I can't even remember what that word means, but it is sufficiently long for me to sound really intelligent. For a while it was the longest word in the English language, until it was deposed by some disease which began with "pneumo-something".
It sounds like something to which I could subscribe. I don't like the bunch of yahoos who are currently in power, but I'm not really wild about the idea of "throwing all the bums out" either. I'm concerned, dear Reader, with the current polilitical scene.
My concern is based on the "anti-establishment/anti-incumbent" mood. How do we know when we throw the bums out of Washington that we aren't electing someone even worse? The phrase "throw the baby out with the bath water" comes to mind.
Like Rand Paul, to hone a fine point. (My deepest gratitude to Dr. Paul for providing me a most excellent example of why a "throw the bums out" mentality is problematic, not to say dangerous.)
He thinks that private establishments need not adhere to the Civil Rights Act or the ADA. It's "Big Government" to pass laws which force private enterprise to open their doors to everyone, including those in wheelchairs or those with colorful skin tones. Dr. Paul evidently hasn't envisioned the possible outcome that, if you are African-American and disabled, there might be no restaurant at which to eat. Let 'em eat cake at home!
Dr. Paul also seems to think that our huge deficit can be fixed without raising taxes. I think he may have failed Math class. If you ever encounter a candidate who admits they may need to raise taxes, vote for them. 'Cause you know they are being honest. Pipe dream time.
Here's a novel thought...why don't we all read the position papers of both candidates and decide whether the devil that we know is preferable to the devil we don't? We've gotten so lazy in this country that we allow the Press to determine how we feel about a position.
I'm not defending the current members. I'm no fan of the current bunch of crooks that are presumably in command in Washington. The lobbyists, the campaign shenanigans, the myriad members who can't seem to keep their members in their pants. Some of them indeed need to be shown the door.
But, surely, there are a paltry few who deserve to be re-elected. I'm thinking the candidates who just two years ago were voted in. Surely they haven't yet had the opportunity to sell us down the river. At least, not yet. Or the Senators who have learned a lot during their tenure and sit on powerful committees. There must be a reason why Ted Kennedy continued to return to the Senate. Maybe he was really good at being a Senator...at least that's what the voters thought.
And where is all the campaign money coming from for the Newbies, the Congressional wanna-bes? Gee, probably from the same lobbyists and special interest groups as the incumbents, don't you think?
So no one is entirely pristinely pure here. Maybe we can actually watch the debates and determine, whether Incumbent or Newbie, which of the candidates most closely reflects the way we would stand if we were the candidate.
Another thing which I think is most important in looking at candidates...their labels vs. their behavior. I don't have much truck for the terms "conservative" or "liberal". Recent history has taught us that the most "conservative" of lawmakers are really mostly "socially conservative"...at least when it comes to how they want everyone else to act.
When it comes to being "fiscally conservative", I don't have to point out that under "liberal" Presidencies we had attained fiscal responsibility, while the so-called "conservative Presidents", going back to Reagan and his Voo-Doo economics, have blown the budget big time.
Is it "conservative" to have an affair and proclaim to the world that you have met your soulmate, while your spouse (patently not your soulmate) has to hold her head high, despite the fact that you just bitch-slapped her on national television? I think not, but then that's just me.
Is it "liberal" to give a standing ovation to the leader of another country (meaning, not our country's leader) who lectures us on our immigration policy? Here's an idea...let's adopt Mexico's immigration policies and see if Calderon likes that.
Come on, people, don't let the electoral buzz make up your mind for you. At the risk of sounding like your mother, do your homework.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Lying to Your Children
A couple of days ago, my ex and I were standing in my yard when the ice cream truck went by, jangling out a barely-recognizable "Turkey in the Straw". We simultaneously turned to each other and said, "Ding Ding Truck."
You see, I pulled a fast one on my kids when they were young. When the inevitable ice cream truck roamed our neighborhood, like some bird of prey, ready to swoop down on innocent children with change in their pockets, I told a fib. My kids, barely toddlers, heard the ice cream truck one day and asked me, "What's that?"
I opened my mouth ready to reluctantly admit that that was a refrigerated truck which, for a fee, would give you ice cream bars or orange bomb-pops and most assuredly cavities and ruin your dinner. But what came out of my mouth was "That's the Ding Ding Truck. They know that sometimes people are sad so they drive around with a merry 'ding ding', cheering up sad people wherever they go."
Now here's where it gets really scary...they BOUGHT IT! I just knew when I told this big honkin' lie that they, being very intelligent children, would smell on the air the wafting aromas of refrigerant, cherry blasts and Eskimo pies and know that I had lied to them. But they didn't. THEY BELIEVED ME!
And so, dear Reader, I discovered a sad truth about parenting that had previously escaped me. Parents lie to their children. All the time. And mostly, they get away with it. At least for a few years. Like when you tell your kids about Santa Claus, well no...that's not a good example because it is to the kids' benefit to believe in Santa Claus.
Like about Santa Claus, even tho' it's a nice lie. "This won't hurt a bit" immediately tells the kid that, yes, it's going to hurt a lot. Like what you and Daddy are doing in the bedroom all by yourselves. A mountain of lies builds up by the time they become teenagers, which might explain why they don't have much use for us adults by then.
For almost a year, the "Ding Ding Truck" held sway, plying our neighborhood, bringing joy to sad people. Unfortunately, during the winter months, other children moved in across the street. Their parents hadn't been clued in about the "Ding Ding Truck". The following summer, my kids saw these children (whose parents were obviously NOT good parents) buying ice cream from that darned "Ding Ding Truck". The boys came running into the house, breathless with anticipation and barely able to speak. "Momma, (pant, pant) did you know that the "Ding Ding Truck" sells ice cream?!"
I played dumb. I slapped my hand on my cheek, acting all shocked. "No, I didn't."
"So Momma, can we have some money to go buy some ice cream?" I sighed with regret as I handed them each a dollar bill. Ah, Childhood's end.
You see, I pulled a fast one on my kids when they were young. When the inevitable ice cream truck roamed our neighborhood, like some bird of prey, ready to swoop down on innocent children with change in their pockets, I told a fib. My kids, barely toddlers, heard the ice cream truck one day and asked me, "What's that?"
