RK's Wrant

Cute

2009-08-11T18:55:00.000-07:00

When I was looking for a new car, I decided early on that I liked the Saturn Vue, but I was concerned about the risk of buying, rather than leasing, a car from a brand that might not be around for very long. My son, Josh, told me to look at other mini SUV’s.
“Look at the Ford Escape, Mom.” He said, “Ford is in pretty good shape, and it’s a nice car.”
I went online and goggled Ford Escape. I looked at the car that showed up on my computer and called Josh.
“I looked at the Ford Escape Josh,” I said, “I don’t like it. It’s not cute. The Vue has curvy lines, and its cute. I want a cute car.”

Some people might laugh. Some people might say that that’s not the way to pick a car. Some people might argue with me. Josh has known me all 37 years of his life. He just said, “Check out some others, Mom, and go drive the Vue if that’s the one you like.”

Cute is important to me. I like my cars, earrings, movie and TV stars, jockeys, and baseball players cute. My brother, Steve, thinks I like my politicians that way too. Well, it doesn’t hurt, but cute only goes so far when you’re talking about politics. It’s what they say that I either like or don’t like. Steve accused me of always being for the cute candidate in Presidential races. He bases this on my crush on JFK at the age of sixteen. A crush that sent me out into the streets of Cincinnati on a sound truck, and gave me the courage to make phone calls to strangers asking for their vote for this liberal Democrat in this most conservative of Ohio cities. I was sixteen. JFK was cute and Nixon, well, cute isn’t what comes to mind when I think of him. But as I got older I voted for what the candidate stood for not his looks.

Over the years, I had crushes on many actors on TV and in movies that I found attractive. As a teenager, when I attended Lady’s Day at River Downs racetrack with my friend, Bobbi, and her mother, who was willing to take our money and place bets for us, I never looked at those racing forms for statistics. I wouldn’t have understood them if I had read them. I chose who to bet for by horse’s name, the colors it and the jockey wore, and whether the jockey was cute. Sometimes I even won.

I remember sitting at the one World Series game I went to in my life. I was seventeen, and a senior in high school. The Cincinnati Reds were in the World Series, and Dad had gotten really good seats from someone whose campaign sign he allowed to be in his store’s front window. It was very exciting, and we were sitting right behind the catcher. His name was Johnny Edwards. I’ve remembered his name even though I’ve forgotten who won that game. He was nice to look at, and I watched him throughout the game, when he was catching and when he was at bat. We were supposed to attend the next game too, but my Physiology teacher announced a test. My parents decided I should go to school instead. As we walked into class, Mr. Lounds announced that instead of having the test that day, we would get to study with a partner while listening to the baseball game on the radio.
“Mr. Lounds,” I said, “I was supposed to be at the game today. I came here for the test instead.”
“Sorry about that.” was all he said.

The year before Jacobs Field opened, while the Indians were still playing at the old ballpark, Upson school had a get together at the ball game. I came with all three of my sons. I watched a short, stocky guy at second base, saw him field and hit, and turned to my kids.
“Who is that little guy?” I asked, “He’s cute.”
“Carlos Baerga,” said Dusty.
That was the beginning of the return of my interest in watching baseball. I watched the Indians, so I could see Carlos. He wasn’t drop dead goodlooking or handsome, but he was as cute as he could be. I liked watching him play ball.

In 1995, my sons were all very involved in choosing their fantasy baseball teams. They spent time reading statistics from baseball magazines, going online, talking to friends, and working hard to find the best players for each position on their teams. I would occasionally look at one of the magazines and pronounce a player “cute.”

One day, my youngest son, who would be leaving for college in the fall, turned to me, and said, “Mom, you ought to choose a team of your own, and call it the “Cute” team.”

That’s exactly what I did. I started with Carlos at second base, and went on from there, choosing pitchers, a catcher, first baseman, third baseman, shortstop, and outfielders. I didn’t want the worst players on my team, but I didn’t need a bunch of All Star’s either. They had to be decent players, but the most important trait they all needed was far more shallow than their skills. My choices had to be cute, and not “Hey, mom, Jim Thome’s not bad looking. He just looks like a big old country boy.” cute.”

“Jim Thome is not cute. He can’t be on my team. Find me another third baseman who is cute.” I demanded of my sons, who thought what I was doing was hysterical, and were busy looking for players who met their mother’s standards. I filled my team with Indians first, Paul Sorrento at first base, Omar Vizquel at shortstop, Kenny Lofton in the field, Dennis Martinez pitching. Then, I went on to other teams to fill in other positions. I can’t remember all of my team members’ names anymore, but I do remember that during that entire baseball season, I watched my players whenever they were on TV. I watched the Indians, and if they played a team that had one of my cute guys, I could be heard saying, “Oh there’s Ken Griffey Jr.. He’s on my team. Isn’t he cute?”

I paid more attention to baseball in 1995 than I ever did before or after. I watched the games. I went to one or two games. I bought an Indians hat and a Carlos Baerga tee shirt. I had an online friend who was a Seattle Mariner’s fan, and the two of us discussed baseball at online chats and in email. I loved watching the season unfold, cheered as they won the pennant, and was sad that they didn’t win the World Series along with tons of other Indians fans. I didn’t keep statistics on my “Cute” team. I didn’t invest money in my fantasy baseball team, and I wasn’t part of an actual fantasy baseball group, but having my “Cute” team gave me an interest in sports that made the summer lots of fun.

I formed another team in 1996, and continued to watch baseball. After all I knew all the players on the Indians, and my interest was strong. Then came July 29th 1996. I was driving home from somewhere that day when my radio came over with a major announcement. They announced that there were strong rumors that the Indians were going to trade Carlos Baerga. I couldn’t believe my ears. I drove as fast as I could without getting pulled over for speeding, and ran in the house, yelling for my sons. They assured me that it was only a rumor, but by that evening, the rumor was proved real. I was so upset that I cried.

We’d bought tickets to attend a ballgame later that month, and I went, wearing my Baerga shirt and my Indians hat, where I had written Carlos forever, #9 is #1 in my heart. There were lots of others in the ballpark, wearing their Carlos shirts, and I came to understand that I was not alone in my unhappiness with the trade. I continued to follow the tribe for the rest of the season, and into the next season, but I didn’t form a “Cute” team in 1997. Yes, Carlos could still be on my fantasy baseball team even though he was no longer an Indian, but somehow I just didn’t care enough to bother anymore. Carlos, as an Indian, had reawakened my interest in baseball, and once he was gone from the Indians, having a team of cute players didn’t seem like such an amusing thing to do anymore. After 1997, I stopped watching baseball regularly, and I no longer watch it or follow it at all. My kids have told me that I am a fair weather fan, and they’re right. But the Indians didn’t lose me, because they stopped being such a good team. They began to lose me when they traded away the heart of my “Cute” team, and lost me more and more as they traded away the others who made up that team.

I haven’t been to the racetrack or to a baseball game in years, and I don’t have any knowledge about the looks of any of the present day Indian’s players or any baseball players for that matter, but I still appreciate a good looking movie or TV star, and my Saturn Vue is, in my opinion, the cutest car on the road today.

Flip Flopped

2009-07-15T19:03:00.001-07:00

The welcome meeting of the owners and guests at the Riptide Resort in Myrtle Beach was held on a Monday morning. As the manager, Julie, who didn’t seem to expect to do much that morning except welcome everyone to the first week of the summer season, was hit by questions and complaints about everything from parking, which is awful, and could have a piece all its own, to housekeeping, to the fact that they don’t have wi fi anywhere but the activity room, I, as a guest, amused myself by looking around at those in attendance.

My eyes fell on a heavyset blonde woman, somewhere over fifty, wearing a lime green and aqua two piece bathing suit with a lime green fishnet cover-up, which didn’t cover nearly enough. Since I’m no bathing beauty myself, I tried not to judge, but did find myself wondering in what world did this woman think that outfit was appropriate for someone her age, size, and body type? To keep from staring, my eyes moved down to her feet, where I found a pair of lime green flip flops with large rectangular flat shiny stones on the part that went between her toes and around the sides of her feet.

I looked at her feet, and then my eyes swept the room, at floor level, and that’s when I discovered that every person in the room, man, woman, and child, except for my friend, Karen and I, were wearing flip flops. Flip flops in red, in black, in brown, and in pink filled the room, and that was just the beginning of my revelation about the state of footwear in the U.S.A. in 2009.

The next afternoon we went to a shopping center called Barefoot Landing. As we walked along, I looked in the stores, at tee shirts, and souvenirs of all kinds, but every once in a while, I looked down and studied the feet walking along the sidewalk with me. There were a few pair of sandals, some children wore Crocs, and a guy or two had on athletic shoes without socks. There were even a few people who honored the location’s name by going barefoot, but at least 85% of the people were wearing flip flops. I saw silver flip flops, gold flip flops, green flip flops. It seemed every color and size were represented. Little girls wore Dora the Explorer flip flops, little boys wore Spiderman flip flops. Toddlers wore tiny pink flowered flip flops, or flip flops that lit up as they walked. I saw them in canvas, in leather, in rubber, in plastic, in plaids, stripes, and polka dotted, beribboned, and jeweled, and in every single color of the rainbow, some were actually rainbow colored. I saw child wearing a pair where one was orange with blue trim and one was blue with orange trim, and that was only the flip flops that had been sold to people.

There were racks and racks of these shoes everywhere I looked. At Barefoot Landing souvenir and apparel stores, at the discount and bargain souvenir shops, at shoe stores, and even in the kite store. Again I was amazed by the number of styles, colors, and sizes available. At a store called Del Sol, they had flip flops that changed color when warmed by the sun. I found myself wondering when this revolution in footwear began. After all, once upon a time, these kind of shoes were reserved for the beach and pool.

It isn’t just in resort areas of the South either. I’ve observed the same phenomenon here in the Cleveland area. One of my daughter-in-laws has an assortment of flip flops and she and her friends wear them all the time. While taking a tour of a friend’s new house, she opened the bedroom closet, and said apologetically, “ don’t mind the mess. That’s my flip flop collection. I’m addicted to them, and I think I have about forty pair.”

