, and consequently nothing to keep track of. Therefore, he has no understanding of those of us whose efficiency relies on our paper trails.
If this issue were handled in anything like an adult manner, I could deal with it. However, the boss seems to feel that a condescending, paternalistic (to say nothing of dictatorial) attitude is the best approach. Consequently, he talks to us, adults all, as though we were wayward teens who refuse to clean our rooms. It’s an untenable situation. He feels he simply must micromanage every person on a staff of about 40, which is impossible. We would all be so much happier if we could just do our jobs.
I wish I could quit. I want to walk out right this minute. If I had any other way to pay my bills, I would. If I had another source of insurance, I would. I’d leave and never look back.
That nagging headache is back. It’s been a bad day at Blackrock.

Post-reunion musings

2006-10-22T20:59:00.000-07:00

Twenty years improves things. That kind of time gives people an opportunity to grow up, to mature. At high school reunions, it starts breaking down those old cliques, dissolves the old alliances.
As hubby and I walked down the hall to the room, I said, "I can't believe I have these kinds of butterflies." Just before I walked in, I turned to him and said, like Kate Hudson in "Almost Famous," "Well, time to put on the lampshade." That's only in the director's cut, btw.
I figured there would be a few people who would be glad to see me at my high school reunion. I never counted on as many people giving me hugs and telling me how good it was to see me. Especially thinking about the post right below this one, it was a real lift for me, considering how I felt so often in high school.
Ray's wife told me how over half of the songs on his iPod were Beatles songs. That tickled me, since Ray used to good-naturedly needle me about being a Beatles fan. Ray hasn't changed much, though. He's still one of my favorite people (and I don't say that simply because I'm sending him a link to this. It's the truth.) He told me a wonderful story about one of our classmates who had become a Christian and turned his life around. I was heartened by Travis' story, since I had wondered about him. We talked about how Tim fell off the hood of Ray's car and nearly died for that piece of idiocy. He survived, but missed six weeks of school.
Another big hug I got was from Phillip, who also hasn't changed. Phillip was another of my favorite people. We talked about sitting on those heat registers at Madison on cold mornings. The building was older, and heated by a coal-fired boiler (remember scraping soot out of our hair occasionally?) and the metal heat registers were prized seats in the morning until it got really warm. We even wrapped our cold fingers around the pipes, to warm them. Phillip asked me, "Don't you wish we could go back to high school? It was so much fun." I just grinned at him and my husband said, "Yeah, but only knowing what I know now." And yes, Phil, you did wear a gray suit to the military ball. Bless you again.
As the evening wore on and the cocktails and beer started having their effects, more people started hitting the dance floor--even the guys. I'm not much of a drinker, and I've always loved to dance, so I didn't have to drink to get out there and shimmy. Maybe we can do karaoke next time. Hehe. I'll have to get Ray to e-mail people and see all the pictures. Let's see--the ladies all had their pictures made with our very young, cute waiters. I know they were glad to see us leave so they could go home. Some were talking about going to the liquor store afterwards, and continuing the party elsewhere, but it was 12:45 a.m. by that time, and hubby and I both had to be at church the next morning. He's the organist, and I had to give a presentation about "Operation Christmas Child." Several people made a picture of the whole class, and I hope to get hold of one. I was afraid Doug was going to start crying when he hugged me at the end of the evening. He'd had a few and was obviously feeling sentimental. It was also good to talk to Jimmy, and to Frank.
I saw a few people I haven't seen in 20 years, and it was good to see them. Most remembered Daddy, and it was wonderful hearing how much they thought of him. He would have wished for no greater tribute than to have those he coached and taught tell him they knew he always cared about them.
One of the biggest surprises of the evening came when Stan, whom I once called "unutterably infantile," due to his eighth-grade behavior, told me he was president of the board of directors at his Lutheran church. Indeed, the Lord does work in mysterious ways! I was thrilled to hear it. I danced with him and think I got one of my biggest hugs from him. Twenty years does indeed improve things.
I didn't get to spend as much time with Lisa as I would have liked, but she had people to visit with as well. I was so happy to see Tonia, Tammy, Pam, Emily, Kathy, Susan, Julia, Dodie, Tricia and many other friends. Valerie is still a free spirit and it was a joy to see her. My sister asked me if there was anyone there who I couldn't stand and who still hadn't changed. I couldn't think of a soul. It was a gift.
I'm still processing all my thoughts and impressions made in about five hours one Saturday night at the Huntsville Airport. I may write more about it. I did lay some old, old ghosts to rest, finally. May they remain buried.
I am sorry for anyone who goes home from this kind of event feeling unhappy or inadequate. Our class really was a little different. With 125 people, we were smaller and most everyone knew everyone else. I hope everyone had as good a time as I did. These little rituals in our lives make them worthwhile.
I was listening to "Will the Circle Be Unbroken Volume III" by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and heard once again "There is a Time," sung by Rodney Dillard and Ricky Skaggs. Mitchell Jayne and Dillard penned the song. It struck me as peculiarly appropriate to close this post.
"Time is like a river flowing, with no regrets as it moves on. Around each bend, a shining morning, and all the friends we thought were gone. There is a time for us to wander, when time is young and so are we. The woods are greener over yonder, the path is new, the world is free."
God bless the class of 1986.

20 Years? Seriously?

2006-10-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

I've seen a couple of my classmates who have posted their blogs concerning our imminent 20th year reunion. I'm having a hard time believing it's been so long. I really don't know how that many years have passed, just that the clock and calendar ticked them away without me noticing.
I was a good student in high school. Not straight "A's", but generally. My algebra grades were dismal and almost landed me a stint in summer school. The rest weren't too bad. I simply had many other things I would have rather been doing than studying, such as keeping my nose in the book of my choice. I'm still that way, to a certain extent.
I had my circle of friends in high school, some of whom I'm still in touch with. My class was small, and perhaps, a bit more tightly-knit than others. I knew most of the people in my senior class, and was at least on friendly terms with most.
I was not popular, except for being a brainy wierdo who could edit the crap out of an English paper and wore my dad's gray cardigan sweater all the time. I wore penny loafers, not sneakers, and had no money for designer clothes. My parents were not wealthy people and my money mostly came from babysitting jobs. I was on the scholar's bowl team, which, of course, made me even stranger. The guys laughed at me because I was a rabid Cubs fan (still am!) and the girls sneered at my lack of fashion sense, which has only marginally improved. I was overweight, although not nearly as large as I thought I was, and not as big as I am now. Of course, I got a lot of static over that. Why people feel it is remotely their business how much someone weighs, I will never know.
Except for a couple of guys who went to the military ball with me, and bless them for their kindness, I never had a date in high school. No one ever really "liked" me. I was too weird, too big, too everything, except right. One particularly painful episode occurred when I was a junior and our class was selling heart-shaped balloons for Valentine's Day to make money for prom. I was in choir when the balloons were delivered and everyone--everyone--in my classroom got one. But me. You know, it still hurts a little. One sterling example of a "gentleman" told me that if he couldn't find anyone else to date for prom, he would ask me to go with him. Thanks for nothing, you creep.
I lived 17 miles from my high school, and went there because my dad taught in that system. I had a good friend in my hometown, or I would have been friendless at home. I had no social life, no slumber parties, nothing like that. Just me and Mandy, although I wouldn't trade that friendship.
At school, Lisa and I were great friends. She had some popularity issues as well, although we found an easy friendship that has flourished until now. I cherish her presence in my life.
Since then, I've married and work at a newspaper, still editing the crap out of copy, and freelancing. It's one use of my gifts.
I'm more sure of myself now, more thick-skinned (comes with working for the paper), less concerned with what people think about me and happier with my life and myself.
One thing I never lost, although it got a little shaky along the way occasionally, was my faith in God. That faith has sustained me through every bump in the road, over every pothole. Where would I be without my Lord? I don't know if I'll ever do "great" things, but that's all right, now. I have blessings I wouldn't trade for prestige: my faith, my dear husband, my family.
But can it have been 20 years?