I opened my mouth ready to reluctantly admit that that was a refrigerated truck which, for a fee, would give you ice cream bars or orange bomb-pops and most assuredly cavities and ruin your dinner. But what came out of my mouth was "That's the Ding Ding Truck. They know that sometimes people are sad so they drive around with a merry 'ding ding', cheering up sad people wherever they go."
Now here's where it gets really scary...they BOUGHT IT! I just knew when I told this big honkin' lie that they, being very intelligent children, would smell on the air the wafting aromas of refrigerant, cherry blasts and Eskimo pies and know that I had lied to them. But they didn't. THEY BELIEVED ME!
And so, dear Reader, I discovered a sad truth about parenting that had previously escaped me. Parents lie to their children. All the time. And mostly, they get away with it. At least for a few years. Like when you tell your kids about Santa Claus, well no...that's not a good example because it is to the kids' benefit to believe in Santa Claus.
Like about Santa Claus, even tho' it's a nice lie. "This won't hurt a bit" immediately tells the kid that, yes, it's going to hurt a lot. Like what you and Daddy are doing in the bedroom all by yourselves. A mountain of lies builds up by the time they become teenagers, which might explain why they don't have much use for us adults by then.
For almost a year, the "Ding Ding Truck" held sway, plying our neighborhood, bringing joy to sad people. Unfortunately, during the winter months, other children moved in across the street. Their parents hadn't been clued in about the "Ding Ding Truck". The following summer, my kids saw these children (whose parents were obviously NOT good parents) buying ice cream from that darned "Ding Ding Truck". The boys came running into the house, breathless with anticipation and barely able to speak. "Momma, (pant, pant) did you know that the "Ding Ding Truck" sells ice cream?!"
I played dumb. I slapped my hand on my cheek, acting all shocked. "No, I didn't."
"So Momma, can we have some money to go buy some ice cream?" I sighed with regret as I handed them each a dollar bill. Ah, Childhood's end.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
On Racism
I substituted Friday in a high school where the approximate racial make-up is 48% Hispanic, 48% Black and 4% White. The last hour of the day, I was called a racist.
The epithet was yelled from a group of students, 10 minutes into the class period. Whoever yelled it didn't have the balls to say it to my face. I hadn't had time to prove either my racism or lack therof, so I wondered where it came from. What did I do? What did I say?
I stayed after school to report this incident to the Assistant Principal who promised he'd try to get to the bottom of it. I was explaining to him how offensive that word is to me. About half way through my report, I suddenly realized that the AP is Black. Shows you how racist and all I am...it took me that long to see his color.
If I hadn't been so insulted, I would have found it funny. You see, one of my best friends in college is Black. We remain FB friends to this day. I demonstrated in college in favor of Civil Rights. I was a member of the Black Student Union. One of my foster brothers is Arabic. Over half my nieces/nephews are either Black, Hispanic, Native American, or a combination of the above. When we all get together, it looks like a session at the UN. The only race not represented in my family is Asian, but that's not for lack of trying.
I enrolled my kids in desegrated schools, because I thought they should be exposed to a wide variety of cultures and races. As president of the PTA, I had particular problems with one of the parents, a Black single mom who seemed to think that my agenda was promoting white students over black. Our sons played on the same YMCA basketball team (my poor kid was the only white student on the team and he was neither the tallest nor the most gifted of players.)
One evening, this mom came rushing into practice late. I commented on how hard it is to get home from work, get dinner on the table and get the kids to practice. Our conversation drifted around that theme...the difficulty of being a single parent. I think she finally saw me as having a great deal in common with her, despite the color of my skin. I never had another problem with her at PTA.
Playing the "racism" card is a weapon. But if it's used too frequently, it begins to have no meaning. If I'm a racist and everyone who didn't vote for Obama is a racist and the Grand Wizard of the KKK is racist, there is no nuance of scale.
Since my ancestors came to this country in the late 19th century, we didn't own slaves. We, some of us, were indentured servants, which in some cases was roughly equivalent to slavery.
I have personally never owned a slave, so I don't know why I should feel guilty. I was taught as a child that being a racist was, at the very most, un-Christian and at the very least, rude. Being non-racist in 1960's Arkansas was a mean feat, but my parents managed it very well, thank you.
That's not to say that I have no biases. I do. Everyone does. My biases tend more to religious, rather than racial, groups. I don't have much truck with religious fanatics of any stripe, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Two-Seed-In-The-Spirit-Predestinarians. (Look it up...there used to be a sect called that. They believed, among other things, that all sex was evil, so it isn't surprising they died out. They seemed to have trouble recruiting people to this idea and Lord knows, they didn't create any kids to bring up in the faith. Unlike the Catholic Church, which uses procreation as a way of filling pews.)
I remember when we first moved to the South, we were touring the Hot Springs National Park. It was a warm day, so the first water fountain I saw I drank from. I heard a gasp from behind me. Looking up, I saw the word "Colored" posted above the water fountain. People were looking at me as if I would drop dead or turn into a toad or turn Black or something. It was the first (but unfortunately, not the last) inkling I had that all was not harmonious between the races in the South.
I wonder if being called a racist isn't a form of racism. Racism, after all, is judging a person by the color of their skin, not the content of their character. Assuming that all white people are racist is ignoring the content of their characters.
I had a Black person tell me once that Black people cannot be racist. Really? It is my understanding that Blacks sometimes judge each other by how "high yeller" they are. And I have occasionally, like on Friday, been judged by the color of my skin. That's racist, isn't it?
I don't suppose that Blacks who lump all of us white people into a single category understand that it does their cause no good to treat us all as if we were in the KKK. Judge me by my actions, by the content of my character, not by the color of my skin.
The epithet was yelled from a group of students, 10 minutes into the class period. Whoever yelled it didn't have the balls to say it to my face. I hadn't had time to prove either my racism or lack therof, so I wondered where it came from. What did I do? What did I say?
I stayed after school to report this incident to the Assistant Principal who promised he'd try to get to the bottom of it. I was explaining to him how offensive that word is to me. About half way through my report, I suddenly realized that the AP is Black. Shows you how racist and all I am...it took me that long to see his color.