My nephew lives in Chicago, which gets cold even sooner than we do in Cleveland. Still when my friend, Karen and I visited that city in October to attend a wedding, he met us for Sunday brunch in flip flops.
“Except when I’m at work, I wear them until it snows.” he told me proudly. He’s a terrific young man, but his attitude towards these flat shoes with no back and a strap between the toes puzzles me.

I never wear flip flops, not in October, not in June, July or August. I rarely even wear sandals. I can’t stand any shoes that have a strap between the big toe and the next one. My big toe is bent in by a bunion, and hits against my next toe, but even before this deformity occurred, I didn’t like wearing that kind of shoe. The strap rubbed and a blister or sore was soon located between my toes. Besides most of the shoes are very flat and offer no support, and I need support. Until last summer, I also avoided backless shoes. I felt like my foot was falling out of them all the time, and was sure I would end up breaking a bone.

As a child, teen, and young adult, I wore sandals in the summer. Many times I also fell in the summer. I am very uncoordinated, and my big toe would hit something on the ground, or uneven pavement or a stone in the grass, and boom, down I would go. Because of my experiences, I never put my children in sandals either. They wore sneakers all summer long, and so did I. Last spring the bone spur on my right heel became very irritated, and I decided to try a pair of shoes that had no back. I wore them as often as I could, in places where I wouldn’t fall (generally around my house and my own yard), and found that I could walk in them. I got a new pair with a slight ridge in the back in the fall, and wore them all winter. Now I love them, and wear those kind of shoes all the time. So, yes, I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks, or a sixty something retired teacher how to wear shoes more exciting than the Reebok Princess style I’ve worn for the last decade, but flip flops, no I don’t think so. That style has flopped as a trend for me to try.

The Monster of the Neighborhood

2009-07-15T19:01:00.000-07:00

The Bond Hill section of Cincinnati was a wonderful place to live in the forties and fifties. Both places I lived there as a little girl were off Paddock Road. Our family started out on Egan Court, a street filled with apartments and war babies, and moved to a Tudor house on Towanda Terrace when I was two and a half.

Towanda Terrace had a gate across the sidewalk at the Paddock Road entrance to the street, and I remember swinging on it once I was old enough to take a walk up the street alone. The house closest to the gate had a fishpond, and I loved to watch the huge fish swim back and forth. A girl named Marguerite lived in that house, and whenever her name came up, Dad would sing out “Marguerite go wash your feet. The Board of Health’s across the street.”

The song made no sense to me, but to this day I can’t hear the name Marguerite or look at a fishpond without it repeating in my head.

As you entered Towanda Terrace, a street ran off to the left. That was Cheyenne Drive. My friend, Janie, lived there, as did lots of other people I knew as a child. Towanda Terrace ran down a hill, and that’s where we lived. A few houses from us the street began the climb up the hill to where my best friend, and fourth cousin, Cinie, lived. Towanda ran to the left attached once again to Cheyenne Drive, and then attached to Elm Park Drive, the other street of the three street neighborhood. Elm Park’s other end was on Paddock Road.

Our street was a wonderful place to live. Children flourished there, playing Kick the Can, Red Rover, Tag, and Mother-May-I. At dusk we chased and caught fire-flies, which we called lightning bugs, in glass jars our mothers provided. Although our house backed up to the houses on Cheyenne Drive, the houses across the street had an apple orchard in their back yard. It was owned by someone in one of them, and when we climbed the trees and picked the apples, the man would come out and threaten us with his rifle. We didn’t tell our parents about the threat, because we knew we probably shouldn’t be picking the apples anyway.

Directly across from our house was a vacant lot, and behind it was a field that ran all the way back to Seymour Road. The field held a small shack that Terry Karp, the neighborhood bad boy, burned down one day when he was playing with matches.

Across Seymour Road and out on Paddock Road, like a huge Gothic monster or a dinosaur, trapped in the modern world, stood Longview State Hospital. Built in 1860, consisting of 12 three and four story buildings and filling the equivalent of three city blocks, Longview loomed above the neighborhood in more ways than one. It was part of our life. My parents voted there. The Catholic church, located on that property, was the place the young, Catholic girls that acted as our nannies, attended church, and I remember going there with at least one of them a few times. If you turned left from Towanda Terrace to go anywhere in that direction, you passed the huge, brick complex that was on the right side of Paddock and both sides of Seymour. Our school and most of the places we went were in the other direction, but we were always aware of the hospital and who was inside it.

The neighborhood kids knew that Longview was for “crazy” people, although our understanding of what that meant was pretty low. The words insane and mentally ill were not to enter our vocabulary for many many years. Until the Halloween night that three inmates escaped and killed a guard or maybe two escaped or maybe two guards were killed (I have been unable to find any information on the escape and I’ve been looking online for years), the fact that crazy people were inmates at the hospital that was our neighbor were only words to us. The interrupted Halloween, with the kids sent home by neighbors, and the radio announcer talking about Longview and our neighborhood, made it very real.

After the escape, I was afraid to walk on the vacant lot side of the street, and avoided the lot itself and the field behind it at all costs. Jan, the boy who lived across the street next to the vacant lot, was not living there at that time. His mother, who had married and divorced several times, had taken Jan and gone back to Elmwood to live with her family. His empty house might as well have been haunted in my seven year old mind. I was sure the escaped inmates were living there, although Mom assured me that they were probably in California by now when she found out about my fears. In the irrational way children make everything that happens about them, I lay awake at night, sure every sound was those escapees, coming to kill me and my family.

We moved the next year, when I was eight. I knew I would miss my friends, but I was eager to live in our new, big house, where I would have my own room. I didn’t know that I would come to miss sidewalks and the feel of a real neighborhood, but I did know I wouldn’t miss Longview State Hospital and the fears it awoke in me.

My last experience with Longview happened right after we moved away. We were living with my grandfather, Poppy, in his house in North Avondale and Mom or Dad drove us to school at Pleasant Ridge elementary each day. Then we took the bus home to our new house, which was in the midst of painting and papering, cleaning and organizing. We did our homework there and waited for Mom to be ready to take us back to Poppy’s house for the night. Mom did not want to take the time to register to vote in a new location, so she went back to Bond Hill to cast her vote. As I said earlier, she voted at Longview.

Mom parked, and went in to vote, leaving the three of us inside the car, doors locked, but windows partially down. I remember I was scared and asked her to take us with her, but she said, “I’ll be right back. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Steve was five and Patti, three, but I was eight, and I knew there was a lot to be scared of. All those people I saw walking around, for one thing, and the ones we weren’t seeing, locked inside, just waiting I was sure to escape, and kill us on their way out. As we sat there, waiting for mom to return, a man came up to the window to ask us something. I rolled up the windows that were open as fast as I could. He was probably there to vote, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The moments till Mom returned were very long ones, and once we drove away, I hoped I would never get that close to Longview State Hospital again.

I had one other experience and it came a few years later in Girl Scouts. We were visiting a ward at Longview to do an art project with the patients. A woman walked over to us, and began to babble incoherently. I was ten, and I laughed. My friend, who lived down the street, hit my arm, and told me to cut it out, that it wasn’t funny. When I was a teenager, I found out that her mother had been hospitalized at Longview off and on over the years. Looking back, I am embarrassed by my ten year old self, but then again, looking back, I am shocked at the treatment of the mentally ill in the days when I lived in Bond Hill up until not that long ago, and by the misunderstandings and ignorance of that time that I remember in most ways as innocent and idylic.

Saving the Planet, One Cloth Bag At a Time

2009-03-21T19:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve been recycling for a long time. When I lived in Shaker Heights, I filled up the trunk, and the back seat, then my youngest son and I were off to the recycling center. When I moved to an apartment, recycling was impossible, but as soon as I bought my condo, I took full advantage of Lake County’s curbside recycling. Ahh, the good old days. Now I’m back to stashing everything in the car, and driving to a the nearest recycling bin. Until recently, that was all I did to save our planet. Last summer I found another way to go green.

I bought those trendy cloth grocery bags that every store from Heinens to Marcs is selling. Actually, I almost bought one from every store I ever enter. I bought one from Target, two each, one insulated and one plain, from Heinens and Giant Eagle, so I won’t, God forbid, use the wrong bag at one of these competing grocery stores. I’ve been to Aldi twice, but they charge you for bags, so I bought a huge cloth bag there. It’s a great bag, but I haven’t been back lately to use it.

Using these bags is a way to help the environment . . . if I can just remember to bring them into the grocery store. People say, “oh it’s so easy. Just keep them in the front seat of the car, and I usually do. That’s usually where they are when I am in the store shopping too.

I walk into Target, grab a cart, and head for the Dollar spot. I love the Dollar spot, and buy lots of fun things there to use when my grandchildren are over. Right in front of the Dollar Spot, I recognize an old friend in the display of cloth bags. Look, it’s just like my bag . . .the one in the front seat of my car. That’s when I look outside, and if it is nice out, and I was able to find a good parking space, I return the cart, go outside to the car, and retrieve my bag. If the conditions are different, too cold, too far to walk, I keep going. I love those Target plastic bags anyway. They’re thicker than the average bag, and great for wet clothes after aquasize. At least that’s what I tell myself when I decide not to go back to the car.

At Giant Eagle, the bag display is not readily visible as I enter the produce department, where I stock up on my wonderful pink lady apples, baby carrots, and mushrooms. If I have forgotten my bags, I don’t remember them while I am busily reading the information on the organic cereals to try to find one that, when checked out on my wonderful handy dandy Weight Watcher calculator, has only two points a serving. I don’t remember them, while picking out the yogurt on sale that week, or the Weight Watcher Smart Ones or Lean Cuisine meals that make up the bulk of my diet these days. I don’t remember them until I get to the checkout counter, where Giant Eagle has their cloth bag display.