Five years gone by

2006-08-14T15:15:00.000-07:00

I've been watching all the coverage of the recent terror plot in London. Thankfully, it didn't succeed. I've also been watching all the preview trailers for "World Trade Center." Surprisingly, it placed third at the box office this weekend. People in wartime tend to like funny movies, and supposedly, "Talladega Nights" fills the bill. It was number one.
I doubt I'll see either "World Trade Center" or the other 9/11 movie so far, "United 93." I was sitting in the newsroom on 9-11-01, a beautiful September morning. Fall arrived a little early that year, and we were grateful for a break from the heat. We heard about the first hit about 10 minutes until 8 (we're on Central Time), and I wondered aloud if New York was socked in with fog. Our webmaster pulled up CNN on the Internet, and finally, they posted a picture of the smoking tower. Beautiful weather there, as well. Must have been a computer or other mechanical failure. Had to have been. We were an afternoon paper then, and were on deadline, so we turned to the other deadline tasks. I finished readying the weather page, having said a silent prayer for the victims in the tower and on the plane.
About 8:15, one of our reporters said he had been on the phone with his mother-in-law and she said another plane hit the towers. We were sure it was just a repeat of the news of the first hit, but the reporter said no, it was live. The first whispers of "hijacked" started to make their way around the room, as we looked at each other in shock. When the plane hit the Pentagon, we knew.
When the news came of the fourth plane, still flying when everything else was grounded, and that hijackers probably were in control, and it was heading on a general path to the White House, my blood froze. I told my editor, "You know what they'll do--they're going to send fighters to shoot down that plane." He looked at me, dumbfounded, and told me that surely, I was mistaken. I knew I wasn't. About 15 minutes later, we got the news that United 93 had crashed into a field in Pennsylvania, and that the fighters scrambled from Andrews were about 7-10 minutes from intercept. I was thankful those pilots had not had to follow through on an order to destroy a commercial aircraft with their own countrymen on board.
I have the newspapers from that day. We made our first edition deadline and were one of the first papers in the state to have it on the front page.
I was in something of a daze the rest of the day. Mike and I went to church that night for a prayer service. We live about 20 miles from an airport, and routinely hear jets flying over. I looked at the skies that had not been so empty in my memory.
I suffered from news overload early on, watching the endless commentary, the families of the victims, the victims themselves who barely escaped with their lives, walking, covered in ash and dust. I played a lot of computer solitaire that week. I prayed tearfully for the victims, their families, for those who were working the Ground Zero site, the police and Port Authority officers, firemen, and the hundreds of volunteers. I watched the memorial service on television and cried yet again when NYPD officer Danny Rodriguez sang in his beautiful tenor.
Please God, nothing like that will happen again in my lifetime. It was my generation's Pearl Harbor. Alan Jackson had the right idea in his song. My world did stop turning that week. I knew no one involved but still, I grieved.
Five years away isn't long enough. The images in my mind from the real story are still too fresh to want to see Hollywood's version of them.

Adulthood: who needs it?

2006-05-25T13:53:00.000-07:00

When I was five years old, I wanted nothing more than to be grown up. A five-year-old doesn't realize that growing up means growing older and losing people you love.
Eleven years ago, my world fell apart when my Dad died. Now, I'm facing the same situation as many others: keeping an eye on an aging parent. Mama is 77. Last October, she broke her hip. Amazing how something like that can turn your world on its ear. Mike and I kept the house up and the finances managed while she did 21 days of rehab for it. Fourteen more days followed in December after she had a bout with delirium, cause unknown.
Several falls later, she ended up having a hip replacement. She had a terrifying episode of delirium while in the hospital, and it took her a couple of weeks to get "right" again. Twenty-one more days of rehab.
With my sister's move out of town, Mama is on her own again, and seems to be doing well. But that spectre I've managed to ignore for 11 years is getting harder to block out. I see its gray shadow every time Mama goes to the doctor or talks about a new ache or pain, as I rejoice with her that she is regaining her mobility.
I haven't wanted to write much these past few months. It's been too hard to talk about. But it's one of those parts of being grown up that I must deal with. I'm tired of bitter water for a while. Let me drink of the sweet.
Lord, I wish I were five again.

On tenth anniversaries

2006-03-14T14:42:00.000-08:00

A tenth wedding anniversary is something to celebrate, especially nowadays, with the divorce rate about 50 percent. Depending on which Web site you believe, the tenth anniversary may be celebrated with tin or aluminum for traditionalists, or with diamonds for the modern gift-giver. Guess which one most people want?
My tenth anniversary will come along in October, just 2 days after my husband's 42nd birthday. I didn't deliberately set my wedding date then so my hubby could remember it. I set it for that day because I wanted to get married in the fall and that was one day when both my state's Division I football teams were playing out of state. Yes, it matters in my family.
Actually, my wedding was one of six I attended that summer and fall, and five of them were within about seven weeks of each other. The stats were kind to those getting married that year: only one divorce. The rest of those couples are still happily married. I missed a Dirt Band show to attend my cousin's wedding. Had we both known how things turned out, we probably would have skipped the ceremony and gone to the concert.
Call it a belated Valentine or an early anniversary present, but I have been incredibly happy with my husband. Somehow, through the most unlikely series of events, we found each other. I was convinced that I would probably never find anyone. Who wanted me: weird, overweight, over-intelligent, etc? Well, Mike wanted me. I still wonder why, sometimes, but I do strive to be the best wife I can be to him. We were friends first, and found a comfortable companionship that nurtures and sustains both of us. Mike is over-intelligent, a little strange, tender, romantic... I could go on. When I am with him, I am at my best. He sees me for the woman I truly am. He is, without doubt, the most precious human in my life. I cannot imagine my life without his warmth, his humor, his "him-ness."
Mike is a blessing from the Lord that I never hoped to have. God has been so incredibly good to me in my choice of husbands. I am resolved to make my marriage as happy as it can be, in gratitude for the gift I have received.
If this is sappy, so what? I don't care. My dear husband has been everything to me that anyone could possibly want in a spouse. He's not perfect, but who is? I'm certainly not!
So Mike, I love you and cherish all that you are to me. The best part of my day is walking in the door and seeing you. Here's to many, many more decades together.