If I hadn't been so insulted, I would have found it funny. You see, one of my best friends in college is Black. We remain FB friends to this day. I demonstrated in college in favor of Civil Rights. I was a member of the Black Student Union. One of my foster brothers is Arabic. Over half my nieces/nephews are either Black, Hispanic, Native American, or a combination of the above. When we all get together, it looks like a session at the UN. The only race not represented in my family is Asian, but that's not for lack of trying.
I enrolled my kids in desegrated schools, because I thought they should be exposed to a wide variety of cultures and races. As president of the PTA, I had particular problems with one of the parents, a Black single mom who seemed to think that my agenda was promoting white students over black. Our sons played on the same YMCA basketball team (my poor kid was the only white student on the team and he was neither the tallest nor the most gifted of players.)
One evening, this mom came rushing into practice late. I commented on how hard it is to get home from work, get dinner on the table and get the kids to practice. Our conversation drifted around that theme...the difficulty of being a single parent. I think she finally saw me as having a great deal in common with her, despite the color of my skin. I never had another problem with her at PTA.
Playing the "racism" card is a weapon. But if it's used too frequently, it begins to have no meaning. If I'm a racist and everyone who didn't vote for Obama is a racist and the Grand Wizard of the KKK is racist, there is no nuance of scale.
Since my ancestors came to this country in the late 19th century, we didn't own slaves. We, some of us, were indentured servants, which in some cases was roughly equivalent to slavery.
I have personally never owned a slave, so I don't know why I should feel guilty. I was taught as a child that being a racist was, at the very most, un-Christian and at the very least, rude. Being non-racist in 1960's Arkansas was a mean feat, but my parents managed it very well, thank you.
That's not to say that I have no biases. I do. Everyone does. My biases tend more to religious, rather than racial, groups. I don't have much truck with religious fanatics of any stripe, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Two-Seed-In-The-Spirit-Predestinarians. (Look it up...there used to be a sect called that. They believed, among other things, that all sex was evil, so it isn't surprising they died out. They seemed to have trouble recruiting people to this idea and Lord knows, they didn't create any kids to bring up in the faith. Unlike the Catholic Church, which uses procreation as a way of filling pews.)
I remember when we first moved to the South, we were touring the Hot Springs National Park. It was a warm day, so the first water fountain I saw I drank from. I heard a gasp from behind me. Looking up, I saw the word "Colored" posted above the water fountain. People were looking at me as if I would drop dead or turn into a toad or turn Black or something. It was the first (but unfortunately, not the last) inkling I had that all was not harmonious between the races in the South.
I wonder if being called a racist isn't a form of racism. Racism, after all, is judging a person by the color of their skin, not the content of their character. Assuming that all white people are racist is ignoring the content of their characters.
I had a Black person tell me once that Black people cannot be racist. Really? It is my understanding that Blacks sometimes judge each other by how "high yeller" they are. And I have occasionally, like on Friday, been judged by the color of my skin. That's racist, isn't it?
I don't suppose that Blacks who lump all of us white people into a single category understand that it does their cause no good to treat us all as if we were in the KKK. Judge me by my actions, by the content of my character, not by the color of my skin.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Other Goodsons
I have four siblings, but, because my parents tended to gather many people to their hearts, I am fortunate to have many other people I call my foster siblings.
When my sister was in high school, her best friend went through a great deal of trauma in her family life. I won't go into detail out of respect for her privacy, but my parents sheltered her (sometimes literally), giving her a place to escape to in our home. She was probably my first foster sister.
Then there were many foreign students whom Daddy brought home for dinner. There are dozens of them, but one from Lebanon in particular holds a special place in our hearts. He has since brought his family here and proudly calls himself an American. Living in a small college town doesn't necessarily give one a view of the wider world. But, through these foreign students, we grew up knowing about other cultures and knowing the other side of the story of world events.
Daddy would cruise the college dorms during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. He knew that the cafeteria was closed and many of the foreign students, unable to afford to go home during the holidays, would cook meals over a hot plate. Most didn't have cars, so they couldn't hang out at the Pizza Hut. He invited them to our home for a hot meal and a glimpse into American family life. In later years, I've come to realize that he did it not only for their sakes but for ours.
Once, when my two middle sisters were in high school, they had friends who were also sisters, Susan and Diane. As a joke, my sisters convinced Susan and Diane that in our family, all of the females' first names were "Mary". Daddy and Tim's first names were "Joseph". This deception went on for several weeks, at the end of which Susan and Diane, wanting to be a part of our family, christened themselves "Mary Susan" and "Mary Diane." They became my foster sisters as well.
Thereafter, when anyone joined our family, we automatically gave them new first names. Brothers-in-law became Joseph Daniel and Joseph Dennis. It came in really handy when my oldest sister, Lynn, married a man named Lynn. He became Joseph Lynn and later, J. Lynn. Very helpful in talking about them so you knew which one was which.
I had what I call "complementary" aunts and uncles...beloved to our family in particular were Aunt Theola and Uncle Don, and Aunt Pat and Uncle Bill. I used to babysit my cousins, Rachel and Gene.
Throughout my childhood, in spite of our rather large family, it was made even larger and more loving. Mom and Daddy open their arms, their hearts, and their home to a mish-mash of people, all needing a large family to be with.
I love this family.
When my sister was in high school, her best friend went through a great deal of trauma in her family life. I won't go into detail out of respect for her privacy, but my parents sheltered her (sometimes literally), giving her a place to escape to in our home. She was probably my first foster sister.
Then there were many foreign students whom Daddy brought home for dinner. There are dozens of them, but one from Lebanon in particular holds a special place in our hearts. He has since brought his family here and proudly calls himself an American. Living in a small college town doesn't necessarily give one a view of the wider world. But, through these foreign students, we grew up knowing about other cultures and knowing the other side of the story of world events.