How long are the lines? That’s the first question I ask myself as I realize the position I have found myself in once again. I’m not going to go out to the car, if once I return, I have to stand in line for fifteen minutes. Then I consider the weather and the parking situation. If all the stars align, I push my full cart into the row with the movies or the one with the cards, and move quickly to the car, where I find my Giant Eagle bags, right there in the front seat, where I put them earlier, so I wouldn’t forget them.

The story at Heinens is much the same as at Giant Eagle, except that the bags are closer to the front of the store, and the return trip to the car is shorter. Sometimes at Heinens, though, I don’t see the display, because I’m looking at the produce straight ahead of me, and ignoring my peripheral vision. When that happens, a Heinens blue plastic bag or two is going home with me to spend some time in my bag bag that hangs in the laundry room, until it is recycled right next door into the bathroom waste can. I do mark some progress by the fact that I used to have two filled to the brim, bag bags, and now there’s just one, fairly emtpy one.

Using cloth bags at the grocery is a wonderful way to help save our planet, and I really want to do my part. I bought the bags, and I put them in the car, and I have the best intentions in the world, but when I find myself at the checkout counter, much of the time, those intentions are all I have with me. Those bags I bought to save the planet are in the front seat of my car.

Winter and Snow

2009-02-09T12:39:00.000-08:00

I love the look of fresh snow, right after a snowfall. It is so white and clean, like someone has unwrapped one of those rolls of cotton or poly batting I see at the fabric store. It’s glorious to look out the window at a winter wonderland, snow on the ground, the street, the bushes. There’s even snow inside my screened in porch. Snow as far as the eye can see. The snow is very inviting, but I don’t like the cold, so I stay in the condo, hibernating with the cats in my warm bedroom, occasionally, looking out from my front windows or from the dining room through the temporarily white floored porch.

Then come the plows, clearing Liberty and Franklyn, picking up the snow with their plows and throwing it into huge mountains across the front of our yards. Once the streets are finished, they begin on the driveways. Scrape and throw to the side, scrape and throw to the side, until another mountain is formed, this one along the right side of my driveway, and the left side of the neighboring condo. Mine is always bigger for some reason.

Between the plows and the drifts, the condos in Franklyn Commons look like they are being buried in snow, and so do the poor little trees that are in our front yard. One tree per condo, sour cherry, or crab apple. My sour cherry tree is good to the birds, and I hang two bird feeders there to encourage them to come around even after the cherries are gone. It is such a tiny tree, always looking like it is struggling to survive. The summer before last, they trimmed the trees back, and one of the lawn service men told me that cutting off some of the upper limbs might help the tree to spread out and look less scraggly. It didn’t work, and now, the poor little thing looks cold and like it wishes it could dig out from under the plow drifts that reach halfway up its skinny trunk.

The plow men return. This time it is to clear the sidewalks that lead from the driveway to our front doors. We have no actual sidewalks in Franklyn Commons. Now my yard is ringed by white snow mountains, well maybe ringed isn’t the right word, since it is more like three sides of a square, around my front yard and those of all my neighbors. It looks sort of like the icing on a cake, sloped sides of icing, rising higher than the center section.

By the time all of the plowing is done, and the days go by with the streets and driveways getting multiple treatments, the snow is no longer so pristine in its whiteness. Instead it is starting to get gray around the edges, a gray that I realize, as I get closer, is really brown from the mud underneath the snow. There are some falling flakes, but not enough to cover up the dirty snow, and dirty snow looks just plain cold, and old, and ugly.

The temperature rises, some of the snow starts to melt, and there are puddles scattered, still a lot of snow, but the mountains no longer look inviting, and their edges are worn away to show the mud beneath by the street. The driveway is no longer clean, it has patches of muddy slush. That’s better than ice at least. They plow our streets, driveways and front walks, but they don’t salt them. Every year I say, I’ll buy some salt and put it down, but every year, I don’t do it, and every year I fall at least once, putting out or taking in the trash cans. It never fails.
When I was growing up in Cincinnati, almost any snowfall where the snow stuck was an opportunity to get out of school. Even if the district didn’t call a snow day, my dad did.

“You kids are staying home today.” he’d say, as he and mom got dressed to drive downtown to work.
“I don’t want you walking down that hill to the bus, and breaking a leg, and the bus drivers aren’t used to this kind of weather and could have an accident.”

Later when we could drive, he would simply inform us that we weren’t going anywhere in “our” car. It was afterall, really his car, and his insurance, and he wasn’t having any accidents.

Dad said that even when I was 21, a senior in college, living at home, and student teaching as far across town as you could go without leaving the Cincinnati school district.

He appeared in my bedroom, early that morning, and said, “You’re not going to school today. I don’t want you driving the car.”

I called the University of Cincinnati. Classes were not cancelled. I called the Cincinnati school district office. Classes were not cancelled. I called the school where I was student teaching to tell the principal that I was not coming in. She informed me that I’d better come in. I was expected, and not appearing would affect my grade.

“My dad won’t let me take the car.” I said. “He said the weather is too bad, and I live really far away.”

“You have to come.” she said, “all of the teachers have to come. Once you are teaching for real, you’ll have to go if the school is open, and school is open, and I expect you.”

I tried the dad thing again, but she informed me that I was an adult, and he couldn’t keep me home, since I had a job to go to. I had never thought of it that way. He was my father. I was living in his house, driving his car, and he was paying for the gas, the insurance, and oh yes, my tuition. I had to follow his rules, didn’t I? Umm, not according to the principal.

I tried another route,”If I was a regular teacher, I probably wouldn’t be living so far away.”

“Many of our teachers live far away. I, myself, live far away, but I here, they are on the way, and you need to get on the way also.” she replied.

I got up, and dressed, and called Marcia, the other student teacher from my class, who was working in the same far away community that I was. I had picked her up a few times when she had car trouble, but her house was sort of on the way, and mine was backtracking for her. She had called the school too, and was getting ready to leave. Her parents were not as protective as mine, and she agreed to come pick me up.

I arrived late, but I arrived. After that I always believed that snow or no snow, if the schools were open, teachers had to be there. Much later, teaching in Euclid while living in Shaker Heights, I learned it wasn’t necessarily true. There were teachers that everyone knew would be absent, due to “illness,” whenever the snow hit a certain amount and the schools weren’t closed. Although I lived as far away as those teachers, I almost always made it in.

I never really saw gray,brown, dirty snow, old packed snow, until I moved to Cleveland. In Cincinnati, when it did snow, it snowed, the sun came out, the snow melted. And although it seems to snow almost as much there as it does here, these days, according to the weather reports, that didn’t seem to be true while my children were growing up.

We would go to Cincinnati at Thanksgiving. There had usually been at least one snowfall here, so I would drag boots for all of us. It never snowed. At Christmas vacation, once again, we would drag boots. If it snowed, it was one of those quick snows, with the sun appearing the next day, and the snow gone before we hit the road home. I could always tell when we got near home though, the old, dirty gray snow was my first clue. It always seems to stay so long that it wears out its welcome.

The snow brings to mind what dad always said to us as we got ready to leave Cincinnati, particularly when my children were young. He’d give me a kiss and twenty dollars for gas, and then he’d say,” Bye, have a safe trip. I love to see you come, and I love to see you go.”

That goes double for the snow.

Every Snowy Day is a Snow Day Now

2009-01-28T17:53:00.000-08:00

Almost every school in northeast Ohio was closed today due to snow. Once again my still teaching friends had a snow day. So, although this piece was written in February of 2007, the first winter of my retirement, it still reflects the way I feel on snowy days.

There is a cute little snowman hanging outside my front door. He has a blue hat, scarf, and mittens, and a painted orange nose that is supposed to look like a carrot. He has hung there for the last few winters, following the autumn leaves door decoration and preceding the spring frogs and flowers.

I like the way he looks, and the fact that he is large and colorful enough to be seen from the street, but this year he looks a little bit lonely to me. Several years ago at the first craft fair of the fall, I found a sign that I thought was very amusing, and I hung it from the snowman decoration. It was brightly painted and expressed the feelings of many people that I know, including mine. It said, “Please snow, I’m a teacher!”

It made me laugh a bit when the snow started to fall on a Sunday or a weekday afternoon, and I would look up at the sky, and say a little prayer that echoed the sentiments on the sign. Most years Mother Nature and the superintendent of the Euclid schools didn’t cooperate in spite of the sign and the prayer, but once in a while we had a snow day. When that happened, well, there was always the renewed hope that hanging the sign helped.

The last two years that I taught, there were no snow days. Our superintendent called one a few years ago that caused us to be one of the few districts closed in Cuyahoga County, and he vowed that it would never happen again.
“As long as I can get my car out of my driveway, school will be in session.” He was often quoted, when we watched the districts around us close while Euclid stayed open.

This year, when I took out the snowman, the sign was attached. I realized that since I wasn’t a teacher anymore, the sign was no longer true. I undid the twist tie that held the two decorations together, and hung up the snowman. I put the sign away. Perhaps I will give it to a still teaching friend or put it in a garage sale. I just know that I no longer need it, because for me, any day that snows is a snowday.

Thoughts on Inauguration Day

2009-01-28T17:48:00.000-08:00

The day dawned bright and cold. January 20th 2009, inauguration day, change is in the air, and so is hope, and faith in the future. Here are my thoughts and feelings as I watched the inauguration of Barack Obama.

Those two little girls, so beautiful and so real. Michelle, our new first lady, so regal, so tall and lovely and poised. MY PRESIDENT, for the second time in my life, I feel so proprietary, so involved, so much a part of this historic occasion, and once again, here come the tears.

That crowd of faces, so full of hope, and joy, and the promise of a future, a future of possibility, after so many years where the hope and promise of our country seemed muted, although never completely lost. I find myself praying, “Dear God, take care of our new president. Keep him safe and strong, and allow him to bring our country back to where it belongs in the world, for the promise he holds, and for all of us in this wonderful country.”

