Left To Tell
This book is a hard read. In comparison to Glass Castle, it doesn’t flow as well as Ms. Wells’s honed writing abilities and humor. Unless you count the times she enjoyed joking with her family before the war started.
Immaculee Ilgibaza survived a Genocide in her home country of Rwanda in 1994 and English is her 3rd language so we will be lenient even though she had someone help her translate. She taught herself with a French/English dictionary in the 3 by 4 foot bathroom belonging to a Pastor in her community that she shared with 6 other Tutsi tribe women. There is no rhyme or reason in the genocide so the jutting details are taken in stride.
The women stayed in the quaint bathroom for 90 days. Although a shower was right above them, they couldn't use it because the family would know they were there. The pastor ws the only one to know their location. They had to wait to flush the toilet when antoher person in the houe flushed on the other side.
“Luckily” they were Tutsi so they inherited tall genes to help the close living quarters. One of the ways the tribe of Hutus could tell them from others then use their machetes to take their lives. Rare opportunities for the pastor to get food into them, the tall 115 ppound Imaculee wasted to a mere 65 pounds. the others suffered weight loss which fortunate for them provided more moving room. But a bony bum is not more comfy on hard floor.
Her life is unbelievable even before the genocide started, from pushing herself hard in her studies Her parents, whom were both teachers, taught her from a young age that it didn’t matter what tribe she was from and held from her the terror that surrounded until she hit 7th grade and her extremist teacher role called each week to remind everyone which tribe they were from.
Amazingly the atrocities didn’t make me cry until the end. Yes, I went slack jawed and would have to put the book down for minute then take it up again. Maybe why I could read it so boldly, is because of her heroic way of dealing with sitting on a hard bathroom floor day in and day out in the same clothes and no shower while lice crawled across the sorry groups faces; where her mind went – To God, then rejoicing with her being able to obtain a dictionary while her companions, glazy eyed, looked off into the air.
I ached though when she prayed that the rich western countries would come to her aide.
As far as I know, we didn’t do much of anything. I graduated the year she was in the bathroom and the worst of my woes was being separated from my HS Sweetheart.
Pleading to God as she overheard the Pastor’s radio; sending propaganda over the radio waves. Hands clasped for hours on end for someone to come.
Had I even known I don’t know what I would have done to help her. But now I do know.
It has propelled me to better myself; trying to find forgiveness in myself for those who harmed her, let alone those who I think have made offense to me.
She makes a strong case for forgiveness.
I won’t go further, but it is a must read. Just a head’s up, when I called the local library I was number 14 in line to read it. It took me two days to read. But my reading time is going to be very limited as of tonight. While I wrote this song, I had to pull up Bob Marley up on You Tube. His song of No Woman Don’t Cry came to me. The version from 1979 at Amandla stadium is particularly good. So read the book then watch that version of his song. He brings her plight and others to life. After a good wallow in sadness, listen to 3 little birds to shed your worries!
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Daddy's Oldsmobile: music for Glass Castle
So my madre is reading The Glass Castle, she hasnt' been able to put it down. Giggling she shared some information and Dad, in his plaid flannel jammie bottoms and matching Carrhart shirt with a pocket (he has several in different shades) for his i-pod so he can listen to his am stations at any moment; jumped from his bed and put Hal Ketchum on the intercom system.
If they make a movie of Glass Castle this should be the theme song....
It'll make you cry after reading the book. Here are the lyrics
My daddy bought this carbefore I was born
Sure like the radio, I love the horn
I love the great big shiny steering wheel
Here in Daddy's Oldsmobile
Four kids can sure fill up a big back seat
They used ot stop and get us somtething sweet
Now Mama says, ' let's pray for one good meal."
Here in my daddy's oldsmobile
Momman kisses us goodnight
Daddy reads his paper in the dashboard light
Crushes his cigarette, says
"Don't cry hunny, we ain't beat yet."
Another mornin' and we're up and gone
Daddy says there is work in San Antone
Two days of ridin' it ain't no big deal
Here in my daddy's oldsmobile
Chorus
My daddy bought this car before I was born
Sure like the radio, I love the horn
I love the great big shiny steerin' wheel
Here in my daddy's Oldsmobile
Here in my daddy's Oldsmobile
Hal ketchum
1992
If they make a movie of Glass Castle this should be the theme song....
It'll make you cry after reading the book. Here are the lyrics
My daddy bought this carbefore I was born
Sure like the radio, I love the horn
I love the great big shiny steering wheel
Here in Daddy's Oldsmobile
Four kids can sure fill up a big back seat
They used ot stop and get us somtething sweet
Now Mama says, ' let's pray for one good meal."
Here in my daddy's oldsmobile
Momman kisses us goodnight
Daddy reads his paper in the dashboard light
Crushes his cigarette, says
"Don't cry hunny, we ain't beat yet."
Another mornin' and we're up and gone
Daddy says there is work in San Antone
Two days of ridin' it ain't no big deal
Here in my daddy's oldsmobile
Chorus
My daddy bought this car before I was born
Sure like the radio, I love the horn
I love the great big shiny steerin' wheel
Here in my daddy's Oldsmobile
Here in my daddy's Oldsmobile
Hal ketchum
1992
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Indian Boy Amongst the Black Hills
Interest in Indians started with my mom reading: Amongst the Shoshones By ‘Uncle Nick’.
Uncle Nick was no relation but his full name, Elijah Nick Wilson is the namesake for Wilson, Wyoming. He earned some notoriety when, at a young age, he opted out of taking care of his parents sheep to head off with the Shoshone Indian. they bribed him with his own horse.
A great option compared to shepherding sheep all alone; his little “Indian brother” had passed away. But not before teaching him some of his language; a quality that impressed the Indians and encouraged the kidnapping.
His poor pioneering mother.
Reading from this book as we traveled on family vacations in our red Monte Carlo, my mother spurned my first desire to learn more about the savages. Leaning in as close as I could to hear her, or standing up in the back seat of the car holding onto mom's maroon head rest to get a better position as we glided down the highway.
So when we got ourselves a genuine Indian brother to foster my 2nd grade year, I was delighted. In the begining he seemed savage enough for my imaginations.
A picture came of a long haired Indian from South Dakota, shirtless and barefoot but wearing cut off jeans. His name: Chepa Blackfeather written in black magic marker beneath the picture on the white section of the polaroid picture. all us kids took turns staring at the picture.
One morning he showed up like Santa in the night, and was sitting at the table for a Big John breakfast mom had cooked. It was 6 am. We looked at him wide-eyed like you would the new Chrismas gifts placed magically under the tree.
It was disappointing; He looked like us. Hair cut and in clothes like ours.
This was not what I had planned on. I had expected him to come in some sort of war hero garb, a single ‘black feather’ placed in his long jet black hair and shirtless.
We still excitedly talked to him around the table in the kitchen and mapped out what we’d do first. The first thing was to bike ride to the church on the corner of Grandview. It had a nice steep parking lot that we kids could cruise down on our banana seated brakes squelling at the bottom to keep from heading over a curb and the 10 feet of grass that led to the water filled ditch.
My bike was purple with a sharp pointed seat that could inflict a lot of pain if you fell just right. Brandon, my older brother was on his red sparkly one. Even the youngest kids trailed on their big wheels. Hands hanging from the tall arched handle bars we raced over to the Nazarene church like a gang on Harley Davidson's.
I can’t recall which bike or big wheel Chepa rode, we could have made him run. But we were excited to show him some of the perks to our neighborhood.
There were no class distinctions amongst family member when we were disciplined. If one of us lied, we all were lined up and spanked, Indian brother included.
But I did use Chepa as a servant.
He’d push the red wagon while I steered it around the block always heading for the bumps at the end of the driveways. Maybe I’d let him have a turn. In winter it was the sled. Invariably one of the other kids along, making his load heavier.
On the bus he was subject to the bully. A stalky kid his age. This enraged me and I stood up to the mean kid with some tongue lashing of my own. Then slumped back down the high backed green seats.
I ordered Chepa around evem though he was one of us. Something I will have to live with.
That summer after school ended we headed once again to a church where we frolicked in a parking lot with a bunch of other 'Indian brothers' and their foster parents. Chepa met up with his real older brother Virgil. Then in the midst of all our fun a big bus pulled into the parking lot. It looked like what a singing group from the 60's would travel in.
Neck tightening I let go of the callous making monkey bars and landed on the ground, walking slowly over to the lumbering vehicle that was now being loaded with suitcases. The lack of oxygen from not breathing made me light headed and a huge sorrow washed over me.
I hugged Chepa forcing myself he would be back, that fall. He had to, he was our brother. But the truth seemed to sink in as I watched him climb the stairs of the bus then watch it pull away from us and head back to the reservation where his mother waited for him.
I wouldn’t see him again.
Years later my family did. He called from a re-hab center in Montana. After struggling with alcohol and drugs for years, he’d been admitted. The foster program was supposed to help with all those negative realities to living on the rez. But despite this, our Indian brother still fell into it.
Mom had heard from him on Mother’s day on 2006.
The Journey of Crazy Horse and the monument that sits in the black hills of Chepa's South Dakota make me want to journey there and see it. But also find this lost brother of mine.
Uncle Nick was no relation but his full name, Elijah Nick Wilson is the namesake for Wilson, Wyoming. He earned some notoriety when, at a young age, he opted out of taking care of his parents sheep to head off with the Shoshone Indian. they bribed him with his own horse.
A great option compared to shepherding sheep all alone; his little “Indian brother” had passed away. But not before teaching him some of his language; a quality that impressed the Indians and encouraged the kidnapping.
His poor pioneering mother.