Daddy would cruise the college dorms during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. He knew that the cafeteria was closed and many of the foreign students, unable to afford to go home during the holidays, would cook meals over a hot plate. Most didn't have cars, so they couldn't hang out at the Pizza Hut. He invited them to our home for a hot meal and a glimpse into American family life. In later years, I've come to realize that he did it not only for their sakes but for ours.
Once, when my two middle sisters were in high school, they had friends who were also sisters, Susan and Diane. As a joke, my sisters convinced Susan and Diane that in our family, all of the females' first names were "Mary". Daddy and Tim's first names were "Joseph". This deception went on for several weeks, at the end of which Susan and Diane, wanting to be a part of our family, christened themselves "Mary Susan" and "Mary Diane." They became my foster sisters as well.
Thereafter, when anyone joined our family, we automatically gave them new first names. Brothers-in-law became Joseph Daniel and Joseph Dennis. It came in really handy when my oldest sister, Lynn, married a man named Lynn. He became Joseph Lynn and later, J. Lynn. Very helpful in talking about them so you knew which one was which.
I had what I call "complementary" aunts and uncles...beloved to our family in particular were Aunt Theola and Uncle Don, and Aunt Pat and Uncle Bill. I used to babysit my cousins, Rachel and Gene.
Throughout my childhood, in spite of our rather large family, it was made even larger and more loving. Mom and Daddy open their arms, their hearts, and their home to a mish-mash of people, all needing a large family to be with.
I love this family.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Daddy's Girl
My father passed away last week. It was St. Paddy's Day and I found it ironic, since my mom is the one who's Irish. Aside from my grandparents, I've never experienced a death in the family and I wondered how I'd do.
Would I embarass the rest of the family by sobbing uncontrollably, drowning out the service? Thankfully, I didn't, though it was a near thing. I'd done my uncontrollable sobbing in private. My family are very private and I'm glad I did them proud.
I mainly kept it together by watching out for my mother, who was so graceful and loving; by watching out for my oldest sister, who has had the bulk of caring for my folks for the past few years; by watching out for my nieces and nephews, who were blessed by having known my dad for so many years, experiencing the first loss in their young lives; by watching out for my son, who had to shoulder the responsibility of watching out for me.
At the service, grandkids read passages from the Bible and sang, a dear foster brother read Alexander Pope, a dear uncle played "Claire de Lune", a favorite of my mother's. All in all, it was a beautiful service.
I had gathered together some photos of my dad...some from his younger years gleaned from my aunt's album, some from my mom's albums, some from my own paltry photography. There are so many of Daddy holding infants and smiling and making funny faces. (What is it about babies that makes us all clowns...grimacing and grinning in turn?) In all those photos, the babies are all grinning and making faces back at him. Then there are the innumerable photos of Daddy reading to grandbabies, usually "T'was the Night Before Christmas", a Christmas Eve tradition.
My dad gloried in babies. Although I don't have a photo of the event, I have a treasured mental image of him making faces and grinning at my son through the nursery window. He just happened to be in town when I went into labor and was there for the first day of my son's life. Daddy had a great grin, especially for grandbabies. Let that be his legacy.
I'm sure that, while my mother might have been slightly disappointed that I wasn't the boy she wanted to give him, my being a girl was just fine with Daddy. In fact, it was more than fine. He saw me as a gift from God and if God seemed to think that Daddy needed another daughter, that was peachy with him.
When I was young, my father "supply" preached at numerous small country churches. Although his main job was educating and inspiring young college students, many of whom went on to preach and do mission work, he wanted to keep his hand in at the pulpit. So he would go preach at churches where the minister was sick or on vacation or called to another church. He frequently was paid in home-canned vegetables and bushels of potatoes. We kept chickens for a while and I think they may have been payment for a Sunday sermon.
His preaching style wasn't pounding-the-pulpit-hellfire-and-brimstone. Instead, he instructed and interpreted. When he died, we found his Bible, open to the last passage he'd studied, on his bedside table. Beside it, we found his Greek New Testament, open to the same passage. Always the scholar. Let that be his legacy.
I watched my mother out of the corner of my eye during the service. At first, she seemed to be not quite there, staring at the floor. Then I realized that she was very much there. She was seeing Infinity, communing with Daddy. She mouthed the words to all the hymns, all the familiar passages being read, knowing deep in her soul all the words.
They were married for almost 66 years and all of us wonder how she could possibly live on without him. They would sometimes embarrass us, being all in love when "old" people aren't supposed to be. Let that be his legacy.
They not only raised all of us (and we all turned out pretty good)...they parented a wide variety of others. The 16-year-old friend of my sister whose own father would call her to come bail him out of jail. The freshmen he counseled in their studies and in their homesickness. The foreign students he invited home to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. The couple from Southern Rhodesia who rocked our church by wanting to join our all-white congregation, becoming regulars at our Sunday table. Let that be his legacy.
Bums and homeless people seemed to read him for a sucker and panhandled him frequently. Daddy used to get a $5 allowance from Mom for his lunch money for the week. If a bum asked for a hand-out, Daddy would steer him to the nearest coffee shop, give the waitress his $5 and tell her that she should serve him whatever he wanted, as much as he wanted. In the 1950's, $5 could buy a feast.
Mother used to say that they couldn't go anywhere in the world without running into a former student and, indeed, they once ran into a former student while walking down a London street. Daddy always said that when he met them, he could look in the grade book of his mind and remember their names, where they sat in class and, most importantly, what their final grade was. Let that be his legacy.
Daddy's favorite writer was C. S. Lewis. He and Lewis both seemed to think that one's faith should be based on study, logic, and intelligent thought. In that respect, he was as much a philosopher as theologian. He introduced one of his students to Lewis in the 1950's and the student showed his gratitude by sending us kids copies of the Chronicles of Narnia, long before they were available in American publishing houses.
In fact, Narnia was my naptime reading. We always lived a block away from campus so Daddy could walk to and from work. He always came home for lunch and after lunch, he would read me to sleep. He'd take a 10-minute nap then. He invented power napping, I think, because he could wake up and be ready for his afternoon classes. He always awoke at 5:30 a.m., without an alarm. He'd make coffee and bring it to my mom in bed. I used to ask her how she'd trained him so well. Let that be his legacy.