Rick Warren, I feared his invocation, that it would be so Christian in nature that I would feel shut out, but he began his prayers with the English of the Shema, drawing me in, and he invoked Jesus at the end as his personal savior, being inclusive in a way that renewed my belief that this administration and all that are part of it will work for all Americans.

Aretha Franklin, big funny bowed hat, unbelievable voice, singing America the Beautiful in a different way, inspiring, and better than I’ve ever heard it sung before.

Joe Biden taking the oath of office as Vice President, a man I’ve always admired, because of his goodness, because he wears his heart on his sleeve, and because he often lacks the ability to filter himself. This makes him real, and real is important.

An amazing musical performance, Itzak Perlman, Yo Yo Ma, Gabriela Montero,and Anthony McGill , the full range of the American melting pot, yes it still exists, but now it is more like a stew, stirred together to form an American like our President and his family.

Barack Hussain Obama, the forty-fourth president of the U.S.A., a man who is always calm, cool, and collected, stumbled a bit on the oath of office, because Justice Roberts got flustered. The crowd, cheering, crying, full of love, waving American flags, and back here in Willoughby, a very strange sixty-four year old woman, jumping up and down, shouting, “yes, we did!” over and over, as both cats run out of the room.

Yes we did! Here we go . . .
I toast to the future, and am proud I helped make it happen.

Yes We Did! Yes He Did! Yes! Yes! Yes!

2008-12-22T15:58:00.000-08:00

I wrote this piece the night of November 4th 2008, so I'm a bit late in posting it. Still, President Elect Obama does not become President Obama until January 20th, so I figure it isn't too late to post the feelings I had as the election was called that night.

____________________________________________________________________

It’s one A.M. here in Willoughby, and I have the strongest urge to stand up and sing, “We Shall Overcome” at the top of my lungs in honor of all those who paved the way, and made this day possible. I want to honor Martin Luther King, and Carl and Louis Stokes, Rosa Parks, and all those who fought the good fight for civil rights and equality, so that today, my new president is not only brilliant, graceful, strong, and calm, he’s also African American.

“We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome someday.
Oh deep in my heart I do believe, we shall overcome someday.

We sang it in the Equality Committee, in 1962 and 63, at Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri, as we plotted and planned and worked to integrate our college. I sang it sitting alone on the bed in my parent’s bedroom on August 28, 1963, watching the March on Washington, and with Peter, Paul, and Mary when I attended their concerts. It has always brought me to tears, and given me hope, but tonight, I sing it, alone, scaring my cats with my terrible voice, because, by God, we have overcome. We’ve overcome our country’s history of slavery, racism, and inequality, and we’ve elected Barack Obama, not because of his color, but because he is the right man for the job, at this difficult time.

In 1960, I was a sixteen year old girl, riding the bus to downtown Cincinnati to try to be part of The New Frontier. I missed my chance to see JFK in person, because, although I had my driver’s license, by the time I cleared the students’ parking lot at Walnut Hills, and braved the insane traffic, he was gone, on to another city, another campaign stop. Still, I made calls, rode a sound truck, yelling till I was hoarse, and sold buttons for contributions. Somewhere up in the guest bedroom, tucked away in my memory box, is a campaign button for JFK. I used to have a styrofoam campaign hat, but it’s no longer in the box.

This year I took part in the first political campaign I’ve been involved in since that fateful year. I did data entry, shredded the results of canvassing and phone calls, actually canvassed three times, wrote post cards, and put together a card to send to new voters, but I’m proudest of the trip I made to take two young men, Euclid High School seniors and interns in the Euclid Obama office, down to the Board of Elections to early vote and cast the first ballot of their lives, and to cast it for someone who looked like them.

They stood in line, hundreds of people, young and old, men and women, some with their young children. The majority of them were African American, with a few White and Asians in the mix. They stood in a line that started on the sidewalk in front of the Board of Elections in downtown Cleveland. The line went into the building, where the people were sent in two different directions. Some were sent ahead in a line that snaked around and ended in a room where identification checkers and curtained voting booths were waiting. Others were sent down the stairs to a line that curved around before entering a similar room where their identifying information and their ID card or driver’s license would be checked. Once they passed that barrier, they went into another line, which looped around twice before sending each person to a voting booth as it became available.

They stood in line for more than an hour, and I understand that on other days the wait was two or three hours. Yet, in all the time, I sat outside that room, waiting for the two young men, not one person turned around in frustration, and left the line. It was cold outside and it was hot downstairs in that hallway, and these people had already stood in line outside, in the front hallway, and down the stairs, and yet they were not angry or upset. People were serious, but pleasant to each other, as they stood quietly filling out the voter’s information sheet. Everyone, even the children that were brought along, seemed to know that this was an important election, perhaps the most important of our lifetime.

My impressions of this election came from addictively watching the cable news networks nightly, watching each debate, seeing the video of Barack’s speech on race, and reacting over and over to his oratorical brilliance, and the images his speeches gave me of how this country should be. He speaks with an eloquence few can match, and I believed in him from that day in January when he won the Iowa caucus. He had my vote that day.

But beyond all else there are two impressions that will stick with me forever, the first being that line at the Board of Elections, winding its peaceful, intentful way into a chance for hope and change. The second has to do with what is called the Obama ground campaign. The paid organizers and their unpaid volunteers, intense and determined, willing to do whatever it took for Barack Obama to win this election. They went without sitting down to meals, without being with their loved ones for months at a time, without sleep or time for themselves. Many were dropped in strange cities, living in the homes of strangers, counting on public transportations or other workers to get them to the field offices and back to their lodgings. Someone who put up an organizer described the young man, as falling exhausted into a chair each night, too tired to even eat.

These young people organized the ground campaign, finding people to work, putting people to work, overseeing all of the work of their volunteers. Without them, Barack Obama wouldn’t be our President-Elect. Many of them will go on to further roles in the Obama administration, and perhaps to political positions of their own. Some will go back to their normal lives now, changed forever by the part they played in this election. Seeing them at work was truly inspirational, and gave me hope for the future and for the world that my grandchildren will inherit.

Seasons

2008-10-07T20:06:00.000-07:00

I’d hate to live where the leaves don’t change
And you never get to see the range
Of colors, yellow, orange, and red
Where everything stays green instead

I’d hate to live where there is no snow
Where there are no snowballs for kids to throw
And you can’t look out on a cold, crisp day
Wishing the fresh white stuff would stay that way

I’d hate to live where there’s no spring rain
Softly pitter patting on the windowpane
Swept around as the spring winds blow
Helping the yellow daffodils grow

I’d hate to live where it’s too darn hot
Where it’s hard to find a shady spot
And you hate to leave the inside air
To go outside to anywhere

I like to live where the seasons thrive
And the weather seems to be alive
Breathing and laughing at all of us
As its changes cause complaints and fuss

Some people yearn for a tropic isle
But somehow that isn’t my style
I want a climate that gives me it all
Winter, summer, spring and fall!

2008-08-05T19:55:00.000-07:00

I Always Wanted

I always wanted swingy hair
Soft, and cut to my chin
That moved like a curtain across my face
Then swung right back again
My hair was black as midnight, but in curls
Mom always said curly was nice for girls
I never agreed and did my best
To make my hair meet the test
I had it straightened, ironed it straight
Dried it in big rollers, not worth the wait
When it was finished, it just hung there
It wasn’t swinging anywhere
It failed, no matter what I tried
It simply didn’t know how to glide
The curl is gone, my hair is gray
I keep it short, and like it this way
Just enough wave left for easy care
But I still wish I had swingy hair

Bright Shiny Morning

2008-08-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve been listening to this book in my car for the last week. I love audiobooks for many reasons, but especially because I find it pleasurable to walk out to the car to do errands, and know that someone will be reading a story just for me. Generally, I read and listen to mystery novels, but sometimes an audiobook of another genre will catch my eye, and I’ll give it a shot. After all, I can always return it if the first disc or so doesn’t make me want to take the CD inside and keep listening.

I was curious about Bright Shiny Morning, because it was written by James Frey, and James Frey is little Jimmy Frey who lived down the street on Chalfant Rd. in Shaker Heights. He is the same age as my oldest son, and they shared a friend, named Clay, who lived around the corner on Stockholm Rd.. The three boys were all born in September of 1969, and all knew each other from preschool days until the Freys moved to Michigan. Jimmy’s mom and Clay’s mom decided to keep their sons in preschool an extra year. I sent my son on to kindergarten, so the three were never in the same grade in school. Still I remember a little boy, named Jimmy, with a head full of blonde curls, who lived down the street with his older brother, Bobby, and his parents, Lynne and Bob.

When A Million Little Pieces came out, I was sure it was that little boy all grown up. I researched a bit, and learned that yes, James Frey was born in Cleveland on September 12, 1969. I picked up the book, and leafed through, and sure enough, there was a mention of his best friend, Clay. I was excited when the book was chosen by Oprah, and when he was interviewed by Oprah. I told my son that the book getting all the attention was by little Jimmy Frey who lived down the street. He didn’t remember him at first, but my description sparked his memory. Then scandal struck! The book was published as a memoir and parts of it were fiction. People were very upset, particularly Oprah, who first defended the author, and then berated him in front of more than millions on her TV show.

My feeling about all of this was that when you know the guy is a recovering drug addict and alcoholic, why would you think everything he wrote is true? Why would you be shocked to discover inconsistencies and outright untruths in his book? Why would you think he was telling the truth when he marketed it as a memoir. And if you liked the book when it was a memoir, why would the fact that it was actually fiction, change your opinion?

When Bright Shiny Morning, the third book by James Frey came out, I read a very positive review in The Plain Dealer, so when I saw the audiobook in the library, I picked it up. At first, I found it confusing. It’s one of those books that jumps around. There’s no straight line plot to follow, and in between the vignettes of various people, are historical facts about Los Angeles, statistics about its roads, its weather, its gangs, its various ethnic areas and their origin, and much much more. Umm, I thought, I don’t really want to listen to this, but then I got caught up in the people and their stories, and wanted to hear more, always a good sign with an audiobook. These are little stories of people, mixed into a delicious stew of characters, but four stories are continuing, and their characters are the ones that kept me listening.