Reading from this book as we traveled on family vacations in our red Monte Carlo, my mother spurned my first desire to learn more about the savages. Leaning in as close as I could to hear her, or standing up in the back seat of the car holding onto mom's maroon head rest to get a better position as we glided down the highway.
So when we got ourselves a genuine Indian brother to foster my 2nd grade year, I was delighted. In the begining he seemed savage enough for my imaginations.
A picture came of a long haired Indian from South Dakota, shirtless and barefoot but wearing cut off jeans. His name: Chepa Blackfeather written in black magic marker beneath the picture on the white section of the polaroid picture. all us kids took turns staring at the picture.
One morning he showed up like Santa in the night, and was sitting at the table for a Big John breakfast mom had cooked. It was 6 am. We looked at him wide-eyed like you would the new Chrismas gifts placed magically under the tree.
It was disappointing; He looked like us. Hair cut and in clothes like ours.
This was not what I had planned on. I had expected him to come in some sort of war hero garb, a single ‘black feather’ placed in his long jet black hair and shirtless.
We still excitedly talked to him around the table in the kitchen and mapped out what we’d do first. The first thing was to bike ride to the church on the corner of Grandview. It had a nice steep parking lot that we kids could cruise down on our banana seated brakes squelling at the bottom to keep from heading over a curb and the 10 feet of grass that led to the water filled ditch.
My bike was purple with a sharp pointed seat that could inflict a lot of pain if you fell just right. Brandon, my older brother was on his red sparkly one. Even the youngest kids trailed on their big wheels. Hands hanging from the tall arched handle bars we raced over to the Nazarene church like a gang on Harley Davidson's.
I can’t recall which bike or big wheel Chepa rode, we could have made him run. But we were excited to show him some of the perks to our neighborhood.
There were no class distinctions amongst family member when we were disciplined. If one of us lied, we all were lined up and spanked, Indian brother included.
But I did use Chepa as a servant.
He’d push the red wagon while I steered it around the block always heading for the bumps at the end of the driveways. Maybe I’d let him have a turn. In winter it was the sled. Invariably one of the other kids along, making his load heavier.
On the bus he was subject to the bully. A stalky kid his age. This enraged me and I stood up to the mean kid with some tongue lashing of my own. Then slumped back down the high backed green seats.
I ordered Chepa around evem though he was one of us. Something I will have to live with.
That summer after school ended we headed once again to a church where we frolicked in a parking lot with a bunch of other 'Indian brothers' and their foster parents. Chepa met up with his real older brother Virgil. Then in the midst of all our fun a big bus pulled into the parking lot. It looked like what a singing group from the 60's would travel in.
Neck tightening I let go of the callous making monkey bars and landed on the ground, walking slowly over to the lumbering vehicle that was now being loaded with suitcases. The lack of oxygen from not breathing made me light headed and a huge sorrow washed over me.
I hugged Chepa forcing myself he would be back, that fall. He had to, he was our brother. But the truth seemed to sink in as I watched him climb the stairs of the bus then watch it pull away from us and head back to the reservation where his mother waited for him.
I wouldn’t see him again.
Years later my family did. He called from a re-hab center in Montana. After struggling with alcohol and drugs for years, he’d been admitted. The foster program was supposed to help with all those negative realities to living on the rez. But despite this, our Indian brother still fell into it.
Mom had heard from him on Mother’s day on 2006.
The Journey of Crazy Horse and the monument that sits in the black hills of Chepa's South Dakota make me want to journey there and see it. But also find this lost brother of mine.
Powerful Women
Like a magnet I have been drawn to books lately that have the same thread underlying them; Stong women.
Jeannette Walls faces her past with the honesty that her mother, a homeless woman by choice helps inspire her to have. The book will have you laughing while in horror at the neglect her parents inflict upon her and her siblings. Yet us suburban moms can learn a thing or two from the crazy couple that are her parents. They taught her an appreciation for art, physics, writing, and gave her opportunities to learn that couldn't have come any other way: literally she had to sink or swim.
This woman swims. Not only can she get herself out of a hot spring with out being scalded to death but she can take on crashing waves of neglect, abuse, and poverty making you giggle the whole way through her sordid life. I applaud her and agree: "That every interesting woman has a past'
Even when Crazy Horse should be pining for a male offspring he delights in his first born daughter naming her: "Those who fear her." Because one day she will sire some pretty strong warriors.
DaVinnci Code understands the importance of siring offspring. Dan Brown talks about the female importance as he weaves a story of Mary Magdalene and her importance to Christ.
Carolyn Jessop has been a treat to know on face book and I applaud her efforts to escape her polygamist prison and have the guts to tell us about it.
Clori in the old pioneer book: The Giant Joshua is teaching me a little more about a positive attitude in the fictional face of Carolyn Jessop's story. They are mirror lives yet one isn't fiction but they both have heart wrending stories to tell. Initially you think: "those poor things"
Then you realize that those experiences made them strong and that was their reward. At least for now.....
Jeannette Walls faces her past with the honesty that her mother, a homeless woman by choice helps inspire her to have. The book will have you laughing while in horror at the neglect her parents inflict upon her and her siblings. Yet us suburban moms can learn a thing or two from the crazy couple that are her parents. They taught her an appreciation for art, physics, writing, and gave her opportunities to learn that couldn't have come any other way: literally she had to sink or swim.
This woman swims. Not only can she get herself out of a hot spring with out being scalded to death but she can take on crashing waves of neglect, abuse, and poverty making you giggle the whole way through her sordid life. I applaud her and agree: "That every interesting woman has a past'
Even when Crazy Horse should be pining for a male offspring he delights in his first born daughter naming her: "Those who fear her." Because one day she will sire some pretty strong warriors.
DaVinnci Code understands the importance of siring offspring. Dan Brown talks about the female importance as he weaves a story of Mary Magdalene and her importance to Christ.
Carolyn Jessop has been a treat to know on face book and I applaud her efforts to escape her polygamist prison and have the guts to tell us about it.
Clori in the old pioneer book: The Giant Joshua is teaching me a little more about a positive attitude in the fictional face of Carolyn Jessop's story. They are mirror lives yet one isn't fiction but they both have heart wrending stories to tell. Initially you think: "those poor things"
Then you realize that those experiences made them strong and that was their reward. At least for now.....
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Three Cups of Tyranny
Ok, so the real title to the book I want to discuss is Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson.
If no one has heard of it, Greg is a climber who on a failed attempt to summit one of those huge mountains, loses his Pakistani sherpa (they have another name) and stumbles into a mountain village where he is taken care of. Upon leaving he promises to come back and does along with builing them and others schools to teach their children-- and not just the boys, girls too. Going against the Islamic extremist's who want to keep the wome in the dark. And he builds rec centers for the women to learn skills to help earn money.
Brillaint idea, no? You will be amazed at the young people who risk their lives; one father sending his young boy on a raft down a river that at best is the worst part of the Lil lunch counter at Hoback Junction in Wyomin.; to attend school. Last month I read in a magazine that some of the girls even get acid thrown up in their faces when they try to go to school.
I found myself aching to help these women shrouded behind dark burqas symbolic of their literally being kept in the dark.
So when my Aunt suggested I read the book Escap by Laura Jessop a former FLDS woman who escaped with her children I about lost it. Sure I have seen the women in their pioneer pastel garb splashed around the news. Watched the kids loaded onto buses and taken from their parents. Etc etc. I thought they needed their moms. But that the abuse they were suffering was unbelievable and they needed help. After reading half of Escape I realize that what I thought was taking placing only in the third world countries was in our own back yard under the guise of 'Freedom of Religion'
My mind goes back to Jefferson's quote about him being dedicated to tyranny of the mind in all its forms till he died. America has made amazing progress in its short life span. I look at even the amount of women doctors I have and they make up half. That is astounding because 10 years ago I didn't have one.
I know that the answer is education. And kindness. I can't fly over to Pakistan and teach them a short lesson on Dickens. But I can invite the little girl up the street who has both parents working, is bored, and doesn't have my son to play with till he comes back from Dad's, to come help me weed the garden and teach her a poem. I can open up the world to her by teaching her to read, taking the time to read out loud to her and let her read to me.
I have tried not to be preachy in my emails, but informative. This topic really struck me and I felt impressed to send out a "push" to you all. If it is just to read those works and then see where they take you-- awesome! And if you are too busy then I hope that I shared enough to inspire you.
A
If no one has heard of it, Greg is a climber who on a failed attempt to summit one of those huge mountains, loses his Pakistani sherpa (they have another name) and stumbles into a mountain village where he is taken care of. Upon leaving he promises to come back and does along with builing them and others schools to teach their children-- and not just the boys, girls too. Going against the Islamic extremist's who want to keep the wome in the dark. And he builds rec centers for the women to learn skills to help earn money.
Brillaint idea, no? You will be amazed at the young people who risk their lives; one father sending his young boy on a raft down a river that at best is the worst part of the Lil lunch counter at Hoback Junction in Wyomin.; to attend school. Last month I read in a magazine that some of the girls even get acid thrown up in their faces when they try to go to school.
I found myself aching to help these women shrouded behind dark burqas symbolic of their literally being kept in the dark.
So when my Aunt suggested I read the book Escap by Laura Jessop a former FLDS woman who escaped with her children I about lost it. Sure I have seen the women in their pioneer pastel garb splashed around the news. Watched the kids loaded onto buses and taken from their parents. Etc etc. I thought they needed their moms. But that the abuse they were suffering was unbelievable and they needed help. After reading half of Escape I realize that what I thought was taking placing only in the third world countries was in our own back yard under the guise of 'Freedom of Religion'
My mind goes back to Jefferson's quote about him being dedicated to tyranny of the mind in all its forms till he died. America has made amazing progress in its short life span. I look at even the amount of women doctors I have and they make up half. That is astounding because 10 years ago I didn't have one.