Daddy was a wonderful gardener. He used to say that he liked gardening because you could always learn more. He liked learning more than anything. I remember well the first time I learned what a weed was.
I had gotten up early, before the heat of the day, to help him in the garden. I was about 6. He showed me what a carrot plant looks like and told me to pull everything in that row which didn't look like a carrot. ("Which of these things is not like the others? Which of these things is not the same?"...it was Daddy's version of Sesame Street.)
I completed the row and then he showed me a row of green onions and told me to pull everything that didn't look like an onion. About half way down the row, I saw a carrot. I was so scared. I thought he'd be mad because I'd messed up. What if I had pulled the wrong plants in the previous row? He patiently explained to me that a weed is just a plant out of place. He was good at explaining things. Let that be his legacy.
I'm named for both my parents. Carl and Rozelle transmogrified to Charlotte Rose. I'm the third Rose, actually. My Irish grandmother was named Rosanna. Daddy's nickname for me was Rosebud, a bud of his beloved Rozelle.
In later years, although we always saw their abiding love for each other, he seemed to tell her even more frequently that he loved her. And while, as a widow, he was her second husband, she always said that he was never second in her heart. We should all be so lucky to have that kind of love in our lives. Let that be his legacy, that he loved our mother past all understanding.
I used to think that I was Daddy's favorite. Until in my teen years, when I discovered that all my siblings thought they were Daddy's favorite too. In the wisdom of his parenting, he made us all feel special and important to him. Let that be his legacy.
Daddy had a Swiss Army knife, which we found in his room. I think he actually bought it in Switzerland, on one of his many trips. He traveled every continent, except Australia and Antarctica. He loved seeing the world and experiencing new cultures and old ruins. I think if he hadn't been a theological scholar, he would have been a history professor. But always teaching.
I gave my oldest son the Swiss Army knife. He said he remembered Daddy using it to cut flowers, to harvest vegetables. He opened the saw blade and, lo and behold, there was still garden dirt on the blade. Let that be his legacy.
Would I embarass the rest of the family by sobbing uncontrollably, drowning out the service? Thankfully, I didn't, though it was a near thing. I'd done my uncontrollable sobbing in private. My family are very private and I'm glad I did them proud.
I mainly kept it together by watching out for my mother, who was so graceful and loving; by watching out for my oldest sister, who has had the bulk of caring for my folks for the past few years; by watching out for my nieces and nephews, who were blessed by having known my dad for so many years, experiencing the first loss in their young lives; by watching out for my son, who had to shoulder the responsibility of watching out for me.
At the service, grandkids read passages from the Bible and sang, a dear foster brother read Alexander Pope, a dear uncle played "Claire de Lune", a favorite of my mother's. All in all, it was a beautiful service.
I had gathered together some photos of my dad...some from his younger years gleaned from my aunt's album, some from my mom's albums, some from my own paltry photography. There are so many of Daddy holding infants and smiling and making funny faces. (What is it about babies that makes us all clowns...grimacing and grinning in turn?) In all those photos, the babies are all grinning and making faces back at him. Then there are the innumerable photos of Daddy reading to grandbabies, usually "T'was the Night Before Christmas", a Christmas Eve tradition.
My dad gloried in babies. Although I don't have a photo of the event, I have a treasured mental image of him making faces and grinning at my son through the nursery window. He just happened to be in town when I went into labor and was there for the first day of my son's life. Daddy had a great grin, especially for grandbabies. Let that be his legacy.
I'm sure that, while my mother might have been slightly disappointed that I wasn't the boy she wanted to give him, my being a girl was just fine with Daddy. In fact, it was more than fine. He saw me as a gift from God and if God seemed to think that Daddy needed another daughter, that was peachy with him.
When I was young, my father "supply" preached at numerous small country churches. Although his main job was educating and inspiring young college students, many of whom went on to preach and do mission work, he wanted to keep his hand in at the pulpit. So he would go preach at churches where the minister was sick or on vacation or called to another church. He frequently was paid in home-canned vegetables and bushels of potatoes. We kept chickens for a while and I think they may have been payment for a Sunday sermon.
His preaching style wasn't pounding-the-pulpit-hellfire-and-brimstone. Instead, he instructed and interpreted. When he died, we found his Bible, open to the last passage he'd studied, on his bedside table. Beside it, we found his Greek New Testament, open to the same passage. Always the scholar. Let that be his legacy.
I watched my mother out of the corner of my eye during the service. At first, she seemed to be not quite there, staring at the floor. Then I realized that she was very much there. She was seeing Infinity, communing with Daddy. She mouthed the words to all the hymns, all the familiar passages being read, knowing deep in her soul all the words.
They were married for almost 66 years and all of us wonder how she could possibly live on without him. They would sometimes embarrass us, being all in love when "old" people aren't supposed to be. Let that be his legacy.
They not only raised all of us (and we all turned out pretty good)...they parented a wide variety of others. The 16-year-old friend of my sister whose own father would call her to come bail him out of jail. The freshmen he counseled in their studies and in their homesickness. The foreign students he invited home to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. The couple from Southern Rhodesia who rocked our church by wanting to join our all-white congregation, becoming regulars at our Sunday table. Let that be his legacy.
Bums and homeless people seemed to read him for a sucker and panhandled him frequently. Daddy used to get a $5 allowance from Mom for his lunch money for the week. If a bum asked for a hand-out, Daddy would steer him to the nearest coffee shop, give the waitress his $5 and tell her that she should serve him whatever he wanted, as much as he wanted. In the 1950's, $5 could buy a feast.
Mother used to say that they couldn't go anywhere in the world without running into a former student and, indeed, they once ran into a former student while walking down a London street. Daddy always said that when he met them, he could look in the grade book of his mind and remember their names, where they sat in class and, most importantly, what their final grade was. Let that be his legacy.
Daddy's favorite writer was C. S. Lewis. He and Lewis both seemed to think that one's faith should be based on study, logic, and intelligent thought. In that respect, he was as much a philosopher as theologian. He introduced one of his students to Lewis in the 1950's and the student showed his gratitude by sending us kids copies of the Chronicles of Narnia, long before they were available in American publishing houses.
