The Telephone- Social Glue

When I went to play at a friend's house as a little girl, I was astounded to see that they had only a single phone for each floor. If I needed to call home, I had to walk upstairs to the kitchen and phone home.

At home, we had phones in every room.

EVERY ROOM



One of my long distance friends was under the misconception that because of this fact, we were rich. Which gave me a good laugh but I played it up and went along with the misconception until I had the telephone bill came. I had to write her to break the news and add that Padre was having me cough up paper route money to pay for it.

She pen-paled back: "I thought you guys didn't have to pay for long distance."

Either did I.

Or at least I thought Padre got some sort of huge discount.

I think that by putting all those phones in our rooms, that sort of mistake was bound to happen. I mean the ease at which conversations could now happen compared to what happened in the old days...



If padre wanted us to be aware of the cost of communication, he should've installed a pay phones

Handing over my route money after I'd wriggled it outta the hands of customers, was a dear lesson.

*The Post Register had a really efficient way of paying the paper carriers. After we collected the money from the customers and paid the newspaper, we could keep whatever was left over! By tearing out a little coupon we kept track of who paid and who didn't. Those coupons showed us who hadn't paid for a good 3 months. We could go ahead and call the Circulation Dept. Who was the same lady who called us when we were late with the paper, to complain that the customer was late making payments and were making our lives a livin' pain. This complianing went in cirles, hence the name: Circulation Desk.



Either way, they got their money and we still walked the streets late at night and caught customers who had dodged us, begged them to pay at least a month or so to make it easier to catch up and that's how we learned the system.

It was like Christmas when they finally paid and we kids had the illusion that delivering papers wasn't so bad if you could almost make a hundred bucks a month!)


Speaking of circulation; A good 'ol rotary in the garage in case you are out working in the garden and Padre needs to get ahold of ya. The grandkids think this is real fun to play with.




In The Telephone Book by H.M. Beottinger it reads: "..the clever assemblage of bits of wood and metal was a novel form of 'social glue'..." (Bell, Watson, Vail and American Life 1876- 1976. Riverwood Publishers Limited Croton-on-Hudson, New York. 1977.)

If they thought telephones were sticky after Bell and Watson had tinkered for weeks with vibrating wire coils, they'd be appaled at the cementing effect of wireless phones today.

Once I balked at the swiftness of my youngest sister typing 300 texts per minute.
Now, I am considering a gun holster for my phone and propose they make the cell phone in the shape of a gun for quicker draws. (I better get on patenting that idea like Alexander did with the telegraph if I don't want to go through litigation, etc.)

With all the phones in Padre's home, you'd think we'd be more connected.



Just as sleep will come over me the distinguished qu-shh, walkie talkie sound will break into a dream and Padre is able to tell me that the bath matt was left on the floor and really hit the point home with a long lecture.

But usually the phone plays talk radio and it isn't until we leave the house that we can talk-- and thank goodness we can text. So as to not have to actually pick up the phone and talk to eachother unless it is really desperate.

The other day I made the critical decision to stay home rather than team up with Padre on errands. It wasn't long until my gun went off. The jelling 'doot' sound of connectedness that only a text can bring.

I knew it was him. hesitating, I clicked the button that opened my virtual envelope.

"what kind of lotion did you want, again."

I opened my cell phone and pecked out: "Vaseline brand." Going to great lengths to describe the bottle, color, shape and ounces.

Shut the chintzy phone and went back to 'work'.

The phone agitated as a call came through.

Interrupting the laid back jingle, I pushed the send button.

"Yes, sir?"

"Now, you want Vaseline? Like in a tub? We have that at home, ya know."

"Yes, I know. I need the lotion. The pump bottle made by the same company."

Padre talked with me and described everything on the shelf. I could picture him, with his ear piece on, the people around him wondering if he was talking to them or to himself -It happens around here all the time.

After locating the lotion I needed he began to describe other lotions on the shelf. Suffering from even drier hands than mine, he started to read the descriptions of various lotions.

"awwwww, Dad, you're killing me." I moaned while typing.

Chuckling he let me get off the phone with him.

A twinge of guilt did wash over me as I recalled the deep canyons in his fingers that never healed, especially when he was working on telephone lines from a cherry picker in the snow.

Using his Neutrogena lotion on the tips of my fingers where the winter is bringing skin splitting conditions and lowering his office chair made me regret not letting him rattle on while he did the shopping.

One day, Care, commented on how close I was with my Dad. I felt bad for her not bein' able to text her Dad, so I said: "He's a 'phone guy'.