I know that the answer is education. And kindness. I can't fly over to Pakistan and teach them a short lesson on Dickens. But I can invite the little girl up the street who has both parents working, is bored, and doesn't have my son to play with till he comes back from Dad's, to come help me weed the garden and teach her a poem. I can open up the world to her by teaching her to read, taking the time to read out loud to her and let her read to me.
I have tried not to be preachy in my emails, but informative. This topic really struck me and I felt impressed to send out a "push" to you all. If it is just to read those works and then see where they take you-- awesome! And if you are too busy then I hope that I shared enough to inspire you.
A
Cannibalism in the Yorkshire Dales
I know, how could something so horrific take place in such a lovely place like the Yorkshire Dales?
But thanks to the History channel I was able to find out some interesting stuff...
I was flipping through the channels one night dealing with a cough and those three words stopped my finger mid change. Enduring a couple of stories (Donner group, Bay of Pigs situation) where there was a possiblility for needing to resort to keeping alive.
Finally the Dales story came on and it was in stark contrast to the others. Apparently some farmer (envision the calm, weather worn farmers of James Herriot's books) comes across a bunch of bones in a cave located on his land. Ignoring it for many years until recently a group of Archaelogists excavated and studied the human remains amongst the animal remains. This is what they concluded. A long time ago, (yep my mind isn't a steel trap) the Neolites and M's (don;t recall their name either) were at opposition.
One wanted to roam and hunt, the other had started to progress into... FARMING. This made the hunter gathers MAD. So they would fight. And take the children and babies of the farmers and make a stew. Ugh..
They found this stew theory because of the bone study how it would turn in a pot or cloth that would be surrounded by rocks. Obviously the farmers won out and the hunter gathers had to conform. But it was obviously a grisly fight. And then the horror was buried beneath a beautiful canvas that later, a veterinarian could travel in his rudimentary car minus a heater to visit the farmer's sick animals. Those of which their very lives depended and to some were like family members.
Speaking of fighting and progressing..... I am listening to the book: The Journey of Crazy Horse by Jospeh M. Marshall III. He is a Lakota Indian and to listen to the author, an excellent Indian story teller, is pretty cool. It of course tells of their plight when the white people came across the land and took over their hunting gathering spots. They didn't go down with out a fight either.
As I was mulling over this "fighting" that has existed for centuries I had the op to go see 1 of the 10 remaining B-17's. The new AeroMark hanger at the IF airport was open Sunday for those who wanted to look at the hunk of metal.
Clouds dispersed and the sun was shining so I went with my neighbors to see it. As I walked through the fenced tarmac and came upon the ship with Marilyn Monroe painted on her I got choked up. The sight of all those rivets lined neatly in rows, hearing that they could crank out several of the behemoths each day; the huge rugged propellers that seemed to turn slowly in my mind as a group of boys sat inside praying the hefty load would just get off the ground, bending over to peer up into her and seeing a seat 4 inches from the green missiles; the balance beam they had to awkwardly walk on to move about the plane, the ball turret that not even I could fit into and then the lone gunner space at the back of the plane that could only be reached by scooching down the tail; emotion choked my throat. And it wasn't my asthma, or the fact I didn't look like Marilyn painted on the side of the plane.
I asked one of the neighbor friends why this plane could do that to me? Why something that was meant for war, destruction and the inevitable aftermath could symbolize to me: LOVE? He told me the obvious answer. But then later that day laying in my bed listening to the calming Indian voice say: "Going into battle was not the pursuit of life. Taking life was the defense of life of the people by putting one's own life on the line. Those who saw only the glory of being a "warrior" with out seeing the reality of the commitment it required rode behind those who did. "
Then to paraphrase what came after those words: 'The true warrior knew that the deadliest weapon was not held in their hands, but in their hearts. Boldness of heart and willingness of mind was the difference between winning and losing.'
Good stuff, huh? That explains for me the emotions I felt toward that plane. Moreover those who FLEW that plane and WHY. If you want to get the feel for who that was read The Wild Blue by Stephen Ambrose. And if you want to have a roller coaster crazy cannibalism summer read pick of Life of Pi. Excellent.
And if you want to know the difference between Pi and Phi go to the web site of Gary Meisner at Goldennumber.net. After listening to the unabridged Davincci Code I looked into this number 1.618 and found it to be amazingly in everything on the earth. The ancient Egyptians used it to build pyramids and you were built with the same mathmatics. WOW!
Amanda
But thanks to the History channel I was able to find out some interesting stuff...
I was flipping through the channels one night dealing with a cough and those three words stopped my finger mid change. Enduring a couple of stories (Donner group, Bay of Pigs situation) where there was a possiblility for needing to resort to keeping alive.
Finally the Dales story came on and it was in stark contrast to the others. Apparently some farmer (envision the calm, weather worn farmers of James Herriot's books) comes across a bunch of bones in a cave located on his land. Ignoring it for many years until recently a group of Archaelogists excavated and studied the human remains amongst the animal remains. This is what they concluded. A long time ago, (yep my mind isn't a steel trap) the Neolites and M's (don;t recall their name either) were at opposition.
One wanted to roam and hunt, the other had started to progress into... FARMING. This made the hunter gathers MAD. So they would fight. And take the children and babies of the farmers and make a stew. Ugh..
They found this stew theory because of the bone study how it would turn in a pot or cloth that would be surrounded by rocks. Obviously the farmers won out and the hunter gathers had to conform. But it was obviously a grisly fight. And then the horror was buried beneath a beautiful canvas that later, a veterinarian could travel in his rudimentary car minus a heater to visit the farmer's sick animals. Those of which their very lives depended and to some were like family members.
Speaking of fighting and progressing..... I am listening to the book: The Journey of Crazy Horse by Jospeh M. Marshall III. He is a Lakota Indian and to listen to the author, an excellent Indian story teller, is pretty cool. It of course tells of their plight when the white people came across the land and took over their hunting gathering spots. They didn't go down with out a fight either.
As I was mulling over this "fighting" that has existed for centuries I had the op to go see 1 of the 10 remaining B-17's. The new AeroMark hanger at the IF airport was open Sunday for those who wanted to look at the hunk of metal.
Clouds dispersed and the sun was shining so I went with my neighbors to see it. As I walked through the fenced tarmac and came upon the ship with Marilyn Monroe painted on her I got choked up. The sight of all those rivets lined neatly in rows, hearing that they could crank out several of the behemoths each day; the huge rugged propellers that seemed to turn slowly in my mind as a group of boys sat inside praying the hefty load would just get off the ground, bending over to peer up into her and seeing a seat 4 inches from the green missiles; the balance beam they had to awkwardly walk on to move about the plane, the ball turret that not even I could fit into and then the lone gunner space at the back of the plane that could only be reached by scooching down the tail; emotion choked my throat. And it wasn't my asthma, or the fact I didn't look like Marilyn painted on the side of the plane.
I asked one of the neighbor friends why this plane could do that to me? Why something that was meant for war, destruction and the inevitable aftermath could symbolize to me: LOVE? He told me the obvious answer. But then later that day laying in my bed listening to the calming Indian voice say: "Going into battle was not the pursuit of life. Taking life was the defense of life of the people by putting one's own life on the line. Those who saw only the glory of being a "warrior" with out seeing the reality of the commitment it required rode behind those who did. "
Then to paraphrase what came after those words: 'The true warrior knew that the deadliest weapon was not held in their hands, but in their hearts. Boldness of heart and willingness of mind was the difference between winning and losing.'
Good stuff, huh? That explains for me the emotions I felt toward that plane. Moreover those who FLEW that plane and WHY. If you want to get the feel for who that was read The Wild Blue by Stephen Ambrose. And if you want to have a roller coaster crazy cannibalism summer read pick of Life of Pi. Excellent.
And if you want to know the difference between Pi and Phi go to the web site of Gary Meisner at Goldennumber.net. After listening to the unabridged Davincci Code I looked into this number 1.618 and found it to be amazingly in everything on the earth. The ancient Egyptians used it to build pyramids and you were built with the same mathmatics. WOW!
Amanda
I Raised A Boy Today poem
I Raised A Boy Today!
My husband arrived home from work;
I rushed to give a kiss
Please sit with me for just a while
And I whipped out my list
A marvelous list 14 feet long
Of chores I’d done that day.
My house was shining brilliantly,
The clothes, washed and put away.
The cupboards freshly painted,
The carpets steamed and scotched,
Bathroom showers gleaming,
And the house plants in new pots.
The children played outside today
But when they heard three claps,
Came running in for sandwiches
Then put down for naps.
They slept three hours; darlings them
And when they did awake
Played quietly in play room
My schedule not to shake.
I put together dinner,
Fresh bread, of course I made.
Matching stoneware; lovely sight
With parsley on the plate.
“My darling”, said the husband
Why you just can’t be beat!
Every chore on here checked off
From the top down 14 feet!
“I know!” I said quite sweetly
I was valiant all day long,
So the children, if they’re willing
Could call me: “Super Mom”!
Twelve hours later Mom awakes
To meet a brand new day.
She sat to make her second list
And plan out her array.
Breakfast pancakes flipping,
Only two kids in their place.
Novw where was little Billy,
He so loves to feed his face.
Then round the corner, here he came
“Hey Mom, I need some help.
My hamster twins are missing
And so is half my belt!”
I glared down at my three year old.
My eyes began to roll.
My schedule cannot tolerate
Interruptions don’t you know?!!