In fact, Narnia was my naptime reading. We always lived a block away from campus so Daddy could walk to and from work. He always came home for lunch and after lunch, he would read me to sleep. He'd take a 10-minute nap then. He invented power napping, I think, because he could wake up and be ready for his afternoon classes. He always awoke at 5:30 a.m., without an alarm. He'd make coffee and bring it to my mom in bed. I used to ask her how she'd trained him so well. Let that be his legacy.
Daddy was a wonderful gardener. He used to say that he liked gardening because you could always learn more. He liked learning more than anything. I remember well the first time I learned what a weed was.
I had gotten up early, before the heat of the day, to help him in the garden. I was about 6. He showed me what a carrot plant looks like and told me to pull everything in that row which didn't look like a carrot. ("Which of these things is not like the others? Which of these things is not the same?"...it was Daddy's version of Sesame Street.)
I completed the row and then he showed me a row of green onions and told me to pull everything that didn't look like an onion. About half way down the row, I saw a carrot. I was so scared. I thought he'd be mad because I'd messed up. What if I had pulled the wrong plants in the previous row? He patiently explained to me that a weed is just a plant out of place. He was good at explaining things. Let that be his legacy.
I'm named for both my parents. Carl and Rozelle transmogrified to Charlotte Rose. I'm the third Rose, actually. My Irish grandmother was named Rosanna. Daddy's nickname for me was Rosebud, a bud of his beloved Rozelle.
In later years, although we always saw their abiding love for each other, he seemed to tell her even more frequently that he loved her. And while, as a widow, he was her second husband, she always said that he was never second in her heart. We should all be so lucky to have that kind of love in our lives. Let that be his legacy, that he loved our mother past all understanding.
I used to think that I was Daddy's favorite. Until in my teen years, when I discovered that all my siblings thought they were Daddy's favorite too. In the wisdom of his parenting, he made us all feel special and important to him. Let that be his legacy.
Daddy had a Swiss Army knife, which we found in his room. I think he actually bought it in Switzerland, on one of his many trips. He traveled every continent, except Australia and Antarctica. He loved seeing the world and experiencing new cultures and old ruins. I think if he hadn't been a theological scholar, he would have been a history professor. But always teaching.
I gave my oldest son the Swiss Army knife. He said he remembered Daddy using it to cut flowers, to harvest vegetables. He opened the saw blade and, lo and behold, there was still garden dirt on the blade. Let that be his legacy.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Broken Government
Sadly, the current debacle in Washington, while serious, is just a symptom of an even larger problem...our totally broken government.
I've written my Congressman and Senators until I'm blue in the face on this issue of raising the debt ceiling and dealing with our deficit, but I'm convinced that their minds are made up and my lone voice won't be heard. I'm just trying to counterbalance all those voices, very vocal, who have spoken out against conpromise. I have no illusions about the votes, however. They are what they are.
Maybe we can come up with a few simple and many complex suggestions for patches to this system...patches allowed by the Founding Fathers in the form of Constitutional amendments. So, here goes (in no particular order):
1) Reduce the deficit with both spending cuts and raising taxes. We just woke up in Vegas and have to go home now, pockets empty. It's time to pay the piper and face up to our profligate ways. It doesn't matter if we agree or disagree with the spending that got us here. It won't be easy. It won't be pretty. But we have to do it.
2) Impose term limits. The President is subject to term limits. Why not Congress? Some of them (Strom Thurman comes to mind) would like to die in their seats, clinging to IV poles. But we can't let them.
3) Lengthen terms for the House to four years and have half of them run every two years. The current two-year terms make it so that they are always in campaign mode. My guess is that new Representatives take a year to find the loo and then they are in campaign mode again. Four-year terms might give them a couple of years to actually work.
4) Get rid of the Electoral College. It might have made some sense in the days of yore, when vote counts had to travel by horseback to Washington. It makes no sense now, when frequently the popular vote is thrown in the toilet and electors can vote any old way they want, regardless of how the citizens of their state voted.
5) Increase the number of members of the House. Someone recently proposed a House of 10,000 members. That's ridiculous, of course, but there surely should be more. I think it was back in the 1930's or some such that the current number of members was set at 435. We have a few more people than we did back then, whenever it was.
6) Make the elementary assumption that a majority is a majority. We don't need a "super" majority of 60 senators. Fifty-one percent of the vote, last time I was in math class, is a majority, as it was at the time of our founding when they invented "majority rule." (see item #4)
7) Return to the idea, as stated in our Constitution, that church and state should be separate. When Catholic bishops "approved" the anti-abortion language in the House version of the health reform bill and no one even blinked, I was appalled. We have gone way too far down that slippery slope.
8) Make voting mandatory. Not how one votes but that one does vote. I have no earthly idea how this could be implemented, but a relative few voters are having a huge impact on our government simply because they show up. All of us should show up.
9) Reform campaign financing. The Supremes just undid decades of campaign financing reform by allowing corporations and unions and foreigners unlimited donations and therefore access to our Senators and Representatives. No one, no one organization or industry, even the Boy Scouts, should have that kind of control.
10) Make it illegal for any of our Congressional delegates to sign "pledges" to any organization right or left. One of the current candidates for President has stated that the only pledge he'll make is the Pledge of Allegiance. One of the reason that compromise has become such a dirty word is that some in Congress have signed pledges to a political PAC that they will, under no circumstances, raise taxes. And they define even tax reform as "raising taxes"! I should send them a Webster's Dictionary.
And so, Dear Reader, these are my ideas, the Dirty Decade of Government Patches, if you will. Some of them appear to be really insane (some of them seem out there even to me!). Some would require Constitutional amendments.
It has been said that we get the government that we deserve. I disagree. I don't think we deserve this mess at all. Let's fix this.
I've written my Congressman and Senators until I'm blue in the face on this issue of raising the debt ceiling and dealing with our deficit, but I'm convinced that their minds are made up and my lone voice won't be heard. I'm just trying to counterbalance all those voices, very vocal, who have spoken out against conpromise. I have no illusions about the votes, however. They are what they are.