There is Old Man Joe, only 39, but looking 75. He just changed overnight from young to old, and stayed that way. Old Man Joe is an alcoholic, who lives on the street. He would be homeless, but he’s been given a bathroom to sleep in, behind a taco restaurant. He cleans it, and stores his chablis, his drink of choice and few precious things there. It is his home. Joe’s life changes when a young girl comes into it, and he suddenly becomes her knight in old, worn, rags, defending her with his trash can lid shield. Tragedy and chaos result, ripping Joe out of his routine.

We also met Amberton Parker, famous action hero movie star, married with children, leading a secret life, that becomes not so secret when he falls in love with an agent, who used to be a football star. We are taken into the life of Amberton and his wife, Casey, a life of luxury and wealth, their children, little nanny raised trophies, part of the effort to hide their mutual secrets. We, the readers, or in my case, listeners, are taken into this world, and get a picture of how these stars manage their private lives.

I recently met someone online who used to be a nanny for a family with famous parents. From her reports, there is a lot of truth in the lives of Amberton and Casey Parker, even though they are made up characters.

Then there are Dylan and Mattie, running away from unhappy lives in small town Ohio. Not sure what they are running towards, only knowing it has to be better, happier, less miserable, than the lives they are leaving behind. But complications keep coming, and when they finally accept the permanent complication that is on its way, and seem to be ready to move on together, their past catches up with them, and leaves one of them, and us, hanging.

My favorite character, Ezperanza, is born of Mexican illegal parents just as they cross the border. Born with a good mind, a sweet disposition, and a physical characteristic that seems to be standing in the way of the life she is capable of attaining. Her story made me smile, because her parents love her unconditionally, and because there seems to be so much to her as a person, whether she is pretending to be an ignorant illegal domestic, or is kidding around with her employer’s son or her co-workers at an office supply store. Her bouts of depression simply give her more dimension and make her real. Unlike some of the reviewers I’ve read, I don’t find Ezperanza too good to be true. She has a kind, loving, shy personality, and is not quick to anger, but her anger is expressed, and her feelings are very real.

As the last disc went into my car’s CD player, I became apprehensive. This has happened before. No one wants a good story to end, particularly one that doesn’t tie up the loose ends in a nice bow. I knew I would be left wanting more, and I was.

Has Old Man Joe learned his lesson? Will he ignore the next damsel in distress? Will he lock his bathroom door, and leave any knock unanswered? Is Mattie going to be raising her child alone? Will she be able to make it on her own? Is Dylan alive, will he return, battered but eager to be with Mattie? Will Amberton leave the closet, leave Casey, find happiness with someone or will he and Casey go on with their make-believe life? It looked like the latter was underway, enabled by those around them. How about Ezperanza and Doug? Will her parents accept this disinherited, rich Anglo nerd? Do the two of them have a chance to make a life together?

I want to know the answers to my questions, but this isn’t the kind of book that will have a sequel, and James Frey isn’t the kind of author who is planning for it to be a series. Still, when I feel this way at the end of a book, I know that it was a successful read (or listen in this case), and for that I thank the author, who used to be little Jimmy Frey, who lived up the street, and now is James Frey, the controversial author, and as far as I’m concerned a very good writer.

Losing a Piece of History

2008-07-27T13:16:00.000-07:00

The green house looked like it was haunted, and maybe it was. Trees had grown around it, so it was barely visible from the street, and it was obviously uninhabited. It sat on one part of a double lot, and the whole parcel was wooded.
“It’s in the forest,” my grandson said.

One day I noticed some of the trees had been cut back, and some removed, so that a car could pull in next to the house. Bags and boxes of trash appeared at the curb. It was obvious that someone was cleaning out the house. Clearing the debris of whomever had lived there last.

Now I could see the house, the front porch, the scalloped gable. I could tell it was in a state of disrepair, but I could also tell it was old, very old, and it had what is called “good bones.”

I had a little book, a pamphlet really, that I bought at a garage sale. It was published in 1989, and was called Touring Wickliffe. There I found the history of the green house. The house at 30111 Ridge Road was built by George Mosher in 1868. He was the third generation of Moshers to live on what was then called “the ridge.” His parents lived down the street at 30023 Ridge Road. Their house was built in 1874. His grandparents had settled there in 1832, and owned a farm of 200 acres across the street, on the south side of the ridge. The farm isn’t there anymore, but the home of George Mosher’s parents, John and Abbie Mosher, is still standing and has been refurbished. I call it the yellow house.

I drove past the green house often, watching to see the next step that would be taken. Would the house be repaired, remodeled, dragged into the twenty-first century or would it be torn down, and replaced with two or three smaller, less distinctive homes? For a long time nothing happened.

In the fall of 2007, I attended a house tour from the Wickliffe Historical society that included the John Mosher house. My friend and I walked down and looked at the green house, so that I could satisfy my curiosity close up. At one of the homes on the tour, we met a woman, named Virginia, who was instrumental in setting it up. She told us how she researched the homes, discovered their history and ownership, and arranged for them to be on the tour, even if it meant knocking on a door, and asking to see the home. She mentioned that she lived on Ridge. I asked about the green house, and listened to its tale of woe.

She lived across and right up the street from the green house, and had been interested in it for a long time. Neighbors said that it had been inhabited for years by a family with many children. That the kids ran wild, and the parents did nothing to control them or care for the house. The widowed mother of that family lived in the house alone for many years when her children were grown. She either could not or did not do anything to keep up the house or yard. At some point, she was declared unable to live alone, and went to some kind of senior care facility. The house sat empty for many years, until she passed away, and the estate cleared probate.

Virginia asked the owner if she could go inside. She reported that it was a mess with rodent droppings and other debris and much damage. Still, she said it was an interesting house with some detailed features. She hoped it would be restored, rather than removed. So did I.
One day I went past the house and saw a For Sale sign, actually two of them, one in front of the house, the other in front of the extra lot. I went online and looked up the property, it was listed for over $200,000, but as a fixer-upper that needed a new roof among other repairs. There was a virtual tour, and the house had fireplaces and other features that could draw in someone who loved antiques and old houses. I had hope for it to be sold to such a person, and for the green house to have a bright future. More of the yard was cleared, temporary front steps were put in place. I watched and waited.
When I passed the house a week and a half ago, a tree service was there. The next time I passed it, I saw that every tree on the property had been chopped down. I felt a chill, particularly when I saw that the front door was gone and that and all the windows were boarded up. Two days later, the green house was gone. Torn down to the ground, not even a foundation left behind.

Trucks seem to be there everyday, clearing and leveling the property. There is no forest anymore. There is no house anymore. Soon there will be a clean, level piece of ground, and someday, perhaps, there will be two or three little houses built where one once stood, surrounded by trees.

One hundred forty years ago, George Mosher built a house on the ridge for his family. A place where his four children could live close to their grandparents and near their great grandparents’ farm. That house saw children born, saw them grow, heard their footsteps echoing through its rooms, running up and down the stairs. That house saw families at their best and at their worst. Trees grew up around it, and in time, more houses were built, and it stopped being a house in the country, and became a house in the suburbs, on a busy road. In 1868, George Mosher built a house. In 2008, someone tore it down. We’ve lost a piece of history, and it makes me sad.

Under Where ?

2008-07-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

When did it become OK for underwear to show
It never used to be that way, that much I do know
Before you left the house, you carefully checked each strap
Cause if your bra was showing, it would cause quite a flap
But now, wearing a black tank, with white straps on the side
Is perfectly acceptable, I guess we’ve turned the tide

After all, it is called underwear
And that means it is under there
Under all your outer wear
Yet now it is OK to bare
Bra straps or the top of a thong
To me, this is just wrong wrong wrong
I much prefer my underwear, under and out of sight
Especially if the shirt is black, and the straps that show are white

Once it was sexy to have a bit of mystery
But now they let it all hang out
And modesty is history
Revealing lots of flesh is in
And I, of course, am out
But still I’m left wondering
What that bra strap thing’s about

The strappy look isn’t attractive to see
At least that’s how it seems to me
Of course, I know it could be worse
But let’s save the braless look for a different verse

Living History

2008-06-04T12:11:00.000-07:00

History was made last night, June 3, 2008 at around 9:00 P.M. I tear up when I write it, or even think about it. Barack Obama is the presumed Democratic candidate for President of the United States, they kept saying on the cable news shows, and I shouted and laughed and jumped around like an idiot, even though there was no one here to see me, but the cats. They've seen me act crazy so much in the last six months that they don't even get scared and run away anymore.

John McCain made a speech a little earlier. I tried to listen, but he was knocking Obama, and the rest of it was same old same old. Then they cut away to say Obama had enough delegates to be nominated, and that's when I did all the shouting, laughing and jumping. Then there was Hilary Clinton, being introduced by Terry McCullife as the next President from a place without TV, where Blackberries didn't work, and no one seemed to be aware of what had just happened, and I thought, "wow I wonder how many delegates there are in the state of denial." That seemed to be the state of Hilary's mind also, not to mention that of Bill and Chelsea. I was amazed. Hilary Clinton's speech was not a concession speech. It sounded as though she was still running, but for what? The Democratic candidate has been chosen.

The process may be flawed, but it was followed and it worked as it was supposed to work. You may say, "what about Michigan? Harold Ickes said that four delegates that should have belonged to Hilary Clinton went to Barack Obama. Would those four delegates have made a difference in which candidate won? If not, then let's move on. It's time for the party to come together, but the Hilary supporters have been left hanging by their candidate, who should have told them that very thing. One of them, Hilary Rosen, wrote a piece on the Huffington Post. It was titled "I Am Not a Bargaining Chip, I Am a Democrat." And if we want that big white house to have a Democrat as it's inhabitant next January, other Democrats need to take that same attitude.