The whole phenomenom of technology bringing the world closer together was displayed by the next generation when the grandkids were all over to the house.

"It's quiet down there." I said to my brother, The Torment.

Legs casually crossed he stops talking, presses his laced fingers to his lips and both of us listened for movement.

"Yeah, we better go check." he said referring to the critters downs stairs.

Softly scooting my chair back, I headed toward the stairs in my socks. Stealth-like I slip down the steps until I am closer to the murmur of children's voices coming from the family room.

Harmless chatter. From the third step I peered around the wall and saw two of Padres grandkids on the floor. My niece has one of Padre's old phones to her ear, the cord coiled around a finger and a couple feet away J is another touch-tone phone.



I listen a while as they have a real conversation. It is so real it doesn't seem like pretend!

"What did you do today?" my son asks his cousin.

In a grown up voice and with remarkable ettiquette she replied. I listened for a few more mintues smiling to myself that they could have had that same nice conversation with each other, but the phone somehow helped.

Finally, I startled them with:

"What ya guys doin'?? "



"Oh, we're playin' phone." J informed me and jabbed the buttons with a forefinger to call his cousin back.

Satisfied they weren't tearing up the basement, I bounded back up the stairs two at a time and reported to my brother that all was well and we continued our conversation at the dinner table with the rest of the fam.



This cookie jar resembled the Mountain Bell logo and for years I thought it was from the company for working for them. It took some history classes and reading the inscription, to see what bell it represented.

However, the history of communication has enthralled me since a young age!



A trip to the library prompted me to get books about Helen Keller to have Jaden read I will show him the book Padre has about Alexander Graham Bell; that he was enfluenced by the deaf, that he and his Scottish father's fine tuned ears made them elocution experts and I'll spin that story like a crude coil and teach him how lucky we are to adhere ourselves to the world around us.

Then we'll watch My Fair Lady.

He wl h8 me. LOL

I wonder if Helen would have a good laugh today if Annie signed a description of us glued to our cell phones, mute, pecking out our messages with our hands as well trying desparetly to communicate with eachother!

Risk and Coca Cola's Celebration Mix

Had I not been a stock broker, I don't think I would care much for magazines, newspapers and articles that talk about investing. So the latest mag in the teacher's lounge from Fast Company Inc. caught my eye during a planning period.

I decided to read about Coke Inc. taking a long term investment on a young man who'd had quite a story. His name was K'naan.



If I recall correctly he grew up in Somalia. He recalled kicking a soccer around with his buddies on a routine basis in the streets.

As the wars that occured in the north slowly made their way down to his city he and his buddies used a grenade once to kick around. knowing they were playing with fire, they still did it. The pin came out of course and he threw it, blowing up a building.

One day, as trucks grumbled down a dirt road next to the spot he and his two friends played, one of the boys ran up to the trucks. Yelling and throwing rocks at the them. A truck turned slowly and turned its machine gun on the boys, hitting them all.

K'naan, the skinny, was the only one to survive and escape to America with his mom.

I haven't listened to more than his Flag Wavin song, but as I washed dishes the other day to his Celebration Mix that Coke had him sing during the World Cup, I couldn't but help and wave mine. (gloves I broke down and bought.)



Watching the children play the game



with K'naan's drums and poetic lyrics in the background, made dish washing and kitchen duties less tedious today.



Stomping cans in time with the beat, had to restrain myself from kickin them around like a soccer ball.



In the article the company dicussed the huge "risk" they were taking in investing in this young man. No doubt the fact he'd into some trouble after coming to the states, and wasn't well known, it would be quite devastating if they didn't get it right.

An amazing story along with talent, not duplicated, and steely confidence only honed by persecution and adversity sells itself, I say!

His story was one of a kind along with his music.

The young man's confidence in himself may come off as cocky, but as I read about his complete belief in himself and his work, viewed his video, I couldn't help but agree and think I needed to risk more and invest in some greater confidence in myself.

Coke may have thought they were taking a Risk, but they had played their hand right and hit the nail on the head by betting on a kid who'd done it every day.

Wave Your Flag!!!!!!!!!!

Victory Gardens

While the boys were at war, Rosies at home were making airplanes, recycling pop cans, wearing shorter skirts and growing their own food in VICTORY GARDENS.

Initially, I did not think those two words: victory and garden, should be used in the same sentence. Anyone who wants to learn about being self sufficient from planting a garden, will learn some serious war strategies along with survival skills and if the weather is good, make a few meals with the produce grown with your bare hands from your garden. if it doesn't destroy your confidence first.