I guess this once, so off we went
To hunt with all our might.
There! Both asleep in sister’s shoe
And we giggled at the sight.
By now I’d lost one hour
Of my precious, precious time.
I turned to gather dishes,
Start the wash and I’d be fine.
I hadn’t even checked one chore
And Billy’s at my side….
“Hey, Mom, stand here and count to ten
And I’ll go off and hide.”
“Now Billy Dear, I have no time
For nonsense game like this.”
But saying no was hard to do,
So I counted as he wished.
Back to my chores third time around
To keep my schedule true,
Find his clothes, get Billy dressed
Now just to find his shoes.
Billy found them on his own
And sat to try his luck.
He hammed left foot inside right shoe
With tongue and laces stuck.
“Let me help you, Little Bill.
For me it is no trick.”
“I can do it Mom! He cried
And he stuffed to make it fit
I showed him how to fix his socks,
And tongue pulled up with care.
Then standing back to watch him try
Was all that I could bear.
On wrong feet and laces loost.
He did it on his own.
My scheduled day all blown apart.
But his independence shown.
Now back to my list of chores,
I’ll try with all my might.
“Hey, Mom, now that I am all dressed
Let’s go and fly the kite!”
“Now Billy Boy, you must admit
The chores neglected dear.”
“Mom, the breeze outside will go away
But chores don’t disappear!”
I can’t believe I said this,
Words came rolling from my lips.
“Let’s take a lunch and grab the kids,
And don’t forget the chips.”
The four of us, a quilt, a lunch
One kite, one ball of twine.
No time at all out kite did soar,
All two miles of the line.
We played, we munched, we laughed, we ran.
What fun we had today.
This special event happened
Just cause Billy had his way.
Hours later, we strolled home
Four happy tired folk.
Dropped down into cozy beds,
Slept two till we woke.
My husband arrived from work.
I rushed to give a kiss.
He sat down on dirty laundry
As I whipped out my list.
“You need not show me, wife,” he said,
The house speaks for itself.
The front room filled with clothe and toys
And dust upon the shelf.”
“Why you’ve not raised a finger,
Swished a broom or made a bed.”
“I know, I said quite proudly,
I raised a boy instead!”
Coreen Allen
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My husband arrived home from work;
I rushed to give a kiss
Please sit with me for just a while
And I whipped out my list
A marvelous list 14 feet long
Of chores I’d done that day.
My house was shining brilliantly,
The clothes, washed and put away.
The cupboards freshly painted,
The carpets steamed and scotched,
Bathroom showers gleaming,
And the house plants in new pots.
The children played outside today
But when they heard three claps,
Came running in for sandwiches
Then put down for naps.
They slept three hours; darlings them
And when they did awake
Played quietly in play room
My schedule not to shake.
I put together dinner,
Fresh bread, of course I made.
Matching stoneware; lovely sight
With parsley on the plate.
“My darling”, said the husband
Why you just can’t be beat!
Every chore on here checked off
From the top down 14 feet!
“I know!” I said quite sweetly
I was valiant all day long,
So the children, if they’re willing
Could call me: “Super Mom”!
Twelve hours later Mom awakes
To meet a brand new day.
She sat to make her second list
And plan out her array.
Breakfast pancakes flipping,
Only two kids in their place.
Novw where was little Billy,
He so loves to feed his face.
Then round the corner, here he came
“Hey Mom, I need some help.
My hamster twins are missing
And so is half my belt!”
I glared down at my three year old.
My eyes began to roll.
My schedule cannot tolerate
Interruptions don’t you know?!!
I guess this once, so off we went
To hunt with all our might.
There! Both asleep in sister’s shoe
And we giggled at the sight.
By now I’d lost one hour
Of my precious, precious time.
I turned to gather dishes,
Start the wash and I’d be fine.
I hadn’t even checked one chore
And Billy’s at my side….
“Hey, Mom, stand here and count to ten
And I’ll go off and hide.”
“Now Billy Dear, I have no time
For nonsense game like this.”
But saying no was hard to do,
So I counted as he wished.
Back to my chores third time around
To keep my schedule true,
Find his clothes, get Billy dressed
Now just to find his shoes.
Billy found them on his own
And sat to try his luck.
He hammed left foot inside right shoe
With tongue and laces stuck.
“Let me help you, Little Bill.
For me it is no trick.”
“I can do it Mom! He cried
And he stuffed to make it fit
I showed him how to fix his socks,
And tongue pulled up with care.
Then standing back to watch him try
Was all that I could bear.
On wrong feet and laces loost.
He did it on his own.
My scheduled day all blown apart.
But his independence shown.
Now back to my list of chores,
I’ll try with all my might.
“Hey, Mom, now that I am all dressed
Let’s go and fly the kite!”
“Now Billy Boy, you must admit
The chores neglected dear.”
“Mom, the breeze outside will go away
But chores don’t disappear!”
I can’t believe I said this,
Words came rolling from my lips.
“Let’s take a lunch and grab the kids,
And don’t forget the chips.”
The four of us, a quilt, a lunch
One kite, one ball of twine.
No time at all out kite did soar,
All two miles of the line.
We played, we munched, we laughed, we ran.
What fun we had today.
This special event happened
Just cause Billy had his way.
Hours later, we strolled home
Four happy tired folk.
Dropped down into cozy beds,
Slept two till we woke.
My husband arrived from work.
I rushed to give a kiss.
He sat down on dirty laundry
As I whipped out my list.
“You need not show me, wife,” he said,
The house speaks for itself.
The front room filled with clothe and toys
And dust upon the shelf.”
“Why you’ve not raised a finger,
Swished a broom or made a bed.”
“I know, I said quite proudly,
I raised a boy instead!”
Coreen Allen
ReplyReply All
Move...Inbox
Go to Previous message Go to Next message Back to Messages
Oklahonolooshi Winner!
A Ms. Brenda Kamka is the winner for her creative use of the word: Oklahanolooshi!
I met Ms. Kamka when her son returned from Iraq. Jaden and I had made a poster and jumped on our bikes which we rode two blocks to the IF airport. Riding down the rode lined with American flags and Harley Davidson motorcyclists was inspiring and emotional! As Vince Kamka left the plane a hush grew over the crowd and we watched as the Kamka family walked on the tarmac to greet their brave son.
All were silent as the family hovered around the casket. Then Vince was loaded into the black hurse and driven down the road where many had gathered to thank him.
As Jaden and I stood with our sign blowing in the wind an officer walked toward us. I was scared we were in trouble for being so close, but upon his arrival he said that Vince's mother wanted to thank us. I looked at her getting into the van with her husband and ached for her. I went to the funeral home web sit and wrote her a note.
A friendship ensued and I was able to learn that not only did Vince die for us at a young age but he left an endowment that has blessed children with a school in Africa and the children in Iraq with toys among other things.
So here is the winning entry:
using the word oklahanolooshi
Friday, May 29, 2009 7:29 PM
To:
"Amanda Dierenfeldt" amandaleapyear7@yahoo.com
Long ago in a former life I journeyed to the land of the Shoshoni and became one with you. Our village sat in an area of wide, panoramic,pristine beauty with views remminisent of the day of the first sun and moon. I lived among you when Lewis and Clark came and we rejoiced together because of the great reunion with our sister, Sacajawei. You carried me upon your shoulders over the trails together to see the Great Snake and we climbed the fertile mountains back to our village. My vision came early, the owl called and we knew I must go the way of all earth, up the trail to the Great Spirit. I was destined to return early to watch over my Shoshoni family in the great land of forever. I walk with our father,oklahanolooshi. It is here that you will find me in your dreams and visions. I am a guide, watching for your return to the home of the Great Spirit, our father.
I met Ms. Kamka when her son returned from Iraq. Jaden and I had made a poster and jumped on our bikes which we rode two blocks to the IF airport. Riding down the rode lined with American flags and Harley Davidson motorcyclists was inspiring and emotional! As Vince Kamka left the plane a hush grew over the crowd and we watched as the Kamka family walked on the tarmac to greet their brave son.
All were silent as the family hovered around the casket. Then Vince was loaded into the black hurse and driven down the road where many had gathered to thank him.
As Jaden and I stood with our sign blowing in the wind an officer walked toward us. I was scared we were in trouble for being so close, but upon his arrival he said that Vince's mother wanted to thank us. I looked at her getting into the van with her husband and ached for her. I went to the funeral home web sit and wrote her a note.
A friendship ensued and I was able to learn that not only did Vince die for us at a young age but he left an endowment that has blessed children with a school in Africa and the children in Iraq with toys among other things.
So here is the winning entry:
using the word oklahanolooshi
Friday, May 29, 2009 7:29 PM
To:
"Amanda Dierenfeldt" amandaleapyear7@yahoo.com
Long ago in a former life I journeyed to the land of the Shoshoni and became one with you. Our village sat in an area of wide, panoramic,pristine beauty with views remminisent of the day of the first sun and moon. I lived among you when Lewis and Clark came and we rejoiced together because of the great reunion with our sister, Sacajawei. You carried me upon your shoulders over the trails together to see the Great Snake and we climbed the fertile mountains back to our village. My vision came early, the owl called and we knew I must go the way of all earth, up the trail to the Great Spirit. I was destined to return early to watch over my Shoshoni family in the great land of forever. I walk with our father,oklahanolooshi. It is here that you will find me in your dreams and visions. I am a guide, watching for your return to the home of the Great Spirit, our father.
Jefferson qoute
"I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."