I admit I do not love Hilary Clinton, but as a Democrat, as a woman who is pro-choice, as a believer that it is time to end an illegal war that is killing young people, I do not want John McCain in that big white house. If Hilary Clinton had gotten the nomination, I would have supported her and voted for her in November. Hilary supporters who are truly Democrats, who care about these same issues, need to rally behind the presumed candidate, Barack Obama.

Well, it took me a long time to get here, but finally, after the speeches by McCain and Clinton, came Barack Obama, speaking from the place in Minnesoda where the Republican convention will be held this summer. He was glowing, his smile as wide as I've ever seen it. His wife, Michelle Obama, wearing a beautiful purple dress, that showed off her figure and was becoming to her coloring, had a smile almost as wide as his. They embraced and then they kissed, and I melted all over again. His speech, in which he spoke graciously about Hilary Clinton and with respectful toughness about John McCain, was as usual, interesting and powerful. I'm never bored when listening or reading a speech by Obama. Every time I hear him speak, I realize what a class act this man is, brilliant, charismatic, mesmerizing. Last night, history was made as the Democratic party nominated the first African American as a candidate for President of the United States. It makes me so very proud of my party, and grateful to all of those who had made this happen.

The Democratic Convention will be held on the date of the Martin Luther King's speech in Washington D.C. I hope Reverend King is looking down, and thinking that in spite of the fact that all of his dreams for his country haven't come true, that this fantastic event that occurred last night, something he probably didn't even dare to dream about in 1963, made all the struggles and sacrifices of the civil rights movement meaningful and worthwhile.

Washington D.C.

2008-05-07T05:29:00.000-07:00

My recent visit to Washington D.C. left me feeling warm and loving towards our nation’s capitol. There are three main reasons why I feel that way about this special place, which isn’t really a city, isn’t in any state, and whose citizens don’t have the right to vote like the rest of us.

Reason number one - There are so many beautiful, historic, and famous places to see, to learn about, and to visit. This trip, my friend, Karen, and I, took the opportunity to visit and tour The Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. It is a beautiful building, filled with outstanding artwork of all kinds, gifted to the United States by other nations and by U.S. companies and citizens. Each of the theaters we toured was exquisitely and perfectly designed, and full of amazing treasures. The views from the terrace are breathtaking.

Reason number two - The city is easy to move about using the metro system, a system of public transportation that really works. Karen and I, two women of a certain age, neither of whom is gifted with a wonderful sense of direction, were able to get from Alexandria, Virginia to Washington D.C.,and all around the district, using the metro. The signs that show the maps and each metro line, are large and fairly easy to read. When travel is during non-rush hours, it is very affordable. All the ticket machines work well, although some of them are somewhat picky about wrinkled dollar bills (the kind many of us have in our purses or pockets.) The trains are clean, and everything seems to run smoothly. It is a great way to avoid big city traffic without the chaos or danger involved in public transportation in other places.

Reason number three - I was surprised and delighted by the kind, friendly, helpful people of Washington D.C. From the family at our motel, waiting for the Fairfax Connecter with us in the morning, who advised us about all day passes, to the woman, waiting for another connecter at the end of the day, who realized that we were at the wrong level of the Huntington Station, and told us how to get to the correct one, people helped us every step of the way. They helped without being asked, and because of them, we were able to find our way all over D.C, and back to our hotel in Alexandria. Later in our trip, we managed to get lost several times, driving in Williamsburg, Virginia. At the time, I kept saying we needed a GPS, but we didn't need one in Washington D.C., because of the assistance of so many wonderful people.

Jon and Kate, Making Money Off the Eight

2008-05-03T18:07:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog, I wanted to write about the TLC reality shows that make up a large part of my TV viewing. I wrote one post early on about the Roloff family, and then got caught up in politics. I'm still caught up in politics, but I've found time to watch and discuss my TLC shows with other viewers on message boards. In the process, I've come to some, not very positive comments about the Gosselin family, at least the parents, I love the kids.

I liked this show at first, but was struck right from the beginning by Kate's treatment of Jon. She picks on her husband, puts him down, and actually slaps him in the face, something she refers to as love taps. After I began reading message boards about this show, I realized that others felt the same way, and then I began to have doubts about her parenting. As I learned more about the Gosselins, my view of them began to deteriorate. These people are using their children to bring themselves fame and fortune, lots of gifts from sponsors, love offerings at speaking engagements, a book deal, and TLC paying for trips and home improvement.

Meanwhile, the eight kids are growing up with overhead television lights in their homes, and cameras filming their every move. Their personalities are dissected by their parents in front of a viewing audience, and that same audience saw the tups, toilet trained, bathed, and berated for childhood misdeeds. It can't be a healthy situation to grow up in, and while I continue to watch, I'm no longer really a fan. The poem below expresses my present feelings about Jon and Kate.

Gosselins Without Pity

The Gosselins, Jon and Kate
Are the parents of eight
But they don’t need your pity
After all, they’re sitting pretty
Their dispositions aren’t sunny,
But they sure are making money!
Those appearances they make
Are really somewhat fake
They get paid to appear,
And tell their story for folks to hear
Picture postcards are sold
Those cute kids are really gold
Then donations the believers bestow
“How, “ says Kate, “could I say no?”

Kate felt the need to berate
All the tups during knobgate
She threw Collin’s bear away
Because he got gum on it one day
Older daughter, Mady
Is made to seem bratty
Helpers, kind and sweet,
They tend to mistreat
Kate slaps Jon
And their sniping goes on and on

The meaning and the moral of this real life story
Lots and lots of children means lots and lots of glory
So if you have sextuplets, don’t flip your lids
Go on TV and make a fortune off your kids!

Through the Eyes and Ears of Experience

2008-03-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

The first clips I saw of Reverend Jeremiah Wright freaked me out. He was yelling, "G-d damn America," and talking about 9/11 as being "America's chicken's coming home to roost." I was appalled. But then, again, I was watching and listening through the eyes and ears of a sixty-three year old white woman. He spoke against middle east policy in a way that made my ears perk up, and think, ah oh he's anti-semitic. But then, again, I was listening to him through the ears of a sixty-three year old Jewish woman.

What can Barack Obama say to counteract this stuff, I wondered? I want to believe in him. I don't want this to touch him, to interrupt his campaign for President, to stop this historic race. If I was thinking that way, idealistic Obama loving me, then how in the world could other people's concerns and questions be answered?

Tuesday, in the midst of watching The View (and hoping Whoopie would get well soon, because I missed her so much), Barbara Walters said that Barack Obama was making a speech about his relationship with his pastor and other things that had arisen from this issue. I flipped to the cable news networks. There he was, with flags on the wall behind him, speaking about race, an issue we've always been supposed to ignore if we want to be politically correct. I sat enthralled watching and listening to this tall, slim, charismatic man, who I've admired since I first heard him speak at the Democratic convention.

I watched and listened to the rest of the speech, and then went to the internet and read the full context of the speech with tears running down my face. I could not get over the brilliance and truth of that speech. I haven't run from learning about the uncomfortable history of slavery and racism in this country. I've always talked about and tried to actively practice what I believe in, equality, tolerance and respect for all people of every race, religion and creed. I know, however, that like Obama's white grandmother, I feel uncomfortable in certain situations, like when walking down a street and seeing a group of tall young black men. I also notice, even when I'm not feeling uncomfortable about it, when I am the only white person, walking through a mall or down a street, or in a restaurant or movie theatre. I don't see these things as racism, but to some people they would be, and I accept that.

Unlike Chris Matthews on MSNBC, I don't think the speech Barack Obama made on Tuesday, March 19, at 10:00 was the best speech on race ever made. I'll reserve that honor for the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech during the march on Washington, which I watched on TV, on my summer break from college. Still, it was a wonderful speech, a brave speech, a brilliant speech. It was a speech he made, because he had to, but it was a speech that he should have made even if his pastor's rants weren't all over the air waves. We need to realize the historical significance of the 2008 election, no matter who wins it in November. Obama's race and Hilary Clinton's gender can't be ignored. This election shouldn't be politics as usual. It's just too important.

While Chris Matthew praised the speech with the excitement and enthusiasm with which he praises everything he likes (I love Chris, but I really believe there is not enough Ritalin in the world to calm him down when he gets enthusiastic), others were not so sure that the speech did what it was supposed to do, open up the discussion of race, put those Youtube snippets of Reverend Wright into context, and help explain the relationship of Obama and his pastor. Some said what one of my friends said to me, now he is the Black candidate. In other words, now Barack Obama, born of the short lived marriage of a Black man from Kenya,and a white woman from Kansas, will be perceived to be Black. Gee, I always knew that about him. It's part of why this election is so special.

I expected everyone to watch or read the speech, and hear what I heard. Obama put his pastor's words in historical context, explained the anger and frustration that created them, and then told us that he understood but didn't agree with most of them. He talked about Reverend Wright's biggest mistake, seeing our country and society as static, not recognizing the changes that have occurred and are still occurring, and that hopefully will create a better America in the process. He also took time to recognize the anger and frustration of middle-class, blue collar white people of various ethnicities, who feel that they have either made or not made it themselves, without the help that is available to minorities. I thought he made his point. He explained what needed to be explained, distanced himself from Reverend Wright's words without damning the pastor the way the pastor damned America, and showed recognition of how experience affects the views of all of us. I felt proud to be supporting this man.

Then as I watched talk shows, conversed with other people, and read articles and commentary in the newspaper and online, I realized that many others didn't feel the way I do. The few concerns I felt had been dissolved by Obama's speech. For the others that hadn't happened, and might not ever happen no matter what he does. Their doubts about Obama had grown and been magnified by the whole Wright affair.