(Lone Stalk; the strongest of the 7, pulled ahead of the rest as the Indian Summer teased them into believing they'd grow to frutition.)

"Victory" used along side Garden during WWII was most likely to give the Rosie's an illussion of hope during a time when there was rashioned material to make a pretty dress.



My skeptic mind about Victory in a futile garden changed this morning when I saw a little boy kiss the cafeteria floor.

Partly my fault, I take the blame. I had created an atmosphere where the children did think they were in an ocean. This illussion was perpetuated by me having them pre-tend to be different fish after a game of Octopus. An effort to creat calm for the teachers turned out to be realistic. They went from Starfish



(Kathleen's bathroom. My mentors in gardening were Grenn and Kathleen.)

to rocks in the bottom of a fish tank in the Dentist's office, to one on the bottom of the ocean.

I told them to imagine what creatures were crawling on the bottom of the cold, dark ocean floor. Morphing back to humans they had to swim up for air, then face huge waves while trying to reach the shore.


(Grenn in his trunks before he was one serious, self sufficient individual.)

Swimming to the beach they would tell me what was on the bottom of the ocean floor. So when the boy kissed the floor, I thought maybe the whole lesson had backfired.

Padre will really squirm when I tell him this story later today. (He inspects plates before he eats off them, I can't wait!)

Like the victory garden, the game I played with the kids was beneficial. Both bolstered their imaginations, boosted immune systems through vigorous exercise and
made them really grateful to make it through with their lives intact. Grateful to be on "dry", free land.

When growing your "victory" garden, Soldier, try to remember that it isn't the one battle that really determines who wins the war.



I had to put this advice into practice, just yesterday, with my garden. Shaking the lawn mower bag over the tilled soil, I emptied shredded leaves from the yard.

About the millionth time I have wrestled the black Toro bag


(slave offspring learning on neighbor's easy mower- that's right, we start brainwashing them early here, too, Terrorists!!!!!)

from the Titanic mower this fall.

The forecast was for snow and I imagined if I got outside early, mowed the last of the leaves and then had the heavy snow fall on it, it would be tucked in for the winter, composting and softening up that soil. -Essentially taking out a whole country's worth of Al Qaida in one victorious gardening blow.

Instead, here in Idaho, the wind blew before it decided to snow.


(those stalks of corn holding out til the end!)

Which really blows because all of the leaves still clinging onto the tree branches like a tooth in a kid's mouth, now were on my perfect lawn. And the shredded ones that I'd poured onto the garden, raked evenly into the little ditches Padre made with his tiller are now somewhere on the other side of the world.

Hopefully Haiti. Compost would really help them.

With my brutal gardening training, I didn't let this get me down.



I got up real early today and raked the leaves on the lawn, stuffed them into a garbage bag as the sound of the dump truck moaned around the corner.

TAKE THAT TALIBAN!

After satisfying moments like that- Eye of the Tiger playing in the recesses of your mind- beating nature at its worst, confidence in your ability really grows.

I know that MY garden would make the darkest terrorist shiver in his/her shoes- in their suicide bomber apparrel. So I guess it is okay for them to have referred to gardens as Victory Gardens.

You don't want to mess with this!


(Enjoying one of the fruits of my labor. Lone Stalks cob.)

Laying the strongest stalk to rest. Which is what will happen if you mess with Victory Gardeners and who they support!



R.I.P

Stay tuned for more training ideas on how to help build self sufficiency in your self and your little corn cobs.

Corrections to Veterans Post

(photo courtesy and used with permission of Emersonmade)

As a writer you always want to make sure you correctly source your work. Padre finally got around to reading my Vday Post yesterday. (Because I didn't tell him about it, really.) As a result of not having him proof read my doc., there are some holes.

In my sourcing defence, Padre came home and found me taking pics of his stuff and said: "What is all this doing out?"

"Just compiling information." click. click. click.

"Well, make sure it gets back to where it belongs." he said as he packed his work bags into the office after eying the Jewelry Boxes out of my folks bedroom.

It did look suspicious. click.

But yesterday I was called into the office where I found my Padre, here, on Flogbott! Eating an egg and toast by the computer which is off limits to the rest of us, he was a little red eyed.

I pulled up a chair and got ready for a heart to heart with Padre. A You are Welcome for writing such a beautiful, online card!!!!!

"It's every eight weeks." he said crunching on the toast.

"What?"

"This computer screen is really dirty." he complained as he sprayed some cleaner onto a soft cloth and wiped down the monitor.