Maybe we can come up with a few simple and many complex suggestions for patches to this system...patches allowed by the Founding Fathers in the form of Constitutional amendments. So, here goes (in no particular order):
1) Reduce the deficit with both spending cuts and raising taxes. We just woke up in Vegas and have to go home now, pockets empty. It's time to pay the piper and face up to our profligate ways. It doesn't matter if we agree or disagree with the spending that got us here. It won't be easy. It won't be pretty. But we have to do it.
2) Impose term limits. The President is subject to term limits. Why not Congress? Some of them (Strom Thurman comes to mind) would like to die in their seats, clinging to IV poles. But we can't let them.
3) Lengthen terms for the House to four years and have half of them run every two years. The current two-year terms make it so that they are always in campaign mode. My guess is that new Representatives take a year to find the loo and then they are in campaign mode again. Four-year terms might give them a couple of years to actually work.
4) Get rid of the Electoral College. It might have made some sense in the days of yore, when vote counts had to travel by horseback to Washington. It makes no sense now, when frequently the popular vote is thrown in the toilet and electors can vote any old way they want, regardless of how the citizens of their state voted.
5) Increase the number of members of the House. Someone recently proposed a House of 10,000 members. That's ridiculous, of course, but there surely should be more. I think it was back in the 1930's or some such that the current number of members was set at 435. We have a few more people than we did back then, whenever it was.
6) Make the elementary assumption that a majority is a majority. We don't need a "super" majority of 60 senators. Fifty-one percent of the vote, last time I was in math class, is a majority, as it was at the time of our founding when they invented "majority rule." (see item #4)
7) Return to the idea, as stated in our Constitution, that church and state should be separate. When Catholic bishops "approved" the anti-abortion language in the House version of the health reform bill and no one even blinked, I was appalled. We have gone way too far down that slippery slope.
8) Make voting mandatory. Not how one votes but that one does vote. I have no earthly idea how this could be implemented, but a relative few voters are having a huge impact on our government simply because they show up. All of us should show up.
9) Reform campaign financing. The Supremes just undid decades of campaign financing reform by allowing corporations and unions and foreigners unlimited donations and therefore access to our Senators and Representatives. No one, no one organization or industry, even the Boy Scouts, should have that kind of control.
10) Make it illegal for any of our Congressional delegates to sign "pledges" to any organization right or left. One of the current candidates for President has stated that the only pledge he'll make is the Pledge of Allegiance. One of the reason that compromise has become such a dirty word is that some in Congress have signed pledges to a political PAC that they will, under no circumstances, raise taxes. And they define even tax reform as "raising taxes"! I should send them a Webster's Dictionary.
And so, Dear Reader, these are my ideas, the Dirty Decade of Government Patches, if you will. Some of them appear to be really insane (some of them seem out there even to me!). Some would require Constitutional amendments.
It has been said that we get the government that we deserve. I disagree. I don't think we deserve this mess at all. Let's fix this.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Separate But Not Equal
The past few weeks have seen a slew of female "Firsts".
The US Navy is contemplating putting female sailors on submarines. Female sailors have served with distinction on surface boats (excuse me, ships), just not on submarines. I'm not sure why there is this oddball regulation...I mean, if non-fraternization rules ("Don't Screw Your Fellow Sailor" rules) are already in place, what's the difference? Are female submariners more likely to drive slathering males to acts of drooling, rapacious lust if the vessel they all ride in is beneath the surface of the ocean than female sailors riding the bounding main? So we shall soon see a "First" female submariner.
Then there was the "First" female director to win an Oscar...ironically, for a movie about he-men...big burly bomb squad, tobacco-spittin' Marines in Iraq. Today, it was announced that a woman is actually going to be the "First" female to coach a boys' football team. Oh, the humanity!
The past few decades have seen "First" female astronauts, Speaker of the House, Supreme Court Justices and shoemakers. I remember in the 1970's getting almightily tired of turning on the news, only to be confronted by news items about "First" female factory foremen (forewomen?), plumbers, firefighters, carpenters, college presidents and candlestick makers. I remember chuckling when I heard about the first female chef...women having been doing most of the cooking for the past several millenia, haven't they?
"Backward" countries from India to Chile, from Israel to Pakistan, had their "First" female head of state decades ago. Just goes to show you how advanced a country we live in. Hillary Clinton didn't stand a chance. I remember the tiptoeing that went on around Obama, in order for journalists to not appear to be racist. Too bad they didn't have the same strictures about not appearing sexist.
I remember commenting in the 1970's (aren't you proud that I can remember back that far?) that we as females will know we have really gotten equal status when it will no longer be remarkable or newsworthy that we hold those careers. I mean, it's really not news when we see the 4097th female electrician nor is it earth-shaking when we see the 1112th female surgeon.
Republicans were all hepped up in 2008 when John McCain, one of the more sexist of our Senators, named a woman as his Vice Presidential running mate. He apparently couldn't stand to share the stage with her because she is dumber than a box of rocks, but her whole Mom thing, he thought, looked good. The Dems did that way back when with Geraldine Ferraro, remember?
Sarah Palin reminds me of another thing I said back in the day. I observed (as did not a few of my fellow rabid feminists) that it seemed that sometimes, women who were totally unqualified and incapable were named to posts, so once they totally bombed at the task, the men in charge could say, "See, women aren't capable of performing this job!" A sort of Peterette Principal. I think maybe Palin has risen to the level of her incompetence since she can't seem to remember what newspapers she reads. It was a trick question, right?
A third thing I remember hearing back in the 1970's, when we were struggling to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed, was the number "67". I had a campaign button with that number on it. Sixty-seven was the number of cents on the dollar which women were paid as opposed to their male counterparts performing the exact same task. It was a matter of labels. He was called a "Sanitation Manager", She was called a "maid." We still don't deserve a mention in the Constitution.
My mom once asked the head of her department why she was paid less than male members of the same department. She was told that it was because she wasn't a "head of household" and the men were supporting families, for gosh sakes. The implication was that her salary was pin money, while the men were holding the weight of the world on their shoulders. I wish someone had told me that when I was a single mom, 'cause then I could have required a raise, being a "head of household" supporting a family and all.