Thomas Jefferson
This morning an article from the WSJ for May 29, 09 caught my eye: 'Child Executions Become Hot Issue in Iranian Elections'
I learned in the article by Farnaz Fassihi that under Islamic rule girls are considered mature at age 9 and boys 15 and under those pretenses subject to the death penalty for murder, drugs, stealing etc. The lawyer Mohamad Mostafaei is a man that helps their cause and tries to get them off death row. The most touching was a story of a 17 year old girl who confessed to the murder of her father's cousin in place of her boyfriend who actually commit ed it. He had told her that if she confessed to it that she would not be hanged and that he would. Under sedatives she complied. Then rinigged her confession, but it was too late, at the age of 23 she faced the noose and was hanged.
I don't know why I should be shocked. But it seemed to take my breath away and Jefferson's comment above came to my mind and the importance of democracy.
I also found this floating napkin with the quote by Charles Dickens: "I feel an earnest and humble desire, and shall do till I die, to increase the stock of harmless cheerfulness."
Just a day ago I read in a Time Mag article (the one with Michelle Obama on the front) a journalist opinion of him that he made tidy resolutions at the last minute. And that his life was fodder for today's reality TV. Essentially that his life was a mess. I wanted to have a talk with this person but opted to get everyone to read his works anyway and decide for yourself what you think of 'ol Charles.
In Norman Rockwell's paintings it was said that he didn't necessarily paint things 'how they were, but how they could be'. And isn't it wonderful to pick up Dickens and have a good chuckle or gaze at a picture of Rockwell's and truly see the human spirit?
Norm may have dropped out of HS but he was able to hone in on his ability to paint and went after that through his education. He became a great artist despite being a little inept with school and on the real skinny side.
Art to check out online: Nathan Barnesfineart.com (he's a local to the IF area) along with my cousin, John Hart. He has a killer photo of Amistad online that is worth seeing and is actually on display in a museum back east. And then Jay Ward. That is if any of you are into art and want to look at some incredible local artist's work.
Amanda
Thomas Jefferson
This morning an article from the WSJ for May 29, 09 caught my eye: 'Child Executions Become Hot Issue in Iranian Elections'
I learned in the article by Farnaz Fassihi that under Islamic rule girls are considered mature at age 9 and boys 15 and under those pretenses subject to the death penalty for murder, drugs, stealing etc. The lawyer Mohamad Mostafaei is a man that helps their cause and tries to get them off death row. The most touching was a story of a 17 year old girl who confessed to the murder of her father's cousin in place of her boyfriend who actually commit ed it. He had told her that if she confessed to it that she would not be hanged and that he would. Under sedatives she complied. Then rinigged her confession, but it was too late, at the age of 23 she faced the noose and was hanged.
I don't know why I should be shocked. But it seemed to take my breath away and Jefferson's comment above came to my mind and the importance of democracy.
I also found this floating napkin with the quote by Charles Dickens: "I feel an earnest and humble desire, and shall do till I die, to increase the stock of harmless cheerfulness."
Just a day ago I read in a Time Mag article (the one with Michelle Obama on the front) a journalist opinion of him that he made tidy resolutions at the last minute. And that his life was fodder for today's reality TV. Essentially that his life was a mess. I wanted to have a talk with this person but opted to get everyone to read his works anyway and decide for yourself what you think of 'ol Charles.
In Norman Rockwell's paintings it was said that he didn't necessarily paint things 'how they were, but how they could be'. And isn't it wonderful to pick up Dickens and have a good chuckle or gaze at a picture of Rockwell's and truly see the human spirit?
Norm may have dropped out of HS but he was able to hone in on his ability to paint and went after that through his education. He became a great artist despite being a little inept with school and on the real skinny side.
Art to check out online: Nathan Barnesfineart.com (he's a local to the IF area) along with my cousin, John Hart. He has a killer photo of Amistad online that is worth seeing and is actually on display in a museum back east. And then Jay Ward. That is if any of you are into art and want to look at some incredible local artist's work.
Amanda
The Boy in Striped Pajamas
A nurse suggested this movie to me and it was excellent. I had a massive headache by the end- it deals with the concentration camps- a young German boy goes with his family to live by one when his father is promoted as a general. The view from his window shows the camp, which his mother was not aware was so close, or to the extent that they hurt the Jews. Bruno, the boy befriends a young jew his age through the barbed wire fence initially thinking they are farmers in pajamas.
So it got me digging out the book Man's Search For Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl.
A read I am sure most have you have read and if not you should. Viktor is a psychiatrist by profession so his insights being in the camp are very profound. In the Afterforward it reads: "Even when confronted by loss and sadness, Frankl's optimism, his constant affirmation of and exuberance about life, led him to insist that hope and positive energy can turn challenges into triumphs. In Man's Search for Meaning, he hastens to add that suffering is not necessary to find meaning only that "meaning is possible in spite of suffering" '
I will include some other underlined quotes I have
"We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed. For what then matters is to bear witness to the uniquely human potential at is best, which is to transform a personal tragedy into triumph, to turn one's predicament into a human achievement. When we are no longer able to change a situation- just think of an incurable disease such as inoperable cancer- we are challenged to change ourselves. " p. 112
"I remember one day a foreman secretly gave me a piece of bread which I knew he must have saved from his breakfast ration. It was far more than the small piece of bread which moved me to tears at the time. It was the human "something" which this man gave to me- the word and look which accompanied the gift."
"The right example was more effective than words could ever be."
"For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and only does so as the unintended side-effect of one's dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one's surrender to a person other than oneself. Happiness must happen by not caring about it. "
The whole thing is quote worthy!
So it got me digging out the book Man's Search For Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl.
A read I am sure most have you have read and if not you should. Viktor is a psychiatrist by profession so his insights being in the camp are very profound. In the Afterforward it reads: "Even when confronted by loss and sadness, Frankl's optimism, his constant affirmation of and exuberance about life, led him to insist that hope and positive energy can turn challenges into triumphs. In Man's Search for Meaning, he hastens to add that suffering is not necessary to find meaning only that "meaning is possible in spite of suffering" '
I will include some other underlined quotes I have
"We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed. For what then matters is to bear witness to the uniquely human potential at is best, which is to transform a personal tragedy into triumph, to turn one's predicament into a human achievement. When we are no longer able to change a situation- just think of an incurable disease such as inoperable cancer- we are challenged to change ourselves. " p. 112
"I remember one day a foreman secretly gave me a piece of bread which I knew he must have saved from his breakfast ration. It was far more than the small piece of bread which moved me to tears at the time. It was the human "something" which this man gave to me- the word and look which accompanied the gift."
"The right example was more effective than words could ever be."
"For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and only does so as the unintended side-effect of one's dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one's surrender to a person other than oneself. Happiness must happen by not caring about it. "
The whole thing is quote worthy!
Indian Sun Dew
I am in the process of organizing. I stumbled again upon some Meade notebook pages of mine from a time that I was at BYU-I a little over a year ago.
Underlined and boxed was the title of the book: Soul of The Desert. One day I gazed at the beautiful pictures in the library before a math class. I wrote: "Buy this book." and recorded that on page 120, was a pic that was one of my favorites.
Online I can not locate this fern. But I wrote down some of its characteristics that stood out to me at the time. That it had the ability to cope in the aridity of the harsh environment. And, it was astoundingly beautiful. From dark terminal spikes of the plant a lush stamen emerges.
I can't even place the picture in my head now and will try to find it.
Last night I was able to read more about James Herriot from his son's memoir. I immediately went to the time period in his life that was so dark. the 60's. Why had they been dark? And how was he able to emerge so gloriously?
He was working a lot of nights. Although he was doing what he loved, he was under a lot of stress. Not many of the old farmers kept up their bills, and he always had sent his parents money. Living in Scotland he once visited after the death of his father. and apperently he went into the break down.
With the help of a vet friend who came and alleviated his work load and sent him to a vacation home of his in Marjoca, he was able to start back toward better health. They hired an asst. who worked the night shifts. So finally in his 50's he could get a nights rest.
Sleep is a huge thing. It made me look back on nights that I was kept up on prednisone and what the lack of sleep did to a person.
His son said after that time period his father learned to RELAX. He would take daily cat naps then tromp back out in the hills.
Most surprisingly it is this time that he turned to his love of writing. After many revisions and denials from people he came full circle to his style of writing and finally was published.
Like the Indian Sun Dew, his pretty stories didn't come from a life of leisure or bliss, but were forged in hard work, disappointment, and despair. But through it his resilience blossomed. Had he given up, we wouldn't have his descriptive and picturesque books that tell about life. I'm glad her perservered. That he kept those journals and kept at the publishing companies that initially didn't think much of him.
Oh, and it sounds that a pet comes in handy. He always had a dog to accompany him on his rounds and Dinah, a terrier if I recall rightly, helped him after his collapse.
I don't think that I will get the dog any time soon. But I am going to concentrate on the relazing end of it. Finding ways to unwind or not get too ruffled about certain things.
Underlined and boxed was the title of the book: Soul of The Desert. One day I gazed at the beautiful pictures in the library before a math class. I wrote: "Buy this book." and recorded that on page 120, was a pic that was one of my favorites.
Online I can not locate this fern. But I wrote down some of its characteristics that stood out to me at the time. That it had the ability to cope in the aridity of the harsh environment. And, it was astoundingly beautiful. From dark terminal spikes of the plant a lush stamen emerges.
I can't even place the picture in my head now and will try to find it.
Last night I was able to read more about James Herriot from his son's memoir. I immediately went to the time period in his life that was so dark. the 60's. Why had they been dark? And how was he able to emerge so gloriously?
He was working a lot of nights. Although he was doing what he loved, he was under a lot of stress. Not many of the old farmers kept up their bills, and he always had sent his parents money. Living in Scotland he once visited after the death of his father. and apperently he went into the break down.