Will the real Dante Marquez please stand up?

2005-12-01T13:34:00.000-08:00

I know I won't get an answer to this question because the fact is, Dante Marquez does not exist. He writes letters to the editor praising the vegetarian lifestlye now and again, but in reality, he is a nobody.
I know this because the newspaper I work for published one of his letters last year and we got a letter from a woman who had seen that very letter under about 20 different names in other newspapers. I edit letters every week, and I know how most people write. Even the ones who write decent, understandable letters usually aren't so eloquent as this guy was, and I was suspicious. Anyway, I got wise, and now, when I receive a letter from the elusive Mr. Marquez, I usually give it a pitch. I did go to some trouble to confirm my theory that Dante Marquez, as the 60s comedian Dave Gardner put it, "is a fig-a-ment."
We've also received similar letters from another individual whose existence I doubt as well. Can't remember his name, though. Both people have somewhat unusual names that stand out among the predominately Anglo-Celtic names in Alabama. The second red flag was that both addresses lead directly to apartment complexes (no apartment number specified, naturally), and their phone numbers are toll-free. How very odd. I called one of the toll-free numbers and asked for, not Mr. Marquez, but someone who happens to share the same name as my cousin's husband. I was told he was on the phone and asked if I wanted to leave a message.
A little more digging using the phrases in the letters led me to a vegan Web site that promoted letter-writing campaigns. I looked up their address and was led, oddly enough, to an apartment number. I suspect they run this enterprise from their little domicile. Busted. I now know who's running this and why.
My problem with all this is that it disgusts me that these people feel the need to make up names and use false addresses and phone numbers, just to get their message out to the masses. If they want to encourage people to eat tofurkey on Thanksgiving, well and good. But they need to do it under their own names. The First Amendment is still in full force, and they are free to encourage people to eat shoelaces and bubblegum on Thanksgiving, if that's what turns their gears. But they need to do it under their own steam. Anything else, in my opinion, certainly diminishes their cause, and absolutely casts a bad light on their character. Besides--it's just a cheap and cheesy thing to do to get a point across. Particularly as preachy as these letters tend to be.
Some people might think that how someone eats cannot be a religion, but brothers and sisters, I beg to differ! Reading through a PETA magazine is enough to convince anyone that some of these vegan people have made an absolute CULT out of how they eat. They proselytize, hand out pamphlets and free materials about the wonders of the veggie lifestyle. They offer all these free resources, tout this lifestyle as the best thing to happen to humanity since the wheel, make subtle-- and not-so-subtle-- remarks about the barbaric, ignorant, unenlightened lifestyle of the "carnivore"-- their erroneous term for non-veggies. Look up carnivore and omnivore in the dictionary. However, those in the carrot cult are tickled plumb to death to welcome in a new convert, because, after all, it is a completely NEW lifestyle. The new has come and the old has passed away. They are new creatures in Veggieism. All hail the power of the great Veg!! I'm surprised they don't have hymns. "Amazing veg, how sweet it is/to do away with meat./I once drank milk, but its all soy now./Loved beef, but now tofu's my treat." Or, "Blessed tofurkey, tempeh is mine. Now that I'm meat-free, I'm feeling divine. I'm now so enlightened, so fully evolved, not like those cretins who still eat the hog. This is my story, veggies my chow. I'm so much better than those who eat cow. This is my story, and veggies my chow, you're just sub-human if you still eat cow." (With the very deepest of apologies to Fanny Crosby.)
They warn the neophyte vegan that they will undergo persecution for their decision, that it will be unpopular because other people just don't understand. They realize that the newbie may slip, but praises to parsnips, they can repent and be received yet again into the loving and sweet congregation of the New Vegan Life Community Enlightened Fellowship of Those Who are too Superior to Kill Poor Defenseless Animals and Consume their Contaminated Flesh.
Lest anyone misunderstand, I'm not against a vegetarian or vegan eating plan. Go for it. What I do strenuously object to, however, is being made to feel quite unevolved and positively Neanderthalish for wanting a steak once in a while! Vegans (rightly) don't want people preaching at them because they don't eat meat. Well by the Lord Harry, don't preach at me because I do!!
I also don't subscribe to organizations who claim to have animal welfare at heart, yet secretly funnel money to terrorist organizations that bomb research labs and usually end up killing some poor janitor who is trying to provide for his family. These groups do absolutely nothing for anyone else. Looking down some of these "legitimate" organizations' back trails is an interesting project, and plenty of information is readily available online.
Bottom line: eat what you want. Write letters to the editor about your views, under your own name. Don't, however, harangue me because I don't choose the same lifestyle you did. I promise to give you the same consideration.

Gullible: True or False?

2005-10-14T08:54:00.000-07:00

My husband came across a link for a quiz called "How gullible are you?" Being a quiz-taker from way back, he had to take the test and when it was scored, the answer came back, "Congratulations! You are a free thinker!" The page went on to describe how he must be highly intelligent and creative, how he had obviously thrown off the lies his parents told him as a child, to form his own thoughts and opinions. Pretty interesting stuff. So, I took the test, too.
Being a pretty smart cookie myself, I got the gist of the test right off the bat. One answers "true" or false" to every question. When the questions said things like, "The U.S. government would never allow farmers to feed chicken poop to their cattle" and "The government never lies to its citizens about anything," I knew their political leanings. To be scored a free thinker on their test, the test-taker simply had to suss out their political leanings and answer accordingly. I was named a free thinker, as well. Yay! And honestly, who wouldn't want to take a test and be informed at the end that he is highly intelligent, creative, an independent individual, capable of thinking for himself? All good, solid American ideals of a first-rate person. Sure, we all want to be independent thinkers, and most of us flatter ourselves that this is the case.
Just for giggles and grins, my husband then re-took the test, answering the questions in contrary fashion. The other end of the "free-thinking" scale is, incidentally, "mind slave." He scored on that end and the page that popped up said he must be a neo-Nazi, that he was obviously a fascist, stupid, and lacked even the remotest capacity for intelligent thought. Harsh, eh? I'll pause just a minute here to see if the piercing irony of this situation dawns on anyone. Anyone? Anyone?
Well, after the little description of the kind of thinker the test-taker is, follows the "correct" answers to the questions posed. At least half of the questions were stating opinions as facts to start with, so saying there was a "right" or "wrong" answer was a little disingenuous, to say the least.
Then, I started checking the links to the information claiming to support the "correct" answers. As a member of the media, I'm trained to be skeptical of answers that all come from the same place. Almost all of the quiz answers came from the same Web page or were in books published by the same company. Excuse me? Where is the diversity of sources? Tell me something about medicine and refer me to the "Journal of the American Medical Association" or "The Lancet" from the UK. Don't expect me to read an opinion from someone who is not a medical doctor and expect me to swallow it whole, just because you say it's true. WHO'S GULLIBLE? That's gullibility of the worst sort! Complimenting a person for agreeing with all your opinions and castigating them when they don't, which is bound to make them want to agree so they can be intelligent and creative too--that's mind control if anything is. Who's a mind slave?
Did the quiz offer any good talking points? Yes. And I agree with them that a little skepticism about what we see and are told is a good thing. We should investigate and dig into controversial issues for ourselves. That's healthy.
Lean to the left or the right. I don't care. What sticks in my craw is when people are so bleeping desperate to sway me to their way of thinking that they will insult my intelligence, infer that I am either a Nazi or a pinko Commie and should have no right to exist in their idea of a decent society. I'm sick of it. If their paradise is so wonderful, I'll figure it out on my own.
Until then, there's a whole bunch of folks in Mississippi and Louisiana who could use that kind of energy in constructing a house or feeding people. Shut up and go help them.