I wondered why others didn't see or hear the same thing I heard when Barack Obama spoke. Why when they read the speech, it didn't answer all their questions the way it answered mine. That's when I realized that all of us do two things about subjects like this. We watch and listen through the experience of our lives, and we tend to see and hear what we expect to see and hear. My experiences as a white woman, and as a Jew had raised questions in my mind when I saw and heard Jeremiah Wright's tirades. I wanted Barack Obama to answer those questions and I wanted to believe the things he said in responding to them. Both of those things happened for me. I've come to realize that that was because I saw and heard what I wanted to see and hear. Don't we all?

The Ohio Primary

2008-03-05T03:18:00.000-08:00

Barack Obama never called

Which wasn't very nice

Hillary Clinton called me, more than twice

I'm the wrong demo, a woman, old and white

Still, a call asking for my vote would have been right

I voted for him anyway, he made me feel such hope

That if elected President, we would begin to cope

With health care, education, jobs, and the economy

Having a better world for my grandkids, would mean a lot to me

I woke up this morning to a still divided party

While all the Republicans are feeling hale and hardy

We, the Democrats, need to find a way of uniting

We, the Democrats need to stop all the ugly fighting

Last night, Hillary won three races

But in delegates, Obama still paces

Two strong candidates, but still I fear

Waking up to President McCain

In November of this year

Too many times I've gone to bed

Believing a race is won

And in the morning, scratched my head

Surprises aren't always fun

I know I sound pessimistic

And I really don't want to grouse

But I also don't want an old white guy

Living in that big white house

2008-02-23T15:25:00.000-08:00

Seashells

We walk on the beach

Sunhat, sunblock, bare feet

Pick up shells

Rinse them in the sea

"Look at this one!"

"That's a pretty one!"

Pop em into plastic bags

The horn honks

Tie up the bag

Hurry to the car

Ready for the next adventure

The next day

Sarah and I

Out on the deck

Sorting shells,

Big, small, circular, ridged

"Do you have one like this?"

Suddenly spindly feet poke

Out of a spiral shell

It scurries, hopeful, beginning

The long walk back to the ocean

We check our shells carefully

Seven still have living creatures inside

After twenty-four hours in a plastic bag

Back in, they go

All the scared, squirming little folks

I carry them down the steps,

Across the beach

And down to the sea

Out of the bag,

Gently placed on the sand

Waiting for the next wave

To return them to their home

In the blue, island surf

The reward for determination -

Life!

The Maine Caucus

2008-02-12T17:57:00.000-08:00

My sister, Patti, took part in the Maine caucus on Sunday. She went into the small town of Hope, Maine, population 1300. She registered as a Democrat, and then was put into a group. The group was made up of people who were for Obama, people for Clinton, and those who were undecided. People in each group spoke, and one by one, each undecided voter, made a decision of which candidate to vote for. One man simply couldn't make up his mind, and was unable to vote. By the end of the Hope caucus, ninety-eight people voted, the most in history. Seventy-two people voted for Barack Obama, sending three delegates to the convention for him. One delegate will be sent for Hilary Clinton. Patti was impressed by the whole system, and by the ability of those who spoke to express their point of view intelligently and powerfully.

Hope, Maine is white and rural. There is an elementary school, a library, a town hall, a general store, and a historical society. That is pretty much downtown Hope. It is small town America, as found in the wonderful state of Maine.

I visit Patti in the summer, and I've always been impressed by the beautiful home that her husband, David, designed and built, on their lovely, scenic property, complete with a workshop for him and a stable for Patti's horses. I was never envious of her life style, because I love living close to shopping and with all the conveniences of suburban Cleveland. However, I certainly felt a pang of envy on Sunday night, because walking into a voting booth on March 4th, and touching the screen or marking a ballot, just doesn't compare to the events that took place in the Maine Democratic Caucus last Sunday.

A Real Presidential Race - On Both Sides

2008-01-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

It's supposed to be a curse - May you live in interesting times. Well, we certainly are living in interesting times. Huckabee won big in Iowa, McCain won big in New Hampshire, and Romney came in second in both contests. There is definitely a real race on the Republican side, and that isn't all that unexpected. But, Hilary Clinton won in New Hampshire tonight, showing how wrong the polls can be, and now there is a real race on the Democratic side too.

I still like Obama better. I still don't really trust Hilary. I don't feel her sincerity. She's a good politician, and could probably be a good President, and if she is the Democratic candidate, I'll support her all the way. I want a Democrat in the white house. I want change, which is Obama's battle cry, but just having a Democrat as President will be a change. I wish Bill Clinton could run again. I'd vote for him in a New York minute. Since I don't have that option, I'll be watching to see who is standing at the finish line as we move into 2008, a year that promises to give us months of interesting times.

I Want to Believe

2008-01-07T14:19:00.000-08:00

I want to believe that in the United States of America in the year 2008, a black man can be elected president. Barack Obama won in Iowa, one of the whitest states in the country. I want to believe that he can keep on winning in caucuses and primaries, that he can become the Democratic candidate, and that yes, in November of 2008, Barack Obama can beat whoever the Republicans throw at him, and become our the President.

He has that inspiring way of talking, the same kind that grabbed me when I was just sixteen years old, and sent me riding a bus to downtown Cincinnati after school and on Saturdays to hand out buttons, and shout from a car equipped with a loudspeaker, asking people to vote for John F. Kennedy. The same way of talking that had me calling lists of people from the yellow princess phone in my bedroom that had been my thirteenth birthday present. I was so naive that I didn't understand why so many people yelled at me or hung up the phone. I was so naive that I didn't understand the place where I lived, a place where the afternoon paper declared Nixon the winner of a debate that the rest of the country overwhelmingly awarded to Kennedy, the most conservative city, and county in the state of Ohio. Looking back it wouldn't have mattered if I did know and understand, I was wildly and madly carried away by "my " candidate, the man that became "my" president. So when I watch the young people screaming and applauding Obama, it takes me back and brings tears to my eyes. I know just how they feel. They see their guy as giving this country new hope, as the person who will bring the young, fresh, vision we need to get us back on track, as the person who will say things that will be repeated decades later, things like "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." And watching them, watching and listening to Obama, I want the same thing. There is a little spark of idealism still deep inside me, and that little spark wants to be set free, to light up my eyes, engage my brain, and find the tiny bit of that sixteen year old kid that still exists in the sixty-three year old. This guy could make it happen.

Both of my older sons, raised in the diversity of Shaker Heights, Ohio, counting people of various races and religions among their friends, tell me that it won't happen, that it can't happen.

"Mom," they say, "when people walk into the voting booth, and pull the curtain closed behind them, their prejudices come out. They may say they don't care about race, religion, or gender when they vote, but when no one is watching, lots of people won't vote for a black man. Obama can't win, Mom." they say.

My oldest son went so far as to say that being a Democrat for Obama is one way to put a Republican back in the white house. I don't want to believe him.

"It's 2008, " I say "don't tell me that people are still judging people by the color of their skin, rather than their ability. What did Martin Luther King live and die for? Why did all those people ride the bus South and face dogs and hoses? Why the heck did people in Shaker form neighborhood associations and housing offices, and work so hard to keep the city integrated? "

"Mom," each of them said, "I'm not saying it's right. I'm not saying it's the way I think, but there are still too many people who do think that way."

Barack Obama wrote a book called "The Audacity of Hope." I have the audacity to hope, to hope that my sons are wrong. That my country is better than they think, that when people go into those voting booths, they will vote for a chance to prove that our country is the place Martin Luther King envisioned in the sixties, a place where Barack Obama will be judged not on the color of his skin but on the content of his character, and on his message of change and hope. That little spark of idealism is struggling inside of me these days. It wants to be free once again. I would like to wake up on Wednesday, November 5th, and feel the way I felt when I was sixteen.

Migraines

2007-12-07T08:59:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a short break from ranting about reality TV to rant about migraines, specifically, my migraines. Like anyone else who has them, I hate them with every breath in my body. It isn't the pain, heck sometimes these days, my head doesn't even hurt that much, it is the lack of control that gets me. I feel angry that I have no control over myself, over my body, my head, my mind, my life.

My eyes are the way I can tell that that strange feeling coming upon me is a migraine. I don't get auras or that kind of thing, I just feel incredibly tired, like my eyes won't stay open, and when they are open, I have to concentrate to focus. Focusing is supposed to be automatic, and when it becomes a chore, and almost hurts to keep my eyes open and focus, well, I know what is coming next. More severe and annoying symtoms are on the way. Soon there will be some dizziness, hot and cold flashes, tingling numbness in my hands and fingers, and if things get really bad, dry heaves.

Luckily, things rarely go so far these days, because of some wonderful genius drug researcher who discovered sumatriptan succinate. This person should win the Nobel Peace Prize, because of what it has done for the lives of migrainers like me. I get the symtoms, and I take my pill. Sometimes my knees get a little shakey, and I don't feel exactly like me, but I can maintain a normal life, and that is a lot different than the way it was before Imitrex.

I remember being at school, trying to teach with my head slanted to the side, as that was the only way to maintain balance. I remember trying to drive from Euclid to Shaker Heights my head still slanted sideways, my hands and feet going numb, gagging along the way, with a trash bag on the seat next to me just in case. I even moved closer to school after many years, so my drive was ten minutes instead of thirty-five, because those rides from Euclid to Shaker with the difficulties I was experiencing, were dangerous, and I thanked God every time I made it home safely.

I would get out of the car, stagger into the house, stripping along the way, because when things reached the extreme, I needed to be down to the basic essentials, tee shirt and underwear. I remember struggling to get off the necklaces I always wore, practically tearing them off, because anything around my neck made things so much worse. I would throw myself onto my bed, and lie there knowing that now, I was going to have some measure of control. I was lying down in a dark room with an attached bathroom. I no longer had anyone else to consider, at least right away. Later, I might have to make dinner for a child, or tuck him into bed.

My kids knew all about mom's headaches, years before I was diagnosed with migraines. I had headaches, sometimes what I called sick headaches, from childhood on, and they grew more debilitating as the years went on. My kids knew that a closed door and a dark room meant I was not myself, but I was still available even if a headache lasted for days. I still made meals, until one of the boys was old enough to pick something up or order pizza, packed lunches, and sometimes, dragged myself out of bed to drive a child somewhere. When I couldn't get up easily, the boys could do their homework or watch TV or a video on the floor in my room, with the lights on but turned down to protect me. As they got older, someone would bring me a bagel to pick at and an apple juice to drink.