With the help of a vet friend who came and alleviated his work load and sent him to a vacation home of his in Marjoca, he was able to start back toward better health. They hired an asst. who worked the night shifts. So finally in his 50's he could get a nights rest.
Sleep is a huge thing. It made me look back on nights that I was kept up on prednisone and what the lack of sleep did to a person.
His son said after that time period his father learned to RELAX. He would take daily cat naps then tromp back out in the hills.
Most surprisingly it is this time that he turned to his love of writing. After many revisions and denials from people he came full circle to his style of writing and finally was published.
Like the Indian Sun Dew, his pretty stories didn't come from a life of leisure or bliss, but were forged in hard work, disappointment, and despair. But through it his resilience blossomed. Had he given up, we wouldn't have his descriptive and picturesque books that tell about life. I'm glad her perservered. That he kept those journals and kept at the publishing companies that initially didn't think much of him.
Oh, and it sounds that a pet comes in handy. He always had a dog to accompany him on his rounds and Dinah, a terrier if I recall rightly, helped him after his collapse.
I don't think that I will get the dog any time soon. But I am going to concentrate on the relazing end of it. Finding ways to unwind or not get too ruffled about certain things.
Oklahanolooshi
Arapho for: "armpit high to a tall Shoshone."
I found this fun word in a magazine at The Trapper Inn & Suites in Jackson Hole, WY
A man was doing an article and used a woman's letter to the editor. In her letter she used 'Oklahanolooshi' to describe how deep the snow was on either side of her drive.
I want to use this word and need some help from all of you. So try to get creative and send me sentences using this wonderful word and I will send along the results to everyone- then we can vote on the best one.
(This may seem silly. But I can guarantee it will impress friends and family when you use this word casually in a sentence.)
I am excited to see some of your results!!
I found this fun word in a magazine at The Trapper Inn & Suites in Jackson Hole, WY
A man was doing an article and used a woman's letter to the editor. In her letter she used 'Oklahanolooshi' to describe how deep the snow was on either side of her drive.
I want to use this word and need some help from all of you. So try to get creative and send me sentences using this wonderful word and I will send along the results to everyone- then we can vote on the best one.
(This may seem silly. But I can guarantee it will impress friends and family when you use this word casually in a sentence.)
I am excited to see some of your results!!
A Final Tid bit on James Herriot.. or so I thought
Well, I cosyed up to another book of Herriot's and did some re-search online about his son's memoir about his father. Herriot's real name is Alf Wight and his son, James Wight wrote a nice little memoir.
I read a review online by Elizabether Route and she said that in 1966 after 26 years of marriage and working life Alf had 20 pounds to his name. That the 60's were the darkest period of his life.
If you read his work you can't imagine that this man could look through a dark lens, but alas like us all, he is human. After his father's death he went into a depression and a nervous collapse that: "turned his normally quiet and accepting personality inside out." Ms Route says in her critique.
I was sad to see that but then being able to see a truly human side made him more endearing.
I have some tweaking to do on TR and then will send it on.
A
I read a review online by Elizabether Route and she said that in 1966 after 26 years of marriage and working life Alf had 20 pounds to his name. That the 60's were the darkest period of his life.
If you read his work you can't imagine that this man could look through a dark lens, but alas like us all, he is human. After his father's death he went into a depression and a nervous collapse that: "turned his normally quiet and accepting personality inside out." Ms Route says in her critique.
I was sad to see that but then being able to see a truly human side made him more endearing.
I have some tweaking to do on TR and then will send it on.
A
Bucky Balls
You all must check this amazing thing online. They are an amazing little string of magnetic balls that can entertain for hours. My neighbor's kid had them and a group of us were mesmerized for hours. Perfect for sacrament meeting and I'm not just talking about the adults. The little ones will keep quiet at least an hour. They are pricey. But the chemistry around it is quite cool. I had to google bucky balls and find out more about them. And I still don't grasp it!
The book for the day is Les Miserables. The unabridged version. In the movie Fantine is played by Uma Thermon and she does a great job, but you need to read it to get the true angst of her character.
Lately the song: 'I dreamed a dream' has been all over Utube because of the English sensation Susan Boyle. That song captures Fantine and when you read about her in the book... it will make it that more special and understood. I was at the library a year ago and ran into a guy that said the best version of the movie was done in French with English subtitles. I have tried to get it ordered through the IF library so hopefully they will ok it. The actor in it is Depardieu or something. I think the guy wanted to watch it with me because he commented that I had nice skin and gave me his work card. Which I threw away.
He was a lawyer though, and they can come in handy at times.
The book for the day is Les Miserables. The unabridged version. In the movie Fantine is played by Uma Thermon and she does a great job, but you need to read it to get the true angst of her character.
Lately the song: 'I dreamed a dream' has been all over Utube because of the English sensation Susan Boyle. That song captures Fantine and when you read about her in the book... it will make it that more special and understood. I was at the library a year ago and ran into a guy that said the best version of the movie was done in French with English subtitles. I have tried to get it ordered through the IF library so hopefully they will ok it. The actor in it is Depardieu or something. I think the guy wanted to watch it with me because he commented that I had nice skin and gave me his work card. Which I threw away.
He was a lawyer though, and they can come in handy at times.
Learn Something Forever
OK this morning on ConSource.org I was able to hear David McCullough address a group of teachers.
If you are unaware of who he is or what he has written start with 1776, or John Adams. Admittedly, I have only read the latter. But it hooked me on John Adams. And led me into Thomas Jefferson and eventually history altogether. He is an amazing read. Then to hear him this morning... the first thing he said after Ms. Miller introduced him was: "welcome class" or something to that effect. I felt privileged to be in a "class" of his.
This site is looking to be a gem and contains what M himself refers to as: "American Scripture."
The Pulitzer Prize winning author talked about teachers. My dad had him playing on every speaker phone in the house and as I readied myself to head out to walk the river with Jaden, his voice spoke to me. I had been doubting my desire to teach. The students and the hard road of it all was discouraging me. Making me think it wasn't worth it.
His voice reached me when he mentione John Adams, someone who has come to mean something to me. Why? Becuase he wrote. He never stopped writing. His 1k letters to his wife and to him were 'real'. Today M told the audience that John had been an "indifferent student" in grade school and 'unpromising'. He had an unkind teacher. It made him want to be a farmer like his father. Then his Dad switched teachers. Joseph Marsh was a kind man. Inspired him to apple to Harvard. Where Prof John Winthrop took him on the roof where his telescope was and showed him the Satellites of Jupiter. WOW! All because of kindness. At Harvard Adams "discovered" books and 'read forever'.
He spoke of Lous Agass the 19t century professor who famously had his students interviewed first, accepted girls in his class, and then had them sit with one of his many fish that had been pickled. That was your second task. He left the students with a fish. So M has the quote: Look at Your Fish over his computer. To remind him to not just look at a thing, but to really study it. Compile it. Think about it.
"Anyone can cram for an exam. How do we learn what we know FOREVER in life? Make discoveries that last a life time?
The last phrase caught me because on our jaunt this afternoon, I was a bit impatient as Jaden just tinkered around after we checked out the Farmer's Market. We had his bike and he was mauling the rocks by the river and the bridge. I felt I couldn't just leave the bike and go down with him, but he kept at me and said that he was: "discovering". I hadn't used the word with him lately so I wondered where he got that into his head. Even before hearing my favorite author talk about this way of teaching... I was compelled to leave the bike and go down there with him and just check things out. We talked about things that were obvious and then questioned the "why". And even though I don't have the answers I am glad that he is asking the questions. Becuase that is the start of learning. And makes me want to KNOW--to help him. Or anyone.
D.M brought up the Child Pshychologist who said that what matters most in learning is the ATTITUDE of the teacher. "Attitudes aren't taught, they are caught." I love that phrase. M cont'd: "show them what you love. You can't love something unless you love it."
He spoke of a HS art and English teacher who said there was: "no division between painters and wrtiers." I can not recall this teachers name.
But Maynard Mack, another HS teacher taught him Shakespeare. "He loved it. Wanted you to be in on it.
The reach and influence of these kind of teachers is incalcuable. M spoke of Theodor Roosevelt and his struggle with health as a child. He had asthma. This struck a personal chord. TR was afraid very early in his life but eventually came to be the epitomoy of strength and perserverance. This line is making me want to head to the library and check out some books on TR's early life and share it with my son. Who by the way knew who TR was because of the movie: 'Night At the Museum'. (Can anyone say: Slumdog Millionair? Great show and you can even rent it from the Clean Flicks.) In one of TR's classes he had a professor tell him: "See here Roosevelt. Let me talk. I am running this course!" (Prof. Nathaniel Schaler- Science)
Thomas Jefferson love a professor William Small who taught Science and Mathematics. And the "happy talent of communication".
Ultimately these teachers taught and directed children and then forged history.
I am half way through his address and had to quit writing on the backs of the pharmacy paper work I get from Wal Mart and start putting this good stuff out to you all.
I paused McCullough as he stated that Teaching is a Gift. An Art. I will return back to it now and make a copy of this for my myself. Check out this site. Apparently they need some volunteer work to help proof read the 2
If you are unaware of who he is or what he has written start with 1776, or John Adams. Admittedly, I have only read the latter. But it hooked me on John Adams. And led me into Thomas Jefferson and eventually history altogether. He is an amazing read. Then to hear him this morning... the first thing he said after Ms. Miller introduced him was: "welcome class" or something to that effect. I felt privileged to be in a "class" of his.
This site is looking to be a gem and contains what M himself refers to as: "American Scripture."