'Pops, that is supposed to be there. The smudges on the post. It is supposed to look like dated paper. Constitutional papyrus." I smiled.

"Well'i'll be darned." he said looking at the computer from the different focal point of his glasses.

"I can ffix that mistake, about the blood donations being every 8 NOT 6 weeks."

I went back to handwashing dishes only to be summoned again to his office.

"I was in the blankety division of Infantry 9." as if that was supposed to make all sense.

"Okay, I will correct that, too. but you were still in the 9th Infantry?"

"Well, yeah, but it's like you being in this house but part of this neighborhood and not on such and such street." as if to explain the difference as to his duties.

"I don't want to be given credit, where credit isn't due." he finally said.

"It's these little mistakes of history that can get the story wrong."

I agreed and said I'd make the corrections, that it was helicopter pads and not necessarily an airport he worked on. That his 'Hell on Wheels' patch; those usu. went on the shoulders, but General Patton thought they ought to be over the heart.

That was a side note, not a correction- but he wanted some details straight in my mind, I suppose.

With the flour sack dish towel, I sat in his office like a kid in the Principal's office. No more corrections came. But we did talk.

"It's just that these sort of thing [my tribute] should be more for people that really gave their lives, like so and so over in Fielding Memorial." he confided.

I sat there for a split second before I countered: "So, really, you aren't a Vet unless you died? That they gave more than you? Did you volunteer? But because you didn't die like so and so and Mary Lu, your mother, got to see her boy come home and your siblings and family didn't have to see you buried over there in Fielding, that isn't as good of an offering to your country?"

I guess I don't get the guilt that the soldiers who serve feel that come home with their lives.

-Guilty to be the one that got away with their lives, some spend the rest of theirs trying to "make up" for that.

I eased up on my soap box and went back to work. We talked about the stats I'd heard the other day about high risk behaviour of the soldiers that come back on furlough and that it contributes to them getting into trouble, or even worse, losing their lives.

"It's the same as it was back in my day. Those high risk individuals are that way in the first place and why they go ahead and join."



Then he shared with me a story about one of the guys he knew that was "the first to go off the cliff skiing" and offer to be the front runner in the army when they pushed forward. Which was usually high risk obviously becuase of planted land mines.

In my mind I am thinking, yeah, but didn't you follow him off that cliff?

I wanted to also bring his attention to getting stories straight by pointing out how he'd destroyed some of his one day, but it was personal and I let him shred the letters I'd brought to his desk to read when I'd gone through all the ones he sent home.

Regrettably, I'd left him alone to read them, only to return and find the last one going through the shredding machine.

his writing. his story. History.

But he hadn't recalled writing those things down, couldn't believe he'd sent them home to be read and sure as heck wasn't gonna let anyone else read them.

Instead of going in after the letters. I let the machine whhrrr to a halt. (I'd read them and was going to just go write down what he wrote in a safe place so that wouldn't be forgotten.)

Instead, I listened to him reminisce about people and wanting to take J and I somewhere to show us something.

I didn't remind him that coming home was honorable, too. Having a family and leaving a legacy that way was probably mighty fine to those that had died and a good way to honor them.

Like the day he re-buried the memories he wanted to forget, I let the silence do the talking.

Last night J colored a picture of a soldier he'd received at school, put the name of his friend on it over in Fielding and said Padre could tape it to his grave.




I snapped a photo of another grandson wearing a bomber jacket and Padre's army issued safety glasses.



This time, I'm pretty sure I have the story straighter than the first time. Revisions in writing are always a good thing.

WiMpiFi-ED- Wimpy Kid's Diary Revolution

"Mom!" J said excitedly a few weeks back while waving a fluorescent piece of paper in front of my face.

"We have to reserve a copy of the Purple Wimpy Kid Book, NOW, if we are going to be able to get it!!!"

Squinting at the paper, like looking into the sun without sunglasses, I read the note from school. "Hmmm... "I said as I looked at how important it was to RESERVE our copy of the wimpy book because printing copies around the world might cease to work.




To be honest, I'd seen kids reading it, knew somewhat of the premise, but had not actually picked up the book, (c'mon, I am reading QUALITY literature here!)

Either had J.

"Do you really want to start this late in the game? This is book 100. Shouldn't we start at 1"

"Mooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!1" The child went limp-like and begging.

"Okay, okay." I signed my Johnny Hancock to the note and told him that he didn't even need it in until weeks later. Not one to procrastinate on matters such as this, we placed the fluorescent bulb into his plaid back pack and reserved our copy.