Cattle in the Cane

2005-10-10T15:28:00.000-07:00

"Cattle in the Cane" was only one of the many tunes I heard played at the Tennessee Valley Old Time Fiddlers Convention. The campus at Athens State University hosts the festival each year, and it is always a joy to attend.
Bluegrass music is a cherished Southern tradition, and there's always plenty of it at Fiddlers. Small groups sit all around the grounds and jam as the people stop to listen to their music. The competitions take place on the front porch at Founders Hall, with its four massive ionic columns flanking the performers. That porch has heard a lot of music in its 163 years. Hoopskirts have swished over it with genteel rustlings, military boots have tramped across it, sabres rattled in front of it, and now, Nikes and Reeboks trot across it, as their owners seek their college degrees. It's a beautiful old structure, crammed with history and tradition, and I love it dearly. In quieter days, I've sat in the rockers on that porch, the autumn sun streaming across the drive, studying, passing the time of day, or just enjoying the view.
Fiddlers is a magic time on campus. All activity stops on Wednesday, so the place can ready itself for Friday and Saturday. The RVs start showing up, and the arts and crafts vendors begin setting up their booths. The visitors begin streaming in on Friday night and don't stop until the end of the fiddle-off Saturday night, when the "Fiddle King" is crowned. The event is clearly family-oriented as well, and there is a feeling of utter security that one rarely finds anywhere else.
With the smell of funnel cakes, steak sandwiches and popcorn in the air, the visitor is hard-pressed to pick just a couple of vendors. The temptation to pig out is a strong one. Fiddlers is the big fundraiser for most of the campus clubs,and they go all out for the event.
But it's the music that keeps people coming back every year. Musicians from several states come to play that unique variety of Americana known as bluegrass. The vendors of musical instruments know this and they show up with their wares, as well. A visitor can see fiddles, guitars and banjos for sale, of course, but can also get a gander at more unusual instruments such as resonator guitars, dobros and hammered dulcimers.
The music can be heard a block away from campus, and it draws people in like the calliope at a circus. It is as rewarding to sit and listen to the small groups play as it is to hear the competitions.
If there is a better way to spend a fall day than to have wonderful music rain down on me and lighten my heart, I don't know about it.

Five days in Reno

2005-09-14T15:25:00.000-07:00

Reno, NV is a town of contradictions. On one hand, it boasts large hotels and casinos, an upscale mall, nationally-recognized restaurant chains and a Mercedes dealership. You have to look a little closer to see the other side.
A drive through downtown shows the large casinos and neon signs, but a closer inspection reveals a city tormented by the very industry that supports it. Bars and dives line the downtown streets. Adult bookstores and the cheapest of cheap motels fight for space, as well.
Families congregate directly around the casinos, but get away from them, and the people change. You can see the lost, the homeless, the hopeless standing clearly out from the well-dressed tourists walking right behind them. "The least of these" are everywhere in downtown Reno. I saw numerous people walking with their backpacks on. Some were undoubtedly walking cross country or hiking to Lake Tahoe. Others were walking because that was their only means of transportation.
Huge casinos like Atlantis and the Peppermill dominate their blocks, while billboards tout the "loosest" slots and biggest buffets. The city tries desperately to lure you into the surface gilding, but it can't hold up under any kind of scrutiny.
My friends said, "Reno is a hole. Downtown Reno is seedy. The worst. Sparks is almost as bad, but at least you feel safer." Sparks sits cheek by jowl to Reno--the two towns run right into each other. Sparks looks more residential, with only the Nugget and the Hilton dominating the landscape. But the bars and dives are there, too.
Inside the casinos is a false cheerfulness. The slot machines make happy, encouraging dings and beeps, but money goes into them at horrifying rates--and it doesn't come out. I sat back and watched the amount of alcohol being served at the casino where we stayed. I'd like to have what they bring in for 24 hours in alcohol sales alone. I could retire to the French Riviera.
My friends and I were there to see the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. After the show, we were talking to the keyboard player, Bob Carpenter. Bob was grousing about the lack of anything constructive to do at a casino. "I could watch the three cable channels on TV (it was an exaggeration, but not much of one), but ehh; I could go eat some more. Ehh. I could go gamble. Ehhh." Afterwards, we wished we had asked him if he wanted to go to Truckee with us the next day. He would probably have jumped at the chance to get out for a while. We'd have been tickled to have him along. He's a nice guy. All the guys in that band are good eggs.
It was a relief to get out of the Reno area, even to that tourist trap, Virginia City. That place exists for the sole purpose of separating people from their money. It always has. Nothing much has changed. It still retains the look of an old Western town, and some of the people still retain that Western friendliness, so similar to the Southern culture.
Truckee, CA is a lovely little spot. The downtown is picturesque, and the scenery around is wonderful. About five miles away is Donner Pass. There's a memorial to those people who lived through that horrific winter of 1846-47. It's a silent, peaceful place. I stood at Donner Lake and looked at the lovely homes lining the shore, considered my large breakfast I'd eaten in Truckee and thought about those people, 160 years ago, who starved on those shores, in two-room cabins and hide-covered tipis. It was sobering in the extreme.
Lake Tahoe was cold and beautiful. But the casinos still loomed on the Nevada side. It's not seedy, like downtown Reno, though. I guess the residents just accept the casinos and walk by without going in.
It was a tiring flight home, and I was glad to touch back down in Sweet Home Alabama, where our problems are numerous, but at least don't include casinos.

Packages, Premiums, Publicity

2005-08-17T09:46:00.000-07:00

"Publicity, please!" Individuals and companies are forever sending press kits to media outlets, always in the hope that someone will find their products/services of sufficient interest for a story.
Often, the companies simply send slick folders with the company's name on the outside. Inside are press releases and pictures of the product, sometimes with a CD containing publicity stills and other information.
However, some companies send samples. We wait for the sample boxes, and a dizzying array of goods have crossed our desks. We've received candy, cookies, plastic wrap, foil, posters, potting soil and seeds in press kits. If it can be legally mailed, chances are, we've received it in a press kit.
I have a decent coffee grinder at home, courtesy of the Folger's company. When they introduced whole-bean coffee a few years ago, we got two press kits, each with a grinder. I arranged to get one of them. I also have a cute Chick-Fil-A stuffed cow that came in a kit, and one department has had their calendars posted for the past couple of years.
Most recently, one of the shipping companies had a package from Disney Publications. They were a little leery of the brown cardboard box and wanted to know if I knew what was up. I looked at the box. On one side, a substance that looked like red ink or paint, stained the side. I was mystified as well, but then smelled it. Nail polish. Red nail polish--dry, fortunately. I took the box to my desk, and opened it gingerly. I don't know what marketing major at Disney thought sending nail polish was a good idea. Cute, but not a workable idea. Anyway, the box held a little plastic pouch, with four colors of nail polish, each promoting a teen girls' book to be published. Unfortunately, the bottle of red nail polish had broken and spilled all over the pouch and consequently, the box. As luck would have it, there actually were three usable colors in the package, so those bottles went home with me. I never cease to be amazed at the things people will mail as marketing tools.
One of the best kits contained a tiny cutting from an evergreen tree, a little pot for planting, and even soil. The seedling was cute, but the prize in that gift was a Christmas tree ornament. It was wooden, in the shape of a birdhouse, with a black roof that proclaimed in white letters: "See Rock City." It has made it on the Christmas tree every year since. It's one of my favorite ornaments.
We're always on the lookout for boxes that don't contain microfilm. It's always an adventure to see what the marketing people have decided to send us next.