The Pulitzer Prize winning author talked about teachers. My dad had him playing on every speaker phone in the house and as I readied myself to head out to walk the river with Jaden, his voice spoke to me. I had been doubting my desire to teach. The students and the hard road of it all was discouraging me. Making me think it wasn't worth it.
His voice reached me when he mentione John Adams, someone who has come to mean something to me. Why? Becuase he wrote. He never stopped writing. His 1k letters to his wife and to him were 'real'. Today M told the audience that John had been an "indifferent student" in grade school and 'unpromising'. He had an unkind teacher. It made him want to be a farmer like his father. Then his Dad switched teachers. Joseph Marsh was a kind man. Inspired him to apple to Harvard. Where Prof John Winthrop took him on the roof where his telescope was and showed him the Satellites of Jupiter. WOW! All because of kindness. At Harvard Adams "discovered" books and 'read forever'.
He spoke of Lous Agass the 19t century professor who famously had his students interviewed first, accepted girls in his class, and then had them sit with one of his many fish that had been pickled. That was your second task. He left the students with a fish. So M has the quote: Look at Your Fish over his computer. To remind him to not just look at a thing, but to really study it. Compile it. Think about it.
"Anyone can cram for an exam. How do we learn what we know FOREVER in life? Make discoveries that last a life time?
The last phrase caught me because on our jaunt this afternoon, I was a bit impatient as Jaden just tinkered around after we checked out the Farmer's Market. We had his bike and he was mauling the rocks by the river and the bridge. I felt I couldn't just leave the bike and go down with him, but he kept at me and said that he was: "discovering". I hadn't used the word with him lately so I wondered where he got that into his head. Even before hearing my favorite author talk about this way of teaching... I was compelled to leave the bike and go down there with him and just check things out. We talked about things that were obvious and then questioned the "why". And even though I don't have the answers I am glad that he is asking the questions. Becuase that is the start of learning. And makes me want to KNOW--to help him. Or anyone.
D.M brought up the Child Pshychologist who said that what matters most in learning is the ATTITUDE of the teacher. "Attitudes aren't taught, they are caught." I love that phrase. M cont'd: "show them what you love. You can't love something unless you love it."
He spoke of a HS art and English teacher who said there was: "no division between painters and wrtiers." I can not recall this teachers name.
But Maynard Mack, another HS teacher taught him Shakespeare. "He loved it. Wanted you to be in on it.
The reach and influence of these kind of teachers is incalcuable. M spoke of Theodor Roosevelt and his struggle with health as a child. He had asthma. This struck a personal chord. TR was afraid very early in his life but eventually came to be the epitomoy of strength and perserverance. This line is making me want to head to the library and check out some books on TR's early life and share it with my son. Who by the way knew who TR was because of the movie: 'Night At the Museum'. (Can anyone say: Slumdog Millionair? Great show and you can even rent it from the Clean Flicks.) In one of TR's classes he had a professor tell him: "See here Roosevelt. Let me talk. I am running this course!" (Prof. Nathaniel Schaler- Science)
Thomas Jefferson love a professor William Small who taught Science and Mathematics. And the "happy talent of communication".
Ultimately these teachers taught and directed children and then forged history.
I am half way through his address and had to quit writing on the backs of the pharmacy paper work I get from Wal Mart and start putting this good stuff out to you all.
I paused McCullough as he stated that Teaching is a Gift. An Art. I will return back to it now and make a copy of this for my myself. Check out this site. Apparently they need some volunteer work to help proof read the 2
Gilead
The book Gilead by Marilynn Robinson is set towards the end of Rev John Ame's life 1965ish , and is a letter to his young son, which is an account of his life and progenitors because he is dying.
I am into the third CD and usu am listening to it at bed time. So it is kind of a sleepy book in my opinion. It may pick up. but I gleaned this from the first CD: Encouraging his son to control his temper he says: "A little too much anger too often or at the wrong time can destroy more than you can ever imagine... Above all mind what you say. 'Behold how much wood is kindled by how small a fire and the tongue is a fire.'"
I had to laugh at this because just the other day I gave Jaden a little of a lecture on this as we played b-ball. He was getting frustrated and mad. I said: "Anyone can control a ball (cause he is good and makes lots of shots and can dribble) , but a man that can control his temper is really amazing." The hilarity is that I need to take my own advice.
Anyway the the reverend really touched on a chord with me when he said: "Writing feels like a prayer. You feel that you are with someone. I feel that I am with you now (his boy) whatever that can mean considering you are only a little fellow now. When a man these letters may be of no interest to you. These letters may never reach you.... How deeply I regret any sadness you have suffered and how grateful I am in anticipation of any good you have enjoyed. That is to say, I pray for you. And their is intimacy in it. That's the truth."
As I have kept journals and written words of wisdom down I have felt that same sense for my own son. Wondering when and if he will want to read it. That last paragraph sums up why I am sending some info your way... so that it doesn't just sit in a book until it is read. It is more or less imposed like a door to door salesman!
Lately I am falling in love more and more with James Herriot. Who is the vet I told you about before. I even found online that he has a museum in his honor. It is interactive and the kids would love it. However it is in England and will have to go on my list of wishes.
The Titanic museum in town has really spurned my interest. And I have enjoyed learning about the ship that rescued those in the life boats: Carpathia. And those that were around but did not head the red flags or signals to Titanic's stress.
I will save that for another email. If you are in town head to the museum and also Barnes and Noble tonight. Jaden's elementary is having a book fair and I will read: Skippyjon Jones. Jaden will don a cape and play El Skippito and I will be there with my apron being Mama Junebug Jones!!
Adios muchachitos!
I am into the third CD and usu am listening to it at bed time. So it is kind of a sleepy book in my opinion. It may pick up. but I gleaned this from the first CD: Encouraging his son to control his temper he says: "A little too much anger too often or at the wrong time can destroy more than you can ever imagine... Above all mind what you say. 'Behold how much wood is kindled by how small a fire and the tongue is a fire.'"
I had to laugh at this because just the other day I gave Jaden a little of a lecture on this as we played b-ball. He was getting frustrated and mad. I said: "Anyone can control a ball (cause he is good and makes lots of shots and can dribble) , but a man that can control his temper is really amazing." The hilarity is that I need to take my own advice.
Anyway the the reverend really touched on a chord with me when he said: "Writing feels like a prayer. You feel that you are with someone. I feel that I am with you now (his boy) whatever that can mean considering you are only a little fellow now. When a man these letters may be of no interest to you. These letters may never reach you.... How deeply I regret any sadness you have suffered and how grateful I am in anticipation of any good you have enjoyed. That is to say, I pray for you. And their is intimacy in it. That's the truth."
As I have kept journals and written words of wisdom down I have felt that same sense for my own son. Wondering when and if he will want to read it. That last paragraph sums up why I am sending some info your way... so that it doesn't just sit in a book until it is read. It is more or less imposed like a door to door salesman!
Lately I am falling in love more and more with James Herriot. Who is the vet I told you about before. I even found online that he has a museum in his honor. It is interactive and the kids would love it. However it is in England and will have to go on my list of wishes.
The Titanic museum in town has really spurned my interest. And I have enjoyed learning about the ship that rescued those in the life boats: Carpathia. And those that were around but did not head the red flags or signals to Titanic's stress.
I will save that for another email. If you are in town head to the museum and also Barnes and Noble tonight. Jaden's elementary is having a book fair and I will read: Skippyjon Jones. Jaden will don a cape and play El Skippito and I will be there with my apron being Mama Junebug Jones!!
Adios muchachitos!
Flop bott is born
An idea came to me, as I scribbled upon yet another old envelope; blog. Not just favorite words, like flopbott, but thoughts and ideas, updates and pictures.
My love for reading allows me to scope out some good reads. You can subscribe to these definitions, reports, and sermons if you like!
The bonus for me is that I don't have scraps of paper floating around for my posterity, I can locate my musings and update you in the process, along with honing in on my writing skills.
An editor that I researched emphasized the necessity of a 'web presence' to market not just myself, but my writing. flopbott.blogspot will be that just that. I hope that you will enjoy my postings.
Below is the day I came across the quirky phrase "flopbott" and the wonderful book it came from.
Yesterday I went in to sub teach (this is a sermon slash definition and humorous phrases section)
The class: "HS special Ed". The teacher informed me that I would just be "sitting there" that there were enough aides and that I was there simply for "the record". He went on to tell me about his profession. It sounded like some good job security to me. Need a BA and then the district pays for you to complete the education and you give the district a 3 year commitment. It is pretty "hands on" and if you like that sort of thing then it's for you.
And they are up there in need like nurses. Well, I booked it to the library to check out the book I left home: All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. Figuring I would not have any of the hands on activity he talked of.
The book is lovely A veterinarian working in England. You almost feel like you are there amongst the lush green valleys... and he immediately draws you to the moment his arm and whole body are in a cow that has a baby needing lassoed around the jaw. You are on a cold cobblestone floor in the winter, dead of night, two hours into trying to fight against the mother's muscles trying to exp ult an unwilling calf. Had he not felt the lick of the calf's warm tongue he would be dismembering it and explaining the reasons why to the local farmer.
Exubulantly you share in his catching the calf's jaw and then turning it despite the mother being dry he pulls it out. Only to find it dead. he resuscitates it and then, gently places it by his mother and the mother, who is almost dead herself, revives and starts licking it and loving it. You will be in tears at this point. But Herriot with his humor will make you laugh every few sentences with the likes of being the "Uncle" to Tricki the dog.