A few weeks later, his Aunt,


B. BEE, (J with B. BEE)

bought the movie.

Great, I thought. Being one of those staunch wanna-be parents that make their kids read the book first as incentive to get to watch the movie. This died with the Harry Potter movies.

So for Friday date night with J, we watched the stick figure come to life. In tears we both cried into each other's shoulders, our stomachs straining from the muscles being pulled better than any crunch work out Coach Guilford could ever give in Weight class.

We choked on popcorn. We choked up at Rowley's innocence (right of photo)



and loyalty to his friend.
(okay, maybe just me.) Afterward, J pulled out his Journal, a .97 cent notebook from Wal-Mart and wrote: Diary of a Wimpy Kid on the front. He turned to a new page and started his story. He started to draw cartoons.

November 9th rolled around and he came home with highlighted papers and leaves flying around him like a dust bowl. Somewhere in that blur of orange, math papers, and unlegalized sized papers was a purple smudge.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid was being waved in the air like a medal and J proudly presenting it to me like a masculine Ice Skater who took out a Russian in the Olympics. (Evan L.)



Shout out to Evan: We honestly didn't think that a man could go from hockey to figure skating and make it look, well manly, but oh, man you did! Kudos for astonishing the world that America could knock the Russians off the summit of the podium. You unwimpified the men's figure skating, (even though it is probably brutal training, some of us were non-believers, forgiveness, please!) and make it look so HOT in Ralph Lauren!!!!!!!!!!!!!




Crawling on the couch (J not Evan)next to me he opened the new Scholastic order and began to read. Each of us engrossed and grossed out!

Laughing at Kinney's comics, imagining the horror of some of Greg's mishaps and living the awkward, embarrassing, and mind shaping years of middle school.

Teaching at the Jr. High lately makes each entry solidified and re-enforces shuddering wimpy moments. I am referring to mine. This ritual rite of passage into HS is has Hitler undertones, I say!

All my paper carrying days, that I thought made me so tough, didn't prepare me for the Moment of initiation: When a short, stalky 8th grader with a mouth that knew all the right places to insert cuss words. Thanks to my gene pool, so did I but when Chel, Becca and I rounded the corner of the east end of the school to walk home I lost the gift of tongues.

Waiting like a wolf, was Jo's older sister.

Looking over the top of her black hair at my comrades huddling together and obviously not willing to gang up 3 to 1, I looked back down on my opponent.



as they listened to what I'd "done" to this girl's brother on the school yards, gave me the assurance that I was in this fight by myself they and the Wolf were surprised by my left hook.

My fist hanging in the air in front of me and the negotiating plea: "Truce?" brought a hush over the scene and a smirk to the wolf's lips.

With her hands still on her hips she looked down at my fist and metaphorically spat with her eyes on them.

This was a pivotal moment in my Wimpyfying future.

I don't know if we walked home in silence, if Chel and Becca talked about how intimidating that 8th grader was, or tsk, tsk-ed and thanked heaven it wasn't them that had shouted out to Jo, her younger bro., a teasing comment that was reciprocated every day in Mrs. Wifley's 4th hour reading class.

I decided then and there, never, ever, under ANY circumstances again to: "Truce."

The rest of the way I was berated myself for not recalling all the battles and brawls with The Torment, the papers I'd carried through the snow and wind. Had I known any better, she could have unleashed a Grizzly, but I had to live disgraced that I didn't open a can on her.

I had "turned the other cheek". Out of fear, I totally pulled a blank as to my strength and what to do and the thought of those glasses smashed up or otherwise knocked off my head, well, I cowarded back to the end of the pack.

However, what happened afterward call for a letter of Thanks.

Dear 8th grader,

you made me a stronger gal. Thank you! After you scared the sam holy hill outta me,I hit the weights, signed up for track at the end of 7th grade year and From there went on to play volleyball. Because of you, well you started it,I became a machine of physical prowess! However I blame you for the Jr. High making me throw the shot put and because I took first or something, they made me keep doing that embarrassing track and field event. I wanted to be a cool Sprinter! Shot Put was sullying my popularity track record! While my team was practicing the baton hand off for the 4 x 400, I was making craters in the grass close to our encounter.

By HS, wolf, I benched 135 and was showing the boys how to do "cleans" in Coach G's weight class.

You will be happy to know that it happened. The humbling. The giveth, and taketh right before state championships my Sr. year. Back injury. Our undefeated season, the hurdles I'd made and worked for ALL those years since The Truce, for seemingly NOTHING!