Sweet Hour of Prayer

2005-08-16T08:45:00.000-07:00

"Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer, that calls me from a world of care, and bids me at my Father's throne, make all my wants and wishes known..." I've always loved this old hymn, but as I've gotten a little older, it means much more to me. I've always understood it, but lately, it seems to have come alive all over again for me.
I love the old hymns anyway, and this one is a lovely example of how much meaning can be packed into four verses of a song. I have come to realize more and more, that going before the Lord in prayer is what keeps me leveled and balanced. It's what connects me to other believers. It's something I can do for someone when there seems to be no other solution. It's something I can for someone I don't even know. I can always pray.
It's been a long time since I turned the car radio on in the morning. I'd rather have that time quiet, and apart. It's easier to focus on God when the radio isn't blaring at me.
In prayer, I find everything seems to equalize, even if I'm praying about something I'm struggling with. Simply putting the situation before the Lord changes it. He speaks most often to me in that still, small voice, and I have to be still and silent in prayer to hear Him.
Prayer is also one of the best ways for me to exercise unselfishness. In bringing the needs of others before the Lord, I am putting their situations before my own. Our culture today emphasizes taking care of self and putting self first, but I function best when I put the Lord first and attend to what He wants. When I do that, I end up taking care of myself, but also being concerned for other people. A faithful prayer life helps keep me grounded in this.
It's not easy to keep an active prayer life. I'm apt to say, "O.K. Lord. Bless so and so and this person and bless my family and me, and here's a need to keep in mind, and Amen." But that's not enough for me. I have to make an effort to pray with intention and with focus. It's not that prayer is difficult, but it is difficult for me to pull away from other pursuits to get on my knees. I'm always glad I did. I always feel better for doing it. But I have to make prayer a priority in my life, for it to work and to keep my relationship with the Lord fresh.
And this hymn, composed by the blind minister, W.W. Walford, reminds me that my time in prayer is some of the sweetest time I will ever spend. "I'll cast on Him my every care, and wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!" Thank the Lord for His gift of prayer! Amen.

21st Century Flash (drives)

2005-07-19T14:06:00.000-07:00

O.K. Here's a tip for writers. If you don't have a USB flash drive, get one. I apologize if I sound like I'm coming to this discovery a bit late. I'm not--I just didn't realize how badly I needed one until I got it. These little doodads are about the size of the human thumb, hence their alias, "thumb drives." The upshot is that they are very stable storage mediums for those who need something more permanent than a floppy. They are more convenient than a CD-RW, too, since they can be used in almost any computer that has a vacant USB port.
I had been storing all my writing on floppies. My CD burner on my rather elderly home computer is sloooow, and the one thing my spandy new computer at work lacks is, you guessed it, a burner. Oh, well. The trouble with floppies is that they are sometimes very unstable. Write over them a few times and you get a corrupted file. No such problems with flash drives. I stored everything I had on floppy on a 128 MB flash drive, and ALL of it used up only 3 MB of space. And with over 1 million erase/write cycles, I'm good to go for extended writing. Even my home computer with its venerable Windows 98 O/S, happily uses the flash drive with only installing a driver from the included software. I didn't have to restart my computer, and the drive "hot swaps" to my work computer, without restarting or installing software. Pretty nifty.
A flash drive incorporates everything I love about the old floppy disk into a smaller package that stores more data. It's small, portable, easy to use and is much, much more stable than a floppy. Those who use more than one computer, or have a desktop and a notebook, would be well advised to invest in one of these little miracles. They can even be password-protected.
One of the best things? They're cheap. I got a 128 MB drive for about $13 on the Internet. They're more expensive as the storage capacity goes up, but most people will probably be very happy with a 128 or 256 MB drive, for under $30. Considering how much I've almost lost to floppy disks, I think it a wise investment.
Some technology takes a while to grow on me, but I fell in love with my thumb drive immediately. It has to be one of the most useful peripherals I've ever purchased for my computer.

Echoes of a September morning

2005-07-07T15:55:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and when I turned on the TV, I saw the news that at least four bombs had exploded in the London Underground, and one on a double-decker bus. Last I heard, some Al-Qaida group had taken responsibility.
I don't know who did it and I don't care. These people are cowards, thugs, murderers, psychopaths. They hit a commuter train, full of ordinary people. Just as the train in Madrid was full of ordinary people, and the World Trade Center was full of ordinary people. These people were not soldiers. They did not carry arms in some jihad.
If it is honorable to die for one's cause, then let the dissenters do it as honorable men: let them take up arms and face the troops or police head-on. If they are killed en masse, one can say they knew the risks. To target the innocent, in hopes of forcing a decision in their favor, is the worst kind of cowardice. It was rank cowardice when the Twin Towers fell, when the IRA targeted phone booths and old folks' parades, and it still stinks and scalds of the same stench now.
The Brits are a tough, scrappy race of people, and we in the U.S. inherit much of their native stubbornness, their refusal to quit. My dad always said the Brits were like an old tomcat (a compliment of the highest order, incidentally). "When a dog gets whipped by another dog, he stays whipped. With an old tomcat, you have to whip him all over again every time you see him. He doesn't stay whipped." The Brits will not allow this to crush them. They've survived much worse on their little island in the past 1200 years or so. Some have said they pity those who take on the U.S. True, but I pity those who pit themselves against the British. That lion is going to come snarling out of its den, with Saint George urging it on.
Great Britain stood by the United States in our hour of need. They played our national anthem during the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Let us play "God Save the Queen" for them. Here's for England and Saint George! God bless England. God save the Queen.

Who asked him, anyway?