His person a very affluent woman takes very good care of the dog but not of the diet. And on numerous occasions the animal will go: "flop bott" during a walk. Plumping down on its rump dealing with some serious anal hemorrhoids. But Tricki loves the vet even when he comes and causes pain. And will send gifts and letters to him. At which point he is obliged to do the same. Something the head staff vet, Siefried, thinks is coo-koo.
Words like: "waffling charm" , cock a hoop, and sang-foid" will be encountered. Not to be found in the dictionary but recognisable in his story.
Scratching on the tattered envelope I write: "Commisures of the lips" and look up at the aide that asks if I will help with a gal in class,
Jumping up and smiling: I would love to I exclaim. (ps I hate to edit-that is for editors)
Then I find out that it is a hands on situation that the teacher explained I would not be doing anything of. So i go to the bathroom and help be second witness to the changing. And I cheer the gal on when she is able to sit on the toilet and go a little more. And even help us put the diaper on and pull the front part of her elasticized pants. I am wearing plastic gloves and I tear peel them off and scrub up like the vet does after and before attending to each of his patients. That was easy I thought. And went back to my book with a smile.
Libation- I look this word up after school. "an act of pouring a liquid as a sacrifice to a God."
Another peek from the former aide who is taking online classes for her CNA- to help her earn more. "Can you come again?"
I ease up a little slower because this time it is to help change the one with the navy helmet. He is a rascal. And it is a stinky one. Not like changing your child, when the smell is not harsh, but slight because they are breast fed, and because you love the child.
He has physical gyrations that I wonder if I am up to holding him down on the big changing table. I put on my plastic gloves and let them snap for and put my hands on my hips like: "K let's do this." And I force the smile. But she says to just turn to the side, and then it is a bad one. All over. She needs help. I have to hold his legs up like I did with Jaden and now see my nephew go through. Those changings are fun and there is cooing and tender wiping etc.
But this boy is 17. Small. But strong. I grab his legs like I am pushing those things the football players run against. I put my shoulder into it and he is very flexible.
His hands usu in his mouth jutt down to his now free body. "Ahhh!" keep your hands up, blank (fill in with name)! the aide says in a high tone. Grab your hands real tight! I encourage like a coach as I try to breathe through my mouth.
Then his right hand and the nails sink into my arm. I sit there clenching my teeth, and wonder if I ought to uncurl his fingers from my arm or keep the feet in the air for the aide.
Then he lets go, his attention drawn to the cool wipes. And I see 5 claw marks that have torn the skin.
Finally we finish. Take off the gloves, throw away the hazardous material.
This time is more sobering. I am a bit winded. I can't say I like this kid. Which makes me feel bad. I wash up. His too tight pants are pulled up and buttoned by the aide and he farts in the process. I pray it isn't another blow out.
It isn't and we proceed to wash. He likes to clean up compared to the gal who squalled when her hands touched the water. Lathering the soap up my arms and helping him to do the same I wonder if I can handle that job.
I know I have the empathy. The smell, which is of waste, wasting. And almost death is not foreign. Suffering has brought some clarity to handle those moments and to serve another.
Truly serve. But then I wonder about the broken skin... and being immuno-suppressed.
Another aide, a man talks about how sick everyone got last year... because these kids are sent to school sick. They can't talk.
Instead of burying my nose in my book I walk out of the office and sit down as a boy with CP and other things tries to say words. He is present mentally. Or is it spiritually. I smile at him, sincerely and he lights up. And you get the feeling you do when a baby smiles at you and it convinces you that you are loved by them. And hold some special meaning and ability to bring them to smile.
I go home and put hydrogen peroxide and neosporin on the claw marks then cover it. Praying for no infection. But I start to wonder about these people, kids. Who will love them if I won't? Do others have the stamina and health but not the empathy to help? Would I have helped with out a gag reflux had I not suffered?
Hmmm... this one is ending on a bit of a depressing recollection. I will make it up to you in the next one! I am listening to Gilead on CD by Marilynn Robinson. I recommend both books. And some hands on
My love for reading allows me to scope out some good reads. You can subscribe to these definitions, reports, and sermons if you like!
The bonus for me is that I don't have scraps of paper floating around for my posterity, I can locate my musings and update you in the process, along with honing in on my writing skills.
An editor that I researched emphasized the necessity of a 'web presence' to market not just myself, but my writing. flopbott.blogspot will be that just that. I hope that you will enjoy my postings.
Below is the day I came across the quirky phrase "flopbott" and the wonderful book it came from.
Yesterday I went in to sub teach (this is a sermon slash definition and humorous phrases section)
The class: "HS special Ed". The teacher informed me that I would just be "sitting there" that there were enough aides and that I was there simply for "the record". He went on to tell me about his profession. It sounded like some good job security to me. Need a BA and then the district pays for you to complete the education and you give the district a 3 year commitment. It is pretty "hands on" and if you like that sort of thing then it's for you.
And they are up there in need like nurses. Well, I booked it to the library to check out the book I left home: All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. Figuring I would not have any of the hands on activity he talked of.
The book is lovely A veterinarian working in England. You almost feel like you are there amongst the lush green valleys... and he immediately draws you to the moment his arm and whole body are in a cow that has a baby needing lassoed around the jaw. You are on a cold cobblestone floor in the winter, dead of night, two hours into trying to fight against the mother's muscles trying to exp ult an unwilling calf. Had he not felt the lick of the calf's warm tongue he would be dismembering it and explaining the reasons why to the local farmer.
Exubulantly you share in his catching the calf's jaw and then turning it despite the mother being dry he pulls it out. Only to find it dead. he resuscitates it and then, gently places it by his mother and the mother, who is almost dead herself, revives and starts licking it and loving it. You will be in tears at this point. But Herriot with his humor will make you laugh every few sentences with the likes of being the "Uncle" to Tricki the dog.
His person a very affluent woman takes very good care of the dog but not of the diet. And on numerous occasions the animal will go: "flop bott" during a walk. Plumping down on its rump dealing with some serious anal hemorrhoids. But Tricki loves the vet even when he comes and causes pain. And will send gifts and letters to him. At which point he is obliged to do the same. Something the head staff vet, Siefried, thinks is coo-koo.
Words like: "waffling charm" , cock a hoop, and sang-foid" will be encountered. Not to be found in the dictionary but recognisable in his story.
Scratching on the tattered envelope I write: "Commisures of the lips" and look up at the aide that asks if I will help with a gal in class,
Jumping up and smiling: I would love to I exclaim. (ps I hate to edit-that is for editors)
Then I find out that it is a hands on situation that the teacher explained I would not be doing anything of. So i go to the bathroom and help be second witness to the changing. And I cheer the gal on when she is able to sit on the toilet and go a little more. And even help us put the diaper on and pull the front part of her elasticized pants. I am wearing plastic gloves and I tear peel them off and scrub up like the vet does after and before attending to each of his patients. That was easy I thought. And went back to my book with a smile.
Libation- I look this word up after school. "an act of pouring a liquid as a sacrifice to a God."
Another peek from the former aide who is taking online classes for her CNA- to help her earn more. "Can you come again?"
I ease up a little slower because this time it is to help change the one with the navy helmet. He is a rascal. And it is a stinky one. Not like changing your child, when the smell is not harsh, but slight because they are breast fed, and because you love the child.
He has physical gyrations that I wonder if I am up to holding him down on the big changing table. I put on my plastic gloves and let them snap for and put my hands on my hips like: "K let's do this." And I force the smile. But she says to just turn to the side, and then it is a bad one. All over. She needs help. I have to hold his legs up like I did with Jaden and now see my nephew go through. Those changings are fun and there is cooing and tender wiping etc.
But this boy is 17. Small. But strong. I grab his legs like I am pushing those things the football players run against. I put my shoulder into it and he is very flexible.
His hands usu in his mouth jutt down to his now free body. "Ahhh!" keep your hands up, blank (fill in with name)! the aide says in a high tone. Grab your hands real tight! I encourage like a coach as I try to breathe through my mouth.
Then his right hand and the nails sink into my arm. I sit there clenching my teeth, and wonder if I ought to uncurl his fingers from my arm or keep the feet in the air for the aide.
Then he lets go, his attention drawn to the cool wipes. And I see 5 claw marks that have torn the skin.
Finally we finish. Take off the gloves, throw away the hazardous material.
This time is more sobering. I am a bit winded. I can't say I like this kid. Which makes me feel bad. I wash up. His too tight pants are pulled up and buttoned by the aide and he farts in the process. I pray it isn't another blow out.
It isn't and we proceed to wash. He likes to clean up compared to the gal who squalled when her hands touched the water. Lathering the soap up my arms and helping him to do the same I wonder if I can handle that job.
I know I have the empathy. The smell, which is of waste, wasting. And almost death is not foreign. Suffering has brought some clarity to handle those moments and to serve another.
Truly serve. But then I wonder about the broken skin... and being immuno-suppressed.
Another aide, a man talks about how sick everyone got last year... because these kids are sent to school sick. They can't talk.
Instead of burying my nose in my book I walk out of the office and sit down as a boy with CP and other things tries to say words. He is present mentally. Or is it spiritually. I smile at him, sincerely and he lights up. And you get the feeling you do when a baby smiles at you and it convinces you that you are loved by them. And hold some special meaning and ability to bring them to smile.
I go home and put hydrogen peroxide and neosporin on the claw marks then cover it. Praying for no infection. But I start to wonder about these people, kids. Who will love them if I won't? Do others have the stamina and health but not the empathy to help? Would I have helped with out a gag reflux had I not suffered?
Hmmm... this one is ending on a bit of a depressing recollection. I will make it up to you in the next one! I am listening to Gilead on CD by Marilynn Robinson. I recommend both books. And some hands on
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