However, I did get to locker Sr. year to The 8th who wanted to pound me to a pulp. You were finishing up your Super Sr. year, remember? I loved going to my locker every day just to see you, really.

Love,

The Sevie

*
That injury literally ground me to a halt. I couldn't walk. Physical therapy and shots the size of straws stuck into my spine helped me get walking again, but not serving or playing like I used to.

And to top it off I had the humiliating task of going to state at the end of the year in Shot Put. Great. Not the legacy I was looking to leave.

So the other day when I finished taking roll for Ms. B's P.E. class and they were hurling dodge balls at each other, I lifted. I'd railed the kids in one weight class to have a spotter every time they lifted, but here I was, taking on the 45 bar by myself.

One side wobbled precariously to the right after I'd heaved it over the lip of the holding spot.




I truly had become wimpy. My right leg up under me on the bench the left in the air- I pushed the bar up in the air and heaved a rep of 10, locked my arms and let it clang back into its holding spot.

Grateful there were dividers separating me and the bullets the kids were throwing at each other I was humbled more than the back injury.

Thankfully, class ended another started and a sweet boy asked me to dress down and come play Dodge ball with them.

Feeling that I'd won the little rascals over that week as their sub, mentor and now admired leader, I dressed down.

Putting on my hot pink Adidas shorts my white legs flew up the stairs to the weight room for some boys against girls dodge ball. Except my aide, Max was on the girls side and the boys had me.

After being pelted by a girl that could obviously be a shot putter or soft ball catcher (it was the latter) I realized that I was the bait for these boys to take the attention off of them so they could nail Max and this extremely accurate thrower on the softball team.

Letting them revel in a few of my screams I imposed some wimpy rules: My aide couldn't hit me, I could enter enemy territory to get the colorful bullets and call time out whenever I wanted.

After three hours of this and hiding every time I had to suck on my inhaler, I decided that middle school was brilliantly displayed in Kinney's book. That he nails the ups and downs like a Dodge ball genius serves up a blow that knocks you to your feet.

His books may make some teachers mad, English or otherwise, but I have seen my son start to LOVE reading that much more. He is drawing comics.




And it has made me laugh so hard that I think some muscles are starting to appear on my stomach again. (notice J's concern about plagiarism?? I explained we are only wimpyfying ourselves and that the author, Kinney, would be so proud. )

But my wimpy pride still stings a bit from those truce moments with myself. Yesterday as I sat at Biolife and they put the blood pressure cuff on my arm to deem my veins worthy I waited for a double check on the left arm.

Warren told me that their needles are the size of toothpicks.

I've had catheters and tubes the size of shake straws in this vein, buddy. Yours don't scare me. I thought to myself as I sat on the brown recliner bed. Another tech came over and felt my vein with a blue glove on. "They are too small."

"That's it?" you can't pull plasma from the left side?"

"No, sorry. come back in a month and see if it is better."

"A MONTH?" I asked stunned in front of all the donors happily reading as red blood cells were filtered out of their blood from the clear hoses hooked up to the plasmashperis (sp? don't care if it's wrong!)machines.

Defeated I walked out of the pristine, white walled BioTech; passed the white lab coat wearing staff and half listened to Walter, Warren, or who-ever.

" Try drinking a lot of fluids before you come next time. And lift weights. Even if it's just a five pound dumb bell, lift that and see if the veins pop up."

Feeling like I was carrying the swine flu or leprosy I nodded to Walrus and thought about three of the Gatorades, water and protein drinks I had consummed the day before.



As I drove in my cold van a warm feeling came over me. Like the Grinch, whose heart increases inside, something happened to me. I did what I should have a long time ago: Make truce with my wimpy veins. Someone else can donate plasma!

W. , thanks for being nice about the whole ordeal. You did great. Bio-Life looks really impressive.

J, I want my Shot Put medal back.

Happy Veterans Day, Padre!

Happy Veteran's Day, Padre!" I exclaimed over the telephone one VDay from the island of Oahu. Along with telling him thanks, I gave him a brief description of my feelings being on the sacred waters of Pearl Harbor, the beautiful view from the memorial cemetary: PunchBowl and my blissful days tanning on the beach under a warm sun.




(30-foot female figure known as "Columbia" standing on the symbolized prow of a US Navy carrier with a laurel branch in her left hand and the inscription by President Lincoln "…The Solemn Pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom".