2005-07-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

Who died and left Tom Cruise my guru? Oh yeah--some alien. Forgot. Sorry. And now, no matter what my ailment, exercise and vitamins are sure to help me.
I normally refrain from saying anything about anyone else's belief system, but Tom Cruise and his fellow adherents are simply insufferable. Evangelical Christians get blasted for telling people how to live, for saying others' lifestyles are wrong or sinful. But Tom Cruise can spout his beliefs all he wants, to the point of advising people that exercise and vitamins can cure most mental illnesses and that psychiatry is a crock. He can even render an opinion on the medical treatment options of a woman not a member of his family. Regardless of one's feelings on the veracity of psychiatry as a science, his comments on someone else's treatment options were as inappropriate and unbecoming as they could possibly be.
As a Christian, I believe in God's healing power. I believe in miracles and that prayers for healing are answered. However, I also believe that doctors, nurses, counselors and therapists serve as God's hands to heal. Medication can be beneficial and help the healing process. I also think that vitamins and exercise are good things, as well as herbal supplements, provided they are used with common sense behind them. I'd even send someone for massage or acupuncture, or other alternative therapies, if these were safe and afforded the individual some relief. I believe in a God who works in many ways, and through many avenues.
But Cruise's actions were inexcusable. The New York Times may have called him a passionate, true believer, but I call him arrogant, pompous, self-important and narcissistic. His verbal attack on Matt Lauer, assuming that Lauer had not had any background in the history of psychiatry, was repugnant. My gorge rose as I heard his maniacal rhetoric. But that's the beauty of the First Amendment. He has the right to spout off like an idiot and I have the right to disagree with him.
I'm beginning to come around to the idea that Cruise is in desperate need of the services of the discipline he so roundly despises and denounces. He's starting to sound less like a rational, adult human being and more like someone who is losing his grip on reality. He comes off as a self-obsessed, ego-driven jerk.
He needs a large bottle of "get over yourself" tonic. Unfortunately, that is in critically short supply in his circle of disciples and associates.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2005-06-29T15:14:00.000-07:00

I've been living in a snake pit the past two days, all because I tried to help someone. Rural folk and snakes are never a good combination, and last week, a rattler fell victim to a shotgun. Naturally, the family wanted a picture and a story about how the family was delivered from evil. I'm not a snake fan. I'd have a massive coronary if I saw one in my yard. However, I also realize they have a place in God's great world.
In my trek for accuracy, I told the guy writing the story that the shooter's estimate of 20 rattles on the snake's tail was probably exaggerated. He asked if there was anyone to call to comfirm that. I wish I had insisted he call the county agent--oh how I wish I had. Instead, being helpful, I said, "Oh, I'll call someone I know will know the answer." The guy I called was kind enough to speak with me, gave me the answer I was looking for and we spoke about 5 more minutes. He was distressed the people had killed the snake and asked me to tell the writer that the snake was not chasing anyone, which I did.
When the story came out, I was the target of his angry e-mail, as though I had written the story. He was upset the writer had not quoted him, certainly a bona fide expert on the subject, but an elderly neighbor instead, who was a supposed "expert" on the fanged ones. The "expert" opined that this particular snake was very aggressive and would chase people. I figured most of our readers would see that for the hogwash it is, but the guy e-mailing me felt differently.
The worst part was, he posted my e-mail on a newsgroup, still implying that I wrote the story, and before 10 a.m., I had been called pathetic, a moron and ignorant because I live in Alabama.
I can understand him being upset, but I sent him the link to the story, which clearly did NOT have my byline. Unfortunately, no one checked the link. They took his word and started hammering me with e-mails. I apologized to him, because I felt bad that the story had been published with inaccuracies, and that he felt he had been burned for taking the time to speak with me. He apologized to me as well, and asked the newsgroup to stop e-mailing me, since I didn't write the story. I appreciated his mea culpa and his efforts and told him so.
I was thinking the whole time these people e-mailing me were guilty of the very thing they mistakenly accused me of: not checking the facts. Had they looked at the link, they would have seen the writer's name at the top of the page.
I don't know why some people think name-calling is necessary, either. They don't seem to realize it makes them look just as bad as the person they're accusing. It puts their whole argument in a suspicious light, even if they have a valid point to make. Don't curse the darkness--light a candle. Educate people. Don't call them names.
The whole thing taught me a lesson, though. Even if I know for a solid fact that information is wrong, I'll just bring it to the writer's attention and let him or her sort it out. Never again will I make a single phone call to try to confirm anything. Not unless I'm writing the story. It isn't worth the headache I've had all day.

Of Karaoke and New Computers

2005-06-16T12:51:00.000-07:00

I hate change. Even good changes are upsetting for me. I like my life to remain nicely stable and for changes to occur only when I decide they should. For some reason, this is not a realistic expectation.
I’ve introduced one change recently, and had another thrust upon me, all in the last two weeks.
When my husband and I were dating, we were both fairly broke, so dates including expensive activities were out. However, he liked to sing karaoke and was good at it. We had a little round of clubs where we went every week, so he could sing and I could watch. I love to sing, but until the past couple of years, never felt I had an acceptable voice. The folks at my church have prevailed on me to sing in the choir, but being in front of that many people makes me nervous. However, they’ve been telling me over and over, that I can, in fact, sing. My sister is a true songbird, and I’ve always felt eclipsed by her talent, which may well explain why I’ve always felt handicapped when it comes to singing.
In any case, hubby and I started going to karaoke again, after an absence of several years. This time, I’ve been singing now and again. It’s a strange feeling, and one that I’m still not comfortable with. I can sing in the shower, in the car and at home or church, with little, if any, feelings of self-consciousness. Get me on a stage, and I’m nervous and sweaty-palmed. But the applause is addictive, I have to say. So, I’m making a personal change. I’m trying my own songbird wings, just to see if I can.
The other change happened last Friday morning. I came into work to see my old faithful computer, on my desk since May, 1998, running a "surface scan," apparently of its own volition. I get scared when my computers start doing things on their own. It’s usually not good.
This wasn’t good. The scan showed several bad data clusters on the hard disk and a helpful note that said something like, "The damage may be due to an outside influence such as a power outage, but most likely indicates imminent hardware failure. Back up your files." Or, in other words, "It’s a twister! Auntie Em! Auntie Em!" So, I went yelling to our systems tech, who looked over the situation, restarted my machine several times, and said, "I’m creating a folder for you on the mainframe server. Put everything you want to keep in there. I’m ordering you a new machine this morning. It should be here first of the week."
What? A new computer? This company doesn’t buy "new" anything. We fix it until it disintegrates. But apparently, my computer was so old, no one still made replacement parts for it. Of course, I’ve had "replacements" done before. The old machine was running on its second hard drive, third motherboard, third monitor and fourth keyboard in seven years. I’m tough on keyboards.
The new machine arrived Monday morning and it was on my desk that afternoon, Windows XP installed and running, and all my goodies from the mainframe server installed and in their proper folders. I’ve been tinkering with it all week, getting it to where it does things the way I like them done.
But I have to gripe about XP for just a minute. Were the graphics in this O/S designed by the good folks at Pixar??? I’ve never seen anything so cartoonish in my life! The toolbar graphics in IE are laughable. Why not have "kids graphics" that can be installed and have sensible icons for the rest of us? That’s another thing. The XP appearance scheme is hard on my eyes. A gray background is much easier to read. That cream background is a royal pain and gives me a headache. Listen up, Mr. Gates!! I’ve changed everything to the Windows Classic appearance and I’m much happier. Ditto for the Start Menu.
The positive change is the very speedy 2.66 gHz Pentium 4 processor. There are certainly faster ones available, but people, my old machine had 64 MB of RAM and the processor ran at about 256 mHz. This new machine is like riding with Jeff Gordon at Talladega after being on a mule for seven years! I had forgotten computers were so fast. I’ve finally got a machine that can keep up with the T3 line for the Internet!
Change may be good, and this week, it has been good. But I still don’t like it, as a rule. Still, for the next couple of weeks, I’ll have new things to focus on: choosing karaoke songs in my range and tinkering with a new computer. Ah, life’s rich pageant. Welcome to my world — isn’t it exciting? Yeah, I knew it wasn't. Oh well.