Women soldiers in Iraq are not technically in a battle zone. They aren't "allowed" to be involved in combat. Tell that to the women soldier who got her leg blown off in an IED attack. I wonder if she gets battle pay? You know, equal pay for equal risk. Oh, that's right, she isn't in a combat zone.
I don't necessarily call myself a feminist or at least not any more. The rabid feminists kinda ruined it for the rest of us. I just never could get into burning my bra or insisting that a female firefighter weighing 96 pounds soaking wet could carry victims out of burning buildings as well as a 200-pound buff man. I also could never get into hating men, which is apparently a requirement of a feminist now.
But I do call myself a humanist, because I'm just as rabid about things like dads getting a fair shake in custody hearings as I am with demanding that, when the women at my college were locked up at 10 p.m. and the men were allowed free range, perhaps they should have given the men hours as well.
I also never got into the whole title fight. What's in a name, after all? I really don't care if the person sitting on my city council is called a Councilman, Councilwoman, or even the awkward Councilperson. I just want he or she to run my city well and be paid the same salary. It gets really awkward when the municipality calls them "Committeepersons." And it's downright schizophrenic to call the men "Committeemen" and the women "Committeepersons."
In 2009, women finally got an "equal pay for equal work" law, thirty years after the ERA went down in flames. I heard not terribly long ago that we've achieved a 77 cent level...that is, women make 77 cents on the dollar to their male counterparts. In other words, we women got a raise. Whoopee.
We've come a long way, Baby?
The US Navy is contemplating putting female sailors on submarines. Female sailors have served with distinction on surface boats (excuse me, ships), just not on submarines. I'm not sure why there is this oddball regulation...I mean, if non-fraternization rules ("Don't Screw Your Fellow Sailor" rules) are already in place, what's the difference? Are female submariners more likely to drive slathering males to acts of drooling, rapacious lust if the vessel they all ride in is beneath the surface of the ocean than female sailors riding the bounding main? So we shall soon see a "First" female submariner.
Then there was the "First" female director to win an Oscar...ironically, for a movie about he-men...big burly bomb squad, tobacco-spittin' Marines in Iraq. Today, it was announced that a woman is actually going to be the "First" female to coach a boys' football team. Oh, the humanity!
The past few decades have seen "First" female astronauts, Speaker of the House, Supreme Court Justices and shoemakers. I remember in the 1970's getting almightily tired of turning on the news, only to be confronted by news items about "First" female factory foremen (forewomen?), plumbers, firefighters, carpenters, college presidents and candlestick makers. I remember chuckling when I heard about the first female chef...women having been doing most of the cooking for the past several millenia, haven't they?
"Backward" countries from India to Chile, from Israel to Pakistan, had their "First" female head of state decades ago. Just goes to show you how advanced a country we live in. Hillary Clinton didn't stand a chance. I remember the tiptoeing that went on around Obama, in order for journalists to not appear to be racist. Too bad they didn't have the same strictures about not appearing sexist.
I remember commenting in the 1970's (aren't you proud that I can remember back that far?) that we as females will know we have really gotten equal status when it will no longer be remarkable or newsworthy that we hold those careers. I mean, it's really not news when we see the 4097th female electrician nor is it earth-shaking when we see the 1112th female surgeon.
Republicans were all hepped up in 2008 when John McCain, one of the more sexist of our Senators, named a woman as his Vice Presidential running mate. He apparently couldn't stand to share the stage with her because she is dumber than a box of rocks, but her whole Mom thing, he thought, looked good. The Dems did that way back when with Geraldine Ferraro, remember?
Sarah Palin reminds me of another thing I said back in the day. I observed (as did not a few of my fellow rabid feminists) that it seemed that sometimes, women who were totally unqualified and incapable were named to posts, so once they totally bombed at the task, the men in charge could say, "See, women aren't capable of performing this job!" A sort of Peterette Principal. I think maybe Palin has risen to the level of her incompetence since she can't seem to remember what newspapers she reads. It was a trick question, right?
A third thing I remember hearing back in the 1970's, when we were struggling to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed, was the number "67". I had a campaign button with that number on it. Sixty-seven was the number of cents on the dollar which women were paid as opposed to their male counterparts performing the exact same task. It was a matter of labels. He was called a "Sanitation Manager", She was called a "maid." We still don't deserve a mention in the Constitution.
My mom once asked the head of her department why she was paid less than male members of the same department. She was told that it was because she wasn't a "head of household" and the men were supporting families, for gosh sakes. The implication was that her salary was pin money, while the men were holding the weight of the world on their shoulders. I wish someone had told me that when I was a single mom, 'cause then I could have required a raise, being a "head of household" supporting a family and all.
Women soldiers in Iraq are not technically in a battle zone. They aren't "allowed" to be involved in combat. Tell that to the women soldier who got her leg blown off in an IED attack. I wonder if she gets battle pay? You know, equal pay for equal risk. Oh, that's right, she isn't in a combat zone.
I don't necessarily call myself a feminist or at least not any more. The rabid feminists kinda ruined it for the rest of us. I just never could get into burning my bra or insisting that a female firefighter weighing 96 pounds soaking wet could carry victims out of burning buildings as well as a 200-pound buff man. I also could never get into hating men, which is apparently a requirement of a feminist now.
But I do call myself a humanist, because I'm just as rabid about things like dads getting a fair shake in custody hearings as I am with demanding that, when the women at my college were locked up at 10 p.m. and the men were allowed free range, perhaps they should have given the men hours as well.
I also never got into the whole title fight. What's in a name, after all? I really don't care if the person sitting on my city council is called a Councilman, Councilwoman, or even the awkward Councilperson. I just want he or she to run my city well and be paid the same salary. It gets really awkward when the municipality calls them "Committeepersons." And it's downright schizophrenic to call the men "Committeemen" and the women "Committeepersons."
In 2009, women finally got an "equal pay for equal work" law, thirty years after the ERA went down in flames. I heard not terribly long ago that we've achieved a 77 cent level...that is, women make 77 cents on the dollar to their male counterparts. In other words, we women got a raise. Whoopee.
We've come a long way, Baby?
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