Lady Columbia symbolizes all grieving mothers and looks out on the cemetery that fills the 116-acre Punchbowl Crater. Anciently known as "hill of sacrifice";
It was erected to honor sacrifices and achievement of American Armed Forces in the Pacific during WWII, Korea, and Vietnam.)

"Yeah, I stopped off there on my way to Vietnam." he said thoughtfully and


proudly quipped.

"It wasn't supposed to be that long of a layover on the island, but the stormy weather kept us there from 4 am to noon." he explained.

A cab driver knowing that they didn't have much time, so for $5.00 bucks a piece (25 total) he would haul all of them around the island. They drove by "Walka Kee Beach" (how Padre Pronounced Waikiki)

"But it was overcast around 5 am so there wasn't a whole lot of reason to get out and mess around." he told me.

The driver pulled over on the side of the road and pulled out some bread and papaya jam from his trunk to make them all a sandwich for lunch.

Before Padre's plane had to leave, the driver got him and his army buddies up to Punchbowl, too.

"Now coming home was different", he said. "They had to keep us in a roped off section since we'd been to 'Nam."

Who knows what they were carrying but I do know that Padre won't let his feet touch the floor with out his flip flops after a shower and is keen on Clorox. But I thought about that beautiful island calling out to them and not being able to go and enjoy it. Sad.


(Padre right)

I think he'd love to rope us kids off from certain areas of the house due to his experience and gratitude for things like a good, scalding hot shower, a cold Coca-Cola and other amenities.

"Wow, that is too bad." I said to Padre as I looked out the window of Jen's aunt's house. Vaguely thinking about my day a local beach, body surfing. Scratching at the sand stuck to my scalp and wondering if I would ever get it out of my thick sun bleached hair and other crevices, I thought about him enduring bed bugs, and other sand bugs prone to the rice patty delta he had to turn into an airport serving in the 9th Infantry.

I looked out at the sunsets differently after that call. Punchbowl and Pearl Harbor had a huge influence on me, but after reading through all the letters from that young boy sent home from Vietnam- it put the military, freedom and being a mom into a whole new perspective.

This morning I woke J with the same Aloha Spirit jingle I gave Padre many years ago:

"Happy Veterans Day!"

I gave the definition of a "Veteran"

A veteran (from Latin vetus, meaning "old") is a person who is experienced in a particular area, and is particularly used in Russia and the United States to refer to people with experience in the armed forces or law enforcement.

to J as he moaned beneath the warm cocoon of blankets. I told him that Padre and Great Padre were Vets and we should thank them today.

He was reminded of his civic duties and said: "Mom! we have to help the homeless!



Today I need to bring in two cans of Cranberry sauce for their Thanksgiving dinner!"

While I went through the food storage he dressed. Miraculously, I found a can of the sauce on the shelf, presented it proudly, and took in the look of discontent on the 2nd graders face. We need TWO cans. " He said flatly.

"Yes, but I can only find one. One is better than none!" I said cheerfully.

"And it needs to be STORE bought!" he said pushing the panic button for the morning.

I held the store bought can in hand and explained it was, in fact, store bought.

"oh." he replied calmyly.



Vet side note for pictures sited:

(Dorothea Lange's "MIgrant Mother: Pictures taken in 1936 of Florence Owens Thompson and her children in CA.She had 7 children.

In 1960, Lange gave this account of the experience:

I saw and approached the hungry and desperate mother, as if drawn by a magnet. I do not remember how I explained my presence or my camera to her, but I do remember she asked me no questions. I made five exposures, working closer and closer from the same direction. I did not ask her name or her history. She told me her age, that she was thirty-two. She said that they had been living on frozen vegetables from the surrounding fields, and birds that the children killed. She had just sold the tires from her car to buy food. There she sat in that lean- to tent with her children huddled around her, and seemed to know that my pictures might help her, and so she helped me. There was a sort of equality about it. (From: Popular Photography, Feb. 1960).

***
After retrieving the dried inner liners of J's boots and a silly band in the shape of a pine-apple from the dryer I walked upstairs.

Sitting up to the table he firmly announced he would not take the can of cranberry sauce until he had TWO, that he would refuse to care for the Veterans today if I failed to care for the homeless!

I held back the comment that he'd be homeless if he didn't knock it off as I stuffed his boot liners into his Sorels on the landing.

Satisfied that Thanksgiving was not until later this month and that I would go get another can of cranberry sauce, J softened and we bundled him in his puffy winter coat, helped him put ONE strap of his backpack on, and like stuffing dried bread cubes into a Turkey, stuffed his hands into his black gloves.