Crazy in Alabama

2005-06-09T23:15:00.000-07:00

"All the drunks have the newspaper on speed dial." That's what our now-retired receptionist used to say. Along with all the weirdos, lunatics and other crazies who populate the three counties the newspaper covers. They all call the newspaper, and some send us mail. I've learned to be very leery of anything that arrives in a plain white envelope with an address that was obviously typed on a typewriter. Computers are evil, you know. The aliens access your brain through them. And the humans (and aliens too, I assume) all want us to do a story on them, I suppose for the good of humanity.
One senior citizen female caller insisted that a) her neighbor was spying on her, by using her microwave oven to look inside her house and b)That people in the courthouse and indeed, over the P.A. system at Wal-Mart were saying she was a prostitute. She indignantly explained to me, "I'm 67 years old and I'm not interested in sex!!" I gently suggested she call her doctor for some tranquilizers, hoping he would get the hint and test her for dementia.
One guy we always called "The Milkman" used to call frequently, just to chat about anything bothering him that day. He got his name because he was vitally concerned that the milk the kids drink in the schools was contaminated with radiation. What is it about these folks and radiation? They've all got a fixation with it. I think I'm going to start telling them that we're stocked up on aluminum foil and they can come by and get a roll to line their windows and baseball caps. Keeps out the radiation and alien death rays, dont'cha know?
One woman e-mails us frequently, saying that a school cafeteria is serving substandard food and gets away with it because many of the students are minorities. She never gets specific about just what is substandard and says she eats lunch with her son "all the time" so she knows what she's talking about. One time is enough for me to eat bad food. What's with her?
E-mail has also opened up a whole new world of weirdness. We get missives from one particular group that asserts that Jesus is sick of running the earth and Heaven, and the Apostle Peter is fed up too, so they've turned the reins over to none other than the distinguished saint and great thinker, John--Lennon, that is. Yep. One of the Beatles is in charge of making sure the trains run on time, both here on earth, and in eternity. He doesn't know how long he'll have the job, but he is writing songs again, and channelling them through a woman on earth, who faithfully transcribes them. Funny how he got to Heaven and completely lost all his songwriting skills. Kind of sad, too.
Of course, no meditation on newspaper weirdness would be complete without mentioning the snail mail. Remember what I said about plain white envelopes? We used to receive occasional mailings from a man in Ohio who signed himself "Eugene/Jesus." Another one styled himself "George/God" and we even got the craziest faxes from some dude in California, who predicted that the return of the Hale-Bopp comet would bring the apocalypse and total power failure, and he had designed a motorbike which ran on an alternate fuel source, naturally. He also had a very concise list of sins and their punishment, either in Hell or Purgatory. It was quite informative. I now know I can fornicate five times without it going on my permanent record. After that, it's 200 years in Purgatory for this little tramp.
We also received an interesting letter from the Queen of Antarctica (imagine that!) who is currently residing in the long-term mental health care facility in town. Her daughter is the hereditary queen of Ireland and Africa, and says hi, too.
One of the most interesting things we got was from "The United Countries of the Solar System." That's what the envelope said, anyway. Inside are several calendars that apparently are supposed to mean something, and a communication from Adon Michael, from the constellation Orion. (I swear I am not making this up. I saved the letter). He says, "The Creator declared unto the Spirit of Truth: 'In flight the earth will appear to be in route to collide with Jupiter or Saturn, but that shall not happen; I will cause the planet earth to detour, multitudes of peoples shall view this spectacular scenery of designing a perpetual flag.'" And thoughtful Adon Michael (aka "the master metaphysician of this planet") included a picture of the new flag. Just goes to show the influence of the King James Version of the Bible. If it doesn't sound like 17th century English, it just ain't prophecy!! That holds true for 99 percent of "the end is near" letters we get, too.
It's a broad subject, and I haven't even gotten to the farmer who thought the CIA was hiding out under his trailer! But that's a story for another time.
Pardon me, but I have to interview another minor god who wants to rule the world in peace and utter domination.

Life in the Jungle

2005-06-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

I admit it: this is my first foray into the world of blogging, of providing Web site content, of uploading and downlinking. As a member of the Writer's Row community, I've found myself suddenly tossed headfirst into a pretty deep pond. I'm looking at Google AdSense ads, Amazon Associates, eBay Affiliates, e-book publishers and a myriad of other Web sites, all to promote myself as a freelance writer, and, of course, make money. It's bewildering.
I've always written in old-fashioned ways. I started out writing in spiral notebooks and legal pads. There is no telling how many of my high school notebooks started out in one subject, and degenerated into the beginnings of a romance or sci-fi novel. That was the best way to beat the system. I got busted for reading books in class that were unrelated to the class itself. Even the artists who drew in their notebooks occasionally got in trouble. So, I figured, if I looked busy writing in my notebook, I was bound to be left alone. It worked like a charm. Still does, in fact. As long as I look like I'm working on something legitimate, I can usually get away with it. I'm most prone to sneak around like that at the end of the day when there's no way I can start anything constructive, but my boss has to see me looking busy, busy. But, I digress.
It was a great day when we finally got a computer and I could commit all my writing urges to the digital format. So, I left behind the world of spiral notebooks and entered the universe of Word. Now, I'm looking at publishing my own Web pages and getting click-through revenues from banner ads. As I said above--it's bewildering. I had a long dry spell when I didn't write anything. But then, about three years ago, I got the urge to write, and I haven't stopped. The creative floodgates just blew wide open and the tide hasn't gone out yet.
But now, I'm struggling with WYSIWYG HTML editors and dealing with accounting issues from possible sources of income that won't take out taxes. Yikes. I am not an accountant. I can balance my checkbook and do my taxes, as long as I have the good folks at Turbo Tax to help me, but I really don't have a clue beyond that. And I'm working 40 hours a week at a "regular" job. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, all of a sudden. So now, I have to get an "about me" page up at Writers Row, which I'm working on, and see about getting the darn thing to make money!
By the way, if anyone still uses floppy disks, like I do, there is a delightful little freeware program called "FlopShow" that will recover corrupted files. Handy dandy little tool. And it's free, which most of the other recovery programs are NOT. Just thought I'd pass along that bit of helpful information. It recovered a Word file for me that the computer was telling me was not recoverable. So that's my handy tip for the day.
Maybe I'll have more useful links on here, eventually. Maybe a link to a burgeoning romance novel that made it past the spiral notebooks... In the meantime, I'm looking at good machetes for hacking away at the underbrush. I'm slapping the mosquitoes, here in the Web jungle.