When a migraine got as bad as it could, (see paragraphs two and three for details), I found that it was self-limiting, and from the minute I laid down in my own bed, it would last for four hours, with the hot flashes, which were when I felt the worse, becoming shorter and shorter. Once I realized this, I felt some measure of control, get home, get to bed, be better, though exhausted, in four hours.

This still happens today on those rare occasions that the pill doesn't work, although the time limit seems to be getting shorter, moving toward three hours.

I went through a time where the migraines never got to the worse stage. This was after I went off caffeine, and discovered that it was my main migraine trigger, along with peanut products. I gave up chocolate and peanut butter, two of my favorite things, and got less migraines, but when they came, they lasted for days on end, and nothing really helped. After I missed my youngest son's eighteenth birthday celebration, (I was there, but lying in the shade, unable to take part, eat anything or go to the fireworks with him), I made the call for help.

I started at the Cleveland Clinic Headache Center, and they put me on Imitrex which had just come out in pill form. It was an instant success as a way to be in control of my migraines, at least most of the time. And control is what it is all about for me. I want to control my headaches, not have them control me. I see it as a contest, me against the migraine. For years they were winning. The score wasn't even worth considering, but in the last decade, I've pulled ahead. I've learned that in the rare instances when the pill doesn't work there are still options. If I can come up with a plan, get myself to a bed, find an icepack and a trashcan with an empty plastic bag, I can take control, and fight to win. RK the Conquerer, that's who I want to be. I want to be able to say that I'm a migrainer, but my headaches no longer define me or control my life, because I am in control of them.

RK's Reality # 1 - The Roloffs

2007-12-04T06:12:00.000-08:00

I used to boast that I never watched reality shows. It wasn't that I thought I was above them, after all, I've watched soap operas forever, no it was because I thought they were silly. I thought the people on them were acting foolishly, and I disliked the premise of many of them. I still think some of them are silly, but I do watch quite a few reality shows these days, and I must admit I like some of them a great deal.

My favorite reality show is LIttle People Big World. I love the Roloffs. They are just so real, and I mean in a good way. None of them are perfect, well except for Molly, and she needs to do something different with her hair. It always seems to be messy, and a good haircut with some shaping would help. She's cute, tall and slim with legs that go on forever. She's smart and a good student to boot, with the ability to follow up on her interests. Molly is organized, more organized than anyone else in the family, including her parents, and never fails to do her chores or help out her mom or dad. She gets along with all of her siblings, although she and Jacob sometimes fight. She and Zach seem to have a great relationship. She also seems more respectful of her parents than her brothers.

Jake seems to be at a difficult age, and thankfully his parents are well aware of it. He can't seem to get along with anyone, except maybe Jeremy. He seems to be a moody kid, and I wish he showed more respect to his mother and father. Still, he's a handsome, playful child, and I'm enjoying watching him grow and discover his place in the family. I think perhaps that discovery will help him. For too long, Jacob was the "baby." With his older brothers twins, and one little and one average size, and Molly, the girl, it was easy to just have Jake a tag-a-long kid. Now he is acting out a bit, and Amy and Matt have realized that he needs extra attention more than punishment. I applaud them for that.

Jeremy is the golden boy. He's tall and handsome with those gorgeous curls. It's no wonder that he attracts the girls at his school and church. He is not a good student, because he isn't interested in books. Jeremy is the kind of kid who learns from doing, not studying about things. He talks of college, but I think he needs a school that is hands on and gives him a chance to be actively engaged in what he is learning. Some colleges teach that way, and have cooperative education programs that allow a student to go into the field and learn while working after their sophomore year. Jeremy is a lot like Matt, but I don't see him in sales at all. It doesn't have enough action for this guy. He's also a leader, whose friends will follow him anywhere. This kid is handsome and charismatic, a powerful combination.

Zach, Jeremy's twin, and the only "little" of the Roloff children, is my personal favorite. I love how he watches and studies what others are doing before rushing in. He is not brash and wildly enthusiastic like Jeremy or Matt. He's more practical and careful, a lot like Amy. Like Amy, when he does decide to do something, he is just as enthusiastic as anyone else. It just takes him more time. Zach's dwarfism has caused him, as he's gotten older, to not be able to be as active in his favorite sport of soccer as his brothers, but Zach is very knowledgable as well as skillful in soccer. He is discovering that he is a good coach, and that LPA allows him a chance to prove his coaching ability and his personal skills. Unlike his twin, Zach reads, and studies. Like Amy, he becomes frustrated with his father and brother and their constant plans, dreams, and schemes. I wish he didn't show this frustration by saying inappropriate things to his father. Matt has made many efforts to give Zach a chance to see the world, as well as an opportunity to discover ways in which other Little People have made their mark on it. I hope Zach appreciates his father's efforts. I do wish though that Matt would stop pushing Zach where girls are concerned. Two of my sons did not date till college, two of them did not marry until they were over thirty, and yet today they are all married and two have children. Some people are social late bloomers, and Zach may be one of those. It may help if he goes to a different college than Jeremy.

Amy is the glue that keeps the family running. Her house is messy, but her kids get where they need to be, and so does she. As far as the house, it is easy to give up on all but the most necessary chores when you are trying to raise four kids, and you get little help with those chores. Can you tell I emphasize with Amy? She is bright, practical, and tries to meet the needs of a diverse group of people everyday. I love when she gets a chance to really enjoy herself, like snorkeling in Bermuda or visiting a day spa with Molly. When Amy gave her speech at her alma mater, no one applauded louder than me, well, maybe her dad. He was so proud of her.

Amy can be bossy, and her frustration with Matt's dreams and plans is very understandable. She's the kind of person who finishes one thing before starting another, and she has spent years watching Matt start many projects and finish only a few. Her patience with him often wears thin, but when she begins analyzing his actions, she does understand the guy pretty well. She is very understanding with her children, and seems determined to give them the best childhood possible. Amy is very religious, and she keeps the prayers at meals going even when the family is on vacation. Her faith and her prayers are a foundation that grounds this active bunch.

Matt is an amazing man. Disability, many surgeries, and a childhood spent mostly in hospitals couldn't alter the dreams of Matt Roloff. His parents kept him grounded, but let him fly when they could, and that helped, but his larger than life personality is what allowed him to become the man he is today. I love watching Matt, and listening to his thoughts when he narrates the show. I'm much more like Amy, but have always admired people who dreamed big. Family is extremely important to Matt, not just making a living for them, but showing them how to live, and understanding that each child is different. He takes Zach to LPA conventions, and introduces him to successful Little People. He encourages Jeremy's projects and rejoices that he has a son so much like him, just a lot bigger. He and Molly seem to have a close father-daughter relationship, and he has tried to help her with her interests and ambitions. He sees Jacob's problems, and is giving him more attention and a chance to learn to drive the mule, and help with the many projects going on at the farm. He adores Amy, and really tries to make her happy. I see Matt and Amy as as different as two people can be, but as a couple that balances each other.

I love this family, and I love this show. I hope it continues for many years, and I know I will continue to watch it as long as it is on the air. It is the kind of reality show I enjoy, real people, living real lives.

RK's Wrant

2007-12-02T17:24:00.000-08:00

What the heck is a "wrant" you ask?

Well, it isn't exactly a real word, it's a word I just invented about ten minutes ago to describe the kind of things I will be posting here.

Once I start writing, sometimes it turns into a rant, so write/rant, wrant. I guess it isn't all that clever, but ten minutes ago it seemed kinda cute.

I'm starting with a positive post. So here goes...

Last week after a very rough start, which I will write about at another time, I entered the twenty-first century at the age of 63, with the installation of high speed internet on my old Mac and my brand new Ibook, and by adding a router. Wow, I'm wireless!

This has sent me into a frenzy, much like the one that began in 1994 when I used my youngest son's Mac to go onto the internet. That first visit opened my world. It began an obsession that continued for years, and introduced me to a whole bunch of terrific people with similar interests.

Then the rest of the world moved on to DSL or broadband, and I was left with dial-up, becoming more and more frustrated with my internet life. From checking email three or four times a day, I had gone to twice a week, and my computer had become a word processor as more and more I used it to write memoir pieces and poetry rather than surf the web.

World, I am back, checking out websites that up until last week took too long to load or told me in no uncertain words that I needed an update or to download some program that would have taken two days to download with my dial-up.

I can watch little video things that used to show up as a blank squares or give me error messages. I feel free as a kid on a snow day!

The other new technical wonder that arrived last week from the same lovely people who sold me my high speed Internet, is a DVR. Now this is the kind of toy that should be on everyone's Chanukah or Christmas list.

I was an early fan of taping. I learned to use a Beta Max in the days when there was a major argument going on about which was the better format, back before everyone else chose the VHS.

I was the first person I knew in my age group to be able to program it, and I've been programing whatever machine was around, because I'm not going to miss my soap or any of my other favorite programs just because I wasn't at home at the time it was on. I've always considered these things to be wonderful, and I feel that I've been appreciative of the technology involved, but whoever invented the DVR, deserves more of my appreciation.

This thing is amazing!

I set it to tape the two shows I had been taping since September. It was so easy. Then Friday night, I was watching The View, which I taped that morning, and suddenly glanced at the clock. It was 9:15 P.M.

Oh my God, Friday Night Lights was on, and I was supposed to be taping it. I freaked out. Then I looked up at the DVR box. A little red light was on. It said "record". I was shocked. The doggone thing was recording Friday Night Lights at the same time I was watching the show I had recorded earlier that day.

"It's magic!" I shouted jumping off the bed and scaring both cats, who were sure their mom had
lost her mind, but no, I had just discovered a new and wonderful toy.

How did I ever live without it?