Happily, I wished him a great day: "Be Good, Do Good!" and watched him hoof up the sidewalk in his boots.

Okay, actually, the last part is a memory from the other day. Today, I actually got to leave when he while he was sprinking sugar over his Frosted Corn Flakes. I had an appt. I peered down at his writing assignment for the morning, gave him explicite instructions to ask the bus driver about his other gloves, and kissed him adios.

After bidding my mom luck with getting him out the door, I braved the cold Idaho weather and an even colder van. Inhaling the cold air blown from the heating vents I thought about today. What I wanted to remember. Would I post? Write in my Journal?
If I posted what would I say?

Driving down the road I drew pictures of sentences in my mind.

'I gotta mention the Red Cross calls every six weeks



to remind Padre that he has an appt to donate blood.' I thought as I crossed the bridge over The Snake River. (When they do call I hold back from telling them a reminder call isn't necessary. He has the date in his palm pilot, which rings a reminder to him a couple days leading up to the date, each day up till the date, and at the time he should leave.

'Do I put that first? or should I talk about being at the parade and J wanting to meet a WW II Vet and what Uncle Brett said?'

Clever ideas breezed through my brain as the heater started to unthaw my feet just in time for me to turn off the vehicle. Some of these clever thoughts made it to the page the rest did not.

After the appt. I did the same warm up car drill and drove back home. Walked inside my folks home while TAlk radio streamed through the telephone speakers. Both hard working parents up to the table, finishing breakfast we exchanged some political thoughts and news of the morning.

Padre put on his camel colored Carhardt and went out into the cold like he has for the last 30 plus years I have known him.

I collected his army uniforms



and placed them in great places for photo ops. Pulled out mom's and his jewelry box drawers that contained all the pins



he'd received for giving blood over the years and started taking shots of the physical kudos the Red Cross has given him since '81 for the 14 gallons of blood he's given on a regular basis.

Grabbing the americana boxes I pulled out a few of his letters written home from Vietnam


(Padre next to the one of the Trucks he drove. Padre far left.)

and placed them next to some of my favorite pictures of him.

While downloading the great post photos on the computer mom who was on the computer using Quicken said:

"He looks like a little boy,"


(* He must of taken this for a girl. What a skinny show off he was! But handsome, I must admit.)
as the pictures from the Nikon transfer started popping up on the monitor.

"Think I ought to put up the flag today?" I asked eying the weather; seeing flurries of snow, but that's nothin'.

So pretty quick I was outside wrestling the rope on the flag pole, realized the flag was upside down and after fixing my mistake, pulled the Stars and Stripes up the pole with the cold rope and ran inside. Glad I didn't have to stay another minute outside.

Sat down and started to try and write something meaningful. Something worthy of those who did and do stay out in the cold, or too hot. Go without sleep. Those who wore, wear and were worn out in uniform. And what of those who still do?

Pondering the radio talk host question the Veteran Affairs Commisioner about Post Tramatic Stress Disorder and how the stats are that more men have died since coming HOME from IRAQ than died in IRAQ and why was that?

He talked about high risk living, motorcycle accidents, and the sad scenario of suicide among these military members. Those who try to "squeeze in" every ounce of fun, partying, and life before hitting it again Monday morning."

ugh. sad. They went on to talk about how the help is better for Vets and one of the Q's first asked someone on the show was about homeless, how the numbers are going down.

My mind wandered back to the 2nd grader and his plight for the homeless this morning, parent's plight to keep their kids from being homeless and America.....

I am grateful. Thanks Padre and Pops - all of them.



for serving our country.

Thanks to those who have served and are serving so I can do what I do! So my son can wake up, even before the alarm, and read Diary of a Wimpy Kid with me on the couch.

Thanks, Brenda, for raising a fine young and having to sacrifice that young boy- I love that me and J got to see him come home on the plane that day. It is impressed upon my mind. Vince started a friendship, greater love of country, writing, and freedom for this gal. Prayers for you today.

Thanks to all mothers. To all that have mothers! Thank you, Florence, for being humble enough to let another capture you in your poverty and to the talented photographer who just passed- brillaint woman, you put into words what speech could not through your pictures! (yes, these folks are dead, but maybe they read blogs in heaven!)


Finally, thanks Madre for marrying Padre and having us kids and to Vet/photographer/ Padre; all those nice cars you saved up for, bought, sold and replaced with 7 kids, thanks!



Maybe they are waiting for you on the other side????

Glad to be the daughter of a Vet and yours.

: ) Love, Ka-manda