Murder on Music Row

2005-06-02T12:14:00.000-07:00

I sure wish I could take credit for the title of this post! But the credit belongs to the person who wrote that song.
So, who's heard John Prine's new album? Oh, you didn't know he had a new album out? Yep. But you thought he was dead. Or you just don't know who John Prine is. And who's heard the new song, "Something Like a Broken Heart" by Hanna-McEuen? Anyone? No dice, there, either, eh? Such is the state of American country music.
I thought things were on an upswing when the movie "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" came out. There were songs in that movie that actually became popular. "Man of Constant Sorrow" was a big hit. "Roots music," as they called it, was on the way back in. Or so I thought. Lord, I'm optimistic.
Then, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band released "Will the Circle Be Unbroken Volume III," featuring the likes of Jimmie Martin, Vassar Clements, Johnny Cash, June Carter Cash and Alison Krauss. It received three Grammy nominations and actually won one. It did receive a Country Music Association nomination for "Vocal Event"--the haunting "Tears in the Holston River" with Johnny Cash. Of course it didn't win. And the band was crammed on a stage with a bunch of other artists to sing half of a verse of "Circle." They were obviously afterthoughts.
But then, Johnny Cash's last couple of albums received a great deal of critical acclaim, and Loretta Lynn's album, "Van Lear Rose," which was produced by rocker Jack White, got rave reviews. Maybe things were turning around in country music. Yeah, right.
It's hard not to be cynical about the direction of country music (I gave up on current rock and roll a long time ago) when I hear what's on the radio these days. That's why I don't listen much. But this one fact should tell the bigwigs something: the Tennessee Valley in north Alabama is one of the major urban centers in the Southeast. There isn't a single Top 40-only station in the whole area. Not one. Most of the big stations that used to play Top 40 now mix it up with classic rock and oldies. The country stations are abysmal, by and large.
In fact, the most popular country station in the area is a locally-owned station that plays classic country, takes requests and runs commercials for places like the Dari Delite in Hartselle, S&R Catfish in Moulton and Standard Furniture (where Billy and Miss Velma welcome their customers by name). Carol Lynn, one of the DJs, makes no attempt to alter her Southern country accent, and talks lovingly of the chili dogs and "world famous" chicken fingers at the Dari Delite. She can make my mouth water talking about the Sunday buffet at some restaurant in Addison, the fried chicken, home-cooked pinto beans and hot cornbread with melted butter. Yum, yum, as the audience said to Grandpa Jones on "Hee-Haw." I love that station. It reminds me of the old AM stations when I was a kid. ("Hee-Haw" and "The Dukes of Hazzard" are out on DVD now, by the way.)
I wonder, like George Jones: "Who's gonna fill their shoes?" Who noted the passing of Jimmie Martin, "The King of Bluegrass" just a couple of weeks ago? Vassar Clements, one of the great country fiddlers, is probably terminally ill with lung cancer. At least people noticed when Johnny Cash died, but who will take over singing the working man's songs when he's gone? Willie Nelson is 70 and Merle Haggard can't be far behind. Who has picked up the torch? Who will write the next "Crazy" or "Mama Tried"? There's nothing on the market today that's as compelling as anything these men have written. And George isn't a spring chicken, either.
The female singers have Martina McBride to look up to, but who after her? Dolly's past 60. Tammy Wynette has died and Lynn Anderson's been arrested for DUI.
Who's writing songs that tear out my heart like "Galveston" and "Mr. Bojangles"? When I saw the NGDB sing "Bojangles" live the first time, I cried like a kid. Daddy loved that song. Even the more recent ones like "When You Leave that Way, You Can Never Come Back" by Confederate Railroad seem to have faded into the distance.
So you like the song "Bless the Broken Road" by Rascal Flatts, you say? I do, too. Only I liked it 10 years ago when it was released on the album "Acoustic" by the Dirt Band and was virtually ignored. Listen to Bob Carpenter's vocals on the original version and you'll never want to listen to the Rascal Flatts version again. It was nominated for Song of the Year by the Academy of Country Music, which goes to the songwriter, in this case, Jeff Hanna and Marcus Hummon. Of course, "Live Like You Were Dying" won. Dead dad trumps better song every time. I believe I mentioned I'm a tad cynical, non?
The trouble, of course, is that the suits have taken over music. They've always had their fingers in it, but now it's totally their arena. The older artists, the traditional artists, have no place in popular country music. It doesn't matter that they've honed their skills in the smoky honky-tonks and have dodged beer bottles as they kept singing for whatever the cover charge brought in. The suits want the pretty boys and the pretty girls. They're willing to leave a steel guitar and a fiddle in the band to keep the "country" label, but that's about all that resembles country anymore.
I don't know what the answers are. I know I'll keep going to see the NGDB in concert anytime they come anywhere close to where I live. They're the best musicians on the road. Period. No qualifications. I'll keep buying little-known albums by obscure musicians whose work is superior to anything on the charts. I may even rant again in this space. Who knows? I do need to get that new John Prine album, though. Can't let that one get away.

I Know My People

2005-06-01T15:24:00.000-07:00

Family. We complain about them, gripe about their shortcomings and sometimes wish they were anywhere but in our lives. But what would it be like to have no family, or none that you knew of?
A man named Willie Jamar knew. He lived in Decatur, Alabama for 40 years, at least, and no one knew his family. Parents, siblings--all a mystery. The Decatur Daily newspaper ran a story about Jamar's death and burial. Jamar was an African-American, but there were 12 white people at his funeral. They were former co-workers. No one else seemed to note Jamar's passing. Jamar lived in the same house on Wilson Street for over 30 years, held down a job at the local lumberyard, but other than this, no one knows much about him. He may have been born in 1927, but again, no one knows. He said he had a brother and sister, but they were both dead.
Somehow, he never mentioned his family and no one ever got around to asking him. The owners of the lumberyard helped cover the burial expenses and will erect a headstone. A co-worker delivered a 15-minute eulogy. In the South, especially, this is almost unheard of. Most people, black and white, know about their families. Whether of slave ancestry or free, most Southerners can tell you about who "their people" are. Family is vitally important to most of us and we can sit for hours, tracing genealogies that go back for generations. We are a story-telling people, and have tales of our forebears to tell. But Willie Jamar never told his stories. He was silent on his history. And his history died with him. The paper has an Internet edition, and I hope that putting the information on the World Wide Web will turn up some relations, some kinfolk, some of Willie Jamar's "people."
I count myself blessed beyond words. There's a church cemetery on a ridge top in Blount County, Alabama, where many of my "people" are. My paternal grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great grandparents, and my father all rest quietly, and with their people at Antioch. New Home Cemetery in Randolph County holds my people. Jasper City Cemetery in Walker County marks the resting places of my mother's people. I know who my people are. I know where they came from. My roots are deep in the red clay of Alabama.
O Lord, may the soul of Your servant, Willie Jamar, find rest in You. Dead and unknown to this world, he is nevertheless known to You, to the number of hairs on his head. May his soul find the peace that passeth all understanding and joy in the knowledge that You have known him all along. Amen.